At Camino Nuevo High School, they're big into something called PD. They also talk a lot about ESLRs, CD, R-FEP'd, RSP, DD, and a bunch of other acronyms I'm struggling to catch. My English language learners are not the only people in the building with furrowed brows.
Back to the PD; this is an acronym for "professional development." Researchers in the field of education have spent the last few years looking for ways to fix our school systems (and that they need fixing is a given). One of their solutions proposes that teachers need more time to learn how to be good teachers (also a given). What is a surprise is that Camino Nuevo takes this idea seriously. So during the five days of pre-planning when I would typically have been making bulletin boards and photo copying hand-outs, I was, instead, learning how to provide support to students with autism, how to emphasize academic vocabulary instruction for kids who are bi-lingual, how to ensure every student is constantly thinking and engaged ... and so on.
And on and on and on.
I'll admit, I was simultaneously excited ... and stressed. At the end of the week of PD, Matt and I went to the school, where I spent a couple of hours doing nothing more than creating a filing system for all of the materials I'd gotten (while Matt built a bookshelf, and yes, he is THE coolest dude).
Anyhow ... during this week of intensive teacher training, we also participated in a number of team building activities. I mention this because, one, I don't like team building activities, and two, the team building activities are what really stood out for me. When I consider the week of training, it's not only the Kagan structures that resonated, but also standing in the middle of the soccer field with 20 young teachers, a jump rope, and the frustratingly elusive instructions, "Turn on the machine." I'd have to look up the spectrum of behaviors to consider for my special needs kids, but I can easily recall why David was blind-folded while holding three whiffle balls ... and how quickly Peter and Marisol came to his aid.
All this is to say, I still need to make photo copies and bulletin boards. And I'm woefully under-prepared for my first day of instruction in a practical sense. But two things are absolutely true:
I'm professionally developed.
Teams matter.
Now ... off to the copy machine.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Red Dot the Smurfbakes
When Matt and I like something a lot, we yell, "Green dot!" And when we don't, we quietly say, "Red dot," and hope for no more. Dinner on a park bench at Levitt Pavilion while we try to name the breeds of the canine visitors and their walkers who drift through? Green dot! Tip-toeing through the grass to avoid deposits left by those visitors? Red dot.
Evidently there's a natural disaster that sometimes strikes this here state, and we're so scared of it, we don't call it by its actual name. It's sort of like the students at Hogwarts referring to "He-who-shall-not-be-named" for fear of invoking Lord Voldemort's wrath. Matt refers to these natural disasters as hurricanes because we know how to deal with those (stock up on non-perishables, bottled water, and crossword puzzles).
I call these California oddities smurfbakes. I considered mirthfakes, because it's true that there's nothing funny about them, or worthcakes, but that seems too yummy. Plus, I've never liked Smurfs. They're just weird.
We do have a plan. If a smurfbake hits and we're home, we know to make a nose dive under the desk or dining room table. If we're not, I think we're supposed to get outside and away from buildings. With this being L.A. and all, I'm not quite sure how to manage that one. Maybe we can count on being at Leavitt Park on our bench.
That's it. That's our plan. Plus, the frequent invocation of "Red dot the smurbakes."
Evidently there's a natural disaster that sometimes strikes this here state, and we're so scared of it, we don't call it by its actual name. It's sort of like the students at Hogwarts referring to "He-who-shall-not-be-named" for fear of invoking Lord Voldemort's wrath. Matt refers to these natural disasters as hurricanes because we know how to deal with those (stock up on non-perishables, bottled water, and crossword puzzles).
I call these California oddities smurfbakes. I considered mirthfakes, because it's true that there's nothing funny about them, or worthcakes, but that seems too yummy. Plus, I've never liked Smurfs. They're just weird.
We do have a plan. If a smurfbake hits and we're home, we know to make a nose dive under the desk or dining room table. If we're not, I think we're supposed to get outside and away from buildings. With this being L.A. and all, I'm not quite sure how to manage that one. Maybe we can count on being at Leavitt Park on our bench.
That's it. That's our plan. Plus, the frequent invocation of "Red dot the smurbakes."
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Oot and Uh-Boot
I was going to call this blog "Out and About," but everything in my head is in a Canadian accent, so "Oot and Uh-Boot" it is. Matt got home from work really late last night, so I resorted to watching television to entertain myself. (Okay, so there's this show called Property Virgins on a network called DIY [I'm guessing, Do-It-Yourself?], and in each 30-minute episode, we viewers watch first-time buyers choose a home. Last night, Vishnu and blond lady [I never caught her name, probably because I was so enraptured with the name Vishnu] plunked down $349,000 for a teeny-tiny, run-down row house in Toronto -- hence the Canadian accents in my head. I so wanted to say to Vishnu and blond lady, "Nooooo! Don't do it! In Orlando, you can get a washroom big enough to turn around in! Plus, no snow! And Disney World!" All of this is to say, my general avoidance of television is a wise plan.)
Back to "Out and About" ...
Over the last couple of days, I've been tootling around more on my own. My comfort with the trains and my general sense that we live somewhere northeast of L.A. has solidified sufficiently such that I don't need to obsessively consult Google Maps every time I set out. Releasing my stranglehold on my phone and my little print-outs means I am more aware of my surroundings, specifically the people in them.
So, here's the obvious thing ... there are thousands and thousands and thousands of homeless people in L.A.
Here's the less obvious thing ... what am I to do about this?
In the absence of a coherent plan, I'm blogging. That's a lame response, but at the moment, it's the only one I've got.
Yesterday, in front of Target, a elderly lady in super short shorts asked me for a dollar. I gave her one. She coldly turned away from me and picked her lit cigarette back up off the bus bench. I was more baffled than irritated. And then I was irritated with my irritation. After all, I have an address.
On my way to the train station, a homeless man on the opposite side of the intersection smiled at me and waved. As I waited for the walk signal, I thought, "Just smile and say 'good morning.'" When I got within earshot, he asked, "Hey, have you got a cigarette?" I thought, really? A cigarette? Not a twenty or a burrito? I shook my head, smiled, and said, "Good morning."
I had to fill out some paperwork at my school. There was a man asleep on the sidewalk out front. His butt was pretty much hanging out of his pants. I distinctly remember thinking, "Oh, he's gonna have such a sunburn."
Later in the day, I had to go to a public clinic for a TB test. The clinic is in MacArthur Park, an area of town I've been warned to avoid. In fact, as I was leaving her office to head to the clinic, my new HR director put her hand on my shoulder and said, "Please. Be careful." But after my accidental stroll through skid row last week, I figured it couldn't possibly be too bad in broad daylight. And I was right. There were a ton of homeless folks, but they all seemed rather cheerful. In fact, there was a spirit of industry there that fascinated me. On just about every corner (and even in the lobby of the clinic), a person sold odds and ends to make a little cash: bags of peanuts, gum, cheap toys. One incredibly inventive lady had set up a grocery cart and a cooler at the corner of Alvarado and Wilshire. A griddle was straddled across the top of the cart, and she was frying up hot corn cakes on it -- and, oh my goodness, the aroma made me light-headed. Under the griddle, I could see her few personal possessions and a square-ish thing that must have been her source of electricity. Tomorrow, when I go back to the clinic to get my TB results, I just might queue up in the long line to buy a corn cake.
There was a young man in a shiny blue suit and aviator sunglasses at the MacArthur Park metro stop. He stood at the top of the escalator and asked passers-by, the ones who looked homeless, if they needed a job. My instinct was to hurl him down the escalator. It's not that he seemed evil, exactly, but still ... I had a very strong urge to protect people from him.
There are days when the sheer volume of homeless people in this city depresses and overwhelms me, and others when they are barely a blip on my radar. Neither response is helpful. Buying corn cakes and dolling out sunscreen don't seem like much.
As I go out and about, I think about this: There's only "out and about" for a homeless person. "Out" is all the time, even in a sleeping bag on skid row. "In" might look like watching DIY for a few minutes at Best Buy before the manager asks you to leave, or a quick doze between train stops on the days the police aren't checking for tickets.
I don't know why there are so many homeless people here. And I don't exactly know how a person becomes homeless in the first place. Sure, I've heard lots of reasons, some of which make a little sense, and many of which are a horrible clanging in my ears. In the space between the poles of blaming victims and blaming government or capitalism lies a vast territory of people with shopping carts and ill-fitting shoes. People who have faces and stories and hopes and hurts and families and irritations and good days and bad. People who have all of these things, like me, but yet, do not have a home.
I still don't know what to do.
Back to "Out and About" ...
Over the last couple of days, I've been tootling around more on my own. My comfort with the trains and my general sense that we live somewhere northeast of L.A. has solidified sufficiently such that I don't need to obsessively consult Google Maps every time I set out. Releasing my stranglehold on my phone and my little print-outs means I am more aware of my surroundings, specifically the people in them.
So, here's the obvious thing ... there are thousands and thousands and thousands of homeless people in L.A.
Here's the less obvious thing ... what am I to do about this?
In the absence of a coherent plan, I'm blogging. That's a lame response, but at the moment, it's the only one I've got.
Yesterday, in front of Target, a elderly lady in super short shorts asked me for a dollar. I gave her one. She coldly turned away from me and picked her lit cigarette back up off the bus bench. I was more baffled than irritated. And then I was irritated with my irritation. After all, I have an address.
On my way to the train station, a homeless man on the opposite side of the intersection smiled at me and waved. As I waited for the walk signal, I thought, "Just smile and say 'good morning.'" When I got within earshot, he asked, "Hey, have you got a cigarette?" I thought, really? A cigarette? Not a twenty or a burrito? I shook my head, smiled, and said, "Good morning."
I had to fill out some paperwork at my school. There was a man asleep on the sidewalk out front. His butt was pretty much hanging out of his pants. I distinctly remember thinking, "Oh, he's gonna have such a sunburn."
Later in the day, I had to go to a public clinic for a TB test. The clinic is in MacArthur Park, an area of town I've been warned to avoid. In fact, as I was leaving her office to head to the clinic, my new HR director put her hand on my shoulder and said, "Please. Be careful." But after my accidental stroll through skid row last week, I figured it couldn't possibly be too bad in broad daylight. And I was right. There were a ton of homeless folks, but they all seemed rather cheerful. In fact, there was a spirit of industry there that fascinated me. On just about every corner (and even in the lobby of the clinic), a person sold odds and ends to make a little cash: bags of peanuts, gum, cheap toys. One incredibly inventive lady had set up a grocery cart and a cooler at the corner of Alvarado and Wilshire. A griddle was straddled across the top of the cart, and she was frying up hot corn cakes on it -- and, oh my goodness, the aroma made me light-headed. Under the griddle, I could see her few personal possessions and a square-ish thing that must have been her source of electricity. Tomorrow, when I go back to the clinic to get my TB results, I just might queue up in the long line to buy a corn cake.
There was a young man in a shiny blue suit and aviator sunglasses at the MacArthur Park metro stop. He stood at the top of the escalator and asked passers-by, the ones who looked homeless, if they needed a job. My instinct was to hurl him down the escalator. It's not that he seemed evil, exactly, but still ... I had a very strong urge to protect people from him.
There are days when the sheer volume of homeless people in this city depresses and overwhelms me, and others when they are barely a blip on my radar. Neither response is helpful. Buying corn cakes and dolling out sunscreen don't seem like much.
As I go out and about, I think about this: There's only "out and about" for a homeless person. "Out" is all the time, even in a sleeping bag on skid row. "In" might look like watching DIY for a few minutes at Best Buy before the manager asks you to leave, or a quick doze between train stops on the days the police aren't checking for tickets.
I don't know why there are so many homeless people here. And I don't exactly know how a person becomes homeless in the first place. Sure, I've heard lots of reasons, some of which make a little sense, and many of which are a horrible clanging in my ears. In the space between the poles of blaming victims and blaming government or capitalism lies a vast territory of people with shopping carts and ill-fitting shoes. People who have faces and stories and hopes and hurts and families and irritations and good days and bad. People who have all of these things, like me, but yet, do not have a home.
I still don't know what to do.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Ten Cool Things about the USS Abraham Lincoln
10. It was docked in the Port of Los Angeles, which meant we had the opportunity to visit it. With our mouths hanging open.
9. Crew members Cat and Adam, two of the nicest people on Earth (I'm not exaggerating) were on the last leg of our journey there. Matt struck up a conversation with them. They said, "You want to see the ship?" We were all like, oh, we found out the lines were too long, they closed it for tours, we're just gonna see it from shore ... They said, "You want to see the ship?" We were like, oh, you're busy, it's okay, we're having fun just riding the bus ... They said, "You want to see the ship?" At that point, I think I pinched Matt. And then myself.
8. Every known condiment to man is on the tables in the mess decks. Securely fastened to the tables, of course.
7. The elevators carry fighter jets, helicopters, and really big, cool other stuff. We got to ride them. Twice!
6. These nifty patrol boats circle the ship and whenever a civilian vessel gets too close, they charge it like mosquitoes going after my legs in the summertime, in all of their buzzing, blood-sucking aggression. I think I said, out loud, "Take that, civilian vessel!" (It was probably more like, "Ohhh, bad move, little boat.")
5. In the berths, the mattresses are four inches thick and are rolled up to head of the bed during non-sleeping time. Crew members sleep in stacks of three, and their storage space consists of a series of shallow trays beneath their mattress. We've been griping about our 650 feet of living space? The enlisted crew members might get 64 inches. Total.
4. The top three observation decks are for the Commanding Officer, the Captain, and the Admiral of the fleet. They each get one. What, they can't share?
3. Adam said, "When a fighter jet takes off, you hear it." I bet!
2. In the communications room, Matt noticed that the electrical cords had to be coiled up off the floor. Cat said, "Yeah, nothing on the ship can be grounded." I yelped, "Right! The entire ship is a Faraday box!" I never suspected my MLS degree would come in handy on an aircraft carrier.
1. The USS Abraham Lincoln's motto is, "We shall not perish." It should be, "We restore youth to middle-aged men." Matt is still grinning like a school boy.
9. Crew members Cat and Adam, two of the nicest people on Earth (I'm not exaggerating) were on the last leg of our journey there. Matt struck up a conversation with them. They said, "You want to see the ship?" We were all like, oh, we found out the lines were too long, they closed it for tours, we're just gonna see it from shore ... They said, "You want to see the ship?" We were like, oh, you're busy, it's okay, we're having fun just riding the bus ... They said, "You want to see the ship?" At that point, I think I pinched Matt. And then myself.
8. Every known condiment to man is on the tables in the mess decks. Securely fastened to the tables, of course.
7. The elevators carry fighter jets, helicopters, and really big, cool other stuff. We got to ride them. Twice!
6. These nifty patrol boats circle the ship and whenever a civilian vessel gets too close, they charge it like mosquitoes going after my legs in the summertime, in all of their buzzing, blood-sucking aggression. I think I said, out loud, "Take that, civilian vessel!" (It was probably more like, "Ohhh, bad move, little boat.")
5. In the berths, the mattresses are four inches thick and are rolled up to head of the bed during non-sleeping time. Crew members sleep in stacks of three, and their storage space consists of a series of shallow trays beneath their mattress. We've been griping about our 650 feet of living space? The enlisted crew members might get 64 inches. Total.
4. The top three observation decks are for the Commanding Officer, the Captain, and the Admiral of the fleet. They each get one. What, they can't share?
3. Adam said, "When a fighter jet takes off, you hear it." I bet!
2. In the communications room, Matt noticed that the electrical cords had to be coiled up off the floor. Cat said, "Yeah, nothing on the ship can be grounded." I yelped, "Right! The entire ship is a Faraday box!" I never suspected my MLS degree would come in handy on an aircraft carrier.
1. The USS Abraham Lincoln's motto is, "We shall not perish." It should be, "We restore youth to middle-aged men." Matt is still grinning like a school boy.
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