Books? We Don’t Need No Stinkin’ Books!


After the children, the second thing I notice about my new Special Ed classroom is that there are no books.

Okay, that is a slight exaggeration–but not much of one. There are History textbooks, but they’re years beyond the reading ability of even the school’s Regular Ed students. There is a small box of four-page booklets of less than 40 words each that my 5th grade students say they have been re-reading since 2nd grade.
 

No Books and No Learning Allowed

Does Anyone CARE About These Kids?


 
I learn that none of the children enjoy reading.
 
Are you surprised?
 
That weekend, I buy five copies each of storybooks popular with 1st, 2nd, and 3rd graders–most of the students read at only a 1st or 2nd grade level. Books like Amelia Bedelia, Frog and Toad, and Little Bear.
 
Frog and Toad Are Friends Cover

I Wish They Were MY Friends


 
Deputy Dan Book Cover

Loads o’ Fun, ‘Cause Loaded With Puns :)


 
I also buy Reading workbooks (from a series called “Spectrum”) at the same levels. On Monday, the children learn that reading can be fun. They love the new books, and are eager to read from then on.
 
I am told that an excellent rate of Reading progress in a Special Ed elementary class is one half-year of gain per each year in school. That year, some of my students are measured gaining a year.
 
Full of Myself Mug

My Coffee Has Never Tasted So Good


 
But I have now joined the supremely-stupid ranks of my fellow teachers: From this point on, I will continue to spend personal money to do my utmost for my students and their future success in life–to do more for this goal, in most cases, than their own parents care to.
 
I later learn that I shouldn’t entirely blame The District for not providing books. Classroom books can walk out the door with students, or with substitute teachers. Entire classroom libraries can leave when permanent teachers are transferred to other schools.
 
But four and a half years LATER, I learn—
 
Wait:
 
Do you remember that, instead of putting me and my Special Ed kids in a classroom, they instead stuck us in a storage room? No window, no connecting door, and half the size of a regular classroom (violating District policy in all three of these failings)?
 
Small Meeting Room

Do You Feel Trapped In This Small, Windowless Meeting Room?


 
Well, my principal had to take something OUT of that storage room to move my kids INTO it. What she’d taken out was books. Discontinued textbooks for each grade level and subject. And supplemental books: Science books. History books. Art books. Music books. And, (you saw this coming, didn’t you?) matched sets of 4 or 5 books each of:
 
“Amelia Bedelia”.
“Frog and Toad Are Friends”.
“Little Bear”.
 
Fun-for-children books at every reading level. Books I could have used instead of spending my own money.
 
Irked Sheikh

It’s Not Like Money Just Bubbles Up Out of the Ground Or Anything


 
There was even an entire set of Spectrum Reading workbooks for each grade level. Enough for an every child to use, as long as each child used separate paper to write answers so that the books could be re-used.
 
The administrator who unlocked and let me into the smaller storage room some of those books had been moved to (the rest had been distributed elsewhere) let me borrow some of those fun reading books. And some excellent discontinued History books written in much simpler language than our currently-approved doorstoppers and paperweights. But she made me promise not to tell anyone.
 
Teachers were not allowed to teach using materials from inside that locked room.
 
Hand-Slapping Irked-or-Disappointed Baby

No. Just no. May I Please Choose a Different Parallel World?


 
 
BOOK-LOSS ADDENDUM
 
I caught children often trying to exit my room with my books tucked into waistbands, etc., until I learned how to control this. (Students with good behavior were permitted to borrow books by signing them out.)

I was warned by fellow teachers about some substitutes walking out with books, and advised to lock away my own books when I knew in advance I’d have a sub. I’d guess some loss blamed on subs is due to them not noticing student theft–but not all of it, because of a specific instance that was related to me.

I was both told of classroom book supplies walking away, and observed it first-hand. I don’t believe these are thefts with evil intent, but teachers conserving resources for their next set of students. Possibly some feel justified in light of their own financial outlays.
 
1st Teaching Post: Shocked By a Rock
 
Prev Teaching Post: He Who Will Teach
 
Next Teaching Post: The Trouble Table


 

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Science, or Art?: An Application of Creative Truthiness In the Workplace

I wrote some poems.
Some think they’re smart.
Some think they’re dumb.
I’ll call them Art.

 

campbellsthisisart-JoeyAllgood-RealWeirdArt

Creative Truthiness In a Can

(This Real Art is by Joey Allgood, at RealWeirdArt©)


 
Applied Linguistics

Babe sits at her desk all day,
Seems to dream the day away.
But if to that she did admit,
Employer and Babe would soon be split.

(It isn’t that she doesn’t try;
It’s just that thinking makes her cry.)

But Babe is wise in one small way:
She knows daydreaming doesn’t pay,
So rather than her habits change,
The syntax she has rearranged:
 

Syntax Definition

“The arrangement of words…to create well-formed sentences.”


 
Management, always impressed
By “looked at” stated     reassessed,
Or “Now” said as     This point in time,
Has chosen to ignore her crime,

Has left her to her own devices,
While other peoples pays the prices.

“This isn’t laziness” says she,
“A better word is:
 
 
‘Entropy’.”
 
 

Entropy Definition

“Lack of order or predictabililty; gradual decline into disorder.”


 
***
 
The actions and work habits of the project members in these adjoining offices are not at all fishy. Daily, they industriously visit each others’ project areas to chat, until, exhausted from their efforts, they settle slowly to the sandy bottom floor.
 
Fishy Gas Distribution-Entropy Gif

Poetry in Ocean :)


 
“K” is Karla Kraken, their single (1) efficient manager, who has earned 5 out of 5 Productivity Stars. Whoo-Hoo! Way to go, Karla!!
 
***
 
One Baad Dog
 
OR
 
A Single Occurrence of
A Deviant Canine or
Canine-Comparable
Mammal

It is sad, I suppose,
When a word dons new clothes;
Because how does we knows,
If it comes or it goes?

Like when NASA torqued “normal”,
Into something more formal,
And came up with “nominal”!
Truly abominal.

But for one who loves punning,
And thrills to word-funning,
Tricky and slippery words are trés cunning.

When a bad can mean good,
When a dog can mean man,
“Bad dog” can mean one dog
Less chastised, it can.
 
 
NERDENDUM

The laziness/entropy word switch is actually more an issue of semantics than syntax,
 

Semantics Definition

The meaning of a word, PHRASE, sentence, or text.


 
but I left it as it was written originally because of the more-words-are-better-isms used in business.
 
The first poem was written decades back, when I was a first-year programmer. The second was written as a comment on this WordPress post.

 

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The Duck Movie


I’m always so verbose, I thought that for a change I would give one of my shorter-winded friends a chance to speak (the film clocks in at 28 seconds):
 
Yes, the film was directed and shot by yours truly.  Give it up to me: Lil’ buggers were quite resistant to those multiple retakes.
 

 


 

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“Better Sex, You Say?” “And Tao!”


How Taoism Led to Better Sex

You say Yang…
And I say Yin–
You poke out…
And I poke in–
Ya-ang.. Yi-in–
Ou-out… i-in–
Let’s call the whole thing
Fun!   :)
 

Potato Big Bird Foot Fossil

I KNOW: Talk About Your Proofs for Evolution!


 
Are you ready for one last excerpt from Sex in History (thanks to author Reay Tannahill), in honor of Valentine’s Day? Sure you are!

The ancient Chinese belief in the harmony of balance, and the integrated nature of Nature–earth, sky, and everything between–led the Chinese to the concept of balanced opposites: yin and yang. The man was seen as yang, and the woman, yin.

The sex act offered a way of achieving that balance, through the mating of earth to heaven. Today, clouds, and rain falling to earth, are used in photographs and films to make Chinese audiences think of sex. (Don’t even get me started on those sick-o Chinese weather forecasters!)
 

Ejaculation-Orgasm Cloud

Yup. You-Know-What Just Happened Here.


 
In ancient China, sex was viewed openly and frankly. Very explicit sex manuals were given as helpful wedding gifts. The language used in them was quite poetic: The penis was called a “Jade Stalk” [No, Chinese men did not have weird weenies. Jade isn’t always green–it comes in white and yellow–and black].
 
The vagina was called a “Cinnabar Cleft” [prized-red split-place], or even fancier phrases, like “Hidden Rice Bowl–Lick It Good”. You say it, Missy-ling! (It is possible my translation on that second vagina name is a little off.)
 
The manuals included instructions for how a man could make his erection last longer, because the longer he stayed inside a woman, the more of her yin he would absorb. It was also expected that he give the woman an orgasm: That would give him even MORE of her yin, increasing his yang even more.
 
Yin-Yang On Green Over Water

Om.  Om my.


 
Since the more yang the better, that meant the more sex and sexual partners the better. So even middle-class men had an average of ten (10) wives and concubines, and they were expected to have intercourse with each woman at least once every five days.

That’s sex with two women a day minimum, you-all. And all those happy women were having orgasms ( per…haps ;) ).   I’d call that a big bow to Tao.
 

Origami Sex

“oh-oh-Oh-Oh-OH-OH-OOHH–!!” (Mei Ri-Yun Very Convincing)”


 
Betcha Didn’t Know Sperm Could Do THIS! (p. 171)

It was believed that losing semen during or after sex equaled losing some of the yang just gained, so the manuals included a neat little trick:

In case you were really into your partner and were about to lose some yang (how’s THAT for a euphemism?: “C’mon baby, take ALL my yang!”), you could divert it–internally! Per one of the sex manuals:

“…he should quickly and firmly, using the fore and middle fingers of the left hand, put pressure on the spot between scrotum and anus…”

Send the jizz where the urine is! Wow! Who knew THAT was possible? Tannahill explains that this diverts the seminal fluid from the penis back up into the bladder–entirely harmless from a medical perspective, by the way. It’s simply peed away the next time the guy goes.
 

The Big Pee

What Every Man Is Picturing Right Now (Brother. You Guys…)


 
A jizz with your whizz.

Per Tannahill: “…(It) was used for birth control purposes in later times by Turks, Armenians, the islanders of the Marquesas, and the sophisticated nineteenth-century commune founded by John Humphrey Noyes at Oneida, New York.”

Just drop a BOMB like that, lady, and do no more explaining? Why did these only those few groups use the strategy? Did lots of other peoples through history learn about it, but their men went “Jeez, Louise, I ain’t withholding any of MY precious bodily fluids!”
 

Precious Bodily Fluids From Dr Strangelove

No Joke! A Limited National Resource!


 
But what I’m most curious about is, how the heck did that nineteenth century commune hear about it?

Yin-Yin or Yang-Yang? Cool-Cool.

Male and female homosexuality was totally cool. You didn’t gain any yang (or yin) so your own didn’t increase, but it didn’t decrease either. Two little trivia tidbits:

1) A very dangerous practice was followed by some lesbians: Using a hard dildo made of wood or ivory, the “…‘male’ partner inserted one end of the dildo in her own Cinnabar Cleft, harnessed the central portion round her waist by means of silk ties, and used the other end as if it were a Jade Stalk.” If either partner got a little too excited, a serious internal injury could occur.

2) “Male homosexuality was sometimes known as tuan-hsiu, “the cut sleeve,” because one of the Han emperors had, supposedly, cut off his sleeve rather than disturb his young male partner who had fallen asleep upon it.
 

The Cut Sleeve

Astonishing That It Took THIS Long For Those Smart Chinese To Invent Short-Sleeved Shirts


 
“He Shall Have Music Wherever He Comes” (p. 181)

Rings on his fingers and bells on his balls. Well, actually, on the head of his penis. It was once common throughout Southeast Asia for men to insert metal balls as large as hazelnuts under the skin of the head of their penis, in order to make their little head appear larger and to give women more pleasure in its company.

And these balls were little BELLS (!) that tinkled when the dudes walked around. Charming, n’est pas? Rich men wore silver jingle balls, while poor men had to make do with lead. Making their BIG head dumb, too.

In Suriname, the poor men are much smarter. They use the little plastic marbles that come (ew.) in the tops of soda bottles. And they sometimes save money by doing their own self-surgery with…oh, yuck. Nevermind.

No Wonder These Buddhas Are Joyful (p. 182)

In later times, the handy little how-to sex manuals were no longer available. (We have only imitations passed down from Japan). Newlyweds didn’t know which Part A went into which Part B, so instead, Buddha statues were created with realistic moving parts. High-ranking newlyweds were given a show-and-feel on these to demonstrate.
 
As long as the boy statue looked like the Keanu as Siddhartha, I’d be okay with that.
 

Keanu as Siddhartha

I’m Not Sure GettyImages and Richard Blanshard Have Their Photo Credit Placed Prominently Enough Here–What Do YOU Think?


 
Parent Demo of Birds and Bees

Today, We Do It the MODERN Way


 
The All-Wise Confucius Said “Women Suck!” (pp. 183-89)

Confucius brought big changes to China. Along with inventing the civil service, he convinced men that women were bad news (like some men needed a lot of convincing). As a result, just like in ancient Greece with the hetarai, there evolved the same old “treat wives like housekeeping baby-machines, but share witty banter and fun nights out with concubines.” Chinese men even had a whole class of witty-bantering prostitutes with whom they didn’t even have sex. After all, those boys were getting and giving lots and lots of sex at home. They needed the break.
 
***
 
From balanced sex,
And gays are cool,
To women suck,
And men must rule.

It’s time that we,
That trend retool,
For clearly it is
Men who drool.

Oh, no she DI”N’T!!

Happy Valentine’s Day, ALL of you–both the genital innies AND outies!!
 

Who-Needs-A-Valentine-With-Friends-Like-You

ME, Of Course. But I’m Really Glad I Have You Guys, Too. <3


 
This is the last (prob’ly) of my ‘Sex in History’ series. I’ll miss it… (sniff!! SOB!!!)
 
CINNABUNDENDUM

I went round-robin on what the “Cinnabar” in “Cinnabar Cleft” meant, as it had more than one meaning in the past. Today, it means a red, red rock (I did that just to get your periodic table all in a tizzy, geology goats–tee-hee!). A MINERAL (an ore of a mineral–well, more than ONE mineral, if we want to get picky): Mercury sulfide. But it was apparently also used to mean cinnamon, particularly in Arabia, and I chose–chose, I say–to believe that the Chinese intended this use, since after too much time searching, I failed to find a translation of the original Chinese–I don’t even know if it was translated directly into English, or into another language first.

Well, I have now learned after more research that it more likely referred to a rich, red carved lacquer used on those beautiful ornate pieces you now see only in museums and the homes of wealthy friends, and implied the beauty of those pieces. A rich, red lacquer made from a red, red rock. ] ;-)> Mercury sulfide. (NOTE FROM THE POISON CENTER: If you are a toddler reading this, please do not play with the pretty red rock. Bad rock. Mr. Icky.)
 
Prev Post in the Series: Married Priests? Lesbian Nuns?
 

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A Little Boy’s Too-Big Confession


Amon is always difficult.

When I first took over this class, the substitute had warned me:

“Amon is a dangerous SNAKE!”

I was shocked and dismayed to hear a teacher talk about her students that way. I was naïve enough, then, to reject the notion that any 10-year-old can act like a dangerous snake.
 

Boy With Snake On Head

If You Also Cannot Tell Boy From Snake, Boy Is One On Bottom


 
Amon IS always difficult–no snake–but today, something is really, really off. He has never been as out-of-control before. He actually squares off against me, planting his pint-sized body in front of me and raising his tiny fists.
 
(This same boy had punched my Assistant, Rose, quite hard in her arm a week earlier. The Office’s response? Nothing. Whatsoever. Remember, this is the District with a mandatory three-day suspension when a student issues a threat–but acts go unpunished.)

This time, I do convince Amon to make the wise choice of not throwing a punch MY way:

“Take a minute to think about it, Amon. Calm down, and think really hard, because there is no way I’m going to let a 10-year old kid punch me and get away with it. And I won’t be worrying about school rules, or my job, or anything else.”

(You’d best believe I’m brave and bold when facing down an opponent 1/4 my size and weight!)
 

Little Angry Hispanic-Perhaps-Latino Boy

WAY Too Impressive Here. Imagine Him Through the Wrong End of Binoculars, and You’ll Have the Proportions Right.


 
After a moment of think time, two skinny matchstick arms are lowered. After which, I call this miniscule boy outside our classroom door for a private conference.

“Amon—what’s going on today? Is something wrong?”

To my shock, this very macho gang member begins to cry. And cry, and cry, and cry, and then cry some more.

I let my assistant know what’s going on, and give her some assignments for the class while I wait to hear what Amon’s problem is. (This is difficult, because I must still monitor the class behavior through the open door, and this is one very active and trouble-prone Special Ed class.)

Amon is finally able to begin speaking:

“I think I did something wrong. Really wrong.”

I learn what happened, between choking sobs:

The day before, Amon was visiting his 8-year-old female cousin. The two children had been left together unsupervised the entire day. (No surprise, that.) During the afternoon, Amon had tried forcing his cousin into sex with him: Pulled off her pants, lay on top of her, and attempted penetration.
 

Boy and Girl Naked Dolls

A Mere Child, Merely Copying What He Has Been Shown


 
Tears and snot are running down his face this entire time while I pass tissues. I am pulling every hormone-choking trick of my own not to sob along with him.
 
Amon is feeling scared and ashamed. He always presents a tough guy front, but Amon knows that his actions went too far this time. He feels a healthy familial affection for his cousin, and is frightened and confused by what happened.
 
“Amon–Would you like to talk to someone about this? The school psychologist?” I ask, hardly daring to hope he’ll agree.

“Yes.” he answers almost immediately. This is one worried and guilty little boy.

I write up the gist of what Amon told me and give this to The Office. I fill out paperwork to inform Social Services of this reported sexual incident.
 
 
Have you already guessed that Amon is one of the three boys who have been continually humping the classroom furniture?

Perhaps someone from The Office should have intervened earlier.
 

Head In Sand

In Sand, or Up Somewhere Else?


 
SURPRISINGLY-GOOD OUTCOME ADDENDUM
 
From then on, Amon’s family–mother and aunts–was forced by social services to supervise its children all the time they were together–a rare time I saw Social Services do some good, and immediately. (His mother was furious at me.) Amon’s behavior improved slightly at school–either as a result of the talks with the psychologist, or as a result of the increased parental supervision.
 
HORRIBLY-PREACHY UP-WITH-CENSORSHIP ADDENDUM
 
I am wondering what movies Amon’s parents watched while he was around. I’m betting they weren’t all Disney flicks.

You SHOULD censor everything your children watch and read. Censorship is GOOD for children.

You are not denying them freedom they should have. You are GIVING them freedom:

A chance to thrive with age-appropriate behaviors, a healthy respect for adults, and a lack of unnecessary fear.

Why on earth do you parents think it’s okay to watch the evening news with your single-digit-aged children?

All they grow up with are disasters happening on every front. There was a good reason Mr. Rogers advised against allowing young children to watch the evening news during the Persian Gulf (Kuwait Invasion) War.

Why on earth do you parents think it’s okay for children under the age of 10 to watch “The Simpsons”?
Younger kids have no idea that Bart’s disrespect for everyone is supposed to be unrealistic.
They know it’s supposed to be funny, and they know he gets away with it.
What is THAT teaching them before they hit the classroom?

Our own little sons loved the Calvin and Hobbes comics.
Similar to Bart, Calvin is highly scornful of the adult world.
I love those comics, and I loved that my children loved them.
However, when I found my little five- and six-year-old boys imitating Calvin’s manner with the two of us, I accidentally “lost” all of their Calvin books until they were older. Oops. Gosh, boys, Mommy is SO sorry!

Don’t get me started on computer games and the internet.

You parents have a responsibility to control everything that goes into your children.
Children are little sponges.
And part of everything that goes into them STICKS.
 
Previous Non-Teaching Post (Humor/History):
Confession: No Longer Good For the Soul?
 
1st Teaching Post: Shocked By a Rock
 
Prev Teaching Post: Permission To Pee, Sir!
 
Next Teaching Post: He Who Will Teach: The Assistant
 
Corrected the war for which Mr. Rogers issued his news warning.
 

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Confession: No Longer Good For the Soul?


“WHAT?!  You lied?  To a priest?
During CONFESSION?”

Meg has really shocked me.

We’re chatting on the phone and I’ve shared that I’ve been reading John Cornwell’s “The Dark Box: A Secret History of Confession”.

This led Meg and me to childhood reminiscences, and on to a discussion of Good Catholics versus Bad Catholics:
 

Bad Catholics

Pop Quiz: Which Do You Think THESE Are?


 
Good Catholics went to confession weekly, like we did. Bad Catholics showed up only once a year. Shame on those sinners, saving up all that dirt on their soiled souls!

“Ew!–Don’t brush up against us! Your dirty sins might brush off!”

We were on solid theological ground here:

Blessed is the person who walks not in the counsel of the wicked, nor stands in the way of sinners… (Psalm 1:1)

I told Meg that while I waited each Saturday for my turn with the priest in the little confessional box, I used to do math to figure out my sin count: I’d estimate how many times each day I did something wrong to each of my siblings, and then multiply by seven days.

Lemmee see…I lie about once a day to Meg, twice to Paul (he was so young—it was just too easy). I don’t usually lie to Macy, ’cause I don’t really talk to her much any more…Then there’s the hitting…

The fact that I needed to go by number of times per day per sin gives a good indication of what a nasty little girl I was.

I seriously don’t recall that anything I did to the adults I lived with counted as wrong. Oh—wait! I DO remember something that I used to feel tremendous guilt about:

I would sneak food. Even emaciated as I appeared, and hungry as I always felt, my mom had weird rules about food and would make me feel guilty about eating. She would prefer I eat an entire box of Ring-Dings (non-food) than eat my preferred entire loaf of bread and quart of milk.

“I drank that quart of milk after school, God.”

My sin-counting was an arithmetic of anxiety—one which I took very seriously—because each week it re-emphasized what a bad person I was. And, if I missed only one sin, I would not be shriven [forgiven] of any.

Better to over-confess than under!

But now, here’s Meggy, confessing to me that SHE made up her entire confession!

“Meg! That means you actually would have told the priest a lie about lying!”

“Yup.”

Wicked unrepentant chortles come from the other end of the phone.

“Well, I hope you remembered to add THAT to the list of sins you confessed, or you’re going straight to hell!”

We both laugh like demons.
 

Hyde Laughing Gif

I Look Different Minus Makeup, Don’t I?


 
A-DAMNED-UM

Meg and I will have a lot of company down there. A lot of Catholic company. She and I are no longer Catholic, so of course we no longer worry about weekly or yearly confession, but, I just learned, neither do 97% of Catholics. In the U.S., you’ll only find confession going on in a bare handful of the biggest, best-attended cathedrals and churches.

Golly. All those important scenes in the movies inside the confessional box? Don’t happen. Not since the 1970’s.

Cornwell’s book had a bunch of interesting confession tidbits (as well as lots of other non-confession-related churchy facts not mentioned here). Warning: If you were born with normal non-nerd human genes, you may just want to stop right here, unless you’re hooked on catatonics.

Confession Is the Jews’ Fault

No—seriously. Ya’ know Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement? Even before that, for centuries, the tradition was that when you screwed up big time, you had to publicly show you were sorry by moaning and wailing, tearing at your clothes and yourself, and covering yourself with ashes.

Guess where the Catholics got the idea of Ash Wednesday from? Yup. THAT’s the Jews’ fault, too.

When the Christian church started out, there was no confession. Christ already died for everybody’s sins, except Adam and Eve’s original sin, and baptism took care of that. But over time, when Christians messed up big-time, by killing someone or doing something equally evil, like masturbating, the church needed a way to welcome them back. It had to be a big public something, or everybody would think masturbation, say, was no big deal.

(Of course I wouldn’t know, but I’ve heard that, in some cases, it CAN be a big deal. With inflatable embraces, or the proper electronic interfaces.)

So the Christians borrowed from their not-distant Jewish heritage and added a Christian twist: The ashy sinner had to walk up to the altar at the pre-Easter Lenten church service with a shaved head, and confess in front of everyone s/he knew.

Whoa.

Confession Is the Fault of the Irish

They’re the ones who decided it was better to whisper sins kneeling at the foot of a priest in private than to shout them out loud in front of your friends.

You’re thinking “That’s mighty thoughtful.”

Well, that’s where you’re wrong, boy-o. Or girl-o. Those private meetings enabled the charm o’ the Irish to apply itself in private. To privates.
 

A Little Too Much Closeness.  Interesting Sidebar:  Back Then, It Was Women, Not Boys, Who Were the Targets, And Not Girls:  An Average Age of 27

A Little Too Much Closeness. Back Then, It Was Women Who Were the Targets. And Not Girls: An Average Age of 27


 
The early church actually tried to address this. You’ll never guess how. Through designing a device which would keep priest and penitent apart while still allowing private, personal confession: The confessional box!

Pretty much backfired, didn’t it? Lots of diddling has gone on inside those boxes down through the years.

***

This post was gonna be longer–the book is good, and really deserves a read, and a more thoughtful post–but instead, it sorta peters out. And if you’re Catholic, or if you’ve ever been Catholic, or if you even have a friend who’s Catholic, you know whose fault THAT is. The same person whose fault EVERYTHING is:

“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.”

“My fault, my fault, my most grievous fault.”

Yes, the Bible was talking about the death of Jesus, but somehow Catholicism makes the guilt transferrable to every poor choice you or I ever made or may make.

Pardon me, while I go self-flagellate.
 

Ned Flanders Self-Flagellation

“One-Doodly-Ouch! Two-Doodly-OOO!”


 

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Permission to Pee, Sir !


I have to urinate.

We are supposed to use the bathroom at 10:00 AM recess, and at 12:00 lunch. Unfortunately, even after post-childbirth surgery, I occasionally need to use the bathroom at other times, likely triggered by my Behcet’s disease, likely triggered by teaching in that environment).

The approved procedure for peeing outside of recommended times, as it was explained to me in my training, is to open the connecting door to the next classroom and ask the teacher there to take official responsibility for monitoring your class while you are away.

We have no connecting door. The Office has stuck me and my thirteen Special Education students in a large storage closet instead of a classroom.

However, even better than a teacher in the next room, I have an almost full-time assistant. My assistant is well-experienced and highly respected by me and by the administration—this is her sixth year helping such students. I ask Rose to watch the class while I run to the restroom.

I race down the outside corridor on my urgent mission. Before I reach my goal, the Assistant Principal appears from around a corner. She positively pounces:

“WHAT are you doing out of your classroom?!”.
“I have to use the bathroom.”

(child of abuse, here, being faced by a screamer).

“WHO’S watching your students ?!” she blares.
R-R-Rose,” I nervously stutter.

Her eyebrows can’t possibly go any higher.

“What were you THINKING!?
Only a certified teacher can watch your students!”

Then, she glares at me and spits out:

“Go back to your classroom IMMEDIATELY!”
“But…but…I really have to use the bathroom,” I manage to speak up.
 

Woman Holding In Pee

Like She Couldn’t TELL


 
Only then does she very begrudgingly allow me to pee, after sternly warning me that I must do it fast and hurry back.
 
 
Is THIS what my teaching year is to be like?

Is THIS how The Administration will treat me?

Is this how The District treats all its teachers?
 
 
ABUSED ASPIE ADDENDUM

It is very sad to me, on a personal level, looking back at this now:

That the woman who was once a confident white-collar professional, running projects, and meetings with Senior V.P.s, designing systems, travelling all over, managing people (only adequately, that last)–

Immediately reverted to the whipped, beaten, cowed puppy she was each time she was put into a new situation and faced with bullying. My abusive marriage negated any gains I’d made after my abusive childhood–with my Aspie social skills always being willing to pitch in and hogtie a hand.
 
And this reaction is still my first instinct today. That is both sad, and infuriating. Makes me want to go out a kick a cat.

 

 

(THIS is why my friend Joey says I’m Satan. I was tempted–really and truly tempted–to leave the post like that, and hit Update, just to see what happened.)
 

I am KIDDING, y’all!
 
I would only give a kitty One Hard Look–really.

Dratted faustian felines and their sly little furry-footed ways…
 
 

Devious Cat No New Kitten

‘Nuff Said.


 
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