Welcome to The Weekly Sher.
Today I’m sharing a note from the Whistle Blower archives…a few fleeting moments captured on a windy walk across a school playground. Early ‘90s. Rural desert community of ‘socially/economically disadvantaged families.’
Air picks up sand from the ground and spins it across the blacktop, sucking candy wrappers and flattened milk cartons up into a sudden dust devil for my swift-footed students to duck and chase.
We’re on a scheduled seven-minute restroom break.
I drift back to Shidler, Oklahoma in the late ‘40’s where Dad managed the production of recently discovered oil. We lived in a small company camp. Seven houses in a row for the families of the roughnecks. The men built a playground at one end…a merry-go-round, tall metal slide, swings and monkey bars…forged from hefty oil pipe cuttings. Across the road, we watched a herd of placid dairy cows behind a fenced pasture.
Every morning in mid-nineties California, well-intentioned parents and/or guardians send children to school with assumptions that need a reality check. They may be thinking, “I pay taxes and get them there. It’s the teacher’s job to do the rest.”
As a teacher, I’ve gone along with this for years. But lately I’ve noticed an annoying intrusion. A stampede of self-serving experts dictating crazy new rules in the name of each child’s right to a public education.
The politicians sword fight with statistics. Committees argue about which specific thinking skills must be mastered by each child on which birthday.
Publishers assemble heavier Teacher Editions of textbooks filled with detailed and cross-referenced bits of culturally inclusive data and strategies, ad nauseum.
Principals schedule schoolwide restroom breaks and monitor the teachers with checklists on clickboards. “Too often does not follow prescribed script for optimum statistical results.”
Teachers roll their eyes and hold their bladder.
Meanwhile, neither Politicians, Publishers, Principals, nor Parents always realize how hurt and confused the children become on a daily basis. I listen to children’s remarks and field their questions. It’s part of my job. Often the questions reach beyond curriculum and into the hearts of today’s families:
“Why does my mother tell us she’ll do something and then never do it?”
“Why do my parents always blame me just because I’m the oldest?”
“Why does my dad tell me not to do the same things he does?”
Some of these questions reflect universal dynamics of family life. Some of the stories hit me in the gut and leave me without air to breathe:
"A guy got really mad at my dad, 'cause see my dad he fixed the guy's car, and the guy didn't have the money to pay him, so he gave my dad another car that wasn’t working, instead of money. And then he couldn't get the first car started after my dad fixed it (which it WAS fixed, but the guy didn't know what he was doing), so the car didn't start, and he came over to our house and was beating on the door and he was going to shoot my dad."
My eyes widen. "How did that go?"
Low voice out of the side of his mouth, "My dad got out his gun and shot him."
"You mean....dead?"
"Well, he was half dead. I mean half his guts were gone."
"Is your dad in trouble now?"
"No, the cops knew the dude came in our house with a gun."
I notice his Adam's apple pulsing.
"And you were right there?"
"I wasn't the only one. There was a four-year old girl there, too."
I nod then shake my head to let him know I've heard his story.
We’re on a scheduled seven-minute restroom break. Thirty minors and I have walked outside together to visit the facilities.
I wait, leaning against the rail, while those who want one get a drink. Some lean against the rail with me. Their eyes wonder if they can trust me. Some blurt out family headlines, then bounce over to the drinking fountain.
“My cousin’s birthday was yesterday and the police came.”
“My mom’s boyfriend’s birthday was yesterday!”
“My birthday is in May and I’m going to Sea World.”
“My dog had babies this morning and two died.”
Teachers roll their eyes and hold their bladder.
Some of them duck into the institutional bathroom just to hang out with their friends for a moment of uncensored childhood. On the way back to the classroom, I watch them romp. They bump and nudge and giggle. They whisper and twirl.
On the ramp outside our portable classroom, I wait till they’re all facing me, single file. Placing my finger alongside my nose, I signal them to control their energy.
It’s time to return to the mandated and measured “time on task” that’s Federally Guaranteed to leave no child behind.
In Texas, there is an expression: “too much Hat, not enough Cattle.”
(In Texas, there is an expression: “too much Hat, not enough Cattle.”
After reading a chapter together, we break into groups and practice a sword fighting scene between Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.
Thanks, Sherry, for giving me a dose of your realness.
Moving story, beautiful art!