September 11, 2001
Mamacita says: I’m guessing that many most bloggers will be posting tributes this weekend, and telling the blogosphere ‘where we were’ when the planes hit the World Trade Center. Here is mine. This is actually the second third fourth fifth sixth seventh eighth ninth time I’ve posted this on 9/11, so if it seems familiar, you’re not crazy. Well, not on this issue, anyway.
==
The morning began like any other; we stood for the Pledge of Allegiance, and sat back down to watch Channel One News, which had been taped at 3:00 that morning in the school library, thanks to the timer. But Channel One News didn’t come on.
Instead, the secretary’s voice, over the intercom, told the teachers to “please check your email immediately.” We did. And we found out what had happened.
I scrolled down the monitor and read the end of the message. The superintendent had ordered all teachers to be absolutely mum all day about the tragedy. We were not to answer any questions from students, and we were especially not to offer any information to them.
The day went by in a blur. Many parents drove to the school, took their kids out, and brought them home. Between classes, frightened groups of students gathered in front of their lockers and whispered, gossiped, and cried, and begged us for information. By that time, the superintendent’s order had been seconded by the principals, and we were unable to give these terrified kids any information. In the computer labs, the MSN screens told the 8th graders the truth, but they, too, were instructed NOT to talk about it to the other students. Right, like THAT happened. The story was being repeated by 8th graders, and it was being told bloody-killing-deathtrap-you’re next-video-game-style.
At noon, many of the students were picked up by parents and taken home or out for lunch. Those few who returned had a big tale to tell. The problem was, the tale was being told by children, and few if any of the facts were straight. The tale was being told scary-style, and the atmosphere in the building got more and more strained. We are only a few miles away from an immensely large Navy base, where ammunition and bombs are made, and we’ve always known it was a prime target, which means, of course, that we are, too. Many of my children’s parents worked there. The base was locked down and those parents did not come home that night.
Reasonable questions were answered with silence, or the statement: “You’ll find out when you get home.”
This, added to all the rumors and gossip spread by children, turned my little sixth graders into terrified toddlers.
As teachers, we were furious and disgusted with the superintendent’s edict. We wanted to call all the students into the gym and calmly tell them the truth in words and ways that would be age-appropriate. We wanted to hug them and assure them that it was far away and they were safe. We asked for permission to do this, and it was denied. Our orders were ‘silence.’ We hadn’t been allowed to hug them for years, of course, but there are times and places when hugs ARE appropriate. No matter, the superintendent stood firm: no information whatsoever.
The day went by, more slowly than ever a day before. The students grew more and more pale and frightened. We asked again, and again he stood firm that no information whatsoever was to be given out.
By the end of the day, the children were as brittle as Jolly Rancher Watermelon Sticks.
A few minutes before the bell rang to send them home, a little girl raised her hand and in a trembling voice that I will never forget, asked me a question. “Please, is it true that our parents are dead and our houses are burned down?”
That was it. I gathered my students close and in a calm voice explained to them exactly what had happened. I told them their parents were alive and safe, and that they all still had homes to go to.
The relief was incredible. I could feel it cascading all through the room.
I was, of course, written up for insubordination the next day, but I didn’t care. My phone had rung off the hook that night with parents thanking me for being honest with their children. That was far more important than a piece of paper that said I’d defied a stupid inappropriate order meted out by a man who belonged in the office of a used car lot, not in a position of power over children’s lives.
The next day at school, in my room, we listened to some of the music that had been ‘specially made about the tragedy. I still have those cd’s and I’ve shared them with many people over the past few years. It is true that kids cried again, but it was good to cry. It was an appropriate time to cry. We didn’t do spelling or grammar that day. There are times when the “business as usual” mindset simply is not appropriate.
I wish administrators would realize that kids are a lot tougher than we might think. Kids are also a lot more sensitive that we might realize. It’s an odd combination, and we as educators must try our best to bring the two ends of the emotional spectrum together and help these kids learn to deal with horrible happenings and still manage to get through the day as well as possible.
Ignoring an issue will not help. Morbidly focusing on an issue will not help. Our children are not stupid, and to treat them as such is not something that builds trust. Our children deserve answers to their questions.
How can we expect our children to learn to find a happy medium if we don’t show them ourselves, when opportunities arise?
September 11, 2001 – September 11, 2013. God bless us, every one.
Priorities, People.
Mamacita says: In case you’re one of those people who don’t believe children in America are going to bed hungry, I’ve got news for you: bu
Monday mornings were the worst – we teachers would stand at the front doors of the school and watch as little pinched faces hurtled off the bus and dashed into the building, heading for the cafeteria and that tray of breakfast that was, for far too many of the children, the first actual meal they’d had since free lunch at school the previous Friday. Even when schools send home food in a backpack, many families don’t feed their children with it. Sending it home doesn’t necessarily mean the child gets to eat it.
It was also usually on Monday mornings that we watched children who’d been given a coat, mittens, and hat on Friday emerge from the bus bareheaded and shivering because the clothing had been given to another family member or – and there is a special level of Hell for these people – sold to buy booze. If I had a nickel for every mother (part of an hyphenated word) who came into the building wearing the coat we’d given her child, I’d have, well, a really big pile of nickels.
My point? Do I have to have one? Okay then. Here it is:
Adults have no business taking care of themselves until their children have been provided for. This includes food AND clothing. I’m sorry if an adult has no warm coat, but if said adult helps herself/himself to the warm coat off a child’s back, I hope said adult hangs.
If there isn’t much food in the house and an adult eats the last piece of bread, see above, regarding hanging.
Children come first. Children take priority over everything else. Children are more important than you are.
Always.*
P.S. If you reek of cigarette smoke, I will hate you worse. What you paid for that pack of smokes sitting in your purse or rolled up in your sleeve (classy) would have bought socks and mittens for your shivering, blue-fingered child.
Don’t talk to me about addiction, either. You created these children and you are morally, ethically obligated to care for them until such time as they can care for themselves. By the way, since you don’t seem to know, that time isn’t second grade.
* The only place this doesn’t apply is on a plane that’s losing altitude. Put your oxygen mask on first, THEN help the children. In every other situation, you’re last.
Snickers Bites and Diabetes and Lemons, Oh My
Mamacita says: I have never been a person who gorges on candy. I can go for months without any candy at all. Sweet things have never appealed – I would rather have sour things. Red plums, little sour grapes, green apples, lemons. . . these are my snack foods of choice. However, every few months, I get a real hankering for candy, and my favorite purchased candy is, without a doubt, Snickers.
Now, not only am I not interested in a lot of candy at once, all the time. . . . I am diabetic, so even if I did long for lots of candy, I couldn’t have it.
Snickers Bites have changed my life.
With Snickers Bites, I can have my favorite candy. I can. The “bites” are big enough
to count as real candy indulgence, but the “bites” are also small enough that one or two every once in a while will not harm me.
Now, don’t think that diabetics get a free ride with Snickers Bites. No, we don’t get a free ride with any kind of candy. It’s just that with Snickers Bites, it’s so easy to just eat one or two at a time, and walk away. One or two Snickers Bites are enough.
It would depend on how severe your diabetes is, of course. Check with your doctor, naturally. Mine told me that since I don’t have much of a sweet tooth anyway, one or two Snickers Bites once in a while would be just fine.
Snickers Bites are better than just fine, you know. Snickers Bites are divine. They’re so delicious, your taste buds will swoon. They’re also a lot softer and fresher-tasting than a full-size candy bar.
Serious goodness that even some diabetics are allowed to love. My life is great.
