Sandy Hook Remembered: A Conspiracy of Love

Last week, I sat through what felt like the longest PTO meeting of my life.  It was uncomfortable to listen to and nauseating to contemplate.  We were talking about school security, post Sandy Hook. Our principal outlined ongoing changes being made to policies and procedures, including consultations with the town police chief and heads of security companies. Many parents were there to express their concerns and displeasure over some changes that had already been made with how children are dropped off and picked up from school. It was serious business.

I have to be honest, my attention faltered, sitting in the auditorium, as my mind wondered to thoughts of that horrible day and then to the teachers and staff in my own school.  To my own first grader. Watching our principal speak, I was struck by how tired he looked. Granted, he was just recovering from a week of the flu, but his thoughts and words wore heavily on him and I could see the weight of his position and responsibility, now multiplied tenfold. Waves of emotion washed over me, lapping at my feet and bringing me to the verge of tears, as they do now, writing these words.

I had a strong desire to give him a big hug. To stand up and say thank you to him and all of the teachers who had come to the meeting. To say, “I love you all” and mean it, although I don’t even know most of them and that would probably be considered exceedingly weird.

Sandy Hook is the educational 9/11.  There is no going back.  As our principal said, ‘December 14 was a game changer.’ And I shuddered.

Meanwhile, in the world where people think every real life event is some sort of Da Vinci Code plot that only they are smart enough to figure out, a friend at work mentioned something about some ridiculous Sandy Hook conspiracy theories she heard floating around. I didn’t really think anything of it at the time.  But in the past few days, they started popping up in my feed on Facebook. I wanted to be educated on what these people were talking about, so I Googled “Sandy Hook Conspiracy” and started reading.  Then I watched the beginning of a video a friend posted.  I could feel my blood boiling.

Now, I am not conspiracy theorist, but I also have no doubt that the government does not always tell us the whole story about things. Sometimes for our own good, sometimes for theirs.  But this stuff, this is just sickening.

Theories range from the entire thing being completely staged by actors where no one actually got hurt or killed at all, to it being a military operation executed by Black Ops.  Most theories claim that it is somehow connected to a plot by the Obama administration to push through gun control legislation, and leading ultimately to some sort of Socialist/Communist/Marxist/Stalinist state (I wish they would pick one—I’m pretty sure they are not actually interchangeable).

Here’s the thing: I live in Connecticut.  I assure you that this actually happened. People I work with live in Newtown.  They have attended the funerals.  They know families.  This is for real.

And if this horrible tragedy becomes the catalyst for conversations long overdue about gun control, mental health care, violent video games, media saturation, etc. then thank God something positive can come out of it.  It is not politicizing the event to demand real change in areas that have so long been swept under the rug.

(I will not entertain arguments on these items here, but if you want to hear an excellent, passionate, well expressed position for responsible gun control, look no further than Jon Stewart, whose “fake” news speaks truth more eloquently than I possibly could: http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/tue-january-8-2013/scapegoat-hunter—gun-control)

These crazy theories and their overzealous supporters make me angry.  Truly, deeply, punch a wall angry.  But punching the wall only adds to the violence, crippling me (literally) in the process. So what are we to do?

I think now is the time for a conspiracy of our own: a conspiracy of love. Honor those innocent children and staff of Sandy Hook every day by conspiring to show love and compassion to our fellow human beings.

Practice random acts of kindness!
Make a joyful noise!
Be thankful!

Small acts of kindness can go a long way to making someone’s day a bit brighter, and yours too, in the process. There are many movements afoot that can be found all over the internet and on FB, such as Guerrilla Goodness (https://www.facebook.com/GuerrillaGoodness?fref=ts)—check them out. Start your own.

To start, I ask you to help honor the staff of Sandy Hook by honoring the teachers I your life.  Write a note to your child’s teacher(s). Email one of your own teachers, past or present. Send a letter of support to your neighborhood school. Just to say ‘hey,’ or ‘thank you,’ or ‘thinking of you.’

I began thinking about all the teachers I had in public school.  I was fairly certain I could remember them all.  So I sat down and made a list. I was pretty dang close.  As far as I can recall, I am only missing my teachers for Swimming and Home Economics, both of which I only had for one semester in junior high.

All of my teachers had an impact on me in some way.  So I am sharing with you my ‘roll call,’ if you will. I plan to put my list on my FB page, too.  I hope others will take up the challenge and post their own lists. Let us all conspire to respect, rejoice in and love one another as best we can, whenever we can.

Elementary School:

Ms. Napoleon (K)
Ms. Epifanio (1)
Ms. Weiser (2)
Mrs. Sliwa (3)
Mrs. Taylor (4)
Mrs. Burke (5 & 6)
Mrs. Rotundo (principal)
Mrs. Steiber (orchestra)
Mrs. Demitri (music)

Jr. High:

Mr. Zelly
Ms. Royal
Mr. DeJesus
Mrs. Schwartz
Mrs. Brown
Mr. Crawford
Mrs. Jones
Mrs. Williams
Ms. Barclay
Mr. DiDanato
Mr. Pucciati
Mrs. Medina

High School:

Mrs. Guard
Mr. Helm
Mrs. Reza
Mr. Johnson
Dr. Omundson
Mrs. Rodriguez
Mrs. Reynolds
Mrs. Brown
Ms. Booth
Mr. Kitchen
Ms. Call
Mr. Lawrence
Mr. Dettman
Mrs. York

Unopened Presents on Christmas Day

Lately there seems to have been an overabundance of violent outbursts across the country. At a time of year when we sing about peace on earth and good will towards man, man seems to be taking up arms in very public places and at the cost of many lives.  I have watched these stories, saddened by the events happening hundreds, even thousands of miles from me, with a heavy heart for those people so very far away.

And then, suddenly, it was not so far away.

Then, on Friday, it was here in the state I now call home. Here on my doorstep. Not hundreds of miles away, but a mere 50.

I could not process it all.  I knew I could not watch it.  It was 9/11 all over again—no new information, so they just kept repeating the same thing for hours and hours, showing the plane crash into the tower again and again and again.  I could not bear it. Thinking of the school, the children, the teachers, the parents, I would well up with tears, then bring myself back in control.  I had to finish my work day.  I had to get to my own son. I felt a sudden burning need to see him immediately, to make sure he was safe and to protect him from the knowledge of this terrible event.

As I began to gather information, mostly from reading updates on the internet, I felt as though I were being hit by massive waves crashing against me.  Body blows. Punches to the gut.

The first was the report I read was about the 1^st grade teacher that locked herself in the bathroom with her class (http://abcnews.go.com/US/newtown-teacher-refused-unlock-door-police-fearing-gunmans/story?id=17976299#.UMzevoXN5DK). She kept them calm as she listened to the gunfire, certain that they were going to die. She told them that she loved them and was happy that they were her students.  She told them that it would be okay, because she “wanted that to be the last thing they heard, not the gunfire in the hall.”

I was sitting at the kitchen table when I read this, my own son safely tucked in his bed.  I put my head down on the table and wept.  I could not help it. It gushed from me, along with an agonized, strangled sort of moan. My son is in first grade. I was struck to the core.

When the police came and knocked on the door, she made them show their badges under the door, fearing it was the gunman trying to trick them into coming out. Then she told them if they were really the police they would be able to get the key. Only when they did so did she trust it was really “the good guys.” My tears came for so many reasons, but mostly from the genuine love she had shown for her children, not only making every effort to keep them safe physically, but to ease them mentally and to make what she thought were to be their last moments full of all the love she could give them.

The second was a television story late that evening, which I caught just as I was turning off the TV to get ready for bed. They talked about the hospital staff who had been notified of a shooting at an elementary school and had been placed on high alert, anticipating mass casualties.  About 80 or so medical staff prepared themselves for an onslaught of children and adults in need of urgent care.  Three vicitms came.  ‘Where are the others?’ they wondered out loud. The response came: there are no others. ‘But we heard that over 20 people were shot.’  Again came the response: there are no others.  And then it began to sink in to these skilled professionals that their skills in this instance would no longer be required.  There was no one else left to save. The sense of helplessness overwhelmed me. Again, I wept.  The thought of first responders, ready to spring into action with life saving measures, and the site that they came upon.  The doctors and nurses waiting with open arms, only to find empty beds. I cannot fathom it. I could not take any more that day.

More detailed stories came out on Saturday, and a new round of shocks struck me:

–Another first grade teacher, who hid her children in closets and cabinets, told the gunman she faced that her class was in the gym; she was shot and killed, but saved the lives of the children in her class (http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/newtown-teacher-vicki-soto-remembered-article-1.1221004)

–The principal and school psychologist, who ran towards the gunfire, trying unsuccessfully to stop the gunman, losing their lives in the process (http://www.nbcconnecticut.com/news/local/NATL-Principal-of-Sandy-Hook-Elementary-Remembered-for-Her-Dedication-Commitment–183634591.html)

–The lead teacher who, having no lock on the door, threw herself against it and was shot through the door in the arm and leg (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/14/newtown-elementary-therap_n_2303739.html)

Again came the tears. I’m sure there are more such stories, but I cannot process any more right now.  It is just too much.

I have always had a great deal of respect for teachers, and was a classroom teacher myself briefly, back when I was young and fresh out of college.  It is an amazing, challenging, rewarding, frustrating job. The teachers at my son’s elementary school, like so many teachers across the country, are remarkable individuals.  I would never ask nor expect them to literally put their lives on the line for my child. Yet, I have a feeling that in such a situation, they would do just that.  They are passionate, caring, dedicated professionals who truly love our children.

So many people wonder, as I do myself, what we can do for this school, these people, these families. I ask you to please remember these people and honor them.  And the next time you hear someone talking about how teachers are overpaid, glorified babysitters and how they have it so easy with their summers ‘off’ and ‘short’ days, remind them. Remind them.  Those teachers who have by the grace of God never faced such circumstances are, still, everyday heroes that inspire our children, and us. So I am going to remember those lost on Friday and honor their memory by honoring the teachers in my life.

This is what else I’m going to do:

This year I am adding two presents under my tree: a new tradition.

Something about the thought of unopened presents under the Christmas trees of 20 little boys and girls struck a chord. It conjured in my mind with painful resonance the image of Tiny Tim’s crutch, sitting alone in the corner and without an owner.

And so, I will wrap a box this Christmas with a tight little bow.  A box not meant to be opened. I will use it to remind me of those we have lost, those who will not get to open gifts this year.  I will use it to remind me how luck we are to be together.

Another box, decorated with shiny paper and a pretty ribbon, will be opened. But will be empty. This box serves to remind me of the many gifts that we can give that cannot be bought. Gifts like love, kindness, friendship, laughter, compassion. Gifts we should share with one another every single day.

I hope these presents will help me remember and honor those who were lost, as well as to celebrate the sharing of unseen gifts on Christmas and always.

I know, it sounds a bit corny.  It probably is. But it is what works for me right now. It’s a way for me to make sense of such senselessness, to think through the unthinkable, to give some semblance of order to the chaos. Right now, corny is the best I can do.

Kindergarten Epilogue: First Grade Already??

Time is a funny thing.  Anyone with grown kids will tell you that your children grow up in the blink of an eye. As I grow older, however, I find that there is some bizarre time bending that goes on in my life, a phenomenon that, as Spock might say, is ‘highly illogical.’

On one hand, it seems like only yesterday that I was contemplating the beautiful symmetry of the last day of kindergarten, which corresponded in our town (thanks to a freak October snowstorm that kept us out of school for over a week) to the first day of summer. A beginning, an end. Very yin-yang.

I had rolled an essay around in my head on that day, summarizing the year that was kindergarten: what we had learned, what we had gained, how we had changed. That first lazy day of summer started as a Ferris wheel ride, gently circling in the breeze.

Then, suddenly, I was being whipped around on a roller coaster, up, down and all around.
Work: bam!
Camp: bam!
Vacation: bam!
Recovering from vacation: bam! bam!
Planning a birthday party: bam!

The screech of brakes, the release of the bar, and suddenly I’m tumbling head first down the school supply aisle in search of a small but specific list of necessary items.  How could 1^st grade possibly be upon us already?

On the other hand, as we readied ourselves this morning for another first day of school, it seemed, not like a year, but decades ago that kindergarten had begun.  The anxiety, the fretting, the wringing of hands. The tears.  And that was just me! Could it really have been a mere 365 days since my bright, shiny Little Man embarked on his formal education? No way!  He and I have both changed so much, grown so much, it could not possibly have been just a year since we stood in front of the great glass double doors of the school building, prepared now to begin the first day of 1^st grade.

Again the symmetry: the first day of first grade.  I have always been attracted to the balance of things, and this day seemed to hold some special symbolism.  The first of the first.  And, as my son pointed out, we were no longer in “letters”—this was serious business: we were in the “number” grades, now!

We approached the playground behind the school (“This year we are on the BIG playground, Mom! <pause> I wish we could still play on the Kindergarten one, though.”) with a calm sense of anticipation. We already had the lay of the land.  Little Man knew almost everyone in his class. We looked for friends assigned to other classes and for the place we were to line up for school. With a slight spike in anxiety, we searched for our teacher.

We found her standing near the building in a bright orange cardigan, ready to take on a new year and a new class.  She greeted each student with a warm smile, checking them off her list and verifying how they would go home at the end of the day.  Little Man’s face was bright with excitement; he could not have been more ready to take on first grade.

He took his place in line and I took mine, among the other camera wielding adults beaming with pride. Kisses were blown; hugs exchanged. A whirl of activity and anticipation which seemed to culminate with groups of eager 1^st graders pointing and shouting in recognition as their former kindergarten teachers received a greeting befitting their rock star status: “I think I see Mr. Sparkes…There! There’s Mr. Michaud!” Since our school’s kindergarten starts later in the day on the first day of school, the kindergarten teachers made an appearance, wading their way through waves of their last year’s students, joyful at the site of them, sharing high fives and hugs, smiles and stories.  The Beatles wish they had it so good.

And then the bell rang, and it was time to hear some brief words from the principal and head into class.  So much to do and see! I walked away confident that my Little Man would have the best day of first grade ever.

It was on the way to work that I felt the lump rising in my throat and the unexpected tears brimming my eyes, threatening to overflow.  ‘Where was this coming from?’ I thought, as I swallowed hard, trying to force the lump back down where it belonged. I had not counted on this being an emotional day.

I punched at the pre-programmed buttons on the car radio, which was completely unnecessary since it’s a touch screen, in search of something, ANYTHING upbeat. Why, why did you choose today, 80s morning show, to fail me?  Six stations and everyone was talking.  The chatter was finally broken by “Drops of Jupiter,” a fine song in and of itself, but clearly not what I’d had in mind. I fought hard to choke down my tears, since I get all red and blotchy when I cry and that really doesn’t go over well at the start of the workday. Success finally came as I pulled into the parking lot, and was grateful, for once, at the distance of my parking space to the building and the long walk to follow.

Little Man had an awesome day, by the way, as I knew he would.  When I picked him up from school he was positively glowing and his first words were, “I love first grade!” And my heart did sing at the sound of them. I wonder if our next first day will feel like forever or a fort night from now…

Oh, and I’m still am not sure what I was crying about. Perhaps, like the time bending phenomenon, it is just one of those things that comes with the parental territory.

 

Kindergarten, Part 2: Who Are You?

After the kindergarten parent meeting comes the scheduled school visit. This is when your child comes to the school at a set time with a small group of other incoming kindergarteners. They go away with some of the kindergarten teachers and participate in various activities (listening, reading, coloring, etc).  This gives the teachers a chance to see how the children interact and they get a basic idea of what their skill levels are.

Little Man was super excited about visiting his new school. I talked him through it several times, reminding him that he’d go off to a different room with the teachers and other children while I stayed behind with the parents and principal. I reminded him to listen to his teachers and that they would bring him back to where I was when they were done. He picked out the clothes he wanted to wear and chatted cheerfully as we walked through the front door.  He was raring to go until some of the other children arrived… then he got a bit shy. I expected that, and continued to talk to him about what to expect and how much fun it would be.  He was a bit apprehensive when the group was ready to go, but went along without incident and I let out a little sigh of relief. After all, I know how super awesome he is, and soon his potential teachers would know it, too.

Then I shuffled off into the parent meeting, which was certain to be less fun.  Don’t get me wrong, everyone was pleasant enough and was happy to answer all our questions (if you’ve ever had a child start kindergarten, you know there are quite a few questions ranging from basic information gathering to outright paranoia). With us we schlepped the big fat packets we received at the Parent Night (see Kindergarten Part One) containing a half an inch of all manner of forms which we had (more or less) dutifully completed between that day and this one. Forms about me, forms about him, forms about health and residency and the PTA. So many forms that I had to fill them out a few at a time as my hand was getting crampy (funny how I used to be able to write forever, but now that I’ve become so dependent on my laptop anything more than a paragraph or two sends my muscles into spasms and my handwriting into the toilet).

Truthfully, there were forms, or parts of forms, that I set aside to deal with later. As a Single Mother by Choice, I began to wonder how to answer some of the questions. One question from the after school program (which is not run by the school) asked me to indicate my relationship status.  My choices were: “married,” “separated,” “divorced,” “living together,” and “prefer not to answer.” Since I was none of the first four, my only other option was the latter, which was untrue—I did PREFER to answer, but did not have an option applicable to me. Being particularly sensitive to this issue, I also wondered what gay/lesbian couples might indicate. “Living together” would seem the closest choice for them, although certainly not adequately descriptive of their relationship, and ‘civil union’ was not an option (although legal in our state). I was particularly disturbed by the options because the after school program is run by a woman’s organization–you’d think they’d be a bit more cognizant of the different types of families that exist. For my purposes, I refused to check “prefer not to answer” and instead created my own check box with the word “single” next to it, checked it off and highlighted it in yellow. Take that!

The second stumbling block came on the same form (and also came up in some forms that came directly from the school), where I was asked: “does your child have any siblings?”

Well, hmm. How to answer this question? I assumed that their intent was to seek information on other siblings living your home with you and your child. Which, in our case, would be ‘no.’ However, the fact of the matter is that he does have siblings. They are not full siblings, but they are technically related and he does know about them, has even met one of them. I didn’t want to lie, but I also didn’t want to confuse the truth. Argh!

All these forms are designed to reflect relevant, database worthy information on the incoming class.  Most of them capture extremely basic information, although a few were open ended inquiries seeking a bit more personal information, such as “which discipline style does your child respond best to?” followed by a list of several options.  Being a Gemini and knowing my child as I do, the answer to a question like this is generally ‘all of the above.’  For example, sometimes I can speak quietly to him to correct his behavior, sometimes positive reinforcement works, and sometimes I just have to scream my fool head off.

God bless the people who design these forms in an effort to get to know our children; I know they are trying very hard to get parents to talk about their kids. In these little rectangles, I am tasked with creating an outline of the remarkable little boy that I’ve spend nearly 5 years raising. For a wordy girl like me, this is a nearly impossible feat.

Luckily (or not), our packet contained a lovely lavender flyer titled: “A Message from the Principal, Class Placement for 2011-2012.” On this flyer, the principal invited parents to “write a letter about your child for 2011-2012 placement purposes.” Letters would be used during the creation of the class lists and we were asked to adhere to the following guidelines: tell us about your child, don’t request a specific teacher, don’t ask to be placed in a class with current friends (it was noted that this would be considered in passing only and would not be a major consideration in placement), and get your letter in by the deadline. The principal’s closing lines were:

“So, begin the reflection process.  Jot little notes to yourself.  Make a strong cup of coffee and sit down at the computer one night to compose your masterpiece. Then place it in an envelope addressed to your child’s teacher.  We promise to do our best!”

Are you kidding me?  This was a dream come true!  I could write a whole letter about my Little Man? Sa-weet!! I stretched my arms, cracked my knuckles, and prepared for the challenge.

I filled the space all around the margins of the flyer with notes to myself .  What did I want to say about Little Man? What was most important?  How could I best convey his personality? His strengths? His weaknesses?

I found it just as easy to gush about his good points as to dish about his bad ones.  He’s not a total angel, but certainly is no devil.  Sweet and kind but hard-headed and sassy. How to balance the presentation so as not to give impression that he’s a pain in the ass, but also not that I think he can do no wrong.

I hemmed and hawed and thought and composed little snippets in my head.   And I put it off for as long as possible.  The night before our kindergarten visit (when I would have to turn my letter in) I was up until midnight crafting my words, carving them out, molding and shaping them into an impression of my soon-to-be kindergartener.

I opened with a brief explanation of our family structure, then launched into my description: joyful, funny, creative, affectionate, and a list of the things he likes, which is almost everything.  He is just as comfortable playing dress-up or creating macaroni art, as he is reading a book, writing a story, building with blocks or playing with dinosaurs.  From there I talked about his weaknesses, although I admit I found myself using lots of hedging words here: sometimes, occasionally, seems. He is my baby, after all!

I read it, re-read it, printed it, read it again, edited it again, re-printed it.  What had I missed? Had I said too much?  Not enough? Well, to be honest, I hardly think I’d be accused of “not enough.” I managed to squeeze 865 words onto a single page by annihilating the margins and using a tighter font. But did it say everything that needed to be said?  I could not believe the angst that went into this! I hope that I did my Little Man justice.

The hour was late and a big day lay ahead for us both, so I finally had to put it, and me, to bed. I concluded my letter thusly:

“So there, in a nutshell, is my amazing son. I have planted the seeds of learning, love and life, and pass him now to your tender care, to help me nourish his mind, body and spirit, and cultivate the incredible human being he is meant to be. I hope that you enjoy having him in your life as much as I enjoy having him in mine.

Thank you so much for all you do.  I hope this letter is helpful and look forward to working with you in the coming year.”

Stay tuned for Part Three!  🙂

Teachers are taxpayers, too (and so are all the other public employees)

I am in the unique position of having been a public school teacher (albeit for a brief time), having worked in the private sector for a number of years, and being currently employeed in the public sector in a non-teaching position, too.

Watching the drama in Wisconsin unfold (and drama is certainly the appropriate word), a mix of repulsion and morbid curiosity washes over me. Much like watching a car wreck: you don’t want to keep looking, yet somehow you’re horrified to realize that it’s difficult to look away.

As with much of the political rhetoric of recent years, the use of language by politicians (and would-be politicians) is both fascinating and frightening.

In one speech defending his position on cutting teacher salaries and prohibiting collective bargaining, Governor Walker discussed the imbalance between the ‘have’ and ‘have nots.’ Us versus them.  You’re either with me or against me.  Gee, that sounds familiar…

In this scenario, it is the teachers and state employees who are the ‘haves’ and the tax payers of the great state of (insert state here) Wisconsin who are apparently the ‘have nots.’ Teacher vs. taxpayers. State employees vs. taxpayers.  Since I’m a state employee and a taxpayer, should I be fighting with myself?  Which side of the argument should I come down on?  What level of crazy will I rate as I drive down the street yelling at myself?

The language used to frame this argument is quite literally laughable, yet there it is, plain as day. The teachers are the ‘haves.’  The TEACHERS?  Seriously? Since when, I wonder, have the teachers been the ‘haves’? Good grief, the FEDERAL government even recognizes that this isn’t the case and created a tax credit to compensate public school teachers who routinely take part of their own salary to buy basic supplies for their classrooms. Not because they have extra money just laying around, going to waste, but because they care enough to have a little less themselves so that they can enrich their students’ educational experience in the most basic of ways.

Where does this happen in the private sector?  Having worked in Corporate America, I was never expected/required to buy a ream of paper or toner cartridge for my office.  No one ever said to me ‘if you really CARED about your job, you’d buy a package of dry erase markers for the conference room!’

In sense, I guess the teachers ARE the ‘haves.’  They ‘have’ education and training. They ‘have’ the responsibility of teaching our children (which, according to some, they never do right.  Either they’re doing too much: ‘that’s not your job to teach them that, that’s my job as a parent’ or not enough: ‘that’s what I pay YOU for; don’t expect me to get involved with my child’s education or participate in it in any way.’). They ‘have’ a thankless job for which they are undervalued.

The other day on The Daily Show, Jon Stewart pointed out another fascinating (and by fascinating, I mean disgusting) anomaly in the discussion of teachers and money.

One commentator, in expressing her support for Gov. Walker and his stance against teachers, stated that teachers ‘quite frankly don’t DESERVE $50K/year’ ($50K being an ‘average’ teacher salary thrown out for discussion). Wow. She went on to say how shameful it was that teachers were protesting. ‘What are they teaching our children?’

That is actually a great question.  What are these teachers teaching the children of Wisconsin (and those across the country) by protesting the governor’s proposals?  To value themselves and their work?  To stand up for themselves and their beliefs, even in the face of great controversy? To support quality education?  What a shame it would be to teach such lessons to our future leaders!

Interestingly enough (and by interesting, I mean disgusting), the same woman claimed (in a previous conversation defending the stance that the Bush tax cuts on the rich should be extended) that a couple filing jointly making a combined income of $250K/year and raising two children, perhaps attempting to put both through college, were ‘practically at poverty level.’ Really?

Assuming for a moment that the man and the woman (as a federally recognized couple is mandated to be) make the same amount of money (which in our country is highly unlikely, but I digress), that means each of these tax payers is making $125K/year, which again, according to this reporter, is ‘practically poverty level.’  Each person makes 2 ½ TIMES what the greedy, self-centered teacher makes.  If $125K is the new ‘poverty level,’ then what the hell is $50K?!

Ah, but those lazy teachers only work 9 months out of the year, you say.  Despite the fact that this is not actually true, let us assume, for the sake of argument, that the teacher is getting paid $50K for 9 months of work, while the poor woman in the couple example, let’s call her Pobrecita, works a whole 12 months for her meager $125K. It’s apples to oranges, you say.  So let’s level the playing field and say that Pobrecita only gets 75% of her salary, because she only works 9 months out of the year. That’s $93,750.

So, the teacher, who makes $50K and has a salary of 53% of Pobrecita’s for the same ‘9 months of work,’ is grossly overpaid, while Pobrecita should, what, look into applying for food stamps? That’s some interesting math right there.

And speaking of interesting math, where did the ‘fact’ that teachers work nine months out of the year come from? I’m not sure about where you live, but in my neck o’ the woods, teachers start teaching either at the end of August or the very beginning of September, and teach into June. Additionally, amazing as it may seem, classrooms don’t actually ready themselves, so teachers are required to be at work for some time prior to the start of the school year, as well as some time after school is out for the summer.

Teachers are also credited with the luxury of a ‘short’ work day.  Of actual in front of the class teaching time? Perhaps.  Let’s not consider the grading, lesson plans, conferences, etc. as part of their work day, though.  And in the high school where I taught, every teacher was also required to sponsor/co-sponsor a club or sport.  No time spent on that.

Clearly, everyone must sacrifice.

A few years ago, when the economy began going south in a big, bad way, the union leaders in our state sat down with the then governor in good faith, understanding the very notion that ‘everyone must sacrifice.’  We accepted concessions that saved our state $1 billion (yes, with a B).  That’s their number, not one the ‘unions’ (read ‘them’ and not ‘us’) made up.

Those concessions included a variety of ‘give backs,’ such as a pay cut, increased insurance costs, and a freeze on wages and hires to name a few.  Did we like it?  Of course not. But we all realized that in the end, everyone needed to give a little to do their part and help keep things running.

Our new governor (a democrat, lest you think this is a partisan rant), who initially gave the appearance of reaching out to state employees by encouraging us to submit ideas for saving money and generating revenue directly to his office, recently came out with his new budget proposal which demanded additional concessions (which he had not yet even begun discussing with the unions) or promised ‘massive layoffs.’ Unfortunately, if  you laid off every state worker in my state, you would still not balance the budget and you’d have no services either.

Yet, like the teachers in Wisconsin, we are the bad guys. We have to listen to the people who tell us how we should just shut up and give up whatever is needed, because just like the teachers, we apparently have no worth and provide no value to the state—we’re just there taking up space and stuffing our pockets with ‘taxpayer money.’ We are luck to even have jobs, we’re told, and if we don’t like it, we can just step aside because their 20 unemployed people who’d be happy to take our place.

Well, of course we’re lucky to have a job—who isn’t lucky to have a job in this economy? And who, particularly in this economy, wouldn’t have 20 people in line waiting to fill their job, if they didn’t like it?

The bottom line is, if we’re all in this together, that means we should ALL be in this together.  Not just pubic employees, or the middle class, or the poor. Everyone.

Yes, I am a public employee.  I do a job and get a check.  Don’t you? I support my community. I pay my taxes. All that ‘tax payer money’ that keeps getting talked about? That’s MY money, too.  And I don’t want to see it wasted any more than anyone else. But I am not a waste.  And neither are teachers. We did not cause the financial crisis.  And we have always been a part of the solution.