The Power of e-mail

Because I'm that kind of person, I counted and subsequently deleted 35 e-mails this morning on the topic of changing our bus route from first on - last off to first on - first off. The subject matter involved all manner of "equity", "ride time regulations", "stop times" and other technicalities that I don't care to recall. Let it be known that this e-discussion took longer than a week of bus riding - we have a bus route with about 12 stops and a radius that can't be more than 3 miles. The kids are on the bus no more than 20 on the outside.

I grew up on a highway near the exit that you'd take to get to my school. The school was about 6 miles from my house and my parents never quite felt the urge to drive me to school. The ride to school was 20 minutes and the ride home took over an hour. I was last on, last off I guess. The point here is that I had to ride past my house, drive for over 45 minutes and then be dropped off at my house. Once, no kidding, I saw a robbery in progress at my own house as the bus barrelled past.

So - why not let me off 45 minutes earlier? Well, I lived on a highway, did you know? And the bus driver wasn't fond of dropping me off, in spite of 12 long years of begging, on the opposite side of the highway. I think that my parents respected that choice and, as far as I know, never made a call or sent a letter (the predecessor to e-mail) to the transportation people. No, my Mom made fruitcakes for me to give to my bus driver for Christmas and heart shaped cookies for valentines day. Just to show our appreciation.

So now here I am - spending my morning deleting engaging emails to the Atlanta Public School Transportation folks and all I can think is - "this is FREE!" We don't even have to pay for gas. Our kids are picked up and delivered safely. I think that's a pretty awesome deal whether it's 7:19am or 7:22am. But then again, I have lots to do.

When I lived in China, I took a fuel inefficient van to work everyday in a bus factory that half of the time was closed due to power outages. Then I'd ride back in the van, use 27 cotton balls to wash the grime off of my face, then get to work. There were kids on the street who would never see the inside of a school and there was no ride time equity in that daily adventure, only nausea from navigating the busy streets in one of those tall, skinny vans.

The point is this - maybe we're a little spoiled. Maybe equity in ride time is less important than our kids being bribed to nazi standards of behavioral perfection. But then again, perhaps this is the only thing that we parents can control - maybe the good, well trained transportation people are the only people who will listen to us. And so we speak. "We" being "them", obviously...

Perspective (aka Get a Grip)

When I was small, my Dad objected to the serving of brussell sprouts at a meal. My Mom gave him the usual "there are starving kids in Africa" routine. He pushed away from the chair, got a mailer envelope from the other room, addressed it to "the Children of Africa", put the sprouts in question in the evelope, took them down the 1/4 mile long driveway, placed them in the red mailbox, raised the flag to alert the postman of their presence, came back and finished the part of the dinner that he liked.

See, the point was clear. It is completely insane to think that those same brussel sprouts could actually provide the needed nutrition in Africa. I have strived in my life to live by the rule of the sprout, aka "get real". It's all about perspective - where you sit in the world and how you see things. If you made a meal, you want people to eat it but if you don't like the meal, you probably would rather take a shot at shipping it to the 3rd world.

Let me try again. When I was 8, those same sprout loving parents took our family to live in Japan for a year. They generously decided to place me in an all Japanese school instead of the more comfortable Canadian Academy. I was mortified to be a 3rd grader placed in a first grade class - I was, after all, a caucasian giant among a sea of 45 small and tidy Japanese kids. I walked in and they laughed. Long story short, I had to walk a mile to take a train, transfer to another train then walk another mile to a school where I was the object of ridicule. It sounds like one of those "uphill both ways in snow up to here" stories but its true, totally true. The thing is that that time was the most important in my life. I learned that I could do anything. I learned Japanese in 6 weeks. Really! I made friends, I never got lost, I figured out how to steal money from my Mom's purse to buy some awesome candy on the way home. Oh - that's not the point though.

The point is that it's all about perspective. I believe that the drama with the hugs, the crocs, the tests, the bribery, this may just all be about me and my perspective. The kids are pretty darned excited to work toward a bouncy ball from the treasure chest. To me, the self-same chest pretty much represents all that is evil about our society. But lots of people weather worse storms and strangely, my kids don't seem like they are even in a storm - all is calm with them for the moment.

Somehow I may just have to figure out a way to look at all of this a little differently - a new perspective never hurt, at least not as much as brussel sprouts for dinner.

The Test

The week passed at an excruciatingly slow pace - no one knowing quite what the next day would bring. Our 40 pound 3rd grader came home to let us know that we'd need to rent a trumpet for her to play in the band as she had committed to 3 years of trumpeting on Wednesday. Our first grader declared himself unable to read the majority of words as a placement test of some variety revealed a new found inadequacy in this area.

Friday, our trumpet playing daughter disembarked from the bus crying. After great prodding, she revealed with humiliation and horror that she had a Spanish test that day which hadn't been announced and no homework had been given in the subject all week. She got 1(that's one, yes) point out of 10 on the test. So that you don't have to get out your calculator, that's bad. According to her experience of the event, the teacher said he was disappointed in her, that this grade would be in the permanent grade book, and that her class was the worst class in the school.

Now surely the words of an 8 1/2 year old can't be taken without a grain of salt (not sure what the salt will do but I'll take one if it'll help). Salt and all though, this is a girl who is already emotional about a huge school change. This is a girl who has never experienced homework (no, take-home weaving does not count), who has never taken Spanish before, and who has never taken more than a spelling test for which there were multiple dry runs and do-overs. Her single greatest fear is inadequacy and here it is, week 1 and she has been humiliated by a 1 on a test.

And so there are tears on disembarkment. Somehow tears shed over private school inspired righteous indignation (we pay for THIS?!) where these tears strike a much guiltier chord (we should have paid for THAT).

On Saturday, she practiced Spanish all morning and selected her school t-shirt for reasons that I'm sure extend beyond it being the only clean shirt she had. Maybe I give her too much credit but I want to believe that she chose that shirt to assuage my guilt and to rekindle the spirit that she had been working so hard to build.

Here's hoping she achieves both goals - I suspect that she will, she's just that kind of girl.

X Marks the Spot

It must have been the third day of school before there was a bit of bump in the road. Everyone skipped down to the bus stop in the morning and dragged themselves back in the afternoon. Everyone had a good snack and some fun stories to report. I will confess to enjoying an increased level of daily communications from the teachers - each child coming home with a folder or binder brimming with homework, communications, the contagious spirit of the school community catching on like wildfire.

Then my son - you remember him, the chocolate and bacon guy - came home with a "3" on his report. You see, every other day, he'd had a smiley faced sticker which I presumed to be an implied "your son rocks the 1st grade". But a "3" looming mysteriously in the slot where the smiley sticker belonged was disturbing indeed. My son explained in great detail with crystal clarity that getting a "3" means "blue". I flipped the page over and there sat a comment. The comment read "he had trouble sitting properly in circle". Ahhh - probably all of the chocolate got him riled up since there's not much else to put in his lunchbox. Things were starting to make more sense. But what were the kids doing while the teacher was stickering and commenting? Let's leave that question of classroom management for a later date.

So, I approached my blue eyed beauty to talk this matter through in a reasonable and adult fashion:

Mom: So - what's with the 3 today?

Son: Oh - I didn't sit right in circle

Mom: Hmmm. What would right be exactly where circle-sitting is concerned?

Son: I sat on my knees and I was supposed to sit criss-cross-applesauce.

Mom revealing no disdain: Wow - for real?

Son: Yep. For real. Criss-cross-applesauce is really important to my teacher. Well, I guess I don't get to pick something from the treasure chest this week.

It was at this second, the second when I realized that the humiliation of a "3" for the day would be reinforced with the removal of the full weeks behavioral bribery, that my brain exploded. As it turned out, two of my kids had the honor that Friday of receiving treasure chest items and I am proud now to own one(more) rubber bouncy ball and one glow in the dark bracelet. I worried after their delicate psyches right up until I saw those neat prizes. I imagined the damage if they had to watch all of the "good" kids pick diamond encrusted jewels from a treasure chest while they sat in the corner with a dunce cap.

I find myself at a crossroads. Either I need get them on the therapists couch pretty soon, run out and buy some stickers and treasure to continue the tactics at home, or there's always my favorite old school...

Bussin'

You need to know that the greatest excitement about attending a beautiful new school with a rooftop garden and a big field to run on is that school buses have no seat belts. This single fact has thrilled, elated and sustained my three children through their transition. And I made that up based on a vague childhood memory of bounding freely from seat to seat. Safety standards have emerged over the last 30 years but somehow I was confident and, as it mercifully happened, right.

The walk to the bus stop with the 3 kids and their backpack was noisy with chatter and excitement about the restraint free trip that awaited. Accompanied by a baby and a dog, we arrived full of nutritious breakfasts at the bus stop a mere 27 minutes prior to the bus' anticipated arrival at 7:19 am. Being the first day of a new school, the bus arrived to retrieve the kids a mere 15 minutes late. No need to get out the calculator, that's 42 minutes of anticipatory waiting. You see, I don't think that they really believed that there could possibly be no seat belts and the wait for discovery was no less than torture.

We hopped in the car as the doors to the bus closed and drove at breakneck pace with the camera clutched in hand to the school, ran through the parking lot and stood at the front stoop snapping photos as bus #710 pulled in and unloaded. The discovery had been delicious - as the kids came off the bus, one by one, they each whispered, overjoyed "there really are NO seat belts!!".

3:16pm came and went and when the bus arrived back at the same corner around 3:39pm that day, three of the same but slightly more tired, slightly happier, slightly more confident kids rolled down the stairs and into my arms. "How WAS the day" I asked each one as we stood in an excited circle. "Awesome". "Great". "I can't believe there are no seat belts".

Was that a HUG I spotted?

The sneak peek day arrived and the kids loaded into the car matter of factly. I could have said here that they clamoured excitedly or that they droned morosely but I intentionally didn't choose those extreme emotional descriptions here because it was, well, matter of fact. Sort of "OK, here we go".

The teachers were smiley and the classrooms shiny and new (who moves to be near a school that isn't even built yet, by the way? Maybe a topic for another time - risk loving has it's downsides). The older kids loved their rooms and wanted us to leave them for a bit.

When we went down the gleaming stairs toward the Kindergarten classrooms, our sweet sweet little boy who just turned 5 walked tentatively into classroom #001. As he passed over the threshold, the kind of teacher that should really be on the cover of "Kindergarten Weekly" rushed up and greeted him by name with a big snugly hug.

A hug! But - I thought this was public school and hugging was forbidden. Who the heck was it that told me that there would be no hugging and that Mussolini wrote the handbook for these schools? I made a mental note to seek out the arbiter of this clear untruth and set the record straight.

We bought some spirit gear (a purchase always raises the spirits) and clamored excitedly out for a lunch somewhere that sells chocolate, bacon and things that normal people eat too.

Across the Aisle

I'm pretty dispassionate about politics and pretty disengaged by newsy stuff but even I know that no matter what the venue, there are always two aisles. And that even people who want fiercely to sit on the floor in the middle eventually have to take a seat, even if its just to keep from getting kicked.

And here I am - a crossover of sorts. I started on one aisle, tried to sit in the middle for a while but ultimately was forced to make a choice. So now here I am on the right side. At least its the right side of the aisle if you are coming North on the street that houses both our former and current schools - you guessed it, directly and ironically across the street from each other. 2 schools begging for this slight stretch at a political and educational commentary.

In this case, the street is a busy city street teeming with busses, construction vehicles, long carpool lines and one place where you can never turn left even if you sit all day with your blinkers clearly displayed. The street is hard to cross. It's not the kind that you stroll lightly across. It's the kind that you look 3 times then grasp your children's wrists because little hands can let go.

This is the kind of crossing that requires giving up things that you hold dear and accepting things that are unappealing in measure. It involves the unknown - the embracing, for real or just for show, of new and different ideals.

Even I, political anti-junkie, know that no one crosses the aisle lightly and I feel some empathy for those strangers that struggle not once a year, but every day with that reach. My personal consolation though, is this - parents on both sides of the street want the best for their children. Parents on both sides want their kids to be doctors and rocket scientists. Parents on both sides will have kids who are beauticians and mechanics.

More than anything, parents across the aisle that is this busy city street are in search of the pure joy that crosses their children's face at the dawn of a new discovery. And it is my sincere hope that such joy exists on both sides of the aisle.

Stay tuned, we'll find out together.