Athletic Supporter

I'm sorry, but there's something wrong when you're sitting among a group of parents at a freshman football game, at 3:30 in the afternoon, and somebody reeks of alcohol.

When it's coming out of your pores? Yeah, we can smell you.

Dude, show some class; stay home. Seriously. You're just embarrassing your kid.

-----------------------

Because I have wise blogfriends who call me on my shit, I am adding the following addendum regarding Mr. MadDog: at least the guy showed up. And maybe his kid was just glad to have him there. More than I can say for a lot of parents ...

Bumper Sticker of the Day

Yeah, I know. It has been way too damned long. In fact, I'd completely forgotten about my bumper sticker series. I'm still taking pics, they're just piling up in my camera, unpublished.

Damn, I'm like the Post Secret guy ... doling that shit out little by little. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! Seriously, that guy gets like 1,000 post cards a day. Why can't he publish more than 20 per week? That's just stingy. Dude could publish 20 per DAY, and still have enough for his books which are, I'm sure, supporting his genius ass by now. Goddamn but I wish I'd thought of that first.

Anyway, to make up for the dearth of bumper sticker posts, I will now, today, publish the mother (and father) of all bumper sticker pictures. I'd been saving them for a special situation. My own slacking certainly qualifies.

These shots are an illustration of the polarity of our society in these uncertain times.

Digression, and back story:

The shot illustrating the progressive side of society was taken in the parking lot of the Radical Bohemian's music academy, when she was still in high school. I was thrilled to see it, as many in the music academy were of a more ... staid and sensible crowd. The Academy was located a distance from us, in the rich Republican enclave of Bellevue. Every Saturday for 3 years, I'd hang in Bellevue for 6 hours. Well, not every Saturday -- the last year, she often caught rides with the couple who runs the place. They are a riot! They're both 75, progressive, they're shacking up, and are hilariously irreverent and opinionated and wise. Awesome role models, and great entertainment.

Anyway, I didn't so much fit in with the other parents, although they were cool, not like the school parent cliques. Ugh. It didn't have that kind of a feel, but I just wasn't overseeing the Bohemian's music career in quite the same way as most of the other academy parents. Here's a typical convo from the music academy daze:

Academy Parent: So, which conservatories is the Radical Bohemian applying to?

Me: She pretty much hates the idea of Julliard. Peabody, maybe. She's really interested in Oberlin though, just because they're the only conservatory that also has a liberal arts college.

Academy Parent: Oh ... so she won't study music exclusively? Won't that cut into her practice time?

Me: She feels very strongly about getting her liberal arts education. She's not so much into the concert performing ... I could see her more working at a university or playing with a symphony or something.

Academy Parent: Oh. Isn't that interesting!

Me: Anyway, Howard University is offering a scholarship, and offered her a place with the chair of the piano department. So she's considering that.

Academy Parent: Oh! Now ... where is Howard? I haven't heard of them.

Me: It's a historically Black university, in DC.

Academy Parent: Oh. Isn't that interesting! So ... they're not a conservatory? Oh! Well. What pieces is she preparing for auditions?

Me: Umm ... I'm not really sure. You'd have to ask her.

Academy Parent: ...............

Academy Parent: (recovering) Oh!!! Well. OK then! Good luck to her!

Yeah. I was such a slacker academy parent. I can recognize the Bohemian's pieces, the girl practiced more than a little bit, but as far as monitoring practice time, or monitoring her teacher's choice of pieces ... screw that, what I hired him for. Some of these parents actually stood over their kids and took notes as they played, during their lessons. Permission for events was tied to practice time. Hello, if I have to force the child to play, maybe it's not the right field for her.

Goddamn but I digress. But you all know that, so suck it up and drive on.

Anyway, the Bohemian and I were thrilled to find the car pictured in the first shot, with the arrival of a new student who showed up wearing striped tights, a tulle skirt, combat boots, and I'm pretty sure there was a nose ring.

The second shot you'll see, represents the other side of the political continuum. Scaryass ignorance. This guy lives somewhere near me, as I've seen his hate-truck tooling around town on a few occasions. I wish I'd see it again, because I'd love to get pics of the sides. Those panels you can see, on the sides of his truck, are also plastered with Klueless Konservative Klownery.



Anyway, with no further ado, I give you, Society in Bumper Stickers.

Bumper Friendly

Bumper Scary

Yes, as a matter of fact, that is a Hitler quote on the back of the hate mobile.

--------------------------------
OK, does anyone how to MAKE pictures "clickable", so you can see the bigger version? Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn't. Not sure why. It usually doesn't matter, but these turned out so small, you can't read all the wonderful bumper reflections. I don't have time to investigate at the moment, The Male Offspring's game turns out to be earlier than I thought.

Where the Hell is My Palm Pilot?

OK, things are seriously out of control. As if my old house wasn't enough, my schedule is kicking my ass:

Last Thursday:
--Work
--5:30, meeting w/ school district.
--7pm, Curriculum Night. Collect 5 extra credit points for Male Offspring.
--9:45, talk to another parent about fucked up issue w/ her daughter.
--Home @ 11pm
--Eat pumpkin pie for dinner.

Weekend: Heat/Plumbing Insanity. Stinkfest.

Monday:
--Work until 7pm. Worship Teen Demon for picking her brother up from football.
--7pm, Shop with Teen Demon for upcoming college visit. (clothes that aren't jeans.)
--8pm, go into official "Mall Rage".
--Home @ 9:30
--Cook dinner

Tuesday:
--Work
--6:30, Pick up Male Offspring from football
--7pm, IB & class rank meeting at school.
--Home @ 9:45
--Cook dinner

Wednesday:
--Work
--4pm, meet w/ principal of local middle school for district group.
--5:30pm, back to work.
--6:15, pick up Male Offspring from football.
--7pm, Math Night at high school ... but I can't go as I'm already attending:
--7pm, Community meeting with Diversity Commission and local law enforcement,
--Home @ 11pm
--Eat a damned piece of pumpkin pie for dinner

Thursday:.
--4:30am (Yes, I friggin' said A.M.) Take Teen Demon to airport, beat morning rush hour.
--Work
--4:30pm, FOOTBALL GAME, Male Offspring
--Home @ who-the-fuck-knows-what-time
--Go under house and wrap water heater with special water heater blanket. Curse.
--Microwave a frozen burrito
--Beer


Friday:
--Work
--HOME @ NORMAL TIME!
--Advertise for a wife.
--Pick up dog shit in yard. Curse at all the rain we've had.

--Go back to Lowes to buy sheet metal, special screws, and other supplies to fix furnace duct.

--Leave supplies in garage. Curse at hole in furnace duct.

--Look at dishes piled up due to drain problems and crazyass schedule.

--"Build fire" with fake log.

--Curse at 98% of the heat going straight up the old chimney.

--Balance dangers of smoke against pleasures of heat: consider closing flue.

--Uncork wine.

--Collapse.

Yeah, so basically my house is a mess again, and my ass is fast approaching the size of Delaware, due to late night dinners and mass amounts of pumpkin pie being consumed.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode II

Episode II: Snakes in a Drain

I was just saying the other day, in the midst of my furnace frenzy, that I'd make a great reality show: some chick living in a tiny, old house she can barely afford and doesn't know how to fix. I was thinking This Old Shithole of a House, but I actually like this better. It's snappy. If anyone can hook me up with a producer, let me know.

Screw that, if any of you can hook me up with a friggin' handyman, let me know. And I do mean hookup in every sense of the word. Including the biblical sense.  But that whole plumber's butt thing is a definite no-go, people. Just so you know.

Anyway, after I wrote about my furnace woes, my drains backed up. Not just the sink, no, we're talking toilet and shower here, baby. When my house gets rebellious, it doesn't screw around.

Did I mention I only have one bathroom?

While in the process of purchasing this "cozy" one bathroom house, I foolishly thought that the scheduling of the shower was the main thing to consider. Yeah. I know. I did, to my credit, also consider those occasions where the toilet might be in high demand. My family, however, is not prone to gastric distress -- go vegetarian, people -- so I dismissed that worry. I figured, work out the shower schedule, we're home free. While my house appreciated wildly, thanks to the booming housing market.

Yeah, I'm a regular friggin' Pollyanna.

For any of you who have not foolishly traipsed down this road before, let me save you the trouble: the main consideration when moving into a one-bathroom home, is not "how will we work out the shower schedule?" No. It's "what the hell will we do when there's a problem with the shower?"  Better yet, (you know where I'm going here) the toilet?

Yeah.

Here are some snippets of family talk at Cowbell's house over the weekend:

Teen Demon: So, is the toilet okay yet?

Me: Ummm...

Teen Demon: Did that clog remover stuff work?

Me: Can't you wait a while longer? It said to wait six hours.

Teen Demon: It said 30 minutes.

Me: That was for the super-max power clog-remover gel. This is some enzyme stuff to degrade all organic material.

Teen Demon: Eew. So, like ... when?

Me: Aren't you working today? What time do you go to work?

Teen Demon went to work in a bit of a rush. I went to Lowe's, again, for more supplies and a trip to their lovely restroom. Male Offspring doesn't have a job, and it wasn't a school day. I don't know why I didn't take him to Lowe's with me.

Male Offspring: So, can I use the bathroom?

Me: Ummm.... to do what?

Male Offspring: Are you kidding me right now?

Me: It's dark. Come on, you're a guy ... can't you just go outside?

Male Offspring: (gawking) Are you kidding me?!?

Then there was the shower. In the process of trying to clear the drains, we attacked both tub and toilet with the plunger. One of the offspring plunged the tub. You know who got stuck with the toilet. I came in later to find rust, black flakes, hair, and something that looked like The Blob in the bathtub.

Well, what were we supposed to do with it? It's not like we can rinse it down the drain!

Kids are always helpless when it comes to crap like that, but remarkably ingenious when coming up with logistical arrangements for going to the dance or to see Superbad for the fifth time.

It's been 96 hours since my last shower, folks. Good thing I'm single. Even after 96 hours, though, it was no relief. Turn the water on, get wet, turn it off. Shampoo with the water off. Rinse, fast. Shampoo again, because my hair was a friggin' oil slick by this time. Rinse, fast. Soap up, condition hair. Rinse, faster.

That would've been bad enough, but to add to the frivolity, it was a frigid 58* in my house this morning, because ... oh yeah, I can't turn my heat on yet. You've heard that saying, colder than a witch's tit? I'm pretty sure I know how cold that is.


Yeah, my shower did not resemble those steamy relaxing commercials where some smiling, skinny chick massages her sudsy tresses with her eyes closed, while virtual flowers float around her. Not even a little bit.

This Old MotherFucking House: Episode I

Episode I: Colder Than a Witch's Tit

Welcome to the TOMFH Series. Coming soon to the DIY channel.

It's cold. And I can't turn my heat on. Actually, I don't want to turn my heat on, because it is madcrazy expensive to heat my house, despite these facts:
1) my house is tiny
2) my house has newer, double-pane, vinyl windows
3) my house has a programmable thermostat, which goes down to 57* at night and while we're at work/school
4) this is Seattle, not Minnesota or Siberia. It only gets so cold, people.

Regardless, I can't turn my heat on yet, even if I wanted to start pulling gold doubloons out of my ass to hand over to the the local Public Utility District. Yes, its acronym is PUD. Those of you from my generation and/or with Midwestern roots, go ahead and have yourself a good snicker at that.


My house was built in '55. It was owned by a little old lady with an incontinent little dog for ages. Before I moved in, it was owned by a single dad who put everything he had down and bought the house as an investment. He had it two years and made $100K. Thus was the housing market in Seattle. I borrowed money from my dad, thinking to get in on this lucrative deal, live tight for a few years, and possibly retire before I am 93.

The first weekend in the house, the newspaper headline screamed HOUSING CRASH! Fuck. See, this stuff never works for me. Houses in my neighborhood now sit on the market for months with "Price Reduced!" signs on the lawn. Retirement is still on schedule for sometime mid twenty-first century. But I digress.

We did rip up the carpets, by the way. That was one nastyass little dog. At some point, I need to learn how to refinish wood floors, and replace the trim. I also have to redo the the single "cozy" bathroom if I ever hope to sell. I've already replaced the toilet (don't ask), but the 80s cheap wood fixtures remain, along with the linoleum, cracked sink bowl, and peach paint. The brown & olive laminate kitchen countertops will have to go too, along with the oft-painted kitchen cabinets and their coats of many colors.

Again, I digress. This house is just one bigass digression.



In order to change the furnace filter, one must first descend through the Portal to the Unknown at the back of the garage:

Once through the Portal, look left to see the water heater, also conveniently located sub-daylight. The passageway to the furnace is just beyond the water heater, another left:
The photo, cheerily illuminated by camera flash, is misleading. In reality, the crawlspace has more of a horror movie ambiance. You know, where the ditzy blond cheerleader goes down into the creepy cellar alone? Like that.



So, head on down past the water heater, and hang a left into this creepy passageway:
At this point, I am in full-on crawl mode. No crouching in the furnace passageway, no chance of a fast get-away. Luckily, I have yet to see any rats, possums, or the Undead. It's dark as fuck back in the furnace passageway. A flashlight is not a luxury in the bowels of my house's underworld, folks.

Finally I reach my objective. The furnace. Seen here in all its glory, innards exposed:

That cage, wrapped in blue, surrounding the motor is the "hammock". The blue is the actual filter. Right. Those framed rectangular filters that slide into a slot on the side of your furnace? The one conveniently located in your utility closet? Yeah, I can't use those. My furnace requires a specialty filter, called a "hammock filter". Of course it does. These usually come in rolls and, I learned, must be special ordered.

This most definitely is your father's furnace filter.

Here's how it works: cut a length from the filter roll, wrap it around the hammock, attach both ends to said hammock by screwing on the special "hammock clamps", and slide the whole shebang back around the motor.



Here is a photo from last fall, when I first discovered all of this. Behold, the previous owner's disgusting hammock filter:

The filter is actually a green-blue shade. That grey fluff? Dust. Filth. All manner of allergens, carcinogens, and all around funk. Nasty! How many decades was dude working that filter?! Actually, the previous owner rarely used the heat, so I suspect Nastyass Little Dog's owner wasn't one for crawling through the Portal of the Unknown. She probably died of Lung Funk. Which could, actually, explain the state of the carpets; who knows how long Fifi had to wait to be rescued.

Here is a picture of the hammock with the filter I had rigged up last year. This was taken yesterday. After a year of use:
Yeah, big difference. "But Cowbell," you may ask, "Why is one of the hammock clamps right smack in the center of the hammock? Aren't they supposed to be on the ends?" Why yes, and they would be, if this were an actual "hammock filter". Which it isn't.

See, last year, I didn't know shit about hammock filters. I didn't even know they were called hammock filters, let alone that they came on rolls, so when I went to Home Depot and Lowe's, no one knew what the hell I was talking about. They looked at me like I was crazy. Or stupid. One asshat even suggested I "have my husband take a look at it." Bastard. Fuck you, Mr. Macho, Middle-Aged, Home Depot guy. You probably still live at home with your mom. Why don't you have her take a look at it? Orange-apron-wearing assclown.

I tried the Internet, but, didn't turn up anything with search terms like furnace cage, wrap-around filter, extra large furnace filter, metal filter holder, filter cage, stupid motherfucking non-existent Methuselah-assed furnace filter ...

I came up blank.

Anyway, we had to have heat, so I bought the two biggest filters I could find (not from Apron Guy), used one of the hammock clamps to connect them in the middle, cleverly fastened the end corners with two of Teen Demon's hair clips, and called it a day, as shown in the photo above.



This year, I have hammock filters on order. I should've ordered them sooner. It doesn't matter though, because I couldn't turn on my heat even if I had them in hand. That's because I discovered this: It's a hole. In one of the heating air ducts. It seems someone in my house's past decided heat was needed in the garage. They cut through the wall of the garage, directly into the furnace ductwork, and put that vent in. When dude sold the house to me, however, he didn't repair it. He just closed the vent, covered that shit right up with some wood, foil, and duct tape, and called it a day.

Now I know why my heating bills were so high.

I can't get to the hole from under the house, so I'll have to tear off the wall panel (which may involve moving the workbench, which I believe is bolted to the wall), attach a piece of sheet metal with a specific type of screw (being careful not to collapse the duct), seal it with some heat-safe crap, insulate it, and replace the wall panel. I just love doing that stuff when it's grey and cold.

Also, my rain gutter is hanging off of the house at one corner. The one corner of the house that is about 18 feet up. Of course.

I Dreamed the Whole House Was Clean...

OK, so the last two weeks have been insane, schedule-wise. My house is out of control. I gave up on dishes a week ago. I mean literally gave up. It was a relief, because I knew I'd have no time to do them in the foreseeable future. Giving up just got rid of that pesky guilt thing. We had used every single piece of silverware in the house. We even went through most of the utensils and big knives. You ever try to spread butter with a cleaver?

Is four days of wearing the same pants really crossing the line? Not this week. Spray some Febreeze and those throw those babies in the dryer for a few minutes. Oh please, like you've never done it.

When the dog hair on the floor has gathered itself up into balls the size of small pets in their own right, things have turned a corner. No, those aren't guinea pigs skittering about on the stairs, I just need to sweep, people.

Grocery shopping? Right. Let me introduce you to a little Northwest phenomenon called Taco Del Mar. Being vegetarians, we don't have many options for fast cheap food you don't have to cook yourself. If you eliminate fried food on top of that, the pickins get real slim. Yes, there's China First, but it's not really that cheap since their dishes don't actually include the rice. I mean really, what kind of cheap stunt is that? Throw in a few spring rolls, and before you know it, you're a big spender. Subway? Please, those guys have no idea how to make a vegetarian sandwich. Take away the meat, and they're clueless. They look at you blankly, throw on a couple of extra tomato slices, and call it a day. Quiznos is actually okay, but they're not right around the corner.

Taco Del Mar has real burritos, bigass mission-style burritos, not that nastyass anemic Taco Bell shit. They even make a vegetarian burrito that consists of more than iceberg lettuce and a few sorry shreds of cheese. And they have frequent buyer cards. Buy yourself 10 of those bad boys, and bam, your next burrito is free. Easy.

So yeah, things have kind of slipped through the cracks at the old homestead.

You know it's bad when your teenage daughter calls as you're leaving work, and says don't worry about dinner, she's got it. The menu? Baked fish, broccoli, and rice. And she's buying the fixins with her own hard earned cash. Yeah. Guess her body finally rebelled against those tasty black bean burritos (which are actually quite healthy) and frozen pizza. Hey, I did juice up the pizza with our own mushrooms and peppers and stuff, but I guess at the end of the day, there's just no hiding the fact that it's Red Baron.

Anyway, we got the dishes washed over the weekend. The kitchen looks normal again. I haven't tackled the fur doglets yet. Baby steps. It took nearly three weeks for it get this way; it's not going to clean itself overnight.

Time to hit the sack. The infomercials are starting. And yes, as a matter of fact, those are Birkenstocks I'm wearing with my striped knee socks. I'm not going Pacific Northwest on you, people; dog hair matted all over the bottom of one's socks is just nasty.

"But It's 2007!"

It seems ignorant comments are not just confined to my son's history class.
(Read "Yes, Virginia, People Still Do Say That Shit", if you haven't yet.)

So this is a list of local situations that I've seen personally in 2007, in case anyone still is clinging to the notion that racism is over.

Male Offspring, while fully expected to excel at sports, did not receive the IB* application packet when the other kids did. This despite the fact that he took sophomore math and honors science in the 8th grade. Despite the fact that both sisters are/will be succesful IB diploma graduates.

(*IB = International Baccalaureate, an international honors program.)

No one could tell me why. Something in the IB coordinator's "Sorry about that, but the deadline has passed now ... he can try next year, though," gave me the feeling they just wanted me to quit asking.

Next year? Excuse me? He's supposed to jump into this program after missing the first year? And then you'll wonder why he's not successful? No. Fuck that. Fuck you. He earned his place same as those other kids, he's going in this year.

Thank goodness for his counselor. We got him in through the back door. He'll have his shot.

But I've learned that it is part of my privilege that I am listened to and often see results when I go to address an issue at the school, and that I even have that expectation. (Often there is visible relief when I show up to deal with a situation.  "Oh!  So ... YOU'RE Male Offspring's mother!  Okay!  Sooo nice to meet you!") Many, many parents of color I've spoken with do not experience the same results when they address things. In this case, the parents of color I talked with said they didn't even know about the IB application, let alone the deadline.  This says something about who receives information. And who doesn't. If it weren't for the fact that I'd already fought to get my girls into the program, I wouldn't have known that this opportunity existed for Male Offspring.

They are usually the only Black students in their IB classes. And I had to fight for that.


------------------------------------
There is an African American girl in Teen Demon's class who is the personification of school spirit. She is student body president, is involved in school clubs, and one of the few Black kids in IB. Her grades started to slip; she was stretched too thin with all her activities. She was told to consider moving to regular classes. That's a message about the expectations for her.

Another girl, a White girl, actually wanted to drop IB. School was not her biggest priority, she wasn't involved in clubs, sports, or activities. She actively attempted to move to regular classes. Not only was she encouraged to stick with it, they did not allow her to drop out.  Let me say that again:  they did not allow her to drop out. She eventually did, but those adults had expectations of her; they fought for her, they encouraged her, despite the fact that she wasn't even interested in the program.

The first young lady was not encouraged. They did not fight for her. In fact, she was told maybe IB "wasn't the place for her," even though she had three years of that program under her belt, even though she contributes to the school in many ways. There were expectations for her as well.  Fortunately, she is not living down to those expectations.

Same school, same program, same teachers and administrators.  So even being class president isn't enough to overcome the disparity in treatment and in expectations here.  What the hell, people?


------------------------------------
The Radical Bohemian somehow got marked in the school's records as "White". This means her grades - excellent - were being credited to the White category as far as school performance. This pissed us off, as she was one of only two Black students in the IB program for her year, and now her performance was being credited as a White kid. I asked both the school and the district how that had happened.

Apparently, when we moved here, there was no provision for bi/multiracial students. You checked one box, and one only. So she didn't check any. (These days she just checks Black) Well, it turns out that,

Caucasian is the default.

What? I'm sorry, did you actually just say "Caucasian is the default"? No shit, we knew that; I just didn't know it applied to my daughter's school records as well as to life in general. I was told by a different person:

Oh, she's such a good student. Since you didn't check a category, someone probably looked at her grades and her WASL scores, and made a judgement call.

Are you fucking kidding me? So ... let's see if I've got this straight:  good grades + good standardized test scores + IB program = Caucasian kid? I don't think so. Unconscious bias, anyone?


------------------------------------
A Latina student was asked in Spanish class last week, where her family was from. She'd been taught her family history and Chicano history since she was a little girl. She is also shy, not one for speaking up. This though, was one area she knew, and she confidently told the teacher her grandparents were from the northern part of Mexico. The teacher looked at her name again and replied, smiling,

No -- Spain! Look at your name. Your family must be from Spain.

then she turned to the class and said,

Do you know why I say that? Because _________ is fair-skinned, and her last name is Spanish. Mexicans have the influence of the Indians, so many of them are dark-skinned.

All the kids in the class turned to look at this young lady. Surprise.

Are you kidding me? How arrogant. This teacher, who, by the way, speaks the most awful, gringoized Spanish I've ever heard, has the audacity to correct this child about where her family comes from, AND throw in some fucked up racist incorrect shit on top of it?

That young lady later said she felt stupid in front of her class. Like she didn't even know her own history. How do you undo that feeling?

My son has the same teacher. He says she has asked other students with last names like Garcia and Sanchez, why they are in her class. "Why don't you already speak Spanish?"  What?  Look, lady, do you speak Swedish?  No?  Why the hell not?  Explain yourself.

This is the most qualified individual the district could find to teach Spanish? You seriously expect me to believe there was not a more qualified native speaker who could teach Spanish? And you think there's not been a need for affirmative action?

In fact, I'd suggest that this one local situation is a great example of how our system has included automatic affirmative action for Whites since before we even became a country. In addition to being ignorant about her field of study, this teacher (whom Teen Demon also had for two years) is not even an effective instructor in her field. But she's the one they hired, she's the one who gets to teach the Spanish language to kids in this school. Hello, people, the White kids lose out too, in situations like that. That means your kids too, they're getting fucked up, substandard information in classrooms like this, all across the country.

Is it any wonder US folks in general are abysmal at speaking other languages?


------------------------------------
This same student, last spring, went on a field trip to the UW. Her mother put the trip together on her own, after finding out that the colleges only recruited from honors classes, and that a whole group of Latino kids had never been exposed to a college campus. The girl was fired up after the trip. This shy young lady got her nerve up and actually asked the school club administrator how to go about setting up a Latino Students Club. The advisor told her this:

I'm not sure that's such a good idea. It's not inclusive, you know? I mean, what if a White student wanted to start a White supremacist group here on campus? How would that make you feel?

Really? Are you fucking kidding me? An adult in this school actually compared a Latino Student Club to a White supremacist group. A hate group. What message does that send this student about the value of her culture? What does that say about the level of awareness we accept from the people in positions power? And why was this person permitted to take that action which is against the school handbook/policies on starting up student clubs? We can have a prayer group and a Young Republicans club, but not a Latino Club?

So between those two incidents with this particular student, what do you think the chances are that she, with her already shy personality, will take another chance on speaking up? What is the lasting impact on her? And without that club she wanted to start, what are the chances that she'll even find any support or understanding in the school?

(She did, eventually start the club. She had to fight for it, she had to bring in allies, but it's there now. It is very popular, and the young lady is coming into her own through the business of running it.  She's winning.)


-----------------------------------
An individual in a high position in my area took a group of her (White) staff to the Central District of Seattle in order for them to "learn what it's like to be a minority". I'm serious. So they trooped in for a meal, and now, apparently, they understand what it's like for, say, a student of color to be the only one sitting in a White classroom. Really. That hour is somehow equivalent to living a lifetime with a constant awareness of your environment behind the history of being Black in this country? That must've been one hell of a meal.

Oh, and they also, apparently, have increased their cultural understanding with collard greens!

This was relayed to a group of Black women and a Latino man in that well-intentioned way that suggests the person expects approval or even accolades for her actions. Or a cookie. The person relaying the story did not pick up on the reactions of the group. She truly thought she had done a good thing, and that she's ready for diversity work now.

More harm than good here, people.  This lady and her cohort may conclude that since they were fine on their dinner outing, a Black kid in a White classroom should be similarly fine. If he's not fine, they may see it as his fault, because after all, they managed when they were the "minority". For an hour. They may be even less willing to listen to voices of people who do live this stuff every day, because now they "know from experience".

Sigh.

So now, how to deal with that person, and her staff, who are in positions to affect things for young people? Her good intentions have made the work even harder for those around her, and she has no idea.


-----------------------------------
So yeah. These are just a few of the things I've personally seen or heard about, the kinds of things still happening in 2007. These are the things that well-intentioned people say and do. It happens a lot.  This is just a sampling.

And it wears a kid down after a while.

Yes, Virginia, People Do Still Say That Shit.

So here's what happened to my son in history class the other day. First off, preface this with the fact that my son is the only Black student in all of his IB* classes -- a fact he noticed the first day of school.

(*IB is the International Baccalaureate program -- a worldwide honors program. The US is pretty new to it. The number of US schools offering it is limited, but growing. I chose this particular district specifically for IB, as it was the closest I could get to the education the kids had been getting in Hungary. Students of color are underrepresented in IB, African American kids in particular.)

Okay, so Male Offspring is taking Non-Western IB History this year. (the non-Western part is something, at least.) Last Thursday, the teacher is giving the lesson about how human life originated in Africa, the migration of the peoples, yada-yada. One young lady raises her hand and says it makes sense that life would've begun there, as it's

warmer there, and stuff can probably grow better than in a cold place.

OK, she's getting her reasoning skills on. She continues with,

Plus, Black people have the really broad foreheads and noses. They look like monkeys, so it makes sense that they would've come first, since they're the ones closer to monkeys.

Oh, yes, she did.

And every child in that classroom turned to look at my son.

Because that's what happens when you are the only person of color in the classroom. At that moment, my son was not "Male Offspring", he was "the Black kid in class".

My son could not tell me what the teacher said in response. He said he was shocked, everyone was staring at him. He said the teacher looked stunned and didn't really know what to do. She did say something to the girl, but he couldn't tell me what.

He said all he could hear was noise in his ears.


----------------------------------------

Now, I know there are a lot of folks living under the shiny illusion that this shit doesn't happen any more. People invariably respond with, "That's terrible! It's 2007!" Well, it happened in my kid's classroom last Thursday. If you're surprised by that, either your kid is White, or you don't live in this country.

I met with his teacher. Like you all didn't see that coming. A friend who works me in the parent group and who knows Male Offspring came with me.

We thought she was a student. No joke, people. This is her second year of teaching. She graduated from this very high school in 2001. She was like, soooo totally young! I had some assumptions and biases of my own, my first thought (besides "Holy shit, she's not a student?!) being "Oh, this little girl is not going to be able to handle this situation." I had to check myself, however, as we talked.

I had an idea about how to address what happened -- more about that in a minute -- but I wasn't sure how that was going to go. I can imagine if I were a teacher in her position, I might be nervous about meeting the parent. I might feel defensive or embarrassed. So I thought maybe she'd see any suggestions on my part as a judgement, as overstepping into her area.

She didn't.

I tried to get across how that felt for my son, the history behind that remark, the fact that he had no allies in that classroom who understood. Yes, other kids were shocked, thought it was wrong, but no one really understood. And no one spoke up.

I asked how she had initially responded to the young lady in question, and actually I think she did pretty well for being a new teacher caught off guard with such a loaded comment. Better than certain veteran teachers I know, that's for damn sure. Also, I should've said earlier that she did apologize to my son after class, and admitted to him that she hadn't quite known what to do.

I told her that SHE was my son's ally in that classroom, she has to be that for him, because every kid looked to her for direction on how that situation was going to go down. I told her I did not hold her accountable for what comes out of a student's mouth, but I do hold her accountable for addressing it. I fully expect her to have my son's back in that classroom.

I thought Miss Thang would get defensive or make excuses or gush about how she toootally understood. She didn't. Girl may be young, but she's sharp; I'll give her that. She looked me in the eye and said "Okay. That's my position, then." All right. She also said, "Obviously this student has missed some things we've been talking about in class. That says to me it's time to reteach."

It's time to reteach. Go on, girl.

I went into the meeting with 3 objectives:
1) I wanted the student to know her remark was inappropriate and hurtful, and I wanted her to get the correct information so she hopefully won't be spouting that shit again.
2) I wanted the other kids in the class to get the correct info, and to have an example of how to address comments like that.
3) Most important, I wanted my son to come away from this feeling empowered, not humiliated. I wanted him to know that he does not have to accept those statements, and I wanted his expectation to be that the adults in life will address that shit immediately.

Anyway, Miss Thang was on board with all of it, she wanted to learn how to be prepared for the next time. Which was a nice change. I told her my idea:

I wanted his class to see Race: the Power of an Illusion, a three-part PBS documentary.

Part I involves a high school science class in which the students do DNA swabs and blood pricks, then type their DNA. Before they get the results, they form hypotheses about whom they believe they'll be most closely linked to genetically.

Not surprisingly, they predict along racial/ethnic lines; the Black kids believe they will be the closest, genetically speaking, to other Black kids, the White kids predict they will be most like other Caucasian kids. Ditto for the Asian and Latino kids.

The results, of course, come back the opposite of what they'd thought: one African American young man finds he is genetically most similar to a blond, Russian classmate. A Caucasian student finds that in addition to having a 100% match with someone in the Balkans (which he expected, given his family history), he is also a 100% match for an African individual, which he did not expect. Another White student is most similar to an Asian girl in his class.

The film goes on to talk about race being a social construct, and the history behind that. It talks about the two migrations of people -- the first dying out, the second being modern humans. ALL of us. It covers how we all came about on the same timeline, that there are no separate species of humans, no lines from an earlier time, no group that is more/less advanced, and how any visual differences are a result of geographic adaptations after migration, not from genetic coding.

In other words, none of us are closer to monkeys than any of the rest of us.

Basically, it breaks it down in scientific terms that race has no biological basis; no gene, or group of genes, is common to a particular race. Race cannot be identified genetically. I was surprised to learn that there is twice the genetic variation between two penguins -- which, to my eye, look identical -- as there is between any two humans.




But ... past science did make a false connection between genes and race and intelligence, past science was used to purposefully construct the social aspects of race. In fact, the film covers how the Nazis actually had used US racial research to form their bullshit theories.

We all know how that turned out.

Here's the thing:

If a particular group of people can be shown, according to "scientific evidence", to be savage, to be less intelligent, less capable of self-governance -- closer to animals than your own group -- how much easier to justify taking their land and confining them to reservations? How much easier to rationalize enslaving those who are less than human? How much easier to convince ourselves that beating, lynching those who are "closer to monkeys" is necessary to keep them in line? That selling them as property is okay? How much easier is it to send those who are "inferior" to concentration camps? How much easier to justify Jim Crow laws, miscegenation laws, if some folks are shown to be closer to animals than others?

Pretty damned easy, according to history.



So the monkey comment, besides being incorrect and ignorant, has a whole shitload of history attached to it, even still, today. If you think the monkey comment was no big deal, that particular bit of history most likely does not apply to you and yours.

My son will remember that little girl opening her mouth and ignorance falling out, he will remember every eye in that room turning to him. He'll remember hearing nothing but white noise roaring in his ears while the teacher struggled to address it, struggled to find something to say to this girl.

Something that wouldn't humiliate her too much.

He will remember that time in 9th grade history class when his classmate said Black people look like monkeys. He'll remember how that felt. And he will be fully aware of the history behind that belief, enabling it to still be voiced in 2007.  He will also remember he has a voice.


-------------------------------------
Afterward: (ha, look at me trying to play author and shit.)Miss Thang showed the film to all her classes. She had the kids write their ideas of race before the film. Afterwards they wrote how the film did or did not affect their views. She said it went well, that she was encouraged by some of the kids' papers.

She said she'd like to incorporate that film into her classes every year. She's going to bring it up to the science teachers, and try to put something together with them for later in the year.

And for the record, no, that is not the usual response.

I was impressed with Miss Thang, and yes, I checked myself on my own assumptions that I'd formed upon seeing her bouncy blonde ponytail and wide-eyed. perky smile. I learned a lesson too.

So, my son will not forget this experience, it will leave its mark; but he will also remember that the adults in his life dealt with that shit, and he'll be more prepared next time. He'll remember that his class learned that shit is not okay and not correct. And hopefully, he'll remember that a little change was made in his school as a result of addressing that ignorant remark.

In Which My Pants Go Marching Marching

See the radical protester in camo fatigues, holding back the media with her awesomeness and blinding attire? That would be my kid.
There's more.

My pants were at the March on Washington. As in my soldier girl pants. My former BDUs. (that's Battle Dress Uniform in civilian lingo.) From when I wore combat boots for a living. That's them, there on the right.

The boots in the picture, though, are all hers.

I'm so proud. Not only was my daughter an organizer in the March, she donned her mother's old army pants to do so. There's a certain irony there. A certain je ne sais quoi. Oh wait, yes I do: a certain Fuck You, Georgie, and fuck your war. Here's one former soldier whose ass you didn't get to control.

And whose ass no longer fits in those pants, which is why the Radical Bohemian is in currently in possession of them. Yeah, I really hate that part. That part pretty much pisses me off. Almost enough to make me get up and exercise.

Anyway, my teenager is fortunate enough to be wearing those BDUs to march on Washington, rather than wearing them to march through Fallujah or Baghdad. I've been thinking more than usual about the mothers whose kids are wearing desert fatigues lately.

Good job, baby, you rock.



(Why yes, as a matter of fact, I am posting about the March and my daughter ad nauseaum. My blog, my kid, important event that BushCo. wants to stifle. Whatever.)

The Radical Bohemian in the News

I got an email from the Radical Bohemian this morning informing me that she has been photographically featured in the Washington Post online. (much thanks to Sling for sending me the screenshot -- I you a shot.) The media, as I've been bitching about, threw a few bones out here and there, but pretty much it was slim pickins as far as coverage of the ANSWER Coalition's March on Washington. If, however, you wanted to know what OJ was up to this weekend, no problem there.

Guess our Commandant in Chief would rather that We the Sheeple don't know how strong the anti-war sentiment really is. Better to keep us all docile and happy and thinking about Britney's custody case.

According to this photo series, "dozens" of protesters were arrested. OK, if you want to call 196 "dozens", technically you're not wrong, but when I hear "dozens", I tend to think of a number more like 36 or 48. But that's just me.

Anyway, she is picture #7 in this series of pics. She says they were shouting "Shame" at the time it was taken. She says there is another picture out there somewhere of her holding back the media from the caution tape line. I guess she told one guy, "I don't care if you're CNN, that doesn't mean you can cross our line!"

Anyway, that's my daughter, in the blindingly lemon yellow ANSWER shirt and security vest, with the hat and braids. Go baby.

----------------------------

Oh, and the police took her bike, Spirit the Unicorn. She thinks. She and some of the other protesters left their bikes chained up -- in a bike rack -- near the starting point of the march, as it's not so effective to wheel your bike along on a march. And riding in a march, well, that kind of defeats the purpose, doesn't it?

Anyway, the officer smirkingly told her, "We took a lot of bikes that weren't supposed to be there. Did you have it registered?" (she didn't, it was fairly new) "Oh, well, in that case, you know, we give a lot of bikes away to kids."

Already? In the middle of the night on Saturday when you were busy dealing with all those folks you arrested? In other words, damn lefty, stirring up our weekend, that's what you get.

She was told she could not file a report of theft until she checked with the police holding area on Monday. He did not seem hopeful that Spirit the Unicorn would be there.

----------------------------

PS: (hey, I do it in comments, I can damn well do it in my own posts. Whatever.) Lorraine has some news sources about the march over on her site, if you're interested, because she's cool like that.