Get Over Yourself

If you are an employer on the Central Coast who is currently looking to hire an employee, I have some tips for you regarding your expectations.

1. A salary of $35,000 a year for a project manager position -- regardless of the industry -- was acceptable back in 1992. It is not acceptable anymore. If you plan on hiring a college-educated, experienced project manager to run your affairs, you will not find one for that amount of money.

2. If you are putting the expression "master's degree preferred" in your want ad, you had best not be offering $12.00 an hour for the position.

3. Don't offer $10.00 an hour to a college-educated person for any position. Ever. Just don't.

What employers in this area need to understand is that they are driving away qualified employees with these insulting job postings. No one with education and experience is going to accept a position for the amount of pay that employers are offering here. What is going to happen, is that the folks who are talented and smart are going to leave the Central Coast and move to places where they will be paid properly for their skills, because nice weather simply does not make up for a lack of professional opportunity.

There's a reason there are so few people living on the Central Coast, while places like Chicago (where the weather is pretty nasty most the time) boast enormous populations. The Central Coast needs to get over itself in a big way. Yes, it's pretty. So what? Sunshine does not pay bills.

So here's the lesson to learn here Central Coast employers: Pay people what they are worth, or you won't have any worthy people left to pay.

Welcome to the Monkey House*

Five months ago I accepted a job at my son's elementary school as a special education para-educator. I knew when I was hired that I would be working with students that had learning disabilities and behavior disorders. I also knew that I had very little experience with helping kids with those problems, but as the job description did not require any special ed experience, I assumed I would be thoroughly trained in that area before I started the job. That's what any reasonable person would assume, right?

I was wrong. I was very, very, wrong.

On my first day on the job I met with the resource specialist (RSP) who would be assigning me to areas of need. I discovered that I would be teaching reading groups to kids who were not only in need of reading intervention, but were also classified as special needs kids due to learning or behavior disorders. There were all kinds of classifications and acronyms attached to those kids' names. They handed me IEP files and showed me all their test scores. They told me they were weak in auditory or visual memory. They told me that were "over-decoders" and that they were weak in comprehension or phonics. I quickly learned a highly comprehensive reading program that I would be teaching those kids. And then I was given the kids to teach, and all those words became meaningless.

My first reading group every morning consists of an ADD student with severe impulse control problems who regularly knocks her chair over, grabs things, pokes other students, talks out of turn, and refuses to comply with my requests. Next to her is a girl who puts her head down on her desk and refuses to lift it. Next to her is a boy with autism who almost daily has to be sent to a counselor because he becomes belligerent and throws things at me. And next to that student is a boy whose parents will be pulling him out of school in January to go join the circus with them. They don't believe he needs an education. At 6 years of age he still does not know his alphabet. However, he tries very hard in class and is extremely teachable, but I never really get the opportunity to help him because all my efforts are being spent on trying to keep the other students under control. All of these kids are deemed capable of performing in a regular classroom. So they send them to me to try and get them "up to speed" on their reading.

For a teacher with training and support with these types of kids, the task of teaching them might be possible. But I never see my RSP supervisor. She and I never talk. She is so busy that the only time I can catch her is through email, and when I do ask for advice, she tells me things like "Use skittles for incentives." REALLY? Give candy to children with behavior disorders? I know that she is overloaded with kids and feels burdened with no time and no resources, but is that really an excuse for such advice? I know she's under tremendous pressure. Every day we receive more students at our school that we need to fit into our special ed programs without the resources to do so. But that is all the more reason that she should be properly training me. With help, I could be of more benefit to her and to these kids. There are things she could have told me prior to assigning me these students. Things like "Student 1 has problem with impulse control," or "Student 2 does not like to be touched and has trouble with transitions. He will also probably question everything you do and want to do it differently." Or she might have said "By the way, that kid who threw something at you in class today just had the courts take his mom away from him." Yes. That type of information might have been helpful to know before I started working with these kids.

Oh, wait. There are times I do hear from my supervisor. I hear from her when she wants me to test a student during that huge 10 minute interval I have once a morning to wrap up one group and prepare for the next, or maybe use that time to go to the bathroom instead. Then I hear from her, because apparently I am taking too much time to prepare for my groups. Ten minutes is just too much time for prep work. I should be doing something else with that time, apparently. My bladder and prep time can wait.

Did I mention that the curriculum I've been given to teach these kids is not special ed curriculum? No. It's not. It's curriculum for slow readers. These are not slow readers in my group. They are kids with profound problems who get very little, if any, home support with their learning. The system is trying to keep them out of an SDC placement, but they have no proper alternative solution for them. These are the kids I am given. Me. with no training, and with no support to help them.

I have asked time and again for support with these kids. I have asked for training, advice, ANYTHING that can help me help them. My requests to have students switched into other groups, or to be able to use standard discipline measures have been denied. My requests for a job share position with a more experienced para educator have been denied. It is clear to me that the minimum wage job I have been given is just a babysitting job for kids that the system has given up on. When they can no longer find anything to do with these kids, they send them to me. And then they expect me to teach them something.

I don't teach special ed. I don't teach at all. I work in a monkey house. And that's what my tax dollars pay for, instead of paying for art, and music, and enrichment programs. Don't get me wrong; there are many, many good things about my son's school. The PTA and teachers are wonderful, and everyone tries really hard to do the best they can with what they're given. There is a lot of love at that school, and the upper level grade special ed programs (grades 3-5) are really good. But without funds, the K-2 special ed programs cannot function properly. Without the funds to hire and train teachers, what good is a special ed program at all? I could rant endlessly about the evils of No Child Left Behind and the president who put in place, but that wouldn't change the fact that the system is broken. It wouldn't change the fact that our schools are broke and our resources are stretched to the breaking point. Nor would it change the fact that the kids without special needs are being ignored while a large amount of our resources go to help the bottom 10%. My job in education has indeed been an education for me. *Yes, I stole this title from Kurt Vonnegut.

Middle Age View

Today I turn 42. I have never had a problem with birthdays. I've never been one to lock myself in the bathroom and weep over getting older. I have always vowed that I would age gracefully, and I think I've done a pretty good job at not trying to pretend I'm younger than I am. So it was puzzling to me this year why I was so depressed about my birthday. Why the sulks? Why the water works? I have been unaccountably morose and philosophical about such an insignificant event. So today I took a day off to think about it.

And I think I figured it out. A couple of weeks ago, my life changed significantly. I was making dinner on an ordinary Thursday when my dad called to tell me that my mom had had a stroke. I cannot adequately describe how that feels when you get that call. There are many cliches, but I cannot capture it. It does not hit you all at once. Once the immediate news is digested, there are many after shocks. The bare bones news of tests and hospital room numbers do nothing to ease the blow. They are just facts to hide behind. They make flimsy and ineffectual emotional shields.

My mom is recovering. I hope she will recover completely, but she is struggling with basic skills. And I realize now that her struggle really scares me. It has been very painful to hear her slurred speech on the phone, and to know she is still unable to do basic things like walk and use her hands. It terrifies me to think of her that way. In two weeks I will be on a plane to see her, and I am scared, scared, scared. I am afraid I will cry when I see her. I am a big, fat, sissy, and I want to run away.

A great deal of my inner strength has always come from knowing I had a place to call home. No matter how much I messed up my own life, there were always people back home to take care of me. Here I am at 42 and I still want to be the child. I still want to be taken care of, to be cherished, protected, nurtured. Even as I pour out my heart to my children every day, I still want someone to do the same for me. And now I realize that my parents just can't do that for me any more. I should have realized that years ago, but time and distance blur reality for me. I can't run away from that fact now, no matter how far away I live.

This is not eloquent, it is not revolutionary, it is not even revelatory to most. But to me, this simple truth is rocking my world: I have to take care of myself. Because in the end, I'm all I have. And I have to take care of my husband, because he is all I have. And we have to take care of each other, because there is no knight in shining armor coming to save us, there is no savior parent waiting to pick up the pieces of the messes we create; there is no Superman, no happy ending, no simple and easy way out. I am the caretaker now. I am the savior. I am the wise old owl.

I am the adult.

And if I say it enough times, maybe I'll eventually believe it. And once that stops scaring the shit out of me, maybe I'll be able to act like one.

Little Moments

I just had a great moment at my son's school today. I volunteer in the school library on Thursday mornings, and I always stop by the playground as I'm leaving to say hello to my son and spend a moment with him. I usually check out a book to read to him when I'm in the library, and lately it's become a ritual that I sit and read to him on the playground before I go home for the day.

Today was a nasty weather day. It was cold and windy, and the wind was hurling little needles of rain at everything and everyone. I crouched down to show my son the book I'd checked out for him. He asked me to read it, and within moments I had a circle of 6-year-olds around me wanting to hear the story. They listened, talked about the pictures, laughed, and smiled shyly at me from under the hoods of their coats. I hammed up the story and made it as entertaining as possible, and I could feel how much the children were enjoying themselves. In that moment, I knew why I had gotten out of bed that morning.

I think I'll do that every week.

Round 2,000,000,000......and counting

And then there’s the question of faith in God. Unless you were raised by wolves, you’ve probably wrestled with this issue at some point in your life. Who knows – maybe even wolves struggle with it. I have had a life-long wrestling match with Faith. Sometimes it pins me and I submit, and sometimes I manage to throw it off and stand in my own corner for a while. Other times I tackle it completely.

Right now in my life, Faith and I are in opposite corners of the wrestling ring, eyeing each other. While in this stalemate, Reason has crept into my corner, and he is taunting Faith mercilessly. I was raised Roman Catholic, so Reason has a lot of ammunition for taunting.

Reason: “I mean REALLY Faith. Talking snakes? Burning bushes? A piece of bread that turns into a guy’s bloody body every week? Confession? Saints? A list of arbitrary rules we’re supposed to believe was written by God?”

The list of taunts is endless.

The sad part is, Faith really has no defense. He just stands there with his sad puppy eyes, silently imploring me to leap in his direction. But I haven’t been in a leaping mood lately.

And that’s the point, really. Faith really is a leap. You either choose to believe something, or you don’t. And if you stop to reason it out, you can stay in that stalemate forever. But after a lifetime of struggling, questioning, and changing religions, I have come to the conclusion that I don’t believe in any of it. I haven’t considered myself a Christian for a long time. To me, Christ, if he existed, was a fabulous prophet that was very spiritually gifted, and helped a lot of people. He was a radical free-thinker who came to change the minds and hearts of men. But I believe he was a man, and only a man. And while his mother probably was a good person, I doubt very strongly that God made her pregnant. I could go on, but you get the picture.

So I’m not Christian, but I’ve known that for a long time. The part that makes me sad is that recently, I find myself unable to believe in God. I just can’t. As I said, Faith and I are in a stalemate, and reason has the upper hand. I want to believe, and I still pray out of habit, but Faith and I just can’t see eye to eye lately. This puts me in a lonely place. I wouldn’t say I’m an atheist. Just agnostic. For now. We’ll see what happens tomorrow.

After all, this wrestling match has been going on a long time, and there’s always the next round.

I’ll keep you posted on the scores.

I Quit!

We've all had crappy jobs before. In my house we had to start working summer jobs as soon as we were legally old enough to do so. I also graduated college in the middle of a big recession (kind of like this one) and couldn't find work for over a year. So in my time I've been a cashier at a hardware store, a book store, washed dogs, been a liquor store clerk, a waitress, and had many, many temp office jobs. I didn't like many of those jobs, but the beauty of them was that they were temporary. I only had to work them for a while, and then I could say "I Quit!"

The other nice thing about crummy side jobs is that they give you the opportunity to work outside your comfort zone, and to discover what skills you possess. They also teach you what skills you most certainly do NOT possess. And, after discovering all that, you can say, "I am not really suited for this job. I don't have the temperament or the skills. I think I will try something else." And then you do.

But there's a job out there that many of us enter into without any training or instruction manual. There's no trial period, no formal review process with the possibility of promotion, it's not a temp job, and we most certainly cannot quit this job. Ever.

It's called parenting. And it's a job for life. You don't get training, you don't get promoted, and you can never, ever quit.

And I find myself asking, what if we as parents really feel we aren't qualified for that job? What if, after trying it out for a while, we were able to say, "I'm really not very good at this. My skills don't fit. I don't have the patience/stamina/concentration/compassion/mental stability/financial support/BALLS for this job?" Shouldn't we be able to admit that? And yes, shouldn't we also be able to admit that all of us at one time or another have desperately wanted to say, "I quit?" Because we all have felt that way at one time or another. We all have.

And of course we don't quit. But it does amaze me that parenting -- which is arguably one of the most important jobs there is on this planet -- is the one job that we are all the least prepared to do.

If there is such a thing as intelligent design, then I'd have to say that equipping human beings with the equipment for creating life, and not equipping them with a handbook for raising it, was a pretty short-sighted decision. Maybe our creator, if he/she exists, wanted to force us to rely on each other to figure that out.  And we do. We do.

Displaced Persons

I was raised to work. From the time I entered kindergarten it was a foregone conclusion that I would eventually graduate college, move out, and get a job. My parents gave me luggage when I graduated from high school and a business suit when I graduated from college. The message was always clear in my home: grow up, move out, get on with your life.

I wasn't that my parents didn't love me. They loved me so much that they wanted to make damn sure I would never wind up in living in their basement and working at Target when I was 30 years old. And yet, here I am in my 40s having fantasies of doing just that. Even as I daily teach my own children how to be self-sufficient, I am finding myself yearning to jump on a plane and run home for a while. To take time to get back to my roots. To regroup. And to find my lost self-confidence. Because after a long, upwardly mobile career, I find myself out of work, and with skills that nobody wants or needs. Further, I am so completely bewildered by technology, that I have given up on trying to understand all but what I have to grasp in order to get through the day. I find technology to be a highly isolating force in my life. Most people would rather text than talk to each other. Wherever I go I see a sea of people face down in their devices, completely avoiding any real conversation with anyone. It saddens me.

And then there's the demise of my profession. In 2004 I was riding high on the crest of my professional wave. I was making good money, and on a steadily upward trajectory in my career. Then I got pregnant. I decided to take one year off after having my son, fully intending to return to work in a year. Instead, I moved from Chicago to California, which pretty much nailed the lid on the coffin of my career. When I attempted to find a job after a year, I found all I could find on the West Coast was freelance work, and even that dried up pretty quickly. I took odd jobs, but none of them paid enough to justify my child care expenses. Then I landed a good job that paid well for two years, but I was laid off because I couldn't work fast enough. I was too focused on quality, and not enough on quantity.

 So now I'm facing a serious sense of displacement. I'm displaced from my family, my Midwestern home, my past, my career, and my sense of belonging. I find the current state of the world bewildering beyond measure. And while I love my kids, I am a self-admitted lousy stay-at-home mom. I bore easily, and am not good at keeping children constantly amused. I am used to either going to work, or going to a rehearsal. When there is no job or theatrical project happening, I go a little crazy.

So that's why I find myself in my 40s and fantasizing about running away to my parents' basement. Of course I won't do it. But sometimes it seems a Hell of a lot easier than facing up to unemployment and the prospect of starting over so late in life.