School Days School Days..Good Old Fashioned Rule Days

Either write things worth reading, or do things worth writing.-Today I found my inspiration to write from Benjamin Franklin. Thanks Benny.

This morning, before my eyes had opened, I had decided to hike the face of Sleeping Giant, near my home. After locking my inner teenager in the closet, I invited my mother to join me. It had been years since I had climbed the hill although I used to visit it frequently with my best friends, usually after skipping school. This, I recounted to her. As we climbed the hill, I began to process the last week of teacher training at Hamden Middle School.

There's not much to complain about. There is a biking path, albeit strewn with litter, that connects my home to my work. I am fortunate enough to be able to commute without a car. The middle school is almost brand new, a multi-million dollar facility equipped with the latest in technology and design. Inside it looks like a ship, its fashioned like an elongated diamond with five branches spinning off the back. Each classroom has shiny new smart boards, macintosh computers and wi-fi access for all of the students-should the teacher order a cart of laptops for any one session.

To say that school is tightly run, is a gross understatement. Each student is required to carry identification with them at all times. If a student goes to the bathroom, he must sign out and sign back in with date and time. Students are not allowed to leave the classroom once class is in session. The teachers told me that they are hesitant to allow students to wear scarves for fear that the scarves may signal gang affiliation. Another teacher recounted a story of a student in Branford getting stabbed with the pointy end of a hair comb. She thinks that plastic combs should also be taken away from students at Hamden Middle School just to be safe. In the break room the other day, I read a headline from the local paper that reported a student/teacher scandal where a student was strip searched for money that he had allegedly stolen. I spoke to my teacher trainer about possibly using technology in class and she told me about the consent forms that I would need to get signed by the kids and their parents to insure proper use. I asked her about bringing in food for the next chapter and she spoke to me about allergies, liability and consent again ending with 'it's too much trouble'. The combination of these few days 'on the inside' and these few stories has sent my head spinning.

Things have changed since I attended Middle school. I've been sneaking out of class since I was 11 and most recently leaving HMS on a lark at noon last Friday. Sometimes I've used the windows, sometimes I've used the doors. I remember hatching elaborate plots including making myself faint and impersonating superiors in order to skip class and sit on the corner with friends. 'Do you think that schools should be like when you were-or weren't-going to class?' My mother asked me, sweetly. I recalled wasting hours getting high in the dugouts behind the school, or self-designating field trips to the beach with friends to pick up stones. I also remember first using the internet and learning how to research and opening up my first email account. I remember whole days of Spanish or French class wasted on making crepes and tortillas.

My mind struggled to conceive of the ideal school environment for my future children. I wouldn't want them attending the miniature police state that I see replicated in this branch of the US public school system. Kids at HMS quickly learn that their freedom can be taken away from them by any authority and explained with a few words: 'Its a safety issue'. They learn to accept and conform to school policy. In any given week, a new list of items will be disallowed and confiscated. They learn that their freedom of movement can be controlled by which team they are on and that if they trespass, they will be punished. For all its shiny gloss and happy monitors, the security is unbelievable. A parent or visitor cannot walk into the front door of the school. Instead, as a substitute I stand outside and wave to monitors while I wait for someone to answer my request to be buzzed in.

What do I suggest? I'm an educator, a responsible and resourceful adult. My mind flashed to a few most ideal and perhaps unreal scenarios, none of which reflected a school with walls. Not having to deal with this issue yet, it's easy for me to imagine open fields and life education, one that encourages children to ask questions and explore their genuine interests. I would want my children in a school where they aren't bombarded with rules upon rules, where hours aren't spent taking placement tests and reaching state assessment levels. Do I have enough respect for authority to conform to this system for the remainder of the school year?

To quote my father, who notoriously dropped out of all of the schools he attended, only later to recieve several honarary degrees,
'One thing is certain, more will be revealed'.

It seemed like the thing to do at the time

I flew home and as soon as I could I was sitting at my grandmother's feet. Everyone in the family had warned me that she's been getting older. I must admit, I felt a little scared. It seemed that the last few times I had called, she had asked the same questions, "What's your address?" and then she would set the phone down on the table. I could see through the holes in my earpiece, down to the red and white checked cloth. I could see her making her way to her desk and picking up her address book. We would check, letter by letter, my current address. This ritual required real patience because my address is foreign sounding albeit, not entirely strange and there were always several starts and stops. Depending on what time of day our phonecall was, it could take 20 minutes. Mozartova. When I first moved to this street I was moving from U Studanky, or Fountain street, right in front of the Architecture school. Skinny students in black carrying big square bags would trapse by early in the morning. You had to watch the street for dog shit.

Coming into Boothbay, my mind spun in search of a gift. I'd handed out almost everything that I'd brought back and had only myself to bring. I pulled into the local supermarket and began to hunt for the perfect gift. Settling on potatoes and garlic over flowers and chocolate, checking out, my nerves began to jangle. When she opened the door, I could see the light in her eyes, moving slower, but it was there. She sat down immediately to watch me and I began to peel potatoes and talk, talk a lot, my nerves. I was so happy to see her but I couldn't sit down. I had to make something for her. I had to show her that I loved her. I couldn't simply look at her or touch her, though I wanted to badly.

Some things never change. She has three drawings taped to her broom closet, that I've made for her over the years. I'm proud to be the most represented grandchild in her gallery. The top one is from the summer we spent together. It's an abstract topographical map with the words 'The only day we have is today.' written in large letters. Underneath it, a self portrait of me, with my arms and legs spread as far apart as possible, 'I love you this much' in marker and then added at a later date 'maybe more' in pen. The oldest, is a picture I drew in '00 of myself in cartoon with 8 or so oblong orbes stretching from my face. She never has moved them. She loves me the most and I know it. I love her the most.

Some things about the house have changed. Her fireplace had been replaced with a gas burning stove so that she wouldn't have to climb the cellar stairs to bring wood up. Something she used to ask me to do each time I would come. There was no candy in the candy dishes. She took a cane from behind the door and hid it. Her chaise lounge is more worn. A few pieces of art have been given away, I assume.

We spoke only briefly about the details of life. I told her that I hated people asking Why I was anywhere, because generally I didn't know how to answer. She said, "Sweet lamb, you know people don't really care to know the answer, usually they're just making conversation. You can always say 'it seemed like the thing to do at the time.' " I've used that line over ten times in the last two weeks and although it doesn't accurately sum up why I've returned to the USA, it does make people nod, shake their head and move on to the next topic. I kissed her a lot. I've been kissing people. I describe it as an Italian grandmother alter-ego. Her cheeks were delicious.