Here’s another way students are cheated. In elementary school, which I teach, we tend to go through genre studies. We take a genre of literature at a time and go through it. Well, now what more and more schools are doing is teaching the test itself as a genre—that is, studying the features of a test, as you would a novel, or as you would historical fiction or mysteries. You’re laughing, but this is very serious. Any teacher watching this knows what I’m talking about, that you, in elementary school, in many schools, especially the schools where that gun to the head is already cocked—in the poorest schools, in the schools that teach the most disadvantaged students, students of color, in schools in Harlem—you have to teach students how to take a test. You have to tell eight-year-olds about multiple choice, right? And the thing that gets me is that the, you know, wealthy individuals who promote these policies send their own kids to schools that look nothing like that, where inquiry is promoted, where they don’t spend all day obsessing about how they’re going to do on someone else’s test.
I’ve seen schools that begin right away, that begin the first week of school, where they begin with pretests to try to, you know, tell the kids—if you ask a kid in Harlem—go to any school in Harlem and ask a young elementary school student, “What’s the point of school? Why are you here?” They’ll tell you, “It’s to pass tests, so that I can get a job.”
There’s nothing about—you know, I heard Jonathan Kozol speak at the Save Our Schools march, and he said something that really stayed with me. He said, at the wealthy schools, at your Phillips Exeter and Andover Academies, you know, those kids get to feast on the treasures of the earth. They get to enjoy literature and savor it. And they get to savor their savoring of it. And in our schools, too often kids are given these kind of cardboard passages that are meant to show them what a noun is. But there’s no joy in it. And there’s no—I would argue there’s no real learning.
It is true five of you fuckers exist, five!!! Sure everyone has had a few kids in theirs classes growing up with the same name no big deal but were they all the same build and hairstyle?
my day had been a good day full of surprises ( kisses from alexs, in and out for lunch, new shoes) so no big deal when i was sent to pick up a pizza for my dad, brother, and me. I was wrong so fucking wrong. while out the door on my way home i set the pizza in the van and try to turn over the engine on my surly warhorse the 2000 Ford Windstar. when, from no where the harsh metal clicking of exhaustion and dead battery cried out in embarrassment. the van almost spoke to me in this crappy bastardized version of some Aborigine clicking whirl like language to put it out of its misery. surely this vintage of the will-enium war horse is just in need of a new battery, but, what do i know i only drive the fucking sack of shit everywhere. with no phone and no battery to ghetto jump start my wounded beast i think of a plan toot sweet.
i have found in my misadvenchas that it is easier to ask for change or someones wallet then to use their phone or get a jump start (im not going to explain that that it just is). the parking lot of a raley’s in my hometown being no different. As i traveled around in vain, some pour unfortunate soul just about screamed when my hellish sweaty physique appeared from nowhere and belted out as timidly as possible “mam. MAM, could i use your phone, i need to make a local call to my house my van broke down just over their and…” she looked as if i had my pants down and her child under my arms while she could only glare wide eyed at gun point…that or she crapped herself…and quickly mumbled ” uhh i don’t not have any cash” “i was asking to use a phone never mind have a nice day” i quickly replied as she swarmed her children to the van while probably telling said children that i was the cocuy( Mexican boogie man) her mother warned them about. my travels around this damned plain of asphalt continued on like this for another ten minutes to no avail…..damn this is lame.
it was becoming clear i may never leave this establishment of nail salons and discounted office supplies in any sort of timely manner. curse that damn silver warhorse, curse its very existence. the twenty minutes spent wondering the vast vacuum of blacktop and minivans was beginning to wear my patience then when, a balding sunburnt angel seemed to have appear from nowhere….she had on a total i give up on life expression and drove a pick up full of tools. this salt of the earth and to much salt in her diet godess would definitely help me in my plight. i approached her humbly and asked well out of arms reach” excuse me do you have a phone to use my van broke down and….” she wretched back and blather out a cacophony of excuses mostly pertaining to phone companies screwing us all over and sat inside her truck still talking/ having a nervous breakdown? i was takin back by this and was unsure what to do, so i stood there waiting for my out of shape sweat stained angel to guide my hand to freedom from this exile of twenty four hour dinning and parking. she drove off and left me to rot much like any other well equipped survivor would in the wastelands we all dream about.
i continued on this place will not wear out my patience thier must besomething else i could do maybe wait until somebody parks next to my van, wait for them to go into a store, and break into the vehicle to use its battery to jump start mine. no that will take way to long any self respecting motorist will see the wounded creature covered in battle ding and scrapes and park elsewhere. i approached a large man loading groceries into his plymoth van. i approached cautiously and asked calmly in a passive i do not want your ass sweat covered wallet and not that valuable valuables manner and managed to get out ” could i use your phone sir, my van won’t start and i just need to make a local call. the large figure lurched up and gave a silent almost disturbed expression of grief on his face. his name tag had SHAWN written on it and was covered in oil and grease stains. you have done it now robert i tell myself. never ask a mechanic to fix something after they get out of work he’ll skin you alive. Run, run while hes still unsure. the large gentlemen adjusted his hat allowing his shave red hair to cool off before trapping it in its prison of swet and felt. he was built like a sack of ginger bread was molded into a linebacker then beaten with a larger sack of grease and oil covered bolts and screws until just right then twice baked for freshness. the portly fellow responded” does it click when you turn it over?” ” yes a lot” i replied. “ill pull over to the front pop the trunk and we’ll take a look” “thank you” is all i could muster to the orange titan.
i scurried over to the damned-able sea cow of a motor vehicle and poped the hood ready to strike with jumper cables and leave the stroke inducing boredom of this parking lot. SHAWNs van reared it beaten head and proceeded to move ever so closely just before the point of smashing the downed beast and parking ready to bring life back to the wretched spawn of mini and van. the Plymouth was not in much better shape but was running. he pulled the hood release and looked puzzled. walked over to the hood of his van and punched the area right next to the ornament and proceeded to repeat this machine spirit’s ritual of opening until he motioned me to punch it while he poped the handle. i walked up to the old van and gave it a mighty punch, sissy like compared to the mighty smack down the ginger giant could muster in his sweaty beaten down long day of work lumbering. we swapped spots and opened the hood deftly. now all i could think of was whether or not this guy was even capable of jumping my van or even driving this shitheep out of here. we attach the cables he uses for jumping deisel trucks (hopefully not with his van) and i start the engine….the zulu warrior clicks and buzzes begin and SHAWN gracefully punches my vans starter. praise be to fonze as this doughie beast fixed my van with a punch from the heavens. i thanked the man and offered him a cigarette. he accepted and drove off into the cave he belongs in…..damn gingers why are there so many of you named sean/shawn and why are you always there when i need help with a ride or my car……potato munching orange hair pig fuckers i swear its a conspiracy…
Back during the Cold War, espionage by the Americans, British, Soviets, West Germans and East Germans was rampant— because obviously, there was a lot of intelligence to be gathered to know when the other side was going to nuke someone else to oblivion. And with all that spying came some interesting spy disguises that by today’s refined standards of fashion are just downright fucking goofy.
must acquire as many useless tittles and degrees as humanly possible…..how many people can be ordained minister with seven doctorates a mixoligy and bar-tending license/certificate and a trained technician with flobotamy, gun-smithing, roof repair, motorcycle repair, whatever else i can pay/half ass study to get a degree in………i think i could be the first.
Pretty sure you've always wanted to see me naked.. Well.. I'm feeling pretty adventurous today so go to datelink2[dot]com (switch [dot] with .) then sign up and find my profile under the username 'lolsummer69'. I hid my face in the pictures. but I want you to guess who I am and then hit me up on Facebook lol. Good luck.
no thanks. are you a Chinese zombie?or a lonely postal worker?
"Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!" —Hunter S. Thompson