tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29653353679506427562024-02-18T18:32:36.237-08:00Educating MamaNever too old -- or young -- to learn.Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-37765733166820804392013-06-19T09:43:00.003-07:002013-06-19T09:45:18.757-07:00Questions to a Young PoetSo what are you going to do this summer?<br />
<br />
...languish....<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Based on a positively true story of my encounter with a young poet.</i></span>Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-20543520899153720102013-01-20T19:13:00.001-08:002013-01-20T19:15:59.206-08:00Carpool ConversationsOne of Chongo's friends -- the very talented artist one -- said, "CHS (Competitive High School) has taken so much and given me so little."<br />
<br />
"What do you mean by that?"<br />
<br />
"Well, I guess it's taught me to think more critically, but it's taken so much of my time. I could have been out exploring the world."<br />
<br />
When he puts it that way, my heart agrees with him.<br />
<br />
Although I trust and deeply hope, that CHS actually prepares students to explore and engage the world, my fear is that conforming to the world is valued too highly. Because at the end of the day artistic talent, witty observations and some deep thinking about life doesn't pay the bills or get you into too many colleges. Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-35712346329721282152012-06-27T12:43:00.000-07:002012-06-27T12:43:26.576-07:00Shoes<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Chongo was young, he had a problem remembering his
shoes. It’s one of the pitfalls of living in California, I guess – the weather
only occasionally being cold enough to make a kid consider his feet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One day we missed a movie when barefoot boy was discovered
and we had to go back home. Occasional we’d stop at Target to buy a pair of flip
flops. I finally made him pay for them from his own allowance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How can you forget your shoes?” I would ask. But I knew the
answer. When you are battling mythical beasts with only a sword or flying
through space avoiding asteroids by a hairsbreath, shoes seem insignificant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At one point I grew tired of reminding him to put his shoes
on for school, and put a yellow post it on the door to remind him. There were
days I saw him walk up to it and read it with surprise, “oh, right! Shoes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eventually we outgrew the sticky note, the frustrating trips
with our shoeless boy. The teenager doesn’t need reminders; ratty converse
sneakers hang daily at the end of his long legs. But I miss that boy who had no
room in his brain to remember his shoes. And I have to ask: What did he have to
forget in order to remember his shoes?</div>Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-68133845076606131972012-06-06T22:36:00.000-07:002012-06-06T22:36:00.055-07:00Distracted drivingJust this week I narrowly missed an accident when I failed to yield at the stop sign.<br />
<br />
I was distracted. By the Kangaroo paws. They were in such riotous bloom -- deep red and velvety with a touch of yellow, glowing in the late afternoon sun. I couldn't take my eyes off of them.<br />
<br />
A couple days later I had to hit the brakes too hard to avoid hitting the car in front of me.<br />
<br />
Again, I was distracted. This young couple were walking up the sidewalk. They were holding hands and laughing. They just looked so happy I couldn't take my eyes off of them.<br />
<br />
Then it was the moon. So fat and luminous floating just above the rooftops. I had to force myself to look away to keep my car on the road.<br />
<br />
Who needs cell phones for distraction when we're surrounded by so much love and beauty?<br />
<br />
<br />Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-14099462064739140142012-05-30T22:52:00.003-07:002012-05-30T22:53:33.963-07:00WorryI was sitting at my desk, working. So much to do but suddenly feeling capable, like everything was going to work out. Until this nagging worry came back to twist my stomach.<br />
<br />
And I thought to myself, "I know I have something to worry about, but I can't remember what it is."<br />
<br />
And then my head itched and I remembered I had been exposed to lice.<br />
<br />
I hate lice. I know from personal experience what a bother they are. When I was a kid I got treated for lice every time I came back from the jungle. My mom would mix vaseline and kerosene together and rub it through my hair. You had to wear it all morning before you could wash it out, and you stank. I've had it with my own kids and the thought of dealing with those little critters stresses me out.<br />
<br />
Still, I thought it was ridiculous to be worried about something so apparently unremarkable that a person could forget.<br />
<br />
I thought of the friend I'd run into the day before. I hadn't seen her in awhile and she told me, "I've been dealing with the whole breast cancer thing." <br />
<br />
Thinking of her I felt very happy that my worry was simply about the possibility of lice.<br />
<br />
Of course today, I've been overly grateful that the itching appears to have been psychosomatic.<br />
<br />
<br />Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-41816525336424576532012-03-17T18:26:00.004-07:002012-03-17T18:44:36.408-07:00Social NicetiesToday you waited.<br /><br />You waited after all the carpool clowns had climbed out of the car and started up the street, ignoring my goodbyes.<br /><br />I turned to the open car door and there you stood, looking at me expectantly.<br /><br />"Have a good day," I said, knowing that I love yous are not so welcomed in public.<br /><br />You gave me a slight smile, and a nod. Acknowledging me acknowledging you. Then you turned and walked to school.<br /><br />It made me happy, remembering that one moment you had turned back, waiting just to say goodbye. To acknowledge I was there. I've given you speeches about the importance of social niceties to make people feel valued. But they are just speeches. Today I knew in my heart what that really means. Thank you.Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-65175612645094096182012-03-08T16:49:00.005-08:002012-03-08T17:04:58.692-08:00Lemon Cake<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibX3WN-tKaU7JVX6MsutAm97OTJ12eni-gdznlhvUFs_MOLUzcPDPsBGi0GkKZZCuxZL4U-gkIZ5svIc81ZhQtR3X87m71wzXLM7Vdae_StmuVDq893y9jcFtdyasyPZEQ_Qr3BouiBrA_/s1600/IMG_9681.JPG"><br /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM4YqCFOk-t6xSzS5lvwahGnBeABiIsGQtkRAfw-jbD6EKMYPDkCm3geijk9DCfCYVj-d2ofcBMmbOsNMATCCIFD_YzuViDme6Cn7GPHn_Lij9Ee8VGyS18FWWTbhZtB7s6AA9kNC2IjvC/s1600/IMG_9679.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM4YqCFOk-t6xSzS5lvwahGnBeABiIsGQtkRAfw-jbD6EKMYPDkCm3geijk9DCfCYVj-d2ofcBMmbOsNMATCCIFD_YzuViDme6Cn7GPHn_Lij9Ee8VGyS18FWWTbhZtB7s6AA9kNC2IjvC/s320/IMG_9679.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717695136348210402" border="0" /></a><style>@font-face { font-family: "Times New Roman"; }@font-face { font-family: "TimesNewRomanPSMT"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }table.MsoNormalTable { font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:100%;" >This is the last piece of lemon cake. </span></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:100%;" > </span></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:100%;" >I made it a week ago for friends, put it on a cake plate and displayed it dusted with powdered sugar.<span style=""> </span>We ate pieces drizzled with lemon glaze and berries and cream and coffee. It was a happy evening. Only half a cake was left at the end.</span></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:100%;" > </span></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:100%;" >It sat, under the glass dome all week, slowly piece by piece slivered away. Maia and I ate it while we planned a mystery dinner she wants to do with her grandmother, while we watched “Smash,” while I obsessed over the best prices for our family vacation.</span></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:100%;" > </span></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:100%;" >All week it’s made me happy looking at that lemon cake, so yellow, so elegant, so tasty. Yes, I am one of those. Food makes me happy. Not in large quantities, but in succulent servings. Flavor enjoyed in suspended moments of pleasure.<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:100%;" >The sight of a lemon cake waiting, drenched, soaking in the sweet tanginess of lemon glaze -- how could I not be happy?</span></p><p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiIDuYffqDGLugPZ4zBWZJSgkr-pHaxJ5DPz5QFom2Fc7M3N7ctbUNIFXRQvudFgtUykUuuYmeNVpnySF_uUdQGz-EzNWa6b0_iporBNUeKM1aPWXlWBw_Ny6O33TMoT48mnyjcPrvnWhi/s1600/IMG_9681.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiIDuYffqDGLugPZ4zBWZJSgkr-pHaxJ5DPz5QFom2Fc7M3N7ctbUNIFXRQvudFgtUykUuuYmeNVpnySF_uUdQGz-EzNWa6b0_iporBNUeKM1aPWXlWBw_Ny6O33TMoT48mnyjcPrvnWhi/s320/IMG_9681.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717696143325128114" border="0" /></a></span></p><p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal">The last piece of lemon cake. I ate it today.<br /></p><p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:TimesNewRomanPSMT;font-size:11pt;" ><br /></span></p>Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-22341550181118676082011-11-16T16:41:00.001-08:002011-11-16T16:53:29.801-08:00The Secret Life of TeachersThis year Maia has an English teacher for whom there are no second chances. <br /><br />Maia is now trying to improve her grade after failing to turn in a packet on its due date. Ms. English Teacher accepts no late work, and Maia hadn't yet learned that she should turn in all of the work she had done, even if a piece of it was still incomplete. Yes, I know, learning the system is one of the educational process of school. Some lessons just come harder than others...<br /><br />So yesterday, Maia decided to stop by to show Ms. English Teacher her progress on another big project just to make sure she was meeting her expectations. Ms. English Teacher gave her work a fairly perfunctory glance, told her to shorten a paragraph and handed it back. <br /><br />Maia left feeling as though her teacher were more dismissive than helpful. To explain Maia said, "maybe secretly inside she doesn't want to be a teacher."<br /><br />Granted this is a big assumption on Maia's part, despite the fact that Ms. English Teacher's reputation proceeded her. But right or wrong, it was a huge reminder to me about the kind of message I want to send to the students I encounter each day. Am I happy to be there? Do I want to connect with them? Do they see that I'm on their side? It seems to me impossible to teach if your students think "secretly, I don't think she wants to be a teacher."<br /><br />For Maia, she's going to have to figure out how to learn whatever the attitude of the teacher is.Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-77775732450672717572011-10-20T11:59:00.000-07:002011-10-20T12:11:45.542-07:00Merge Early<style>@font-face { font-family: "Times New Roman"; }@font-face { font-family: "TimesNewRomanPSMT"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }table.MsoNormalTable { font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">merge early, expect</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">sudden slowing or</span></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">stopping, watch for</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">I am a poetry addict, but not a poet. And I look for it everywhere. Recently, this ghosted up on my computer when I opened it up. I thought someone had sent me some poetry, or perhaps had begun writing a poem on my computer. I was mesmerized. Watch for what?<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">When my old power book finally got it's systems in order, I recognized Chongo's driver's ed program on the screen. The ordinariness of its intended meaning took all the lovely excitement from me. <br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">Except for the part that didn't, the part that still linked to the almost poem, that kept remembering -- all day -- <span style="font-style: italic;">expect sudden slowing.</span><br /></span></p>Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-3896840460496765652011-10-19T14:40:00.000-07:002011-10-19T15:23:17.876-07:00Dinner Party conversationA kindergarten teacher I know went to a dinner party with some of her banker husbands <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">colleagues</span>.<br /><br />"So what do you do?" She was asked.<br />"I'm a kindergarten teacher."<br />A silent pause followed. "Well you can always move up, right."<br /><br />Have you ever tried teaching kindergarten?Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-82132572288669875072011-10-15T15:07:00.001-07:002011-10-19T14:40:38.695-07:00The educational value of the "The SimpsonsMy kids have been watching The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Simpsons</span> for several years now. It's not always appropriate, but it's always funny, often educational and sometimes even "educational." We limited them to one show per day, not because of time but we just figured that was enough "education" for one day.<br /><br />I'm sure more than a few thesis have been written about The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Simpsons</span> and their commentary on culture, politics etc. -- and my kids are the stellar examples of that Simpson influence. They've seen most of the episodes by now covering references from Nixon's Watergate to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Shakespeare</span>. Often, in the middle of a dinner table conversation we turn to explain something to the kids and they say "oh, we know."<br />"Really?" I'm always surprised. "Where did you hear about that?"<br />"The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Simpsons</span>."<br />It's an invariable answer -- I've heard it so much I'd roll my eyes if I wasn't so impressed with how complete the education is. Granted it's a superficial, humorous version of events or works, but what they know works like a hangar for the rest of what they learn on those subjects. It means they can sit at the dinner table and not be lost around adult conversation. I'm convinced it makes them more savvy in their understanding of our culture.<br /><br />The other day Maia rattled of a speech from <span style="font-style: italic;">Macbeth</span>. "Where did you learn that?" I asked.<br />"The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Simpsons</span>," she said. I rolled my eyes. "Well, I heard some of it on The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Simpsons</span>, and then I found it online and memorized it."<br /><br />And isn't that the best thing an educator can hope for? When students learn enough on a subject to so thoroughly peak their interest, that they go out and deepen their understanding on their own.Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-47402950289264722502011-09-25T14:54:00.001-07:002011-09-25T15:09:27.635-07:00Abundance<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnGLoKYLY3AoirVnG-_kKOR8Ry_Z_hNZp4-SRwsYL6PVMizf5ATOmxeQr5ib5Gt8G-HMD3j9vrym2zOe5dLR5PkrBUkQaZHWPwsx_8CDCvLtWHIiZJuYmUwPTGuHcynBtgXbcptSUw9RTN/s1600/IMG_9133.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnGLoKYLY3AoirVnG-_kKOR8Ry_Z_hNZp4-SRwsYL6PVMizf5ATOmxeQr5ib5Gt8G-HMD3j9vrym2zOe5dLR5PkrBUkQaZHWPwsx_8CDCvLtWHIiZJuYmUwPTGuHcynBtgXbcptSUw9RTN/s320/IMG_9133.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656419322249644130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia; font-style: italic;">Abundance</span><br /></div><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><br />Today a friend brought me basil from her garden. Masses of it, and I went looking for a tall, wide-mouthed mug to hold it all in water where it can grow roots and flourish for the next month or two. On my counter was this mug, needing to be emptied of all the odds and ends an open vessel accumulates on a counter, <span style="font-style: italic;">Abundance</span> written in flowing lettering along the front. <br /><br />My friend brought me this mug many years ago when the kids were little. She filled it with my favorite biscotti and dropped it by one day. <br />"Why me?" I asked her about the unexpected gift.<br /> "Abundance just reminded me of you," she said.<br />Since that day the mug has sat on my counter to remind me of my good life. Today I filled it with the gift of basil from a friend's garden and I began again to think about <span style="font-style: italic;">Abundance.<br /></span><br />There's a verse in the Bible that says "I came that they might have life and have it more abundantly."<br /><br />Right now, I am ignoring the fact that I have an abundance of papers to grade. The chocolaty abundant smell of brownies is wafting from my oven because we are going to a goodbye party for a youth director who was loved abundantly. I'm sure the tears will be abundant.<br /><br />I'm not sure I know what abundance life is, but I'm going to keep my eyes open to it. Anyway, my birthday is tomorrow and it seems like a good way to start the year.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-64092564231644679472011-07-29T16:17:00.001-07:002011-07-29T17:16:48.865-07:00What makes the blog roll?Since it's summer, I'm reading a few more blogs than usual. And I've noticed something: controversy, it seems, gets the most comments.<br /><br />People like getting "up in arms" about issues. In fact sometimes I wonder if <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">bloggers</span> look for issues to get people riled about. Sort of like the news on TV which capitalizes on the gruesome and notorious with sound bites to get you hooked in. The full story is seldom quite as interesting... except when it is more interesting and better read as a full story anyway.<br /><br />But what concerns me as a person of faith is that in the blogging world we have a lot less grace for people or situations than we would in real life. When people make a mistake we're quicker to think about what a great post it would make, than to try and find out what really might be going on. Of course if I point the finger at the blog that pointed me to this thought I'd be <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">succumbing</span> to exactly the kind of problem I'm writing about. So in this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">un</span>named blog, a known person was called out for a mistake. I fully agreed with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">blogger's</span> point -- but as the comments played out, I realized the situation wasn't as obvious as the blog suggested.<br /><br />In the Conversations Project that our church did, we learned to practice interpretive charity which means what it says. We interpret a speaker's meaning with charity, even when our assumptions about what they said might push our buttons. We ask more questions to clarify meaning, and if we disagree, then we can discuss it, always seeking understanding, not reacting out of our own narrow assumptions.<br /><br />Unfortunately, interpretive charity doesn't always make for titillating blogging. <br /><br />Then again, neither does whining about your life and beating yourself up over the stupid things you do... which is another <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">un</span>named blog I've had too much time to read (in case you're a digger, it's not one of the sites I follow publicly). <br /><br />But I'm still going to read all these blogs anyway... and keep writing my own occasionally. My friend's blog title says it all best: <span style="font-style: italic;">My Thoughts are So Important I Write them Down.</span> Check him out --<span class="messageBody" ft="{"type":3}"><a href="http://iwritethemdown.blogspot.com/2010_07_01_archive.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></span>http://iwritethemdown.blogspot<wbr>.com</a></span><span class="messageBody" ft="{"type":3}"></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>-- when he writes, he's funny.Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-65491059576628197782011-07-20T20:04:00.000-07:002011-07-20T20:47:43.290-07:00These handsSometimes, when Chongo is asked what career he wants to pursue, he answers, "a surgeon."<br /><br />This would be a fine occupation to have, but Chongo says it in jest, not (yet?!) being an ambitious enough student to be looking down the road at all those extra years of study.<br /><br />But when Chongo says he wants to be a surgeon, I think of one thing: his hands.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7yKTqOVje43nKkl9zsFr3iFJhOvypss8EAcALcl4ZuPBH4tsNepNEG8EzI5Fmf8RHGro2eEL2-IXxftrL-BYffvMOV4RNf-h_zHuvz4xkw2zlMb-kZ1Qac571yAIHs-vhCwvw85Gsk9xj/s1600/IMG_8075.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 185px; height: 237px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7yKTqOVje43nKkl9zsFr3iFJhOvypss8EAcALcl4ZuPBH4tsNepNEG8EzI5Fmf8RHGro2eEL2-IXxftrL-BYffvMOV4RNf-h_zHuvz4xkw2zlMb-kZ1Qac571yAIHs-vhCwvw85Gsk9xj/s320/IMG_8075.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631644848758737570" border="0" /></a>Chongo can do the most intricate, minute sculpting with those hands. Like this piece he created out of "green stuff."<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhwJtvjJwZWkoSvOBpfLEt-YmFkWUbBCtLy5sG7EJj8fbOi7xVN1ismdu3MTa9ZrIZc_VYrJDRIA7BjhC4cgZ9rZtEYDPlj885U7cESlGKRioWYMWaXodvh9XAE3CYZCA0UTg5XP3qstgN/s1600/IMG_7873.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 156px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhwJtvjJwZWkoSvOBpfLEt-YmFkWUbBCtLy5sG7EJj8fbOi7xVN1ismdu3MTa9ZrIZc_VYrJDRIA7BjhC4cgZ9rZtEYDPlj885U7cESlGKRioWYMWaXodvh9XAE3CYZCA0UTg5XP3qstgN/s320/IMG_7873.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631643562286835906" border="0" /></a><br />But he is ornery. So when I go to take a picture of him working he does this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgezhEU8YH9TFI6NBjqkb7BTr6VkT1LWTwyKjxK3tDY-dsE8DbvfioNRHw3ounb-CC-BTjSgxKQ28o-NMSoMBsi5vGpdX5z33mT73mbhhOj96lDY4bzsG3j1TU5tQB9W-f4_ZWk4JLmkA1_/s1600/IMG_8062.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgezhEU8YH9TFI6NBjqkb7BTr6VkT1LWTwyKjxK3tDY-dsE8DbvfioNRHw3ounb-CC-BTjSgxKQ28o-NMSoMBsi5vGpdX5z33mT73mbhhOj96lDY4bzsG3j1TU5tQB9W-f4_ZWk4JLmkA1_/s320/IMG_8062.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631640791239914466" border="0" /></a><br />And then he replaces himself with his alter ego.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJjth9Qn4vpHXOmQdGKC0V1q8a3GHSrX9ibkjckdcYKlJ02sU0spl4vgJlmozt2ybwgTYC0cW1lylsdX6JigJLMhiEly9WgCVXJdURjMdujhtR-qqUC4WYZyJvqAYc_uCwf5YGAkS67j06/s1600/IMG_8076.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJjth9Qn4vpHXOmQdGKC0V1q8a3GHSrX9ibkjckdcYKlJ02sU0spl4vgJlmozt2ybwgTYC0cW1lylsdX6JigJLMhiEly9WgCVXJdURjMdujhtR-qqUC4WYZyJvqAYc_uCwf5YGAkS67j06/s320/IMG_8076.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631639294260048914" border="0" /></a>Do they let ornery monkeys be surgeons these days?<br /><br />When people ask him where he's going to college he says, "Stanford." If he ever becomes a surgeon who went to Stanford, no one will be more surprised than his mother. But with those hands, he could do anything.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6q9qRJjqmLtt69Ci0b-v_F3izUb6uxLCu98r8HjjWvPVQVScFLKRZrR0XQVFQ2jg1Pdzy9oGQEEo7Ilg94k1_3w9qVhjWvt_RB91ztCByZYa_ceYoBkie3ciq3dXMEXYsQQBLUZrrLH8Y/s1600/IMG_8141.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 176px; height: 117px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6q9qRJjqmLtt69Ci0b-v_F3izUb6uxLCu98r8HjjWvPVQVScFLKRZrR0XQVFQ2jg1Pdzy9oGQEEo7Ilg94k1_3w9qVhjWvt_RB91ztCByZYa_ceYoBkie3ciq3dXMEXYsQQBLUZrrLH8Y/s320/IMG_8141.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631646665668392562" border="0" /></a>Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-83906508256856773722011-06-23T08:38:00.000-07:002011-06-23T17:07:46.843-07:00Sense of humor?On Facebook an acquaintance of mine posted something cute her four-year-old had said and then commented, "I don't know where she got her sense of humor from."<br /><br />Really? I don't think your little cutie was being clever.<br /><br />They way I see it, most kids don't make clever comments to be funny, they make cute comments that turn out to be funny. In fact part of what makes their comments so hilarious is the earnestness they're spoken with. They see life in such fresh ways that we adults are often surprised into laughter. And kids learn from that laughter. I've seen the eyes light up when they realize they said something funny, and I've also seen frustration set in when they see their words aren't being taken seriously.<br /><br />Not that kids don't try to be funny -- they often do, and most of it we endure with a polite laugh or enjoy because of the general silly, cuteness. But has it ever struck your humor radar? I can almost guarantee if you ask a kid to make up a joke it will include the word "poop" and I'm guessing that's because that word always gets a laugh from their playmates.<br /><br />With both my kids, cleverness began to develop in about 4th grade. I have no statistics or research on the subject, but I've come to believe that real sense of humor -- starting to see the irony in the world -- begins about age 9 or 10.<br /><br />There was one possible exception in my experience. I'm not certain, but my five-year-old nephew said something once that might not follow my theory. We were in the car on vacation together. Chongo was going on about how he'd eat any kind of burrito, he liked them all. My nephew was questioning him ala <span style="font-style: italic;">Green Eggs and Ham</span>.<br /><br />Nephew: Would you eat a chicken burrito?<br />Chongo: I love chicken burritos.<br />Nephew: Would you eat a bean burrito?<br />Chongo: Every kind of bean burrito.<br />Nephew: Would you eat a cow burrito?<br />Chongo: I love steak burritos. Mix in some potatoes and cheeese and onions, yum.<br />Nephew: Would you eat a vegetable burrito?<br />Chongo: Any kind of burrito. There isn't a burrito I don't like.<br />Nephew: Would you eat a <span style="font-style: italic;">butt</span> burrito?<br /><br />His comment stopped the conversation in its tracks and made us all laugh. Granted it had the word "butt" -- a classic kid word used to get a laugh -- but the timing, the way it took the conversation to a humorous level, the puncturing of Chongo's inflating balloon of hubris. I'd almost call it clever.<br /><br />Was my nephew clever? When do you think the age of humor begins?Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-41586114621794065752011-06-16T18:54:00.001-07:002011-06-16T19:06:01.109-07:00The end... and the beginningToday ended another school year. Funny how our little world revolves around that sun. Our calendars defined by that revolution.<br /><br />And then summer arrives, and time,<br /> suddenly,<br /> stops.<br /><br />Everything stops spinning. Evenings are not pressured by homework and projects and making dinner just so I can get lunches ready for tomorrow. Getting to bed is not followed by the words "on time." In fact "on time" is a phrase that begins to disappear from our vocabulary... or in our house the phrase "... or your going to be late."<br /><br />What a sweet night this first night of summer is. It's seven o'clock, the shadows are growing longer and the light is making the ripe oranges glow. I'm waiting for the parrots to fly squawking across the sky to tell me it's dinner time.<br /><br />All this, until Monday when Maia begins summer school at too damn early am. At least we'll have August (and part of July)...<br /><br />What do you love about the beginning of summer?Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-12428447901292228122011-05-14T01:02:00.001-07:002011-05-14T01:02:47.070-07:00Observation #2The popular girls wear skinny jeans and carry skinny backpacks.Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-73006076133671631002011-05-13T14:41:00.001-07:002011-05-13T14:52:08.499-07:00Community ServiceIt's the time of year for choosing classes for next year's high school schedule. Chongo has been avoiding any honors or AP classes, convinced he might have to work harder than he wants to get an A. <br /><br />But I keep pressing the issue. There's one honors class that, rumor has it, is really the same as the regular class. The only difference is that students have to complete 20 hours of community service during the year. <br /><br />Community service is a deal breaker for Chongo. If this is true, he's definitely not taking the honors class.<br /><br />"Why?" asks the volunteer happy mom.<br /><br />"Community service is actually a punishment courts give to people who have broken the law?" he answers. "Why would I want to do that?"<br /><br />I'm dumbfounded about that one.... But I'm working on a response, and I assure you it won't include "it's a good thing to do" or "colleges care."Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-55590558918330108662011-04-26T09:24:00.000-07:002011-04-26T12:08:15.828-07:00Ironic or Insurgent?Sometimes the pieces of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">circumstance</span> align around you to create meaning, but sometimes the forces at work are merely human. I humbly request your opinion on this situation.<br /><br />Here's what happened:<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Chongo</span> struggles with passing Spanish and we work with him religiously to help/force him to accomplish this. On the night in question, Grandma was in that honored spot at the dining room table doing his Spanish homework with him.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Chongo</span> likes listening to music while he does homework, and pretty soon I hear Pink Floyd's album "The Wall" coming from the stereo.<br /><br />Me: (coming back into the room) "I think you should turn this off. It's hard for Grandma to work with you when the music's playing."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">We don't need no education. <br />We don't need no thought control</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Chongo</span>: "No, Mom, I can work fine."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">No dark sarcasm in the classroom</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">Teachers leave the kids alone...</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br />Me: (in my cracking the whip voice) "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Chongo</span>, you have to work hard at this. You can't concentrate on Spanish with the music going."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">All in all you're just another brick in the wall...</span><br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Chongo</span>: "Okay, okay... but listen to the next song first. You should hear it. It's called "Mother" -- it's for you."<br /><br />Me: (feeling a little flattered... ) "Oh, okay, one more song."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Mama's gonna keep you right here, under her wing<br />She won't let you fly, but she might let you sing<br />Mama will keep baby cozy and warm... <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">oooh</span> baby...<br />Of course, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Mama'll</span> help build the wall....<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span>I listen to the whole song, waiting for some redemption.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />.... Mother, did it need to be so high.<br /><br /></span></span></span>When I turn off the stereo after the last line, there's no complaining<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> --</span></span></span> just the sound of Grandma explaining the use of subjunctive conjugations with words that express hopes and desires. And my own bewildered thoughts -- <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Espero</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">que</span> no <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">pienses</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">asi</span>, que no sea la verdad -- </span></span></span></span>because there's something so damn true about what I just heard.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span></span><br />Ironic? or Insurgent? You decide.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span><br /></span>Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-31829955884214610602011-04-21T18:40:00.001-07:002011-04-26T12:08:50.244-07:00Observation #1Even the coolest kid can look forlorn, standing all alone on the sidewalk -- the last one -- waiting for a ride home.Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-71960605292094959602011-03-19T12:44:00.000-07:002011-03-19T13:44:24.608-07:00A rantAs I went looking through the file where I throw everything school related for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Chongo</span>, I came across his Freshman class request list. And that old anger at the way counselors have steered us wrong came bubbling back up into my stomach so that I sat there for several long minutes, just trying to recover.<br /><br />We've had many negative and discouraging experiences, but do all the details matter? Today I saw proof that we really had tried to get the counselor's help in placing Chongo in the right art class. But we were never contacted and Chongo was placed in a beginning art class. After freshman year Chongo said, "I'm never taking another art class. It's such as waste of time." Which made me very sad, since he's actually good at art. Even his teacher at the end of the year told us, "he really didn't belong in this class." I know now it was my naievete as a parent, thinking I could rely on a counselor to be looking out for my child.<br /><br />So this is a rant about counselors (Mr VB excluded, except that he retired just when we needed him most)...<br /><ol><li>Every time I turn around I discover that something they told me, even insisted on is either entirely untrue or contradicted by the next counselor. </li><li>When you don't take seriously something they said (" we don't change classes") they get angry despite your repeated experience of #1.</li><li>They seem to think scheduling classes is formulaic, as if there's homogeneity among the 2500 kids trying to keep their heads above the academic water without losing interest or stamina or hope.</li><li>It appears there's more interest in getting their schedule organized than in personalizing students schedules to best serve them.</li><li>A pure, unadulterated prejudice against anyone who keeps her desk perfectly neat, devoid of papers, nothing out of place. Really? Okay maybe that's my own issue, but I believe it explains why this particular counselor does not understand the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">vagaries</span> of my child.<br /></li></ol>A caveat: I am fully aware that counselors deal constantly with pushy, insistent parents who can only see their child's needs and not the larger community, and I am sure it can make them cynical. And I know there are many great counselors out there who have made a real difference in the lives of their students (did I mention Mr. VB?).<br /><br />Now that Maia's filling out her high school registration form I had to email her counselor. "Surprise me," I wanted to say. Show me up, let me be wrong. Care about students as individuals, assume vocal parents might actually be saying something worthwhile, and above all, work imaginatively.<br /><br />This time, I'm going to follow up.<br /><br />P.S. I couldn't decide if I should publish this one... because a rant generally serves only to make me feel better, not to actually help anyone else. And I don't have any good advice. Except to counselors, which I mentioned, but which, if I were a counselor, I wouldn't even be able to hear after a rant... unless I was already a good counselor...Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-88981988148930335602011-03-15T11:07:00.000-07:002011-03-15T11:17:27.108-07:00Conversations in Middle SchoolA seventh grade conversation after I had used the desire to cheat as an example of internal conflict.<br /><br />Argumentative Boy: "But what if you were a bad cheater. That would be external."<br />Me: "Yes, if you were caught, it would definitely be an external conflict."<br />Another boy (off-handedly): "That would be a sin."<br />Lovely, young girl (world-wearily): "Does anyone still sin these days?"<br /><br />I would have loved to continue that conversation... but we were pressed for time and it wasn't on the sub plans!Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-29793750107032732842011-03-09T17:18:00.001-08:002011-03-09T17:32:41.075-08:00Ash WednesdayAsh Wednesday is upon us... and since it's so late this year, I've had a long time to think about what I might <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">doforLent</span></span> as in "what are you doing for Lent?" When I was growing up we never talked about Lent, but our church now celebrates Ash Wednesday with a service... so now I think about what I might <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">doforLent</span></span>.<br /><br />The big question is always why.<br /><br />A couple years ago I began to ask myself this question and was inspired by a poem by Mary Oliver called "Gethsemane" from her book <span style="font-style: italic;">Thirst.</span> And it reflects on the poor disciples, falling asleep in the garden when Jesus was agonizing over the death to come, and the stars and wind that kept watch with him that night. In the Bible Jesus says "watch with me" and this is what I want to <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">doforLent</span></span>. I want to keep my eyes open to Jesus in this world, not to fall into the bleary sleep of everyday life. It takes intention, and open <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">heartedness</span>, and more courage, I am sure, than I have. <br /><br />So I do acts of discipline, like pinches and slaps, to keep my eyes open during the long night of Lent. And sometimes I still fall asleep. Because, as Mary Oliver says, "this too/must be a part of the story."Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-63937144532190485092010-06-29T20:48:00.000-07:002010-06-29T21:04:10.490-07:00dying youngI had one day of overlap with the teacher before I'd be on my own with the class for the last month of school. And I showed up to terrible, terrible news. One of my students had died unexpectedly the night before. What a day of utter sadness. Stillness and quiet kids who didn't know what to say. No misbehavior. No goofing off meant to garner attention. Just a sense of being stunned. The teacher talked about her feelings a little and offered them time to talk with a counsellor, then had the students do a some work and left them to talk among themselves. I overheard one boy saying, "you know we just don't really believe that could happen. None of us thinks that could be us. We don't think about death, do we?" he asked his friend.<br /><br />It was a heavy day for everyone, especially his friends. What surprised me was the fact that they all knew about his death before the announcement. When I asked them how they said, "It was all over <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Facebook</span>." I know that was fine for most people, but I wondered what that experience was like for his closest friends. Did they log on to their account to discover that their friend had died? Bad news, life and death news, society has always delivered in person. There's an unwritten understanding that you wouldn't want to read in the paper or learn by hearsay about the death of someone dear, that it's news given face to face. But no longer -- and I'm not sure what I think about that.<br /><br />At promotion, they left an empty chair for their fellow student, and when his name was called, his brave parents came forward to accept his diploma. The tearful, standing ovation was a fitting memorial.Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965335367950642756.post-80254872990681597612010-05-20T16:47:00.000-07:002010-05-20T17:24:01.318-07:00back to workI'm headed back to work full time for one month only. I'm looking forward to being in the classroom every day just to see if I can deal still enjoy it over a sustained period. Same students every day. Grading. Four whole weeks of getting lunches ready at night so we can all be out the door by seven thirty. <br /><br />One thing I love about being a sub is not having the same schedule everyday. I've noticed in my life that new places, new opportunities interest and enliven me. Can I stay interested and enlivened everyday? I know all these students well having subbed for them on and off for the whole year. So what I'm looking for is the newness that comes with knowing people more deeply, enjoying more of the nuances of the their character and personality.<br /><br />It will be a little like enjoying music in our house. Chongo plays the same C.D. every day for about a month before he moves on. Right now it's Pink Floyd "The Wall" just because it was sitting around. Every day the music grows a little dearer, both more familiar and newer -- a musical motif, a lyric -- to perk up my senses.<br /><br />So here's to the mundane, to the new becoming old becoming new again. I'll let you know how it goes.Loma Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15325085914443172995noreply@blogger.com0