Training the Trainer – Guiding Eyes for the Blind
I think I have wanted a dog as long as I can remember. I wanted one as a child but my parents said no because it would be too much of a burden to care for a dog and kennel a dog when we traveled. I couldn’t get a dog when I lived on my own during my single apartment dwelling life, but I would borrow my landlord’s dog to get my doggie fix. Then, I vowed I would get a dog once I had a house. Then, we had kids, and that put having a dog way low down on our priority list.
But now….
My kids are getting bigger. The desire for dog ownership has transcended into the next generation. My children ask us for a dog almost on a daily basis. The answer is usually “no” and sometimes “maybe someday.”
One day, my youngest son bounded off the schoolbus and said: “Guess What?!”
I replied with great interest: “What!!”
My son’s reply: “Can we get a dog?” Poor thing, he was only answered by my sigh of refusal.
But now….
My oldest son Nathan will become a Bar Mitzvah in November. In addition to the studying and the party planning comes the obligatory fulfillment of a mitzvah project, one thing to do to make this world a better place. Nathan’s proposed mitzvah project: to raise a Guiding Eyes dog for the Blind.
Now — now we’re onto something.
I know. I know if we do decide to train a guiding eye dog, it will not be the way you train an ordinary mutt. It will need to be more than obedient. It will not even be our pet forever. But truly, what a mitzvah it will be to train one of these beautiful creatures that may one day be a companion for the blind.
“These dogs are not your typical dog pets,” I explain to Nathan, not to discourage him but to make him understand these are not dogs put on Earth for our amusement or enjoyment. They have a job. And it would be our job not to just love and cuddle it but to train it for its intended job.
And he knows. For the last two weeks, puppyless though we are, my son and I have tagged along to GEB puppy kindergarten classes to see how the training is done. As I watch the volunteer trainers patiently and lovingly working with their dogs, I am not only humbled at the dedication these volunteers show to their temporary canine companions, but the fact that they have taken Nathan under their wing to train him how to train a guiding eye dog. If we do one day adopt a dog, I will be in their debt.
The Monroe County region of GEB has approximately 25 puppy raisers. Each year along the Eastern seaboard, Guiding Eyes pairs and trains 170 teams of dogs with blind handlers who receive these dogs at no expense. Puppy trainers are at the heart of this process that in the end enables the blind to live more independent lives.
Being a volunteer puppy raiser is no small commitment. There is a rigorous application process. A regional coordinator visits a potential volunteer to make sure their home is suitable for puppies, and then visits every three months to check the progress of training.
Nathan and I went to two classes: the first was in the community room of a church in Henrietta. The second, on the University of Rochester campus during the carillon bells concert held every Monday evening in the summer.
We’ve learned few things so far:
- Guiding eye dogs cannot be distracted: by other dogs, by blowing leaves. They must have their attention at all times on their master. And puppies, like children, are easily distracted. Nathan spent one solid hour working with a puppy named Ben to keep his focus.
- Once a dog regains its focus on the master, praise it like crazy. Puppies, like children, love positive praise.
- Nathan learned the difference of luring a dog – using a treat to get them into a position like “down” or “sit” and rewarding it – giving the dog the treat only after it has performed the command with no handling.
- The dogs must restrain their urges to play with other dogs and people.
- The potential puppy trainer – and the potential puppy trainer’s mother – must restrain with all their might their urges to squeal “PUPPIEEEEEEEESSS!!!!” and play and joust with every yellow lab in the class.
Classes are held in parks, busses, shopping malls, and even classrooms. The goal is to get these puppies accustomed to as many different situations as possible.
It takes immense dedication, love and patience to train a guide dog. The process begins at birth and they receive constant human contact from volunteers at the Guiding Eyes Canine Development Center in Patterson, NY. At nine weeks of age, the best pups already know the commands for “sit,” “stay,” and “down.” Over the next year, the dogs learn commands such as “come close” – necessary for riding a bus or eating in a restaurant, “load up” – get in the car, and “get busy.”
Yes– if well-trained, these dogs will even do their business on command.
If this blog post has tugged at your puppy-loving heartstrings and you would like to learn more about volunteering, contact www.guiding-eyes-monroe.org
Stealing glimpses of other fireworks from the Piers of Staten Island
Mostly thought of as NYC's garbage dump, Staten Island has many places of beauty, like the pier
Last night it seemed that every other town with a beach or shoreline had a fireworks show. Every town, except, Staten Island.
Staten Island really does have some fine beaches that have come a long way since their more polluted and burned down boardwalk days of the 1970s and 1980s.
But, no fireworks. Staten Island, stuck between the sands of Long Island and the New Jersey Shore, remains the bastard stepdaughter for deserving her own fireworks display on the 4th of July.
Even the famed Macy’s fireworks, once visible from the waterways around the Staten Island Ferry, have been moved up the Hudson River and away from the Statue of Liberty. Got me mad enough to think about tearing up my Macy’s charge card.
But, my two sons had come down from Rochester to the Big City to see the Big City fireworks. We can’t see the Hudson River along the Upper West Side from Staten Island. And we were not driving to Jersey City.
They had two options: watch the Macy’s fireworks like the rest of the country – on TV – or take our chances and see what we can see from the Ocean Breeze Fishing pier off the South Shore of Staten Island. The Ocean Breeze Fishing Pier opened in September 2003. It is 835 feet long and 30 feet wide, making it the largest steel and concrete recreational pier on the Atlantic Ocean built in 100 years in the New York region.
As the sun set, families gathered. People continued to fish off the pier. The air smelled of rotting fishheads, cigarettes, salt air and tar. A woman yelled at her young daughter “Do you know what you said? That’s a curse word in Italian and I better not hear it again…” And then, something bright exploded off in the distance. In every direction.
From the pier, we had a panoramic view of nearly every fireworks display – from the Atlantic Highlands of the New Jersey shore, to ones out in the Far Rockaways. Some “homemade” shows were on display in nearby South Shore neighborhoods. But we didn’t feel the boom of fireworks that can rattle your insides like a drum like when you see them up close. Most were too far off to even elicit a sincere “oooooh” or an “ahhhhh.’ But they were fireworks, alright. They were just meant for some other place, some other town.
And then, around 9:45, one could make out the very top glow of the Macys Fireworks coming from the other side of the Island. Maybe we could have seen them from Bay Street after all. Maybe. Maybe next year.
And what if we were … Transplantedsouth?
Getting to Washington D.C. is not what it used to be. Especially if you are Transplantednorth.
I remember as a kid, getting in the car before the crack of dawn, my brother and I clutching pillows and still snug in sweats. We’d watch the sunrise over the New Jersey Turnpike and continue on south on Route 95. We’d have lunch somewhere at a Maryland Welcome rest stop and would arrive at our friends in Maryland, just outside of D.C. by noon. In total, the trip took a little over four hours. Including a stop for lunch.
Not such a direct route when you are driving to Washington D.C. from Western New York. The way ambles through winding roads and Amish country in Pennsylvania, dumps us into sububurban main drags with shopping malls and car dealerships, and winds along both sides of the Susquehana River. Door to door time from Rochester to downtown Washington D.C.: nine hours.
Last month, the family — sans daughter who stayed back in Rochester with a friend to study for finals – went for weekend trip to Washington D.C. to celebrate the Bat Mitzvah (a Jewish girl’s coming-of-age ceremony) of the daughter of some good friends. My husband was excited about being with old friends. I looked forward to reconnecting as well, but at the same time I wanted to have time to show my sons the nation’s capital.
Somewhere on Route 83, I started playing the “what if” game with my husband:
What if we moved to Washington D.C.?
Husband: I can call my contacts at the Deparment of Energy, I’m sure I could get a job down here very easily.
Me: Imagine that! We would be closer to our friends we grew up with and hung out with in grad school!
(but those darned traffic circles…)
Husband: But the traffic! And my commute would be hell!
Me: Yeah, there is such little traffic in Rochester.
(that’s because everyone is moving away because there are no JOBS)
Me: And I bet there is a bigger chance I’d land a job in PR or writing for a lobbyist or something.
Husband: But you probably would not get a job as a columnist for the Washington Post. And you wouldn’t get recognized in the supermarket with people telling you they love your column.
Me: True. But I’d be able to find a full-time job that makes real money!
Husband: You’d better, because houses are a lot more expensive down here.
Me: And we’d most likely have to pay for private schools.
Oh, but the schools are so GOOD in Brighton. Worth every penny of our property taxes….
We sat in silence for a while. The boys had their headsets on and were watching a movie – Matilda, I think – on the car DVD player.
But then, I had more things to add to our “what if” fantasy:
Me: It would be WARMER!
Husband: Yes, but it still snows in Washington and they don’t know how to handle the snow.
Me: That is an excellent point, but to be WARM!
Husband: Do you know how hot it gets in D.C. in the summer?
This is true. It was hot already there, and it was only June. And my Northern-blooded children can barely stand when the temperatures are in the 80’s.
Me: But imagine being so close to all the museums in Washington D.C.
All that culture we could give to our children!
Husband: How many times do you think we’d really get to the city? We would probably have to live way out in the suburbs.
Me: This is true.
(He had a good point)
Husband: We would be closer to our family in New York.
Me: We would be closer to our family. And more people would visit us
(because no one visits us Rochester)
The traffic slowed even more. Friday rush hour traffic. And, the US Open was on. The GPS lady cautioned a six mile back up in 1/2 mile, but we were already IN traffic.
And somewhere in our conversation, the movie must have ended because the boys piped in:
“THERE IS NO WAY WE ARE MOVING AWAY FROM ROCHESTER!”
Rochester, the only home they ever knew.
“You’re right, guys, we’re not moving to Washington D.C. We’re staying in Rochester.” we both said.
But, it is nice to play what if.
Okay Campers, here is your cleanliness checklist:
In a few days, relative quiet will settle in my house as our eldest heads off for her first full summer at sleepaway camp.
In a few more weeks after that, the true peace will descend on our home as her oldest brother follows. Then, our family of five shrinks to a family of three for an entire month.
Sleepaway Camp. It’s like a child-parent sabbatical.
But kids, this is no time to slack off on basic hygiene, and I can only imagine how this all important priority in civilized life will backslide when you are out from the discerning eyes – and noses – of your parents.
I don’t know how you will manage without us, your nagging parents, to stay disease, filth, and cavity free, for the duration of your glorious summer camp experience. So for my kids and all those summer campers out there, here is a checklist:
These are nail clippers. They will keep your nails short and trimmed. Use them. They will prevent you from accumulating too much dirt underneath your fingernails, which may result in you becoming afflicted with a parasite that may take up home in your intestines.
These are bottles of shampoo. I have sent you up with ONE large bottle of shampoo, which is more than ample to last you the whole summer up at camp. If the shampoo bottle topples in the shower, please return it to its standing position.
You need about this much shampoo
not this much shampoo
to get the job done for an adequate cleaning.
Then, scrub.
Do not merely let the suds sit on the top of your wet head. But scrub and massage your scalp with the balls of your fingers. Then, rinse until you are squeaky.
And children who are at the age of adolescence and above, these are your armpits: 
Okay, so this not your armpit but the armpit of Tom Cruise. He’s an old guy to you but ask your moms about him and the movies he was in when they were young.
You must apply deodorant to your armpits at the beginning of EACH day, no matter how much it may tickle.
You must wash your armpits BEFORE you apply the deodorant. Application of deodorant after playing sports or even GaGa in the camp rec room and after an unpleasant odor has set in is ineffective.
This is your mouth:
Now, many of you may not have this perfect smile – yet. Your teeth may be imprisoned in those metallic braces, but know this: Your parents have spent about just as much money on those teeth in your head as they spent on that summer at sleep-a-way camp. So please: Brush, floss, rinse. At least two times a day.
And for those of you with braces, NO there is no substitute for gum while at camp, at home, or otherwise.
And please drink at least one glass of milk a day.
And change your sheets at least once a week.
And…. remember we love you and will miss you like crazy.
But most of all …. Have fun!
The Last Seconds of the Second Grade
Council Rock Primary School in Brighton is shaped like a hug. It has one main hallway flanked on each side by two other hallways that stretch out like two arms. These arms hold about 800 happy kids from Kindergarten through second grade. These arms are adorned with the colors and words that these children write, draw and sculpt. You’ve never seen happier hallways.
This school has hugged my kids – and well, me – for eight years. Now it’s over. Cradling a folder full of Crayola art and essays about butterflies and tadpoles, I walked out of this little school for the last time today.
My youngest, the second grade graduate, was born on the first day of school in 2003. My husband left the hospital for home a few hours after he was born, showered, and then woke up our two big kids for the school bus.
The first time Toby went Council Rock Primary School, he was under 20 days old. We carried him in the infant car seat for my daughter’s first grade curriculum night. As the school year progressed, Toby visited the school with me about twice a week while big brother got occupational and physical therapy. Sometimes he would be in his car seat, other times I would hold him in the rocking chairs that are in the lobby. The school aides would ask me how old my baby was and I would proudly proclaim, “He is as old as the school year!”
And in a flash, he is nearly eight years old. He will still kiss me and let me hug him in front of his friends, but not really. My baby is growing up.
How dare he!
He already has the wisdom to know that time flies when you are having fun. He already senses how fast a school year can go.
Tomorrow, I’ll go through all the worksheets about math. I’ll look over how many ways my youngest got to 100 and the worksheets on how to write his ABCS. Then these will go in the recycling bin.
But what I’ll treasure most is his journal on his day-to-day life. His poetry on what it would be like to be an inanimate object such as a tape dispenser. And his self-portrait. And if I only look at them on rainy days when I am looking to clean out my closets, to make room for the stuff from school years to come, it will be just enough.
Third grade, (and, for my daughter, High School) here we come!
Answer #153: The smartest thing I’ve ever heard was at a Dunkin Donuts
A few years back on a visit to see the family in St
aten Island, I went into a neighborhood Dunkin Donuts to get my daily cup of Joe. Actually, I was on my way to visit my grandmother, who was very frail and suffering from dementia. And, to tell you the truth, at this point in her life, she was slowly ebbing away from us, slowly dying.
I don’t know if I ever saw my grandmother in good health. Though she always gently lectured us about getting the right amounts of calcium, sang the praises of eating fish for “brain food,” and questioned me into my 30’s about if I was maintaining a “slim” weight. Her body began to feel the ravages of osteoporosis in her late 60’s.
I consider myself lucky. I have never had a weight problem. And I try to stay active with enough weight-bearing exercises and eat calcium rich foods. I know I won’t be young forever, but I want to be able to stand on my own, walk on my own, until my last days on this earth.
Meanwhile, back at the Dunkin Donuts….
Ahead of me on line stood a rather large man.
Dunkin Donuts had recently introduced its DDSmart marketing plan that aimed to put more low-fat nutritional items on its menu in addition to their traditional offerings of Boston Cremes and Munchkins.
As I looked at the lower fat options for reduced fat Blueberry Muffins (450 calories compared to 500 in a regular blueberry muffin) and skim milk Vanilla Lattes (130 calories in a medium-sized drink compared to a 200 calorie Latte made with whole milk), the guy in front of me turned to me, as if reading my mind, and said:
“Low Fat-Low Shmat. Will it really make a difference? Enjoy your life, because no one gets out of this world alive.”
Get on Your Bike and Ride to Feel Like a Kid
To quote a song from Queen, “I Want To ride my Bicycle.”
I remember my first bike ride. It was shortly before I could ride a two-wheeler of my own. But my first cycling outing did not take place in one of those pediatrician-approved baby bicycle seats, a toddler bike trailer, or even a tandem bike. No.
Just before I learned to ride, an older girl on my block would take me for a spin on her Huffy Spyder bike with me sitting backwards on its banana seat. Bravely, I hung onto the u-shaped metal bar of the seat and waited for her to push off the curb. I marveled how she could balance us both on those two wheels. I remember watching the pavement roll away from beneath the wheels and feeling that uneasy tilt in my stomach when she made an unexpected turn, all the while assuring me that she wouldn’t fall.
Do you remember getting a ride like that, on a friend’s bike? Hanging on for dear life either on the back or riding on the handlebars? This was the 1970’s. This was before all the worry about safety and helmets. These days, finding kids riding like this or without a helmet is enough to warrant a call to Child Protective Services.
When I want to feel young, I ride my bicycle. I’m not an avid, up-at-dawn, century riding cyclist. I just like riding around the block, just like I did when I was a kid. All it takes is coasting along a stretch of flat road, the sound of the wheels spinning to take me back to childhood and the thrill of learning to ride a bike.
I learned when I was seven or eight. My parents got me my very own Huffy Spyder, complete with an iridescent banana seat and handlebars with streamers. And, a white woven basket decorated with flowers.
At first, I rode with training wheels but my dad at some point decided it was time to ditch them. So, he held onto the back and ran behind me as a pedaled. I started to get the hang of it, enough so that I guess dad felt confident enough to stop and talk to some neighbors – and let go. I went for a while, not realizing he wasn’t there. Riding straight was easy. Stopping was not.
After I crashed, dad encouraged me to get right back on.
May was Bike Month. Many communities around the continent hosted “Bike To Work” Weeks. My town, Rochester, NY was voted by Bicycling.com magazine, as one of the top 50 cities in the country to bike to work. Okay, so it came in 50 out of 50, but still, that’s pretty good for a town that sees an average of 90 inches of snow a year.
It’s no wonder that biking is one of the best ways to get fit. In fact, in a recent article, studies showed that biking increases happiness, suppresses appetite, and is just plain fun. And, as gas prices edge towards $4 per gallon, biking also saves money and is good for the environment.
But I didn’t have any specific reason in mind when my husband and two sons set out for a bike ride late in the afternoon over the weekend. We just wanted to spend some time together on a ride to the library to return some books, and maybe go a little further. And in the late spring air, zooming around the quiet streets of our town, I imagined myself anywhere: Cape May, Cape Cod, Martha’s Vineyard…we smelled the remains of the lilac bushes, fresh cut grass, and whatever was being grilled in someone’s backyard.
As we biked throgh the side streets of Brighton, my sons discovered where classmates live. We also stopped by the house of an older couple we knew. They are well into their 70’s. As they saw us pedaling by their house, the woman turned to her husband and said, “Now, why did we get rid of our bikes? We need to get new ones. There is no reason why we can’t ride too.”
In addition to chatting with our neighbors – something you can’t do while speeding by in a car – we discovered shortcuts that we wouldn’t have thought about while driving. A useful one ambles along quiet, curved streets and ends up at a traffic light that allows for safe passage into Buckland Park, one of Brighton’s newer recreation areas. This park contains, you guessed it – lots of bike paths. This will be very useful in the school free days ahead.
But bike riding with my kids reminds me that in reality, I am definitely no longer a child. Instead of feeling completely carefree, I am barking very grown-up, mom-like orders such as: “break at stop signs!” or “DON’T dart out into the middle of the road! That’s how you can get killed!”
Another reality that brings me back to my current age after a childlike bike ride: the ache in my very middle-aged knees.
What do you do to feel like a kid again?
I love you as much as you can stand…. More Love Letters
Did they ever think they would be parents and great-grandparents? A photo of Pauline and Milton in 1938
Since I started blogging, the post that has received the most amount of views is my post Hey … vs. The Love Letter. It has received over 4,000 views and that’s without being freshly pressed — when a blogger’s post is hand-picked by the WordPress editors and prominently displayed on the website’s front portal.
Now, I don’t know if people read all the way through my post, but it goes to show that there are those out there that still believe in love letters and the power of the written word for the sake of romance. In spite of advances in technology.
In this post, written in January during National Letter Writing Week, I pondered if my generation, the Gen Xers, will indeed be the last that will pen physical, hand-written love notes, or even letters in general. Call me old-fashioned with my fears. I don’t like the notion of how texting is replacing plain talking, or how e-book readers are replacing paper books. But fearing new technologies is nothing new. Even the invention of the printing press brought on apprehension. In fact, a character in Victor Hugo’s proclaimed medieval novel Notre Dame de Paris states that the invention of the printing press would kill architecture, the way humans communicate. I wish that Victor would have stuck around long enough to see the works of Frank Lloyd Wright or Frank Gehry.
But here’s where I back up my point that sometimes old-fashioned ways, like letter writing, can’t be replaced:
Last summer, at a prolonged stay at my parent’s house, I got, well, bored. So, I started snooping through the closet in my brother’s old room (sorry, bro!). In an accordion filing folder, I found some very old letters. Letters with two separate penmanship: one so flowery it should be regarded as an art form, the other, more masculine and primitive.
Love letters. Between my grandparents. Way before they were great-grandparents or even parents.
I don’t think that two people were more madly and crazy in love than my grandparents. Or fought as much as my grandparents. I mean fights that involved throwing a can of corn across the room or driving away from a family dinner all the way back to Brooklyn fights. But they still flirted with each other all the way into their 80’s.
But even into their 80’s, they still flirted with each other. At family gatherings, my grandfather would take me around, point to my grandmother, and whisper to me “Hey, aint she cute? Ain’t she sweet? She’s all mine.”
My grandparents had two anniversaries. One,was when they eloped in September 1939. They actually ran away in the middle of the night, headed upstate New York, and found a justice of the peace to marry them. An asthmatic one at that. I remember my grandmother recounting the ceremony, mimicking how the justice wheezed between reciting the vows. That was the anniversary my grandfather recognized.
Afterwords, none of my great-grandparents approved to this elopement. And I think the way it went was that my grandparents were not allowed to cohabit until they had a proper Jewish wedding, which happened three months later. That’s the anniversary my grandmother recognized.
So, in these letters, I found one from my grandfather, Milton, that I think contained my grandfather’s plot to take my grandmother, Pauline, away to get hitched.
Dated August 29, 1938 my grandfather writes
I received your second letter this morning after I sent my fourth. I got my days changed to Sunday and Monday off. (Grandpa worked night shifts for the New York Daily News). That goes into effect this Tuesday. Find our all the arrangements for Saturday, September 7, so that we don’t get mixed up. Try and come in early enough to get to the shower (?) about 9:30 but don’t forget to allow some sleep as I’ll be working Saturday morning. Will they be surprised?! Boy, oh Boy!
Some talk about my grandmother being away somewhere…. I don’t understand that part, but then….
I found lipstick on my blue tie that I wore Saturday nite but I won’t make any attempt to clean it……I’ll see you Saturday night and then all day Sunday and Monday and don’t go kick me home early….
and …after a bit of more plotting and even some sqabbling about my grandmother “putting on airs” the last time they met…
“You don’t know what a funny, but a lost feeling I get when I see a couple on the street or a couple kissing or a fellow saying I got a date. Nobody loves me except you. ….I love you alone, Milton.”
Then, I find a letter from my grandmother, not dated. But even back then, and they must have been in their late teens, my grandmother was nudging my grandpa about his health:
“I won’t see you on the nights you can’t manage to get your eight or nine (NINE??) hours of sleep each day. Your also going to watch your diet closely. Believe you me!”
And on the letters and their love went, for 67 years. By the way, My grandfather, a second generation photo engraver for the New York Daily News, was in fact a victim of new technology. In 1982, he was given a buy-out package along with the other photo engravers at the New York Daily News.
His job was being replaced by something called…. the laser printer.
Stormy Weather Inspires Young Poet
I guess you can say I am a weather junkie.
I have been glued to the weather channel on this most historic night. I watched reports that this is the most tornado activity ever recorded in one night – ever. The bottom of the screen flashed warnings at us for about 3 hours straight. When it started including warnings of sightings of “clouds with slight rotations,” I really started to freak.
There was even a tornado watch here in Western New York. This never happens. So, when the sky turned black and the winds picked up, I could have sworn I saw an unusual white vertical cloud above the trees, just in the horizon. Then, the rain fell horizontally and it looked like a sandstorm of rain, I can’t describe it. But it was very weird. So, with dinner half eaten, I ordered the kids into the basement. I bet my daughter is texting all her friends about her crazy mom right about now.
It seems the worst has passed. A few leaks in the kitchen roof, but no other damage.
But, the storm produced – a poem, by my youngest.
Here it is:
It’s raining. It’s pouring. The lightening is roaring The angels are bowling The bowling balls are rolling The flashing long, flying lightening worm in the sky A baby giant in its dark, cloudy blanket Trying not to burst out in raining tears and cry.Where were you on this dark and stormy night?
The endangered “average” child. My thoughts on Race to Nowhere
I started the evening at Rochester’s screening of the documentary “The Race to Nowhere” as a columnist hunting for my next big topic. Would this movie light a big enough spark to generate action in the towns I cover? Would this mobilize parents to put an end to the endless hours of homework?
The screening of this independent documentary was widely anticipated in Rochester. For weeks, as in the rest of the nation, Rochesterians have faced the grim news of deep cuts to school budgets. Increased class sizes. Cuts to Advanced Placement classes. Cuts to arts education, even at Rochester’s prestigious School of The Arts.
But this film was not about budget cuts. Or maybe it is. Maybe, the stories in this movie are the direct results of the mess our nation’s education system finds itself. Race to Nowhere is the product of cuts to funding in education: too many teachers forced to teach to the test, classes stripped away of anything creative, kids stripped away of their zest for life and the excitement of learning, replaced by the constant pressure to churn, absorb and perform.
Even though I got my ticket in advance, finding a seat was a challenge. The lecture hall at Nazareth College was packed. But still more educators, students and community members filed in to see a film that is sparking heated discussions and stirring people to act and rethink the cost of constantly pushing our children to always excel, always succeed and NEVER take it easy. We are pushing them fast, according to the movie, to cheating, burnout, stress-related illnesses, and in the most extreme case, suicide.
The film, as our moderator cautioned, did take a very narrow focus on only the most stressed-out kids and teachers. I did not see any joy in these kids lives, and there had to be some point where these kids had a chance to kick back and enjoy, or maybe even once come home and bubble about something they learned in school.
I’m relieved to say that my kids still come home excited about at least some of the learning they do. How can you not get excited about creating a silent screen script as a way to learn about the 1920’s or learning about Beluga whales?
But, as I watched the movie, I felt the tension slowly rise in my throat. I got emotionally caught up in the struggles of the kids and parents on the screen. My thoughts drifted to my own three kids, aged 14, 12 and 7:
……About a month ago, my daughter came home from school “stressed” that she only got an 86 in her latest math test. Only.
My daughter is in the 8th grade in the Brighton Central School District in the Rochester Area. It is one of the most competitive in the country. She’s been enrolled in accelerated math and science ever since the fifth grade.
And my illustrious academic math career? I was never a good math student. I write. There are brilliant mathematicians and engineers who can barely weave together a paragraph. This is because we are wired differently, and that is okay.
So, I am pretty certain that in my New York City Public school, math classes were created for left-brained students like me. Just to shove enough math credits down our gullet to graduate.
So, hearing my daughter say “I only got an 86” in an advanced math class, evoked little sympathy from mom. But, she wasn’t looking for sympathy. She was truly stressed.
“I HAVE to get AT least a 91 or higher in my next test, or else I’m out of the accelerated math program.” Her emphasis was on “test” and not on learning a theory, or learning how to solve a problem.
I posed the possibility of failure to my brilliant daughter: “There may come a time in your academic life when you, no matter how hard you studied, might get a low grade on a test. A really low grade. What would happen, if you actually failed a test?”
“Fail?! No way. I’m never failing a test. Ever.” And she went back upstairs to study.
“Race To Nowhere” also talked about the overemphasis on Advanced Placement classes. My daughter is already talking about taking Advanced Placement classes at age 14. This is something that I didn’t think about until I was a junior in high school. I took AP English classes and AP biology classes because I was genuinely interested in them and wanted to take them. How it looked on a college application was only the second reason why I took them.
And for my daughter? It’s as if the last few months of eighth grade are already history. Onto looking good for the college application. Onto the next thing.
..My son, a sixth grader, comes home to discuss the Civil Rights Movement and the book, The Watsons go to Birmingham. He also threw himself into his optional science project and studied how airplanes fly. He is a voracious reader and absorbs books from authors like Stephen King, James Patterson, and Anthony Horowitz. With all this reading, he is capable of making excellent inferences and insights in class discussions. He is also in accelerated math and never throws his hands up in frustration because he doesn’t understand something.
Nathan’s downfall is that sometimes his completed homework fails to make it from his backpack, down the hallway, and into the teacher’s inbox. So, often, he is graded on missing homework assignments instead of his actual ability to think and solve problems while he is in class. And, like the movie pointed out to me, my nightly conversations with Nathan are not about what he learned, but what he has for homework, and did he do it, and can I see it? And our nights usually end up with him yelling at me to get off his back.
Lastly, the movie touched upon our society’s never-ending need to one-up our friends, family and neighbors with how much material wealth we gain. Making money is the whole reason for working so hard in school, for accepting acceptance from only the top colleges, so one can be gainfully employed and making a LOT of money. That is success.
At seven, my youngest already understands this.
“Mom, are you successful?”
I think about this. I am happily married and have three healthy, beautiful though somewhat kooky children. I have three jobs that touch a lot of people’s lives in my community, though none pay enough that I could actually independently support myself. But, I have been there for my husband so he could be successful. In turn, for his success, I can be home for my kids after school to take them wherever they need to go: be it Bar Mitzvah lessons or orthodontist appointments.
But I know what my son is getting at…
“Let’s face it mom. The “Jonses” are both doctors and they have a pool and a hot tub and a really big house. And we don’t have a pool. And our house is not as big as theirs. So, they are more successful than you are.”
So, I ended the night not a trailblazing reporter, but a weepy parent with knots in my stomach. I was too much in a rush to get home to my kids, NOT to ask them about their homework, or what they got on their latest test, but to give them a hug and tell them to find time to enjoy life while they are still kids living under my roof.
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Stacy Gittleman 