Friday, May 29, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
The Family Illness
Kendra was depressed about her life. Not that it had been great before; it had always been a struggle. But now, the son-of-a-bitch was getting off scott-free as far as she was concerned. And after all the shit he’d pulled.
She looked over to where her son was on the bed and patted his hair falling in moist ringlets over his creamy caramel color face. He turned in his sleep reaching for her. Overcome with melancholy feelings, she lay down beside Kaora, kicking off her slippers. Kaora snuggled closer to her bosom, his face buried in her scent mixed with lavender. How he loved her scent. Still mostly asleep, he lifted her shirt. Kendra moved closer to oblige. This was her one pleasure. The sucking began. The soft wet feel of his mouth pulling and elongating her nipple. There was hardly any letdown but a sensation of bliss passed over her and she began to relax. Her uterus contracted lightly and her son’s hands caressed her pechos.
My poor baby she mused looking down and his moist face, his mouth working vigorously. He tugged slightly, moving his head further away pulling at her nipple, while his hand touched her other breast. He moved his jaw languorously. That bastard, she said again for the upteenth time, abandoning us for that little chippy with big boobs, her fake ass boobs.
She settled back into the pillows, the sensation moving from her breasts to her uterus. She felt her uterus contracting with the gentle tweaking of her nipple occurring simultaneously and in rhythm with the movement of his jaw. His eyes were closed and she felt very protective and loving. No one would take this from her. It was the only pleasure she had that no one could interfere with. God help them if they tried. She’d attack with her entire being.
Kendra’s anger dissipated and her thoughts began to slow down. How dare that bastard Lyle question her motives and tell her anything when he had abandoned them. How dare he say anything about her choices, as if he had any right to say anything about anything – that sick son of a bitch, she’d spit on his grave if she had a chance.
Kendra’s thoughts stopped racing and she reviewed the recent calendar of events while her son continued nursing. Kaora’s eyes remained closed and he brought his head backwards without opening his eyes, her nipple stretching, the sensation a delightful security.
Yes, she stuck by her choices, and she’d written Lyle an email telling him so, like the ass-hole needed it explained. You’d have thought he would’ve learned something during the thirteen years they’d shared. He’d always been difficult though. He’d pretend to know and then play stupid. Kendra had written succinctly, savoring her knowledge of every word on how she’d educate him, his lawyer and everyone else too.
Later she regretted giving him this sentence but she followed up by copying and sending him an entire series of articles in support of her case on prolonged nursing, natural healing and everything else she stood for. It was enough articles to spin anyone’s head so let him try and get in her way. Just let him try…
Kaora’s sucking subsided and she put on her slippers and returned to her computer. She was so angry at his attempts to divide and intrude on their lives this way. She was still angry at the court fiasco too. From two thousand a month to nine hundred, she’d lost a lot. And so what that he’s only a salaried man. It wasn’t her fault he left with that stupid bitch cunt who he had told her he had no interest in. That bitch with her implants that he’d laughed about.
She remembered when she had jealously smacked him in the back of the head, accusingly said, “Husband, you’re paying too much attention to Sandra.”
He’d laughed and pulled her into the hallway kissing her, “you’re jealous!” Lyle said surprised. Lyle slipped his hand under her sweater and Kendra angrily pushed him away.
“That’s not yours,” she said, “they’re his.”
“He’s five and a half, for Christ’s sake! When are we ever going to have some sex?”
“We do have sex,” Kendra remembered saying, “You like to eat my pussy, don’t you?”
“Of course I love your pussy,” he said, “I just would like to have sex with my wife without my five and a half year old child waking up and you nursing him back to sleep. It’s hard to maintain excitement in that situation. It makes me uptight. I’m not comfortable with sex in the bed and my five and a half year old son waking up while we we’re in the middle of it.
The Native Americans do it and a lot of cultures do it,” she defended.
“I am not a lot of cultures,” Lyle said, “I’d like the option of going in the other room and we can’t do that because your mother lives with us.”
“You’re too uptight. He’s our son. It’s natural.”
“I’m sorry, it bothers me to have sex with him here. It inhibits me. I think that’s natural too. I don’t feel free with him waking up like that.”
“Get used to it Lyle, it’s the family bed. I made my choice.”
“Don’t I have any choices?” he asked.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Kendra told him. “Imagine we’re Native Americans sleeping together in the teepee. You always like to say you’ve got Indian blood.”
Now, two and half years later, that big titty gal he’d left her for had suddenly reappeared out of nowhere asking for Lyle’s phone number. This after the dumb skinny-ass addict bitch had reported him to administration after the piece of shit and he'd had a bad break up and Lyle hadn’t returned to her. Told admin that he’d harassed her. Why would I give you his number or be your friend, when you tried to take my bread and butter’s job? What the fuck kind of crazy women does Lyle attract anyway, always a bunch of stupid ass bitches. Boy was he lucky with me Kendra mused.
Kendra returned to her computer desktop, Lyle’s email insult still open,
That fucking sick bastard with his stupid bitches and hoes, adding insult to injury. Kendra had written back,
Kendra had followed this up by sending him several articles supporting the family bed extended breastfeeding and nudity. She knew how to prove her point and it would stand in any court of law. She added her reminder again to her email, let this hate fest go.
How dare him, immoral piece of shit that he was, question her motives. Lyle never appreciated how she had care taken all of them, had always done all the paperwork plus supported him emotionally. She was the one who had care taken all of them. Kendra had always told him what to say and do, since she always knew the right thing to say and do. And this was her thanks, that he'd left her for a stupid skinny ass bitch with big fake-assed tits, and she, Kendra, the mother of his only son, got only a measly nine hundred dollars a month from his thirty six hundred dollar paycheck. She should get it all! How dare him criticize anything she chose to do; she’d make him pay in the end. She’d make him pay out the kazoo, with his fucking ever-present erection and his porno. Kendra had it with him anyway. She read his email asking if he could stop by Kaora’s birthday party she was holding in the park. “Sure,” she wrote, “sign over your two thousand dollar IRA to me and you can.”
Sick bastard! Later compulsively she returned to the computer again seeking any response from him. There was none. She wrote more anyway, unable to control herself. I want your psychiatric records. You are seriously sick in your mind. At least she had Kaora and she and Kaora were not alone; they had each other. Bastard Lyle would not destroy or invade the closeness between her and her son, try though he would
Then she went to youtube and found the video she was looking for, Money, that’s what I want, the English version from way back by a woman and she sent that along too with another note, “Honey, is this what’s bothering you?” She laughed aloud feeling vindicated and pressed the send button. Then she decided to resend it to his current lover too. Kendra laughed again. She walked away but was drawn back a third time to write one more note,
This story is taken from a variety of internet posts and includes other sources regarding various types abuse. Infantilizing children has many bad effects including teaching them that they don't need to learn to deal with frustration. It also encourages over dependency and stunts emotional growth. An eight year old child shouldn't be sucking a bottle or wearing a diaper either. An 8 year old should be learning how to act appropriately in society, and should be getting ready for adulthood ... which does NOT include sucking on your mother's breast whenever you need comfort.
Parents may want to assuage a child's fears about a parent who has left the marital home, and although offering the breast is a temporary feel good solution, talking would work better. For example, a mother could say, I know you're sad or worried that Daddy isn't here now, but you see him weekends and I'm here with you. I'm not going anywhere.
There is a case going on right now where a judge ordered a woman to stop breast feeding her 8 year old boy, the same age as this boy in this story. Eight years old is the beginning of puberty, when stronger sexual feelings emerge so you can see how many more problems this open behavior will create ...
Where do you draw the line if you follow the protocol that you stop when the child wants to stop? Then when the child goes away to college and returns on holiday, do you offer the breast for old times sake or give it to them if they want it? If you do you may be faced with the situation below.
For a little
levity check out what this can lead to ...
or this
The point is - sexual abuse runs in families. Mom was abused by uncle Jim and then her son is abused by her dad is the way of it. Speaking out is the only way to end the abuse. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
She looked over to where her son was on the bed and patted his hair falling in moist ringlets over his creamy caramel color face. He turned in his sleep reaching for her. Overcome with melancholy feelings, she lay down beside Kaora, kicking off her slippers. Kaora snuggled closer to her bosom, his face buried in her scent mixed with lavender. How he loved her scent. Still mostly asleep, he lifted her shirt. Kendra moved closer to oblige. This was her one pleasure. The sucking began. The soft wet feel of his mouth pulling and elongating her nipple. There was hardly any letdown but a sensation of bliss passed over her and she began to relax. Her uterus contracted lightly and her son’s hands caressed her pechos.
My poor baby she mused looking down and his moist face, his mouth working vigorously. He tugged slightly, moving his head further away pulling at her nipple, while his hand touched her other breast. He moved his jaw languorously. That bastard, she said again for the upteenth time, abandoning us for that little chippy with big boobs, her fake ass boobs.
She settled back into the pillows, the sensation moving from her breasts to her uterus. She felt her uterus contracting with the gentle tweaking of her nipple occurring simultaneously and in rhythm with the movement of his jaw. His eyes were closed and she felt very protective and loving. No one would take this from her. It was the only pleasure she had that no one could interfere with. God help them if they tried. She’d attack with her entire being.
Kendra’s anger dissipated and her thoughts began to slow down. How dare that bastard Lyle question her motives and tell her anything when he had abandoned them. How dare he say anything about her choices, as if he had any right to say anything about anything – that sick son of a bitch, she’d spit on his grave if she had a chance.
Kendra’s thoughts stopped racing and she reviewed the recent calendar of events while her son continued nursing. Kaora’s eyes remained closed and he brought his head backwards without opening his eyes, her nipple stretching, the sensation a delightful security.
Yes, she stuck by her choices, and she’d written Lyle an email telling him so, like the ass-hole needed it explained. You’d have thought he would’ve learned something during the thirteen years they’d shared. He’d always been difficult though. He’d pretend to know and then play stupid. Kendra had written succinctly, savoring her knowledge of every word on how she’d educate him, his lawyer and everyone else too.
Parenting practices include not only prolonged nursing, but also the family bed, nudity, non-vaccination, alternative health care treatment, and even home schooling, which I am already doing enough of all this (except the home schooling) while you can’t do anything right! You are the sick one and I want to see your psychiatric records now.Kendra then impulsively threw in the last sentence.
Sexual issues can definitely complicate a situation and send off alarms in a caseworker's mind.
Later she regretted giving him this sentence but she followed up by copying and sending him an entire series of articles in support of her case on prolonged nursing, natural healing and everything else she stood for. It was enough articles to spin anyone’s head so let him try and get in her way. Just let him try…
Kaora’s sucking subsided and she put on her slippers and returned to her computer. She was so angry at his attempts to divide and intrude on their lives this way. She was still angry at the court fiasco too. From two thousand a month to nine hundred, she’d lost a lot. And so what that he’s only a salaried man. It wasn’t her fault he left with that stupid bitch cunt who he had told her he had no interest in. That bitch with her implants that he’d laughed about.
She remembered when she had jealously smacked him in the back of the head, accusingly said, “Husband, you’re paying too much attention to Sandra.”
He’d laughed and pulled her into the hallway kissing her, “you’re jealous!” Lyle said surprised. Lyle slipped his hand under her sweater and Kendra angrily pushed him away.
“That’s not yours,” she said, “they’re his.”
“He’s five and a half, for Christ’s sake! When are we ever going to have some sex?”
“We do have sex,” Kendra remembered saying, “You like to eat my pussy, don’t you?”
“Of course I love your pussy,” he said, “I just would like to have sex with my wife without my five and a half year old child waking up and you nursing him back to sleep. It’s hard to maintain excitement in that situation. It makes me uptight. I’m not comfortable with sex in the bed and my five and a half year old son waking up while we we’re in the middle of it.
The Native Americans do it and a lot of cultures do it,” she defended.
“I am not a lot of cultures,” Lyle said, “I’d like the option of going in the other room and we can’t do that because your mother lives with us.”
“You’re too uptight. He’s our son. It’s natural.”
“I’m sorry, it bothers me to have sex with him here. It inhibits me. I think that’s natural too. I don’t feel free with him waking up like that.”
“Get used to it Lyle, it’s the family bed. I made my choice.”
“Don’t I have any choices?” he asked.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Kendra told him. “Imagine we’re Native Americans sleeping together in the teepee. You always like to say you’ve got Indian blood.”
Now, two and half years later, that big titty gal he’d left her for had suddenly reappeared out of nowhere asking for Lyle’s phone number. This after the dumb skinny-ass addict bitch had reported him to administration after the piece of shit and he'd had a bad break up and Lyle hadn’t returned to her. Told admin that he’d harassed her. Why would I give you his number or be your friend, when you tried to take my bread and butter’s job? What the fuck kind of crazy women does Lyle attract anyway, always a bunch of stupid ass bitches. Boy was he lucky with me Kendra mused.
Kendra returned to her computer desktop, Lyle’s email insult still open,
Kendra I think it is time that you stop sleeping with Kaora, stop showering with him and stop letting him nurse your breasts. He will be eight years old in April and such behavior is not good for his development. Let him sleep in his own room in his own bed by himself and stop nursing him. Let him shower and clean himself because he is not a baby any more.
That fucking sick bastard with his stupid bitches and hoes, adding insult to injury. Kendra had written back,
It is unclear exactly what your mother did to you that caused you to be emotionally disturbed. I have serious concerns about your abusing children in your past. Your admissions caused me to break up with you and later I let you convince me it was silly to break up with you about something that had happened so long ago when you were a child. Unlike you, I have NEVER abused a child, sexually or physically. You show me your psychiatric records or I will visit my lawyer and tell him about your history. Let this insult fest go, or you will end in dire straits. And then who will take care of Kaora. Let this insult fest go –thank god – you are my soon to be ex-husband. Let it go. You are one seriously -sick in the head man! You are the devil incarnate with a dirty mind!
Kendra had followed this up by sending him several articles supporting the family bed extended breastfeeding and nudity. She knew how to prove her point and it would stand in any court of law. She added her reminder again to her email, let this hate fest go.
How dare him, immoral piece of shit that he was, question her motives. Lyle never appreciated how she had care taken all of them, had always done all the paperwork plus supported him emotionally. She was the one who had care taken all of them. Kendra had always told him what to say and do, since she always knew the right thing to say and do. And this was her thanks, that he'd left her for a stupid skinny ass bitch with big fake-assed tits, and she, Kendra, the mother of his only son, got only a measly nine hundred dollars a month from his thirty six hundred dollar paycheck. She should get it all! How dare him criticize anything she chose to do; she’d make him pay in the end. She’d make him pay out the kazoo, with his fucking ever-present erection and his porno. Kendra had it with him anyway. She read his email asking if he could stop by Kaora’s birthday party she was holding in the park. “Sure,” she wrote, “sign over your two thousand dollar IRA to me and you can.”
Sick bastard! Later compulsively she returned to the computer again seeking any response from him. There was none. She wrote more anyway, unable to control herself. I want your psychiatric records. You are seriously sick in your mind. At least she had Kaora and she and Kaora were not alone; they had each other. Bastard Lyle would not destroy or invade the closeness between her and her son, try though he would
Then she went to youtube and found the video she was looking for, Money, that’s what I want, the English version from way back by a woman and she sent that along too with another note, “Honey, is this what’s bothering you?” She laughed aloud feeling vindicated and pressed the send button. Then she decided to resend it to his current lover too. Kendra laughed again. She walked away but was drawn back a third time to write one more note,
It seems to me that you are begging the universe for a phenomenal, industrial strength kick in the behind. You just don't learn. How about you stop right here, and I'll do the same! Learn from me, because it will go very well for you if you do.Kendra added her name in cursive font and pressed send. She wondered if he’d ever learn that she was the smart one, she was the one in control and she always would be!
This story is taken from a variety of internet posts and includes other sources regarding various types abuse. Infantilizing children has many bad effects including teaching them that they don't need to learn to deal with frustration. It also encourages over dependency and stunts emotional growth. An eight year old child shouldn't be sucking a bottle or wearing a diaper either. An 8 year old should be learning how to act appropriately in society, and should be getting ready for adulthood ... which does NOT include sucking on your mother's breast whenever you need comfort.
Parents may want to assuage a child's fears about a parent who has left the marital home, and although offering the breast is a temporary feel good solution, talking would work better. For example, a mother could say, I know you're sad or worried that Daddy isn't here now, but you see him weekends and I'm here with you. I'm not going anywhere.
There is a case going on right now where a judge ordered a woman to stop breast feeding her 8 year old boy, the same age as this boy in this story. Eight years old is the beginning of puberty, when stronger sexual feelings emerge so you can see how many more problems this open behavior will create ...
Where do you draw the line if you follow the protocol that you stop when the child wants to stop? Then when the child goes away to college and returns on holiday, do you offer the breast for old times sake or give it to them if they want it? If you do you may be faced with the situation below.
For a little
levity check out what this can lead to ...
or this
The point is - sexual abuse runs in families. Mom was abused by uncle Jim and then her son is abused by her dad is the way of it. Speaking out is the only way to end the abuse. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
A Flash of Sass #14 Bluetry
Static in my heart sings a ring so strong
like an episode of sesame street gone wrong,
the world gone awry in a single cry awoke
evoked clouds linger in the pre reminiscent pregnant air
five seconds ago on web, I watched
Yellow red purple smoke rings cascade up from Cape Canaveral
Choked on enzymes fumes
in absence of love invades hate on the abyss a trend in fate,
an alias to convert a feather stroke to an abuse with lavender candle invoked
Skyrocket in sight with a socket in my cap.
Didn’t say it wasn’t love
The rhythm of the music moves my hands
Heros dead in a flash of smoke one last glare
Great curls of white smoke rise eyes tear
Life throws so many darts no way to know
Step smack middle in the midst watch them go
Lost glares silence stares me in the eye,
life isn’t fair you cry,
I never told you it was
an old theme renewed reneged turn your back,
go away little girl though that cunt tastes so sweet to eat
keep it away from me,
cause I’m dangerous.
I lie, cheat and go to war to get to eat what I want.
I’m so aware, King of the State of affairs between me and Britain.
Jews are lucky, we have a soul with an afterlife, not a hell.
Eat your sins for the glory shall be mine.
Got the fine for double parking, ate that too, mighty tasty lugubrious morsel of time,
paid only one dime, was worth every cent, a one of kind find
white, pure, shiny granules of hope runs
Gotta meet fate at the corner of Doomston and Outta control genetic traits boulevard
The station gate at eight don’t be late, I set my heart on this chart.
I’m the bait. Worth the wait, good rate, not hatin’ I’m chillin.
A breath of fresh mint, double-mint peppermint gum
Repressed a breeze in Iceland emigrated to USA,
reject from Liverpool, traded in Halvah for a day,
lost in the fleshiness of the moment I give my life away
like an episode of sesame street gone wrong,
the world gone awry in a single cry awoke
evoked clouds linger in the pre reminiscent pregnant air
five seconds ago on web, I watched
Yellow red purple smoke rings cascade up from Cape Canaveral
Choked on enzymes fumes
in absence of love invades hate on the abyss a trend in fate,
an alias to convert a feather stroke to an abuse with lavender candle invoked
Skyrocket in sight with a socket in my cap.
Didn’t say it wasn’t love
The rhythm of the music moves my hands
Heros dead in a flash of smoke one last glare
Great curls of white smoke rise eyes tear
Life throws so many darts no way to know
Step smack middle in the midst watch them go
Lost glares silence stares me in the eye,
life isn’t fair you cry,
I never told you it was
an old theme renewed reneged turn your back,
go away little girl though that cunt tastes so sweet to eat
keep it away from me,
cause I’m dangerous.
I lie, cheat and go to war to get to eat what I want.
I’m so aware, King of the State of affairs between me and Britain.
Jews are lucky, we have a soul with an afterlife, not a hell.
Eat your sins for the glory shall be mine.
Got the fine for double parking, ate that too, mighty tasty lugubrious morsel of time,
paid only one dime, was worth every cent, a one of kind find
white, pure, shiny granules of hope runs
Gotta meet fate at the corner of Doomston and Outta control genetic traits boulevard
The station gate at eight don’t be late, I set my heart on this chart.
I’m the bait. Worth the wait, good rate, not hatin’ I’m chillin.
A breath of fresh mint, double-mint peppermint gum
Repressed a breeze in Iceland emigrated to USA,
reject from Liverpool, traded in Halvah for a day,
lost in the fleshiness of the moment I give my life away
Monday, May 04, 2009
Smoke that dream before I cream you - Bluetry #10
Smoke that dream before I cream you
A rough month ensues, work on projects, help people.
I’ve got my own mishigas to sort through. Memories a life’s sake, a backache, earache filibuster, Monroe birthday zone, a black hole, don’t know where to go. A vagabond review, a Scarsdale Hebrew cemetery, morsel of dainty tastiness nastiness a black hole of madness, no home to go to.
Stuck inside my head, a poet’s world, inspired to drive down dirty, get high on some Thai stick, trying to get skinny on the sly, sounds tinny, the words stuck in my eardrums, tum de dum
Exhale poetry with scarlet U2 embolism demolishes dents an entire world out there, me capsized in the cave, mountain dew bats flapping in my head, breathe new scents of se. , vanilla do me right, love me some choco latte.
Inhale Exhale, a little cheech and chong, put it in a little pill for me. I want to kill that roach, don’t encroach on my spot, shit I see you got your eyes on a brand new spanking spaldine, bounce da ballie, brand new – higher than that kite you want to make take flight.
Fire your ass off stop sass saw me in half. I wanna make some war in cognito infinito, vagabond report retort a torte a flamingo of golden gal glimmer if I offer you a drizzle of Acapulco gold.
If you only got sensimilla, with nice big blue green buds, a Thai joint will bend me fine, ven aqui, pasa lo, share it, … please.
Don’t do me like that. My hand’s open – greed.
Give me some weed, some time to digest the rest but so far it’s ok, I'm not a lawyer. I’m a voyeur, not a destroyer, not part of the choir, I live in a temple, excoriate licorice on my breath, a little violet lipstick, blissful Babel bagel babe, carnal comet, so much like cattle, pick up your bustle and hustle along. Mazel Tov!
Damask cilantro, another whiff of pungent smoke, floats up from patchouli incense I use to mask the scent of hashish oil.
Up in smoke, again and again.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS
Over the last three years,
three women tried to steal my sperm
one was true, she really loved me
she wanted to birth my baby,
I agreed cause I loved her
The other two said
they were on the pill
They just lied
I’m tellin’ you this
cause I know you’re concerned
you’re my very best friend
and I have to get it off my chest
And I’ll tell you right now:
I forbid you to put this in a poem,
I have dominant genes
for some recessive disease,
that although I don’t have it
my children will
Almost all the men in my family
are blinded by this malady
It’s a plague that eats away their sight
It starts in mid to late thirties
they’re stoned blind by fifty
So when Renee, the love of my life
says she wants to have my babies
I had a feeling I never had before:
that overwhelming primal urge
to shoot my sperm within her loins
and watch it swell into a baby
but when we tried
the seed failed to fertilize
And I discovered I was sterile
GOD HELP ME, I WAS DESPONDENT
EITHER WAY, I COULDN’T WIN GENETICALLY
Now I’m brokenhearted
Renee I loved and would’ve married
But she returned to her former lover
and implored him
to seed her female garden
Since then Renee begged me
to remain her friend
and I did because I
didn’t want her to think
I wasn’t man enough to do that
And to this day
I still love her
Now, I’ve got three to take her place
But don’t worry,
Let me set your mind at ease
I can’t be tricked into
being a blind progenitor
and I mean that both ways
I know I should be grateful
But none of them excite me
And although it’s satisfying,
I’m very lonely
for the woman of my dreams
From way back in 93, a true story told me by a close friend. First published in Ashville Poetry Review.
three women tried to steal my sperm
one was true, she really loved me
she wanted to birth my baby,
I agreed cause I loved her
The other two said
they were on the pill
They just lied
I’m tellin’ you this
cause I know you’re concerned
you’re my very best friend
and I have to get it off my chest
And I’ll tell you right now:
I forbid you to put this in a poem,
I have dominant genes
for some recessive disease,
that although I don’t have it
my children will
Almost all the men in my family
are blinded by this malady
It’s a plague that eats away their sight
It starts in mid to late thirties
they’re stoned blind by fifty
So when Renee, the love of my life
says she wants to have my babies
I had a feeling I never had before:
that overwhelming primal urge
to shoot my sperm within her loins
and watch it swell into a baby
but when we tried
the seed failed to fertilize
And I discovered I was sterile
GOD HELP ME, I WAS DESPONDENT
EITHER WAY, I COULDN’T WIN GENETICALLY
Now I’m brokenhearted
Renee I loved and would’ve married
But she returned to her former lover
and implored him
to seed her female garden
Since then Renee begged me
to remain her friend
and I did because I
didn’t want her to think
I wasn’t man enough to do that
And to this day
I still love her
Now, I’ve got three to take her place
But don’t worry,
Let me set your mind at ease
I can’t be tricked into
being a blind progenitor
and I mean that both ways
I know I should be grateful
But none of them excite me
And although it’s satisfying,
I’m very lonely
for the woman of my dreams
From way back in 93, a true story told me by a close friend. First published in Ashville Poetry Review.
Monday, April 20, 2009
I started twitter joking about it. Twitter twatter, shitter, shatter was one of my first twitters shortly followed by twat shit damn lemmee write u sometin person all.
I still don't know what to make of it but I'm on for the ride, after all gotta be in the game to play it right?
Check me out at twitter. WTF, you got something better to do?
I still don't know what to make of it but I'm on for the ride, after all gotta be in the game to play it right?
Check me out at twitter. WTF, you got something better to do?
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Abuse Bluetry # VI
An abuse a report I don’t retort I save my I for you
Sanity or peace – at the crossroads I want a piece of pie
I’ve got the virus so bad down my pipeline, I talk poetry instead of words, spittin rhymes all the time, lost memory recording rumination rhyming in time chillen. A virus striving to proliferate, probing pounding my mon venus, veins vibrating rhythms of poetry I can’t hold off any longer a vaccination didn’t cure the poetry virus my wounded soul carries, I can’t fathom who I am, where I exist in a labyrinth of sanity this way to feign pain to the inner sanctum.
Formatting bluebirds wrangling on a computer keyboard for seeds before flying off with obsidian torts in moonlight gazing settling stark naked on peeling disseminated trees branches.
Leave form for them who see more than I see who I say I am a local shape-shifter, birthed conscious universality of incense timed algorithms who constantly lie absorbing every I in my world of I’s am who they say they are and I am you, the I in my eye is same as your eye
I promise you the world today if only you’ll publish me the deed in lieu of foreclosure signed sealed and delivered –heart and soul for an ounce of the blues I’ve strung here stung here, be nice don’t stare don’t disrespect - I don’t want to be cuckolded either but everyone can’t be a stones’ throw away once the best will come to those who come knocking last ain’t x-actly held beholden true – ooh ooh your way is as good as trying to get when you got when you try anyway cause you can’t admit you’d ever give up or if you did how could you.
Absorb like a sponge with poetic touch a genius of sense sentiment each vertebra holds promise of spirit gazes crossing deserts of darkened psychopaths lost a vision, a sky light of delightful glimmers beckons to see murky ink beneath that star gaze.
Heart pussy dick one woman or man I can’t recall, point is, why can’t I be me first and second be my gender tell me is it my race, religion all copycatting social rejects, disaster, despondence and glee. Like a glacier rotting away I sit eating ice cream while the world degenerates, the landslide arrives in tow of my wisdom. All ow ance to tow my heart in lieu of surrender to a horrendous poetry deed –Buddha beckoning open window let the wind escape its misery accepted by this cityscape.
Gender race face all the rest glee gall all about who we know not who we are - love the poetic glow, get got a new face a new race a rhyme and rhythm hijacking inner flow has entered my soul and I got the blues here for sure, I got my face back on set, timed to society’s soul fell on face get up and go again brush of the dirt and wipe the tears choice.
Publish me I promise you I’m for sale in lieu of poetry foreclosure. I’ll lick your toes, fit your image sell my soul blow me say my name. I’m down with the devil as much as you are in society’s grasp. I strive to inhale exist side by side. Explore – search for more - heard about poetic genius the other day, got the bums rush - how cool is that for more.
Rain georgettes violets
poet laureate soul for sale
writer extroadinaire
poet for sale … how much will you pay?
Sanity or peace – at the crossroads I want a piece of pie
I’ve got the virus so bad down my pipeline, I talk poetry instead of words, spittin rhymes all the time, lost memory recording rumination rhyming in time chillen. A virus striving to proliferate, probing pounding my mon venus, veins vibrating rhythms of poetry I can’t hold off any longer a vaccination didn’t cure the poetry virus my wounded soul carries, I can’t fathom who I am, where I exist in a labyrinth of sanity this way to feign pain to the inner sanctum.
Formatting bluebirds wrangling on a computer keyboard for seeds before flying off with obsidian torts in moonlight gazing settling stark naked on peeling disseminated trees branches.
Leave form for them who see more than I see who I say I am a local shape-shifter, birthed conscious universality of incense timed algorithms who constantly lie absorbing every I in my world of I’s am who they say they are and I am you, the I in my eye is same as your eye
I promise you the world today if only you’ll publish me the deed in lieu of foreclosure signed sealed and delivered –heart and soul for an ounce of the blues I’ve strung here stung here, be nice don’t stare don’t disrespect - I don’t want to be cuckolded either but everyone can’t be a stones’ throw away once the best will come to those who come knocking last ain’t x-actly held beholden true – ooh ooh your way is as good as trying to get when you got when you try anyway cause you can’t admit you’d ever give up or if you did how could you.
Absorb like a sponge with poetic touch a genius of sense sentiment each vertebra holds promise of spirit gazes crossing deserts of darkened psychopaths lost a vision, a sky light of delightful glimmers beckons to see murky ink beneath that star gaze.
Heart pussy dick one woman or man I can’t recall, point is, why can’t I be me first and second be my gender tell me is it my race, religion all copycatting social rejects, disaster, despondence and glee. Like a glacier rotting away I sit eating ice cream while the world degenerates, the landslide arrives in tow of my wisdom. All ow ance to tow my heart in lieu of surrender to a horrendous poetry deed –Buddha beckoning open window let the wind escape its misery accepted by this cityscape.
Gender race face all the rest glee gall all about who we know not who we are - love the poetic glow, get got a new face a new race a rhyme and rhythm hijacking inner flow has entered my soul and I got the blues here for sure, I got my face back on set, timed to society’s soul fell on face get up and go again brush of the dirt and wipe the tears choice.
Publish me I promise you I’m for sale in lieu of poetry foreclosure. I’ll lick your toes, fit your image sell my soul blow me say my name. I’m down with the devil as much as you are in society’s grasp. I strive to inhale exist side by side. Explore – search for more - heard about poetic genius the other day, got the bums rush - how cool is that for more.
Rain georgettes violets
poet laureate soul for sale
writer extroadinaire
poet for sale … how much will you pay?
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
A Little Thirst is all ... To Quench or A Completely Distasteful Yet Very Likely Story Explaining How Disease Travels...
The day had been a long one beginning with church in the morning and including relatives rarely seen. His sister Sara was getting married this Saturday coming and today was Christmas. His father’s sister, Audrey and her husband Delmar, had arrived yesterday from Albany with his niece, Farah, and nephew, Freeman, in hand.
The dinner feast had been served early and everyone was relaxing full with good foods, baked honeyed ham and stuffed Cornish hens. Sara and her fiancé, Delroy, stretched out on the sectional leather recliners of the couch watching some early night TV while the other adults shared laughs and drinks. Carlton sat in a corner of the kitchen watching the scene unfold like the dusk outside. Marisa sidled up to his mom and they whispered and giggled. His mom jiggled her boobs in her low cut dress. Carlton watched his Dad, Cornelius, standing near the RCA Victrola humming to the music he played, spinning the stem of his glass of red wine. Freeman, who was sixteen, stood next to Cornelius pressing closer, and talking into his ear. Cornelius put his arm around the younger man’s shoulders and the two laughed.
Marisa passed her wine to Freeman, saying, “Want some baby? Yo’ mama don’t let you experiment too often and since I’m passin’ you the glass, you may as well cut loose with family first.”
Freeman accepted the wine shyly pressing his lips to the wine cup like an unknown lover. Carlton's mom passed by him and ran her fingertips along his spine coquettishly. She passed his chair and reached above his head into the cabinet for a clean glass passing it to Audrey. A chill passed through Carlton and he shivered involuntarily after her hand had left his skin.
“How bout you baby,” his mamma Carleen cooed to him, her fingertips eliciting a new shiver, you want a lil’ too, his mom said brazenly offering Carlton her half full glass.
“No, mom, I’m cool, ” Carlton said, thinking that twelve years old was still too young for drinking. He wondered how high his mom was.
Delmar entered the room, pulling his tie off with one hand and scratching his ear. As he passed by Audrey he playfully spanked her butt and as he passed by Carlene his arm passed fleetingly across her upper back to her waist. Carlton wondered if she shivered too the way he did when she touched him. Was that the way all touch was?
Carlton knew that his sister had told Audrey and Delmar that they could use her bedroom tonight and she’d also made it clear, that she’d be bunking in his along with Freeman. The little girl, Farah, would sleep on the couch and his parents would stay in their own room.
Carlton got tired of the show and went upstairs to be alone for a while. He turned up some Led Zep on his cd player using his headphones. Relaxed and nicely worn out, he let his mind wander and pulled one of his mags from under the bed. When he awoke it was dark in the room and he heard the sound of steady breathing. His sister was on the lower bunk bed with her leg hanging loosely over the edge. His cousin, Freeman, was on the upper bunk and Carlton listened as Freeman turned in his sleep, and a soft snore escaped his lips.
Carlton felt his penis engorged and got up to go take a piss. He put on a pair of pajama bottoms and then decided to go downstairs to get a glass of water. He passed by his niece who appeared calmly sleeping. The sectional recliners were still out and she lay there by herself. There was a soft night light from the kitchen. Carlton went to the sink and put his hand to feel the water. He stood a few seconds waiting for the water to run more coolly. When he felt satisfied, he drew a glass from the sideboard and filled it with cold water.
He sat on the couch next to his five year old niece swallowing huge gulps of water. Carlton went and refilled the glass and returned again. He again gulped. The ham had been very salty. He put the glass on the table and stretched out thinking the moonlight coming through the blinds was the perfect amount of light. He looked over at his curly headed niece who had turned towards him with eyes wide open. He looked into her eyes and felt that familiar thrill of a shiver pass over his body. The blanket had fallen from her and it twisted about her feet. The room was warm. He reached over intending to cover her and put his arm at her waist. Farah’s nightgown had slid up to her waist and she had no underwear on. He tugged at the hem, intending to pull down the skirt of her gown.
Instead Carlton impulsively reached around to her front caressing her mons pubis. Neither broke eye contact. With no intention of proceeding further, suddenly his fingers were between her labia. It was very moist and inviting. Carlton moved his index and middle finger very lightly, the moistness absorbing him, her eyes compelling him. He felt his finger blend into the moistness of the labia, his finger inhaled by a soft pliant wet crevice. The pleasure he felt reflected in the moonlight cast across her face and her gaze remained steady, her lips slightly parted like his mother’s when she ran her hands across his back. He pushed his third and longer finger down a bit more while his index played with her man in the boat. Farah sighed contentedly, her eyes fixed on his.
Carlton turned away feeling the hot rise of a blush full of shame, he hurriedly sat up. Earlier he’d refused a drink and now he’d touched his five-year old cousin. He looked at her once more in the eyes and she stared back supplicantly with doe eyes. He turned away and ran back up the steps to his own room and lay on the guest bed where he’d been earlier, before he had woken up to hear his sister and cousin’s snores and needed to piss and drink water. Isn’t that all that happened after all?
The point is - sexual abuse runs in families. Mom was abused by uncle Jim and then her son is abused by her dad is the way of it. Speaking out is the only way to end the abuse. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
The dinner feast had been served early and everyone was relaxing full with good foods, baked honeyed ham and stuffed Cornish hens. Sara and her fiancé, Delroy, stretched out on the sectional leather recliners of the couch watching some early night TV while the other adults shared laughs and drinks. Carlton sat in a corner of the kitchen watching the scene unfold like the dusk outside. Marisa sidled up to his mom and they whispered and giggled. His mom jiggled her boobs in her low cut dress. Carlton watched his Dad, Cornelius, standing near the RCA Victrola humming to the music he played, spinning the stem of his glass of red wine. Freeman, who was sixteen, stood next to Cornelius pressing closer, and talking into his ear. Cornelius put his arm around the younger man’s shoulders and the two laughed.
Marisa passed her wine to Freeman, saying, “Want some baby? Yo’ mama don’t let you experiment too often and since I’m passin’ you the glass, you may as well cut loose with family first.”
Freeman accepted the wine shyly pressing his lips to the wine cup like an unknown lover. Carlton's mom passed by him and ran her fingertips along his spine coquettishly. She passed his chair and reached above his head into the cabinet for a clean glass passing it to Audrey. A chill passed through Carlton and he shivered involuntarily after her hand had left his skin.
“How bout you baby,” his mamma Carleen cooed to him, her fingertips eliciting a new shiver, you want a lil’ too, his mom said brazenly offering Carlton her half full glass.
“No, mom, I’m cool, ” Carlton said, thinking that twelve years old was still too young for drinking. He wondered how high his mom was.
Delmar entered the room, pulling his tie off with one hand and scratching his ear. As he passed by Audrey he playfully spanked her butt and as he passed by Carlene his arm passed fleetingly across her upper back to her waist. Carlton wondered if she shivered too the way he did when she touched him. Was that the way all touch was?
Carlton knew that his sister had told Audrey and Delmar that they could use her bedroom tonight and she’d also made it clear, that she’d be bunking in his along with Freeman. The little girl, Farah, would sleep on the couch and his parents would stay in their own room.
Carlton got tired of the show and went upstairs to be alone for a while. He turned up some Led Zep on his cd player using his headphones. Relaxed and nicely worn out, he let his mind wander and pulled one of his mags from under the bed. When he awoke it was dark in the room and he heard the sound of steady breathing. His sister was on the lower bunk bed with her leg hanging loosely over the edge. His cousin, Freeman, was on the upper bunk and Carlton listened as Freeman turned in his sleep, and a soft snore escaped his lips.
Carlton felt his penis engorged and got up to go take a piss. He put on a pair of pajama bottoms and then decided to go downstairs to get a glass of water. He passed by his niece who appeared calmly sleeping. The sectional recliners were still out and she lay there by herself. There was a soft night light from the kitchen. Carlton went to the sink and put his hand to feel the water. He stood a few seconds waiting for the water to run more coolly. When he felt satisfied, he drew a glass from the sideboard and filled it with cold water.
He sat on the couch next to his five year old niece swallowing huge gulps of water. Carlton went and refilled the glass and returned again. He again gulped. The ham had been very salty. He put the glass on the table and stretched out thinking the moonlight coming through the blinds was the perfect amount of light. He looked over at his curly headed niece who had turned towards him with eyes wide open. He looked into her eyes and felt that familiar thrill of a shiver pass over his body. The blanket had fallen from her and it twisted about her feet. The room was warm. He reached over intending to cover her and put his arm at her waist. Farah’s nightgown had slid up to her waist and she had no underwear on. He tugged at the hem, intending to pull down the skirt of her gown.
Instead Carlton impulsively reached around to her front caressing her mons pubis. Neither broke eye contact. With no intention of proceeding further, suddenly his fingers were between her labia. It was very moist and inviting. Carlton moved his index and middle finger very lightly, the moistness absorbing him, her eyes compelling him. He felt his finger blend into the moistness of the labia, his finger inhaled by a soft pliant wet crevice. The pleasure he felt reflected in the moonlight cast across her face and her gaze remained steady, her lips slightly parted like his mother’s when she ran her hands across his back. He pushed his third and longer finger down a bit more while his index played with her man in the boat. Farah sighed contentedly, her eyes fixed on his.
Carlton turned away feeling the hot rise of a blush full of shame, he hurriedly sat up. Earlier he’d refused a drink and now he’d touched his five-year old cousin. He looked at her once more in the eyes and she stared back supplicantly with doe eyes. He turned away and ran back up the steps to his own room and lay on the guest bed where he’d been earlier, before he had woken up to hear his sister and cousin’s snores and needed to piss and drink water. Isn’t that all that happened after all?
The point is - sexual abuse runs in families. Mom was abused by uncle Jim and then her son is abused by her dad is the way of it. Speaking out is the only way to end the abuse. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Reading writing ... equals literacy
The recent article I wrote on my blog, Our Educational System, spurred me on to re-examine how this system affects our young students and their skills. As a social worker who worked in our system in public high schools with teens from 13 to 21 years old for 16 years and then worked with pre-k children for another 5 years, I’d like to share what I learned about our children and their skills. This necessitates a comparison.
Back when I was in school we had five classes per grade, beginning with the number 1 class and proceeding to the number 5 class. Thus, there was 1-1, 2-1 etc. Logically speaking one would have thought that the 5 class would have been the slowest and the number 1 would have been the fast learners, however in my school, the 1 class was the “quick learners” and the number 2 class was the "health education class," which included wheelchair bound children and very slow learners. What really was strange was that everyone knew how to read albeit some read more slowly than others. Also everyone eventually learned to write as well. The slower learners weren’t as good with grammar and spelling and for many of the slower learners, spelling and grammar problems remained. I was always in the number 1 class as I was very precocious and generally learned anything to do with reading or writing very fast. My deficits were about where things are, so maps and map memorization was a problem for me. There were always more than 30 children in each class. In those days, my neighborhood, Washington Heights, (now called Hudson Heights by all the realtors) had many foreigners. The difference is that they were from many places, not like now when there are a handful of Russians and mostly Dominicans. There was a great influx of Puerto Ricans and Greeks to my area, and people from Russia and other Slavic nations (the nations now have since changed names). From the time when I was very young, all my teachers complained that I couldn’t keep quiet. Any foreigner was seated next to me and usually learned English quickly as I would share my notes and help them. This situation also seems unique now.
The first 5 years I worked with pregnant teens in high schools, I learned that over half of our students could not write a proper sentence. About half could write within two years of their grade level. About another quarter could write with many spelling and grammatical errors but the words would make sense. And the last quarter or 20% could not logically string one sentence to the next to write a cohesive paragraph on any given subject matter – even on one they know about. For example, if they were asked to write a paragraph on who is their favorite rapper and why, only half of them could do this successfully. I was dismayed to observe how poor their writing, reading and comprehension skills were. Teenagers 15 years old were writing at what I judged to be a second or third grade level. At this time, some of the high schools I worked at tried to get around this issue by teaching their youngsters to think and to argue out a point verbally. The principals applied for waivers from the state so the children could do a series of oral defenses and speeches instead of taking regents, where they learned to argue a thesis from beginning to end. I was impressed by what I saw but still, again, there was at least 40% who could not keep up to the regiment or structure and this was in spite of the judges trying hard to be very lenient. I wondered why our society had changed this much from the time I was a teen to now and I still don’t have an answer. I have met writers too who are good writers, and they cannot spell and don’t know proper grammar. Professional agents and book companies have told me, that they feel basic academic writing skill is unnecessary and unimportant. They say, what is important is that the person write well or rhyme well. I can round this out by adding that they will further say that's why they hire someone like me to do the editing and clean it up. And the weird thing here is that I know how to make street lit sound street lit enough and put in enough modernisms to make it a go on both sides too. White people and everyone else in the public schools now write Ebonics if they write at all. Proper writing is a dying skill today.
A few years back, a young man was sent to me from 9th grade. I was told to find out how he had gotten to this grade and couldn’t read or write at all. I did as I was told and apparently, he was such a sweet personality, that no one had paid attention to the fact that he couldn’t read an entire sentence. Even when given a children’s book for 5 to 7 year olds, he could barely read any of the words. OK, I admit this is unusual, but not as unusual as it seems. I have also met special education students who could barely write, but who could spout beautiful rhymes instantaneously apparently effortlessly as well.
I grew up without a television. Our radio broke when I was about 6 and wasn’t replaced for a few years. Books was my only entertainment, without which, I would have suffered even more than I did. As I tell everyone, my childhood was fraught with anxiety and despair. My mother was diagnosed with cancer when I was a few months old and the first year of my life welfare sent a series of caregivers to care for us so my dad could go to work. My mom was in hospital for about 6 months. We were have-nots in every way. I had two dolls which I had been given after I’d turned 6. I washed my own clothes and ironed them at 7 years old. Sorry, I wish I knew what childhood meant. One sister liked to play teacher and I learned to read and write to please her originally. I was reading and writing at 4 years old. I read and wrote for love.
Obviously I have no idea where this dilemma of our literacy is headed but one place it is headed is to put the entire onus for literacy on the teachers in the way of statistics like I described in the previous article. I also think that perhaps our society is going to return to a previous age when letter writers got paid and people got paid to read to others too. In the middle ages there was a particular class of people that were paid to perform this service for the general populace. Hey if I live long enough I can be one of those people. I urge you to talk to our teachers about this, talk to each other – you’ll see I’m not exaggerating.
Also check out this fascinating stuff:
John Taylor Gatto and his official website
Back when I was in school we had five classes per grade, beginning with the number 1 class and proceeding to the number 5 class. Thus, there was 1-1, 2-1 etc. Logically speaking one would have thought that the 5 class would have been the slowest and the number 1 would have been the fast learners, however in my school, the 1 class was the “quick learners” and the number 2 class was the "health education class," which included wheelchair bound children and very slow learners. What really was strange was that everyone knew how to read albeit some read more slowly than others. Also everyone eventually learned to write as well. The slower learners weren’t as good with grammar and spelling and for many of the slower learners, spelling and grammar problems remained. I was always in the number 1 class as I was very precocious and generally learned anything to do with reading or writing very fast. My deficits were about where things are, so maps and map memorization was a problem for me. There were always more than 30 children in each class. In those days, my neighborhood, Washington Heights, (now called Hudson Heights by all the realtors) had many foreigners. The difference is that they were from many places, not like now when there are a handful of Russians and mostly Dominicans. There was a great influx of Puerto Ricans and Greeks to my area, and people from Russia and other Slavic nations (the nations now have since changed names). From the time when I was very young, all my teachers complained that I couldn’t keep quiet. Any foreigner was seated next to me and usually learned English quickly as I would share my notes and help them. This situation also seems unique now.
The first 5 years I worked with pregnant teens in high schools, I learned that over half of our students could not write a proper sentence. About half could write within two years of their grade level. About another quarter could write with many spelling and grammatical errors but the words would make sense. And the last quarter or 20% could not logically string one sentence to the next to write a cohesive paragraph on any given subject matter – even on one they know about. For example, if they were asked to write a paragraph on who is their favorite rapper and why, only half of them could do this successfully. I was dismayed to observe how poor their writing, reading and comprehension skills were. Teenagers 15 years old were writing at what I judged to be a second or third grade level. At this time, some of the high schools I worked at tried to get around this issue by teaching their youngsters to think and to argue out a point verbally. The principals applied for waivers from the state so the children could do a series of oral defenses and speeches instead of taking regents, where they learned to argue a thesis from beginning to end. I was impressed by what I saw but still, again, there was at least 40% who could not keep up to the regiment or structure and this was in spite of the judges trying hard to be very lenient. I wondered why our society had changed this much from the time I was a teen to now and I still don’t have an answer. I have met writers too who are good writers, and they cannot spell and don’t know proper grammar. Professional agents and book companies have told me, that they feel basic academic writing skill is unnecessary and unimportant. They say, what is important is that the person write well or rhyme well. I can round this out by adding that they will further say that's why they hire someone like me to do the editing and clean it up. And the weird thing here is that I know how to make street lit sound street lit enough and put in enough modernisms to make it a go on both sides too. White people and everyone else in the public schools now write Ebonics if they write at all. Proper writing is a dying skill today.
A few years back, a young man was sent to me from 9th grade. I was told to find out how he had gotten to this grade and couldn’t read or write at all. I did as I was told and apparently, he was such a sweet personality, that no one had paid attention to the fact that he couldn’t read an entire sentence. Even when given a children’s book for 5 to 7 year olds, he could barely read any of the words. OK, I admit this is unusual, but not as unusual as it seems. I have also met special education students who could barely write, but who could spout beautiful rhymes instantaneously apparently effortlessly as well.
I grew up without a television. Our radio broke when I was about 6 and wasn’t replaced for a few years. Books was my only entertainment, without which, I would have suffered even more than I did. As I tell everyone, my childhood was fraught with anxiety and despair. My mother was diagnosed with cancer when I was a few months old and the first year of my life welfare sent a series of caregivers to care for us so my dad could go to work. My mom was in hospital for about 6 months. We were have-nots in every way. I had two dolls which I had been given after I’d turned 6. I washed my own clothes and ironed them at 7 years old. Sorry, I wish I knew what childhood meant. One sister liked to play teacher and I learned to read and write to please her originally. I was reading and writing at 4 years old. I read and wrote for love.
Obviously I have no idea where this dilemma of our literacy is headed but one place it is headed is to put the entire onus for literacy on the teachers in the way of statistics like I described in the previous article. I also think that perhaps our society is going to return to a previous age when letter writers got paid and people got paid to read to others too. In the middle ages there was a particular class of people that were paid to perform this service for the general populace. Hey if I live long enough I can be one of those people. I urge you to talk to our teachers about this, talk to each other – you’ll see I’m not exaggerating.
Also check out this fascinating stuff:
John Taylor Gatto and his official website
Friday, April 03, 2009
Our Educational Sytem
Lorraine Kashdan got me started this morning on this educational memory lane tangent. I have a long history with the old Board of Education of New York City and the new Department of Education of New York City. Different names to feed us a new line of shit. I don't know how the educational system is in the UK but as the mom of an LD son and also because I worked (past tense) in our school system here for 21 years, I can tell you a lot. The system is a lot of bullshit and does not work to help you get what you need. Lorraine you touched a nerve! Ouch!
Our schools here in New York City have experts from UK visiting here to rate us and tell our administrators how to improve - but are UK success rates that much better? Not really if you do some research.
Our system here is about paperwork - not children's needs. Here you have to be an advocate for yourself and your children's needs. If you’re not – your children will fall through the cracks. Been there and done it and glad to be out of it on all counts ... professionally and personally - well not quite yet – as being involved with DubbleX means being involved with his son’s educational needs too.
I’ll give some history here then come back to my original thesis of how educational values are going down the drain and statistics are the on board values of the day and how now, raises will be given to those who have good statistics.
Back in the old days with the old board, my son was given several labels and diagnoses. As his condition changed and improved over the years he outgrew his diagnoses. The point is these diagnoses are all bullshit. The things to think about and work on are the child’s deficiencies. Once you have a clear idea of these deficiencies, it is easy to devise or find someone who can devise a series of instructional lessons developed to meet these deficiencies. My son’s educational deficiencies were in reading/ writing and math. My help came from an older sister who told me to use phonics to treat the first and gave me specific instructions. She said start with the letters AT then move through every letter of the alphabet and put it in front of the AT. This was only for starters. Eventually through this system you’d work your way through every vowel. OT, OB, OD. The point of this is that I sat with my son with a notebook. I divided the pages into 4 columns. The other first columns are the original columns we created together and afterwards he copied each word to the other three columns after we had practiced saying them several times.
Following is a short example of how my son and I worked together. I’d sit with him. We’d both have our own notebook and I’d kick off our learning session, “AAT is not a word, what about BAT? And I instructed him on sounds of each letter. After I wrote it on my own pad I’d wait while he copied in his first column. Then we’d go to C. CAT, etc. No doubt this was tedious but by the end of a summer following this routine my son’s grade level went up over 2.5 years. I also bribed him with whatever he wanted. Sometimes it was a special treat like burgers and fries at the local diner. Sometimes it was a comic book from the store. My sister ridiculed me when she found out I supported his love for comics and insisted he needed to read the classics. I read him Treasure Island. Honestly I didn’t remember this detail but my son happened to remind me of this the other day.
The math thing was very similar, beginning with the number 1 and adding 1, then 2 then 3 to the number 1 up to number 10 and copying it over 3 times. Eventually we got to 10 plus 10. The minuses go the same route. 10 minus 1, 10 minus 2, 10 minus 3, etc.
There was a clear parallel development between my inner growth and development and his. The more I learned about how I could parent him without losing my temper and by using a series of tactics and maneuvers to get him to do what I wanted the more I could move things along for both of us. I developed as a parent as he grew and developed.
Later when he was older we memorized the times tables with great difficulty and eventually he was permitted a calculator in high school. He was permitted to substitute a computer course for Spanish since that seemed to be undoable for him. Strangely, he took a liking to sign language and learned some from a friend of mine quite easily. Pity, that wasn’t an option for him. Obviously his mind works differently and he has developed a different pattern of intelligence.
My son not only graduated high school with honors, when he was in 7th grade, his nation wide testing scores proved how much this had helped him. His reading level tested at 12th grade level. Comic books are a mother to read – try it yourself sometimes – comic book writers have a great vocabulary. My son is a college graduate. We accomplished this with the following tactic. He dictated while I typed. It worked better this way for the papers he was required to write on various subjects.
I am very disappointed in the value of the educational system. A close friend, a history teacher, told me the other day that he was put on the carpet about his regents stats not being high enough. Even when students come from another school and he has never met them before, or students he hasn't taught for several years, show up and take the regents in his school he is responsible for their grades on the regents. Tell me anyone – does this make sense?
After this, his principal met with him and wrote him up for not having high enough pass stats. This teacher wrote a reply saying that his scores were 15% higher if you took out the children he never met before. When you took out the children who he met but it was over a year ago, then it came up another 5%. Still 68% rate is not good enough. These are children who may miss a day or 2 or more each school week.
Then the principal followed this up with that he has to see every test this teacher gives the class at least a week in advance. This particular history –social studies teacher makes up weekly quizzes for each class. He was further instructed by his principal to write every question on any of his quizzes from recent regents exams given over the last 2 years. This teacher went and bought half dozen regents prep books and began reading them so he could do as he was told.
This high school social studies teacher couldn't believe that the word holocaust is never mentioned or that it is only called World War II and makes no written mention of the word Nazi. This teacher really lost his mind when he saw that none of these books made any written mention regarding the 6 million Jews who were killed. What is written instead is "many people were killed". Yes indeedy, many people were killed along with 6 million Jews, gays, Asians, Gypsies and all ethnic types mixed race/religion bloods. Our educational system is becoming a system of systemically fed mistruths or partial truths feeding our children a very watered down version. Teachers are going to be rewarded for good statistical reports - not well educationally rounded children. Our educational system is turning our future, our children; into insipient, easy to control robots while the rich and powerful continue take control. Our children won't know our past, which is necessary to creating a new future. Those who are in charge - including Obama - don't have their children attend our public schools! Our entire educational system is a political challenge to an endangered species - us.
Our schools here in New York City have experts from UK visiting here to rate us and tell our administrators how to improve - but are UK success rates that much better? Not really if you do some research.
Our system here is about paperwork - not children's needs. Here you have to be an advocate for yourself and your children's needs. If you’re not – your children will fall through the cracks. Been there and done it and glad to be out of it on all counts ... professionally and personally - well not quite yet – as being involved with DubbleX means being involved with his son’s educational needs too.
I’ll give some history here then come back to my original thesis of how educational values are going down the drain and statistics are the on board values of the day and how now, raises will be given to those who have good statistics.
Back in the old days with the old board, my son was given several labels and diagnoses. As his condition changed and improved over the years he outgrew his diagnoses. The point is these diagnoses are all bullshit. The things to think about and work on are the child’s deficiencies. Once you have a clear idea of these deficiencies, it is easy to devise or find someone who can devise a series of instructional lessons developed to meet these deficiencies. My son’s educational deficiencies were in reading/ writing and math. My help came from an older sister who told me to use phonics to treat the first and gave me specific instructions. She said start with the letters AT then move through every letter of the alphabet and put it in front of the AT. This was only for starters. Eventually through this system you’d work your way through every vowel. OT, OB, OD. The point of this is that I sat with my son with a notebook. I divided the pages into 4 columns. The other first columns are the original columns we created together and afterwards he copied each word to the other three columns after we had practiced saying them several times.
Following is a short example of how my son and I worked together. I’d sit with him. We’d both have our own notebook and I’d kick off our learning session, “AAT is not a word, what about BAT? And I instructed him on sounds of each letter. After I wrote it on my own pad I’d wait while he copied in his first column. Then we’d go to C. CAT, etc. No doubt this was tedious but by the end of a summer following this routine my son’s grade level went up over 2.5 years. I also bribed him with whatever he wanted. Sometimes it was a special treat like burgers and fries at the local diner. Sometimes it was a comic book from the store. My sister ridiculed me when she found out I supported his love for comics and insisted he needed to read the classics. I read him Treasure Island. Honestly I didn’t remember this detail but my son happened to remind me of this the other day.
The math thing was very similar, beginning with the number 1 and adding 1, then 2 then 3 to the number 1 up to number 10 and copying it over 3 times. Eventually we got to 10 plus 10. The minuses go the same route. 10 minus 1, 10 minus 2, 10 minus 3, etc.
There was a clear parallel development between my inner growth and development and his. The more I learned about how I could parent him without losing my temper and by using a series of tactics and maneuvers to get him to do what I wanted the more I could move things along for both of us. I developed as a parent as he grew and developed.
Later when he was older we memorized the times tables with great difficulty and eventually he was permitted a calculator in high school. He was permitted to substitute a computer course for Spanish since that seemed to be undoable for him. Strangely, he took a liking to sign language and learned some from a friend of mine quite easily. Pity, that wasn’t an option for him. Obviously his mind works differently and he has developed a different pattern of intelligence.
My son not only graduated high school with honors, when he was in 7th grade, his nation wide testing scores proved how much this had helped him. His reading level tested at 12th grade level. Comic books are a mother to read – try it yourself sometimes – comic book writers have a great vocabulary. My son is a college graduate. We accomplished this with the following tactic. He dictated while I typed. It worked better this way for the papers he was required to write on various subjects.
I am very disappointed in the value of the educational system. A close friend, a history teacher, told me the other day that he was put on the carpet about his regents stats not being high enough. Even when students come from another school and he has never met them before, or students he hasn't taught for several years, show up and take the regents in his school he is responsible for their grades on the regents. Tell me anyone – does this make sense?
After this, his principal met with him and wrote him up for not having high enough pass stats. This teacher wrote a reply saying that his scores were 15% higher if you took out the children he never met before. When you took out the children who he met but it was over a year ago, then it came up another 5%. Still 68% rate is not good enough. These are children who may miss a day or 2 or more each school week.
Then the principal followed this up with that he has to see every test this teacher gives the class at least a week in advance. This particular history –social studies teacher makes up weekly quizzes for each class. He was further instructed by his principal to write every question on any of his quizzes from recent regents exams given over the last 2 years. This teacher went and bought half dozen regents prep books and began reading them so he could do as he was told.
This high school social studies teacher couldn't believe that the word holocaust is never mentioned or that it is only called World War II and makes no written mention of the word Nazi. This teacher really lost his mind when he saw that none of these books made any written mention regarding the 6 million Jews who were killed. What is written instead is "many people were killed". Yes indeedy, many people were killed along with 6 million Jews, gays, Asians, Gypsies and all ethnic types mixed race/religion bloods. Our educational system is becoming a system of systemically fed mistruths or partial truths feeding our children a very watered down version. Teachers are going to be rewarded for good statistical reports - not well educationally rounded children. Our educational system is turning our future, our children; into insipient, easy to control robots while the rich and powerful continue take control. Our children won't know our past, which is necessary to creating a new future. Those who are in charge - including Obama - don't have their children attend our public schools! Our entire educational system is a political challenge to an endangered species - us.
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