Sunday, October 30, 2005

FBI and your Mama

You can breath easy now, my FBI file went through. I just got a letter from ucla letting me know that my "background check for professional and personal fitness for supervised fieldwork in the public school system has been cleared through the Department of Justice and the FBI."

As if they were going to find anything. "Ooops, she broke into the campus jacuzzies after hours freshman year. She obviously is not fit to teach."



In other news, I got the new Kanye West CD and it rocks. I love how he decided that it was time to release his Mama song. That's how you know you've made it big -- 'stead a bein' aSHAME of yo' Mama, you done sing 'bout her to da worl', LOUD.

daylight savings

I was fairly certain that I didn't enjoy the increasing morning darkness as I woke up, got dressed, and started driving to school. HOWEVER, the sun setting just after lunchtime is even more obnoxious.

Friday, October 28, 2005

the big apple pie

I can't believe that this story was in The New York Times, and not The Onion:


An unseen, sweet-smelling cloud drifted through parts of Manhattan last night. Arturo Padilla walked through it and declared that it was awesome.

"It's like maple syrup. With Eggos. Or pancakes," he said. "It's pleasant."

The odor had followed Mr. Padilla and his friend along their walk in Lower Manhattan, from a dormitory on Fulton Street, to Pace University on Spruce Street, and back down again, to where they stood now, near a Dunkin' Donuts. Maybe it was from there, he said. But it wasn't.

Mr. Padilla was not alone. Reports of the syrupy cloud poured in from across Manhattan after 9 p.m. Some feared that it was something sinister.

There were so many calls that the city's Office of Emergency Management coordinated efforts with the Police and Fire Departments, the Coast Guard and the City Department of Environmental Protection to look into it.

By 11 p. m., the search had turned up nothing harmful, according to tests of the air. Reports continued to come in from as far north as 112th Street shortly before midnight. In Lower Manhattan, where the smell had begun to fade, it was back, stronger than before, by 1 a.m.

"We are continuing to sample the air throughout the affected area to make sure there's nothing hazardous," said Jarrod Bernstein, an emergency management spokesman. "What the actual cause of the smell is, we really don't know."

There were conflicting accounts as to its nature. A police officer who had thrown out her French vanilla coffee earlier compared it to that. Two diplomats from the Netherlands disagreed, politely. Rieneke Buisman said it smelled like roasted peanuts. Her friend Joris Geeven said it reminded him of a Dutch cake called peperkoek, though he could not describe that smell.


Published: October 28, 2005

Thursday, October 27, 2005

roommates

behaviors and incidents which completely exasperate me:
  • the fact that we just got ants again in our kitchen, yet when I arrived home tonight to an empty apartment there was a half peeled banana and cooked yam sitting on the counter
  • the fact that we purchased and set up a basket for mail and a coat/purse rack next to the front door, yet there are constantly jackets and handbags and mail on the couches, coffee table, and dining room table
  • the fact that the other toilet was broken all last week so we were all using the little bathroom ("mine") and for some inexplicable reason, the sink surface was continuously covered in puddles of water, as though one roommate had decided to bathe standing up, leaning over the bowl
  • the fact that crickets linger on our front stoop waiting for any opportunity to jump inside (and hop into my bedroom), yet the door is frequently left agape when retrieving laundry or talking on the cell in the driveway

a family correspondence

MOTHER: Now the question is, who is the only one among us with a very old pillow? Isn't it you, my sweet clean child?
-Mums


DAUGHTER: I THREW THAT PILLOW AWAY A YEAR AGO AS SOON AS I NOTICED DUST COMING OUT OF IT, sweet, clean mother.
(When I sent this, I was thinking of Daddy's hard-as-a-rock pillow.)


MOTHER: I threw Daddy's sandbag pillow away about two years ago! It is true that I broached the subject gingerly, every other month or so for several years, and your father always grumbled in response that he liked it, but he finally gave in and let me toss it. Now I buy new pillows about every year and a half or so. The thing is, whatever I reject, Aaron gleefully grabs and adds it to the many on his bed.


OBLIVIOUS FATHER: This made me laugh...I had a pillow from camp ramah in canada that I loved and had it for years and years. It was incredibly comfortable. Mommy hated it, I think.
-XOXO Daddy


CALLOUS AND UNCARING DAUGHTER: HAHAHAHAHA Daddy's take on the old, hard pillow.

MOTHER'S RESPONSE: His email is really funny!!

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Backstreet's back, alright!

Remember back in the day during USY regional when we were all waiting outside the ballroom for the doors to open and our dance to begin, and we started the entire five-hundred teenager crowd singing Backstreet Boys' "I Want it that Way?" And remember how everyone knew the words and at the chorus our voices joined together to demand, "TELL ME WHY?" This will bring you back.


ps Check out the boy's cast. Awesome.

yoga booty ballet

Soupdabadakivasana is back and here to stay! My oh my has it been good for me, as evidenced by my THIRTEEN HOUR sleep last night. Though the glutes and rhomboids are sore (I had to google that last muscle group), I am feeling 200% better than last week, when I didn't perspire once. Except for when I put on Bailey's Alaskan hunter snowsuit, but that's a different story. For now, let me just say: welcome back, YBB!!!

Sunday, October 23, 2005

Abbey wears a sheitel

Today two people asked Abbey if she was wearing a sheitel, which I think is the funniest thing ever. That girl has got to realize one of these days that she is becoming Orthodox. She works at Aish, she has new Aish friends, and she just spear-headed the Kashering of our kitchen. Though she denies it daily, there is no mistaking her descent into "reelij."


Her response to the sheitel comments? "My hair is RED, and it's CURLY, and I'm pretty sure they don't make wigs like that."

Dear God

Lord, please deliver me from my itchy nose and these sneezing attacks I keep getting THEY ARE DRIVING ME NUTS and I've already tried Flonase but apparently I'm allergic, just like I was allergic to my new bathing suits. I have been doing my part in sleeping well -- you should know about that, especially about my fifteen-hour nighter before Yom Kippur. And I've been chugging the vitamin C, and tossing back the Target brand Tums, because MAN those things taste good.

And while I've got a direct line, can we do something about my Literacy class? Could my readings BE any more annoying? Could our assignments BE any more confusing? Could we possibly reflect on ANYTHING after sitting through three hours of warp-speed instruction? The answer is no, and I think you know what you need to do, and that is APPEAR IN A DREAM before teachers Joyce and Sarah and whisper to them in a deep voice, s t o p t h e i n s a n i t y ! ! !




Amen.

Saturday, October 22, 2005

minority among minorities

For the first time in my life, I know what if feels like to be a minority. Among our team of twenty-two post-grad students, I am one of five who is not part of an immigrant family. The other seventeen students came with their parents -- or are children of those who came -- to America from another country.

We spend a lot of time in our classes discussing the obstacles that impede inner-city children's success. We consider that many of their parents don't speak English, work multiple jobs, or are unable to help them with schoolwork. We discuss the overcrowded schools, the unsupportive guidance counselors, the lack of resources that our public education system suffers. And then we turn to those seventeen students and hear them retell their own tales of hardships and inadequacy, fitting in and pleasing parents. These seventeen are the success stories that we hope to breed in our own future classrooms. These seventeen are The Ones Who Know, who've Been Through The System.

I hear between the lines that because I was fortunate enough to be born White in America, I don't know what it means to work hard. It is implied that they will always have one-up on me because they truly understand their student's plight.

The thing is, though, that I was not born with a silver spoon in my hands. Both my parents worked full-time to afford my and my siblings' education. Our closest relative lived in Minnesota, hardly convenient as a supportive role-model. I paid attention in class, and I did my homework, and I pushed to get into challenging classes. I chose to work hard and get all I could out of my schooling.

I am not trying to undermine the seventeen whose childhoods were marked by struggle. I admire them and their family's perseverance and success in producing college graduates. It is miraculous how the American Dream is continuously realized by hopeful immigrants. It is heartening that the Teacher Education Program is comprised mainly of first and second generation Americans. I wish, though, that our class time was not always spent reliving these histories. Every person brings their own valuable experiences to the classroom. A Social Justice curriculum is supposed to make every student feel heard and capable and worthy of a voice. Let's not forget all of our student teachers.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

old, smelly, dirty pillow

This could have been written by my mother, honest to God:


AN OPEN LETTER TO
MY HUSBAND'S PILLOW.

- - - -

Dear Pillow,

When we first met, you were a charmingly grotesque symbol of my boyfriend's bachelorhood. He'd had you since college, and had never washed you. When I suggested that perhaps 10 years' worth of cooties and drool remnants from all the girls he'd slept with was not worth holding onto, the suggestion was met with tears and protestations. "It'll get fucked up!" said your valiant defender.

For a while, I was satisfied that getting him to wash the sheets more often was a victory. After all, he usually stayed over at my house, the land of cootie-free bedding. Surely I could live through sleeping next to you once a week if the sheets were clean.

I realize now I should have fought to get you out of his house while things were fresh and he was still trying to impress me.

Time passed and your valiant defender and I decided to marry. I accepted you into my life and consoled myself with the fact that at least I didn't have to sleep directly on your crusty, drool-stained, mashed-down self. When I changed the sheets once a week, I held you the way cartoon people hold something that is stinky: with my index fingers and thumbs pinching each corner, and at arm's length.

Again, I tolerated you. We agreed to disagree about the fact that you were a vile, stained creature fouling up my bed.

But then something happened. I ate lunch with a co-worker who had just seen a special on the local news about dust mites. Sure, I'd heard of them. Microscopic bugs that eat your dead skin, right? They were gross and all, but here's the fact that sent me over the edge: By the time a pillow is two years old, 20 percent of its weight is made up of dust mites and their droppings.

In other words, Pillow: you were full of shit.

I came home and told my husband to prepare himself for something that had to be done. I explained that replacing all of our pillows—not just you; it's not always all about you, you know—was necessary due to alarming new evidence. Feeling certain that he, too, would be grossed out by the new information, I was taken aback when he still refused to part with you.

You know things got ugly after that. I can't believe we allowed you to come between us at all, much less for three days' worth of arguments. In the end, unfortunately, we settled on just washing you. In extremely hot water. Twice.

Don't think it's over between us, Pillow. You know that thread that dangles from your seam and sneaks out of the pillowcase onto the bed? I'm thinking about pulling it.

I mean it,

Tracy Carr
Jackson, Mississippi

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

"lest the sour flavor blast start again"

Two McSweeney's New Foods that I had to steal:


Dry Brown Curds Snack

Submitted by Suebob Davis

I found this at our local Middle Eastern market.

It looks a bit like black fruit leather and claims to be made of yogurt. So far, so good.

I ate a piece only about one-eighth of an inch square.

Once the initial shock and pain of my salivary glands shriveling up passed, I stood in my kitchen, almost paralyzed.

The stuff was so sticky, and I could feel a piece stuck to my molar, but I was actually afraid to touch it with my tongue or move it, lest the sour flavor blast start again.

This may have a use, but I am not sure what it would be. If Middle Easterners can actually eat this with joy and happiness, they are much better and stronger than I.

- - - -

Olobombo Freeze-Dried Peach Pits

Submitted by Erika James

Olobombo hard and grizzled peach pits (freeze-dried to preserve freshness) are the perfect alternative for any vegetarian who misses the splintering sensation of bones as they fragment in the mouth.

pure Behaviorist classrooms

I was thinking in EdPsych that there ought to be more ways to incoporate negative reinforcement systems in the classroom. I came up with these suggestions:
  1. Every child has a small magnetic board placed on the corner of their desk. They each start the day with five cockroach magnets on their board. (Teacher is aware that the students hate bugs because of close observation during recess.) If a child does something appropriate, for example raise his/her hand to ask a question, the teacher removes one of the cockroach magnets. After all five magnets are removed, students begin to earn jellybean magnets when they produce good behavior. (Teacher is aware that they like candy because of close observation during birthday parties.) A child may earn one real jellybean for every five jellybean magnets they have by the end of the day. After one month, each real jellybean is earned for every ten jellybean magnets.
  2. Teacher fills the room with snakes. Every time a student correctly answers a given math problem, the teacher removes one of the snakes from the classroom. The teacher has a special cage outside in which to store the snakes, so that s/he can fill the room again each morning. (If a particular class ENJOYS snakes, then the teacher can substitute frogs, fox, lions, etc.)
  3. The teacher sets up a behavior chart with color-coded paper cards in pockets labeled with each child's name. Each child starts the day with a black card, which means visiting the principal's office. If they sit in their desks properly during Writers' Workshop, they may change their cards to brown, which indicates a conference with their parents. Students may work their way up to red (benched during recess), yellow (warning), and green cards by exhibiting continuing good behavior. At the end of the day, students who still have a red, brown, or black card serve their consequence. Then the cards are again flipped to black for the next day.
  4. The class begins every morning routine with Calendar. Then each child does his/her assigned "job" for the week. At this point, the teacher turns on the "Noise Maker," a machine which emits a high-pitched siren. It doesn't matter that the children cannot hear the teacher over the siren; they are working at individual machines that teach them how to read. For every job completed to the teacher's satisfaction, the Noise Maker is turned one decibal lower. Children have the oportunity to soften the Noise Maker further by turning in completed homework and neat classwork.


Lest you think, like my humorless roommate, that I am serious, rest assured. I would never touch a snake voluntarily, much less keep one in my classroom. (I would use frogs.)

Abbey's Laura Ingalls Wilder reference

"Alonzo! He was such a hottie!"

Sunday, October 16, 2005

engagement calendar

Back in the day when RAR was my friend, I would receive from her on my birthday every year a daily planner. Every year she got me a planner with a neat theme, with awesome pictures that I could cut out after I was done. When I was obsessed with maps (still am), I got an Ancient Maps planner. When I became obsessed with travel (still am), I received a Lonely Planet planner. Now that RAR is my ex-friend, I have accepted the huge responsibility of finding out my own themed planner for this coming year.

Behold, my pick for the new, daily 2006 engagement calendar:

Neglected Murderesses & the Deranged Cousins
by Edward Gorey.



I could not have found a more appropriate book.

Saturday, October 15, 2005

I am From

I am from the Freedom Land
of pilgrims and democracy
of cowboys and the last frontier
of Ellis Island, N.Y.C

I am from the Concrete Jungle
of 6.6 on Richter’s scale
of celluloid and silicon
of Riots, palm trees, rummage sales

I am from old South Carthay
of biking sidewalks warped by trees
of Pesach, walking, house-to-house
of swimming at the J.C.C.

I am from the Blue and White
of Abraham and Israel
of Bat Mitzvah and Brit Milah
of Torah, latkes, Shul, Hallel

I am from the house upstairs
of newspapers on bathroom floors
of Laura Ingalls Wilder books
of “Where’re my keys?!,” “No locks on doors!”

I am from the tiled kitchen
of whole wheat challah, Mrs. Dash
of ketchup, compost, Ovaltine
of onions grilled and garlic smashed

I am from my mum and dad
of Russian blood, Type A and O
of PhDs and Irish tunes
of parents, loving Doc and Jo

Friday, October 14, 2005

TomKat barf

My favorite comments from junk-feud's post about a preggers TomKat picture:

  • "Sometimes i think “maybe they’ll be happy together!” but only when im so drunk i can’t remember my own name." (Christina)
  • "I’m fascinated by his pants!" (sowrongfeelssoright)
  • "I so want to bone her pregnant body. But the sweater thing has got to go." (Ben Marvin)
  • "They have the exact same hair colour- they must get it done at the same time." (Becky)


And, as an added bonus, FakeDoctor's quite accurate summation of childbirth: "The unfortunately designed method of life delivery, full of bodily secretions, that I guess is a miracle but still really gross."

can you tell me how to get...

The FIVE mishaps to Emily's bday party tonight:

  1. Get into my car, reverse out of steep driveway and hear a strange scraping sound. The sound doesn't immediately worry me, since reversing out of the driveway often produces protests from my vehicle. But as I drive down the block, the sound continues, and my car veers to the right. I get out, check the undercarriage, and notice that I have a FLAT TIRE. I return to my house.
  2. Miriam and BJ insist on dropping me off and picking me up, since they are going out to dinner anyways. We get into BJ's car, drive down to the 405, and pass her street. BJ takes a series of wrong turns around the freeway and its cul-de-sacs before finding the correct street.
  3. I forgot the post-it with the address.
  4. Call up Cathy, who is hosting the birthday party. I write down the address and apt number. We pull up to the building, and I hand over the paper to BJ for when he has to pick me up. I get to the front of the apt building and call Cathy for the security code. As soon as I step inside, I completely forget her apt number. I can't check the building directory because I don't know her last name. I can't call her again because I want to retain some semblance of dignity.
  5. I think I remember her being on the fourth floor. I get into the elevator, where a nice man presses my floor. I get off on the fourth floor, and he follows after me. I guess that Cathy's apartment is number four-oh-two, so I walk up and knock. The elevator man follows right behind me, and I get creeped out until I notice that he has his house key out and is looking at ME funny. Number four-oh-two is HIS apt. I mumble a sorryIguessthisisnttherightplacehaha and slink off towards the elevator to hide until he is locked inside.
Listening carefully, I can hear that Emily is next door, in apt four-oh-one. I recount my story to my classmates. My dignity has no chance for survival if a good story is involved.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

ahyesmedschool

This man is hilarious, and possibly my future husband.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

education is not always FAIR

I can't tell if it's a good sign or a bad sign that either I or one of my teammates cry in every class we are in. Either we are forced to share a very personal and meaningful experience, or we are forced to share a very personal and painful experience, or we are forced to watch a video of a stranger share a very personal and emotional experience. Am I in the right course of study?

I have been blessed to be born into a family and community that values education. I was fortunate enough to attend excellent schools that were well-stocked with resources and teachers. I am fortunate that my schools did not have to follow mandated educational programs, and could be more flexible with curricula and teaching strategies. I do not have a single memory of inadequacy.

I am reminded constantly in TEP that there are thousands of students who have inadequate schooling. Many will not get individualized teacher attention, their own textbook copy, or watercolors to paint with, like I did. Many will not be driven by teachers to take challenging courses that prepare them for higher education. Most do not have educational role models in their own homes. In the school I am observing, nearly 90% of the homes are Spanish speaking. Parents are unable to help their children with English homework. Students are judged by their achievement tests. When I think about all the opportunities and resources that I have been afforded, I can’t imagine NOT using them to better those who haven’t.

Monday, October 10, 2005

postSecret

I never knew people kept so much inside. I feel so inadequate, being happy and content with my life. What would my "deep, dark secrets" look like pasted on postcards?









Sunday, October 09, 2005

she's not even kidding

"I'm starting to feel anxious because... of... a lack of things to feel anxious about."

I love Abbey because sometimes she says the exact things that I'm thinking but that sound too stupid to say out loud.

Basquiat

Last night I went to LAMOCA's exhibit on Basquiat. Hawking his cardboard scribbles on sidewalk corners, homeless Jean-Michel Basquiat was picked up by Andy Warhol and elevated to star position in the 1980s contemporary art world. He is one of those modern artists whose work looks like it was done by a second-grader. Truly, I have similar drawings posted on my refrigerator by dear six-year-old friend Tobie.

Basquiat is known for giving the art world a sort of FUCK YOU, making fun of art snobs and their critics, the very people who eventually supported his rise to fame. Even in the self-film about his life, Basquiat seems to tease about the validity of his art. MOCA, in part, gave him a FUCK YOU back. They hung his huge canvases like a Baroque salon, printed pamphlets explaining his work, and generally praised his every crayon stroke. I kid you not, this man used crayons. And newsprint.

I love the titles he picked for his work. Some examples are: Leonardo DaVinci's Greatest Hits; Natives Carrying Some Guns, Bibles, Amorites on Safari; and Arroz con Pollo. Some of his pieces have words drawn all over images, some connected by arrows, and some in list form. He connects, for example, Madonna and High Priest, Dizzy Gilespie and ornithology.

My all time favorite Basquiat is where he connects Post War with Post cereals.

Friday, October 07, 2005

by that which we call a rose

I don't usually identify myself by my last name. Sometimes I do. Often, once my last name is given, I will get a look of recognition, and I can see the wheels turning in the head, and then I'll get asked if I am the daughter or granddaughter of so-and-so. Ninety-nine percent of the time, the person is correct. I have a well-known family.

My grandfather was the director of my Camp, back in the day. His nickname was an abbreviated form of our last name, and everybody addressed him as such. Even his wife, my grandmother, rarely used his legal name. My grandparents had four children, all of whom worked at Camp for many years. The Camp community, with which I still maintain close ties, is where I am most closely asociated with my relatives. Ironically, this setting is also where I developed a strong sense of individuality.

My father was my school principal from kindergarten until seventh grade. I didn't mind my last name then; it marked me as special and somewhat elevated. Plus, he had a special nickname there that was wholly unrelated to our family name. When he left, he worked briefly as the Dean of Education at the UJ. Then he moved to the BJE, where he works with school principals, music teachers, religious school teachers, early-education teachers, and day school teachers all over LA. Most of them love him, and tell me so when we meet. So do the people who know him from Camp, where he worked for many summers as a counselor and rosh, and then later as founder and director of the special needs program. For these adults, our shared last name is his identifying feature.

I have many different names of my own. I have separate nicknames from each parent. I have nicknames from high school. I have nicknames from college. Most of my Hebrew teachers and relatives have another name for me. I can tell immediately my association with someone, simply by the name they choose to call me. No one crosses categories, because they don't have permission into other parts of my life. Once someone tried to use a different nickname with me, my grandfather's nickname, and it felt absolutely wrong. It was someone else's name, not mine.

These past two years have been really difficult for me in the sense of gaining my idependence from my family. Living in the same city and working in the same field as my father means that I rarely encounter adults who don't know me as The Daughter Of. It's a big SUCK to be consistently reminded of how I grew up, which charactor traits may not be my own. I identify fully by my first name because it's all me.

Today Dr. Sheila told us that we have to go by last names when observing in schools. Granted, I am certain that none of the kids from East LA have ever heard of my father, and will not even begin to associate me with their memories of growing up at summer camp. Regardless, I'm worried about my OWN reaction when I hear them call out to me.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

my butt. it hurts.

My ass is so sore. Anna has already made fun of me, saying that when I'm eighty-five she'll remind me of how back in the day when I was twenty-three I thought my ass hurt. That wasn't nothin compared to the pains I go through now, eighty-five-year-old me will say. But seriously, I can barely even sit down.

Today was our History-Makers conference at the California African-American Museum. I sat on a hard chair for the opening address. And then I sat on a hard chair for my morning panel on Hip-Hop. And then I sat on a hard chair for my second morning panel, this time on private practice and public law. And then, during lunch, I sat on a hard chair. I couldn't wiggle around or eat standing up or whatnot because Magic Johnson was addressing us. Yes, Magic Johnson. So then after Magic, I sat on a hard chair for my afternoon panel. That one was incredibly boring, but I couldn't move because there were only a handful of other people in the room.

Then I sat in the passenger seat of Sasha's car while driving home. And then I sat at my desk writing an assessment of Lois Lowry's The Giver (a fucking fantastic book). And then I sat on my butt for forty minutes in traffic to Brentwood, and then for an hour at Jackson's house for tutoring, and then for another half-hour in traffic on the way back.

My ass is so sore that I don't even want to sit on the couch to watch TV.

*gasp*

Did I just write that?!?!

new year resolutions

  1. Watch the news. Frequently. Perhaps the mornings of the three days I do fieldwork, I make a habit of eating breakfast with the morning shows. But then again, I hate TV newscasts. Maybe change my homepage back to CNN. Or just listen to Kevin and Bean in the morning, like last year. In any case, KNOW WHAT IS GOING ON IN THE WORLD SO THAT WHEN EXPLOSIVE STORIES OCCUR, I AM NOT THE ONLY ONE IN THE DARK.

  2. Eat healthy, organic-ish, less sugary meals. Roasted potatoes and onions, Arroz de la Cubana, salads with tuna, etc. That way I can also eat as much chocolate as I please.

  3. Refuse to let mountains of school work get me stressed out in the manner of crazy roommate. Rather, be super interested in the information because I CHOSE this field of study. Look at it as extensive job training.

  4. Stop fooling around with boys who put an expiration date on play.

  5. Be a FREE SPIRIT.

oh! the cases we've won... and lost...

Somehow I managed to get through high school and college without ever taking a single class on government or law. I say this as if my institutions of higher learning were negligent, but actually it was I who tried very hard to AVOID the subject, by taking classes in economics and the Holocaust and the Deaf Community when I could have learned about the US Constitution. Now in my Cultural Diversity of Education class, I am learning about the myriad cases for civil and educational rights that came before district and state courts -- some even reaching the Supreme Court. They are FASCINATING.

We started with Mendez v Westminster School District (1945), the case that un-segregated schools in the entire Southwest USA -- CA, AZ, NM, and TX -- and also served as a precursor to Brown v Board of Education. This case was HUGE!!! It took place in ORANGE COUNTY!!! It desegregated FOUR STATES!!! Yet, I have never heard of it before. And neither had my PhD in History mother, eleventh grade US History student brother, or PhD in Education and former elementary school principal father. I don't mention this to mean that my family is wholly ignorant, just that this case is not very well known. Even amongst a family with twenty-six combined years of university scholarship.

In one of my readings about Brown v Board, there are many references to other civil and educational rights cases. Thanks to Wikipedia! The Free Encyclopedia!, I now feel educated. And amazed! And incredulous that some of these things actually happened! For example:

In Cummings v Richmond County Board of Education (1899), the district raised taxes to support the public schools. Excuse me, I mean the White public schools. When the "colored people" and taxpayers complained, they were told that there were less White kids than Black kids, and therefor the district could only afford to pay for the education of the White kids. This arguement worked in court! !!!!!

Fast forward fifty years. In Sweatt v Painter (1950), a Black man was rejected from the University of Texas Law School on the basis of his race. He argued that there was no "separate but equal" facility available to him, as there was no Black Law School in Texas. THE JUDGE PUT THE CASE ON HOLD WHILE THEY ESTABLISHED A BLACK LAW SCHOOL IN TEXAS. Sweatt brought his case to the Supreme Court, arguing that the new Law School was inferior to U of T, and therefor separate but not equal. He won.

That same year, in McLaurin v Oklahoma State Regents, a Black student was rejected from the University of Oklahoma also on the basis of his race. He sued using the Fourteenth Ammendment, and U of O had to accept him. But they made sure that they gave him "separate but equal" facilities. He got his own seperate-but-equal row of desks in lecture, his own seperate-but-equal table in the caf, and his own seperate-but-equal table in the library. This was not exactly a gateway to social acceptance. The US District Court DENIED his petition to remove the separate-ness. Thankfully, the Supreme Court reversed this decision.

AND THERE ARE MANY MORE.

I almost want to go to law school.

Almost.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

50 rocks out

I'm glad that Fiddy gets the distinct honor of receiving a picture here, before even I do. I believe that not only does he have a Candy Shop, he also has wicked fast fingers and delts capable of squeezing any bellows he wants. Next time it's his birthday, I'm getting him some quality reeds.

From here.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

candy makes the world go round

On Mondays, we have a two-hour gap in between morning and afternoon classes. Yesterday, NewBestFriend Sasha and I ate on Kerkoff Plaza, right outside Ackerman Union. While eating, Brian Z from UCSD walks out of the building (!!!!) and I invited him to join us. He is getting his MA and PhD in Anthropology. Also this girl Christina from our morning class sat with us.

After finishing lunch, we still had about an hour before our UES class, and NBF and I were like .... what to do... what to do.... so we took out our coupon books from the bookstore and looked through them. By far the best coupon is the four ounces of free candy at Ackerman RX store, so that is where we headed. And proceeded to fill our plastic bags with far more than four ounces. No matter. After paying for the extra weight, we decided to head up to UES early to make sure we could find it. We hung out ouside the building for half an hour, eating our candy and getting nauseaus.

When the rest of our class finally walked up, they were each carrying their little own candy bag.

queer as folk

OMIGOD!!! I swear I just saw Ted from QaF driving a large black SUV. He was coming out of the Bank of America lot on Livonia, turning onto Pico, trying to make a left to go east. And he pulled in front of me and was straining his neck away to look at oncoming traffic, and I thought, hmmm, holding a wallet and receipt -- a kind-of older guy. And then he turned around to face me to make the turn, and he stared at me for a while, maybe because of my rock-star sunglasses, AND IT WAS TED!!!!! And then he was gone.