Sunday, April 30, 2017
Damsels and Dragons...
Thoughts
while standing at a kitchen sink:
"Damsels are slain instead of saved. Dragons are saved instead of slain. That's what's wrong
with public education. Why does my district's school board keep fire breathing school principal dragons? Why are school
teacher and counselor damsels the ones in danger? Why isn't it the other way around?"
News Flash!
"SCHOOL
DISTRICT SLAYS DAMSELS! SAVES DRAGONS! The story of one school district, one school, and one union."
The school's slain damsels: KW (that's not me), @#, ME (that's me), #$,
&!, %^, #@ and @!. I was charged almost two thousand dollars to see how many distressed damsels requested to transfer
out of that school so there have to be a whole lot more.
Theirs
are slain damsel careers. Slain ability to pay bills and mortgages.
Slain health. Telomeres. Slain sleep. Sanity.
Slain damsel respect. Damsels are left with "the jitters." Left with slain respect for themselves
and for their employer. Slain trust.
__________________________________
Now toasting toast. Coffee in hand:
The
district saves fire breathing school principal dragons like O. He's possibly the worst of the lot. Even the union identified
him as the most awful and dangerous. But there are more and they're breathing fire at other schools. In my district
they include: E and M.
The district protects dragon careers.
It saves dragon bill paying and mortgages. Saves dragon retirements. Saves the dragon fire of bullying, sexual harassment
and lies so that damsels lose almost everything.
____________________________________
Now unloading a dishwasher:
Saving damsels and slaying dragons:
MN-the biggest dragon slayer of them all. There are/were no others at
my former school. There was me. I left though. Was accused by other distressed damsels of damsel abandonment.
Was accused of "just taking care of my own (damsel) self."
Working at that school must be like living in Cuba. I once heard that Cuban citizens can't even criticize
the government in their homes. Even family members are spies. That's how it felt working at that school. Spies
were everywhere. There was only the one dragon slayer and he died. He died in the dragon's layer--the dragon's
office. His death is now just another part of the fearful whisperings about that school. Whispers about bullying, misogyny,
sexual harassment, danger and now death.
And
still the dragon is saved. Still more damsels, surely, are slain.
The dragon slayer, when he died, was probably protecting yet another damsel from that dragon's fire I
wasn't there, so I can't be sure. I'd left years earlier. This damsel in distress (me) had to pick up her empty fire extinguisher
and get herself and her frayed telomeres on outta there.
If it hadn't been for the dragon slayer, I would not have made it.
Yet, that school and the school district are NOT CUBA! Distressed damsels
are supposed to be protected! There are school board policies against bullying, harassment, and violence! Damsels have
rights! All kinds of damsels--old, young, corpulent, thin, blonde, buxom, white, black, or male (because guys need to
be saved too). Once, my female assistant principal told me--with some disdain--that a male teacher "cried like
a baby" in front of the principal. It seemed a game with our dragon. "Two damsels cried today!" he might
exclaim! "I'm going for three tomorrow.... I'm bored."
Roar.
_________________________________
The
dishwasher remains full....
"Save me!"
Sunday, April 23, 2017
A president, a senator, a newscaster, and a principal go into a bar...
Words matter. Spoken. Written.
They matter. How they are spoken matters. Written too. It also matters where they are spoken.
It matters that my former principal once pursed his lips and said to me,
"This is where I got my first kiss." It matters, too, that I feel I must explain myself to you. Why I was
there in that hotel lobby bar alone with him, and so I will not. I will write, however, that I was disgusted.
It matters that he screamed and cursed at me in front of other women.
He intimidated them and me. Intimidated me to "STAY THE F--K OUT OF IT!" and the other women to say they didn't
remember his screams.
It matters, matters, matters, that
ALL women who've reported him have been silenced. Probably some with money. It matters that my district charged me almost
2,000 dollars to see public records about him. I'd wanted records of employee requests to transfer out of his school.
It matters that his "Roger Ailes" boss equivalents--regional
and district leadership--do nothing to help women working at that school.
They only help him.
__________________________________________
More:
It matters that (former) Florida Senator Frank Artiles, apparently got
drunk and called people "n---as" and "b--ches." It matters, too, that others are brushing aside his words'
impact. "I think we're all ready to move on," said Representative Jose Diaz.
I'm not Mr. Diaz. I'm left to contemplate in frustration Mr. Artiles' disdain
for my and my daughter's gender. Your willingness to so quickly move on too.
So, words matter. It matters that President Trump lasciviously spoke of grabbing
women's "pu---es". President Trump was in his late fifties and had not yet fathered Baron. But he was
already married to our first lady.
It matters that Bill O'Reilly's
propositions and threats to women--over twenty years--were ignored. It matters that I was deceived by his on air grin
and twinkle. I thought he was fair. Was balanced. In spite of Kimberly Guilfoye and the rest of the Fox
News "girls" in tight skirts, push up bras, false eye lashes, and stilettos, I trusted Bill to inform me about
"conservative issues."
Bill's impish grin and twinkling
"on the air" eyes must have soured quickly though when the studio lights were dimmed.
I'm Monday morning quarterbacking my gullibility. But yeah, that
grin, now that I look closely IS a smirk. And that twinkle ain't nothin' but lascivious, lecherous thoughts about his
"Foxy broads" passing through his "Foxy brain."
I'll bet he often thinks about his "Foxy ladies"--women with masters' degrees....pole dancing. Erudite
and smart women naked and in stiletto heels. You know that's some "thought provoking" stuff!
What must it be like to be a woman and work at Fox News? Are women
required to wear those tight skirts and push up bras? Do their "gams" have to be on display? Because not a
one of them has a dimpled gam. Those displayed gams are workout worthy! As in work out your male eyes and pretend
you're interested in the news.
The dimpled gams are pants covered and on MSNBC and CNN.
Conservative values. What are those
exactly? Do conservatives value..tradition? Do Fox news watching men want women "(back) in their 'traditional'
places"? I add the word "back" because women have worked hard to get out of the place men like my former
principal and Bill O'Reilly apparently would like them. Dancing around poles, cooking dinner, and stuffing pipes? Women
are so much more than their boobs, butts and p---ies, gentlemen!
I'm done with Fox News. Done with defensive, disrespectful, dangerous men like my state senator, my
president, my newscaster and my former principal.
Me
and my couch sitting, dimpled gams'll be at CNN with Anderson.
Sunday, April 16, 2017
My friend O and the FSA...
This is what my seven year old friend O said when I asked about recess
at our local public elementary school:
"We didn't get recess today. We weren't good. We only get recess if we are good." He
said this in a forlorn and small voice. Kind of heaved a seven year old sigh. I can't imagine O misbehaved. O's
quiet. Just a little shy. I am certain he does what his teacher tells him to do. So it must have been one
of the other exuberant and boisterous boys who exasperated the second grade teacher. According to O, no one "gets to
go outside" unless everyone does. And so the children stayed in their room.
Probably did bubbling drills for upcoming tests. Or maybe their teacher required another online prep
for the FSA.
It's been fun getting to know O. I really like him.
I like that he likes me too. O's new to our neighborhood and he's "my kind of person"--thoughtful.
I'd
picked up O and taken him for nuggets, fries and a coke. We were having our conversation in the car on the way to his "favorite
restaurant", Chik-Fil-A. I was happy with his choice as Chik-Fil-A's kale and cherry salad is delicious. O's parents
were both working late and had called in some desperation to see if I could pick up O. I, the neighbor--and on the "emergency
contact card"--gave solemn and smart O a thrill. Something different!!
He hadn't expected me.
O is an artist. With sidewalk chalk,
he once drew a number of super heroes on my back patio. Each super hero had "see-through-to-a-bad-person's-heart"
powers. Those powers were used only when that bad person's knowledge was necessary to solve a crime.
O is a reader too. He plowed through the Wimpy Kid series over the course
of a weekend. I witnessed in some wonder, O CHOOSE TO READ instead of watch television. Of course, my "seventeen-year-old-babysitting-O"daughter
was on her phone beside him.
I would have known O's a reader
anyway because he's engaging and smart. For example, I was pleased when O chose me to be his team member in a Battleship
competition in the tree house in my backyard. My sixteen year old son and aforementioned daughter were our competitors.
O and I won. We giggled and slapped five. We'd gotten a good
hit right from the beginning when we took out my children's two holed submarine. I knew the energy was good between O and
me as we blasted through our opponents' sub and then five holed aircraft carrier. We were ruthless!
"Hit." my children would desultorily mumble as O and I gleefully pondered
our next move. O figured out that my kids had grouped their ships pretty much in a corner of their ocean and so he and
I rat-a-tat-tatted that sinking flotilla.
Sa-weet!
O's got some Florida Department of Education tests to take next week. He's
taken Florida Department of Education reading and math placement assessments already. Did that his very first week at
school. Data, it seems, is more important than a person. More important than a conversation.
I could have been that person. I could have told O's teacher and
his principal that O's an advanced reader, but no one asked me. I could have told them that they didn't need to set my buddy
O in front of a computer and have him do reading drills. I could have been O's assessor. "O's really smart
and creative," I would have said. I would have told them about his super heroes and their powers. His patience
when drawing them. His perseverance. His determined spirit.
I might have relayed to them, too, my expanding heart when O unexpectedly saw that I was picking him up. His
smile spread across his freckled face. "Ah," I thought to myself, "this must be what it feels like to
be a grandparent."
I would have spoken about
emotional learning and how important it is for quiet and shy O to socialize during a recess from his test prep.
But he didn't get one the day I picked him up. Recess is, it seems, a
reward for seven year olds' cooperation in test prep and testing.
Poor O's a public school second grader in Florida now.
God help him.
Monday, April 3, 2017
Letter to a bullied educator...
Hey
there bullied educator. I got nothin' new to say to you. I know you are saa-ufffff---errrr--iiiinnnngggg. Your
pain and your fear drawn out like my sufferingly exaggerated word. I know it's the worst thing you have ever professionally
experienced. I know you are looking to A Piece Full World for answers. Solutions. HELP.
Have you documented your experience? Written down every single awful
thing--his innuendo and his threats; his two faced leadership; his screams and his profanity? Have you written about
every vivid awful event? Written it down with descriptors better suited for a battle field? Written of the emotional grenades?
The mental machine guns?Have you sent your anguish to your union rep? Someone? Yes? Good. No? Then
you better get on it, girlfriend!
Have you also written down how his
bullying makes you feel? The foreboding? The wariness? The suspicion? Your lurching stomach? Dry mouth?
My God! It's as if you're the co-star of an Alfred Hitchcock movie instead of a kindergarten teacher trying to
teach!
Gas lighting: manipulation over
time to believe you've gone insane.
"Ms. Werner, there've been
complaints. We must talk." My Alfred Hitchcock co-starring principal routinely said to me. He dimmed my lights.
Turned on his own. Snickered. Oh yeah, he was such a tease! Snicker, snicker.
If only I had girlishly giggled at his sexual harassment. Swooned at his manly
cursing. I did not. Instead I assertively confronted him. "Please don't call me 'honey", I said
to him. "I don't like it." I should have continued. I should have said, "It makes me feel
unclean and sexualized when it comes from you. You make my stomach twist with your salacious grin. You're a true misogynist
, aren't you? You really don't like women, do you?
Who
do you think you are, little man?"
But I did not say that.
What a mess I was at that school. I became an inner coward. I
didn't want to see him in the hallways for to see him meant feeling inadequate and insecure. And his buddy the other counselor.
And his lackey the assistant principal. What a worn out "yes-sir-ee-bob-er" she was. Poor woman.
O. M. G. Even worse maybe was she than the counselor friend...
But I became more than a coward too. I became a hero. My own hero. I DID NOT BECOME ONE
OF "THEM".
Gas Lighting. It took some
time to even begin to touch the buried horror at that school. I still don't know the half of it. One bullied educator--one
of so very many--in her plea to the district wrote: "PLEASE HELP ME."
"You dropped the ball," my door mat assistant principal once said to me. This was just
one more assault as she desperately worked at finding SOMEONE TO BLAME. I'd innocently taken a call from a parent. The
parent was concerned about her daughter being threatened. I asked that the school's receptionist relay that concern
to my DM, er, I mean, AP. I was in a delicate meeting with the parents of one of our special needs students. I'd
taken a bathroom break and was called over by the receptionist to speak with the parent.
The girls fought while I was in the meeting. "You dropped the ball," my
assistant principal said to me as she began her maneuvering to cover her own butt. This was one of those "Oh no
you don't" moments for me. Inner hurricanes become the foreboding odd silence of the hurricane's center. Cowards
become heroes.
What a hellish time in my life!
Almost two years. NEVER before or after have I every day felt that kind of dread. Every day...to this day. Recently
I passed by his school's road on the way to my therapist after being diagnosed with PTSD after my family was sued because
of an accident at my son's school. I know that's a run on sentence and that is exactly how I feel right now. I
feel "run on"; PTSD trampled. PTSD flattened. PTSD crushed by the leadership of my school district.
I run on too. I run on and away. But it is never away. I carry
him and his emotional brutality with me. He's ONMYBACK!
And he's a heavy load, my friends.
My
current assistant principal last week asked me in some wonder why my brute still holds so much power in my life. After all,
I've been "out of there" for almost seven years now.
"After all". After all of what? The cover up and the lies? I've been called by
yet another target. Good God! What a joke to superciliously have an anti-bullying policy for our children when
our schools are filled with such leaders as my former principal.
I cannot answer. I do not know. I only know that he and his smirk and his oily hair and his squinting
eyes and his beefy white and hairy hands....well, they are part of who I've become. The bad. Less idealistic.
Less joyous. Less trusting.
But
more too. More good. More resilient. More resolved. More than anything...accepting.
