UrbanMamas, I’m sorry I called you a bunch of pussies and bitches. Also, since I posted that, we’ve decided not to move across town, so here I am, baby.

What I meant to say was the following: By transferring your kids hither and yon to go to school, you are being socially regressive. Also, you’re not expressing with your full capabilities. I heard from ProtestMama that you’re having a panel discussion about school choice options. Neither of us was invited to be on the panel, oddly enough. That’s fine, I get ya. I am working for Portland Public Schools now, doing community outreach, and I’ve heard you don’t really want to have PPS on the panel. ProtestMama does not work for PPS, she just knows her shit, but whatever. I’m sure you had your reasons. But you are saying that parents and others in the audience will be able to add their two cents.

I’ll probably add four cents, possibly nine cents, we’ll have to see. ProtestMama and I are planning to attend, if we can make it. Which brings me to my first question: Are we welcome at the table? Uh, no. Are we welcome in the room? I hope so. You have indicated that we are welcome, it is a public meeting and all.

Anyway. The discussion will be held at noon, next Wednesday, January 30th, 2008, in the U.S. Bank Meeting Room at Multnomah County Library’s Central branch, 801 SW Tenth Ave. My second question: We both do work outside of the home, as do many other mamas. Why noon? On a weekday? Ah, catering to the stripedy crowd, with their cunning hats and their stay-at-home UrbanMamas? Is that it? I would suggest holding another discussion, in the evening, and not downtown.

What would I like? I would like you all to please support your neighborhood schools, walk through the doors, tour them, give ’em a couple of years and a chance before deciding to transfer out (and I hope you do not transfer out, I hope you invest in your neighborhood schools). I want you to meet the teachers, administrators and staff. I want you to volunteer, so you get a true idea of what the school is about.

But most of all: I want you to please help us fight for equity for all of our students. If you want to know how you can help, go leave a note on my better half’s blog or e-mail one of us. A whole lot of us want equity for PPS students. You can start now, right this second, by e-mailing the school board, the superintendent, your neighborhood school’s principal. You can talk to your friends.

I thought it was telling that the little picture on the announcement for the panel discussion shows two suburban-looking ladies, gabbing at the back fence. Those “back fence deals,” (Should we fly? Should we stay?) those deals make and break our schools. Birds of a feather flock together and all that.

I started getting pretty involved in school politics the day I had two PTA moms, both white, in my home office. We were going over the books, figuring out fundraisers for the year. My daughter was entering kindergarten. They had older boys who were going into sixth grade, and both had decided to send them to a west side school, across town (loooooong train or bus ride) because they “couldn’t” go their neighborhood school.

“We’d be in the minority there!” one of them said.

“I know!” said the other.

My response: “I don’t give a shit about that — why do you?”

Blank stares. Blank. As blank and one-dimensional as those two women in the little picture on that post you ran.

“If we stayed, I mean, if we all stayed, we could make it better,” one of them ventured.

But they didn’t.

Did you know kids who transfer out of their neighborhood school are more likely to drop out? Feel like fishes out of water? Feel unwanted, and out of place, when the students who “belong” there let them know, You are not from our neighborhood?

Anyway.

I have the good fortune (or in her case, she might see it as bad luck. Ha.) to have a friend who is also a mom in the neighborhood. I’ve known her and her husband for more than twenty years. They’re not right in our neighborhood — they’re up the street a ways. But their kids dip in over here for a charter. The point is — we’ve been having some good discussions about what it will take, what PPS needs to commit to, what parents and community need to commit to, what changes need to be made in order to get people back to their neighborhood schools. To end the segregation in this town, the starving out of low-income children and children who are not white, to get as many of the goodies to as many people as possible. Complicating factors: The district’s radical open transfer policy. No Child Left Behind (will the Democrats rid us of this crippling legislation, if they get into office? I remain unconvinced). Classism. Racism.

She is going to start, in her own life, by volunteering at our neighborhood high school, Jefferson. Go, Demos!

I’ve finally started telling a Certain Group of Parents — let’s call them the, “We Are the World/We Are the Parents!” parents — that they are working against the greater common good by taking their little sweeties out of their own communities, where they live and (possibly? not often enough) play. The social fabric of our larger community is being damaged by all this me, me, me attitude. When you make sure your kid is getting a big enough hunk of whatever, and helping to ensure that other kids get a small hunk, or no hunk at all — you’re hurting kids.

I noticed this syndrome first at birthday parties, right around the time Wacky Girl turned nine months old. The chaos! The fancy cakes! The bounce houses, cotton candy machines, expensive, elaborate decorations and gifts. The kids, once they got a little older, weren’t as intent on playing and socializing as they were on something bigger: The Goody Bag. When would it come out? Where was it hidden? What did it contain? What if the parent forget to give them out???

If you are a parent who does not Give the Goody Bag, you feel shame. (I have been guilty, myself, of Goody Bag Overcompensation.)

Life, thank God, is not a birthday party. Education is not a birthday party, although it has become, as one of our local principals said, “A case of the haves and the have-nots.”

It’s about more than cake and goody bags. We’re talking about people’s futures, their healthcare, their livelihoods. Their self-esteem, the way they find (or don’t find) a place to fit in in the universe. It is important to me that we help our kids, our future, our collective national pride, that we help them however we can so they do not end up:

1) Shattered.
2) Addicted.
3) Abused.
4) Incarcerated.
5) Dead.

That’s important to me, for our children. They are our children, not just mine and hers and his and yours. Ours. I claim them. Do you? Because if you don’t, for real — and all you’re caring about is that goody bag and hunk of cake — you are a pussy.

Peace, yours in equity,

WM

My political ally J just sent along this note:

Excerpt from “Letter from Birmingham Jail”:

“In any nonviolent campaign there are four basic steps: collection of the facts to determine whether injustices exist; negotiation; self-purification; and direct action.”

Let us honor Dr. King’s memory by staying the course.

(And the story I referred to here came from The Autobiography of Martin Luther King, Jr. )

Hmm. Want to know what I did tonight? First I took my daughter to tap dance. Her tap-dancing grandmother will be thrilled when I tell her. Then we came home and had a fast dinner, and drove over to Jefferson High School for a little meeting.

A meeting that numerous parents decided to boycott, so guess who was there? That’s right. Me. Hockey God. And three other parents. That makes — five parents. And three kids (who raced around our table like crazy hooligans, but mainly behaved. Thank you, kids. Here’s a cooky.)

Who was there, besides us and the kids? Oh, about fifteen, or possibly it was twenty-eight, Portland Public Schools administrators and staff. Again — hmm. Some of you would be a little, I don’t know, freaked out by this. Or perhaps you would boycott and say You should have given us more notice nyah nyah. (I heard about the meeting last week, as did some other parents.)

Anyhow, you are not me, and that’s what makes me Wacky Mommy and makes you… I dunno. Grouchy and blog-less? (Ha! Triple ha ha ha!) (Pours herself a triple espresso. Thinks about her manuscript that she will work on later tonight, dammit. Or possibly tomorrow.)

First, I listened to The Administrators and Staff. Then, they listened to me (and Hockey God, and the other parents.) Then we all had a cooky. (I brought a large bowl of chocolate crinkle cookies with me. Chocolate crinkles, how I adore you. That is the recipe I used, that I just linked to. It’s deluxe.)

Hmm. Where was I? Yes. Then I listened to them, they listened to me, they listened to the other parents, we listened to them again and we made a nice big list of:

What We Want For Jefferson High School

It turns out we all want the same things. Who knew? Then we had another cooky, then we all went home. If you’d like to talk about this, you can send me an e-mail, or leave a note in comments. Better yet, drop a note to the school and cc the district.

Regards,

WM

PS — There was some talk of building an ice hockey rink at the school, for my husband and son, but no promises.

UPDATED 10 a.m. Monday morning…
wm

The meeting scheduled for Monday evening (Dec. 17th) at Jefferson High IS taking place. Community members will have a chance to discuss educational opportunities at Jefferson with district and Jefferson representatives

The meeting on Tuesday, December 18 with Superintendent Smith at PPS district headquarters (501 N. Dixon) will also take place.

A Conversation With Carole Smith

Please join Portland PTA Council for a conversation with Superintendent Carole Smith about the future of PPS schools. Where are the challenges and opportunities for our PPS community? How can parents connect with the district and best advocate for our kids? What is going well or not so well at your school? How can PPS better meet your students’ and schools’ needs?

When: Tuesday, December 18
7:00 pm

Where: PPS District Offices
Blanchard Building Atrium
501 N. Dixon
Portland, 97217

Coffee and dessert will be served!

RSVP or direct any questions to Russ Albertson, President, Portland Council PTA, ralbertsonlegend at hotmail dot com

Y’all,

You really do not want to start hurling insults in my neighborhood unless you know what you’re doing. No fighting! Only love! No fighting! Try saying this, instead:

You’re right! Why didn’t I see this all along?

Let’s be careful out there.

Love,

WM

PS — here is who’s in for NAWACOTID. Some bloggers are adapting our weekly holiday to include “no arguing with assclowns in real life, OR on the Internet.” Excellent idea. send me an e-mail or leave a note in comments if you want to be added. Cheers.

Jack Bog
BETSY
Hockey God
Vixen’s in
Zip. My Zip is IN.
Qanzas, all the way from Kansas
Qtpies7!
J. Lynne
Grand Poobah
Melissa Lion
Kevin Allman
TERRY OLSON
Me.

OPB wants to hear from you, Oregon parents.

WM

Hi,

My name is Scott Silver and I work for Oregon Public Broadcasting. I’m trying to get ahold of Wacky Mommy. (Ed. to say: Isn’t everyone? WM)

Right now, OPB is doing research into how parents choose which school to send their children to. We’re passing around an email, directing parents (and teachers) to our online question form. (more…)

I was mean about it when the Florida Room moved in. You know, I was all, just what Jefferson High School needs — a bar across the street.

They even had some protesters from Jeff and elsewhere in the neighborhood show up at one point. (The “Church of the Bloody Mary” sign did come down, which many of us appreciated.)

But when the shootings happened, after the Jeff football game, homecoming and dance on Friday? Who was the first out on the street? The EMT-trained kitchen staff from the Florida Room. (BlackFriend left a note in comments). She says, “They wanted to make sure the kids were all right.”

That touches the heart of even a bitchy cynic like myself.

Thanks, you guys.

Hullo, hullo, 13ers and Usual Suspects,

For my Thursday Thirteen, I am talking about skin. Its color, specifically. It all feels the same, skin, doesn’t it? When you touch it? Stroke it? Caress it? Burn it? Jab it and make it bleed? It bleeds the same. It hurts the same. We all have skin. It’s just that mine is white. Maybe yours is, maybe it isn’t. It doesn’t matter. But some people think it does.

How did I learn about racism? Oh, lots of ways. I’ll work backwards, from this week, as things come to mind:

1) From Cynthia Harris, the principal (African-American) of our neighborhood high school, Jefferson High School, here in beautiful, open-minded Portland, Oregon, USA. (Here are four links, because no one can agree on what one thing Jefferson should be). Harris told a group of parents and community members that “Black kids are different” and “Almost one in four black students at my school is in special education. Something is wrong there.” So they’re “different” and “really different,” apparently.

Harris refused to answer questions posed by a woman (white) who, like me, is an advocate for kids and a community activist. Why wouldn’t she answer her questions? Harris told the woman “(I) don’t understand why people who aren’t African-American think they should have any say in what happens at Jefferson.”

I say: Ms. Harris, be inclusive. If you can’t be, then you need to not work with students or any communities. I’m a community member, and I want to help make things better. Don’t say no to anyone who is trying to help — say yes. Your word should be yes. Yes, yes, yes. Yes, let’s talk. You don’t have to agree to everything everyone wants, that wouldn’t work. But I am asking that you listen to what people have to say, have a conversation, answer the questions that you are able to answer. Communication. Yes.

(This subject is also being discussed by Terry Olson, Hockey God, Willamette Week and KGW-8, Portland’s NBC affiliate. (And over at The Mercury, they’re talking about race as it relates to drug- and prostitution-free zones.) If you see discussions elsewhere, please e me.)

2) I was being a smart-aleck when I said “beautiful, open-minded Portland.” Because, while the scenery is quite beautiful in Portland, the people can be quite ugly. We have a long, hideous history of racism in Portland. I just lit a candle for Mulugeta Seraw and another one for the Coon Chicken Inn and another one for Tony Stephenson and another one for Jose Meija Poot and another one for everyone. And I lit one, too, for the Portland Police officers who thought they should “decorate” the doorstep of a business (black-owned) with dead possums. Maybe I ought to light two for them.

This isn’t all of it — these are just a few “situations” that came to mind.

I am not proud of my city’s heritage, you should be aware of this.

3) I learned about racism when my friends had their house firebombed, windows broken, furniture on their front porch burned, in the early ’90s, by the Skins who lived the next street over. They are an interracial couple — a woman (African-American), her husband (white), and their female roommate (African-American). They chose to leave Portland.

4) When I was in third grade, my girlfriend Teri and I sat down with a table of kids (African-American), at lunch. She proceeded to talk at length about the following: watermelon, and her love of it; her grandparents, and their house in North Portland; did she mention she really loved watermelon?; and how she was always at her grandparents’ house, in North Portland.

I felt really weird, but didn’t know why. I didn’t say anything.

The kids all took their trays and moved to another table. When I asked my mom why, later, she said, “Jesus H. Christ, I cannot believe what an idiot that kid is” and swore for awhile before she explained.

5) In fourth grade, after my dad died, I spent most lunch hours alone on the playground, hoping no one would notice me, and trying not to cry. A pair of twins (African-American) found me. They were a year older than I was, and well-known for their fistfights, which they always won.

“Did your daddy kill hisself?” they asked me.

That’s when I started thinking that black people were mean, and would beat me up if they saw any weaknesses.

6) Then there was fifth grade, when I heard one of the older girls, an eighth-grader (African-American), tell another eight-grader, boy (African-American), “Boy, you are fucking with my nerves.” We did not talk like that at my house and that’s when I learned, sometimes black girls can be mean, but they totally fucking rock. Fuck yeah.

7) Then there was sixth grade, when Paula (African-American) beat me up. I deserved it, I was being a jerk to Dina (bi-racial — African-American and white) and really, I totally deserved it. But they were both friends with me, after that. Dina used to come into the pharmacy where I worked, and the restaurant where I waited tables, just to say hi. Her mom did, too. She’d say, “Dina says hi.”

I ran into Paula a few years ago — it was so good to see her. I told her I had heard that Dina was killed in a car accident, when we were all in our early 20s. It was her husband, I heard. He wanted her dead, there was domestic violence. (I didn’t tell Paula that part; her daughters were there.) Paula told her daughters, “We were all friends.” And I told them, “You just never know how things are going to turn out, so we need to all be good to each other.”

I should light a candle for Dina, too, don’t you think?

9) We had race riots at my school — “Black versus white! Black versus white!” a few kids would scream. They’d all spill out to the park. Some guys (African-American) would break out cake-cutters. They were metal and sharp. Some guys (white) would threaten to have knives, but they only occasionally did. I would watch from the playground next to the park, then I would walk home. Then my mom would ask, “Why are you home early?” and I would say, “Fight.” Where were the grown-ups? I have no idea. Smoking in the teachers’ lounge, I imagine, and complaining about us.

10) I found out that some kids (white) from my neighborhood were being bussed to schools (black), far, far away, in North Portland. (I went to school in Northeast, ten minutes from North). And some kids (black) were being bussed from schools (black) in their neighborhood (North) to my school. Everyone getting on and off the busses seemed to be in a bad mood. There were a lot of fights on that end of the building. I learned to keep my distance. I learned that a lot of times when people got sick of talking they used their fists.

11) Then there was my maternal grandma (white) from Dakota (North) who called Brazil nuts “nigger toes.” Then there were my mom’s relatives (white) from the south who said, “You want some good barbecue, you go get some of that nigger barbecue.”

12) I learned about racism when I fell in love with a man (black) and another man (brown). I learned about racism when I was on jury duty and they asked us, one by one, if we’d ever been involved in an interracial relationship. If you had been, you were disqualified.

“Did you notice that people stared at you when you walked down the street?” the lawyer asked.
“Yes,” I said, “But I just thought it was because we were so good looking.”

13) I learned about racism while we were planning our 20th high school reunion in 2002 and the former cheerleaders (white) insisted on having the reunion and picnic in ritzy areas of town (white) where I told them that a lot of my old friends (African-American and Asian) wouldn’t “feel comfortable” going.

Is that the most stupid expression ever? “Feel comfortable”? “It makes me uncomfortable”? But I didn’t know how to put it. I suggested Peninsula Park, in North Portland. I had talked with Paula, who had talked with some of the other alums. They had asked for Peninsula Park. Cheerleader frowns all around. “It’s too dangerous there.”

It made them “uncomfortable.”

How many guests of color at my reunion? Three (Asian, African-American, African-American.) There were close to 400 kids in my graduating class, which was maybe 60 percent white, 20-25 percent Asian, maybe 15-20 percent African-American and a few Hispanic kids.

Three people.

Well, look who was quoted in the Portland Tribune today — that’s right. Hockey God, aka my husband, Steve-o.

I haven’t spent a lot of time at Humboldt, but the times I have been there, I’ve been impressed. (Do you remember that post, you old-timers to this blog? My legs were bruised for weeks. Harsh toke.)

(Now that we’re being interviewed by the media — and by “we” I mean Steve — do I have to stop saying things like “harsh toke”? How about “ride the fucking six pack”? Where do you stand on that? How do you feel about the “f” word? Hmm. Will ponder. Leave me a note in comments if you’d like.)

And Humboldt — excellent work, you guys.

(If you’re interested in more PPS archives, right here is where I started bitching up a storm about a little $5.2 million dollar grant that wasn’t getting spent in the Jefferson Cluster. And right here is where you’ll find a Willamette Week story about all the hard work Lynn Schore has been doing to track said grant money. And right here is where you’ll find one of the money maps my husband has put together.)

Even though Vicki Phillips has left for the Gates Foundation, we’re still stuck with the mess she’s left behind for Portland Public Schools. We have some K-8 schools; some that don’t fit the mold; Jefferson High School, my neighborhood school, still in shambles (but they can spring for astro-turf at Grant. Go, Generals! You’re right, you do deserve the best, ya idiots); they’re possibly adding on to Lincoln (hell yes, Lincoln Needs Money and More, More, More) (I’m being sarcastic, is it transmitting?), etc.

Let’s go back a few years. A long, long time ago, I didn’t have kids. And I didn’t know much about schools, like many of you. I always cared, though. So I always voted for the school funding measures, and I even volunteered at the public schools once in awhile. (They’d ask me to come in sometimes and talk with the kids about How I Became a Writer.)

At the back of my mind, always, I’m thinking, “Who’s going to be cath-ing me when I’m old? Who’s going to be working at the nursing home? Will they talk Kerouac with me?” I was the first person in my family to graduate from college. I had to fight hard to finish. I worked two or three jobs the entire time I was in school and graduated debt-free, thankyouverymuch. (My aunt brought up the number of grads in my family to two a few years ago! Yay, auntie! And my cousin graduated this spring! Go, us! That’s three college graduates. Plus one who just finished nursing school! I was raised by wolves, people, but it’s OK. I’ve learned to deal.) School is important to me, and always has been.

My Mom had a little mantra for me that she started chanting when I was three years old. Or maybe two. “First you’ll graduate from grade school, then you’ll graduate from high school, then you’ll graduate from college!” Oh, OK. And she and my Dad set aside enough money to pay for my first year, so I had to go! (See what happens when you expect things from your kids?)

We need decent, strong, free public schools in this world, especially for those students who aren’t getting a lot of encouragement or money from the homefront. Not everyone has parents who are pushing them.

I had a stepson, sort of, lo these many years ago. When my live-in boyfriend and I broke up, I kept visiting rights with his son, so I got a little glimpse into the Portland Public School system at that time. (He’s 21 now.) (more…)