Summer School, Week 3

Here are the shanks. The largest one is approx. 5 1/2" long.

shank pics

Still trying to post the shank pics. Flickr is a pain, and I'm trying something else.

Shanks for the memories

I subbed for a welding class yesterday, mostly because I needed the money, and partly because the class has a plasma cutter & I've never used one. I talked to the instructor before he left (he's a friend of mine) and he walked me through what doors to lock, etc. He told me briefly that they shouldn't need to use the grinder, because he'd caught them making shanks. "I didn't really care," he said, "until one of 'em cut another one on Tuesday. Now I gotta watch 'em." Fucking great.

There are actually two grinders: a bench grinder and a 4" angle grinder with a worn-down wheel. I wondered if he meant both grinders, because they were working on boot scrapers and for as crappy as their welds were they needed to grind at least some. It didn't matter, because they immediately started to use the plasma cutter to cut little blade shapes out of the scrap metal. Two of the kids needed to finish welding, so I supervised that. They tend to not wear proper eye protection unless you constantly remind them, and I figure the MIG is where they needed me most.

Long story short: I confiscated three shanks, the longest of which was about 5 1/2 " long. They were just pathetic attempts, and they went through unnecessary pains to create them. There were 6" lengths of one inch flat stock all over which would've worked much better. Plus, they can't grind to save their lives. If I sound unfazed, you must remember that my mother worked in a prison for twenty years, and I know a good shank when I see one. I am coming to understand how to deal with these situations, and I simply asked them to turn over all shanks to me at the end of class. It worked. Had I gone to the Sociopath, her response would've been to blame me for "allowing" such behavior to go on. Plus, I would've put my friend's job at risk. The parents do not believe that such behavior is wrong, because after all, they're not REALLY shanks, and it's just boys being boys; thus, there would be no follow-up at home. In addition, to rat the boys out would cause some animosity towards me, creating a desire to ACTUALLY shank me. If this sounds insane, it absolutely is. I am simply reacting to a crazy situation in a way that preserves my well-being and shards of sanity.

Personal responsibility: fact v.myth

I had to let this one go for a day.

Yesterday I had one sculpture class and one painting class. The sculpture class went okay, because the girl with an aide was having a good day and was receptive to our suggestions. The painting class was quite productive, but when it came time to clean up, the two eighth graders started grab-assing, just sort of pretending to be cleaning. We work in a split room with a three-quarters division. The sinks are in the other half of the room, so I sent them to clean out their brushes while I put things in the supply closet. ( I know from experience that I can't trust them to put things away responsibly, but I make a point of showing them exactly how to clean brushes on the first day of class. I am the self-proclaimed Brush Nazi.) In the ninety or so seconds that it took me to put the supplies in the closet, these two jackasses got into a paint fight. As I walked in to get some paper towels, my sociopathic pseudo-boss came in. She saw the paint on the floor and the two idiots and began to publicly ream me a new one. She said, "See what happened because you weren't supervising them properly?" Incensed, I replied, " They aren't eight-year-olds. I shouldn't have to hover over them." She said, "They're kids. You need to be watching them. I know kids." (Bear in mind, this is all taking place in front of them, because this dumb bitch would rather power trip than show a modicum of professionalism.)

Oh, I see. My years of pedagogical training and teaching experience are trumped by...what? Your presumed rapport with these kids? I got news for ya, Psycho: they tell you what you want to hear because they want to avoid friction with you. They lie to you, like your own (mean and phony) children lie to you. In fact, everyone wants to avoid confrontations with you, because you are irrational and condescending and there is no reasoning with you. You feed into these kids' lack of personal responsibility by absolving them of it. Your value system is twisted and is entirely based upon keeping up appearances. You would rather see the baldfaced pretense of a so-called Good Person than a nonconformist who challenges the popular hypocrisy.

And the perpetrators? I lost my cool and snarled at them, hovering over them until they had cleaned every speck of paint. I betrayed them, but I felt betrayed as well. I understand now that virtually all of these kids have no sense of personal responsibility, and that many of them never will. This bizarre permissiveness/hypocrisy is the norm in this town, and as long as they don't ever leave it'll fly. It is the reason that you can blatantly break the law as long as you're friendly with the local cops and go to church on Sunday, but we've been pulled over three times in two years for going two miles over the speed limit or not coming to a complete stop. GET ME OUT OF HERE. GET ME OUT OF TEACHING. GET ME OUT OF INTERACTIONS WITH LOCAL IDIOTS.

Rage & Positivity: Hardcore in the Duke City

I saw one helluva show on Saturday in ABQ. I am abashedly a slave to MySpace and have blogged it already there; I am hesitant to go into detail, lest it seem redundant. Suffice it to say that Death Before Dishonor (Boston), Palehorse (CT), and Killing Kings (Denver) have etched themselves into my psyche. Admittedly, I suspect I was the oldest one in the crowd, and since it was an intimate venue I am bruised like a rotten banana, but the energy was incredible, and when will an old lady like me get the chance to brush against (okay, slam into) a horde of sweaty tattooed twentysomethings again?

See? I can write about Nice Things, too.

Mods

Or, in teacher parlance, modifications.

They're the accomodations one makes in order to best serve individual students. They are created based on a series of meetings between teachers, administrators, parents, and when appropriate, the students themselves. Without them, you're flying blind with a 'special needs' student of any variety.

I have no lists of such accomodations. One of my students has an aide (a big red flag--you have to have some Major Issues to get an aide); I am finding out through the grapevine that she has attempted to hurt herself and others. As we regularly use hot glue guns, x-acto knives, and shears in class, I would really like to know if this is copacetic--or if I am sitting on a lawsuit.

I find this frustrating. Check that--I am enraged. This is not some condescending little bitch-slap because I am 'merely' an art teacher. The aide has not even been informed of this girl's story. If anything were to happen...I can't even imagine it. No union. I'd be axed in a heartbeat. What recourse do I have? (Note: That's rhetorical.)

To the girl's credit, she has informed us in no uncertain terms when something makes her uncomfortable. For two straight classes now, she has asked to be removed from the company of others to work one-on-one with her aide. The sociopath I work with has stopped by to drop evil glances my way. As a result, I was called in by my real administrator to find out what the 'problem' is. It seems the sociopath (who has NO certifications, pedagogy, or knowledge of educational practices) feels I am simply dumping a problem student on the aide. What the fuck. I have modified my lessons, bent over backwards, and permitted my class to become a dumping ground for kids who simply have nowhere else to go. I was told that I need to keep her with the rest of the class, but not to let her get upset. Does anyone else see a potential problem here, or am I just cranky because I started lifting today?

Summer School, Week 2: art therapy

I am teaching a sculpture class and two painting classes. Because my groups are so small (and 'special'), I am trying like hell to accomodate what I think these kids need, by allowing them flexibility in media, projects, and even how much time they put in. If they reach a stopping point and clean up adequately (I remain rigid about that; I am the Brush Nazi), I let them just relax and socialize or play hacky sack.

Yesterday in my Sculpture class, the girl who has an aide refused to do any sculpture and became a little edgy and defiant. The aide is new and does not have any lists of modifications for her; all we know is she's what we call a "runner", prone to taking off if not monitored. Everyone is taking great pains to not upset this girl, because...well, I simply don't know. They walk on eggshells around her like she swallowed TNT. I've been around several kids who are prone to episodic fits, outbursts, and freak-outs; I've even seen them lose it. Never have I seen the adults so anxious to keep things mellow. To be blunt, if she's prone to violence, I'd like to know. Regardless, she was not going to do my project and she told me she didn't like art. She didn't want to use markers or crayons or pencils, and she wanted nothing to do with sculpture. Luckily, the aide (an experienced special ed teacher) figured out that she didn't want to be around anyone else and talked her going into an empty room and just drawing for the whole time. She settled down, and any potential crisis was averted. In fact, she opened up enough to tell the aide about how when she was five, she watched her sister get murdered, and a number of other things that are gong to greatly affect how I approach things with her.

We're playing around with Surrealism in my painting class. (It's self-serving enough to be a crowd-pleaser.) A girl whose "I'm dumb and trashy" persona rubs me wrong was actually getting into the painting she is working on. She sat apart from the others added some rudimentary drawing over an abstract watercolor background. The drawings were primitive at best, but they spoke volumes. A tornado was about to hit a house, next to which were a group of people of different sizes. A hanged man was suspended from nothing, a doglike creature grazed happily, oblivious; and the entire painting was peppered with sets of three crosses. She was subdued, but more than happy to explain it to me. In short, it was about how things actually were compared to how they are "supposed to be". There are no tornadoes here, and my smattering of art therapy told me that a house generally represents home life. My chest tightened. It was then that she mentioned her brother & I figured out who she is: her younger brother is the Problem Child in my Bitter Half's class, the one who brought the airsoft pistol to class, the one who gains strength & power through lying & stealing, the one exhibiting inmate traits at the age of nine. At any given time they are moving between four different households because their parents have chemical issues and are in the cycle of broken up/back together/broken up again. Things change so rapidly that sometimes the younger ones would come from one house in the morning, then we'd get a call to send them somewhere else in the afternoon. I'm glad she's responding so well to painting, but who heals the art therapist? Guess it's time to do some painful sketching.

Where IS the outrage?

Admittedly, I haven't taught in any meccas of progressive thought. My teaching experience is limited to small, rural, relatively-to-abjectly poor working-class towns. I have a mere five years of teaching under my belt, but I've seen between 180 and 450 students a week. Most of these are between the ages of 6 and 12, but I see dozens of adolescents and teens as well.

This is going somewhere. Hang on.

With the exception of a few notables, there seems to be a dearth of passion for anything, except for experiences that mandate several degrees of separation, such as video games. I am hard-pressed to think of half a dozen students whose lives are consumed by anything. I know of maybe two students who truly commit to drawing and art, and one girl who is simply good at everything but chooses to commit herself to rodeo; I knew a handful of kids back East who committed themselves to athletics, and there's the token Nerd or Nerdess who runs on pure academics. But I see a trend in schools and communities in simply placating the student body and structuring everything around not rocking the boat.

I am not asking the world to take up arms against the System (though I know I actually should); I just want to see a little original thought and a flicker of light that lets me know that society at large is not dead inside. I saw a strange '80s pseudo-horror flick called The Stuff in which people discover, market, and consume this goop that tastes great but eats your insides, leaving a hollow shell. I think I was about twelve or so when I saw it, and that hollow deadness made so much sense to me. People ingested it without questioning its source or nutritional value, and those who bucked its popularity were pariahs. Actually, I know it was the ostracism that resounded within me; even as a preteen I felt a familiar twinge.

In just the last dozen years or so, however, I feel practically alone in my twinges. Those of you who twinge with me know who you are. Our numbers are shrinking, watered down by vicarious experience and mindless consumerism. Oh, the drugs we court: television, shopping, gaming, blogging...as with any drug, moderation won't destroy your life. But how many people do you know who blindly accept all that is shuttled to them via mass media and the endless advertising? Certainly I am preaching to the choir, but I need to see in print that I am consciously trying to make a difference in these kids' lives, or I may as well just hang it up.

continuum in the vacuum

Yes, the title was merely an excuse to use two sets of double u's.

My Bitter Half informed me this morning that even if his job search goes as planned and he gets the new job, the extensive training involved will mean that we won't move until at least February. I will need to take the teaching job again this year. In short, this blog will thrive but I suspect I will age beyond my years once again.

My real administrator has been looking out for me and has requested that I get an art room since the sixth-graders are moving up to the middle school. She told me last night that it's set; I have a room if I come back. No more Art on a Cart. It will certainly make things more bearable...maybe I can do this.

I also recently got shot down for a public art work I proposed...it's a sign that I need to endure more of this educational hell. About fifteen years ago I bought a pin that said : "I've suffered enough. When does my artwork improve?" O, little did i know.

Summer School, Week 1

My core group of thuglets have dropped out of the program before summer school started. They don't get along with my sub-administrator either, who questions their taste in music and clothes if they are too far out of the Local Norm. This truly raises my hackles, because if anyone understands the reasons for rejecting the small-town rah-rah 'sup y'all paradigm, it is I, the Original Outcast. Leave them alone, dammit. Let them wear black. Permit them some questionable music with inappropriate lyrics. Don't act like attendance at sporting events is mandatory. Don't drop comments about how they could improve their appearance.

These were MY kids, the ones who just didn't fall neatly into the Categories. Now they're at home, doubtless getting into trouble or staring slackjawed at an X-box game. The exception is Favorite Thug, who is 15 and in Driver's Ed. He sneaked away from class to show me a drawing he was working on. It was pen & ink, really well-executed, his typical theme of demons. He told me, "I know I'm not supposed to do this, but oh well." It was then that I noticed he had drawn it (in ink, mind you) on the inside cover of a brand new hardcover Driver's Ed book. I covertly admired the drawing and told him it was beautiful, but that I'm not supposed to admire art penned in textbooks. I gently suggested that he bring a sketchbook next time.

Since my kids have all dropped out, I have all sorts of disenfranchisees that other teachers won't take because they are behavioral nightmares, have an aide, or simply won't do anything. I will have to create a whole new set of skills to adjust to this, and I just feel too put-upon to want to care. Maybe we'll just play hacky sack the whole time ( a tradition in my classes).

Uncle Bow

I stuck a picture of Pete Koller on my computer as the background. My son loves to sit on my lap as I waste valuable art time blogging, so I showed him the pic and told him, "Say hola, Pete!" For reasons known only to an eighteeen-month-old, he responded with ," Hola, Bow!" (rhymes with 'now'.) Now every time I open the laptop, he runs over and greets Pete with, "Hola, Bow!"
We're going to watch The Story So Far tonight & see if he recognizes 'Uncle' Bow.

I don't know what I was thinking

Why am I doing this? What possessed me to teach summer school? This is pure hell already. No one signed up for my classes because they all wanted to take welding and pottery, so I have the "default" kids who get things chosen for them because they can't be trusted to make a decision or are legally retarded. So much for the lessons I wrote. I won't get any lists of modifications for these kids, so I'll spend three and a half weeks deducing what their damage is and possibly be able to put together an appropriate lesson for them in the last two days.

To top it off, my psycho sub-administrator is already pulling power trips on me. I am the only one around with the ovaries to stand up to her brash irrationalities, but I get sick of it. I don't get paid enough to get condescended by an ADD sociopath like her.

Oh, just wait. What a summer.

MySpace seems to really suck

I know I'm no web whiz, but between the hideous advertising banners, the user-unfriendliness, and cheesy pandering-to-the-tweens, I think I'll just stick to Blogger.

Artist's Statement

I am feeling smug because two highly intelligent people have complimented me recently. One such compliment was about my artist's statement, so now you can suffer through it at your leisure.

Artist’s Statement

I have the dubious ‘benefit’ of being formally trained in art. This means that in all of my work there is cognizance of the elements and principles of design, whether that is my desire or not. When people find out that I teach art, it occasionally prompts the only art-related question they have retained: “So, does art imitate life or does life imitate art?” I have learned to deftly sidestep this gem, as it provokes feelings of inadequacy and even hostility, with some bruxism on occasion.
Despite constant upkeep of my self-esteem, I always feel like a loser, a mock-artist, a poseur, when I realize that I cannot answer the person. This then progresses to rage when I recover from the initial blow: I realize that this is an invalid question. Two choices, equally unappealing, all my work and the work of countless others boiled down to a pseudo-philosophical sound byte. At this point, my teeth involuntarily grit, my jaw locks. I force a smile and babble some artsy nonsense.
It is impossible to not feel the influence of the senses. I create from what my environs, my experiences, but I don’t consider it imitative. I cannot commit to one medium, one line of imagery, one thought process, or one inspiration. I take what I need from formal color theory, kitsch, memory, emotion, and whatever has a physical presence in my life at the time. Art making is hardly a divine experience for me; an exorcism is a better comparison. My training is in drawing and painting, but assemblage and installation are often the only means of “getting it out”. I use what is necessary to get where I need to be–if oil paint is the way, I sling a little on a canvas. If a pile of broken toys fits the bill, I have no qualms about it. Opportunistic, probably, but I didn’t choose to be an artist. Once I resigned myself and realized there was no escaping my fate, I consciously developed a fecund imagination and became a packrat.
Sometime later I write an artist’s statement, and blammo, I’m an artist. Oh, and truth isn’t often beauty, and beauty isn’t necessarily truth, so don’t even ask.

Painting of Pete

I am on a real tear as far as art goes. The end of the school year coupled with a little bit of excess steam has me sketching like mad. My Bitter Half suggested I do a huge painting of Pete Koller mid-jump. I work in oils, and I pondered it for a moment before I replied,
"Yeah, but I'd have to use non-toxic paint for when I want to lick it."