Colin Powell for Secretary of Education

Look at this picture.


What do you see? I see some little kids who are really, really excited to see the next President of the United States. Their fresh, smiling faces are full of hope.

I want each of these kids to read great books and newspapers, make informed decisions, vote and be responsible for themselves and each other. I want them to go to college, to get good jobs and to always be as happy as they look here.

Prez-elect Obama demonstrates that being smart can be cool--book smart is cool, too. He shows that these kids can be true to themselves AND do well in school and that getting an education is not selling-out.

The Prez-elect can bring this message all the way home by appointing former Secretary of State and Chair of the Joint Chiefs Colin Powell as his Secretary of Education.

1. It would elevate education to a top-tier department by virtue of General Powell's star power. You take a high-wattage leader and it shines on the entire department.
2. Powell has been working on youth issues since he founded the America's Promise Alliance in 1997--including efforts to prevent students dropping out of high-school.
   
3. Powell's pragmatism, commitment to public service and leadership certainly makes sense in an Obama administration.
   
4. Powell, too, has a compelling story--a Harlem native who became the first ROTC officer to chair the Joint Chiefs and counselor to four presidents.
   

Powell gains from this, too.

When he endorsed Obama, Powell said, "I think the American people and the gentlemen running for president will have to, early on, focus on education more than we have seen in the campaign so far." Being Ed. Secretary lets him put his money where his mouth is. Last, joining the cabinet would aid in rehabilitating Powell's reputation. To be honest, he's still dirty from the run up to the Iraq War. A high profile gig at Ed would be a great bookend to his public service.

I saw the picture above, and fell in love with each of those kids. And I want them to have every opportunity to be great people and great Americans. Let's put a star at Ed.

Giving Thanks

I have been quite a laggard in postings. My apologies to my loyal reader. As the turkey roasts, I am thinking about the thanks I am giving.

• I am thankful that the 17-year-old hooked me up with my new favorite band. Great music to prep Thanksgiving Dinner by.
• I am thankful that the Spouse has cooked dinner pretty much every night since September 15. AND has done the dishes, too.
  
• I am thankful that the 14-year-old has introduced me to the FIERCE sport of wrasslin'. Little girls cried during the last meet. Fierce, I tell you.
• I am thankful for working in the Bush administration. Without those guys, I would have never learned new levels of tolerance--and never loved so many Republicans. Yes, they are people, too.
• I am thankful that we have good health insurance, didn't get dumb in the mortgage market, live within our means and have stable jobs. I pray that the new guys--with our help--make changes so that more people can give this set of thanks next year.
• I am thankful for Facebook. Sounds dumb, but it's like living in a far-flung dorm--low pressure way to be in the lives of people you care about. (Sibling, get on the stick!)
• I am thankful that my mother is a fighter. She has been in rehab 3 times over the past year, after a fall, a broken ankle, and then major GI surgery. Each time we worried that she might be too tired to push her 85-year-self through rehab. And each time she proves us wrong.
• I am thankful that I have the best spouse, kids and dog in the whole wide world. Bar none. No one can dispute this. Don't even try.

And I am thankful to you, my loyal reader. I write this mostly for me, but am thankful that you take some of your time to think with me.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Friend Request

Every couple of weeks I send a Facebook friend request to the 16-year old. I just now sent another one.

Me: Hey, did you get my friend request?
Him: I don't know.

or

Me: I sent you another friend request.
Him: I know.

Facebook is an online networking group originally for college students, and then high-school students, to keep in touch. You create a personal page and can send out electronic "friend" requests. "Friends" can send messages, post photos and videos, and add new friends. All from the comfort of your own computer. In 2006, they opened up the floodgates and let even old geezers like me in. That's the problem.

The Post today has front page (don't ask me why) story on "When Mom or Dad Asks to Be a Facebook Friend." And kids, here is the right answer.

JUST SAY NO!

Of course, I am stalking the 16-year old to be my "friend." I'm the parent, that's what I do. But frankly, he should be able to exchange pleasantries--and not so pleasantries--with his peers. And, I AM NOT HIS PEER.

I don't want to be a peer. My role in this show is to be the parent. Part of him growing up means that I don't get to know everything. I don't need to know that there is a group "Get Guy Laid." Really, I don't need to know. And he needs a modicum of privacy.

Okay, I know why we want to know. We want to protect our kids. And wrap them in bubble wrap and keep them germ free. But I also know that that is no way to grow up. The path to adulthood is fraught with danger. That path has got to be traveled, and decisions on which turn to take have to be made by the traveler. Otherwise they can't become adults.

That's really the point of parenthood. We take our precious babes and help them to grow up and leave us behind. From a 7 pound eating-pooping machine to a 6-footer able to make good decisions when he comes home to a broken pipe in the basement. And hopefully when confronted with even harder choices, too.

We succeed when they are successfully independent. Not if they have no bruises. Not if they don't make mistakes. Not if they don't take risks.

By the time they are rejecting our Facebook friend requests, they are working from whatever we gave them. Not like we don't matter anymore, but they are applying the lessons we gave to the ever widening world they live in in high school and in college. We don't need to spy. There are other ways to know your kid.

So yes, I will continue to bug the 16-year old about being my friend. He has 289 to my paltry 19. But I don't need him to be my friend. He is already my son.

And good for me that he doesn't read this. Otherwise, he would never take me seriously.

The Coaches

Football coaches have a hard job. I'm not talking about the football coaches of men. No, I mean the football coaches of MIT (men in training). What an opportunity, and what a responsibility.

If I were a coach of MIT, I would hope that I would remember that the boys are learning the game. And I would hope that I would be a teacher.

I would hope that I would look at all the boys and give everyone who was working hard a chance to contribute.

I would hope that I remembered that this is a developmental process and that I would work hard to try different combinations of players. And I would know all of their names.

I would hope that I would remember that this isn't the the NFL or even the Big 10. And that these boys have futures as lawyers and accountants, electricians and drivers, and husbands and fathers and I am preparing them for their real futures, not the canard of becoming the next multi-million dollar franchise.

And I would know that when a boy gives you his heart, that my job is to handle it like the precious gift that it is. And at the end of the season, I would only have succeeded when I return that gift bigger and stronger than when I received it.

That would be my solemn promise. That is, if I were the coach.

Toxic

Loathe as I am to defend the Miserable Ms. Spears recently as a performer, folks need to lay off her and her mothering.

This isn't to say that Britney is a "good" mom. But who is? Reading and hearing (non-stop) the accusations, I kept waiting for the awful surprise. Turns out that the kids may "have poor dental hygiene and bad eating and sleeping habits." That Britney used Whitestrips on the babies--DUMB--and sometimes is naked in front of them. And the awful part--the reason we should take her kids away is...is...is???

Now, don't think that I approve of all the bad stuff that Brit is doing--but I don't approve of lots of things that other parents do. Like putting ice tea in the baby's bottle. Like taking their 3 and 4 year-olds to R-rated movies (and sitting in front of me!). Like spanking their kids. Like teaching them that evolution is a theory or that Reagan was a great president.

I am thankful that nobody ever saw me the day after my sister-in-laws wedding when I was hung over and my kids saw. Or when I turned my back for a minute and there was a baby in the middle of the dining room table, lapping up the butter in the dish. Or when we let the family dog return after biting the then six-year-old. Or when we were in the pool and the lifeguard jumped right in front of us in the pool to save our 4-year-old who got in over his head. Or the time(s) that they heard me curse.

From what I have heard, Britney's actions to date--like ice tea in the bottle and Cheetos for breakfast--are not the things that you lose custody for. Part of being a parent is learning on the job, and the judge has sentenced her to that.

Sometimes I think that outside of her million$$, there but by the grace of God go I.

The millions of dollars thing, though, does make me relate to her a bit less.

If It Walks Like a Duck

From the Washington Post

Throughout [his 34-year career], Wolfowitz built a reputation as a foreign policy iconoclast, a mild-mannered intellectual with a steely ideological core, and an inept manager.

and

Speaking on the condition of anonymity, the source voiced admiration for his intellect but said Wolfowitz "couldn't run a two-car funeral."

and

After Bush's [43] election, ...Wolfowitz wanted to return to the State Department, but...secretary of state, Colin L. Powell, turned him down as his deputy. They weren't "ideologically in sync," Powell later said, and Wolfowitz was notoriously lacking in the required administrative skills.

Is anyone else seeing a pattern here? So, okay, if Paul Wolfowitz was known to be a lousy administrator, why would he be put in charge of a multinational institution owned by more than 180 governments, with 10,000 employees, and $14.6 billion (U.S.) in loans in 2006 (World Bank, Annual Report 2006)?

Is it for the same reason that we suffered internationally with John Bolton as ambassador to the United Nations? That we think we know the best? That other countries can be ignored or insulted? That international institutions should be dismantled? That America's interest du jour trumps all?

While I strongly support George Washington's postulate that every nation works to protect it's own interest, we need to see those interests in 21st century terms. We are no longer bound by oceans or mountains. We are joined by instantaneous communications, rapid travel, and a global economy.

I am constantly trying to get the 12-year old and the 15-year old to look beyond the noses on their faces, to extend their vision toward the horizon, to move beyond the here and now.

It's not us against the world. It's us AND the world.

Fighting Words

Don Imus has been pushed off of the table. Along with the me-too media furies, and, of course, the tsk-tsk over that "rap music language."

But as the dust settles there are still some very accomplished young women at Rutgers--and all across the country--who will be degraded tomorrow. Some simply because they are women, and some simply because they are women of color.

Three weeks ago, before the Rutgers/Imus/CBS media frenzy, the 12-year old relayed a conversation at his small school. One of his friends, a 13-year-old African-American boy, asked another of their friends, the only African American girl in her middle-school grade, "Why don't you act black?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Well, you're not like a bitch or a ho'," he replied.

The following day, I saw the two moms of these kids talking in the parking lot. I wondered if they were talking about their kids' exchange. And I wondered if they had a solution. They walked away with their arms around each other. Embracing each other as they were fighting against crappy images, self-hate, and words that, as they are repeated, take stronger hold over our thinkings. Or so I imagined.

And today I wonder, was the girl reminded about her classmate's question in the wake Imus' crass remarks? Did this honor student, musician, on her way to high school girl with her first contact lenses uncovering her beautiful eyes, see herself in the sad faces of the basketball players during their press conference?

Project-tile

Projects, projects everywhere and not a drop to drink!

I need a drink with the cornucopia of school projects overflowing the calendar, tables, computer screens and minds.

There are the science projects. In one, we are creating WMD by exposing a growing nutrient to bacteria from the bathroom sink. UGH!

In the other, there is some ratio-coefficient-decibel thing going on. It entails speakers, microphones cinderblocks and foam. Oh, and a ton of data that nobody knows what to do with.

15-year old: I need to put this in a graph.
Me: What are you trying to show?
Him: Show?
Me: What story are you trying to tell?
Him: Story? Tell? Is that in the rubric?

And let's not forget the art project. Herein the 12-year old had to chose an artist and a piece of his or her work and then reproduce it. By hand. By his own hand, that is.

Me: How about Jackson Pollock? Like this. It wouldn't take too long.
12-year old: I like the Escher. The one with the stairs. It's so cool.
Me: Don't do the hard one, do something you can just crank out, you have too much to do!

No, I didn't actually SAY that last part. I just thought it. Really loud, but in my head. I think. And it was especially loud each time he was working on the fabulous art project instead of recording data from the WMD experiment.

You know, bacteria grows really fast. And the data from yesterday is gone. Poof! The stuff unrecorded today is also disappearing--or should I say growing and morphing? I'm thinking that it is almost time to call in the hazmat team. Before it gets too dangerous. (Don't worry, loyal reader. The procedures include bleaching the insides of the petri dishes before disposal.)

So, somebody spent hours and hours on a really incredible art project. It is really quite nice. He says it will be for sale at the school in a few weeks, long after we have disinfected the house.

I bet I buy it.

Snowed

Turns out that the 12-year old isn't allowed to touch the snow while at school. Even when they are on the playground for recess. Even when there is wonderful packing-style snow all over the place.

No snow touching.

Now I got the other touching thing, and watching out where the huskies go, but no touching snow?

"Why?" you ask.

Well, because you might put your eye out, of course!

We have really become a very scared people. And not just terror-wise. We have adopted these zero tolerance modes to protect ourselves and our kids--and the insurance premiums of schools, government, stores, etc.

We warn people that coffee is hot. We don't allow kids to bring in sunscreen to pre-school without a waiver. We make toddlers take off their shoes and coats and take them out of their mom's arms before being screened for explosives. And we don't let them touch snow.

Yet, there is no shielding from pictures of Britney's privates (sorry, no link to that). Or from the graphic violence in video games marketed to kids. Or from the sexualization of little girls. And we are still afraid to protect kids from sexually transmitted diseases.

This seems squirrely. Do we want our kids' in a plastic bubble to keep them safe? Do we give up control of our kids to the "media"?

Wait, I am losing track--should I be afraid? Should I be strong? And where on this spectrum is yellow snow?

Blinded Me By Science

I hate science fair.

I used to think that I liked it. That was when we were at a school that didn't have one.

I used to think that Science Fair was to learn about science, do something with your hands and brain, and then learn to communicate about your findings. Be creative. Have fun. We didn't do science fair at my school. I thought it would be great.

Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!

First, science projects are lame. My favorite science was chemistry. Blowing things up. Burning chemicals. Seeing the colors. Smelling the esters. Building a distilling apparatus and having some powdery substance at the end. Or, even better, separating liquids. Connecting the Lewis Dot Structures. It was a wonderful, hands-on thing.

But you look for science fair projects and they are in two categories--boring biology projects or building things.

The first is--well--boring. Growing plants. Growing germs. Growing plankton. Nothing blows up. Great for little kids.

The second has a huge cool potential. Except that if you are building something--like a circuit--you might actually learn something. And that is NOT the purpose of a science fair project.

A successful science fair project has four main ingredients.

1. A graph. You need to measure something so you can graph it. You can't measure something you build.
2. A hypothesis. You need to work the Scientific Method. This is the Holy Grail of science fair. #1 is directly related.
3. A teacher. The teacher has to be of no help, patronizing, mean, and anti-intellectual.
   
4. Much yelling. There are absolutely NO good science fair projects. There are no projects of any interest whatsoever to the kid. No matter how you try to sell it.

So after not picking a project, complaining about the lack of support from #3, and refusing to do work. And after going around and around through crummy web sites with science projects perfect for 7-9 year olds when we need an high school honors level project AND a middle school project. And after going through all the ideas with potential and recognizing time and again there was nothing to frickin' MEASURE, the science fair projects have been selected.

The abstracts have been written. The high-level procedures have been done. Some of the materials have been ordered. After all the shock and awe to get this far, it seems like we should be done.

But then you look at building the experiment, trying to control the insurgent students (aka the 15-year old and the 12-year old) who at times seem intent on sabotaging their own best interests, and a look at the additional resources--time, brain, and materials--required for success, I almost feel like pulling out now. But no, I need to be fully committed to see these projects through their bitter ends.

Maybe I should shut up. At least our experiments have a good chance of success--it could be worse.

See related Science Un-Fair.

Bullied About

I am very sorry to have to admit this. I am chastened and embarrassed to say it. I am confused and somewhat annoyed with myself, too.

I just don't get it.

I came home to see the 15-year-old beating the brains out of someone with a baseball bat. All in the name of good, clean fun.

That is good, teen (T) fun--at least according to Boys' Life and reviewers from Amazon and Wired. He was playing Bully.

So somehow, I just missed the idea that a game is not over the top, and is somehow redeemed because the violence is bloodless. Brains are not smeared on the sidewalk, so it's okay. See, I just don't get it.

I am watching the kids (my kids) pulverizing someone. And they are laughing. They are excited. They are egging each other on. Telling the 15-year old to have his character--named Jimmy--take another swing at the boy lying on the sidewalk with his hands in front of his face trying to protect himself. I, alone, am cringing. See, I'm not getting it, still.

It's supposed to be good because "Jimmy" helps kids being bullied. By using extreme violence. And the game is good because it doesn't reward Jimmy for bullying. See, if he beats up his bad-guy classmates he earns new ways to beat up the bad-guy classmates. This is, not considered extreme violence because his main weapons are his fists and an occasional trash can lid. No guns, knives or blood. See, I can't tell the difference between extreme and not so extreme. Still not getting it.

I interrupted the beating. "Hey, I thought that this game wasn't supposed to reward violence." The kids turned around and sheepishly smiled, then returned to the melee. I had to walk away. Not getting it.

"Doc!" you say. "Why were you surprised that a game with a name of Bully brought to you by the same folks who made car-jacking and killing cops into gameplay would be a bit violent? What were you thinking??"

One good thing happened, though. The kids misplaced the game. Get it?

That 70's Feeling

Nostalgia for me meant the old people (parents of my friends, for example) who waxed about poodle skirts and hot rods. Our jr. high school had sock hops. Truman and Eisenhower were about as relevant to us as Garfield and Arthur--and not the cat or aardvark.

I found myself feeling a bit of the yearn for the kinder, gentler time of the 38th President, Gerald R. Ford (1913-2006). We went to the Capitol Rotunda to pay our respects. Me, the 12-year-old, and the 15-year-old.

12-year old: Why are we standing in this line?
Me: To pay our respects.
12-year old: Why?

I was stuck. Was it because he is a Michigan man? I ended up being weepy when we lost Bo, too. Was it because I remember him from my childhood, and he wasn't Richard Nixon? Was it because he was an object of the original Not Ready for Prime Time Players humor? Or the way that his brave wife made rehab into the modern penance for the rich and (in)famous? Or maybe because he shares my fondness for big yellow dogs?

Am I nostalgic for the time when there were such things as pro-choice, non-spinning republicans that oversaw the dismantling of a bad war? For a leader who used compromise as an agreement builder and integrity for his talisman? But was I making that up? I don't remember the 70's being as much fun as the show.

So as we snaked through the House side of the Capitol, and as we were rushed through the Rotunda and were denied a pause before the awesome statue of Sacajawea, I told the 12-year-old "All of the above."

And he looked at me like it was 1976, and there were bell bottoms and Gran Torinos.

Paint Department

The 15-year-old was in the kitchen, and we were putting away the groceries. Okay, I was putting away the groceries and he was talking.

Him: Today at school we were like we were the Home Depot paint department.
Me: Hunh?
Him: Well we were at our table at lunch and we realized that we were all lined up by color. The lightest to the darkest.

Me: [still confused]
Him: Well, Jay was out of order. So, we said that he needed to be restocked. And put in the right place.

Me: Oh. Well, where were you?
Him: It's like a color circle. From the lightest to the darkest but all not in a line but in a circle, from me to Avery.

What is wrong with other folk? It's a circle, dammit. Everyone is connected.

The Party's Over

Yes, that party known as SUMMER VACATION is coming to an abrupt end. The 14-year-old will need to get up at the butt-crack of dawn. This may be the first time that he has seen a morning hour since June 3rd. Except for when we drove all night to make the early ferry to the beach. He mostly slept on the way.

The 12-year-old* has one more day, but, frankly, it's over for him, too. He is furiously printing out his summer reading assignment. Turns out he needed 5X8 index cards for this assignment. At least that's what he said. The summer reading info was misplaced sometime at the beginning of summer, so I have to go with his story.

The really good news is that we were able to find all the clean uniforms that were put away a 11 or 12 weeks ago. Well, some pieces were replaced, but others were found, still clean. Sometimes clean clothes that have been put away become less put away. And then they have to be rewashed. We are still, however, without the bucs for the 14-year-old. His size 13's are backordered. He claims he can wear sneakers until they arrive. Again, I have to go with his story.

So the party's over for this year. And a New Year starts.

* Don't get confused. He was the 11-year-old two weeks back. See Naming Convention. I can't help it if I worry about you, Loyal Reader! Also, I must admit that I originally typed "11-year-old." He was looking over my shoulder and promptly corrected my big error.