Breeders Know Better Than Teachers

Another bunch of breeder shit for the bitch books: breeders know better than teachers!

Now this isn’t news. I’ve seen this firsthand during my entire scholastic career. One-ton Betty Bimbo sloshes her way up to the school in her flipflops and grey sweats that she’s been wearing for the past three weeks because Shitford came home with a 50% on the latest spelling quiz. Never mind he spelled the word “theater” with a k.

On You Tube there are excerpts from a corporate propaganda film Waiting for “Superman”. It stars Bill Gates and Michelle Rhee, both right-leaning business people who think that since public school is shit (and it is), it should be wiped out (along with teachers unions) and replaced with an Enron-esque Rank ‘n Yank “charter” curriculum (I went to a “new visions” high school- that would be referred to as “charter” today) that leaves the weakest (non-competitive and non-incentive receptive) students in the dust because they will NOT be the ones leading Wall Street in generations to come.

Now I’m from New York, and it probably has the most corrupt (and weak) public education system in the country. The UFT is no better than the UAW today. And I can personally attest to the phenomenal failures of the public, Catholic, and alternative educational schools. Education has been going down the shitter for the last 35 years or so. And funding is only the tip of the iceberg to solve this problem. No, the problem begins at home. Two incomes are required today, so SAHMs should really rethink getting to the gym and updating their CVs in order to make the mortgages and grocery bills. I think breeders are failing their children education-wise because they lack backbone. They are being fed this epic load of horse shit that they need to be their kid’s co-sleeper, BFF, motivational speaker, partner, and coach (doesn’t matter if it’s play coach or sport/art coach). But parent? That’s passe. You want them to be the next LeBron James, Golda Meir, Al Pacino, and Marie Curie right? Well you don’t HAVE to want them to be that, they already ARE that. That’s what gifted/purple/crystal/spectrum analyses are for! Usually self-diagnosed, but shrinks, professors, and “experts” eager to buy yachts, shop at Bergdorf & Goodman, and rent out the dancers at Scores for a weekend in Puerto Rico are for.

On the latest laugh-fest we’re having at bratfree, kidlesskim (and Miss Hannigan who lead the race in snappy wit) put up a link and short list of “gifted” preschool kids (linkie):

From the U.S. Office of Gifted and Talented:

Short list of typical gifted preschooler (ages 2-5) characteristics:

  • Uses advanced vocabulary for age.
  • Uses spontaneous verbal elaboration with new experiences.
  • Has the ability to make interesting or unusual shapes or patterns through various media: blocks, playdough, crayons.
  • Ability to assemble puzzles designed for older children.
  • Sense of humor used in general conversation.
  • Understanding of abstract concepts such as death and time.
  • Mastery of new skills with little repetition.
  • Demonstration of advanced physical skills.
  • Demonstration of advanced reasoning skills through explanation of occurrences.

Source: Janice Szabos as quoted in “The Gifted and Talented Child,” Maryland Council for Gifted & Talented Children, Inc. P.O. Box 12221, Silver Spring, MD 20908

Got all that? And now with my “gifted” genius, I shall break down why I was in the “magnet” schools/classes for the “gifted”… even though it got me nowhere fast.

1) Asks the questions.

As with all kids, their favorite question is, “Why?” And that the first reason as why I find them annoying, and was quite annoying myself as a kid. I always asked “Why?” and “What for?”, before launching into a soul-sucking diatribe demanding to know the specifics. My first word was “clock”, and my favorite TV obsession was Sesame Street. More than likely I correlated that the big round thing with numbers above our stove was the same as big round thing with numbers that Big Bird, Ernie, and the deaf chick who worked at Hooper’s Store calling a clock glossed on and on about as if were Jesus’ tack hammer.  Having this epiphany I thrust out my fat finger nearly blinding my mother as she fed me mashed peas, and made my groundbreaking proclamation. After that it was… non… stop… yapping.

Now I’m a female, and it’s known that women use on average 20,000 words a day. Men use around 8,000. While humans are cerebral creatures, men primarily rely on visuals and women the mental. It’s why we think of sex 6 times a day, and men up to 30. But thanks to evolution and the feminist movement (with the added help of the privacy of the internet) women are enjoying pornography more than ever. We’re catching up guys, please continue to be threatened. And that brings us to…

2) Extremely curious.

Now the why’s and what for’s can be placed in this box as well, but I needed a clear definition behind the why’s and what for’s. I had to know. Want to know why? I had nothing better to do. For the first 6 years of my life I was a bored, friendless, overeating only child. Mom was a neurotic obsessed with living up to her co-dependent mother’s standards and Dad was a miserly shit. I really hated these people. The only good I saw in my parents was that Dad had a big VHS collection (thanks to a short-lived time with bootleg HBO), bought me a lot of books, Mom could cook, and her relatives fed me like a pig. My father dealt with living in a racist environment in an interracial marriage with biracial kids by ignoring it, even though he was fully aware of the consequences. This would cost him his family, marriage, sanity, and well-being. Mom also chose to ignore because she was sheltered and depressed all her life with no experience in real cold world. Grandma is a co-dependent bully, Grandpa was an indifferent shithead, and Mom’s brother is a rage-aholic schizoid type personality. I don’t like to call my family dysfunctional, I like to call them colorful.

Despite being alone, I got plenty of mental stimulation. There was always talking (yelling) in the kitchen between my grandparents, mother, great-grandmother, and great-aunt. I love food and loved to help in the kitchen which grandma encouraged, so I helped cook from an early age. The first movie I ever saw was The Empire Strikes Back. I loved Dorothy Hamill’s The Nutcracker on Ice, Follow That Bird, The Dark Crystal, Labyrinth, and The Secret of Nimh. I read through my grandparents’ encyclopedias, Gramps National Geographic collection (he got me a book set on animals through NG once), a fat cookbook on pasta, and a huge-ass Random House dictionary with full color maps. Gramps also had a Time Life book set on WWII with these awesome photos. Dog fights, battles at sea, the Normandy landing, Reichstag parades, you name it. If I had to know why some shit was what, I looked it up. All the while I munched on bags of chips from the Wise assortment box- the 80s version. Not the shit they hawk at Target or Squalor Mart today!

This isn’t to say, I didn’t watch TV. I loved TV! Especially musicals! I danced and sang all damn day, being so hyped up after The King and I. Mom would go through great lengths to prevent me from seeing them sometimes because I was so goddamn loud. I but I’d find out what channel it was on regardless. I’d know she was up to something. Which brings me to…

3) Gets involved physically and mentally.

I began school at 3 by accident. I had a “friend” that was six months older than me and she liked to scare me to death because she was an undisciplined daredevil. And I was a big chicken. She was the little bitch who abused her pets and later on the unhousebroken family doberman bit her in the face. I think I mentioned her in a previous post. She started school before me and our new game was playing school. Kids tend to re-enact and adapt the newest thing into their playtime. Also she had this sweet Playskool school role playing set, a blackboard and a desk. She was the teacher, fully armed with a plastic pointer, and I was relegated to dumbass student forever getting whacked upside the head with the fucking pointer. As if she were Cecil B. DeMille the bitch would direct me to give the wrong answer, because it looked funny when I played dumb. If we were with a bunch of kids on her block and played school she would NEVER play the dumbass. She’d fly into a tantrum over that shit. Once I got defiant and consistently gave the right answers. She pissed the bitch, and hit me HARD. But not hard enough, I admit. I took the abuse because I thought that was how to make and keep friends.

She went to a Catlick preschool out of parish because it was free (our parish pre-k had a tuition). Mom and me went with the bitch and her mother to drop her off one morning (early enough in the year) and I just saw all those other kids having so much fun running around the schoolyard and all those colorful construction paper signs hanging in the windows welcoming kids back for a new school year, and thought just what the fuck was I missing out on? Taking a cue from the bitch I started to whine.

“I wanna go to school! I wanna go to school!”

Luckily Mrs. S, the teacher, was rounding up her class when she heard me.

“It’s okay, she can come in.” At first Mom thought that she thought was I old enough being that me and the bitch were the same height. Mrs. S. directed Mom to the main office and told her that it was okay and I could register at my age. Mom gave in and I was ecstatic. Yay for me! I’m so happening! I’m a big kid! I’m going to school! School is cool! This would be the last time those words would be strung together in my mind. I joined everybody on the line as Mom went fill out the paperwork, getting reassured that everything would be okay. She’s an independent kid, so go home and catch up on your sleep. It was a win-win.

Mrs. S (up until high school) was probably the best teacher I had. She was old-skool Irish, really nice, but hella strict. If you didn’t follow the rules, she lit into your little ass! And with God-given right! She didn’t give two shits that we were four. We were little crack monkeys, and were not to be trusted. If you planned on pulling shit, she must’ve gone to the same psychic academy as Sylvia Browne- but passed- and took you down on the spot like fucking Navy SEAL. But as much as a disciplinarian as she was, she was also a good damn teacher. She was patient, and above all, she loved what she did. There was an overall good vibe in her classroom, it was immaculate, white, and sunny. It smelled the way a classroom should smell like, cracking linoleum glue with a hint of chalk dust, and reams of grainy yellowish art paper from the 1960s. NOT LIKE A DIAPER BAG! Mrs. S. asked if her kids were properly toilet trained. Today there would be lawsuits and she would be forced to register as a sex offender.  There were METAL group tables for the kids, purchased from Crayola because they looked like the fronts of crayon boxes. Made in the USA baby, splashed right under the branding , block font kelly green on ocher. Not that Chinese shit from recycled plastic letting off toxic fumes because they have no concept of quality control let alone human rights! Every table had its supply box: some flat pencils, assorted Crayola markers, and a pair of actual metal kiddie scissors! You know, the kind that we never put out eyes or cut off fingers with. Because the corporations brainwashed breeders some time in ’91 with the belief that kids would be influenced to commit mass murder with metal art scissors, just to import cheap tin-lined two-toned plastic shit from Taiwan that couldn’t spread margarine- loaded with trans-fat- in order to shut down a factory in Tulsa. Y’know, to empty out the sites for future meth labs.

Toward the back there was Mrs. S.’s desk (no man’s land) and a closet, and further up adjacent from the blackboard was an upright black piano. Mrs. S. led us in Old MacDonald, The Star Spangled Banner, and other big hits and had a kid lead the group in singing- and I often did it. Learning to read and write the alphabet and our names on that lined paper with the HUGE spaces were paramount, but colors, shapes, identifying animals and things followed and she made it fun. We did dioramas all the time with shoe boxes, construction paper, aluminum (we burned through rolls of the shit for Xmas), and cotton balls. She hung up all our pictures, and I drew the nuttiest things, flying cats and grizzly bears with green hair and giraffe necks. We acted out animals and made their sounds, and had us do group work and I often lead our group. It was fun and engaging, and I had no problems with the other kids.

When it was time for me to go to “real pre-k” I thought it would be a blast. We had more playtime in the between. I jumped in willingly and had fun… with the kids who would play with me, but it didn’t deter me. Bringing us to…

4) Plays around, still gets good grades.

Of course I got good grades. You know why I got good grades? If I didn’t, I got punished. SIMPLE. AS. THAT. I admit I’m a fucking overachiever. I LOVED reading ahead. I LOVED shooting up my hand to answer all the questions. I had to be told by the shit teacher Mrs. M. that I had to give the other kids a chance. Mom failed on that. But Mrs. M. was a racist and often complained that when I was playing during lunch break I was “out of control”. Mom got neurotic and screamed at me, got Dad in it too. But she stopped all of a sudden when, quietly, one of the paras (volunteer mommy monitor) took her aside and called on M.’s bullshit. I wasn’t misbehaving. It was because I was part PR and able to read better and write complete sentences before the rest of the class. And when I got to kindergarten? I was called out by Ms. G. being a “strange girl” for reading ahead, preferring to get books from the school library for “reports” because they had better books than our shit collection, and she NEVER hung up my pictures. Oh, and she pissed the bitch that I played too much in the doll corner. Never mind the fact that nearly ALL THE OTHER GIRLS occupied our pretend kitchen and the jungle gym was boy central. I had a ton of wooden blocks at home, and plenty of small tinker toys as well so the block and toy corners just didn’t interest me. Since when did being above-average mean we can’t play?

I despised that overgrown uber-80s teeny bopper wannabe kindergarten teacher of mine, and she was only the second. My third grade teacher Mrs. B. mispronounced pupa (PYOO-PA) as PUPPA. I made the mistake of correcting her, she made my life hell for a while there. But back in kinder-hell Mrs. G. gave us a rainbow “lesson”, meaning that the color schematic had a cool acronym that can be easily remembered: ROY G. BIV. I was secretly happy that red lead the parade, but felt guilty that a pretty color like violet (purple’s kid sister) had to bring up the rear. So I asked her why did violet come in last. You could see the red veins in her sclera pop from the last row of us seated on our carpet swatches. And that segues us into…

5) Questions the answers.

Anne Frank is an icon. She’s an international symbol of Holocaust children victims and survivors, solidarity, the anti-war movement, and anti-discrimination. She was an ordinary 15-year-old Dutch Jewish girl thrown into the extraordinary circumstances of Nazi occupied Holland. She and her older sister Margot died in Bergen-Belsen concentration camp several weeks before liberation by British troops on April 15, 1945. For those who read her published diary we like to think she was a prophetic messenger, but if you read Carol Ann Lee’s The Biography of Anne Frank: Roses From the Earth, The Diary of Anne Frank: The Critical Edition, and watched the documentary Anne Frank Remembered, Anne was described as quite the scamp. Naughty and quite annoying at times. Always talking, asking questions, and had to be the center of attention. So much so that her precious Pim (Otto Frank) had to remove her from the room. But we don’t like seeing Anne like a whole human being, warts and all. But that’s the “tragedy” of the “gifted” child.

6) Prefers adults or older children.

Being still an only child and surrounded by old people influences you. I thought adults were mystical and teens were glamorous (a regular dose of John Hughes movies and coked-up ’80s teen shows do the trick). I wanted to be around them rather than kids my age. I couldn’t relate to them, primarily because they rejected me first. The grown-ups had real stuff to talk about and teens looked so cool in their two piece Catlick school uniforms and varsity jackets. Just like in Teen Wolf or Porky’s (yeah I saw that at a young age, my parents didn’t give a shit about what I watched- overcompensation).

7) Good at guessing.

Three words: Preschool Lotto Game. Mom got up, switched off the Looney Tunes, and we played. All damn day. Looney Tunes? What’s that?

8 ) Bored. Already knew the answers.

I will direct you back to the little paragraph I described about reading materials at home. And that it’s not illegal to read ahead during homework.

9) Shows strong feelings and opinions.

You think this blog was the beginning? Seriously?

10) Highly critical of self (perfectionistic).

Did I not say I was an overachiever? What do you think I really mean? I’m obsessive. Being ugly and fat and only half white with a failure of a father and a co-dependent grandmoo who share similar personalities, I scrutinize myself and torture myself beyond. I will never be happy with my work. I could always do more, make more time, extend this, elaborate that, trim more fat, it never ends. Not with schoolwork, writing, or household chores. I’m simply unsatisfied.

Well there you have it folks, the “gifted” child. Or should I say, your above-average headcase. But knowing breeders they’ll slip on those rose-colored lenses, filter everything as usual, and dance in a daydream. I’m not gonna stop you. Have a nice nap America.

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