Lost and Found

Not blogging for the last several weeks got me a whopping 10 comments. Don't encourage my sometimes reclusive behavior!

It's a Friday. Tomorrow is my last day of Saturday school for this school year. Just 13 school days left. And I'm tired.

The last month of my life has been all about tests. First, we had the CST, the state mandated test meant to determine whether or not my kids have learned all of the 5th grade math, language arts, and science standards. Never mind, of course, that the tests are completely in English and a fifth of my students have been in the United States less than two years and their parents don't know any English and they live in a completely racially and linguistically isolated community where almost nobody speaks English and they watch hours of TV after school in Spanish and just about the only English they ever hear during the day is during the three hours or so they spend with me and their cognitive functioning is hampered by all the lead they're ingesting by eating Mexican candy even though I've given them all the facts about how dangerous it is. But don't get me started.

After that came the Aprenda, a *new* state test in Spanish that all kids in California in bilingual programs have to take. It was the first year of this test, and the time estimates for each section were completely off. If the test administration guide said a section of the test would take 50 minutes, for example, it took my kids 3 hours. And the Aprenda isn't even based on the state standards. And it doesn't even count for our school's API or anything else for that matter. And next year the test will be completely different, and made by a different company. And it probably still won't count.

It's also almost report card time, which means I have a whole battery of math, spelling, and reading assessments to give. In the last two weeks, I've graded 1,176 math tests. That's no joke. I have 45 more reading tests to do before report cards. I also gave 290 physical fitness tests as required by the feds for grades 5 and 7.

We cut 4,410 minutes of instruction (the equivalent of about 13 school days) from the school year when we moved to minimum day Wednesdays three years ago, a decision that I spoke against at the time, thus giving me the right to still complain. We also further reduced our school year another 7 days last year as a cost cutting measure. So, to sum up, we've cut the equivalent of 20 days of instruction (that's a whole month!) from our school year, and 3 weeks of the incredibly shrinking school year we still have are completely dominated and taken up by mandatory state testing.

Okay, I don't want my return to the magic blogdom to be all whiny and complainy. So here's a treat for you. For the first time since December 1st, I've opened up my novel (remember this?) and took a look at it. And it - is - AWFUL.

Well, parts of it, at least. So here's a bit that came at the very bitter end, when I really don't think I was fully conscious. I don't remember writing this at all. Here's an excerpt, completeley unedited and unrevised, probably written somewhere around 11:30 pm on the night of the 30th.

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They needed to regain their manhood. Their machismo required it of them. To achieve this goal, they had to enact revenge on El Maestro and the best way to do it was with guns.

The three went on a crime spree around the city. Jewelry stores, ice cream shops, laundromats, ice cream parlors, and taquerias… nobody was safe from their crime ring of terror. Still no appearance by the mysterious El Maestro.

“I have a feeling,” thought Jesús, “that he’s more likely to be lured out when there’s an issue that involves the safety of children. Us robbing local mom and pop stores, well, that’s a tragedy, yes, but it doesn’t involve the hurting of any children.”

“Why don’t we take a teacher and her class hostage over the school over there, whatever it’s called.”

“Garfield Charter School?”

“Yeah, that’s it. We take a teacher and a bunch of kids hostage, he’s bound to show up, and it would feel like a stunt but it wouldn’t be right, because we’re not that good of planners. So he’s bound to shop up, we wait for him, and POW! we take him out. End of story. We end up on our third honeymoon—“

“Would you stop it? You know how I hate that gay humor stuff.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, neither do I. This whole conversation isn’t making much sense.”

“Is that our fault? I mean, really? Is it? Because if it isn’t, then we need to do something it and do it. But really I think it’s because the author is too tired.”