Window of Opportunity

True windows of opportunity (WOO) don’t come along all that often in our lives and when they do we are sometimes to busy to notice them.  The first WOO that I distinctly remember came in late summer of 1964.  We lived in a quiet little neighborhood cradled in the shadow and the fallout of the local Zinc smelter.  It was early in my academic career and I had just returned from a summer sabbatical after an arduous year of Kindergarten.  I truly saw no point to pursuing an advanced degree such as first grade; after all I had excelled in the Kindergarten curriculum.  However, I caved in to parental and societal pressures and enrolled in the first grade. 

If I am honest, I would have to admit that getting a few new clothes and school supplies was pretty cool…..  First impressions are often misleading as I was soon to find out.  I don’t recall all of the details of that first frightening and fateful day of first grade, but I do remember the feeling of never being more terrified of anyone or anything than the teacher.  Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t that she was hideously deformed; she just had a presence that emitted the pure disdain of children.  I was not and am not psychic, but kids have a discernment towards recognizing which adults care and those who don’t.  This teacher fell into the latter category.   

It was mid-morning, sitting in the back row of the classroom from hell when I realized that I couldn’t, shouldn’t and wouldn’t take it anymore.  And that is when my first WOO presented itself.  It came metaphorically and literally in the form of an open window at the back of the room.  You know the type; about three feet long, open outward, from the bottom.  I visualized myself cautiously sliding out of my desk, edging towards the window and then making a half dive, half roll to freedom.  I played this scenario over and over in my mind several times before the instant for action came. 

The initial phase of my plan went surprising well, considering it was devised and carried out by a six year old.  I found myself lying on the sidewalk outside of the classroom.  I jumped to my feet and started a spirited sprint across the asphalt playground celebrating my freedom.  Somewhere just past the tetherball poles I heard heavy footsteps and an angry voice shouting behind me.  Terror shot through body, just like the electricity had when I inserted two nails into an electrical outlet in an ill-fated attempt to make an electromagnet. Slowly, I put a face to the voice.  It was her.  The footsteps and the voice kept getting closer and closer.  As my legs became heavier and heavier, all hopes of freedom slowly dissolved.   

The events that followed are hazy at best, filtered through the lense of time and trauma.  I remember being lead by the collar back to the building kicking and screaming.  The teacher, in her infinite wisdom and with righteous indignation I might add, swiftly and zealously dealt out my consequence; SWATS!  How many?   I don’t remember.  I do remember seeing the principal approaching and my childish hopes that he would intervene on my behalf.  After all, every school aged child knows that the principal is our “pal”.  I guess that analogy was not in the curriculum wherever and whenever this principal was in grade school.  He joined in the swat-fest as I refused to go willingly back to the classroom. 

So, there I was sitting in, no hovering above my seat at the back of the classroom humiliated, but not defeated.  I had however gleaned a priceless pearl of wisdom: never underestimate the foot-speed of a sixty-something woman given the proper motivation.   

If I couldn’t escape the confines of first grade and the swat-happy duo once I was in the building, it only seemed logical to not darken that threshold again.   It was time to implement plan B.  Its simplicity was its brilliance.  The next morning I would leave the house and join up with the other neighborhood kids walking to school as normal.  However, just before we reached the school I would drop to the back of our caravan, make a u-turn and return home.  There I would hide in the safe harbor of the large privet hedge in our front yard and wait until I saw my neighbors returning after school.   What could go wrong? 

My mother to this day hasn’t given up the the stool pigeon who ratted me out, but I have always suspected it was that nosey lady, Ms. Parker.  Needless to say, it was quite awhile before I was allowed to walk to school without direct adult supervision.  Someday I will tell you about my second window of opportunity. 

‘til then, RT

Blowing Smoke

Monday, February 4th, Governor Henry delivered his State of the State address to a joint session of the Legislature. By all appearances it was well received as it was interrupted over twenty times by applause.  With that being said, I would like to focus on two of his points that impact teachers and education:

1.  Governor Henry stated that he wanted to give teachers a pay increase averaging $1200.

2.  He further stated that he supported State Superintendent of Education Sandy Garrett’s proposal to add 5 instructional days to the school calendar.

Why wouldn’t this get applause?  All of this sounds great at first glance, but……

Let’s give teachers that $1200 pay raise, I know they deserve it and would appreciate it!  Only thing is when you combine that with 5 extra contract days it is no where near a $1200 raise.  Let’s take a look at the net affect of these two proposals on an average (some say above average) teacher’s salary.  You do the math: $36,500 divided by 181 contract days equals $201.66 per contract day.  Add 5 more days at $201.66 per contract day or $1008.30, subtract that from the $1200 “raise” and it is actually only a $191.70 pay raise.

Come on Governor Henry and Superintendent Garrett you can’t have it both ways.  Either give teachers a raise that includes compensation for the extra 5 days or don’t call it a raise.  Being asked to work 5 days without pay just doesn’t set right.  Maybe I am just arguing over semantics here, but it still smells like smoke!