Okay:
Y'know. Last week was one hell of a week.
And I must admit, I behaved badly.
Nothing unusual for me. I do a lot of things I shouldn't do. More than that, I say a lot of things I shouldn't say. And when words don't work for me, I can do some pretty major damage with my silence.
It's a rarity that I'm ever silent, but when I am, it always seems to be at the wrong time.
So, I'm basically fucked.
Whatever I say is bound to be the wrong thing to say, and whatever I don't say is certain to be interpreted as insolence.
I'm not a victim though. I'm an asshole. I embrace it.
There is power in my assholery. I get to do and say a lot of things that normal people wouldn't dream of. Last week at happy hour I led a fifteen minutes group discussion about my penis.
"My penis is Martin Luther King," I said. "I had a dream...and it was my dick."
"My penis is George W. Bush, Jr.," I continued. "It won't pull out and it has a coalition of the willing...namely, my balls."
I can say things like this in public because I am an asshole and people know it. Because I embrace it, they accept it. Sometimes, however, I go too far.
A few weeks ago I said some unflattering things about a friend of mine behind her back. When it got back to her, she was understandably outraged and told me so.
But I didn't apologize.
I was silent.
I don't know. Part pride, part ego. Even though I knew I was one hundred percent wrong, I didn't do my due diligence in rectifying the situation with a prompt, sincere apology and explanation. It's not even like I was confused about whether I was wrong or not. I knew I was wrong, didn't deny it. I just didn't make it a priority to right things.
I let it fester for a week. We finally had it out on Friday when she approached me after work. I gave her an apology, which she accepted, but not without giving me a well-deserved earful about character and integrity.
Afterwards, I should have felt better but I didn't. I thought about it the whole weekend. Why did I do something so adolescent to begin with and why was I so reluctant to apologize?
Then it came to me while I was shitting. In my last relationship I did a lot of apologizing. At least once a week. Sometimes twice a week. I would get the silent treatment for days at a time. Two or three times a month I had to participate in screaming matches against my will.
Then after a few years, I turned her off. I stopped caring. It was the only way I could protect myself.
See, all that constant groveling and apologizing put me in a weak position. And being in a weak position sucks. I don't know how conscious it was, but I think I kind of made a pact with myself to no longer give into the emotional whims of women. Right or wrong, to always stand my ground.
So, even though my friend had a legitimate grievance, I couldn't approach her and apologize for fear that she would take the opportunity to belittle me and question my manhood. Better to let her approach me.
I was experiencing what I like to call an "Ex-Back". That is, a person or situation reminded me of my ex-girlfriend, so I freaked.
Bottom line: better to be an asshole than a sucker.
So, after I got off the toilet I felt a lot better. For a couple of reasons. I do intend to fix things with my friend, or at least explain my behavior. She is not my ex-girlfriend and does not deserve the full-brunt of my assholery.
See? Therapy is dumb. All you need is some peace and quiet and a nice, long shit.
I call it "Doo Doo Therapy".
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Innocent Question: Do you think that this is why God made us shit? So that at least three times a week we'd be forced to think about things? By that rationale, the more you shit, the more enlightened you are.
Showing posts with label Cool Cee Brown Black Broadway Dirty Water Hip Hop DC. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cool Cee Brown Black Broadway Dirty Water Hip Hop DC. Show all posts
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Friday, March 7, 2008
Worst SAT Score Ever
Okay:
I remember quite clearly the day I took the SAT. As clearly as I remember anything from high school anyway. I don't remember the month, the day or the location. And I don't remember any of the questions or what the proctor(s) looked like. I don't even remember if it was particularly difficult.
I remember two things really:
I scored a 1090 (which was pretty good for a DCPS graduate in the late 90s)
and I took it the morning after an Outkast concert.
I remember that part because I was the only one among my crew of friends who did not go to the concert. I figured the SAT was more important. I imagined I'd have the chance to see them again. (Ironically, I would open for them two years later while in college.)
I also remember that my sister scored, like, a 1400 or something. But she was always the brains in the family.
Now, the scale is different. Not the scale exactly. They've just added a Writing portion that is also worth 800 points, so now a perfect score is 2400.
Remember they used to tell us that you get 200 points just for spelling your name right? I always imagined that there was some poor slob out there that they were thinking about. Someone who lacked the capacity to answer any of the questions correctly, but they did not want him to go home empty handed. Like a benevolent game show host. They did not want to make him feel like a complete loser. But I never imagined that someone could not even luck upon one or two good guesses.
That is until the other day.
One of my students brought in his SAT scores. He scored an even 200.
I teach this kid. I know he's limited. He can barely read at all, in fact. He has no phonemic awareness, and at 17, he's got no motivation to try to make up for lost time. To him, I imagine it's the same way that climbing Mount Everest seems like a cool idea.
But, DAMN.
No lucky guesses?
Isn't that, like, a mathematical impossibility?
He's in the first percentile in nearly every category.
He asked his reading teacher, "What do all these ones mean?"
It means he that he performed better than one percent of the people who took the SAT this year so far. And that one percent is probably just some sort of error margin. That is, that one percent probably does not exist.
Whilst racking my brain to figure out how in the hell this kid could have performed so poorly, it finally occurred to me.
He didn't perform at all.
He opened up that test, discovered he didn't understand a word of it and walked out.
Which begs an entirely different question: What jackass told this little boy to take the SAT?
Which begs another question: What do you do with a student who is limited, yet ambitious? Do you crush their spirit and tell them what they can't do?
I'm reminded of the teacher from The Autobiography of Malcolm X who told told young Malcolm that a lawyer was an unrealistic career goal for a nigger, that he should try to become a carpenter.
The flip side is of this philosophical question is the kid with the worst SAT score ever. His esteem is crushed. Is it up to knowledgeable adults that care for him to put him into situations were he can succeed?
Or does he need a reality check such as this to push him toward a more "realistic goal"?
A sort of truth therapy, which you all know I am in favor of.
Not sure.
No punchline here. Just a thought.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: I graduated from high school with a 2.2 GPA, but I graduated from college cum laude. See? High school is dumb.
I remember quite clearly the day I took the SAT. As clearly as I remember anything from high school anyway. I don't remember the month, the day or the location. And I don't remember any of the questions or what the proctor(s) looked like. I don't even remember if it was particularly difficult.
I remember two things really:
I scored a 1090 (which was pretty good for a DCPS graduate in the late 90s)
and I took it the morning after an Outkast concert.
I remember that part because I was the only one among my crew of friends who did not go to the concert. I figured the SAT was more important. I imagined I'd have the chance to see them again. (Ironically, I would open for them two years later while in college.)
I also remember that my sister scored, like, a 1400 or something. But she was always the brains in the family.
Now, the scale is different. Not the scale exactly. They've just added a Writing portion that is also worth 800 points, so now a perfect score is 2400.
Remember they used to tell us that you get 200 points just for spelling your name right? I always imagined that there was some poor slob out there that they were thinking about. Someone who lacked the capacity to answer any of the questions correctly, but they did not want him to go home empty handed. Like a benevolent game show host. They did not want to make him feel like a complete loser. But I never imagined that someone could not even luck upon one or two good guesses.
That is until the other day.
One of my students brought in his SAT scores. He scored an even 200.
I teach this kid. I know he's limited. He can barely read at all, in fact. He has no phonemic awareness, and at 17, he's got no motivation to try to make up for lost time. To him, I imagine it's the same way that climbing Mount Everest seems like a cool idea.
But, DAMN.
No lucky guesses?
Isn't that, like, a mathematical impossibility?
He's in the first percentile in nearly every category.
He asked his reading teacher, "What do all these ones mean?"
It means he that he performed better than one percent of the people who took the SAT this year so far. And that one percent is probably just some sort of error margin. That is, that one percent probably does not exist.
Whilst racking my brain to figure out how in the hell this kid could have performed so poorly, it finally occurred to me.
He didn't perform at all.
He opened up that test, discovered he didn't understand a word of it and walked out.
Which begs an entirely different question: What jackass told this little boy to take the SAT?
Which begs another question: What do you do with a student who is limited, yet ambitious? Do you crush their spirit and tell them what they can't do?
I'm reminded of the teacher from The Autobiography of Malcolm X who told told young Malcolm that a lawyer was an unrealistic career goal for a nigger, that he should try to become a carpenter.
The flip side is of this philosophical question is the kid with the worst SAT score ever. His esteem is crushed. Is it up to knowledgeable adults that care for him to put him into situations were he can succeed?
Or does he need a reality check such as this to push him toward a more "realistic goal"?
A sort of truth therapy, which you all know I am in favor of.
Not sure.
No punchline here. Just a thought.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: I graduated from high school with a 2.2 GPA, but I graduated from college cum laude. See? High school is dumb.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
The Ugliest Toenails On The Eastern Seaboard
Okay:
I'd like to talk about my toes today.
I used to have really nice toes. Once when I was younger I had a young lady suck on them.
Which is pretty cool for all the fellas who have never had the pleasure.
I still have nice feet. No corns or bunions. But my toes. Good Lord, my toes.
No self-respecting woman would ever put her mouth on them or anywhere near them.
The reform school I went to had a military program. When I arrived they gave me one pair of chloroforms and one pair of leather hard bottoms. After I got kicked out (Yes, you can get kicked out of reform school) I think I burned them or something.
I must have marched one thousand miles in those things.
Every morning they woke us up at the buttcrack of dawn. There was always a fifteen minute line in the showers. We all stood there, shivering in the morning cold with our thong flip flops and towels wrapped around our waists. It was like the breadline during the Depression. No one smiled. It was five o-clock in the morning. The floor was cement painted red, peeling all over.
You had five minutes. The flight sergeant stood nearby keeping time. Not that anyone wanted to take a long shower. The stalls were gross. You felt dirtier after you got out.
Truth be told, most people only needed 2 minutes to wash. Then they jerked off for 3 minutes. I know I did sometimes.
Then we held morning formation around the flag pole while someone played Reverie on a bugle. The bugle player sucked. As far as bugle playing goes. But like I said. It was five o'clock in the morning. Whitney Houston would have sounded like a dying warthog that early.
Then we marched to breakfast.
You heard me. We marched to fucking breakfast.
Thing is, the mess hall was only yards away from the flagpole. A thirty second leisurely walk. And it's not even like the breakfast was anything to get excited about, much less march about. Powdered eggs, biscuits and gravy. Cornbeef and hash.
But we had to march around the entire campus for this crap. Hundreds of us. The flight sergeants shouting cadence. "YOUR LEFT, YOUR LEFT, YOUR LEFT, RIGHT, YOUR LEFT, RIGHT, YOUR RIGHT, YOUR LEFT!"
I still hear that shit in my sleep sometimes.
The campus was probably a square half mile. Every fucking day. Every morning.
And every day after classes at 3:30.
Then once more at night before dinner.
Then there were those goddamn parades every other week. Sweltering heat. We had to wear our dress blouses for those things. Sometimes we had to stand at attention for up to a half-hour. Which may sound simple, but trust me--it ain't. Some people would lock their knees (which would cut off blood circulation), pass out and have to be taken to the infirmary. It worked, but I didn't like the idea of being unconscious down there. We were in the middle of Virginia and those rednecks were scary. No telling what they might do to an unconscious DC nigger.
Plus, if you got in trouble they gave you their neat little variation of detention. They called it Tours. Instead of sitting in a room and staring at the wall, you went to a gym and marched around the perimeter for three hours. Futility is torture.
Then if you got in big trouble they gave you in-school suspension. Not only did it include the day's three marches and the evening Tours, you had to do morning, afternoon and midnight PT (physical training). PT was run by a pure blood redneck named Sergeant Turner and consisted of hundreds of push ups, sit ups, Indian Runs and Suicides. You bought lots of Ben Gay from the canteen. I learned the hard way that you never apply Ben Gay above the mid-thigh mark. That shit travels under your skin.
Long story short, those bastards ruined my pretty little feet.
I've got three black toenails. And the ones that aren't black want to be.
My doctor told me they'll probably fall off one day, but that was years ago.
As a bit of a consolation, I was in remarkable shape for years. A six-pack, a well-defined back, and chiseled arms.
I ain't got no of that shit no more, but I still got the goddamn toes.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: As a result of my time there, I can shine a shoe and make a bed like nobody's business.
I'd like to talk about my toes today.
I used to have really nice toes. Once when I was younger I had a young lady suck on them.
Which is pretty cool for all the fellas who have never had the pleasure.
I still have nice feet. No corns or bunions. But my toes. Good Lord, my toes.
No self-respecting woman would ever put her mouth on them or anywhere near them.
The reform school I went to had a military program. When I arrived they gave me one pair of chloroforms and one pair of leather hard bottoms. After I got kicked out (Yes, you can get kicked out of reform school) I think I burned them or something.
I must have marched one thousand miles in those things.
Every morning they woke us up at the buttcrack of dawn. There was always a fifteen minute line in the showers. We all stood there, shivering in the morning cold with our thong flip flops and towels wrapped around our waists. It was like the breadline during the Depression. No one smiled. It was five o-clock in the morning. The floor was cement painted red, peeling all over.
You had five minutes. The flight sergeant stood nearby keeping time. Not that anyone wanted to take a long shower. The stalls were gross. You felt dirtier after you got out.
Truth be told, most people only needed 2 minutes to wash. Then they jerked off for 3 minutes. I know I did sometimes.
Then we held morning formation around the flag pole while someone played Reverie on a bugle. The bugle player sucked. As far as bugle playing goes. But like I said. It was five o'clock in the morning. Whitney Houston would have sounded like a dying warthog that early.
Then we marched to breakfast.
You heard me. We marched to fucking breakfast.
Thing is, the mess hall was only yards away from the flagpole. A thirty second leisurely walk. And it's not even like the breakfast was anything to get excited about, much less march about. Powdered eggs, biscuits and gravy. Cornbeef and hash.
But we had to march around the entire campus for this crap. Hundreds of us. The flight sergeants shouting cadence. "YOUR LEFT, YOUR LEFT, YOUR LEFT, RIGHT, YOUR LEFT, RIGHT, YOUR RIGHT, YOUR LEFT!"
I still hear that shit in my sleep sometimes.
The campus was probably a square half mile. Every fucking day. Every morning.
And every day after classes at 3:30.
Then once more at night before dinner.
Then there were those goddamn parades every other week. Sweltering heat. We had to wear our dress blouses for those things. Sometimes we had to stand at attention for up to a half-hour. Which may sound simple, but trust me--it ain't. Some people would lock their knees (which would cut off blood circulation), pass out and have to be taken to the infirmary. It worked, but I didn't like the idea of being unconscious down there. We were in the middle of Virginia and those rednecks were scary. No telling what they might do to an unconscious DC nigger.
Plus, if you got in trouble they gave you their neat little variation of detention. They called it Tours. Instead of sitting in a room and staring at the wall, you went to a gym and marched around the perimeter for three hours. Futility is torture.
Then if you got in big trouble they gave you in-school suspension. Not only did it include the day's three marches and the evening Tours, you had to do morning, afternoon and midnight PT (physical training). PT was run by a pure blood redneck named Sergeant Turner and consisted of hundreds of push ups, sit ups, Indian Runs and Suicides. You bought lots of Ben Gay from the canteen. I learned the hard way that you never apply Ben Gay above the mid-thigh mark. That shit travels under your skin.
Long story short, those bastards ruined my pretty little feet.
I've got three black toenails. And the ones that aren't black want to be.
My doctor told me they'll probably fall off one day, but that was years ago.
As a bit of a consolation, I was in remarkable shape for years. A six-pack, a well-defined back, and chiseled arms.
I ain't got no of that shit no more, but I still got the goddamn toes.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: As a result of my time there, I can shine a shoe and make a bed like nobody's business.
Something Is Fishy Here
Okay:
I recently went out with a few friends of mine to a happy hour in some hoity toity bistro just outside of Georgetown. The group was pretty much split in half gender-wise.
Now, this is no attempt to critique the character of our female companions, (both of whom I love dearly) but merely to understand certain behaviors.
I love black women.
I have a black mamma, a black grandmamma, 2 black sisters, a gang of black aunts, a black niece, etc., etc.
Salt of the earth as far as I'm concerned. And they are varied as the colors in the rainbow in terms of personality and temperment.
Having said all of that, I do have some questions/concerns.
If I hadn't seen this type of thing more than once, I wouldn't bring it up. If I hadn't seen it more than a few times in similar contexts, I wouldn't bring it up.
Here comes our waiter. A young wiry Latin American fellow, short on manners and obviously very busy. It happens. They can't all be overcome with joy to run for your drinks and napkins. But because he did not approach the table with a big gay Broadway musical smile, it set a certain tone. This is the part he played.
The beautiful black woman to my left asked, "Hey, what's in the tempura shrimp?"
The waiter replied with a pause and a slight smirk, "Shrimp."
Well, that was all it took. Her night was ruined, and she was not going to suffer in silence. She did that whole chastise-you-to-someone-else-but-loud-enough-for-you-to-hear thing.
"He's an asshole," she said to me, her back turned to him, "I know it has shrimp in it. I can read. I just needed him to explain the dish to me. That is his job, right?"
He was standing just 2 feet away and could most certainly hear everything she was saying. Poor guy. Was he a bit of a prick? Yes. And that's coming from someone who used to wait tables. So maybe he deserved a little heat.
Moving on.
The beautiful black woman to my right said, "It smells like fish in here."
The one to my left chimed in, "I didn't want to say anything, but it does stink."
"Girl, it's like day-old seafood or something. It's not supposed to smell this strong. Something ain't right."
As it turned out, we were in a seafood restaurant. But it was a little fishier than it should have been.
Moving on again.
We were soon joined by another beautiful black woman. She sat and talked for a while and her sisters told her all about fishy smell and the rude waiter. Then she remarked, "Well, I have been sitting here for a while and he hasn't offered me a drink."
It was true. He hadn't offered her a drink.
Then it was time to go, and everyone wanted separate checks. It took us almost twenty minutes to itemize the receipt. I'm almost certain he received a remarkably small tip.
My question/concern is not whether there is something innate in my sisters that makes them complain so. Because, of course, not all of them are the same. However, I have noticed similar behavior in sisters from different regions, different economic backgrounds, etc. etc. Enough so that it begs the question: what came first? the chicken or the egg?
That is, have sisters acquired such a widely known reputation for being difficult to please, that people don't even try anymore? Do people see black women coming, suck their teeth and sigh, and just prepare to not be good enough?
Did that waiter see all those sisters sitting at our table and make up his mind that he was not going to be attentive because no matter how hard he ran, they would find something to complain about and would not compensate him appropriately? Was the waiter rude to my homegirl because he had already mentally prepared himself to be belittled and had unconsciously taken an offensive stance? Did the hostess see them coming and tell the kitchen cooks to put yesterday's fish on the grill in the hopes of driving them out with funk?
What came first? The chicken or the egg?
Because if any of those things are even partially true, then this is a perpetual cycle if nothing else. One feeds the other. The preconception feeds the behavior which feeds the stereotype which feeds the preconception which feeds the behavior.
But what came first?
Your thoughts?
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: Black women are the least likely ethnic/gender group in this country to get married. Isn't that fucked up?
I recently went out with a few friends of mine to a happy hour in some hoity toity bistro just outside of Georgetown. The group was pretty much split in half gender-wise.
Now, this is no attempt to critique the character of our female companions, (both of whom I love dearly) but merely to understand certain behaviors.
I love black women.
I have a black mamma, a black grandmamma, 2 black sisters, a gang of black aunts, a black niece, etc., etc.
Salt of the earth as far as I'm concerned. And they are varied as the colors in the rainbow in terms of personality and temperment.
Having said all of that, I do have some questions/concerns.
If I hadn't seen this type of thing more than once, I wouldn't bring it up. If I hadn't seen it more than a few times in similar contexts, I wouldn't bring it up.
Here comes our waiter. A young wiry Latin American fellow, short on manners and obviously very busy. It happens. They can't all be overcome with joy to run for your drinks and napkins. But because he did not approach the table with a big gay Broadway musical smile, it set a certain tone. This is the part he played.
The beautiful black woman to my left asked, "Hey, what's in the tempura shrimp?"
The waiter replied with a pause and a slight smirk, "Shrimp."
Well, that was all it took. Her night was ruined, and she was not going to suffer in silence. She did that whole chastise-you-to-someone-else-but-loud-enough-for-you-to-hear thing.
"He's an asshole," she said to me, her back turned to him, "I know it has shrimp in it. I can read. I just needed him to explain the dish to me. That is his job, right?"
He was standing just 2 feet away and could most certainly hear everything she was saying. Poor guy. Was he a bit of a prick? Yes. And that's coming from someone who used to wait tables. So maybe he deserved a little heat.
Moving on.
The beautiful black woman to my right said, "It smells like fish in here."
The one to my left chimed in, "I didn't want to say anything, but it does stink."
"Girl, it's like day-old seafood or something. It's not supposed to smell this strong. Something ain't right."
As it turned out, we were in a seafood restaurant. But it was a little fishier than it should have been.
Moving on again.
We were soon joined by another beautiful black woman. She sat and talked for a while and her sisters told her all about fishy smell and the rude waiter. Then she remarked, "Well, I have been sitting here for a while and he hasn't offered me a drink."
It was true. He hadn't offered her a drink.
Then it was time to go, and everyone wanted separate checks. It took us almost twenty minutes to itemize the receipt. I'm almost certain he received a remarkably small tip.
My question/concern is not whether there is something innate in my sisters that makes them complain so. Because, of course, not all of them are the same. However, I have noticed similar behavior in sisters from different regions, different economic backgrounds, etc. etc. Enough so that it begs the question: what came first? the chicken or the egg?
That is, have sisters acquired such a widely known reputation for being difficult to please, that people don't even try anymore? Do people see black women coming, suck their teeth and sigh, and just prepare to not be good enough?
Did that waiter see all those sisters sitting at our table and make up his mind that he was not going to be attentive because no matter how hard he ran, they would find something to complain about and would not compensate him appropriately? Was the waiter rude to my homegirl because he had already mentally prepared himself to be belittled and had unconsciously taken an offensive stance? Did the hostess see them coming and tell the kitchen cooks to put yesterday's fish on the grill in the hopes of driving them out with funk?
What came first? The chicken or the egg?
Because if any of those things are even partially true, then this is a perpetual cycle if nothing else. One feeds the other. The preconception feeds the behavior which feeds the stereotype which feeds the preconception which feeds the behavior.
But what came first?
Your thoughts?
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: Black women are the least likely ethnic/gender group in this country to get married. Isn't that fucked up?
Thursday, February 28, 2008
And That's The Truth
Okay:
You ever watch Scrubs?
I always thought it was kind of a stupid show until Gill pointed out that it is the only show that traverses between slapstick, dry wit and heart-wrenching drama effortlessly and effectively. For that, they are to be commended.
But that’s not my point.
I once saw an episode that exposed the rivalry in every hospital between the doctors and the surgeons. The doctors want to medicate everyone and the surgeons want to cut everyone open.
They don’t sit at the same lunch tables.
Very cliquish.
My sister tells me it’s the same way with stock brokers and people in municipal bonds. As I understand it, congressman and senators don’t get along either.
Cops and Firemen.
Wannabes and Jigaboos.
One group thinks they’re better than the other and vice versa.
In a special education school, it’s teachers and therapists.
Bloods and Crips essentially.
There’s an old saying. “When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.”
See, therapists want to help special kids work through their special issues.
Teachers, on the other hand, want order. They can’t do their jobs if they don’t have order.
People with conflicting goals make natural enemies.
I once saw a therapist. My mother couldn’t figure out why I was failing so horribly in school, so she sent me to some prick downtown. All I remember is his big, stupid ass grin. We only had two sessions. Lord knows what he told my mother but the next year she shipped me off to reform school.
If I catch that smiling prick on the street, it’s gonna be some shit.
Years later I saw a court-ordered shrink (long story). This was also a less than positive experience. We had a thirty minute meeting. She wrote in her notes that I wore too much cologne and I had attachment disorder.
I say all that to say this. I don’t like therapists.
So when one of these over-educated smug assholes tries to tell me I’m not therapeutic enough in my dealings with students, I want to scream. Most of them are a bunch of bleeding hearts who think they can love these kids back to health.
I have a different philosophy. I tell them the truth.
The truth is my hammer.
And all their little issues are nails.
Fear of abandonment? “Get over it. Everyone’s lonely. Read the next paragraph.”
Attention starved? “Get over it. You’re not the center of the world. Now finish your quiz.”
Physically abused? “That’s fucked up, man. Where’s your homework? You don’t wanna be all screwed up and uneducated.”
I tell them when they’re getting on my nerves. I tell them when they’re fucking up. I tell them when they’re coming dangerously close becoming a hopeless loser if they don’t straighten up quick.
Maybe it’s not always textbook positive behavior facilitation but I know it’s the only thing that has ever worked for me. Doesn’t necessarily mean that it will work for every student, but all that back-rubbing, coddling and “How did that make you feel?” bullshit may not work either.
My sister, for example, was a psych major. And she don’t go for none of that shit.
“Claude, you’re fucking up,” she tells me. And I appreciate it. That’s why I make sure I check in with her at least once a week. To make sure I don’t get too far gone. And I can get really far gone if left to my own devices.
See? Therapy is dumb.
The truth is the only thing that has ever saved anyone from anything.
And between me and my big sister, we could heal the world with candor.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: I once sniffed Ritalin in high school. Based on the effects, (I did my homework, cleaned my dorm room and read for an hour) I’m pretty sure I have Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.
You ever watch Scrubs?
I always thought it was kind of a stupid show until Gill pointed out that it is the only show that traverses between slapstick, dry wit and heart-wrenching drama effortlessly and effectively. For that, they are to be commended.
But that’s not my point.
I once saw an episode that exposed the rivalry in every hospital between the doctors and the surgeons. The doctors want to medicate everyone and the surgeons want to cut everyone open.
They don’t sit at the same lunch tables.
Very cliquish.
My sister tells me it’s the same way with stock brokers and people in municipal bonds. As I understand it, congressman and senators don’t get along either.
Cops and Firemen.
Wannabes and Jigaboos.
One group thinks they’re better than the other and vice versa.
In a special education school, it’s teachers and therapists.
Bloods and Crips essentially.
There’s an old saying. “When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.”
See, therapists want to help special kids work through their special issues.
Teachers, on the other hand, want order. They can’t do their jobs if they don’t have order.
People with conflicting goals make natural enemies.
I once saw a therapist. My mother couldn’t figure out why I was failing so horribly in school, so she sent me to some prick downtown. All I remember is his big, stupid ass grin. We only had two sessions. Lord knows what he told my mother but the next year she shipped me off to reform school.
If I catch that smiling prick on the street, it’s gonna be some shit.
Years later I saw a court-ordered shrink (long story). This was also a less than positive experience. We had a thirty minute meeting. She wrote in her notes that I wore too much cologne and I had attachment disorder.
I say all that to say this. I don’t like therapists.
So when one of these over-educated smug assholes tries to tell me I’m not therapeutic enough in my dealings with students, I want to scream. Most of them are a bunch of bleeding hearts who think they can love these kids back to health.
I have a different philosophy. I tell them the truth.
The truth is my hammer.
And all their little issues are nails.
Fear of abandonment? “Get over it. Everyone’s lonely. Read the next paragraph.”
Attention starved? “Get over it. You’re not the center of the world. Now finish your quiz.”
Physically abused? “That’s fucked up, man. Where’s your homework? You don’t wanna be all screwed up and uneducated.”
I tell them when they’re getting on my nerves. I tell them when they’re fucking up. I tell them when they’re coming dangerously close becoming a hopeless loser if they don’t straighten up quick.
Maybe it’s not always textbook positive behavior facilitation but I know it’s the only thing that has ever worked for me. Doesn’t necessarily mean that it will work for every student, but all that back-rubbing, coddling and “How did that make you feel?” bullshit may not work either.
My sister, for example, was a psych major. And she don’t go for none of that shit.
“Claude, you’re fucking up,” she tells me. And I appreciate it. That’s why I make sure I check in with her at least once a week. To make sure I don’t get too far gone. And I can get really far gone if left to my own devices.
See? Therapy is dumb.
The truth is the only thing that has ever saved anyone from anything.
And between me and my big sister, we could heal the world with candor.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
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Confession: I once sniffed Ritalin in high school. Based on the effects, (I did my homework, cleaned my dorm room and read for an hour) I’m pretty sure I have Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.
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