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moon gazing

November 1st, 2016
moon

beautiful moon

The first time I really gazed at the moon was when I lived a hippie life in an Southern Oregon cabin on Coleman Creek.  My friends and I rented a little red house with woodstove and outhouse in the middle of the woods. Continue reading “moon gazing” »

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commemoration

September 27th, 2016
family at baclutha

It’s clear I loved my father

I’m emotional because of this horrid anniversary day.  Forty-eight years ago my father put a gun to his head and died.  It’s irreversible.  I’m the last family member to endure this day.  Anyone who copes with suicide understands the devastating rip of losing our love. Continue reading “commemoration” »

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bagpipes, love and loss

September 6th, 2016
haunting history

haunting history

My brother played the bagpipes with The Prince Charles Pipe Band.  He walked Ring Mountain playing his pipes at sunset, as if he belonged in Scotland.  Neighbors remind me of his haunting silhouette  during those years.  Since he didn’t live to be an adult, bagpipes remain for me as a symbol of love and strength and loss. Continue reading “bagpipes, love and loss” »

eggs to flight

July 19th, 2016
images

in less than a month they fly away

My twenty four year-old son sent me a text photograph with a nest full of robin’s eggs. Then he sent a shot of the hatched robins in their nest.  Ten days later, he watched the birds fly away.  He watched the last bird fall from the nest and fly away, and observed that the nest was truly empty. Continue reading “eggs to flight” »

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wack

July 5th, 2016

being with someone

Lindy’s house felt like vacation every seventh grade weekend, and kept me away from my family.  She and I wore paisley print dresses and mock turtlenecks with semi-short skirts to our knees, hooked sandal toe nylons onto garterbelts, wore straight hair, imitated Cher, with thick “I got you Babe” bangs that squared off our faces, striving to look like that perfect blonde girl on Breck shampoo bottles. Continue reading “wack” »

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making contact with reading

May 17th, 2016
images

love those books

 

 

 

 

 

The more you read

The more you grow

The more you grow

The more you know

The more you know

The stronger your voice

When speaking your mind

Or making a choice Continue reading “making contact with reading” »

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past changes

March 15th, 2016
I felt like  was Miwok too

I felt like was Miwok too

When my parents weren’t tanked, we had plenty of fun family times.  We drove up to the Russian River and canoed around, carried kites and hiked up into Tiburon hills, straight up from our house, crossing rusty barbwire fences through pastures on the way.  My father loved hiking, and we made up funny songs while we walked, poems and skits for each other, gut busting laughs.  It almost seemed to make up for unpredictable drunk ugly. Continue reading “past changes” »

the coolest

February 16th, 2016

 

images

How about Jerry Colonna?

My dad worked in the radio business, and he brought home a lifesize plastic fake jukebox record player, a fabulous little space man who came to live with us.  Its silver plastic chrome lit up bright red when I plugged it in next to the green couch, one speaker blaring. Continue reading “the coolest” »

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Teachers deserve respect

February 8th, 2016

I love Taylor Mali and his fabulous response to what teachers make. It’s true. Teachers train hard for a career which prepares them to work with students and develop teaching skills. Teachers need support for what and how we teach. We need to be heard.

Students have different schools these days than before. Corporations, like Educational Testing Services control a tremendous amount of how a teacher teaches, and politicians are taking over with their philosophies.

For example, today’s American Standardized tests in English focus more on non-fiction than fiction. This is a crucial shift. Think about this.

A teacher on NPR radio opinion said it plainly this morning, “Out with Shakespeare, in with the New York Times.” Students are not being taught to respect their imaginations in school much anymore. Current politics has succeeded in ‘taking the teacher out of teaching’.

The teacher told about his students responding to Tim O’Brien’s “The Things They Carried” in a more compelling way than if they read historical documents about the Viet Nam war. More than ever, students are taught to pass a test, instead of how to grow their character.

O’Brien wrote a collection of short stories about a platoon of American soldiers in the Vietnam War. His third book is based upon his experiences as a soldier in the 23rd Infantry Division, 3rd Platoon. The powerful memoir vividly captures personal stories, but it is considered fiction. It took O’Brien over twenty-five years to write his memoir, relying upon a technique called metafiction, or verisimilitude. The reader becomes more involved with events because they feel real, deep connections with real characters as if they are true. These are the connections that truly teach about the Viet Nam war, not just statistics.

With non-fiction, we might get dates and events, but we do not get emotions that linking fiction brings to history. So we can’t use O’Brien, because it’s ‘fiction?’ Which content changes the world? The facts or the people? Does studying for a test make us compassionate individuals?

Someone once said, “Genius is the person who makes connections” and fiction can do that for each one of us. Students can read O’Brien and become part of the Viet Nam story. That is learning. Students learn to love reading and learn about their past, their humanity.

I respect teachers. We know what we are doing, and most of us do it well. We want students to remember both facts and use their imagination. How we learn does change the world. Student by student. Not test by test.

Our students deserve to go deeper into themselves with a blend of fiction and nonfiction, to learn who they are in American History and have it mean something.

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honest color

January 5th, 2016
heavenly colors

heavenly colors

My parents found a San Francisco apartment on Lincoln Avenue when our family moved from Japan.  It was a cold second-floor dump near Golden Gate Park.  My father smiled and waved into the super-eight movie camera, wearing his overcoat, looking like Cary Grant, a strong nose, dark eyebrows, and brown eyes.  My mother beams, looking sexy, with blue eyes and brown hair.  A friendly mounted policeman lifts me onto his sorrel horse and rides me around, wearing a green car coat, brimmed hat tied with a bow over my golden hair. Continue reading “honest color” »

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