Tuesday, March 20, 2007

The Child is More Important Than the Tortilla

My mom was my sixth grade teacher. That is not the point of this story, as great as it was. When we were there in that class all those years ago, something happened that would go on to change lives. It is really her story.

She has told it over and over to groups of teachers that she mentors and teaches. Some of them have told her that is has changed the way they see their students. That it has realigned their priorities into the barest levels of importance. One even told her that it changed her life with her own child.


Jesse was a hispanic boy in our class. Mom contends that he was at the least verbally abused and probably physically as well. She spent a lot of time with him figuring out tools he could use to survive--strategizing on how he could break the cycle of abuse and become the type of father that he wishes he could have.

Another of the hispanic students in her class, Irma, was a woman before her time. She was the oldest of eight children and often kept out of school to help take care of them. She approached my mom one day saying that her birthday was coming up. And she'd never had a birthday party. Would it be okay if she planned a party with the class and we all cooked and celebrated? Of course it would be okay. Mom told her to put together a shopping list and we would get the groceries she needed.

Her family lived in a shack. I remember visiting there once when mom and I were trying to convince her overly protective parents to let her go on the week-long field trip to Monteray. They were dirt poor.

The shopping list was all in Spanish. And difficult for the two of us to figure out what everything was, let alone find it. We wandered the grocry store for a couple hours before bumping into a Spanish only speaking woman who directed us to the right market for the ingredients for the tortillas and pasolle and menudo.

For Irma's party we showed up with three or four bags of groceries. Unbenownst to my mom, she had made up invitations and sent them out to all of the teachers and aids she'd had during her time at Evergreen. So they showed up with their "youngers" in tow. It became a real party. Organized chaos, my mom would say--positive chaos.

And Irma was the ring leader. She told us how to prepare everything; we set up stations and all got to work.

At the tortilla making station it ended up that there were all boys. Sixth graders helping the first graders. Molding and rolling tortillas made from scratch. Jesse was at this table working with one of the first grade hispanic boys. The little boy watched Jesse in awe. To him he was a big strong man and someone to idolize.

The little boy picked up a ball of dough and proceded to try to make a tortilla. He didn't know how. His tortilla looked like crap.

As my mom happened to glance up from across the room, Jesse grabbed the mis-shapen ball of dough from the little boy, saying, "That's not how you make a tortilla!" with disgust in his voice. The little boy wilted instantly.

Mom walked over and took the tortilla from Jesse and handed it back to the little boy. She took his hands and they made it together. It still looked awful, but it was his tortilla. She told him to take it over to the grill and cook it.

When he'd gone, she turned to Jesse, "Jesse, the child is more important than the tortilla. This is an opportunity for you to practice being the kind of father that you'd like to have. I want you to work with this little boy today and I'll give you feed back if you need it. I want you to really practice and think about how you can treat him the way you wish your father would treat you. And the way you envision yourself being a father."

The rest of the day he worked with the little boy. He was kind and patient and helpful.

At the end of the day, as we always did, we had what mom called "debriefing sessions" where we all sat down together and talked about what had happened, any challenges we'd had, what we'd learned. We went around sharing what we liked about the day. "I never knew how to make meudo." "I really liked being able to cut the vegetables on my own." "I learned how to make pasolle." At the end of the sharing session, Jesse raised his hand, "I learned that the child is more important than the tortilla."

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

USMLE Step Three

What that really stands for is United States Medical Lisencing Exam (Step Three of THREE!). What it should stand for is Unusually Sadistic Much too Long Entrapment (other suggestions welcome).

I just finished taking it. So, assuming I passed, I will be a real liscenced doctor in about a month when the results are official. It is a 16 hour exam. Yes, I said it, SIXTEEN hours. My entire body hurts from sitting at the testing location for two entire days. I was even a complete squirm worm and it still hurts. And my head feels like it has imploded. There really is nothing left at the moment.

I knew some. I didn't know some. I'm just hoping the former outweighs the latter and I don't have to spring another $655 and spend another two days of US Misery LE.

I've taken all three steps at these testing centers. The first two in Ohio, and the last one here. The first two are one full day each. This last one is two. There are all sorts of other people taking various tests there at the same time. NONE of them as long as these, it seems. Since other testers come and go, and come and go, and come and go. I'm the one with full meals packed--the one who needs the big locker. And then at the end of the day, I'm the last one there (having been the first one there also) and the friendly testing administrators say, "See you tomorrow!" And I just want to cry but I smile instead, "Okay!"

We can be hung from our toes for going into great detail about the question content on these things it seems, but let me just say that on my exam, there seemed to be an inordinate number of genital and STD and sex related questions. I think I got three question about how long you have to wait after a myocardial infarction before you can have sex. Then there was the four year old with priapism (erect penis)--with a picture. I ask you, is the picture really necessary? You could just decribe it, I think I'd get it. But no, should any of the other poor electrical journeyman or airplane pilots happen to look over at my computer during that time, they too would be subjected to that image also.

And that wasn't, by far, the worst of it. There were genital warts galore. Atrophic vagititis. A giant scaley old woman breast. A man with a nasty rash down there and down both legs. And a five year old's scrotum swollen to the size of a canteloupe. Oh, and an x-ray of a vibrator stuck up a man's anus after "sex play" with his girlfriend. In decribing the phycial exam, the only abnormality was "diffuse high frequency vibrations felt throughout the abdomen."

So, if you happen to be reading this, and you happen to have taken Step Three, did you test have this much uhhh...intimate details on your version of the test?

In then end, I'm just glad it's over.

Saturday, March 10, 2007

Because we should all fly without limits.

Richard Bach. Jonathan Livingston Seagull

To the real Jonathan Seagull,
who lives within us all.

This is a beautiful book and one of my favorites. The text is online if you have a quiet hour to enjoy it.

http://www.lib.ru/RBACH/seagullengl.txt