Category Archives: on Academics

School’s Out…Forever?

For those following my educational history, I salute you. You read through the confusion and liberation of my undergraduate years, the accomplishments and naivety accompanying graduation, and the transitory confusion and gradual confidence acquired after completing my Master’s a couple years ago.

Well, I quietly enrolled in a second program for more credits. I also took a few extra courses to specialize in College Advisement. Our last course lecture was this evening. How does it feel?

Twenty-three years of formalized education ends (at least for now). The idea is new and will take a few days for me to think about and fully realize. I’m shell-shocked, but pleased. I am losing a huge chunk of my identity, but gaining so much more.

New York State promises Education Reform and Embraces Social Media

On November 10, 2011, New York identified 1,325 elementary, middle and high schools and 123 districts as needing improvement under the federal Elementary and Secondary Education Act (ESEA), the No Child Left Behind (NCLB) Act. This finding is not shocking when one considers that New York is under more pressure to reform; graduation statistics released in early 2011 show high school graduation rates slightly increased statewide, but findings suggest students are not adequately prepared for college.

Many impeding factors contribute to these issues; one can easily denigrate lackluster New York standards, administrators, teachers, disengaged parents, and difficult socioeconomic factors (1173 of the 1,325 are listed as Title I or low-income serving schools). However, the bottom line is that education in New York requires an overhaul.

And that reform is exactly what John B. King, Jr., New York State Department of Education Commissioner, vows by adopting the national Common Core standard and ingeniously engaging educators with social media. In an e-mail to NYSED’s employees and related constituents yesterday evening, he wrote:

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Soaring in the Final Stretch

Falcon over the City

Nightfall settles on the city. Drivers reflexively turn headlights on; more daring cabbies and messenger cyclists dart and weave along skyscraper shadowed streets. The falcon soars above, unhindered by traffic and no-flying zones. It’s free.

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realistic choices

It’s been a long time since I blogged a post (see: recent graduation, my laptop still being held in repair somewhere in Texas, a full schedule of distractions, and my unstated thorough apology).

A countless string of choices occurs over the duration of a year; many are not openly recognized, while others are calculated and planned in advance. Yet, the entirety of one’s conscious and unconscious actions, along with a multitude of exterior factors create the state and quality of one in the present moment – you are a culmination of nature and nurture.

Self-disclosure is something that I tend to avoid and really, no body wants to hear someone complain about the difficulties in their life constantly. I hope for this to be a site that portrays a neutrality, or at the least, a site that depicts difficult scenarios that are overcome with rationality and a touch of realism.

Yes, I graduated from a graduate program recently. Yes, I am still attending courses although I am not pursuing a doctorate (at this time). There is a lure and a drawback to academia – it is simultaneously synonymous with opportunity and restriction. I’m one of the nerds that actually likes lectures and application and intellectual discourse. There was a commencement speaker who graciously thanked the graduates’ parents and families for providing their support; this topic is one of suppression, pride, bitterness, and exaltation for me. Although I was essentially moved from my childhood home without consultation, I am comforted by my self-sufficiency and ability to still hold a loving relationship with those who unwittingly removed me. Although I was encouraged and expected to attend college, I was also mocked and degraded for doing so by the very same sources.

I cannot speak for everyone – some situations are much more dismal than my own. Although I had been neglected in various ways, I still cannot comprehend the abandonment endured by another close to me. However, although I would like to move to a different location or perhaps attend a prestigious graduate program, I cannot afford either idea at this time. Situations are made complicated when actions are not grounded with foresight and determined solely by hope and a few tenuous lines of support. Now, all I can do is suggest and listen, help an individual determine their path toward a viable solution. Unfortunately, holding a determined stance onto past occurrences and therein, constantly falling victim to oneself and one’s obstacles often have a way of making a person deaf to possibility.

An education can provide skills, training, and expectations. It cannot, however, change a person. The change must be stirred within; I can only work toward being a catalyst.

scenario

How would you handle a situation of a girl who self-reports that she is depressed?

There are many ways to go about it…jump into the symptoms, strict DSM-IV TR criteria for a major depressive episode, for recurrent occurrences, for a depressive disorder, and so on. Consider giving her the Beck’s Depression Scale to assess further. There are too many variables to say outright what to do, but general guidelines exist.

Consider suicidality and parasuicidality. Discuss it, frankly. Keeping the client alive is the primary concern. Explain the limits of confidentiality. Perhaps in reverse order. Assess her intentions. Is it mere ideation? Does she have a solid, plausible plan? The means? Does she foresee a future, have aspirations? Scope for ounces of hope and collect them in a jar for her to sip from on rainy days.

Should the clinician go for the rapport angle?  Yes. Build on the trust. Have the client explain what her subjective issues are, what matters most. Read between the lines. Look at the body language. Pinpoint the weak spots. How is the client’s social life? Relationships? Does she have interests, passions? What are ways for her to reconnect and establish herself more firmly in circles that have similar hobbies? How is work going? School grades? Her sleep patterns? Eating? How does she feel physically (are there psychosomatic or physiological complaints)?

Point out the strengths, her resilience. Any insight or maturity the client displays, her humor. Use the magic wand technique. Develop goals and ways to reach them. Have the client come up with the solutions.

But even more than that, attend to the client with your eyes, the angle of your body. Do not cross your arms and close off your space. Do not sit with a barrier in between you; have the client’s chair off to the side or directly in front of you. Show that you’re human. Give tissues, because there will be tears (make sure it’s Kleenex; don’t get stingy on quality here). Make corny jokes, a laugh or smile – get the dopamine and serotonin flowing a little (who knows, it could be slightly chemical – even if the alleged research stats show that 16% of the depression [how is there ever 100%?] is alleviated by the pill and the rest is outside factors of personality and nurture). Let empathy pour out of your pores and then some, but never coddle. Never pity. Always provide unconditional positive regard.

The approach is unending, entangled.

It’s not easy to answer even this expected question in less than two minutes, and there are so many layers that need to be explored and considered.

perfection

“What’s wrong? You look pissed,” a friend observed. Even ten minutes after the fact, the seething burn in my face was still strongly felt. “How long have I been studying psychological theories?” I asked, noting an odd, higher-pitched key to my voice. “Ummm…jeez….you studied it in undergrad, right?” A mute nod. “4, almost 5 years to the month,” they counted on their fingertips. “So tell me why the easiest class known to God, the one I suffered through with continuous discussion and painstaking alertness, urging every effort to do anything but stare at the paint peeling off the walls, awarded my efforts with a sparkling A-,” I squeaked, nearly screamed. “You’re joking,” was the simple response with a twitch of an eyebrow raise. No. Simple. To the point. He started to laugh. Hard. “What’s so funny?” I demanded. “That’s what you’re mad about?! Dear God, woman! I thought someone killed your childhood pet!” “She ruined my 4.0!!!” I shot back, pacing. “Since when did you give a shit about grade perfection?” I stilled my anxious steps and thought, really thought about it. Toward the end of my undergraduate education, I had the exhilarating notion that grades did not really matter. Much. That the education underneath the lectures and mountains of senseless paperwork really counted. Enjoying the ride. Those last semesters afforded me an incredible sensation of closure and peace. I did not graduate summa cum laude like I had always dreamt, but in the second tiering. It was still satisfying, but there had always been a stinging pinch of regret at what my inner-perfectionist growled as laziness. My friend took in my silent countenance and shook his head ruefully. “Okay, so tell me what your cumulative GPA is now.” Still lost in my thoughts, waging war internally, I grumbled, “Erm…a 3.96.” More laughter. The sound irritated my ears. “Oh sure, you’re definitely not going anywhere successful in life,” he rolled his eyes. HE ROLLED HIS EYES! Disbelieving, I turned toward the sarcastic tone. Not the person. “Seriously, woman, you’re bright. You work hard. You still have a killer GPA. Stop being a demonic, overly-sensitive mess.” If I could have snarled. I would have. Then, a calm cloud overtook me. Damn the man for being right, grumbled my perfectionist ogre. The logical side smirked and slipped my friend a high-five. I glared at the both of them – sure, abandon me in my self-righteous tirade. How does one encapsulate or strictly define ‘perfection’ anyway?

forever riding the crest of

Thesis, my love, my ever-challenging soul wrecker. You, my sweetest, my most despised, will be the death of me. a tenuous line that meanders off in two directions. One dictates life be led one way, while the other wanders over a hazily outlined hillside, stretching beyond the scope of simple conjecture and into a land beyond charted seas. There is a longing – to maximize an academic potential. To continue on the noble route of the intellectual. There is a pulling – to scamper toward the practical and invest in life’s simple pleasures, hopes, and reaching aspirations that many are not fortunate enough to know or see. And Thesis, you still refuse to write yourself, as though to mock and cajole me into a heartened slumber that the second option does not somehow entangle the first. Fret on and push still, for in this moment, I know better.

soggy cheerios, cold coffee

Holy smokes! Where have I been? Look at all of this dust. Disgraceful.

Ever see Road Runner from Looney Toons? I’m Road Runner, but mute because I haven’t had the energy to give a half-hearted, “Beep! Beep!” before taking off into the desert. Oh, but that Wile E. Coyote has sure had the time to chase me down. His real name is Research Thesis. His middle name is Father’s Illness. And his last name is Beatles Rock Band. Really. Beating the hell out of poor electronic excuses for my packed away drumset have let me vent frustration, sadness, fear, and concern. Melts everything, including responsibility, right off the chalkboard when one pretends to be Ringo Starr.

The first rough draft of my thesis results is due this Wednesday, and I haven’t even finished the data entry. What possessed me to use such a complex survey is not even worth thinking about right now. Why I bothered to be in graduate school is another issue altogether (a right decision, but one that deserves a bit of doubt given a long history of undergraduate procrastination and insomnia that has abated).

Soggy cereal is worth considering. The cool, bitter, and artificial sweetness of leftover coffee is another — coffee that was supposed to be consumed at around 5:30 a.m., and waited for the morning frost to seep into my bones enough to wake up, pour, and sip. Blessed are house alarms, for their sensitivities and frightening false triggers. I’d rather a false trigger than a real emergency, but I’d rather more a traditional alarm clock that I actually listened to.

one reason to (at the very least) respect President Obama

He supports American students. Click here to read the full transcript. If you have school age children, consider having them listen to President Obama’s speech. I highly recommend it. He also refers to teachers and parents, and shows students how their involvement is necessary in ensuring future successes.

This speech is extraordinary – developmentally appropriate, modern, and easy for students in difficult situations to relate to, and appreciate. Parents had the right to waive their child from listening in at school, but I found the outrage by many wary critics to be appalling. Those parents, Republican, Democratic, Independent, or unaffiliated, merely denied their children the right to access current news, hear further encouragement, and gain inspirational insight.

Lylah Alphonse from Boston.com shares my sentiments. She wrote, “Since when is telling kids to study hard and stay in school a Socialist concept?” Similarly, The Dallas Morning News received all sorts of letters to the editor in response.

It’s what many kids need to hear – students need to feel heard and listened to, to know their talents and interests are worthwhile, and that they should never fail to believe in themselves. So many Americans are anti-government or wary of political agendas to the point where they forget the positive things our country provides us. We beat our Bill of Rights into oblivion in the search for said Rights. Students, especially those in public schools, should feel like they are responsible and included in the educational process. They are vital pieces to the ultimate puzzle.

I grew up in a public school system where students easily slipped off educational pathways and into illicit venues. There were too many students for our administration to keep track of everyone. They saluted the motivated, pushed along those on the border, and placated everyone else.  I learned a lot from that educational background. I worked hard out of a personal invested interest in learning, even during the times when I was not exactly supported in my academic endeavors by those around me. I went to college despite some obstacles, including a life-threatening health condition that could have easily held me back in summer school. I did not realize how many of my peers, people who I knew on a first name basis and hung around with socially, simply stopped caring and did not continue after high school. Some did not even graduate, or were moved to “better school systems” by their families. Those kids, people I considered friends, could have used such a speech. The education some gave up on and others yearned for were all achievable at the high school we originally attended – some of us simply had a version of President Obama’s speech constantly in front of us, or already closely held in our hearts.

So far in August

Found this old draft hidden among all of the already published posts.
All that had been typed was the title.

August was busy. End of September review? Also busy, but it seems that more blog posts means there was an adjustment involved. Post-graduate life has been kicked into full gear. Maybe I’m getting used to it and the additional responsibilities and joys that come from “growing up older”.

There was an old college peer standing outside of the local grocery store today. He was handing out pamphlets for an upcoming state election. I knew his name because he was always snarky in class, full of sarcasm and opposing views for the sake of argumentation. One student in particular, a man of greater inclination toward settling disputes with physical means, always growled back and threw heavy philosophical texts in his direction (this second action occurring on at least two occasions). My role in that interaction was one of maternal mediator. A few sharp and direct orders always seemed to set them in line.

It did not bother me much that he forgot my name – his sales pitch was a tad exasperating though. I will not, under any forsaken circumstances, save employment and perhaps threat of being rubbed with freshly cut poison ivy leaves, give up Sunday evenings to call hardworking, resting people during their dinner hours for a few extra dollars. He seemed put out that I am not officially affiliated with a specific political party. Call me an indecisive fence-sitter. I prefer the terms ‘well-informed’ and ‘moderate’. The democratic process should not be undertaken like one may align themselves with a favorite sports team for the sheer locality or familiarity of it. It should be a thought out process, carried much in the way that Plato/Socrates had intended in The Republic, by those in the know and who are impartial to immediate biases.