A Little Bit

When scientists, the government, companies, advertisers say something - anything - is "safe," they follow the industry standards.  As a scientist, especially, they must follow good research techniques.  I clearly understand that.  In my lay terms, this, though, is what they mean:

The amount of ingredient "x" used (as directed,) would not cause you permanent damage, or at least not for a long time.  Because there's only a little bit in the toxic item, which deems it "safe."  Really.  That's the scientific definition of something being considered safe or at least doesn't cause cancer.  You know, like TV & video game violence don't cause crimes.  And some things, there's such a little bit of it, and everybody puts that little bit in, that the government doesn't make them disclose it on the ingredients list.  Like lead in your red lipstick.  Or softening chemical in your ice cream.

Here's the thing with me, though.

There's only a little bit of surfactants in soaps and shampoos, fragrances, stain-resistant and water-shedding coatings, parabens (preservatives in cosmetics and pharmaceuticals,) fluoride, lead (in your red lipstick,) pesticides on your fruits and vegetables, hormones, bleach, bisphenal-A so that they won't harm you.  But what about the manufacturing process?  The workers?  The remnants?

Did anyone test what happens to us and our kids who are in aggregate ingesting
a little bit of hormone in our beef, pork, chicken, eggs and milk,
a little bit of mercury in the approximately 14 vaccines that our babies get,
a little bit of lead in your red lipstick,
a little bit of preservative in our soaps, lotions, cosmetics (which they find lodged in breast tissue,)
a little bit of the petroleum-based estrogenic fragrances in our air fresheners, soaps, candles, shampoos, make up, fragranced markers,
a little bit of bleach on our cut carrots and diapers and tampons,
a little bit of plastic off-gassing from our new car seats, carpet, coats, shoes, pajamas, nail polish
a little bit of plastic leeching out of the pellets they put in farming soil,
a little bit of plastic leeching from our canned goods, paper plate coating, toys.

But don't worry; it's SAFE.

Why I Decided to Home School

(I'm sorry there are some misleading advertising links.  I actually have some links.)

Last night, I went out with the moms from the home schooling coop.  I had so much fun.  It was silly and serious, insightful, resourceful and we stayed way too late.  It confirmed for me, though, how different each one of us, and our families are.  You can't assume the reasons for why people home school.  They are almost limitless.  Since I've had so many people ask me why I decided to home school, I thought I'd write a post.  Lord knows I need to write something or close shop.

Contrary to the title, I thought I'd start by telling you the reasons that were NOT a factor in my decision:

1. It is NOT because I'm a Christian.  In fact, my religion has almost nothing to do with it.  I do not believe the Biblical mandate to care for my child includes keeping them at home and doing everything myself.  No.  I don't grow the food we eat, I don't weave the cloth for clothes and I personally don't have to stand over a text book.
2. It is NOT because I want to make him into my brand of Christian.  Except that of course, I do.  What parent doesn't want their children to think like they do? to have their philosophy that has been honed for 30-40 years?  But it's not because I want to shield him from other religions.
3. It is NOT because I am the only one who knows what's best for my child.  Sometimes the perspective of an outsider gives needed insight.
4. It's NOT because there's a conspiracy to brainwash my child.
5. It's NOT because I think the world will end in 2015 and I want him home when that happens.

The bottom line for why I'm homeschooling my son is that I RAN OUT OF OPTIONS.

Crazy as that sounds in the US of A, I really felt there was nothing out there quite right for him.  I was willing to do anything, everything to get him to the right place, educationally speaking.

Initially, my public school was just too big for my little guy.  Later, they lied to me about him.  Deliberately hid his learning disability in the testing summary.  I used to be a huge proponent of the public school system.  Now I'm for Vouchers.

You may or may not know that our son has Asperger's Syndrome (please don't say he has Autism.)  Along with that turf comes Sensory Integration Disorder, Tourettes and a Language deficit.  There are plenty of schools for Dysgraphia and Dyscalculia and Dyslexia.  Or Autism.  Children who can't make it in a "regular" school setting.  But not for my very high-functioning, happy but weird Aspie.

I even looked at a private school for special kids an hour away at $36K a pop.  Never mind how we'd have paid the $36K.  Yes, they served special kids, but not Asperger kids.
Out of options.  In this country.  (shakes head.)

So, what drove me to this craziness of home schooling?  Because it is kinda crazy.  What pushed me over the edge was a)  Bully Alpha Boy, and the school's inability to properly handle the situation.  And there were other reason:

b) Classmates

c) Asperger's and Sensory Overload

d) Developing His Gifts

a) The Bully Alpha Boy:

In 2nd grade, a new boy entered my son's small class.  An Alpha.  Chris was a big, athletic, dynamic boy.  From the very first day, Chris told my son in recess that he couldn't play.  All the other boys, boys tending to be the pack herding type, went along.  See, the priority of boys (and men, I'm afraid to say)  is playing the game, not caring about the heart of one goofy boy.  I talked to one boy's mom once about all this.  She was satisfied that her son wasn't one that was actually taunting my son, but just went along with it.  I wanted to bring up the quote about people who watch and allow evil to be done, but I held my tongue.  Proud of me?  No, I'm not sure either.

And the girls?  Well, they're busy creating their own social order.  They became aware of gender differences and would not play with him.  Or any other boy.  These are important, formative times for children. 

On the first day of 3rd grade, Chris told J he couldn't play.  The other boys went along.

On the first day of 4th grade, Chris told J he couldn't play.  The other boys went along.

But that year, a new boy entered the class and the dynamic seemed to change and Chris no longer targeted my son.  He targeted the new boy.


And you're wondering, "Why didn't you do anything about it?"  I did.  I tried.  I went with their suggestions.  But after 2-1/2 years, of going it their way, I was at the end of my rope.

Wait.  It gets better.

This new boy said to my son...they're both 10 years old, remember.  TEN, okay?  He said to my precious son, "I'm going home to my room, lock the door, read until I'm bored, then kill myself."  Completes it all by making a hanging motion with his neck and hand.  TEN.  I had long emails and talks with his mom.  Tears.  She was sorry and all, and they talked to their son, but,  in the end, does not feel there is a problem. When I alerted the school, the Superintendent emailed me stating basically that it's not uncommon for children to express wishes to die and in fact his son did too at that age and oh he's fine dontcha know.

Straw.

b) Classmates

Yeah, you need those to have a school.  I get that.  Contrary to popular notion, children are NOT silly, and they do NOT have a sense of humor. Conformity is the rule of the day, here, not fun and joy and creativity.  There's one non conformist in the class.  But it's a girl.  She's definitely a contender for "wife."  In 15 years.  My son's not perfect, but he is fun, sees joy in everything and so creative I have to tell him to stop.

Listen, I'm not the "world is a terrible place full of conformists" kind of person.  I'm pretty conventional myself.  But my son's energy, enthusiasm and creativity?  I'm not having a bunch of sourpuss 10-year olds squash that out of my son.

I know I can't protect him forever.  But I went into home schooling saying to him, "Let's take a break."  Let's spend a year not being taunted, stared at, made fun of, ostracized, ignored.  Let's spend one year where Arianna doesn't scream in your face, "SHUT UP!"  Let's spend one year when you aren't called a liar when you say you can't help your tics.  Let's take a break from Dylan having DAILY meltdowns.  Let's take a break from classmates saying, "Ewww!" about your lunch, while they're chomping on  Fluffwiches.

c) Sensory Overload

Having Asperger's means that everyone knows another language that he doesn't know.  If you've been around bilinguals, you'll understand.  You understand them while they're speaking English, but when they break out into Spanish, you're lost, right?  Same thing for my son.  Except that it's every day.  He gets most of the sentences, except if it has an unknown figure of speech, or sarcasm, or a subtle facial expression.  He heard the words, but he doesn't get the rest of what makes up communication.  It's a foreign language that he'll never be fluent in.

My son has a sensory imbalance.  He sees/hears/feels too much of some things, while he sees/hears/feels too little of others.  He bumps into you, steps on your toes and doesn't realize.  But he can hear every car horn, vacuum, siren and squeak for literally miles around.  Hard to concentrate that way.  And he is neurologically unable to block it out.

Seven hours of  a) b) and c) is too much for even this energetic boy.


d) Development of His Gifts

By 4:30 PM, my son was wrung out and done.  DONE, I tell you.  I'm not sure he could spell his name by then.  I knew school wouldn't get easier, but harder.  More homework.  More independent thinking and analysis.  I wasn't even sure he'd make it at this rate, forget music, art or soccer.

His strength is in music and art.  Once a week of each, squeezed between this holiday and that holiday and the teacher being out sick and jockeying with the other kids in the supply cabinet wasn't going to give him what I wanted.   It's not the school; it's the US.

This kid has perfect pitch.  He hums a note and says, "Hey mom, that was an A."  Not typical kid conversation.  He loves sounding out any song on the keyboard. Or piano. Or trombone.  Or guitar.  He "Yeehawed!" the first time he heard Beethovan's 8th Symphony and often hear him blasting Handel's Messiah.  He imitates Dinosaur Train, and he imitates Dave Matthews.

At 6-1/2 years old, he started drawing buildings in perspective.  (This usually happens around 10.)  He still can't draw a person, but he can draw you a floor plan with matching elevations and a perspective view in a couple of hours.  As you can well imagine, some adults can't do this.

So when this kid is completely wiped out by 4:30, how will he get homework done, AND go to his piano lesson?  Nope.  Can't be done.

Hence, The Kraybill Home School.

Where I am Superintendent, Principal, teacher, bus drive and lunch lady.

And mom.

The Value of Learning

Everywhere I turn, it seems, there is a discussion about what is really wrong with American education and What We Should Do About It. I, like others, think I have an answer.  Let's start by getting rid of the phrase:

I/he/she will never use it.

As in, "What's the point of learning _______ ? I/he/she will never use it!"  That would be for reading literature, learning algebra, dissecting a frog, or any endeavor that is not to someone's liking.  And really, on a day-to-day level, what more do you need than to know your letters, count your change and tie your shoelaces?  Hence, there is no respect for learning and no respect for intelligence.  [I could go off here on the deplorable state of Gifted education, but I won't.]  If you don't value something, why would you want it?  Why would you seek it?  Why would you encourage others to seek it?

We Americans, we're very practical.  My 4th grade son is learning about the western expansion.  It's like we've never gotten passed the 1800s.  Don't take anything ya can't use.  Ya might have to dump it before ya cross the O-hyer Rivah.  [I don't know what accent that is.  It might be Hollywood Westernese.]

Here's what every Korean knows: All knowledge and learning is good.  I'm not even sure they understand it; they just know it's true.  I'm sure it has to do with the Confucian thought brought from China.  I don't know much about it, like The Korean does, except this:  In the olden days, you rose in society by passing the National Civil Service Exam.  Even if you were born in the wrong class, you could be smart and diligent, learn, and take the test.  These tests were going on when Italy hadn't even had their Renaissance.  So, it's an understatement to say this is deeply rooted.  Americans think we can get ahead by being the next American Idol, buying lottery tickets or getting in the NBA.  In fact, when someone is getting a degree in English Literature, the first thing you're likely to hear is, "What is he/she going to do with that??"  or, "What a waste of his/her parents' money!"  But Koreans?  We get ahead by studying.  In fact, no matter what a Korean may think about a person, all you have to do is tell them he/she went to an Ivy League school and said Korean will stop saying anything except "Nnnng" and "Aaaah."  Tell them the person got a degree is Mathematics or Physics?  They'll swoon and want you to marry their son/daughter.

I'm sure there are theses about learning and the brain and all, but this, I know: 

Learning stuff makes your brain stronger.

Would you say to a fullback not to lift weights because he won't use barbells on the field?  Ridiculous, right?  Exercising your body prepares you to run faster, carry more, throw harder.  That's what your body is for: to DO stuff.  Your brain?  It's to THINK stuff.  To KNOW stuff.  Exercising your brain - the weightlifting with drills and memorization, music, poetry, the quadratic equation - primes your brain to think faster, learn more, solve harder problems.   And what if you learned something just for the beauty and appreciation of it?  It doesn't matter whether you're "smart" or not.  It applies to every brain. 

My college had a slogan, something like "We don't teach you how to do something; we teach you to do anything."  I love that.  That's why you learn stuff, not because you're going to use that particular task at your industrial, assembly line job.  With every formula you memorize, and solve, even incorrectly, you learn building block by building block the beginning of how philosophy, beautiful words, colors, animals, the stars -- are created, developed and understood.  You begin to understand not only the wonder and beauty of what you learn, but the very important lesson that THERE IS MORE.  And that maybe, you'll want to learn it.

There's a saying, "When I was young I thought I knew everything.  Now that I am old, I know I know nothing."  Or some such.  It's as important to know something as to know that there's more; that is, that you don't know everything.

We need to accept that learning is to be human, to be the best we can be.  We need to value learning just for what it is.  Our model for education is over a hundred  years old, designed to train our children for their city jobs in the factories of the Industrial Revolution.  Reading Riting Rithmatic.  Changing the system won't help until we change our heart.  Education is about strengthening the brain; that control center of our being:

Not just to do something, but to do anything.

We have to value learning.  Because everything you learn, you will use it.  Just not in the way you think.

Did You Notice That Big Cross?

I've been reading a few articles about this Health & Human Services mandate requiring the coverage of birth control and abortions, as a matter of a woman's health and well-being, they say, even if it is against the beliefs of the employers, the Catholics, let's say.  I know there are many aspects - too many to count - to this discussion, but it made me think back to something in my life from a few years ago.

When Boo was 2, I looked around for a preschool for him.  I write "for him," but really, it was for me.  Almost any mother will remember those days of toddlerhood when your child needed every nano second of your attention, every ounce of your strength and squeezed every drop of your patience.  So I did my usual careful research, and with pen and chart in hand, I trudged from place to place.

I first went to the YWCA, wanting diversity most of all for him.  (Of course, safety was the most important.)  I made an appointment, full of hope for a better, more peaceful world.  It was located in a part of town with a large black and Hispanic population, many of them poor, in this part of town.  I saw the manifestations of their mission, to help parents who lacked good parenting skills - that is, children who "needed guidance," shall we say.  I decided against that culture for my son.  It broke my little liberal heart, but when push came to shove, my child came first.

I then went to the Jewish synagogue, looking for diversity of a different kind.  I expected and looked forward to little Boo learning about shabat and bitter herbs and the oil that lasted and lasted.  I knew he would not be learning about Easter.  In the end, I think it was some mundane issue like their schedule that lead me to move down my roster.

I went to a protestant church school that had a good reputation, supposedly the place to go for upper-crust townians.  It saddened me somewhat to consider the notion of his being surrounded by what I assumed would be white middle-class teachers and white middle-class kids.  There would be the blond moms in their mini-vans and Land Rovers, little kids wearing Gymboree with matching ribbons.  It was a nice building with plenty of parking, an adjacent fenced-in play ground, good adult-child ratios.  Well, I thought, what he misses in diversity, he'll gain in Christian education.

I asked the petite Caucasian director about the curriculum.  Don't get me wrong, we're talking about 2-year olds and I was not expecting a treatise on the End Times.  What she said, though, shocked me. 

"We don't teach religion here because we have families from all over and we don't want to offend them."  

Let me clarify that this is a program run by the church, not simply a nursery school that rents space.

When I went to the Synagogue, did I not think that there might be some Jewish traditions and beliefs presented?  Did I not realize when I went to the Y in that part of town, that the children would represent the neighborhood?  When I went to Penn, we had classes canceled for Jewish holidays but not on Good Friday. 

So I ask, did the people coming to this church school miss the big steeple with the cross on top?  Did they notice the big stain glass with the descending dove?  or the big sign that said the protestant denominational affiliation?  Should they be offended if the children do sheep and cross crafts and learn John 3:16?  So when ya go work for a Catholic institution, a hospital, let's say, didja miss the big statue of  a woman wearing flowing robes, or the bleeding man on a cross?  Have ya heard of the Catholic church? That they don't look kindly on birth control pills, abortion or divorce?

Alright.  Did you make that leap with me?  Were you holding my hand?  or did I let go somewhere in my writing?

Three Years Old

Three years ago today, I let my friends Jo-Lynne and Sarah talk me into spending even more time on the computer.  Doing this thing called "Blogging."

I didn't really know what I was doing.  Like the new girl starting school in the middle of the year.  I had some thoughts that had been percolating in my mind for awhile.  Months.  Years.  Thoughts I wanted to get out.  Set out.

I'm an architect, and my college professors will tell you I AM NO WRITER.  Not only that, I always felt a bit handicapped by being raised in a family in which I was the only fluent speaker of English. 

I was just shy of 7 when I moved to Long Island, NY.  My brothers were 13, 12 and almost 11.  My mom and dad, arriving in a new country as adults, would never master the English language. And, as it turned out, neither would my brothers.  They would never catch on to why it was "I'm going to school," but "I'm going to the hospital."  They would always carry a Korean accent and never internalize the subtleties of the new language, and yet, through lack of use, lose most of their Korean, too.  Rock and a hard spot.  Coming or going.  Here nor there.

I would slide into the slithery mystery of English and slip right into it like a new pair of  pajamas.  I shed my Korean accent without looking back; without knowing that I had lost something.

I often share the story of my first trip to the public library.  It was a one room, wooden building, dusty and with that faint smell of old charcoal.  It was the librarian who first said those magic words, "Nancy Drew."  What could my mom or dad tell me about American books?  Nothing.  What could they do to help me with my English? to expand my vocabulary?    They couldn't read to me, nor would they know what to read.  My brothers had their own difficulties adjusting to a new culture.

When it was time to prepare for college, my SAT scores reflected my home life: 95th percentile in Math and a 50th percentile in Verbal.  I heard Korean parents say their children should stay away from fields like Law that require a mastery of language; that they were handicapped because of their immigrant families. It's an essentially Korean way of thinking - to put people in boxes, fence themselves in.

Through blogging, here's what I found out. Somehow, while studying vocabulary for the SATs, reading voraciously, writing business letters over and over again, somewhere along the way, I must have figured out how to write.  My best friend said I should write more.  I scoffed, given my background, my Korean fence.  She scoffed right back at me, giving me that quintessentially American,"You can do anything" speech.  It's an essentially American way of thinking - to see the vastness of the land and sky and know you can do anything.

Three years ago, I started with a little word: CAN.
And now, three years later, I see that I can write. I can!  I think.

Thanks to all my friends, who have stuck with me and supported me. 

Things I Love Thursday

I love my son's small school.

As he was entering Kindergarten, I had much to consider.  He was on the young side of the age cut-off and he had some as-yet-undiagnosed "issues" I didn't know what to do with.  I visited every school within a 20 miles radius and made an Excel chart of its features and detractions. 

I wanted Montessori.  I wanted a nice, clean, safe building.  His school was not on the list.  It was too small, too dirty, without air conditioning and frankly, I was not looking for a Christian school.  All the wrong things.  But the other schools were just. not. working. out.  As I did my search, I came to realize more and more clearly the environment that would be best for him...and me.  He was still filled with anxieties that needed to be carefully tended to.  Even the small public school near our house seemed overwhelming.  I finally went to visit West-Mont Christian Academy because I was running out of options...and time.  Then, the school went through a major renovation that summer.

I had run out of excuses.

When I went, I was immediately drawn to the small environment.  There is one classroom per grade.  The school secretary sits right in the middle of the little lobby and can see everything going on.  (I'm sure sometimes she wishes she didn't!) Everybody in that building knows everybody else's name.  The principal gets hugs from all the kids; and he hugs them back.  Because the school is so small, his Exceptional Ed class is one-on-one.  I doubt I could get that at any of the tony private schools in the area.  He loves his teachers and his teachers truly love him.  He prays for them, and they pray for him.

As I sat in the car line today, waiting for my special treasure, I was telling my friend about all the imperfections of the school...the cranky kids in his class, the cranky teacher last year, the paint chips.  Then I remembered how grateful I was to be guided to the right place, despite what I thought was best.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.  - Proverbs 3:5

Come out and Play

/
It started with t-shirts.  Or was it bumper stickers?  When we felt the need to tell everyone what we thought.  Or what we thought was funny.  Same thing, I guess.

I remember when they first started showing up.  (Well, I think stickers have been around - remember the suitcases covered with travel destinations?  That was before me.)  When the first opinions were posted across chests and breasts.  Hey look at me. 

LIKE ANYONE CARES. 

Did you know Narcissism is a disease??  Did you know it's in the American Psychological Association DSM-IV?  You thought it was just an annoying boyfriend or selfish mom?  No, it's a serious neurological disorder that can make life a living hell for everyone around them. 
Ask anybody who has to deal with the personality disorder.

Some people are calling it an epidemic.  The article succinctly describes why it's on the rise.  Go read it.   It's a serious neurological issue.  But on a societal, every day feeding frenzy level, are you helping to stoke the fire?  Are you a teacher who must give everyone a prize?  Do you tell your kid everything they do is wonderful even when it stinks?  Or...do you recognize yourself in the article?  I do.  I'm writing this blog.  I take multiple pictures of myself  so I can get a flattering sig pic.

LIKE ANYONE CARES.

A Coat of Many Colors

I am shy. And brash.
Forward and introverted.
I am warm and cold.
I am accepting. And temperamental.
I'm very much a loner, but seek connection
I'm a conservative Christian.
And a Democrat.

Both And
Either Or

I've been thinking about my college days a lot lately. I accidentally on purpose found an old boyfriend. He crushed me. I was a fool at my fool-hartiest. If we are all finding out who we are at 18 19 20 21 22, then I had the double duty of finding my Korean-me, too. It wasn't until I saw other Asians that I saw myself in the mirror. I dated a series of Korean guys, including this now-hunkly guy who is some sort of diplomat flying around to foreign countries and meeting with the Secretary of State. (Yeah, her!) I don't envy or covet or romanticize. What I am doing is lifting up another layer of malodorous stuff in my Pandora's ReCollections of Unhappinesses and Insecurities. Recollections. Recall.

Suddenly, I was in college: drinking the Asian brew - breathing it like air. I had been happy as a teen. I had great friends, I was busy, active, got into the college of my choice. I just never knew there was this parched side of me. I drank and drank, unselfconscious, open and free. Then I realized that the Koreans were staring at me. I had spent my previous years with white people staring at me, questioning me. Now, these Koreans were staring at me, too. And soon, I could tell that the other part of me was getting dry and needy.

I came as a little girl and flourished in a white world. My tongue was round and slippery like Spaghetti-Os. They had come later, the angularity of Korean clinging to their tongue, unwilling to slide around in their mouths. They helped at their parent's Korean store, went to Korean church, hovered in clubs with others of their ilk. I didn't dress like I was supposta, I didn't say the right words. I danced with abandon, drank with the guys. I hung with people I liked. Chosen by one category: interesting to me.

Many of my white friends don't see Me. Even though they think they see Me, they really only see themselves in the mirror. They call it Colorblind. I call it Blind. I don't see all of who they are, either. But not for trying. Sometimes I don't want to because 'with all effort, be at peace with your sisters.' My best friend turned out to be a Black Woman. Maybe she wasn't Black enough and I wasn't Yellow enough. Did our negations create a positron?

Why is Both And so hard for so many people? Nobody is simple. Nobody. My friend's mentally challenged sister takes sermon notes that you could preach from. And how many years of living did it take to come up with the book All I Really Needed to Know, I Learned in Kindergarten?

The patches come together to make a whole . . .

Momma sewed the rags together
Sewin' every piece with love
She made my coat of many colors
That I was so proud of
-Dolly Parton

. . . or the raiment of Joseph:

. . . Israel loved Joseph more than any other of his sons, because he was the son of his old age. And he made him a robe of many colors.
-Genesis 37:3

God made me into a coat of many colors. I am Korean. And American. Conservative Christian and liberal thinker. Shaken and stirred.













*Pojagi wearable art by Chunghie Lee

Santa Monica

In my hometown, there was a woman named Miss G. She was a large woman, a larger-than-life woman, who drove up to the various little elementary schools in her enormous Cadillac. Every one knew when she showed up, that someone was getting tested for "The Program." When I arrived in 5th grade at my 6-room schoolhouse, Miss G. showed up and all the kids tittered and whispered to me "you're gonna get tested for The Program!" I started to get a little nervous.

As it turned out, she was the school district psychologist in charge of the accelerated program. She and I entered the closet-sized office on the 3rd floor and she gave what was basically an IQ test. It was a big day. One that affected my entire life, though I didn't know it then. I even remember 2 of the questions:
1. If you lost your wallet in a baseball field, draw the path you would take to find it.
2. If you had a 3 qt bucket and a 5 qt bucket, how would you measure out 4 qts?

I ended up leaving my little elementary school. The next year, I got bused to the other side of town to attend 6th grade with other children also pulled out of their elementary school. Whatever friendships we had in our own neighborhood swere hard to maintain since we spent our days with another group of kids. It was harder in the summer as we tried to maintain friendships with kids who lived all over town. But we did. Atleast I did. Because at The Program, I found a group of kids that were so much like me, that I felt like I had come home. I could be myself, without holding back.

The new school was hard for me. The other kids had already been together a year. The Program didn't teach in the traditional methods but encouraged us to explore and imagine in new ways. We even had to schedule the day and complete our assignments by the end of the day. At 11 years old! I didn't do very well at first. But I caught on, and I have to say that The Program, in a way, saved my life. Atleast it saved my intellectual life. It was also there that I met a gangly boy ,known here as HH. He had scraggly wavy hair, big geeky glasses and had a penchant for wearing a white "Saturday Night Fever" vest. But that story will come later.

It became clear to me very quickly that The Program was envied and despised all at once and grown-ups didn't hesitate to let us kids know it. In fact, not only were parents antagonistic toward it, so were District administrators and other teachers. Miss G., larger-than-life, made it her mission to protect The Program - the teachers, who loved each and every one of us as individuals, and each and every one of us geeky, gangly, bespectacled, multi-syllable-spewing 11 year olds. Not every child from that class could be considered "successes," but for me, it was the booster rocket that made me all I am.

So, Monica G., here's to you!