I give up

Over the years I have struggled to get my kids reading.  I don’t expect them to love reading.  I simply want them to be able to read, understand the meaning and communicate effectively with words.  The fact is this: if they have a good grasp of literacy, they are better able to negotiate school and then have more choices when it comes to a career.

     Naturally they were read to as babies and toddlers and they had a fabulous library.  However when they entered school, they seemed to lose interest in the written word and it escalated over time.  I did everything, anything to inspire them to read. I bought books of all genres, engaged tutors, bought educational computer programs, signed up for Reading Eggs (used once like Study Ladder and Mathletics) and God knows how many other online learning gigs, read to them, have them read to me, paid them to read to me (in year 7 TK and I read a chapter each of The Third Son and he had one chapter left to earn $10 taped to the back cover - he refused), I’ve bought and played every conceivable word puzzle; Boggle, Scrabble, Upwords (first in the kids’ and later adult versions) and so on.  All I have achieved is a parting with dollars and fractured relationships.  I knew to back off, but then school reports reminded me I needed to support them.  It was a destructive cycle.  

     Just before Christmas 2014 I came up with a cunning and fail-proof plan to get them reading and also writing.  Sick of them refusing to read and fed up with their derogatory comments about my desire to get them reading, I took a vow of silence.  I typed up a page and a half letter to My dear family and handed it to the Rooster to read.

     He read that I would not speak for thirty days although I would communicate in writing and only accept written responses providing the grammar, punctuation and spelling was correct.  The Rooster read ‘fertile’ for ‘futile’ and ‘expectation’ for ‘exception’ so I knew I was doing the right thing.  He also read out how I loved my family dearly, I was desperate to do what a good mother would do and this strategy was a last resort.

     ‘Yours, Cate and Mum,’ said the Rooster as he handed me the letter and walked off.  ‘Goodnight.’

     ‘Goodnight,’ said Kibby and he went to bed.

     ‘Goodnight,’ said Seffy and she went to her room.

     A stony silence thickened around Tony.  

     I assumed they’d come to see my wisdom over the next thirty days.

     Of course, I needed something for us all to write in and what better to use than the New Scientist diary my father gave me for my birthday in 2011.  How portentous!  A clean slate for a new start, one that would finally be successful.  I fanned the blank pages, savouring the faint scent of mildew.  However I noticed handwriting on the first page.  I fetched my glasses.  It was my handwriting.

     Family meeting.  20 December, 2011.

     I read the notes and remembered the mutinous meeting where much was promised in terms of children’s behaviour and nothing delivered.

     The Family Meeting book had just become the Vow of Silence book.  I turned to the next blank page and wrote, Vow of Silence 19 December, 2014.

     To cut a long story short, I lasted three blissful days for at the end of the third day there was a small crisis involving a stool sample, a young woman, a country highway, a deadline in another town.  Spoken language was imperative for the situation.  I spoke to the Rooster and the crisis was averted.

     My family mocked me for reneging on my vow.  I gave up on the learning and literacy front and shelved my Family Meeting-cum-Vow of Silence book.  It was too stressful for me.  Tony and the kids could go to hell … until, three weeks later Tony insisted on allowing the kids an hour or more of TV a day, crap TV, that was.  

     I risked humiliation and called a family meeting.  I found the Family Meeting-cum-Vow of Silence book and turned to the next blank page and wrote, Family Meeting 11 January, 2015.

     After a shaky start, there were raised voices (not just mine), cynical comments (not mine), terse reprimands (not mine), clarification (not mine), submissions about scientific research (only mine) and finally we all agreed that if each weekday the kids read for 30 minutes and wrote for 30 minutes and worked with numbers for 30 minutes (the Rooster didn’t need to do maths) they earned 30 minutes of TV/DVD time providing they stood to watch the screen (no couch slouch).  If they read for an hour, they got to stand and watch TV for an hour.  Read for two hours, stand and watch the screen for two hours.

     We all signed the Family Meeting book.

     By the third night, no one had done the required reading, writing or maths, but then no one had watched TV.  A pyrrhic victory!

     Later that night the Rooster announced he was going to watch TV.

     ‘How can that be?’ I asked him in my calmest voice.  ‘You haven’t read today or written.’

     ‘Well, I thought I could read the subtitles in one of those French movies on SBS for half an hour and then read for another half an hour and another half an hour.  You'd be happy if I read for that long.’

     I really have given up now. 

A good day's work

I can’t deal with indolence, my own or others’ and being on holidays till the new school term starts is starting to frustrate me.  Although I am writing, I feel like I am wasting time I’d normally spend working.  I need to do some form of work, paid or unpaid.  It’s good for my soul.  I have a reason to rise, I socialise, I labour, I contribute.  At the end of the day, I have achieved something; I’ve put in a good day’s work. 

     When school finished last year, I decided to do some volunteer work and contacted some organisations I knew relied on volunteer labour, you know, the ones with .org in the email address.  

     I rang the women’s shelter.  “We don’t take volunteers because of problems with insurance.”  

     I went to Meals on Wheels at the same time the Christmas party was in full swing.  “We’re right now, but fill out an application.”  

     Finally one of the second hand shops was stoked with the promise of volunteer labour, more so because I offered the services of a teenage son and they needed muscles for the heavy jobs.

     However, the shop was due to close over Christmas so we struck a deal.  I’d return on a set date, not the day earlier because the supervisor wouldn’t be there.

     I couldn’t wait to work.  The festive season is too long.  Finally the morning arrived.

     Sutchy the Rooster and I made lunch, energy food, sandwiches, peanut butter and cheese and coffee in a thermos mug.  We expected to put in at least six hours of work standing, moving, lugging and so on.  In short, we’d be buggered.

     We arrived early and had to wait for the roller door to rise.  I placed our lunch on the counter and introduced myself and the Rooster.  Helen indeed remembered me, but the supervisor wasn’t in today and Helen didn’t have the authority to supervise us.  Could we come back next week or the week after?

     I picked up our sandwiches and thermos mug.  I was crushed.  Unemployed yet I can’t even give away my labour.

     Mumbled Rooster as we were out of earshot, ‘well, that was a good day’s work.’

Spectacular sights, selfies and a stickler for tradition

I read Simon Tatz’s article in The Drum, The Scourge of the Seflie Stick, with great sadness. I like The Drum even though some articles are way over my head.  In this one, Simon laments the omnipresence of the selfie during his world travels.  Here’s the beginning.

The selfie stick, dubbed the "wand of narcissism", is now an essential carry-on item for many travellers. But Simon Tatz wonders why tourists find their own faces more fascinating than the wonders they behold.

     His disdain for the enjoyment of others and angst over the use of a small electronic device twisted my heart. I was almost in tears at the end.

Although I travel with a camera, I rarely take photos, especially not of my less than inspiring mug. I also do something very old-fashioned - I leave my mobile telephone behind. It's surprisingly liberating to look at something and imprint it in your memory. Of course, not having a mobile phone or small camera makes the selfie all but impossible. Unless you have arms like Inspector Gadget, it's damn hard to take a decent selfie with an SLR.Like almost every tourist, I have asked strangers to take a photo of me and my wife, and we usually have at least one picture of us from our holidays. But I don't travel to see myself; I travel to see other cultures and sites.If I want to know what I look like, I resort to that well-known invention - the mirror. 

     How, I wondered, could a young person be so condemning of people taking selfies on their often once-in-a-lifetime adventure?  How could one be so jaded? So high-brow? I was thinking selfie’s are pretty much a young person’s phenomena. 

     I had a thought!  Simon Tatz must be old, especially since he confesses to being old-fashioned and leaves his mobile at home when he travels.  

     It turns out Simon is oldish from images and his observations represent some negative aspects that too often come with ageing – complaints, criticism and the offer of better alternatives (that so happen to pooh pooh new social practices).

     I didn’t miss the fact he seems to have spent a lot of time watching selfie takers and not enjoying the scenery or the culture.

     Some facts about selfies.

     Selfies are not new even though the first time the term ‘selfie’ was recorded was 2002.  Before then they were called a ‘photo together.’ 

     Here is a ‘photo together’ with my friend Julie in 1993 on a feluca on the Nile at midnight. 

     Here is a ‘photo together’ with my friend Janet (left) and someone else in 1993 at The Church (not the band, the pub) in London.

      Here is another ‘photo together’ somewhere in Egypt, the Sinai, I think (if I’d had a mobile I would have Snapchatted, Instagrammed and Facebooked it with hashtags of where I was).

On the back of this print I have written, '15.3.93 Ann, Koby, Cate self-shot.' 

     In fact, my photo albums are full of ‘photos together’ and 'self-shots.'  

Simon wrote:

I have seen tourists spend more time on their Eiffel Tower or Taj Mahal selfie than they did marvelling at the actual attraction.

     During my big adventure in 1992-3, my selfies don’t have a backdrop of a natural or architectural wonder which is worse than what Simon is complaining about.  God knows what I was thinking other than me,me,me.

     That trip was the only time in my life I have been so self-absorbed because I was able to be.  I was young, energetic, had no commitments and a lot of time on my hands.

     Of course, it is possible to take selfies and at the same time take snaps of temples, landscapes, villagers, donkeys, sunsets, drunken revellers and basque in the surroundings and culture.

     In fact, who cares what young people do if they are not hurting or offending others. 

     Look at the joy in the faces of this young couple, one of two images in Simon's article.  It made my heart sing. Note the way the woman's hands are clasped in excited anticipation.  They look perfect together and I hoped they live happily ever after.

     Check out the friends in this photo.  It made me think of the friends in my youthful selfies especially those ones I still have today. I felt warm and fuzzy, a bit like the quality of that snap.

     It's possible that these young people will become responsible and dull adults like myself.  Writing this gave me the opportunity to revisit the photos from my year long trip. I gazed fondly at my selfies.  Ah! To be so young and carefree and toned and wrinkle-less!  And happy.  I've always wondered where my jowls came from.  Now I know it was from 12 months of non-stop grinning for the camera.

     These days I am behind the camera (mobile phone) as I photograph my family.  A flip through my old-fashioned albums and the hard drive proves my demise in early 1996 when my first child was born.

      How wonderful, I think when I see young people taking selfies in a spirits of fun, celebration, excitement. 

Simon wrote:

Have we become a society where validation of experience is in the form of the selfie?

     Have I missed something about the significance of selfies? Are they a metaphor for something sinister? 

     I am a simple gal.  Aren’t selfies simply photos that are a semi-permanent record of a moment or an experience?  After all humans have been recording things about their lives for millennia - they painted on cave walls, they embalmed loved ones, they drew funny pictures on stone tablets -  and they still do – they paint pictures (including selfies!), they write songs and stories, they record plays and movies and they write articles of opinion. 

     Pardon my ignorance, but what is the difference between a selfie snapped in the early 21^st century and a selfie drawn or painted by a famous artist in the early 15^th century or later?  Well, apart from one taking much longer to produce than the other.

    Loosen up, Simon and other critics of the selfie bug.  Next trip open the envelope for a modern-day cultural experience and take a selfie.  Whether you like it or not culture is dynamic and selfies are part of ours. If you really find the whole selfie phenomena so disheartening, stay home.

The power of prayer

Yesterday I remembered it was the third Saturday of the month and therefore Yungaburra market day.  I felt I was falling into life here, knowing the market days; Malanda markets is the second Saturday and Atherton the first.

     Yungaburra hosts the Tablelands' largest monthly markets.  It was good fortune as it afforded me the last opportunity to buy small gifts for the big day.  Actually, it was my only opportunity since I'd planned to boycott presents being repulsed by the commercial nature of Christmas ... but I relented under pressure from Kibby and Seffy and complaints they will be the only children not to have presents.   

     As I jumped in the shower, eating peanut butter toast, I shouted out to Seffy.

     ‘Pray for a park so we don’t have to walk far.’

     On the drive there I reminded Seffy to say a prayer for a park.

     When we rounded the bend I saw there were many parking spots.  In fact, I had the pick of all the shady parks.  The power of prayer!

     Not only were there so many parking spaces, there was also a vast expanse of grass where the 250 stalls should have been.  As we drove past the servo, I didn’t miss the sign.  

     I haven't yet worked out the lie of the mainland and the pressing need to check dates and times of events that cannot be reached on foot! 

Santa Claus and the magic zero

I just read on The Drum that earlier this week, Kitty Flanagan, a guest on The Project (had to Google that one) disclosed to viewers Santa ‘doesn’t even exist.’  Parents took to Twitter and Facebook to condemn the program for spoiling their children’s Christmas joy.  There was even an article in The Age titled ‘How The Project ruined Christmas for many families.’

     Here are some tweets.  Naturally, the critical Facebook posts have been removed from The Project's profile.

Mardi Radford @MardiradfordB

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@theprojecttv you're a disgrace. Now I can't watch my fav news program without fear of what might be said while my kids are in the room!

11:55 PM - 9 Dec 2014

Sara Victoria @thegreenroomAP

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@theprojecttv have only just got my kids to sleep.Tears,heartbreak & questions re Santa tonight.Appalled and very angry - can't fix this one

10:19 PM - 9 Dec 2014

  

Here’s how The Project repaired the damage on Facebook.

The Project

December 10 · Edited

Dear Mums and Dads,
Last night’s comments by Kitty were completely unplanned and we unreservedly apologise for upsetting our family viewers.
Last night was Kitty’s final performance for the year on The Project but neither she nor our show would intentionally offend kids like this just before Christmas.

Tonight we will be crossing to Santa in the North Pole so he can clear up any confusion for our younger viewers.

Best regards,
The Project

     First I wondered why children would be watching such a program and secondly, why parents don’t complain as fiercely about coarse language, moderate violence and sexual references endemic in PG films and programs, for example Home and Away.  

     Finally, I decided those parents were stupid if they couldn’t calm their distressed child by simply saying, ‘Honey, that women gets paid to tell jokes.  Don’t listen to her twaddle.’ 

     Then I remembered I had already spoiled this Christmas for a class of eleven year-olds. And like The Project, I was quick to make amends the following day.

     Not long ago I was teaching two-digit multiplication and not sure what students knew and could do, I went back to the beginning.  They all understood the first step, multiplying the one (place value) in a two-digit sum, for example, 26 x 15, they successfully multiplied 26 by 5. 

     ‘What do I do now?’

     ‘Add the magic zero,’ most of them said.

     ‘The what?’  I've long believed the magic zero in maths is worse than the Santa conspiracy.

     ‘The magic zero!’ Students jumped from their seats.  ‘The magic zero!’

     Of course, I asked about this magic zero and they stared at me.  

     Eventually, one studious girl gathered enough courage to say, ‘you put the magic zero in the ones column.’

     ‘But why?’ I asked and was met with blank faces, even that of the studious girl.

     I explained the next step is multiplying by a number with a place value of 10 and the multiple  indeed has this fabulous, but not-so-magic 0 on the end of it.  I got them to answer sums I scribbled on the white board.

     ‘See, there’s nothing magic going on,’ I said.

     ‘But we’ve been taught it’s a magic zero.’

     ‘Ah, I said.  It’s a bit like,’ and I paused, calculating the average age of the students, 11 and certain no one at 11 could possibly believe in Santa I continued.  ‘It’s a bit like Santa.  He’s magic when you’re young, but when you grow up you learn Santa is not real.  The magic zero seems amazing and magic until you work out multiplying a whole number by 10 means the last digit must be a zero. It’s simple.’

     It was simple. No one accused me of heresy and most students successfully completed a series of two-digit algorithms.   

     It was one of my most successful maths lessons.  It really was simple until ….

     Until … the next day in the same class I received a phone call from the deputy principal, DP.

     ‘I’ve just had a call from an angry parent claiming you told her daughter yesterday Santa wasn’t real.’

     ‘Yes, of course and I told the class the magic zero wasn’t real.’  I explained what had happened.

     The DP, who I think is wonderful and understood my predicament (she also condemned the magic zero), related the parent’s concern. The daughter had come home in tears because Mrs Titasey said Santa wasn’t real (the not-so-magic zero disclosure wasn’t a problem, thankfully).

     ‘A parent needs to break the news about Santa,’ said the DP.

     Of course, I had to reverse the damage.  I found the child, outlined my comments were not true and Santa was is, in fact, very real and apologised profusely.

     The poor love, bit on her lower lip and gazed at me with saucer shaped eyes.  Eventually she nodded with relief and ran out to little lunch.

     I was stressed. I had probably caused serious psychological damage to the rest of the class for years to come.  I’d had my first parent complaint.  My teaching career was over thanks to a fictitious fat man in a red and white suit who lives in the North Pole!  Outside I found a teacher I had relieved for and confessed my crime.

     ‘Have I really screwed up?’

     ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she laughed.  ‘Mind, you, you won’t get more teaching work here.’  She saw my panic.  ‘I’m only joking. Seriously don’t worry about it.’  She doubled over laughing. ‘It’s just that it’s so funny.’

     In the staffroom, the DP and principal had a great giggle about what I’d be getting from Santa at Christmas and for a few days, I was the butt of very funny Santa jokes.

     In eighteen months of teaching, I can honestly say that the one thing I taught that was absorbed and demonstrated accurately was my disclosure about Santa.  Nothing else has been so readily understood.

     So why don’t kids lap up all the good stuff they hear in class or see on screens?

     Buggered if I know, but I have been on tenterhooks every time I’ve entered a classroom.  Correcting the spoiler won't always work so well and I don’t have the resources to arrange a video link with Santa in the North Pole like The Project.  Who cares, really?  I need to find a job working with adults.  

After the BuyBack expedition!

The day after the BuyBack expedition. Thanks, Pippa Jane.
My Brilliant Career, my most-treasured find - a classic pre-loved by Belinda Macklin, Amanda Krieg, Chris Lansan and someone Feeney (the part of the cover bearing Miss or Master Feeney's christian name had been chewed to oblivion). Parts of the text had been underlined, circled and anotated, my most favourite kind of book.

The close-up.

Two days after the BuyBack expedition.
The Gisele Bundchen envrionmentally friendly flip-flop, destined to become landfill. Its mate was so badly mauled it needed to be swept up.

Five days after the BuyBack expedition.

No more trips to the BuyBack for the Titaseys!

Other folks' trash is one family's treasure!

It's Saturday morning.  Welcome to the Tableland Regional Council Waste Management Facility.

Uncle Steve is introducing the Titasey family to the delights of the Endeavour Foundation BuyBack.  Ever wondered where children's plastic vehicles end up?

The final resting place of colourful plaster gnomes and other garden statues.

We'd never been to a Recycle Market and I didn't want to miss recording this special event.  

Books and toys galore.

Sutchy won't need to take other people's bags now and Uncle Steve's crook neck will heal with this ergonomic chair.

I have always wondered why Morning Glory grows near rubbish dumps.

Some of our treasures.  Note the bamboo shoe shelf and brand new Gisele Bundchen Ipanema flipflops.  They are made from a low-carbon-footprint material, apparently.  I can't wait to get into some of those books, especially My Brilliant Career.

Before the BuyBack shoe shelf.

After the BuyBack shoe shelf.

A great morning and we can't wait to go back.  I am wondering how I can construct my own brilliant career as a reviewer of pre-loved books!