Category: Health

A Winter Tale

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

BM_Comfort476x290I vividly remember having the measles. It seemed to be the final insult in a year that had brought me nothing but grief. My father had died only months earlier leaving me confused and bereft as our family struggled to find its footing. We had moved into a house that was nothing like the ones we had been considering at the time of his death, but it had brought us great comfort in the short time that we had lived there. We had gone full circle, returning to the neighborhood and the school that we had left only a year before. The people who lived near us and those who attended our church had been welcoming and we had been gradually settling in to a new way of life without Daddy.

My mother’s selection of a home for us had been a very wise choice, but we were still navigating through a year of milestones that reminded us over and over again that the man who had been such an integral part of our lives was gone. Somehow we had made it through birthdays, Thanksgiving and Christmas, starting the new year with the realization that we were going to actually make it on our own. Still I was feeling those sudden bursts of grief that seem to come and go in the first year after a loved one’s death. I often felt sorry for myself and my family, silently hoping that our tragedy had only been a dream. As the months went by it had become more and more certain that our new reality would never again include our father, so when I felt the first symptoms of illness that winter I thought that I was just having another bout of sadness. I felt so tired that I uncharacteristically retired to bed early.

By the following morning I was raging with fever and my head felt as though it was going to explode. I felt so dizzy that I hesitated getting out of my bed so I called my mother for help. My throat felt dry and scratchy and it seemed as though every bone in my body ached. I had at times dramatically wished I were dead like my father, but that was just a way to garner attention from my overworked mom. Now I wondered if my bizarre request had somehow been granted because I truly felt as though I had one foot in the grave.

My mother took a quick look at me and asked me to lift the top of my pajamas. Underneath the soft flannel was a scarlet colored rash that caused her to shake her head and declare that I had the measles. She immediately went into action, calling our family doctor who agreed with her assessment and advised her over the phone rather than having me come to his office. He did not want me to expose the rest of his patients to my highly contagious disease, so he and my mother discussed how to best treat my illness.

It was a bitterly cold winter that year in keeping with the somber tone of our household. The heater seemed to whir away continuously and I was so happy that our neighbor, Mr. Sessums, had put it in fine working order for us. I felt quite snug under quilts that my grandmother had made and somewhat relieved that I did not have to go to school on that day. My teacher was a woman who terrified me and any time spent away from her was welcome in my mind. I willingly stayed in my bed and fell into a deep sleep.

When I awoke my room was quite dark and I wondered if I had slumbered all day. Mama informed me that I was not to look out my window, watch television or turn on the lamps in my room lest the lights damage my eyes. She explained that having measles was very serious and that I needed to follow her instructions to the letter so that I might recover quickly and without any long term side effects. Since my fever was still quite high I had little inclination to disobey her. For the most part movements of any kind sent my head into a tailspin and so I languished in my room listening to the sounds of my family going about its routine.

As my seemingly endless bad luck would have it, Houston had one of the biggest snows in its history only a day or so after I was afflicted with the measles. I could hear my friends and family celebrating the uncommon occasion up and down the street. My brothers had snowball fights and built a snowman with my mother. They breathlessly recounted how glorious their fun had been from the safety of the hallway. Their cheeks were tinged with a bright red glow of excitement and I wanted more than anything to experience the adventure that they described to me.

Mama reminded me again and again that I was not to even peek through the blinds to view the white stuff on the ground. She was a good nurse but I truly doubted that her extreme caution was necessary. When she and my brothers returned to the winter wonderland to make snow angels I saw my opportunity to find out for myself what a true snowy day looked life. I gingerly squinted through a tiny gap in the wooden slats of the blinds and saw a glorious sight unlike any I had ever experienced in my hometown. The yards were covered with a lovely white dusting of frozen precipitation. Snowmen smiled in front of every home and children were bundled up in winter wear that they hardly ever had occasion to use. The sound of laughter filled the air as the winter party delighted young and old alike, everyone it seemed but me.

My mother never knew that I had so blatantly disobeyed her. For a time I worried that as punishment for my transgression I would become permanently blind, but when that never happened I felt justified in seizing that daring moment. Soon enough I was back in school and forever immune from catching the measles, something that seemed to make my mother quite happy. I would not understand the full extent of what I had endured until later in life when I was pregnant with my own children. It was then that I was told of the dangers of catching the measles while carrying a baby in the womb. None of those fears would apply to me, and later when they were born my girls would receive an immunization that would insure that they would never have to worry about catching the measles as I had.

The World Health Organization has officially declared that measles have been eradicated in the United States. My childhood experience is a thing of the past, an historic event that no longer happens in our country. Much like my grandfather’s stories of smallpox, my recollection of having the measles is a curiosity that my children and grandchildren will never truly understand. Thank God for that.   

Letting Go

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

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“Leave your worries for awhile. They’ll still be there when you get back.” –Unknown

We admittedly have many things about which to worry in today’s world. Much to our displeasure, Russia appears to be as big a problem as Mitt Romney predicted that it would be. The entire Middle East is a hot mess. North Korea is being run by a spoiled psychopath who thinks nothing of executing uncles, brothers and generals on a whim. China is a mysterious nation whose leaders probably should not be thoroughly trusted. Venezuela is on the verge of total collapse. Terrorists are afoot and we have little idea when the next attack will occur. It seems that we can’t even enjoy a plane ride without fear of being accosted by security guards wanting to forcefully take back our seats. It’s enough to drive those of us who have a natural propensity for overthinking to throw up our hands and just surrender to to our sometimes outrageous concerns.

I come from a long line of worrywarts. My grandfather often complained that my grandmother never quite knew how to relax. She was almost always concerned that some bad thing or another might happen. She wondered if a drought would ruin the crops that they had grown or if a deluge would drown them. She fretted over whether  they would have enough money to stay afloat in their old age or how someone she loved might get hurt. She had already lost her first husband and two children to disease. When her only son, my dad, was killed in a car accident it convinced her that we all live on a dangerous precipice filled with harmful possibilities. Instead of simply enjoying her days on her farm in Arkansas she stewed virtually all of the time. I suppose that in some ways it was a habit that was part of her DNA as a woman. We ladies tend to be sometimes overly anxious about those that we love.

I remember watching my sick children in the middle of the night and staying up until my teenage girls came home from their dates. They chided me and complained that I didn’t trust them, but it was the big bad world that gave me pause, not them. I knew that there were hundreds of different dangers that they might encounter. I was never able to rest until they were safely at home in my care. Of course every mom must eventually give her babies wings to leave the nest. It is the way things must be, but it is never a comfortable thought, especially when they are far away from home. Over time I learned how to let them go and maintain a faith that all would be well, but even to this very day they are never far from my mind. Over time I’ve added thoughts of my grandchildren to the daily list of my concerns, along with former students, friends and the members of my extended family. Obviously I would be unable to operate in a normal world if I were to become too engrossed in dire predictions about all of these souls. Instead I have learned how to let go of obsessive concerns about people and situations over which I have no real control.

The only person over whom I have total power is myself. I can be the same or I can change. I am free to make choices all day long and mostly I choose to be optimistic and happy. When I am in situations over which I have no influence, the only thing that I might do is decide how I will react. I have learned the art of allowing adequate time for venting anger and for grieving over loss, but not so much that it overwhelms me. Eventually I purposely leave my worries for awhile. Even if they are still around when I return I find that I am better equipped to deal with them.

Sometimes work is the best tonic for anxiety. Other times the situation calls for a vacation from routine. We can’t really run away from our troubles but taking a break from them provides us with an opportunity to clear our heads of the cobwebs of negativity that often coexist with worry. Once we are feeling better it is amazing how much sharper our problem solving skills become. We find ways to deal with whatever has been bothering us and take the needed steps to rehabilitate ourselves.

I have found that a small amount of worry keeps us safe and on track. It is in habitual overthinking that we become lost and confused. It steals our happiness and deprives us of sleep and laughter, both necessary components of a healthy life. We need to learn what works best to chase away the noisy thoughts that crowd into our brains, keeping us from feeling joy.

I have found that exercise is one of the best medicines going. It doesn’t need to be anything fancy, just a walk in the neighborhood is often enough to clear the head. Sometimes silence is just what the doctor ordered, becoming so relaxed that we are literally as one with our breathing and the beating of our hearts. If we practice we can reach a state of total tranquility.

I rely on my faith in times of trouble and find comfort in reading scripture and devotionals. Silent prayers bring me much needed peace as well, but I understand that many do not have religious beliefs. There are still lovely books with reflections that teach us how to find our own inner strengths. Many of them help guide us out of our preoccupation with a crazy world that seems intent on driving us to distraction.

Having dealt with my mother’s mental illness I understand that sometimes worry becomes so all consuming that nothing seems to chase it away. There are indeed times when seeking the help of professionals is the wisest thing to do. There is nothing wrong with admitting that we need medical assistance now and again. There are therapies and drugs that are sometimes the best answer for unrelenting anxieties and obsessions.

If I have learned nothing else in almost seventy decades, it is to be very good to myself and to do whatever I need to keep myself feeling happy. Then and only then will I be of any worth to everyone else. I try to mostly surround myself with positive people and thoughts. I walk away from negative situations and individuals that I cannot change. Of course I still worry just as we all do, but I try not to allow my troublesome thoughts to overtake me. When I realize that they are becoming the central focus of my days and nights I do what I can to fix the situations from whence they came and then I do my best to move on.

Yes, the world is filled with worrisome situations but most of the time we never encounter them, so why needlessly expend our energy stewing over what might be or what is already past? Instead of listening to the voices that cause us to fret, we need to make room for the sounds that make us smile, like the laughter of children, the rain on our windows or the voices of the people that we love.

We All Fall Down

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

maxresdefaultI was twenty years old when my mother had her first mental breakdown. Mine had been a somewhat sheltered life. Aside from my father’s untimely death when I was only eight, I had not seen much of the dark side of existence. I certainly knew nothing about mental illness and the dramatic symptoms that seemed to so suddenly change my mom from a strong, independent woman into someone paralyzed by depression, paranoia and manic episodes. As I witnessed her decline that summer I was overtaken by a state of anxiety that made me feel as though I might surely die. I would visit her during the daylight hours and then return to my apartment in the evenings where I attempted to understand what was happening and to rally help for her among my aunts and uncles whom I was certain would have much better insights into her condition than I had. Mostly though I suffered from my own form of mental stress experiencing panic attacks that threatened to render me useless in the battle to bring my mother back to a healthy state of mind.

I slept little during that period. In fact, that August marked the first time that I was plagued by insomnia. I generally lay awake each night silently crying and feeling as though an elephant was sitting on my chest daring me to breathe. I felt so very alone, convinced that nobody might possibly understand how worried and sad I was. I was walking through those days in a continual daze, pretending to be in control of my situation while actually wanting to run away screaming in desperation. As my mother’s symptoms grew worse I realized that I had inherited total responsibility for her welfare. Circumstances forced me to grow up by a factor of one hundred. While my friends, save those who were fighting in the jungles of Vietnam, were still enjoying the adventures of college and the freedom of their youth, I understood that if I didn’t take charge my mother and my brothers would be in danger. I took a deep breath and became my mother’s keeper in a strange relationship that would span four decades. It was something that I would have happily given up if given even half a chance but the reality was that there was nobody else who could do this for her.

I was as imperfect at being unselfish as anyone might be. There were times when I was hardly able to function myself and when I resented the cross that I had to bear. I became an Academy Award worthy actress, hiding my fears and pain along with my mother’s tragic story as though it was an ugly and unspeakable secret. My unwillingness to open up to people who might have provided succor to me only made things worse but I was not yet ready to accept that I would be far happier bringing the truth into the light. When my mother became well again I naively believed that all of us were going to be fine and that I would never again have to face such a daunting experience. Sadly, she was sick again in only a matter of a few years and I fell apart at the realization that her illness was going to be a chronic fact of our lives.

I continued to be quite secretive about my mother’s fight with mental illness. My own stress increased to an unfortunate level as I quietly and continuously watched for symptoms that would alert me to get her to a doctor before she devolved into a more serious state of mind. I failed to mention my own bouts with anxiety and mild depression but they were quite real and they made me feel as though I wasn’t nearly as strong as I needed to be and that I was somehow defective.

At some point I was no longer able to maintain my silence. I began to speak of my concerns, my feelings of guilt, and the sense of despair that often overcame me. At first it was only the most trusted friends who heard such things but eventually I found the courage to talk with my doctors and finally anyone with whom I had contact. I learned that nobody was going to think ill of me or my mother. Nor was I abandoned. In fact, my admissions generally lead to sharing of similar stories and unlikely alliances. Over time I realized that we all fall down from time to time for one reason or another. We may lose a loved one, face a terrible disease, endure the breakup of an important relationship, fail in achieving a goal, become a victim of violence or suffer from mental illnesses of our own. The truth is that we are both fragile and resilient beings. As such we experience ups and downs throughout our lifetimes. Sometimes are lows are so devastating that we feel as though we may not make it through to the light of day.

I have found that there are always kind and empathetic individuals who are just waiting for our cries of help. All that we have to do is open up our hearts and we will find them, kindred spirits who have also had moments of brokenness and terror. They lovingly provide us with comfort just when we need it, but they will not be able to do so unless we are willing to confess that we are hurting. In acknowledging our humanity we take the first steps toward healing. It took me far too long to admit that I was as imperfect as I am.

I remember kneeling in prayer in the office of an assistant principal who cried with me as he spoke of the people in his family who also suffered from severe mental illnesses. I found succor from a doctor who was giving me a physical for work. He noted the checkbox that indicated that some of my relatives suffered from depression. He gently guided me to a confession that radically changed my life as he assured me that I had no reason to feel guilty about the times when I resented my role as a caretaker. I have had countless individuals hug me in an embrace of solidarity as they outlined their stories of struggles with either their own or someone else’s mental illness. Never once has anyone reacted negatively to my recounting of the journey that me, my mother and my brothers had taken in the house of horrors that was the reality of mental illness. Instead with each telling I felt reassured that I was not and never would be alone.

We all want to be viewed with dignity and respect. It is difficult to admit that we have feet of clay or that we make mistakes and yet it is in facing the demons that attack us in the middle of the night that we find the clarity and calm that we seek. Not only do we find a clearer focus for ourselves, but often we help others as well.

I know of two young ladies who are dealing with very difficult situations. They are far more advanced than I was at their ages. Rather than hiding the hurt and the pain that stalks them, they have been willing to share their feelings and the efforts that they have made to set themselves aright. They write blogs and speak to other young people. They tell of their journeys and admit that they still falter from time to time. The work that they are doing for themselves and for others is not just laudable, it is important. They are living proof that even the seemingly most perfect individuals often find themselves struggling to cope. They are both exceedingly beautiful, intelligent and talented, hardly the type of women who might falter, and yet they have. Their willingness to unmask their struggles is inspiring. They prove that the world is far kinder and gentler than we may imagine and that even the most remarkable among us may need a safety net now and again. It’s as easy as voicing the word “help” to begin the process of healing. We all fall down but there will always be someone willing to pick us up if only we ask.

Becoming Temporary Hermits

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

solitude.jpgAbout a hundred years ago my maternal grandmother traveled from Slovakia to Galveston, Texas all by herself on a steamboat. It must have taken incredible courage for her to leave everything and everyone that she had ever known to meet up with my grandfather who had taken the same journey a year earlier. In the beginning of her American adventure she held a number of jobs outside of her home, including one in which she worked behind a counter at a bakery. Before long she had so many children that she devoted all of her time exclusively to running the family household. Her life was demanding with one pregnancy after another, poverty and the deaths of two of her babies weighing heavily on her. At some point she had a breakdown and was committed to the state mental hospital. She was taken by force in front of her children who would never forget the horror of that moment. When she returned she was not the same, and she became a recluse, never again leaving her home save for a couple of medical emergencies that required hospitalization.

I met my grandmother long after the incident that so altered her life. She seemed happy enough to me, but even as a child I wondered how it was possible for her to be content with such a strange and limiting way of living. Her days were so routine. Her self imposed boundaries were so confining. She had the habit of repeating the same tasks day after day. Each morning she made coffee in a big enamel pot whose inside was stained a warm brown color from the countless iterations of the warm brew. Her rituals included sweeping and mopping the floors, a task that took little time because her house was so small. She worked in her garden, preferring to water her flowers by hand rather than with the hose that stood at the ready nearby.

Grandma often sat on her front porch surveying her domain and the world that kept changing around her. She was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall, and so her bare feet dangled from a chair like those of a tiny girl. Everything about her was childlike, her seeming contentment and lack of worry, her surrender to an uneventful lifestyle, the sweet smile that rarely left her face. She was at once both somewhat strange and quite wonderful to me. She appeared, at least on the surface, to have found a kind of nirvana that few of us ever achieve. I always wanted to know more about her. I desired to learn her thoughts and maybe even her secrets. She was so wonderfully simple and yet her long journey across an ocean told me that there was far more to her than I would ever know. Like my cousins I simply accepted her just as she was, a kind of saintly woman who had chosen to avoid the complexities that so often distract humans from what is most important in life. The essence of her existence was to love and be loved.

As strange as it may sound I thought of my grandmother recently when I was reading a magazine at my dentist’s office. I was anxious about my checkup on a number of levels. I have a phobia about dental work that was born when I first began seeing a pediatric dentist at the age of three. For whatever reason I am one of those unfortunates who has a tendency to get cavities, so at a young age I learned all about anesthetics and the drill. It was horrifying to me and I have never quite developed a more adult way of thinking about dental care. Thus I was attempting to distract my thoughts by reading about the strange case of Richard Simmons.

For those who may not be up to speed, Richard Simmons was a fitness guru who gained great popularity for his bubbly personality, frizzy hair and enthusiasm for a healthy lifestyle. He had his own televised exercise program and was a frequent guest on talk shows. He made a small fortune with fitness videos like Sweating With the Oldies. Up until 2014, he was still quite active, regularly holding exercise sessions at his gym and visiting with his countless friends. Then without warning he one day became a virtual recluse. Few of his former associates have even seen him for the last three years. The concern for his safety grew as this once gregarious man became a seeming prisoner in his own home, creating talk that something terrible must be happening to him.

A podcast detailing the strange disappearance of Richard Simmons became an instant hit as a former business partner took on the role of amateur sleuth in search of answers. Millions tuned in week after week to hear many strange theories being proposed. One fear was that Simmons was being held hostage by his longtime house keeper. Another idea was that he was transitioning into being a woman. It was unfathomable that such a vibrant individual might simply have decided to take a break from the madding crowd. The public concern for Mr. Simmons became so strong that the Los Angeles police eventually visited his home for a wellness check. They reported that they found a very healthy and happy Richard Simmons who spoke of enjoying his new quiet life.

It seems that Richard Simmons who is now sixty eight just decided that it was time to scale back the intensity of his existence. He no longer wanted to be that celebrity that we all know. He wasn’t mentally ill, but he was tired. He didn’t want to be a woman, but rather just to be himself, which included growing a beard and letting his hair go grey. He was not being held against his will, but had chosen to spend time in the serenity of his gardens. He now luxuriates in the quiet and simplicity of a life that he believes he has earned. He feeds the hummingbirds that skitter among his flowers and watches their antics for hours. He luxuriates in the peacefulness that he now feels each and every day.

We modern souls are constantly rushing. We fill our calendars with appointments and rise each morning certain that there will not be enough hours to accomplish all that we must do. We chide ourselves for sleeping too late or allowing ourselves to get off schedule. We are so busy exercising our bodies, counting our calories, building our resumes that we are often chronically exhausted. We race around and around and around like little gerbils on an infinite wheel. We look at someone like my grandmother or Richard Simmons and think that surely there must be something terribly wrong with them. After all, who would choose to stop the world and actually get off? And yet, somewhere in the back of our minds we envy their wisdom and their courage. We sense that they have found the ultimate secret to a life well lived.

Few of us have the capability of dropping out. We don’t enjoy the wealth that would provide us with surrogates to take care of our duties like Richard Simmons. We are not blessed with eight children who will provide us with all that we need like my aunts and uncles did for my grandmother. We have to buy our food and pay our bills and taxes. We must clean and repair our homes and care for our family and friends. We can’t simply hide ourselves away from the world, but we can learn how to give ourselves the gift of solitude now and again. We can plan our calendars in ways that allow us to relax and reflect. We don’t have to have an all or nothing way of dealing with our responsibilities, but we really should learn how to bring more balance into our days. We should find time for ourselves and never feel the need to explain those moments when we become temporary hermits escaping the hustle and bustle and finding peaceful solitude. It is our right to be good to ourselves.

Science or Art?

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

yam.jpgWhen my grandson runs the 1600 meter race only time determines the winner. It is a feat that is as objective as any measure might possibly be. Unless there is a photo finish or one of the time keepers doesn’t do his/her job properly there is no doubt about the victor. When another grandson performs in a one act play and a panel of judges decide who the best actors were and which troupe gave the finest overall impression, the yardstick is far more subjective. Hundreds of people seeing exactly the same thing will rate it differently depending on the background that they bring to the theater. There will be questions as to the authenticity and fairness of the evaluations, thus leaving the final votes open for criticism. Most of life is more like the later, subject to preferences rather than a set of hard and fast rules.

Each year when the Oscars are awarded I find myself scratching my head in dismay. I truly wonder how it is possible that Casey Affleck won the best acting prize when Denzel Washington was in the same category. I rail at the television and ask no one in particular if he/she was blind. Of course all such determinations are just a matter of opinion rather than fact. So it is with evaluating a teacher, a student or a school.

There are certain guidelines that are universal aspects of a well run classroom but we have not yet even agreed on whether teaching is an art or a science. There are those who maintain that if an individual understands and uses certain best practices, the results will be quite grand. Such beliefs rely on the idea that there is truly a science that leads to being an effective teacher, and there is something to be said for knowledge of pedagogy. Still, after spending decades inside classrooms both as a teacher and an administrator I have learned that there is something quite artistic about the process that elevates an educator to a magical level. Two people using the exact same methods often achieve very different results that can only be explained by noting that one is unimaginative while the other is an artist.

We attempt to measure educational success with numbers found in the scores of students on standardized exams. Of course we intuitively know that hundreds of factors affect the final outcomes of such attempts to quantify the teaching process. The list is so huge that it would be impossible to name all of the possibilities but a few examples might be the health of each student, the amount of rest each has had, the home environment, the presence of testing fears, hunger and so forth. None of these things can be totally controlled by the teacher and when a preponderance of them are affecting the child negatively the test score may be less than stellar. Somehow our society ignores such things in judging the value of our educational system. The numbers are king and yet they only tell a small part of the story and because of this they have a negative impact on everyone in the classroom.

Our present system of testing students at virtually every turn has created a totally unnecessary level of stress. We decide the futures of our children and their teachers even as we understand that those exam scores do not tell the whole story. Study after study has shown that most standardized tests favor middle class white males. For whatever reason all other groups do not do as well. It would be a stretch to assume that this is because the middle class white males are more intelligent. In fact, they are not, but they respond to the questions and answers differently because of their life experiences. The test items that are supposed to be neutral are far from that. They are often subject to interpretations that result in responses deemed to be incorrect. When students are given the opportunity to explain their reasons for selecting certain answers, interesting trends appear, including the fact that the questions are often more subjective than the creators imagined they would be. Given the importance that test scores are given in today’s world, it is quite distressing to realize that the element of subjectivity is often present.

As we learn these things it seems logical that we would begin to admit that our efforts to judge our students by the numbers is still rather ineffective, but in truth we appear to be relying on such evaluative measures even more than ever. The three ring circus created by this situation is disturbing to everyone involved including students, teachers and parents and yet it continues unabated. I suspect it has to do with our human tendency to desire easy answers for complex problems. Once we suggest a solution it is often impossible to rid ourselves of it even when it is obviously a mistake. Other than the realization that Prohibition was a stupid idea, we rarely turn back once we have chosen to pursue a certain path. Sadly I think that we will remain hell bent on using tests to quantify progress until we finally realize the magnitude of the damage that is being done to our educational processes.

The acquisition of knowledge should be an adventure and there are certainly gifted teachers who manage to achieve that even with the specter of testing hovering over their heads. Unfortunately far too many educators struggle under the pressure to perform. They are more like drones laboring away in a massive hive of routine. They use the prescribed methods but don’t quite know how to elevate them beyond the ordinary. They may even reach very satisfactory results but the love of learning is missing and their students feel the loss.

We have turned education into a political football. How we design curriculum and provide resources tends to depend more on which ideology is victorious in elections rather than a reasoned appraisal of student needs. If we test children it should not be to determine how rewards and punishments should be meted out but rather what educational designs are needed for each individual situation. Testing should be a positive experience rather than one that strikes fear and loathing into everyone concerned. It should be much like a physical exam at a doctor’s office, providing information on the educational health of each child and then determining what measures are needed to insure growth. We need to halt the practice of using exams as evaluative clubs to beat our children and teachers down.

I return to this topic again and again because it is so important. As citizens we have the power to demand that something be done to change the present system into one that generates a positive experience rather than a negative one. We have to admit that the way we evaluate is all too often flawed. There is a better way to determine how well our students are doing and what the results mean. If we return to the original intent of such tests we will do everyone a service. They were never meant to grade schools or teachers but rather to determine how much progress a student has made from one school year to the next and then to devise a learning plan that best suits each individual. If we manage to do this, we won’t need vouchers or children moving from one school to another. We will finally begin to do the work of educating as it should be done. We will finally enhance classrooms with both science and art.