My Black Belt Ranking System

A bit unorthodox, I know, but if you're playing along at home here's the gist...

A.  Sandan or third degree black belt: current ranking

B.  Shodan or first degree black belt: ranking before I had Sadia 

C.  Nidan or second degree black belt: ranking before I had Simone 

D.  Yondan or fourth degree black belt: ranking I wish to achieve in the next year

Ironically, little discipline is required to get a black belt these days and anyone that's ovulating is guaranteed to matriculate through the levels fairly quickly.  I am currently accepting applications at my McDojo .  Incidentally, you'll also receive a small box housing a kimono and a cute plastic primary-colored toy with your registration.

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Whale Watching Wednesday

Okay, that's enough alliteration for one day! Teddy pleasantly surprised the family by planning a whale-watching day trip! Our three hour excursion left port from Shoreline Village in Long Beach (insert corny Gilligan's Island theme song here), on Wednesday at 3:30 pm. The weather was gorgeous and I couldn't have asked for a more picturesque backdrop for our family adventure on the high seas. 

The journey began with a rocky start, but I won't blog about the events that almost led to our missing the trip entirely, or the ticket fiasco at the wharf, or Sadia's embarrassing Public Restroom Announcement, or the adorable young couple who delayed our trip, or the meltdowns that nearly ruined our experience, or the gas shortage that could have ended with the family hoofin' it to the nearest gas station. No, I'll save that for another post, so suffice it to say that despite all minor set-backs, Teddy did a wonderful job at pulling it all together!



Here is a photo of the family at the end of the tour as we're getting ready to dock. I am making a more conscientious effort to get family pictures on our trips, because what generally ends up happening is either Teddy or I end up taking all of the pictures and the result is usually this:


Lot's of great pictures of Teddy and Sadia or....


...of me and Simone or....


...of just Simone or....


...of just Sadia, and in many cases...


....of Sadia and the new friends she's made on our trip.

Ironically, we didn't manage to get any really great pictures of whales. I have this huge inferiority complex when it comes to taking pictures on these kinds of nature trips. I so want to get a great shot that captures our whole experience.



However, as you can see I failed miserably. If you can't tell (honestly I wouldn't blame you if you can't) this would be a picture of a blue whale's blow hole...



... and this would be a picture of a blue whale's dorsal fin. I was going to label these pictures for you, but I think that only would have belabored my point. These are BAD pictures.

While there were many sightings of whales on our trip, I was very disappointed not having gotten any good shots of whales. You know the kind of picture I'm talking about, something dramatic like a great blue leaping out of the water doing a gynormous back splash and dousing the boat with salt water (something like what you might find at a theme park). I would have even settled for a sort-of okay shot of a whale ushering up gallons of water onto the bow of the boat with its tail.

At one point I even secretly anticipated this type of manufactured experience with each whale that surfaced. I wasn't the only one with visions of state-of-the-art choreography by these magnificent mammals. There was a collective buzz in the air; a corporate sense of readiness shared by all of the passengers on the boat for a truly breathtaking experience also fueling the frenzie. The suspense was so thick you could cut it with a filet knife. I think at one point I could actual hear the soundtrack for Shamu's "Believe" promo playing in my head.

A bit looney, I know..,but I blame National Geographics with award winning shots like this one:


and Sea World for spectacular killer whale promo's like this one:

for my unrealistic expectations and diminished capacity for taking a half-way decent photo of a blue whale on our trip.

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Best Wedding Invitation of ALL Time

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Argiope-aurantiahobia

Check out the fancy web action she's got going on in the center.

Imagine that while walking down the street one beautiful summer morning, you approach a low hanging branch, where nestled in between the thickets you find THIS! We stumbled across this hairy black and yellow orbed lady, also known as a Garden Spider, as we were walking home from the park this morning. She was just hanging out in the sun probably trying to snag herself some breakfast. Perhaps the promise of a small bird or a careless rodent peaked her appetite enough to lure her out of the shadows and into the sun.

I might be exaggerating about spidey here's breakfast menu, but I don't want to understate her size.   My picture doesn't really do her justice, so to give you some idea of the scale of this thing, picture her abdomen ranging close in length and width to your thumb from tip to the first joint. Her legs stretch out to about the width of a toddler's palm. I read online that female Garden Spiders can grow up to 3 inches in diameter (with legs included). Since males are thin-bodied, I'm assuming our find is female cuz baby's got curves!

While I was taking this picture, I was hemmed in at the hip and feet by Sadia's arms and legs. Meanwhile, her nails dug and clawed into my skin. Her tacit signals clearly pointed to beating a hasty retreat in the opposite direction. Truth be told, my imagination did start to get away from me as I was taking this picture. I kept envisioning this black and hairy beast jumping out at me and giving me the heebeegeebees, as I crept in closer to the shrub where she hung. Even though Wikipedia deems her completely harmless, judging by her size and over all creepiness I can see why these guys can't catch a break in popular media outlets.

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Pouring Part 1: Conjuring Newfangled Things!

A few weeks ago, I blogged about our experience with inadequate childcare, which prompted a summer of my pouring into the girls. You can read more about that here. One aspect of the pouring involves reigniting their playful nature. So, I thought what better way to add some levity, than to indulge them in silly childhood clapping games! Now, this little song is a bit different from the way I remember singing it when I was their age, but I think we accomplished our goal none-the-less.

Remember those hand games we used to play as kids? You and your girlfriends or-- if you were as fortunate as I was-- your sisters would sing a song accompanied by rhythmic clapping and hand gestures.  For example, here the girls are singing a novel chant that goes:  Down, down, baby;  I can do karate. Down, down, baby; I can call my mommy.  Down, down, baby; I can eat salami.  Oops!  I'm sorry.  I'm not sorry.  Peek-a-peek-a-boo!  Peek-a-peek-a-boo!

These silly hand games have a way of making them revisit their silliness in ways that nothing else can.  They can't keep from giggling when playing these games.  It doesn't matter that the songs they chant don't make any sense or that they butcher the rhythm.  There are no age or ethnic pre-requisites. In this space of innocence all that matters is that everyone is laughing and having fun! I think everybody should do this every once in a while with their kids.

So, take a walk down memory lane with your kids today. Sing some nonsensical song from childhood. Laugh! Clap! Recite away, as loud as you can or as fast as your hands can slap! And when you realize that you've just chanted a bunch of stuff that makes absolutely no sense at all, sing some more nonsense! Pat your thighs, touch the ground, and conjure some other newfangled thing!

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Where God Left His Shoes

I watched Where God Left His Shoes last night.  It's about a young family that gets evicted from their apartment in New York at Christmas time.  They have nowhere else to go but a homeless shelter.  It is an awesome portrayal of family sticking together during the darkest time in their lives and it touched my soul. This movie redefines family survival in this world , and reminds me how suffering--while universal--can also be relative.  This isn't a feel good movie. It cleverly side-steps your typical Hollywood ending and I highly recommend it to everyone.   I'd like to know your take on the movie. Share your thoughts.

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Children Gone Fishing....

The Chinese proverb goes:  Give a man a fish and you will feed him for a day. Teach him how to fish and you will feed him for a lifetime.  Well, a small altercation between the girls this afternoon seemed to imply that I could add a parental twist to update this old expression-- saying something like: Give your children fish and you will feed them for a day.  Give them time to fish and you will give them the ability to sustain long-term relationships exercised in love through reconciling sibling fish, while simultaneously saving mommy fish's energy by ensuring that the fish habitat remains ordered.  Or something like that.  I won't butcher the saying any further, but my experience this afternoon amounted to a lesson in fishing.

There was lots of housework waiting for me after a busy 4th of July weekend.  Laundry was first on my list of priorities.  So, I purposed to plop the girls in front of the TV ,to nourish them with a "Curious George" DVD, then --and with great determination-- to vanish up the stairs, and tackle the mountain of laundry flowing over the sides of the dirty clothes hamper.  About 15 minutes into my chore, I overheard a ruckus brewing between the girls downstairs.  

And then a few seconds later, a "MOM..., MOOOOOOOOOOOM????!!!" bounced off the walls of our narrow stairway.  Simone's cries for intervention grew louder and louder.  My first instinct was to plunge down the stairs to investigate the matter.  However, in that moment I experienced a hesitation kindled by what I can only describe as the Holy Spirit guiding me.  My repose could be measured by the hunched-over position of my spine as I eavesdropping on their candid argument. 

Normally, in a situation like this one I want to race down the stairs in an effort to avoid a more serious altercation, which is generally born out of these types of tiffs between the girls.  An overwhelming burst of adrenaline fuels the need to uphold a sense of order in the house. Certainly, ripples of discord is a true enemy to order in our small pond.  For this reason, I like to exercise a routine of rules reinforcement, followed by an allocation of consequences, and then wrap it all up with lots of love.  Yet in spite of this, I remained still.., and at the top of the stairs..,  and poised to listen.   

Ironically, amidst the disharmony there I found myself perched and a calm fell over me. A few minutes later there was an exchange of words between the girls, and then quietness. The arguing stopped, and almost immediately I heard God's voice clearly speaking to me.  His words were punctuated by a peace that overcame the whole house and it was literally fish food for my soul.  

He said, sometimes what's needed is not exacting judicial scrutiny, but rather an opportunity for the girls to work out their own differences.  In other words, I don't always have to be the instrument for conflict resolution.  It didn't matter who instigated the fight or whether rules were enforced (as is the status quo).  Rather what was most important was that they had an opportunity to work out their disagreement without my intervention. This idea seems so rudimentary as I journal about it now, but weighing it amidst the girls' dispute was a tough worm to swallow.

Reflecting over the matter, I can't say for sure what the girls discussed in the brief exchange that preceded the quiet, but of this I am certain:  Whatever transpired between them must of required a lot of love expressed through forgiveness, which is a learned quality.  Sadly, I don't often allow the girls either space or opportunity to practice what they've learned while working out their own differences.  I get so caught up in giving them fish, that I never afford them the opportunity to practice fishing by themselves.

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When was the last time you went star-gazing?

And seeing the multitudes, He went up on a mountain, and when He was seated His disciples came to Him. Then He opened His mouth and taught them. --Matthew 5:1-2

From our hilly green-belted community, on a clear night like tonight, I could easily count a gazillion stars in the sky. In stark contrast though, the night sky in LA was far different than tonight's.  For a long time, to me stars did not exist.  

Smog, pollution, and a barrage of bright city lights were a constant blanket over the sky.  They robbed me of the stars, so in my young mind beautiful moon-lit nights were fantasy.  I had seen these radiant skies in paintings and books.   For instance, I could vividly remember the final scene in the movie ET--that of ET and Elliot flying across the luminous night on a bicycle.  However, unlike Elliot, I was not so privileged as to experience the sky saturated with such a host of stars until the summer of '87.  

Aside from these superficial experiences, it wasn't until I turned 11 years old that the Woodcraft Rangers  (an after school program that served disadvantaged kids) deemed me old enough to go up into the mountains and stay overnight at Stanley Ranch camp.  Until that summer, I had always grouped star-gazing into the same category as unicorns, pots of gold at the ends of rainbows, and tooth fairies.  After that, the eagerly sought after privilege only came around once a year for this young city kid.

Imagine never having wished on comets or connected twinkling stars like strands of diamonds on a necklace in the sky, or the child who is never dwarfed by the astronomical silver dollar shining against the dark sky.  Consider the child who is never quickened by the opulence of the Milky Way, or that has never with outstretched hand traced the frames of the Big and Little Dipper under the heavens.  I longed to know that dreamland.  

Associating star-gazing in the same category as mythical creatures sounds tragic, but how often do we approach biblical principals from this same disadvantaged frame of reference.  We know that God is awesome because we've read about His works in the bible.  However, if that knowledge is purely one-dimensional, it never transcends the stuff of fairy tales in our lives.   

To put it differently, the only way we can truly experience God's fullness is when we walk with Him.  We  miss out on God's redemptive works all around us if we remain in the crowd. When life begins to press in on you, perhaps God will lead you to a solitary place to manifest His Word.  The next time you are in a crowd, consider it an opportunity to ascend into the mountains to gaze among His brilliance and discover God's heart for ministry.

May Their Cups Overflow

I know that I have been neglecting my blog over the last month, but it is not for lack of desire or  material. Even though I am on vacation from teaching, I feel like I just traded in one full-time job for another more important one-- bonding with the girls.

Two weeks ago marked the end of a long struggle with childcare. Being a working mom, my children are really vulnerable when it comes to finding a provider who really cares. Unfortunately, the last few months have been a lesson in navigating the storms of inadequate daycare (to say the least). Fortunately, the storm is over now and our children will be moving on to something more nurturing.  

It seems unreal, but Sadia will be starting Kindergarten in the fall. We've experienced a barrage of documentation, updating records, and testing for her placement. I am both anxious and excited for my soon-to-be Kindergartener. On the one hand, Sadia has overcome so many hurdles from her previous experience in daycare. She has endured prejudice, mistreatment and only God knows what else, but she has become a stronger and more resilient kid as a result. I have high hopes for what her school years will bring: perhaps a fresh start with more skilled and loving people who genuinely care for her and embrace her differences. On the other hand, there is still a part of me that worries. I realize that I cannot raise my children in a bubble, but what I can do is raise them to love in the face of hatred. I want them to learn to champion injustice with audacity and emerge from it unscathed. Enrolling in a new school will be an opportunity for elasticity.

Simone too has seen her fair share of set-backs. Last month she was diagnosed with Eustachian Tube Disfunction, a condition in the ears which causes her to hear as though she is underwater. When I learned of her diagnosis, my heart sunk. As a parent, it is amazing just how much of my children's regular body functions I take for granted. Thankfully, the complication with her ears will correct itself as she matures, but in the meantime in between time, she will struggle. Since her diagnosis, we've been back and forth from this specialist to that, from audiologist to speech therapist trying to equip Simone with the skills to weather this storm. With each appointment comes probes and prods from this instrument and that, and she is growing increasingly more an more agitated. Clearly, she too is being dealt her own measure of toughness.

Teddy and I are still taking it all in. Trying to process it all has proven to be quite the undertaking. Although, I am sure of one thing.  Never have I experienced anything more challenging than being responsible for these two precious little souls that God has gifted to us. And so, for me and my three, this summer will be a time to pour. When Sadia reacts to bias with bitterness, I will pour into her patience and tenderness. When Simone grows agitated with her own shortcomings, I will pour into her tolerance and acceptance. I will pour into them until I cannot pour anymore and when my cup becomes empty, I will seek the Lord's bounty and continue poised to pour some more.

Agonizing Beauty

This video is an amazing portrait of perspective. I admit, that at the onset I was annoyed by the singer's voice. The delivery is grating. My senses were irked with each missed key. As my frustration mounted from the music, I became more aware of another aggravation, which grew from my inability to make out the picture created on the canvas. As a matter of fact, at one point I even played with the idea of muting the speakers on my laptop, just so that I could focus on deciphering the image in the painting.

These feelings, as earnest as they are harsh, are not easy to admit. In fact being in that space, or even admitting my discomfort only made my total experience with this video all the more poignant. After all, I would never have been able to grasped the power exuded from that final frame, had I never been annoyed or dissatisfied with the clips opening shots.

This video illustrates such a profound metaphor for life, and how I sometimes start a thing without the end in mind. Hope abruptly turns into distress. Or maybe I have a clear vision for my destination, but I am a little foggy on the details and how the final picture will emerge. Still perhaps I've entered into a new relationship or partnership, and the connections just don't seem to come together as quickly as I had hoped. In these moments, it is easy to lose sight of the big picture.

I'm sure Abraham knew what it meant to agonize over God-sized Perspective in Genesis 22 when God sent him to the land of Moriah-- a name transliterated from the root words ra'ah {raw-aw'} meaning to see, look, or perceive and Yahh {yaw} meaning the same as Jah (Jehovah in the shortened form). The pinnacle of Abraham's walk of faith came when God commanded Abraham to go to the land of Jehovah's perception.

Life can seem like little more than a canvas having amassed a jumble of incongruous strokes, and whose boundaries are so finite, that I am often rendered deaf or blind. I become so fixed on trying to make out the picture, that I cannot even see how God is moving all around me. Or I concentrate so much on my hardship that I am no longer encouraged by praise and worship music, which echo the very Word of God. This video reminds me to trust God more deeply and to see as God sees.

Because You Can't Tell Your 4-Year Old to "Get Over It"

Picture this: It's scorching outside. You buy your little one an ice cold lemonade. Being the conscientious mommy that you are, you portion out a little bit of the sugary beverage; some for now, and some for another time. A day later, your little girl runs to the refrigerator in anticipation of finishing off the cached portion, only to find the juice is missing. She is screaming and crying because the lemonade--HER lemonade-- is gone.

You understand the problem. She's hurt because someone --some indiscriminate adult--took her juice without her permission. And despite all comfort-- even a conciliatory CapriSun juice pouch -- nothing stops the huge meltdown from erupting.

She's a smart girl. She devoured the very same juice pouch with delight just the other day, so why won't she be reasonable? There are so many other things in this world deserving of a category 5 flood, but Sweetheart this ain't one of them. You want to delicately navigate these emotional waters, but you're pretty sure that any maneuver to gain compliance from an already hurt and agitated four-year-old will only worsen the impending tantrum. So, what do you do?

Validate her feelings. Acknowledge that her feeling stripped of control is legitimate. Look at the situation from her perspective: you feel stripped of control because she won't accept a reasonable substitute for the lemonade, but that doesn't mean her preference for lemonade is bad.

It sounds so simple in theory, but the reality is I have a hard time allowing my children to own their feelings. I don't like to see them upset, especially when I am the indiscriminate one in this case who siphoned the lemonade. To boot, I don't have the time or the patience to deal with an "irrational" hissy-fit. Still, validating her feelings makes her feel better, teaches her to identify her emotions, and helps her recognize her right to own them.

Where I'm From

Okay, I'm jumping on the bandwagon with this post. I'm not sure who started this, but Jen, Diane, and Lisa have all created their own versions of the poem using this frame here. I was so inspired after reading theirs, that I caved and decided to do one of my own. The result is a really cool walk down memory lane.  So, here goes....

Where I'm from

I am from lycra biker shorts under navy uniform skirts; from knock-off Polo shirts and mid-year growth spurts.

I am from the neighborhood checker-boarded with parents, single parent households.

From honeysuckle vines, rose bushes, and Ms. Roses' bushes splashed with marigolds.

I am from broken backs when sidewalk cracks are unavoidable, elbows excluded from the tops of dining room tables, Joseph David, and Patricia Marlene-- emotionally unavailable.

I am from self defense when necessary to sweet meet pinches in church when contrary.

From streetlights signaling it's time to go and the irrefutable logic of because I said so...

I am from Designer-dress Baptist Church as Christ's bride, where clean on the outside of the cup is what's up, so don't worry about the inside.

I'm from the City of Angels, you buy we fry, and Scoe's #1; from Mustang GTs with ragtops dropped, cruisin' Crenshaw Blvd. in the sun.

I am from Summer, Summer, Summertime, cooling off naturally outside, red flavored Kool-aid, and no one ever getting hurt on a Slip 'n Slide.

I am from 32nd Street School, and series 1 Garbage Pail Kids. Where Adam Bombs are in short supply, Nervous Rex are prone to cry, and Don't Worry, Be Happy are words to live by.

Remembering Sadia's First Easter

This Easter came and went so quickly. Here is a candid shot of Sadia and Simone just before we whisked them away to church on Sunday morning.



While editing Easter photos this year, I came across a first. This video is the first in a long list of videographies that I've created over the course of the last 3 years. This one captures Sadia's first Easter:



We were in the neighborhood park that day taking Easter photos.

Sadia and I frequented this park on my summers off. It is only a few blocks from the apartment complex we lived in when Teddy and I first got married. Although it was a transitional period for us, the environment wasn't what you would call nurturing. Beer cans and graffiti were the most notable litter items. Curbsides were always plastered with parked cars, no matter the time of day. Dense apartment structures broke up the skyline. Essentially, it was a concrete jungle.

As if the ambiance could be worsened by yet another detail, I'm fairly certain that our upstairs neighbor was a drug dealer. Of this I am certain, because the walls in our apartment were so paper thin that I could hear the details of just about every meth transaction that took place upstairs. One day, the dealer's water pipes burst sending rusty water surging through the soffit cavities leaking through the ceiling. It took the owners so long to extract the moisture from the crawl space, that mold began to settle. I despised my humble beginnings.

One afternoon after church, while searching for a spot to park among the sea of circa 1980s generously used vehicles, Teddy encountered a young man and woman who were engaged in a heated argument. The guy was a thug, with prison tattoos as neck ornaments. He quickly became abusive with the woman, who was presumably his girl friend. At some point, Teddy felt compelled to step in to protect the woman's safety. As he approached, the guy stuck his hand in his jacket pocket, and gestured vehemently, as one might if he were concealing a weapon. The sum total of our living nightmare in that neighborhood converged in that moment, and thus began our search to find more adequate housing.

There were no redeeming qualities about that place. It had obviously lost its charm decades ago. So, it is with a heavy heart that I reflect on these memories. Strangely though, the juxtaposition of Sadia's tender years against a backdrop of that harsh environment makes the whole experience more unique.

Matryoshka Dolls

There are days when I don't face crisis with temerity. I don't always cope with trauma as a 32 year old should, because age is a lot like those stackable Matryoshka dolls that fit one inside the other. On the outside, I am 32, but on the inside I am also 31, 30, 29, 28, 27, 26, 25....

Like the day my mother left me. I was 16 years old, but the one year old inside me wanted to curl up in the fetal position and hibernate until the pain went away. Or that day last year in December when I learned that I had my first miscarriage with my third child. I should have been able to explain to my husband how empty I felt, because I am 32. I am expected to convey those complex feelings in a sophisticated way. But all I could say was, It's not fair....not fair....not fair.., and then the three year old in me came pouring out of my eyes like so many waterfalls.

Now, I wish I was 50. Then, I would have known how to address the white woman who pulled her midnight blue Toyota up to my bumper.  She followed behind me hugging my bumper while blaring her horn. I should have known what to say when she spewed all over me and my two girls her 2 minute tirade of foul mouthed abuse from her driver's side window, instead of just sitting there with that dumb look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.  Apparently, I hadn't taken advantage of a wink in time to make a right turn just before a pedestrian had stepped off of the curb.  Or maybe I was driving too slowly towards the stop light moments earlier.  Still perhaps it wasn't my driving that had set her off at all.  If I was 150, I would have known what to say when she pulled along side me at the next stop light, and called me and my daughters F*#@ing N*&&ers and Crack Whores. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

In that space, I was keenly aware of my girls, and the onlookers. I was overcome with shame. In my head I'm thinking how long till we get home, how long until I can just close myself up in my room and let go all of the years that I had been holding inside since that moment at Chapman Avenue.

My Clark Kent?

Now all she needs is a telephone booth, leotard, tights, and a cape.
My sister took the girls to see Monsters vs. Aliens, the latest computer animated movie from Dreamworks, on Saturday. Since then, Simone walks around the house wearing her fenced 3-D glasses like she's waiting for the moment when objects will begin to lung into her lap with startling effect. Now, if I can just get her to stop talking to the Jell-O mold!

General Observation....

Common sense is a lot like jelly. When you don't have much of it, make it spread.

Robert's 5th Birthday Party

Sadia and Simone attended Robert's 5th birthday party today. It was a themed party, and I must say that my friends' creativity with birthday party planning never disappoints. For instance, I would have never in a million light years thought to put electrical tape and water logs together to create "lightsabers".

My thoughts after today's droid attack is a mixed bag. On the one hand it's fun to watch our kids growing up together, but on the other hand I am regretting my diligence at pushing my children to crawl, walk, and talk. They really are growing up so quickly, and it seems like the days when Cheerios and velcroed pink bows have faded into a galaxy far, far, away...

Darn You, Burger King Drive Thru!!!

Few things are more disappointing than making a pit stop at a local drive thru in anticipation of an ice cold carbonated beverage, only to take that first swig of coke while driving off, and discover that your drink is flat!!!! It plum knocks the fizz right out o' ya!

Roshambo

I teach 6th grade. I think that it's safe to say that I've seen my fair share of disagreements. In the good, the bad, and the ugly, ranging from who gets to use the scissors first, to who's idea to use for a group project, to who knocked the basketball out of bounds, there is one conflict resolution strategy that has stood the test of time: Rock-Paper-Scissors.

Despite the circumstance, and no matter how married students are to their positions, ultimately there is no disputing a best of 3 R-P-S tournament. It's like the game wields some magical influence over the irrational thinking that fuels playground conflicts. So, where once deep rifts in childhood friendships teemed, now harmony abounds. It's quick. It's simple. It's random. It's fair.

Why can't more adults be as practical about problem solving. While I wouldn't base the fate of a country on the outcome of a Roshambo game, imagine what would happen if March Madness Bracketologists sat down for a little tournament play before the one-and-done frenzy that determines the best college basketball team in the nation? Just think about the untapped potential we could harness and time we'd save if we could be more elementary in our decision making!

Give Politicians Pink Slips, Not Teachers!

Teachers rallied at the corner of Harbor and Chapman of Fullerton this afternoon for solidarity. With the adopted State budget cuts, termination notices will be sent to teachers on Friday, March 13th. Teachers, administrators, parents, and students showed up in support donning our pink and black. Our presence was felt, and our voices were heard. I was encouraged by all of the support, and especially touched by the rally poster that read: TERMINATED with images of the eight permanent teachers (fellow co-workers) who were pink-slipped on Wednesday. These are the faces of education. These are faces of State budget cuts. Here's what you can do to help. Stand up for our schools and Pink Friday, March 13th.