March 18, 2012

I keep dreaming that I have gone back to work as a teacher and I find myself working with small children and those who have a different learning style/need than the norm. Jean’s cousin, Cathy Shaffer goes to see her 95 year old father daily. Last Thursday she went for her visit and he had his oxygen tube all wrapped up beside his chair and declared that he was ready to go out and get a job because he needed to make some money. He also noted that he was a little frustrated with the plan because he couldn’t make his legs work enough to walk. I believe this goes directly with the adage that the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. I say, go get “em”, Uncle Jack; whatever “em” is.

Perhaps that is what my dreams are all about, but then, they may have some real meaning and purpose and I would be remiss is I didn’t look carefully into what the Lord would have me do.  Getting older gives one an excuse for repeating stories and asking questions for which the answers are readily available. Here is an oft reaped story of mine that I just can’t let go. When I was a first grader, I went to school in Concho, Arizona; A tiny speck of a town in a little valley in Northeastern Arizona. Miss Greer was my teacher. She taught first through fourth grades in the two-classroom school. (Yes, we had an outhouse) We had four kids in my class, June Baca, two others and me.

For the record, I am left-handed, color blind, Hispanic, not tuned into the educational traditions used then, or now. Neither me, nor my family had a clue about color blindness, or ethnicity. All I knew at the time was that all the crayons without name labels on them were a dirty trick which ensnared me; making me look stupid because I couldn’t tell one from the other. Most of the students were Hispanic (I would say Mexican, but my mom would come down and give me a family history lesson – another story for another day) so there was no problem there except that no one was allowed to speak Spanish by order of the Gestapo. These interesting elements along with some dyslexia, etc made learning really complicated. With this auspicious beginning I made rapid progress to the bottom of the education scrap pile, reaching the eighth grade, angry, hostile, and in the “C” class, in Longview Elementary School in Phoenix. By the way, no one was supposed to know that the “C” class was code for warehousing students through their 16^th birthday, or reform school, whichever came first.

The dreams and the history behind the dreams all wrapped up in a neat package. In my forty years in teaching, I tried to look out for those who didn’t fit the conventional mold. Perhaps I made a difference in the lives of a few, but I am scalded by the reality that we still perpetuate this monster. We keep piling more money on the problem, but it just keeps growing. Now, we have thousands, if not millions of students, parents, and teachers alienated by the system that keeps failing us all. Right across the street, a family works day and night to quell the storms created in their children by the “system.” Perhaps I am the reincarnation of Don Quixote and will forever tip at windmills, but I am going to keep “tipping” because some very good answers are raring and willing to be put to the harness which will help those in need and help me to achieve closure for my dreams.

God bless you, each and everyone, as you achieve your dreams though service to each other.

Duane Jacobs, Grandpa, popsa, Uncle, cousin, and friend