In Taking Sides: Clashing Views on Educational Issues, John Dewey postulates that the "main purpose or objective" of education is to "prepare the young for future responsibilities and for success in life, by means of acquisition of the organized bodies of information and prepared forms of skill which comprehend the material of instruction." He adds, "Teachers are the agents through which knowledge and skills are communicated and rules of conduct enforced."

While I agree with the goals provided by Mr. Dewey's definition, the more immersed I become in the education system, the less evidence I find to support what education ought to be within that system. Instead what I've found is a political system that in actuality is cultivating various individual or collective agendas which have little to do with the authentic education of our youth. We, the adults, make a lot of excuses for why we have such an ineffective system. According to www.childrensdefense.org, when compared to other Industrialized nations our youth rank 21st in 15-year-old's science scores, 25th in 15-year-old's math scores, and last in relative child poverty, the gap between the rich and the poor, and worst in number of persons incarcerated. In 2003, while attending a meeting in Arizona, I confronted a State Senator, challenging him about a bill he supported that would do away with the state's "Head Start" program, a program vital to assisting many children from poverty-stricken families to be on par with their peers by the time they reached Kindergarten age. His response was, "None of this is my fault. These budget problems were here before I was elected and I'm just trying to find solutions." At what cost? Who gets to decide which child's education is expendable and which ones are worth saving, helping, guiding?

My final year of teaching, I landed what I believed would be an amazing job at a Magnet School that focuses on S.T.E.M. (Science, Technology, Engineering & Math) education. Like the slick senator from Arizona, the administrator sold me in my interview on the amazing things going on at the school and the visions for the future that they had. But, in line with the double-talk of political speak, that was only part of a warped picture.

Over the summer, I meticulously revamped my classroom, a cold, drab trailer, into a welcoming, learning environment. On the first day of class, two of my four classes were all that I envisioned, filled with bright, well-behaved students who asked intelligent, poignant questions and made me eager to dive into the rest of the year. The other two classes, however, were like falling down Alice's rabbit hole and finding nothing but madness. Many of the students were hostile, aggressive, and confrontational. One young man, who was obviously high, his face a comical and lethargic mask of disdain, was so disruptive that I sent him to the office. His classmates laughed their glee and approval at him being successfully kicked out of class so soon, while his parting shot to me from the door was, "See you in ten minutes," before slamming it in his wake. Boisterous laughter followed for the next five minutes and not fifteen full minutes had passed before he returned, escorted by an administrator who instructed him to "sit an behave", which was completely ignored the moment the administrator left. As the final student left at the end of the day, I sat in the dark at my desk utterly shell-shocked! This wasn't my first year of teaching! I had very effective classroom management skills given to me by previous teachers and honed, perfected over the years to fit my own philosophies and teaching style. What had gone wrong?! The next several days were more of the same convoluted ride...joy and madness! I started asking around. Was this normal? Was I doing something I shouldn't be or not doing something I should? Every answer was the same, "This is how it is here."

By Christmas Break, I was so distraught about how to reach these students after exhausting every strategy I could find, that I broke down and went to my administrator for help. I told her my concerns, my fears and asked her what I should do. Her response was, "If you're so traumatized, why don't you just quit?" I knew for certain, in that moment, that I would get zero help and support from her or the other administrators. I also knew that while quitting was certainly an option no one would blame me for, I could not give up on these kids! How many others had given up on them? One seventh grade class went through numerous teachers that year because they were just as "challenging to deal with." These children, who often threatened me in class, challenged me aggressively at every opportunity, and refused to believe the message I was trying to convey, that education would open doors for them for a better future, deserved someone who wouldn't quit.

I wanted the girl who stood inches from me, her nose nearly touching mine while she demanded, "Mrs. Schaefer,, what are you going to do when one of us punches you in the face?" to know I would not back down from trying to help her. I wanted her to know I was more afraid for her future than I was of anything she or her classmates might do to harm me.

I wanted the boy who brought a weapon, a shank, to class and had it out to know I was watching him, paying attention to him and that I was not going to allow him to do something impetuous and foolish that would ruin his life, at least not while he was in my classroom!

I wanted the girl who accused me of assault so she could get out of doing her work to know I wouldn't quit trying to save her from herself and the damage she would do to her own future if her behavior continued.
 
I wanted the boy with so much hate and anger in his eyes all the time to know that there was a better way and that at least one person gave a shit about what happened to him.

And I wanted my administration to know that I don't give up on kids--the "good kids", the "smart kids", the "bad kids"...those labels don't mean a thing to me because from the moment they step foot into my classroom, they simply become MY kids. I take responsibility for them from that moment and I do all I can to invest in them.

At the end of the school year, I was told by my administration that I wasn't a "good fit" for that school and I wouldn't be invited back. Later, a colleague told me, "Mrs. Schaefer, you're not a good fit here because you hold ALL of your students to a high standard and you hold them accountable for their actions. That is not in line with what goes on here because here, all students are not created equal." Our task as educators is not to teach students everything they need to know. What we must do is give them "habits, ideas, and techniques that they need in order to continue to educate themselves." The fact that this applies to some students and not others is as nonsensical to me as the Queen of Hearts demanding her guards to "paint the white roses red"! What's next.."Off with their heads?"

*Quotes from Taking Sides, 2011, excerpts from pp.4, 5, & 13, Copyright 2011 by McGraw Hill.

I don't watch horror flicks. Ever! Not because I'm afraid of any fictional scary critter but because when my fear instincts kick in, it is the real-life, human monsters that wrap themselves around my mind like smoky tendrils that paw at my brain and unleash warped memories. Flash: A family member who grabbed my breasts when I was eleven and they were just budding...I was so frightened, I ran from him and hid in a closet for hours. Flash: A childhood friend's drunken stepfather...who came up behind me to fondle me while I was playing a game of Monopoly with my friend and her brother. When I pushed his hands away, he back-handed me out of the chair I was sitting in. Her brother jumped up and stood between us, telling me to run. Flash: A boyfriend, much older than me, who date-raped me and took my innocence, as well as my peace of mind, for a very long time. These are unspeakable things, or so I was told by the very few people who knew about them and compelled me to "just forget about it, you're okay". So, like a good girl, I locked them away to keep polite society from feeling uncomfortable if I aired my "dirty laundry." I shoved them deep into a hole where later in my life I would shove other unspeakable things. But I was not "okay".  Slowly, like tiny doses of poison, they ate me alive. I write this to you, J, and all the other people who might read and recognize the monsters in their own "lock-boxes". I will speak of unspeakable things, not to make others uncomfortable but to purge myself of their poison once and for all. I will speak of unspeakable things to shine a light into those dark spaces inside of me that they've been occupying for so long they've gathered a rancid dust on top of and around them. I will speak of them so that I can put a healing balm on those wounds that have festered and abscessed over time. Perhaps we never really conquer our fears, but we can take away their power over us, release the grip they have on our souls. I am not a victim. I am a woman who had an often frightening childhood, and I am not alone. I don't know why it helps to know that, but for me, it does. Many of the students I've had over the years have also had monster stories to tell and went home to their own horror flick, only it wasn't a movie for them, either. It was their daily life. Helping them to find outlets to heal and take back their power was one of my favorite things about being a teacher. I dedicate this to them, too, in hopes that they will find their own voice and speak the unspeakable. I'll be listening!

Dear Beast,
Even though I stepped onto this path with you of my own accord, it was far more treacherous than I ever dreamed possible and I stayed on it far too long, although from a philosophical standpoint, I suppose a compelling argument could be made that I stayed on it for exactly the right amount of time to serve its purpose. I spent so much time in the last three years confused, hurt, angry, happy, lost, surrounded, alone, and broken, picking up bits and pieces of me to examine what they were and what spaces they were supposed to fit back into. Meanwhile, you slipped into and out of my "real world" like some overly large faerie, leaving a mess in your wake for me to have to mentally sort out. At first, I tried to use you as my sounding board for all the doubts and worries and confusion I was trying to unravel, but you were so unreliable that I could never find a patch of solid ground to stand on with you. You delighted in constantly keeping me off balance. That turned out to be a blessing, however, as instead I turned to my husband and my daughters and occasionally friends to help me. Holding such a vast amount of issues to deal with alone inside of me was just not an option. So, I poured it out, all of it, like a child scattering a large bin of Legos onto the floor and those I trusted, those in my closest inner circles would "sit" with me regularly to help sort and "rebuild" those blocks. One of the last things you said to me was how "truly ugly" I am. I cannot disagree as I've had my hands on the "ugly" blocks that are part of who I am. But that is not all I am. There is beauty, and light, and love, and hope, and faith, and pain, and broken bits, and dreams, and peace inside of me, as well. This is not the end of my story. It is, however, the end of our story. Some who read this will look for the villain and the hero. And some who read it will find them. But what I see when I look at this particular part of my story is a journey with Beauty and the Beast inside of me, inside of you, inside us all. We are all a walking, living, breathing collection of stories. And while this one did not end in any "happily ever after," it leaves in its aftermath a stronger footing to stand on, to walk on, for the future. Three years...three letters...and a whole lot of road surrounded by right dirt up ahead. I don't know what I will find there, but I hope it, too, makes for one amazing story after another.
                                                                                Signed,
                                                                                Beauty AND the Beast

Dear Beast,
I am still greatly offended by you telling my husband in one of your fights with him that YOU were the one who helped me through the loss of my son. I bled for days and was so sick, body, mind, and soul, I could barely walk. My husband almost never left my side, taking days off from work to care for me. When the doctors feared for my health due to blood loss, and brought me in to scrape the rest of my baby from my womb, I watched on the sonogram, my mind and my mouth screaming in grief. The nurse left. The doctor left as quickly as possible. And my husband stayed, wrapping his strong, steady body around mine and holding my sanity and my body to this plane of existence by his sheer force of will! He and my girls are the reason that I lived. And i don't mean just physically existing inside this body, on this Earth, walking and talking and breathing. I mean truly lived, engaging in my life, picking apart where I have come from, the spot where I stand now, and where my journey will take me next. And while I was doing that, you were on to the next girl, or two, or four, as you told one, "...no need to worry about her, she's just a friend...happily married, etc," dismissing me for your next port of call destination. I do not say this to be unkind, as you had no true investment in me at any point throughout our story, but a vow, spoken in a make-believe place, and a promise broken over and over again as to distort what it originally looked like in its simple, quiet beauty to something ugly and misshaped by the repeated blows. You did, however, give me a precious gift to mark the passing of my child...an angel to put by his grave-site. She is not beautiful. She is somber and striking in her morose appearance and she is, as an angel should be, non-corporeal, untouchable. Her quiet, dark symbol, however, gives a visual of what pain and grief must look like to one's eyes as she now stands sentry for a boy I will never see in this lifetime. I remember your boyish trepidation when you gave her to me, afraid I wouldn't like her. I knew in that moment that I loved you. Not "roller coaster ride" love or "romance novel hero" love, but a deep, quiet, love that settles into your bones and stays, even now that the damage is well and truly irreparable. I loved you then because you understood my pain even though we had never met in person, gotten to know one another in a traditional sense, and never really had a place in each others future. It is those glimpses that made me hold on so long and fight. When the light shines on those dark, beastly spaces inside of you, what is also there is profound beauty. You did not help me through my pain, my loss, my grief. Often you poured salt on those wounds. But I healed in spite of that and I learned the lessons I was supposed to learn in regards to that situation and in the end, that is the point. We are all here to learn and grow, or not. What we do with each lesson we are faced with becomes a choice.
                                                                                Signed,
                                                                                 Beauty

Dear Beast,
After the vile and epic dissolving of our relationship, while the pain of your betrayal still seeps fresh blood from the wounds created during our final few encounters, I am forcing my mind to go back to the beginning. My first impressions of  you were flirty and fun. I remember how easy the banter was between us, back and forth, like a well-rehearsed dance only our feet knew the steps already. I was enamoured by, fascinated by the taste of the electric charges crackling and popping in the air around me as I sat in the dark listening to the Blues and talking to you. They were delicious and gave me a high that lasted for days afterwards. As our encounters became more bold, racy, that high grew in intensity...it made my heart pound in my ears, sometimes just at seeing your name light up. It made me afraid...that fear/high you get sitting at the top of the first hill on a wild roller coaster ride! You're ready for it! You're not ready for it! The build-up is wound so tightly, you can't help but scream! I can't pinpoint the exact moment where reality smacked me and warned me of the potential dangers ahead if I stayed on the ride; I only remember that fleetingly, it did. I listened to those warnings for a moment and common sense, sprinkled heavily with life-experiences almost won. And then, I was faced with a life-threatening event...I got pregnant, the doctors warning me that carrying a child to term was very dangerous for me. I completely flipped out, lost my mind. As I walked around in a stunned daze of fear, hormones, and confusion in my real life, I slipped into a virtual dark place, opened  my soul up wide and let you in...deeper than anyone...deeper than even I had seen inside of myself until you and I crawled through those dark spaces together. I tell myself now, what else does one do when faced with his or her own mortality than to go at life wide open, fearing no risks, ignoring all stop-gaps! We flew down and around and over hill after hill, flung around harrowing sharp turns, arms thrown high as we screamed our excitement into inky black nights of a thrill-packed ride full of life and danger and passion! And then my body aborted the son I   never got to see except for in distorted images on a screen, never got to smell, or kiss his toes, or watch him sleep, play, grow up. For a "moment", I wanted to die with him and follow him to the light, the place where angels live.
                                                                                                Signed,
                                                                                                Beauty

Forward: I am writing this to end a rocky, wonderful, painful, healing story. Internet relationships are a modern day phenomenon. We now have access to more people in more places and ways than at any other time in our history (that we know of...I've been watching too much "Ancient Aliens"). It is easier to meet others, share more details about who we are with strangers under an "invisible cloak" of annonymity. Funny just how personal keeping our distances from one another can create such intimate opportunities. I have made many friends over the years via the internet and social media. Being a former military wife, my husband was gone a lot and I got my social needs filled by going online instead of getting a sitter and leaving our girls at home. I learned lessons about over-sharing and people's ability at quick, often harsh judgements. I also learned how to open my heart and mind to new experiences. I found a freedom that I had never dreamed of having before and the cost that freedom exacts. Every "thing" comes at a price and rarely does the true cost equate to dollars, Euros, Yen or any other form of coinage. I could write volumns, alone, on my diverse, wide-open online experiences and perhaps I will. But  not this time. This is my dying embers tribute to a love story. Fairy Tales of old, in their original versions, had harsh, often frightening endings before the world around us became PC and sterilized them. This is not sterilized. These are letters from Beauty to the Beast and they contain her truth, from her eyes, about her part of this modern-day, fractured Fairy Tale.