Students Come First? (An Idaho Taxpayer's Perspective)

Idaho Public Education Superintendent Tom Luna recently unveiled a controversial education budget proposal entitled "Students Come First." As an Idaho taxpayer and citizen, I am extremely interested in any legislation that impacts what I consider to be one of the most important social programs in our entire political system - the public schools. Much of his plan looks attractive on paper and uses appealing rhetoric. However, The Boise School District asks, “Are there elements of the SDE [State Department of Education] proposal that advance our students’ preparation for college and career?” At what expense do we blindly accept this proposal of reform to our public education system?

If students truly come first, these are the questions that should concern us - the taxpayers, the parents, the students, the general public - the most.

Luna's proposal includes increased funding for technology. Sounds promising. But these funding "efficiencies" are contingent upon raising class sizes and requiring online courses.

Raising the Average Student-Teacher Ratio

Luna states on the SDE website, "Fact: When you take a comprehensive look at all the credible research available, you will find no substantial correlation between class sizes and student outcomes. The studies referenced in Tennessee and Texas have been dispelled by more in-depth studies in California in [sic] other states."

I have not seen the "in-depth studies" alluded to by Superintendent Luna which were apparently conducted in California and in other states. I also did not find links or parenthetical references to these studies on the SDE website. But I am not a master researcher, just an Idaho taxpayer.

However, I was able to track down several research articles, including a few studies that occurred in California regarding the positive impact of smaller class size upon student learning and achievement. Refer to http://classsizematters.org/research.html and "The 7 Myths of Class Size Reduction -- And the Truth."

On the January 20 broadcast of Idaho Public Television's Dialogue, Luna contended that most of the average student to teacher ratios in surrounding states surpass Idaho’s ratio. Idaho actually falls somewhere in the middle. If the student-teacher ratio is increased to the proposed 19.8, Idaho will have the second highest compared to the surrounding states.

Does raising the average student-teacher ratio “advance students’ preparation for college and career?” Probably not. Unless raising class sizes (via the average student-teacher ratio) has a positive educational impact on our Idaho students, comparing these numbers to the surrounding states, as Luna does, is inconsequential.

Mandating Online Courses

Luna states on the SDE website, "Fact: Under Students Come First, the state will just require that just eight of the 46 credits a student must take to graduate are online. That means of the six courses a student takes each semester, one will now be online."

Point of clarification: According to the January 20 broadcast of Dialogue, Luna has tweaked his plan. Students will now be required to take six courses online (as opposed to two per year) between grades 9-12.

Many districts already offer online courses for students who need to repeat coursework, free up electives, and take courses that they can’t fit into their schedules. But online coursework is an option, not a mandate.

Mandating online classes limits a parent's and student's ability to choose the method of delivery and instruction. The plan inhibits the amount of personal interaction between a teacher and his/her students and replaces it with a virtual model.

An interesting side note: Luna received a $25,000 campaign donation from the political group Idahoans for Choice in Education. The money came directly from the for-profit Virginia-based K12 Management Inc., a private corporation that provides curriculum for Idaho’s Virtual Academy, an online charter school that often services home schooled families. Which begs the question: Is Luna's online course mandate motivated by political donations or purely by the needs of our Idaho students?

For more information regarding the impact of private corporate dollars on our American public school system, see Diane Ravitch's The Death and Life of the Great American School System.

If the implementation of mandated online courses does not specifically “advance our students’ preparation for college and career,” (as opposed to allowing private corporations to steer the course of public education) then should it be considered?

Conclusion

A public school reform proposal should promote equal education for the masses. If technology is the answer, perhaps we should provide equal access to classroom technology in districts that lack interactive whiteboards, projectors, high-tech calculators, lab probes, school computers, educational software, and clickers (which have been mentioned as part of the SDE proposal). I do not dismiss the importance of technology in our public schools, but it should not be dependent upon increasing class sizes and reducing teaching positions.

And anyway, will our Idaho students - most of them already fully equipped with technological expertise - acquire 21st century knowledge and skills by simply being handed a laptop and being forced to take a few online courses?

Please contact your legislator to voice your opinion on this matter: http://www.legislature.idaho.gov/howtocontactlegislators.htm

Postscript: How Arts Education Will Fare Under Luna's Proposal

Several Idaho parents, students, and educators, who had experienced the elimination of various arts programs across the state, testified at the Joint Finance-Appropriations Committee (JFAC) public hearing on Friday, January 21. One Hansen mother tearfully proclaimed this to be the first year that the senior class would graduate without the school band's accompaniment of "Pomp and Circumstance."

Let us remember that the SDE has established Humanities Standards (Dance, Music, Theater, Visual Arts, and World Languages) which are rarely - if at all - being met in our public schools.

Arts programs face further danger under Luna's proposal. As currently written, only salary and benefits will be negotiated under Luna’s plan.

In some districts, this could mean the elimination of prep times. Prep time is often covered by music and/or P.E. instruction, especially at the elementary level. The absence of mandatory prep time would reduce the need for those classes (at least in the eyes of our bureaucratic system). Whether or not they provide prep time, the arts are imperative academic disciplines with cognitive, emotional, and cultural benefits that should never be dismissed.

"Music making not only supports the development of math skills, but of all skills, for all kinds of students (Catterall, et al. 2000)" from Eric Jensen's Music with the Brain in Mind (p. 35).

If the state of Idaho truly wants a competitive education system, as Luna's current proposal purports, arts and music education should be reinstated immediately in the public schools throughout the state.

For further reading:
Jensen, E. (2000). Music With the Brain in Mind. Thousand Oaks, CA: Corwin Press.
Jensen, E. (2001). Arts With the Brain in Mind. Alexandria, VA: Association for Supervision and Curriculum Development.

Podcasts: A Thirty Hour a Week Job

I have recently discovered yet another time-sucking activity involving the wonders of technology - podcasts. I realize that podcasts have been around for a while, but you have to understand that I am from the generation that was just on the cusp of the technological boom.

So, although I am not a total Luddite, I am a bit slow to embrace all of the technological advances circulating around us. I am much more likely to use a new device if it promises to make my life greener (such as eliminating paper statements or junk mail), more practical, or more efficient. I find myself much more reluctant to jump on the technology bandwagon if its only value is that of pure leisure and entertainment.

It began innocently enough. In one of my more impractical moments, I started subscribing to a podcast discussing the television show Lost. My husband, who often introduces me to my more unproductive activities, got me hooked. Pretty soon, I was devoting an hour every week to listening to the theoretical and philosophical aspects of the popular ABC show.

"What are these things you call podcasts? They are so interesting," I said to my husband one Saturday afternoon. "Can I subscribe to more of them?"

Dan proceeded to show me how to search for podcasts in iTunes, which incidentally is exactly like searching for music. Before I knew it, I had subscribed to NPR Music Interviews, NPR Books, Fresh Air, On Point Books, All Songs Considered, and This American Life. Eventually, I added an explicit “progressive” radio show that advocates all sorts of liberal ideas about corporate greed and socialism. I believe the latter to be some subconscious, latent act of rebellion against my somewhat conservative family.

Now I am stuck with getting through several hours of talk shows, interviews, and news stories throughout the week. Did I mention I also download public domain audio books?

I listen to podcasts in my car, at the grocery - like some teenage punk - on road trips, and occasionally during breaks at school. Remember, I am a music teacher, and I hardly listen to music on my iPod anymore.

The other day, the assistant principal thought I was rocking out during my lunch hour. I explained to him that I was listening to a music podcast. He was impressed, obviously believing that I am a nerd and that I am always looking for ways to develop my craft. These are all true suppositions.

But I was also glad to get through my three hours of podcasts before going to bed that night.

Aunt Bocky and Uncle Dennies

My husband and I have an interesting effect on children. Since we are not parents ourselves, we rather enjoy handing kids back to our friends at the end of the day, hyper and hopped up on sugar. It's kind of like being the irresponsible and hip aunt and uncle.

As a music teacher of 500+ students, I spend all day keeping children under control. And I think Dan is just a big kid himself. So when we interact with other people's children in a social setting, we let our immaturity flags fly.

One evening, Dan and I went on a bike ride with some church friends, mostly adults. One of our friends had brought along her nephew though.

The three of us - Dan, the young boy, and I - rode ahead of everybody else. Once we were out of ear and eye shot, Dan started popping wheelies, bunny hopping, and riding with no hands - "Look, Ma!" - as we pedaled down the greenbelt. Pretty soon, our little friend was mimicking Dan's mad biking skills.

Dan and the boy rode down the path in silence, side by side. Dan would hop up on his bike, and our friend's nephew would hop up. Dan would let go of his handlebars, and our friend's nephew would let go of his handlebars. Dan would pop up on his rear wheel, and our friend's nephew would pop up on his rear wheel. At one point Dan was so consumed with flaunting his bicycle trickery that we almost lost the kid. He soon caught up with us, not be outdone by his new biking buddy. I felt much better when I heard the little boy admonishing the BMX riders we passed for not wearing helmets.

"At least we didn't completely corrupt him," I said later to Dan. "He still believes in wearing a helmet."

Our less-than-adult influence has also extended beyond Idaho. Dan and I visited some friends in Ohio one summer. They had two children at the time, both boys. I am afraid we might have left them completely wound up by the time our stay ended.

The oldest boy, a preschooler, called me "Bocky" (imagine a glottal stop on the 'ck') and Dan "Mister" or "Dennies" depending on his mood. He was so excited that he would repeat everything three or four times.

Dan and I encouraged his constant chatter. I laughed at everything he said because it was soooo cute, and Dan would periodically put his sunglasses on the back of his head, prompting fits of giggles and a loud "Mister!" from the little boy.

One time, while we were in the car, Dan was sitting between the two boys and was too busy goofing around with his sunglasses and the preschooler that he failed to notice the youngest boy was sticking his fingers down his throat.

"Dan, I think he's choking!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, yeah," my friend said calmly from the driver's seat, "he chokes himself sometimes. Don't let him do that. He makes himself throw up."

That afternoon, we were in a gift shop with my friend and her two boys. The oldest really, really wanted one of the Thomas the Train DVDs.

"We can't get it today. It's too expensive," my friend told him.

"Okay," he said. "C'mon, Bocky!"

He ran over to me, grabbed me by the hand, and dragged me across the store, all the while proclaiming (as all the women in the store grinned at him and murmured about how funny he was), "It's too 'SPENSIVE! We have to go, Bocky! It's too 'SPENSIVE! C'mon, Bocky! It's too 'SPENSIVE!"

Of course, my friend had other devious, motherly plans. As soon as she could get her little boy to let go of me, she handed me some cash and whispered, "Would you mind going back and buying the DVD in secret? His birthday's in a few days."

I did gladly. Being the cool aunt-type is fun when you get to take part in the clandestine missions that only parents know how to orchestrate.

I am pretty sure life went back to normal for our friends after we returned to Idaho. But Bocky and Mister Dennies left a trail of hyperactive energy in our wake. Hopefully, we didn't cause too many sleepless nights.

Communion for Dummies

Lately, at church, Dan and I have found ourselves being asked to participate in a more adult capacity. When we were in our post-college twenties, people left us alone, probably figuring we were career-fast-track DINKs (Double Income No Kids). But once we hit our thirties, the calls started rolling in.

"Can you lead a small group?"

"Can you at least be in a small group?"

"Can you cook sausages for the youth breakfast?"

"Can you help at the food bank?"

"Can you serve on the mission/leadership/you-fill-in-the-blank board?"

Once my husband was asked, "Don't you want to pray about it first?" to which he replied, "No" and hung up the phone. (The following Sunday, not wanting the poor caller to think we were upset or offended by her request, I explained to her that my husband was a man of mostly one word answers, and we were flattered she even thought of us.)

I don't know what happened when Dan and I reached our thirties. We are still DINKs, still in the midst of a wild, fast-paced lifestyle, consisting mostly of watching Battlestar Galactica on the weekends. Maybe people think if you haven't had kids by the time you hit thirty, it is because you want to devote all of your time to church work.

Anyway, our church wants to bestow upon us more adult responsibility, but we are just not ready for it. We discovered this after we finally gave in and agreed to serve communion.

Baptists like their communion to move along. We don't go to the altar pew by pew to dip our bread and kneel and pray. We pass the bread while the minister talks a little bit about the body; then we pass the tiny plastic cups of grape juice (no alcohol - we are Baptists, after all) while the minister talks a little bit about the blood; then we're done. There was a lot of pressure on Dan and me to perform this task like . . . well . . . adults.

The first week, we were stationed at the front of the sanctuary. I could almost see the motors cranking in Dan's engineer brain as he tried to figure out how to get the two of us back up to the front, each of us carrying a plate.

In our attempts to serve communion scientifically, I ended up making a little old lady scoot all the way across an empty pew to pass the heavy plate along when I could have just held it for her.

"Maybe I should have made that little old lady on my pew scoot too," Dan told me later as I lamented my inconsiderate behavior. "Then it would have worked out."

At the next pew, thinking I had learned my lesson, I started to take the plate back from another elderly woman in an attempt to prevent her from having to pass it herself. But Dan gave me a subtle shake of his head indicating that this did not fit into his formula. That little old lady also had to scoot down the pew with a heavy tray of grape juice in her hand.

A few rows later, Dan started to pass the plate but quickly yanked it away as the person attempted to grab a cup ("Give me five . . . Too slow, Joe"). Then Dan gestured to me to pass the plate from the opposite side.

Despite our efforts, Dan still ended up carrying two plates, and I ended up with zero. And we snickered our way through the entire ritual which has to be some sort of heresy. We were pretty certain we would be banished for life from communion service.

But the next month, we were still on the roster.

"We don't know why we keep getting asked to do this," I told the minister before the church service. "We really suck at it." (I realize this is probably not the most reverent phrase to use while speaking to a minister about communion.)

"Maybe you should write a book on how not to serve communion," he said, laughing at my apparent anxiety. "You could call it Communion for Dummies."

Later, when he was making his way up the aisle, he leaned over and said with a smile, "Now don't be nervous about communion, you two."

That was the week Dan was worried about serving the minister and the musicians. He had talked about it all morning, wondering if he should serve them before, during, or after the prayer or if he should serve them before the rest of congregation.

After serving, we are supposed to wait in the middle of the sanctuary until someone (usually the tallest person) nods his/her head. Then we return to the front, the perfect time to serve those behind the pulpit.

But Dan broke away from the rest of us and raced up the aisle toward the musicians and minister. I started off after him whispering, "WAIT!"

I stopped as soon as I realized people were staring at us and, like a good rule-following former preacher's kid, stood patiently until given the signal to return to the front.

Surprisingly, we still weren't fired.

But we were stationed in the back the next time.

This time, Dan forgot to take bread with him into the sanctuary.

“What are you doing?” I called after him, just above a stage whisper.

He stopped at the door and glanced around, trying to figure out what he was forgetting.

"You forgot the bread!" I said. "What are you thinking?"

“I was raised in a small church," he said, snatching the bread tray out of my hands. "We only needed one plate for the whole congregation.”

Dan and I still have not perfected the exact science of serving communion. But for some incomprehensible reason, we keep getting asked back.

In fact, last communion Sunday, the communion coordinator pumped our hands ardently and said, "Boy, am I glad you two are here. Thank you so much."

I almost said, "Are you sure? Have you ever watched us serve communion?"

Victory in 2011: The Blue Trail Conqueror

When you first read about my cross-country skiing exploits (refer to Adventures in Cross-Country Skiing), you might have noticed that I was a bit of a chicken. I never ventured off the green trails except for the few times my devious husband would say with feigned assurance, "You'll be fine. The sign says 'More Difficult.' It's not like it's a black trail."

Then I would unintentionally prove him wrong as my body rolled down a hill or as I descended the slope on my bottom or occasionally my stomach.

"That will show him," I would think to myself as I climbed out of a snowbank. "I am indeed not fine at all."

But 2011 has transformed me into a reformed cross-country skier. Say goodbye to the yellow-bellied "I-Only-Ski-Green-Trails" chicken. I am "The Blue Trail Conqueror!"

My story carries with it a universal theme that I think all archetypal heroes experience at the beginning of their quest, the disbelief in their calling, self-doubt.

Last year, during one of our Nordic skiing outings, Dan said, "I think you are getting better at this. Would you want to try some blue trails sometime?"

"Absolutely not," I said indignantly. But I didn't stop there, "Just because you’re an adrenaline junkie doesn't mean I am. You knew that about me when you married me. That’s why I chose cross-country skiing; otherwise, I would have taken up snowboarding. Some people like leisurely activities without a lot of risk. This is a hobby, not insanity. The compromise is I do some of your activities at my own pace . . ." And I continued that way for the rest of the trail.

When the trail (and my tirade) finally ended, Dan's response was, "At least you ski faster when you're angry."

Eventually, I began to consider taking more difficult trails, but I never actually skied any of them. During one particular incident during this stage of my heroic epic, I was standing at the bottom of a hill, surveying a trail.

"It's not the going up I'm worried about. It's the fact that I wouldn't be able to stop on the way down, and I could die," I said. (A fellow skier laughed as she passed me, most certainly having heard my philosophizing on her way down the hill.)

This year, we happened to choose the perfect day for our first cross-country ski trip - a calm, overcast day, fluffy, powdery snow, a beautiful gray mist over the lake. And it was early in the winter break, so there were not many people on the trails who could crash into me.

Dan convinced me (“The powder will slow you down. And it’s softer when you fall.”) to climb a hill I had refused to attempt before. Usually, I would make it about halfway up and then turn around and ride down the gentle incline.

I had tried this same trail when we were first married (the self-doubt era of my epic journey). I had attempted the entire uphill and the descent on the other side that completed the loop. I found myself flying down the hill, gaining momentum, yelling at the other skiers, “I can’t stop!”
But I did stop (and drop and roll) right at the bottom of the hill (my heroic descent into Hades). Hence, my trepidation on this particular trail.

This year, however, the downhill did not seem nearly as steep as I had remembered it.

“Here’s the part I was talking about,” I would mutter . . . then, “No, never mind. It must be the next part of the hill that gave me such a hard time.”

“Uh oh, here we go," I would say, preparing once again for the free fall. "Um, never mind . . . that was fun.”

I continued that way down the entire hill until I made it gracefully to the bottom.

Dan took me on one more blue trail, a nemesis trail of mine that I had tried a few years ago and on which I had fallen as was my usual custom.

“There’s no way this is a blue trail. This is too much fun . . . They must have rerouted it since last time . . . It’s way easy. They must have it marked wrong . . . It can’t be done already. We didn’t even get to the hard part," were my responses throughout the trek.

“The powder must be slowing me down,” I said as we reached the end of the trail.

“I think you’re just getting better at this,” Dan said.

So that was how my 2011 commenced. I emerged from my quest victorious, The Blue Trail Conqueror!

What was Dan's response to my accomplishment, you ask?

"Do you think you'll want to try black trails sometime?"