Breaking Spring - 2016

So...Spring Break 2016. Let’s recap, shall we?

It began with a plan to have a couple of contractors come out in order to get  bids for two summer projects. Our master bath shower enclosure has issues and we want to replace it with semi-frameless glass and to level out the marble shower bench so the water runs off instead of pools. But before we could even get spring break out of the starting gate the shower door fell off. Yes, that’s right. Fell off. And the project is going to take two contractors (Longview Glass and Granite Planet, great people) and up to two weeks to do, making June the next available time. So a curtain rod and cheap shower curtain it is  for the next four months.

Next project...moving/replacing a (15 year old) water heater currently located in the attic above our bedroom so we can have a second attic space and not have the thing rupture over our heads some dark night. Out comes Baker Bros. Plumbers to take a look (more great people). We open the attic door and lo, too late. It’s already leaking. Did I mention it was right over our bed? There is no time to relocate and do all the work we need to do to get the second attic space. We simply had to replace it. Quickly. Appointment made for early the next morning. Power goes out. Rescheduled for the next day. Okay. Water heater goes in. Water goes out.

Well, not out. We’re actually just on a boil water order. For four days and counting.

Did I mention we were getting record rainfall over spring break? No? Well, we did. Friends and family have been worried about us what with being on the national news and all. But I’ve been far more worried about family and friends in East Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennessee, and home in Kentucky. We’re mostly high but not real dry at our house. Far too many people don’t have much of their houses left. Or they had to leave them behind until the water receded, not knowing what was left. A little leak in a water heater suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

Official Press Release:

March 9, 2016

PRESS RELEASE OF DECLARATION OF STATE OF EMERGENCY

City of Kilgore Mayor R.E. Spradlin has declared a State of Emergency in response to a severe weather event. This major event has caused widespread flooding, rescue situations, and the displacement of homeowners. The City is requiring mandatory evacuations of homeowners and businesses that have experienced flooding and requesting evacuations of homes that are near the flooded area. Another round of severe weather is expected to come through Kilgore in the early afternoon hours. Displaced homeowners are recommended to relocate to shelters or hotels at this time. Check City of Kilgore website or Facebook page for information regarding shelter locations

With the rain came some very severe storms. Since we have satellite TV and internet it was hard to keep up with all the warnings. It got harder when two of the TVs zapped out. It might have something to do with the large parts of various trees which fell in the yard. Now we have to replace the TVs, which should be easy, but not when you can’t remember which wires go where in our (dis)connected world. We’ll get them back up and running soon. I really don’t miss all the political news hoo-haa anyway.

Meanwhile there has been little to no movement on medical issues I hoped to take care of while off school. I keep going to Tyler for bloodwork and more bloodwork. Seems to be a vampire convention in town. But the MRI folks must be at a different event. They call me up then call me off when I get there. For more bloodwork. If things don’t get resolved soon the diagnosis may very well be anemia.

So I’m calling for a Convention of Schools to declare a spring break do-over. We all need it. The kids need sunshine. The teachers need some dry relaxation (or wet relaxation if it’s in a glass). Me? I need time to learn two new remote controls.

Things I Have Learned Since Moving From the Suburbs To the Country

1. Chickens can drown. I learned that in my first staff meeting.
2. If you see a brown dog running down the road it’s probably a deer, not a dog. Dogs don’t run in front of your car nearly as often as deer.
3. Apparently there is a time warp in the country. People show up, or don’t, for appointments when they are darn good and ready. This is not supposed to annoy you.
4. It’s acceptable to have goats live in the house. And to ride in cars. But not drive. I've only seen them ride shotgun.
5. There really are places in the U.S. that don’t have internet, or it’s limited access. This is NOT cool!
6. Small towns sometimes have big events downtown in the evenings but all the stores will close. I guess the business people want to go to the events too.
7. You can get a pretty good steak dinner at a gas station.
8. Alligators can appear in stream fed ponds. At least the camp director says so. But he also tells the kids there is an Octopus in the camp pond.
9. There is NOT really a Starbucks on every corner, everywhere.
10. Beer is legal tender for gratuities and can have an effect on #3, above, when left in plain view on the kitchen counter.
11. Walmarts are weird, no matter where they are.
12. When goats get loose from their pasture they will head straight for the nearest asphalt surface and try to start a gang fight with cars. Maybe they do want to drive after all.
13. There are many roadside truck stands selling veggies, but sometimes, if you look behind the pickup trucks, you can see the store boxes and bags.
14. People look at you as if you are strange when you wear a shark shirt. Even when it’s Shark Week.
15. Cowboy boots look good with lots of shiny bling. But only on cowgirls. Police will arrest cowboys when they try that.
16. Kids in rural areas are just as smart as suburban kids. In fact, when the zombies come I’d rather be where people know how to use a pitchfork because unless you drop the entire works of Shakespeare on a zombie you’re done for.

Born Again, and Again

I won’t regale you with all the events of my physical birth some *cough* years ago. It’s enough to know it was an election day in Kentucky, with a rare white out blizzard, and I was born backwards with no eyebrows. That should have told any and everyone that my life was not going to be normal.

There’s no need for much detail about when I was born again as a Christian during my junior high school years. This was in spite of the issues I had with the Church of Christ and how the church teachers often had to go talk to my father about the questions I would ask in Sunday School. I have now reverted to the faith of my forefathers (two generations back) and become Methodist. So has my sister. Neither of us is normal.

But the third birth, let’s call it a birth by government, was the roughest of all. It wouldn't have been necessary at all if they hadn't killed me back in 1984. I didn't even know I was dead for 16 years. This birth is the story I will tell today.

In the spring of 2000 I was doing home party shows in Tennessee for a rubber stamp business. I wanted to keep proceeds separate from the family accounts (so I could spend everything I made and buy more rubber stamps), and I went to the local bank to see about getting a little checking account for my very own.

They knew me at the bank and I filled out the paperwork with ease and light chatter. The account manager took the paperwork and went to set up the account. Twenty minutes later I was starting to realize that all was not well. People behind the teller counter kept looking at me oddly. Another 15 minutes and the manager came back, sat down, and said, “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’re dead.”

“”Scuse me??” I asked.

“You’re dead. You have been for 16 years now,” was the answer.

Okay, that’s not the usual reason people have looked at me strangely over the course of my life. It took me a few minutes to judge if she was kidding me or not. She wasn't kidding. I could tell by the look in her eyes that I should curb the impulse to say that I was a spy and my cover was blown, darn it. No, this looked serious.

She finally smiled a bit and told me the social security number was reporting back as a deceased person’s and I should probably begin by calling them, since I appeared to be breathing while sitting in the bank’s chair. OK, so I just needed to call the local office and have them fix a paperwork error. I could do that! How hard can it be?

Stupid question. REALLY hard, that’s how.

I called as soon as I got home and explained to the lady on the other line that I had tried to get a bank account but the SS number came back as me being deceased. She asked me if I was using my own SS number. Believe me, if I were going to steal someone else’s life it wouldn't be mine. I would go for someone much higher up the food chain.

Then she informed me that I had died 16 years ago, on March 16th, 1984. That’s when I realized that on that day, a Friday, I had gone to that very same SS office to officially change my name to Effler on my card. The next day, St. Patrick’s day, was my wedding day. 

I was so relieved! I explained that the person at SS that day must have mixed it up and killed me instead of marrying me! All they had to do was fix the notation! That’s when I found out just how hard this was going to be.

“We don’t make mistakes like that in the SS Administration,” she said. “You must have told them you were dead.”

I was stunned. “Do you hear yourself?” I asked. “Do you really think anyone would believe me if I said I was Mona Mason and I’m dead? Doesn't it make more sense to say I need to change my name because I’m getting married?”

Not to her, apparently. “Well, obviously, you didn't tell them who you were,” she retorted. “You must have told her you were the next of kin.”

“And why would I do that?” I asked.

“We don’t know why people do things like that,” she said. “We see all kinds of strange people in the SS office.”

Yeah, and I bet they all work there. Then she informed me that what I did was illegal and I could face criminal charges. At that, I asked her for the federal numbers to call because I realized I was working above her pay grade and IQ.

Stage two: a phone call to the higher ups didn't fare much better. They also started out by insisting they don’t make mistakes like that. But at least they didn't go as far as fitting me for an orange jump suit. I showed them where I had held two jobs, bought three houses, and given birth to two children while I was dead and SS didn't have any problems taking money out of my paychecks. I guess money is money, dead or alive, but you think they would have noticed it was strange to work from beyond the grave. Or maybe the government has more reach than we thought.

They told me to take all my paperwork, including my marriage license, down to the local office and have them fix it. Mind you, this is the same local office I had already talked with and who were about as helpful as a fish in a tutu. I took a friend with me just case I needed bail money.

Nothing got fixed. Many days, phone calls, and visits later I was informed it couldn't be fixed because they didn't have a dedicated government form for the resurrection. I guess it was that separation of church and state issue.

Meanwhile, the days went by. It was summer when my husband’s job sent us back to Texas. I had stayed behind to sell the house when the inevitable phone call came.

“Honey, can you talk to this nice lady? I’m at the bank trying to get an account and you’re still dead,” said my husband.

At least the lady was laughing when she took the phone. We had to use the same bank we were using in Tennessee since no one would allow a dead person banking privileges. The government would take dead money but not a bank.

We had a few more issues before I could get to Texas. Suffice it to say the Realtor was not happy when we asked if a death would show up on a title search. 

Finally, in late fall, I was able to get a document from Washington allowing me to live again. Our State Representative was very helpful after he had finished laughing. The SS office took an existing document and modified it to restore my life. They had seen no reason to make a new document specifically for rebirth since they assured me they had never needed one before and would never need one again. 

I was told I would need to contact all three major credit agencies and get them a copy in order to clear up my credit history. That took another year to work through, but, knock on wood, I have been free to live my life for a number of years now. I do have to wonder, however, what will happen with my Social Security account when I really do go on to the great beyond? I may just be permanently alive!

PS Over the years I have seen many a news story or blog post about others who have been caught in the same death predicament as I. You’d think the government would just give up and start photocopying the document they created for me. Otherwise, this may create the zombie apocalypse we've all been warned about.

Reindeer Games

A lot has changed over the past year. A new town, new home, new job… In all the realignment one thing has stayed constant: Christmas is my time for my faith, my family, my friends, and my belief that all non-movable surfaces should be decorated. Even some movable ones get the treatment too. Just ask the dogs and cat.

The new house has presented a bit of a challenge. It’s 1,000 sq. ft. smaller than the old one. There is no way 21 trees (personal best) will fit in this place. Also, we’re now empty nesters and the children refuse to linger much past Thanksgiving because they know I've been itching to pull out the multitude of boxes from the attic and get going. So, I've been forced by space and time to pull out only my favorite things.

I thought I could make it with only one tree. Sometimes I crack myself up. Current count is three, with about a 60% chance of a fourth. Depends on if I can find all the lights and ornaments. You see, when we moved in last spring the plan was to neatly organize the attic as the moving boxes went in the house. That scheme lasted less than an hour. Movers don’t want to stick around while the wife thinks about what goes where. And they sure don’t want to be there when you find out they shoved three rooms of stuff into four very large boxes. So into the attic it all went, wherever it could be crammed.

Leading us to the day after Thanksgiving. I wanted to make surgical strikes, pulling out only what I wanted to use. Hubby wanted to drag it all out and reorganize the way we had originally planned. He had an ulterior motive. We are having a shed built to house his yard equipment, his tools, and his hobby stuff. See the pattern? It was also supposed to house some of the boxes our daughter has left in our care while she is in Japan. Apparently, they don’t fit the pattern of “his” stuff and he figured if he could get them into the attic, he could get a third “man” room of the house. He won, but as a result we have not finished decorating.

I also have to return eight boxes of lights to three different stores this week. For some reason the lights for all the trees were well hidden among the attic boxes. We bought two new light sets using coupons at one hobby store. Then went to a second store and bought two more. Did you know that there are two different colors of “clear” LED lights? Ours didn't match. So I went to a department store and looked for boxes to match at least part of what we already had purchased. I found out that store’s lights were half the price of the other two stores! So I bought four boxes and figured I would return the first two purchases. Of course, later that afternoon, I opened, quite literally, the LAST box marked Christmas in the attic and there were the missing lights! Now ALL the new sets can be taken back.

Meanwhile, I've managed to find space for parts of my Santa collection, my snowman collection, my Nativities, my blown glass ornaments, my childhood ornament collection, and my Christmas dish sets. With every piece I've pulled from a box and unwrapped I remember when I first saw them. So many of them were gifts from friends through the years or a comment on something in my life. They are more than just objects. They are pieces from my childhood, from loved ones now gone, from parties, from vacations, from my children’s milestones, from past students. And I can tell you about each and every one of them. Even the dog’s tacky Christmas sweaters.

Breaking Bad, Bad, Bad

    I’ve been in the small East Texas town where my husband and I will make our new home for about two weeks now. His new job took him here, and despite a down economy, I was able to find a brand new teaching position! I have been happily looking forward to new challenges in the world of 5th grade. Little did I know just how challenging it would be.
    Last Monday was the first day back for teachers. No matter which district you’re in, it seems like it always begins with hours of training. Despite my usual loathing of rears-in-seats-meetings, I was feeling pretty chipper. I had chatted with a fellow attendee as I sought to find my way in the mostly unfamiliar high school, discovering he was a very friendly school board member. Thank goodness I had mentioned how happy I was to be there!
    Doughnuts and coffee were being served in the hallway with convocation to follow in the auditorium. I snagged a bottle of water and followed the crowd through a door. Once on the other side, I found we were backstage. Continuing to walk, I finally spotted another doorway, and a glimpse of seats. Remembering that my principal said we would be gathering in the balcony, I looked up just as I hit the doorway. That’s pretty much the last thing I remember until I found myself sitting on the second row of the auditorium..
    What I had not seen due to the crowd around me and my failure to look down instead of up, was one little concrete step. Just about six inches worth of trouble. Apparently, my left foot had rolled off the edge, followed quickly by my right foot as I tried to stable myself. I had been on the floor until the gracious people in the room helped me to a very close seat. I had just face planted in front of nearly every co-worker I could have in the district. What an entrance!
    As I tried to figure out what to do, I looked down at my feet. The right ankle hurt, but didn’t look too bad. But oh my, the left ankle! I was wondering when someone had been able to implant a golf ball into my foot. You’d think I would have noticed that? Oddly, it didn’t hurt as much as the other foot did.
    About that time people were gathering around asking me if I was all right. I started to open my mouth to ask who put the ball in my foot when I realized I was about to hurl. So all I could do was nod my head. Now, I knew I was not all right, but explaining anything wasn’t going to happen right then. I did take notice of a large trash can by the stage and began to analyze whether or not I could stand up and fall across it if I did indeed begin to upchuck. Thankfully, I never had to find out.
    As the nausea cleared I started to look for my principal. I gingerly reached for my phone in my purse on the floor beside me, but dropped my glasses when I tried to get them too. As I squinted at my contacts list I tried to text my boss, but to no avail. Understand, I don’t know many people here. Remember, I’ve only been here two weeks. I had limited options on friends at my disposal and really, really didn’t want to embarrass myself any more to the strangers around me. Well, that didn’t last.
    I tried my teammate when I was able to find her number, but she had her phone muted for the meetings and her mailbox was full. I thought I had one other teacher’s phone number and dialed it, just in time to see my principal walk through the door! I hurriedly told the person on the phone line thanks, but I just found him, then yelled (quietly) for my boss to come over.
    He took one look and went to find the school nurse. She’s a really nice lady and I wish I could have met her under better circumstances. She told me I had to have my feet x-rayed. She asked if it was okay for her to drive me, using the school’s wheelchair to get me to her car. I said sure, BUT I told her I was utterly humiliated and wanted to wait until convocation was over and workshops had started so I could creep out unseen. She agreed, and I spent the next 45 minutes focusing on the problems I was going to have finishing my classroom and getting ready to teach next week. How was I going to get to the meetings if I couldn’t drive? Even if my DH dropped me off each day, how would I get around? What about my bulletin boards! What if my room doesn’t get made as CUTE as all the other rooms in the hall!?!
    Finally, the superintendent dismissed the audience to go to the workshops and I knew the nurse would be back for me soon. People were crowding all around, funneling out through the door in which I had made my grand entrance. I noticed a few others stumble on the step and LOTS of people calling out a warning to watch it. At least I wasn’t alone in my lack of grace.
    About then I heard, “‘Scuse me, pardon,” and a man pushed his way to me with a wheelchair. Lots of people stopped and stared. They must have been the ones who were still in the doughnut line when I plopped. I quickly explained to the man with the chair that we needed to wait until everyone had left before trying to get out. The nurse, my principal, and a couple of people who had helped me in the beginning stuck around to make sure I was going to be okay. So there were a lot of tall people surrounding me as I sat and waited. That was when the police showed up.
    There had been a brief greeting from the three nice officers during the general meeting, and as they waited for it to end, they noticed there was a problem down front. That would be me. They came down to help me into the chair, and since they were probably the ones in the best shape in the room, decided to take on the task of wheeling me to the car. So now, all the rest of the audience watched as three officers manhandled a strange woman with no shoes on into a chair and carted her out of the room. No rumors will get started from that, right?
    Off I went with my new nurse friend to the first round of doctors of the day. Now, how to tell my husband? I knew better than to call and tell him I had fallen and couldn’t get up. That was not going to work. He would’ve just laughed. I got him on the phone so he could hear I was fine, but that he needed to meet us at the emergency room.
    After a few x-rays and a boot and bandage fitting, he drove me “home.” (Home is a relative term for right now, but that’s another story.) This was the result:

A broken foot and two, not one, but TWO sprained ankles. We used a desk chair to get me to my room. I had a prescription for a wheelchair but didn’t have a clue where to go get one. It was really starting to dawn on me now just how hard this week was going to be.
    A couple of hours later I had a call from HR to go to a second set of doctors. Oh, did I not mention that this would be a worker’s comp type of thing? I know nothing about WC. But I do know it’s a lot of paperwork that started before I left the building. At least the head of HR is nice when a new hire manages to cripple herself ten minutes into a new job.
    At the second doctor visit they confirmed what the first doctors said: broken, sprain, sprain. And they gave me an even bigger boot. I can assure you that neither boot will be in the Manolo Blahnik collection this fall. Unless velcro becomes a fashion statement.
    Back home, the wonderful school nurse brought me the school wheelchair. One of my fellow teachers called to help and drove my car home so it didn’t have to stay at the high school parking lot. My principal, the HR lady, my teammate, and several other teachers I have not had the privilege of meeting yet also called to check on me. Most of them didn’t even laugh at my predicament.
    In a strange but true sidebar to the story, I received a phone call while waiting on the second set of x-rays to be read. It was a nearby school district I had applied to last spring, asking me if I had found a job or if I would still like to work for them. Briefly, very briefly, I wondered if my current district might want rid of me after the stellar opening day I had. But I remembered all the nice people I had met that day, all over the city. I left wonderful friends behind when we moved and that upset me a lot. I realized that I had found new friends here in this little town. I think I’m really going to like it here. Once I can walk, anyway. Besides, what is that song about wanting to be, “Where everybody knows your name?” I think everyone learned it pretty quick this week.

Addendum: Oh yeah, the phone call I hung up on when I found my principal? I received a phone call that evening from an old friend I’ve known since elementary school. I don’t see her often, but we have touched base a couple of times since high school graduation. She asked why I called her early that morning and hung up. Seems she has the same last name as the teacher I was trying to reach. It sure looked right when I hit that call button. I really should be tethered to my reading glasses.

    
   

Mammary Madness

 *Note: Highly feminine topic. Not the type of boob-reading most men would like. Or understand.
     I don’t think much about bras. In fact, I try not to think about anything around boobs at all. Just like I don’t think much about my knees. But after an unfortunate comment I made in the presence of a very good friend about my clothes not fitting well and how I hated to shop anymore, I found myself out on a supervised shopping trip, looking for a perfectly fitted bra.
     Fifty plus years old and I have never been “fitted” for a bra. I didn’t even realize they came with expert opinions and directions. My whole tactic was just to go to the nearest department store, try on a couple of number sizes until the band could be hooked, and buy the largest letter size they had. Simple.
     The problem is that I had no idea uniboobs were not in fashion. Hence the reason for clothes not fitting well. I was short a boob and a waist!
My friend set us up with fittings at Nordstroms. Unfortunately, the resident measurer that day was tall, thin, probably an A or B, and maybe all of 12 years old. Okay, not 12, or they wouldn’t have let her work there. But it was quickly clear that she could not feel my pain over a properly fitting bra. She announced I was about 6 cup sizes larger than what anyone sold in a regular store! But even armed with that knowledge there was nothing in Nordstroms I could wear.
     Do you have any idea how much area cups that size cover? I may need those cups, but the problem is that I’m actually a tiny skeleton covered in a lifetime of meat, potatoes, butter, and brownie pie. When the bra makers create a bra with a mid-alphabet cup size they assume the person going to wear it is 6 foot 11, and about 3 feet across. I’m 5 foot 2, and narrow. Very, very round, but narrow.
Put a large cup bra on me and it goes from clavicle to waist. Underwires poke into my armpits and prevent me from putting my arms to my sides. The straps land somewhere between my shoulders and my elbows. Not a flattering image, huh? Not comfortable, either.
     Trying again on another day we headed to a shop in Dallas which specializes in bras of all kinds and will alter them if needed. My long-suffering friend even drove me there, knowing I won’t drive south of 635. But she was interested in seeing if there might be some items for her too, so off we went.
     Once there, a very nice lady took us into a private area and began the process of measuring and interpreting a proper size for me. Oh happy day! I wasn’t 6 sizes larger than I thought. I was only 3 sizes larger. I know, that wouldn’t have been such happy news if I hadn’t spent a week thinking I was twice the size. I feel like I lost a lot of weight this way! Just let me have my delusions.
     The sales lady began to bring in some very nice bras, but the same thing happened just like at Nordstroms. The bras were for much taller women. After two hours, about 50 bras, two sales clerks, and one seamstress, I had no hope. They were all frustrated, I was depressed. I finally asked to see some sports bras in the newly measured size so that I would at least have something which fit right.
Lo and behold, they fit and were comfortable! They aren’t perfect, but for whatever reason they don’t poke, prod, or consolidate boobs. They are a little too high across the top, but cleavage has never been my thing anyway. Highly overrated if you’re on the back side of it. I bought one in each color and went away happily.
     What I discovered after a little digital research is that I should be looking for some petite plus bras. It sounds like an oxymoron, but it makes sense. Not all large breasted women are big-boned. Some of us need extra support in a smaller square foot area. When I recover from this episode, I plan to order some of the petites and check them out.
     My friend was not so lucky. I guess I wore the store out so bad they never did show her any of the convertible bras she was hoping to find. I think I owe her another shopping trip. I hope it’s shoes this time.

So When Do We Get a Gift?

     What scares me the most in the current economic climate is not the lack of teaching materials, not the loss of classroom space, not even the constant anxiety of whether or not I will have a job next year. What scares me is how when times get tough and powers that be start looking at cuts, first on the chopping block in many states seems to focus on either cutting education for gifted children or modifying it to uselessness. I have taught that demographic for a decade, raised two g/t darlings of my own for 2 1/2 decades, and walked the gifted walk myself for five plus decades (never mind how many pluses go with that.) These children are very close to my heart and mind and I am unapologetically passionate about them.

     Over the years I have watched services ebb and flow for gifted children depending on the political climate.  Right now, the climate is not a friendly one across this country for those at the top of the academic ladder. I hear administrators and education pundits push for a new age in learning where each child is addressed as an individual. Apparently, that idea of individuality works unless you are one of those who have long ago mastered the minimum skills sanctioned by those who decide on curriculum. Advanced thinkers such as Sir Ken Robinson (http://sirkenrobinson.com/skr/who) push for educational individuality and more fostering of creativity in our students. He isn't speaking about just gifted students, or just average students, or just those students with learning difficulties, he means all of them. You hear the same message from Daniel Pink (http://www.danpink.com/), George Lucas (http://www.edutopia.org/), Sylvia Rimm (http://www.sylviarimm.com/), and many more. But by the time the message sinks down to the local school level, the quest for individuality is watered down and interest is directed only toward those the school districts fear will lower their public rankings.

     I live in a state where education of those identified as above the norm is mandated. But the definition is left deliberately vague, and both identification methods and appropriate services are ideas left twisting in the wind. Identification can range from testing by licensed professionals all the way to a teacher who needs to get a child out of her hair for a little while each week. Services can range from a magnet school all the way to sitting in the back of the regular classroom writing an extra report to keep a child busy. Oversight of services for those in need of gifted services is spotty at best and left to school boards who may or may not understand the needs of all students in their district.

     Perhaps the biggest problem is that any attempts to define "gifted" leave much to be desired. Is it a physical condition? Is it environmental or genetic? Is it learned? Does it change over time? And one of the biggest questions...how can I get it if I don't already have it? That question alone is what makes it one of the most misunderstood educational labels of all time.

     There are advances in cognitive science which are making some headway into understanding what make the gifted different from the norm (NIMH, http://www.nimh.nih.gov/science-news/2006/cortex-matures-faster-in-youth-with-highest-iq.shtml, Rubinstein, http://www.edutopia.org/multiple-intelligences-brain-research, just for two). We're still a long way from having a good answer to most of the questions about how humans learn, but we do know we don't all learn the same way.

     What I can tell you is from my in-the-pit-hands-on-living-it-everyday perspective: gifted children ARE very different from the mainstream students teachers see in their classrooms on a daily basis. And services, curriculum, and expectations MUST differ for these students. If you can go into a mixed ability classroom and teach a divergent-thinking lesson to everyone that's wonderful and should be done everyday by the general classroom teacher. But bear in mind it does NOT meet the specific needs of the gifted population within that room. If instruction is understandable for all, at the same pace, and takes all learners to the exact same conclusion, it is not differentiated for anyone. Inclusion in regular classrooms may be wonderful for some children who very much need the social skills and acceptability those classes can provide. But the regular classroom is the most restrictive environment a gifted student faces in their educational career.  Its focus is on a level far below what they can achieve. Pull out programs are better than inclusion but not as good as a magnet program. Gifted students are different 24/7, not just for a few hours a day. But even magnets can boil down to simple acceleration at times and are still not the epitome for the gifted.     

     The individuality of the type of school paradigms pushed by pundits is a great fit for those identified as gifted. Being able to move through curriculum freely, without being locked down by a "manufacturing date" (Robinson, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDZFcDGpL4U&feature=share), having an understanding of asynchronous development (Tolan, http://www.stephanietolan.com/gt_as_asynch.htm), and allowing students to collaborate with whomever they need to, whenever they need to (NAGC, http://www.nagc.org/index.aspx?id=162 and Tinzmann, http://www.arp.sprnet.org/admin/supt/collab2.htm) are concepts which have been endorsed as best practices for the gifted for many years. It's no surprise this type of differentiation would also benefit all learners. We should not, however, walk back these practices at the gifted level as we strive to pull forward all other learners. It's counterproductive.

     For now, we need to recognize that being identified gifted means a child has needs not able to be met in a current general education classroom with the regular curriculum. They are a special needs population and need educators highly specialized in understanding and addressing their needs. If the needs can be addressed within the mainstream then the label of gifted is just that...a label, not a learning issue. Just as schools and classrooms differ across districts, states, and especially countries, the needs of students within those classrooms will also widely differ. And it explains why only one definition of giftedness doesn't always fit in our mobile society.

     My school district is beginning a ground breaking summit process this week which promises to listen to and address community concerns and expectations. As we and many other school districts work to transform education into a 21st century model we must focus on the differences in our students and include those differing abilities they bring to the table. Talking about looking at the individual child while thinking of only the ones who fit a neat little pre-determined box of "individuality" is no better than what we have now.

     I've never been fond of the term gifted. Not my students, children, nor I have ever been given anything. But if you're out shopping, what we really want is an abilities-appropriate education.
*Addendum 9/20- new very interesting study: http://www.edweek.org/ew/articles/2011/09/20/05gifted.h31.html?tkn=SSNF3NjKOeqLBnXZsTgaiy4hGyOTdXytDhAI&cmp=clp-edweek