DOD Students Excel
January 29, 2012
It isn’t very often that The Virginian-Pilot’s Op Ed page brings on peals of laughter at my breakfast table. But ever since Daniel Golden’s article delineating the high level of success in Department of Defense schools appeared in the Wall Street Journal, there have been some very odd ideas expressed on the last page of the Hampton Roads section of this paper. As distinguished national columnists such as William Raspberry of the The Washington Post and Anthony Lewis of the New York Times try to explain to the American public how this could possibly happen, they reveal how very little they know about the military lifestyle.
For example, Mr. Raspberry, who usually writes intelligent, well-informed columns on the state of public education in this country, feels that one area where the Department of Defense schools succeed where the nonmilitary counterparts fail is due to the “presence of parents, particularly fathers.” Now that’s funny. When I needed two hands to count how many deployments my husband had made, I stopped counting. This was due to that fact that I was so busy being Mom and Dad that I never had two hands free at the same time to count. Does Mr. Raspberry even know what a deployment is? What a geographic bachelor is? Or better yet, does he know what a “one-year unaccompanied” is? The “presence of parents, particularly fathers” – POPPYCOCK!
Mr. Lewis has this idea that the success of Department of Defense schools is because “the gap between high and low incomes is less stark among military personnel, and less distorting than in our civilian society.” Let’s take a closer look at this idea. A Petty Officer 2nd class with ten years of active duty makes about twenty-two thousand a year, and a Lieutenant with ten years of active duty makes a little more than twice that. They could both have a daughter in Ms. Smith’s third grade class in the DOD school in Rota, Spain. Each of those little girls knows that based on her active duty parent’s rank, not only is her allowance determined, but also the size and location of the house to which her family was assigned upon arrival in Rota. There are beaches where the officer’s family goes on Sunday afternoons, and there are other beaches where the enlisted family goes on Sunday afternoons. There are even specified parking places at the grocery store for the officer’s wives. There is nothing more stark and distorting to the civilian world than the military system of rank. By the way, it is also a difficult concept for third graders.
But the test scores show that this does not seem to adversely affect their ability to read and write. Roy Truby, who is the executive director of the board that administers the National Assessment Test, feels that this report “debunks the notion that demography is destiny.” So what does mark the destiny of these military dependent third graders at DOD schools? Obviously, I do not agree with Mr. Raspberry’s emphasis on the presence of fathers, nor do I agree with Mr. Lewis’ idea that the success is due to a less stark and distorting gap between an O6 and an E1. Furthermore, given that the military community is a reflection of American society, the performance of these children cannot rest with more caring parents, better prepared teachers, or brighter students. Ms. Smith in Rota, Spain has the same challenges as Ms. Smith in the local public school. In searching for the differences between the two student bodies, each columnist has failed to understand one basic feature. Of the 224 DOD schools, 153 are overseas. I would argue, therefore, that this study debunks demography for geography.
For the most part, these children who have scored so well on National Assessment Tests spent a total of three years of the K – 12 experience in DOD schools. The rest of their education took place back here the good old USA, and most probably in the local public school system. However, these children return with one great advantage. For those three years, they lived in another country, be it Spain, Japan, Korea, or Panama. In doing that, they have not only seen another culture but they have experienced it deeply. So have their parents. In fact, they had this life-changing experience together, as a family, and it has changed them forever.
A list of the possible changes is too long for the limits of this column, but I think most who have lived overseas would agree with this summation of the experience. One returns from an extended stay overseas with a deep appreciation for the quality of life – an appreciation which overrides quantity of life time and time again. With this lesson in hand, returning to the USA opens up so many vistas of opportunity to this family of sojourners – education being one of the most obvious. This is why these children continue to perform so well in life, long after 80% of them have graduated from college.
Are You Somebody?
January 15, 2012
In bed-and-breakfasts across Ireland, Nuala O’Faolain would meet women who ” throw sugar on the fire, to get it to light, and wipe surfaces with an old rag that smells, and they are forever sending children to the shops.” Then they would turn and question O’Faolain: “And did you never want to get married yourself?” For any one who has stayed in those same bed-and-breakfasts and has the desire to move from the guest’s sitting room into the family’s kitchen, O’Faolains‘ memoir Are You Somebody? is just the ticket.
Yes, it is a sad story. Born the second of nine neglected children to an alcoholic mother and a philandering father, Nuala’s refuge was the word. In fact, when she was asked to list the most important events of her life, being born came up as number one, and learning to read was number two. She read her way through a scholarship to University College, Dublin, followed by another scholarship in Medieval English at the University of Hull in England, followed by another which took her to Oxford. Along the way, Nuala rubs elbows with Philip Larkin, John Berger, Kingsley Amis, Seamus Heaney, J.B. Preistley, among others. You may be wondering where the sad comes in.
Nuala O’Faolain is a woman who came of age in the early 60′s in Ireland. Caught between the emerging woman’s movement and a country that outlawed divorce, Nuala struggled. After spending the night with her lover at one ill-reputed boardinghouse in the suburbs of Dublin, a carload of Catholic vigilantes crawled beside her as she walked towards the bus stop. Irish girls just didn’t do this sort of thing. Nuala did it a lot. In fact, at times she comes across as the Irish version of Moll Flanders. Until she paused to write an introduction to a collection of her columns from the Irish Times, Nuala had never stood back and taken a good look at herself. The Irish Times readers knew her as an opinion columnist with a confident voice; daughter of a well-known Irish journalist, Terry O’Sullivan. However, Nuala realizes “My private life was solitary. My private voice was apologetic…I had no lover, no child.”
In her memoir she comes to terms with her private life and her apologetic voice.
This book is not a sentimental portrayal of an Irish woman. It is not rich in the Irish English idiom, as we get from the likes of Frank McCourt. Are You Somebody will not will not make you run to your travel agent and purchase a one-way ticket to Dublin. However, in the reading of this book you come to know her and her Ireland, which in the end, she holds very close to her heart.
She closes her memoir walking the Burren, a lonely stretch of land in the west of Ireland, alone on Christmas Day. She never explains why she is there alone on that day of all days. Nuala O’Faolain does not have to. If you read this heartfelt memoir, you will understand her solitary soul, and you will walk with her.
Brian Boland
January 11, 2012
In 1994, I stood with my oldest son, Brian, on a piece of land called Deer Point in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. We were both looking through binoculars at the same thing; United States Coast Guard cutters bringing in thousands of Cuban refugees whom the Coasties had rescued from the waters between Cuba and Florida to a safe haven at Guantanomo Bay. For very selfish reasons, as I watched I wished them all to be returned to Havana. Their presence in Gitmo meant my boys and I would have to leave and my husband would have to stay, keeping us apart for one year. This is what I saw, but Brian saw something else. Nine years later he graduated from the United States Coast Guard Academy, and he now flies the C 130 out of Clearwater, Florida…..often looking for refugees in the waters between Cuba and Florida.
F 128
January 7, 2012
The first time I was in F 128 was the day that I interviewed for my job. After the committee had asked me a set of 20 questions in a conference room, we moved to this classroom where I was to give a teaching demonstration. I had to pretend that the committee were ESL students, to whom I was to teach a lesson on thought pauses, one aspect of English pronunciation taught to ESL students. I remember liking the room that day because as I stood in the front of the class facing the “students “, behind them was a row of floor to ceiling rectangular windows that faced a large stretch of green grass and picnic tables scattered under several towering shade trees.
I have grown to love this classroom, having taught at least one class every semester in F 128. Sometimes, but not very often, I am in there alone. All the students have left after a class and I am putting my textbook and notes into my briefcase. Before I walk out the door, I take a long look at the empty desks and I remember students who have sat at those desks. I remember the blackboard covered with my handwriting, teaching them one thing or another. I remember their laughter, I remember their problems, their sadness. I remember students who always sat together, inseparable friends. I remember the romances between students, resentments between students, the look on their faces when they passed a test they thought they had failed, and vice versa. I remember the young man who always fell asleep in that last desk in the first row. He was a cab driver… all night, every night.
From time to time I try to explain to an acquaintance about my students. I have learned over the years that it is difficult for someone who is not in my field to understand these students whom I have come to love and cherish. Over the years, I have written several stories about them in further attempts to explain them to others and, at times, to myself, if truth be told. However, I have never felt I did them justice.
Recently, in an advanced reading class which met in F 128, my students read a short story written by a man who was raised as a migrant worker, with his family moving from farm to farm, and the memories of both the good and the bad of this experience which in retrospect he cherished. The author was especially fond of the one cooking pot his mother had to feed her large family, explaining it in great detail to his readers. After reading this story, and discussing it in class, the students were asked to write a paragraph about an item that they remembered from their childhood or a memory from their childhood that they feel shaped them into who they are today.
Any teacher will tell you that the same assignment given to two classes will yield two very different results. This assignment with this class yielded wondrous results. After reading and rereading what my students had written, I realized why all my attempts to explain them was in vain. Here, in these short stories, they had done it themselves in their own words. My intent in sharing them with you is that in reading their stories, they can touch your life as they have mine over the years in F 128.
My family and I have kept a video tape player for 17 years. My father bought it brand new. Since then, we have collected all the Disney VHS tapes, movies of all kind and even our own life in tape. Thirteen years ago, my family and I moved to Montreal. We took about ten suitcases, some bags and a box with the VHS. Three years after, we moved back to Venezuela. We took back our VHS to show family back home how was Canada. Our family did not have a VHS, so it was really helpful for us to have one. When we were there the video player started to have problems with the recording and also each time the tape was playing the player burned the plastic inside the tape. My sisters and I felt sad knowing that the VHS was not working well and that we would not probably see more movies or record any movies ever again. My father knew that we loved it and he decided to send it to a friend to fix it. I remember going with him. I felt so happy that we would finally have our VHS back to enjoy more movies and memories. My father’s friend fixed it cheaply and taught him how to fix it incase it breaks down in the future. Three months passed, when we finally left Venezuela to United States and I remember carrying that same box with the VHS that have brought us many memories. Not too long ago, we start seeing DVD and Blue Ray, but for my family and I our VHS will always be the best.
Loida Dongarra Venezuela
When I see oranges it remains me of Christmas. I would get them only in December because it was the harvest time for this fruit in Southern Russia. Parents would stay in line a long time so they could buy some for their children. I do not know why but oranges were sold outside of the stores all time. The streets were covered with snow and oranges looked so shiny. This fruit was a part of Christmas presents and a symbol of celebration. The smell of oranges was everywhere and it reminded people about vacation. The day before Christmas parents let us open our presents. We ran out on the street and compared our oranges. Who had the biggest became queen or king of the street. I was queen all time because my uncle sent me oranges from Moscow. Boys and girls never had been in my position because they had actually a mandarin that much smaller than orange. But I had a REAL ORANGE which was sent by my uncle who bought it in Greece. Only one time I had been beaten by a new girl but she brought a grapefruit. Later we discovered this fake, and we dethroned her from the queen position. We were allowed to eat our oranges, but we had to return the skin to our mothers. They dried the skin and used it for cooking some cakes. I live in America now, but I give my neighbor’s children oranges each year making their parents confused. I just explain that it is a Ukrainian tradition and the parents smile and I am happy.
PS Mrs. Boland If it ever snows in Virginia, put oranges on snow, it will look amazing.
Natalya Robinson Ukraine
One of the most memorable memories that I have from my childhood is when in my country, the Dominican Republic, we would have blackouts. Most nights all you would see were the stars and the moon. All of the children from the neighborhood would come out from their houses and gather up in the park that was across the street from my house. We would tell stories and riddles. We would laugh so hard that our stomachs would hurt. We would also light a fire and keep ourselves warm. Some of the older children would scare the smaller ones saying myths like the “chupra cabra’ would eat us if we misbehaved. I was part of the smaller children and that was scary when they would say that. We also had times when we would all gather and play hide and seek. Around Christmas time when everyone was asleep one family would wake up and take their instruments and go from one house to another singing Christmas songs and playing their instruments. They would stay there in front of your house until you came out or until you turned on the lights. Then you would join the group until everyone gathered together. We would go to the park in front of my house and light a camp fire and make ginger tea. We would stay there till morning and then from there we would go to church. I really miss those moments from my childhood.
Roxanny Monegro Dominican Republic
My childhood was not bad, but it was not great either. Both my mother and father worked, and they made just a little money. My family lived in the city. The children went to school on weekdays. They did not need to work for money. Also, there weren’t jobs for the children. So we helped our parents doing the housework at home. There were six people in my family. Because I was taller and stronger then my older sister, my parents assigned me to work on the yard all the time. It was easy in the summer, but it was very hard in the winter because the temperature reached -15C at daytime. We used coal and wood for heat. Every weekend I had to make the wood and coal from big pieces into small pieces so it could be fitted in the firepot. I wore a very long winter coat, thick gloves, a hat, a scarf, and a pair of big boots while I was working. After an hour, my feet were numb, but my body was already sweating. We had about twenty chickens. We sold eggs for a little extra money for our family. It was my job to go to a very far place to buy chicken food. I used a sledge to carry the food home. It was not easy for a twelve year old girl. We couldn’t have eggs every day. So two eggs would be my reward for the hard work.
Zhe Wang China
I am the last child of my parents. My dad was a farmer. When I grew up my older brothers had got a job and they were moved to the city. In our culture men work outdoors jobs only. After my eight years birthday I started working outside to hold the cattle. We had a lot of cows, ox, sheep, goats, donkeys, and horses. I was responsible to protect them to wild animals like hyenas and fox. It was very dangerous especially nighttime. After my ages of ten, I started working the farm with my dad and his employee. Farm work can be very hard hours and long, often sunrise to sunset. I rarely had a day off. For all the the workdays I went to the farm early, my lunch and my book bag was with me because I went to school straight from the farm. I washed my hands and foot on my way with running water. There was no transportation from my village to the school. I walked one hour and half every day. I slept in class and I felt so tired at the time. Most of the time Sunday I washed my clothes in the river. My family they don’t know about homework and assignments. Sometimes it was hard to explain for them. I always woke up early with my mom’s hand clapping sound and I always remember that was the time to breakfast. I miss it.
Dawit Habtemariam Morrocco
When I see a chocolate which is shaped like an egg it reminds me of my childhood. The egg chocolate was little treats from my father. A little toy was inside the chocolates, and I used to collect the toys for treasure. My father was a very busy man. He used to come home from work after I went to sleep, and he left the house before I woke up. So, I did not have a chance to see him on weekdays. However, I did not miss him not much because every night he putted the chocolate on my bedside when he came home. When I woke up every morning, he was gone, but I received treats from him told “Good Morning”. My mother told me “Your father loves you very much, and if you are a good girl, he will give you a treat.” I always tried to be a good girl because I wanted to show my father how much I love him too. I also anticipated receiving the treats from him. When I was a child, I don’t have much memory of him, but I felt much of my father’s love because of the chocolates.
Sachiyo Browning Japan
I have an unforgettable memory that occurred when I was 7 years old. My hometown is a snowy area. However, that year was an extremely heavy snow. It was Tuesday or Wednesday in January. I went to school as usual. Because many snow tracks worked to remove the snow, the road was clean. However, I noticed that snow did not stop at all while I was taking the morning classes. At the lunchtime, the teacher informed that the afternoon class was cancelled. Therefore, I left the school. First I walked with 100 students. I was still comfortable although bad weather. After walked 30 minutes, half of students had already reached their home. When I reached my village, only several students were with me. Then I reached quarter miles from my home, but I was alone. I became fear because I could not see any footprints on the road. I attempted to walk several steps, but the snow was higher than my waist, and I stopped the snowstorm. I cried aloud, but no one through the road. However, the old woman who lived near the road noticed me. Then she invited me in the warm room. While I was eating mandarin orange, the old woman called my home. Then my grandmother came to pick me up. After that, I walked again the snowy road with my grandmother. There were strong snowstorms, but I was comfortable because I was not alone. Even though it occurred a long time ago, I remember when I walk on the snowy road.
Yuki Takashima Japan
Coast Guard Cuts
January 4, 2012
Every morning I routinely open our front door and send the dog out to the end of the driveway to fetch the morning paper. I usually place the paper on the kitchen counter while I rummage under the sink to get a treat for the dog as a reward for her service. But on Friday, March 24th, the dog had to wait. The headline “Coast Guard to cut operations” had caught my eye through the plastic bag, and this woman’s best friend was not going to get her treat until I finished scanning the front page story to see what was going on. For several years I have read with great interest anything the Coast Guard is up to – ever since a young enlisted person did something which had a powerful impact on my life.
On August 31, 1994 the U.S Coast Guard Cutter Nantucket was cruising the Florida Straits in response to the Cuban Refugee Crisis.. If you were standing on the cutter’s deck that day, a crew member would have explained that all the rafts you saw floating in the water and the Cuban refugees sitting in them were still within the territorial waters of Cuba. Beyond the line of rafters the crew member could have pointed out not only the skyline of Havana but also a Cuban gunboat cruising within her own territorial waters.
Allan Weisbecker, a writer from New York and on board the Nantucket that day, could see that the Nantucket’s crew of sixteen was having a busy day. Once the ship spotted a raft which had made it to international waters, she pulled aside and boarded the refugees. Ten days earlier the Nantucket had been in the process of boarding refugees in heavy seas. The raft had capsized, and three crew members had jumped into the rough water, near the jagged edges of the capsized raft, and rescued the drowning people. In four months the Coast Guard and Navy had rescued 50,000 Cuban refugees.. The Nantucket’s crew alone had saved 1208 lives – young women holding infants, feeble, dehydrated old men, young men claiming to be political prisoners.
It was routine for the ship’s crew to dispose of the empty raft so that it would not become a hazard to navigation. Most of the rafts encountered were no more than an inner tube with some framing of odd pieces of lumber and were disposed of quite easily. However, this day the Nantucket came across a vessel structured of metal piping filled with foam. They knew that this one would be tough. Two crew members boarded her with pickaxes and set about their task. One of the crew members then saw a refugee rise from the collection of Cubans sitting on the deck of the Nantucket and exclaim, “She not sink, never!” The crew spent twenty minutes hacking away at the La NINA, the name inscribed on her stern. The craft would wallow, but it would not sink. The Captain finally ordered them to just set the vessel adrift. As the two Coast Guard crew members boarded the Nantucket, one made his way over to the Cuban who had spoken . He asked the Cuban if he built La NINA and as Weisbecker put it, the refugee fearfully nodded yes. The crew member then offered his hand in respect and admiration. The Cuban, having very little dignity left in his present situation, sat down, and unsuccessfully tried to hold back his tears.
This story has haunted me since I first read it in 1995. My husband and I were separated for a year due to the Cuban Refugee Crisis, and for a long time, I am ashamed to say, I had no sympathy for Cuban refugees. I knew this anger was wrong, and I worked on getting over it. I held onto that story about this crew member of the Nantucket as my own life raft of sorts. I knew that if he could show such empathy and compassion in the midst of yet one more of a long line of twenty-hour days working in the heat of a Florida Straits summer, then surely I could get over it.
His simple gesture speaks volumes for the unique culture of the United States Coast Guard. A simple gesture on our part, in return, would be to support the Coast Guard’s call for full funding, so that these dedicated people can continue to not only respond to all search and rescue calls but also to fully enforce fishing laws, prevent illegal aliens, keep drugs off of our streets – and set a much-needed example for selfish folks like me.
