Sunday, February 20, 2011

When Teachers Strike: A Memoir

From The American Thinker: By Beverly Gunn
In the early fall of 1980, our family was stationed at an Army Post named Ft. Huachuca, Arizona.  The town next to the base was Sierra Vista, Arizona.  The teachers of Sierra Vista schools became a testing ground for collective bargaining by the NEA, in one of their early excursions into union control vs taxpayers.  But a strange turn of events happened that fall that bear revisiting, since the strikes in Wisconsin center around collective bargaining, and as a consequence, local taxes.

In 1980, teachers at all the schools in the town of Sierra Vista decided to go on strike.  They were encouraged by the NEA to do so, since the NEA was powering up to unionize in other states and to try to control local issues usually decided by local tax districts and local taxpayers.  The teachers called the strike and schools closed, but the Mayor and Superintendent of schools in the town of Sierra Vista conferred with each other and agreed that collective bargaining would take away from local taxpayers the ability to control local taxes.  Collective bargaining may work in a private institutional setting, but when local taxes are involved, collective bargaining essentially means loss of local control, or taxation without representation. 

After the two men conferred, they called upon the Commander of Ft. Huachuca.  The men came with a simple idea and it was this: many officers worked at the post and many lived in town, so this was affecting their children who were missing school.  The men asked the Commander of the Fort if he would ask the officer's wives to commit to come in and cross the picket lines and keep the local schools open, for the betterment of the community.  The idea was a sound one because many officer wives held college degrees.  In fact so many volunteers stepped up to become a working substitute until the strike was over that there were enough to fill all the classrooms of the schools involved.

I was one of the volunteers.  I was a mother of three, the youngest being an eighteen month old.  I had a friend who offered to sit my children, but the Commander of the Base had also hired extra workers in the Post childcare facility to provide enough care for all those who went to teach.  What happened next was my introduction to the really ugly world of unions, picketing, and terrorizing brought at the hands of hired strike agitators from back East, who were brought on to agitate and to win the concessions. It became really ugly in the town of Sierra Vista for the next six weeks. 

We were not briefed about what to expect; instead, some of us met in living rooms of other wives who had seen NEA strikes, so they would be able to give us some idea of how ugly things can be.  The first day came, and innocently I drove to school with lesson plans, and a prayed up heart, because I knew that the children would have divided hearts and minds.  I arrived at my assigned school and parked, said a quick prayer, and stepped out into a line of protesters, agitators, teachers, and others who shouted hideous things and called us by name.  It seemed the union bosses had pretty good information channels themselves, as my friends teaching at other schools, encountered the same things at their schools.  I wouldn't have expected the picketers to know my name the first day I drove up to teach, but indeed they did.

I learned that the students were being coached outside school by their teachers to be disrespectful and uncooperative with the substitute teachers.  My students did not continue to hassle me past the first few days.  I let them know I meant business and they needed to learn.  They seemed to respect this and they told their teacher who was picketing, and after the first week, I believe she was sorry she ever went on strike.  I know the students reported to me that after the first week, when she saw what I was teaching and my effectiveness, she urged her students to cooperate with me and to get on with learning. 

The Electronic Civil War

I have been watching with growing anger, the protests by 'teachers' in Madison, Wisconsin. Andrew Breitbart sums it up:

The proglodytes can muster their supporters, bus them in, dress them all in royal purple, but at the end of the day, there is nothing so awesome and terrifying to them as the American taxpayer, roused from his comfortable slumber by the cold and relentless winter of the Prog's Whiny Disconnect.

You progs live by symbolism, you will die by reality. And no fake note from your doctor will save you.

God Bless the American people.

Behold the brazen stupidity of these 'doctors' passing out fake notes, who are certain of the justness of their cause. They believe that the taxpayers funding the goldbricks out on Teacher's Day of Hooky are in full support. The press ignores, but the guys with the little Flip Cameras and cellphones....they're the ones breaking the stories. You want to know what pisses off the press? It's that fact, right there.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Sad news from Egypt

When they think no one is looking, the neighbors come calling. Locked doors mean nothing to the evil neighbor that covets your very life.

And just found this out from The Muqata. Update: Beaten and Released.

One of my favorite blogs is The Rantings of a Sandmonkey. The blogger is unabashedly pro-Israel, pro-American, and conservative. AND he doesn't care what anyone thinks about it. His insights into the ordinary lives of Egyptians is marvelous reading and educational, as well. His website was the first to capture the post-Ramadan assault in 2008 on veiled, Muslim women by gangs of boys and men, who set out to celebrate the end of the holiday with rape sprees. It was sickening to watch, and many Egyptians felt the same, capturing the ordeal on their cell phones and sending the images around the world. If ever there was an example of the power of Twitter and blogs, Sandmonkey wielded the pen as sword with deadly accuracy.

As you can see from the link, his account has been suspended.  Here is the final entry from a cached page.

In case this too, disappears, here is the text in full:

Egypt, right now!

I don't know how to start writing this. I have been battling fatigue for not sleeping properly for the past 10 days, moving from one's friend house to another friend's house, almost never spending a night in my home, facing a very well funded and well organized ruthless regime that views me as nothing but an annoying bug that its time to squash will come. The situation here is bleak to say the least.

It didn't start out that way. On Tuesday Jan 25 it all started peacefully, and against all odds, we succeeded to gather hundreds of thousands and get them into Tahrir Square, despite being attacked by Anti-Riot Police who are using sticks, tear gas and rubber bullets against us. We managed to break all of their barricades and situated ourselves in Tahrir. The government responded by shutting down all cell communication in Tahrir square, a move which purpose was understood later when after midnight they went in with all of their might and attacked the protesters and evacuated the Square. The next day we were back at it again, and the day after. Then came Friday and we braved their communication blackout, their thugs, their tear gas and their bullets and we retook the square. We have been fighting to keep it ever since.

The Miracle of Stem Cells

My cousin Kelly wanted to make dinner for her 8th birthday. My Aunt wasn't home from work, yet, and Kelly wanted fried chicken. She'd seen her mother make it many times. But the problems she faced when desire met reality were threefold: She was short, only 8 years of age, and had never cooked before. But she hefted the iron skillet, turned the flame on, and put in the shortening to melt.

Kelly didn't understand preparation and process. She didn't prepare her chicken first and then the pan, and neither did she put the flame at the right height. And when she went to put the chicken into the over heated fat, she went up in flames.

                 Blazing Inferno by Kriki

The screams of a person on fire are not easy to dislodge from the ear's memory. There is no other pain like burning alive. The imagery Christ's description of Hell is accurate in its denizens' pain and anguish. Her screams sent us from our playroom down to the kitchen more quickly than Christmas morning. I, but six years, stood there, unable to help. Her older sisters knocked her to the floor and rolled her to put out the flames.

The treatments for Kelly's burns, which covered her body from her head down to her legs, were equally painful, and watching my cousin go through this procedure was painful in that we couldn't stop her pain, make it go away, without putting her into the short bliss of unconsciousness.

Then followed the years of gruesome disfigurement. Her face was melted, strangely mottled and discolored and misshapen. Hers was a lonely adolescence, a life consigned to being a hideous freak.

Even meeting her again for the first time in 25 years was a jarring experience. Unmarried, she lived the life of a biker and made her living wherever she could make it. Her scars and discoloration had softened, but something in her had hardened and become bitter and resigned.

Fast forward 45 years:

Now imagine the fate of women in the Hell of Islam's domain with this 'skin gun'.

Hat tip to Allahpundit at Hot Air.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Please Let the Jell-O be Halal

Today's School Lunch Choices: Barmecide Feast or Whatever the President says we gonna have, via  Iowahawk

Psst: The Barmecide Feast is much better tasting and is more filling. And much, much better for you.

Of course what is school lunch but a series of unfortunate leftovers? Boy, are you lucky! Now shuddup and eat your jell-o.

Put Prayer Back In the Closet, Please

(first published 2002)

In California, the sensitive are out of control. It has come to my attention that 7th graders there are now required to study Islam. I s'pose it is in order to better to get in touch with their inner-terrorists. Never mind that the pimply dears are already holy hormonal terrors at this age to begin with, now we want them to learn the ways of the Holy Warrior.

In Tampa, Florida, little 15-year-old Master Bishop must have learned his lessons in Islamic sensitivity class very well. He flew a stolen Cessna into a tall building and became shahid (martyred). Give that boy an A+! Unca Bin must be real proud!

Meanwhile, back in California, or Khalifornia, pardon the pun, the young jihad warriors are learning how to pray to the public school, and nary a peep from the ACLU, whose sole mission is to purge all things deemed offensively Christian from the public school and football games, and anywhere there might be a baby Jesus in a hay trough.

I am not one of those protesters who want to bring back prayer into the public school. I am more radical than that. I strongly endorse playing hooky, so long as it isn't done on school property. Moslems require a lot to pray: a prayer rug, a compass which will tell them where the hell some dusty, lifeless rock in the middle of a barren wasteland is, and then they have to do this at least 5 times a day. 

I tried to picture the Young Mujahid after a semester of Terrorism Sensitivity Training and here is what I came up with: Our Young Warrior is standing in the lunch line, and he is overcome by the need to pray...but alas! He has no place to throw down his prayer mat and beseech Allah, because if he gets out of line, he will miss out on the day's special: Cheese Zombies, and that is the only halal meal on the school menu. Let us listen in on our formative terrorist as he asks for Allah's will and guidance. 

"Most merciful Allah, hear me, Thy lowly servant Ahmed, formerly known as Alex Johnson. Give me success, O Allah, when I light the fire-cracker under Brittany Moore's desk this afternoon, because she like, totally dissed your lowly servant big time when I asked her out, and laughed at me, and besides, she is SOOO like, infidel. Help me, O gracious Allah, when I mix the Pine-Sol and the bleach and thus make many infidels sick in the science room, especially Mr. Weiss, 'cause he is a Jew, and he wouldn't let your lowly servant do a makeup test after he gave me a totally unfair C- which was SO BOGUS, and most of all, Beneficent Lord of the Universe, let there be at least two Cheese Zombies for your hungry lowly worthless maggot, and please let the Jell-O be halal, and not have any weird curds and junk in it, most Merciful Allah, your servant Alex- uh, I mean Ahmed. Amin."

What could possibly be wrong with prayer in the public school, you ask? Need I go on?
Because you made it through the column without being unduly alarmed when reading the words "Cheese Zombies" I will reward you with a delicious recipe that can be enjoyed by both terrorist and terrorized alike:

Cheese Zombies:
2 loaves of frozen white bread dough, thawed and rolled into 2 rectangles, about 1/2 inch thick.
1 pound of sliced cheese, your choice, except for Brie, and that is because it is too damn expensive, it doesn't slice and it tastes yucky. Eeeeew. We prefer American cheese at our house. Yumm.
(Update: Support Freedom of Speech in Denmark by using Danish cheeses! Havarti RULES!)

Place cheese slices on one rolled out rectangle, onto which you have first spread garlic butter or Miracle Whip, if you like. Place the other rectangle on top and let rise till doubled in size. Brush melted butter on the top and sprinkle with Parmesan cheese and some Italian seasonings.
Bake in a 375 degree oven for 20 minutes or so, til it is golden brown. Cut into squares and serve with pizza sauce for dipping. Mmmm good! For desert, make orange Jell-O with shredded carrots. No weird junk, no curds, just wholesome goodness!