When I was in the Master’s Leadership program, the professor asked: What’s the most important thing about a person?
Though I loved this professor, I knew he was wily. Two brave students attempted an answer, only to be told they were incorrect. The professor walked to podium, cleared his throat, and we knew we were about to learn a very important lesson. Ladies and Gentleman the MOST important thing about a person is his/her name! A name that distinguishes him/her from “you,” “kid,” “son,” or “ma’am.” As an educator you must value people’s names, whether they be teachers, students, and parents. You’ll be surprised by how much they respect you. A lesson I’ve not forgotten.
Know I have the utmost respect for migrant workers and am most grateful for their service. I’m certainly not going to pick lettuce, avocados, nor apples as my career. Even at my grandparents’ farm years ago, men wandered up the lane to help with haying season and combining wheat and oats.
I am appalled at the separation of children from their migrant families. I am appalled the US government is spending millions to house these children. But I am most appalled we do not know these children’s names. Really? WTF? And now, the government is going to spend millions to identify them via DNA testing. Hmm. In this technological age, it was not considered to identify them first–through photograph, finger print, or number? These are children–some toddlers. I can’t imagine their terror.
Unfortunately, this is just another example of mbsp–management by the seat of the pants. No one seems to understand the consequences of a decision until they’re faced with reality. Decisions are whimsical, often retaliatory to garner votes. Certainly, none of the recent decisions can be viewed as thoughtful. (Just wait. The tariff position is about to decimate American farmers.)
Yes, I’m a teacher. Yes, I’m a child advocate. Yes, I would gladly open my home, my extra beds, and my kitchen to six children. And yes, I would know each of them by name.
I do not have a sophisticated palate; I’m far from a gourmand. Both of my grandmothers were excellent cooks; they prepared rural, regional cuisines. My paternal grandmother was the family legend of baking: pies, donuts, blueberry muffins, and cinnamon rolls were her forte. I knew I’d never learn to make pie crust or breads like hers.
No, I’m not talking about weed, Mary Jane, Kush, I’m talking about the stuff in my yard–or lack of stuff in my yard. Long ago, I chose not to grow winter grass, just summer grass.
Years ago, I co-taught Sunday school with another church member, and one Sunday she said, “Sue, I’m tired of my nomadic life on the road.” I knew she traveled several times a month leaving both her husband and children to fend for themselves. But she was making mega bucks. “You know I have a teaching degree I’ve never used.”
Dr. Suze Espouses 