My Mother the Terrorist

I'm back home in Austin, Texas. I decided to post a little essay I wrote after Education Secretary Rod Paige called the National Education Association a terrorist organization.

I was embarrassed by the tepid response of the leadership of the NEA and put the following essay together. Both of my parents built careers as teachers at public schools and both have been active members of the Education Association for a long time.

My Mother the Terrorist

My mother lives a quiet life as a fourth grade teacher and church choir member in a small rural town on the Minnesota prairie. Imagine my surprise when I heard the Secretary of Education say he believes my mother is a member of a terrorist organization.

I guess different people have different perspectives as to who my mother is. Let me offer you my perspective.

I see mom as a loving guide that is always there to help me on life’s journey. I see her as mentor I want to impress and please. I see her as safety and protection from the parts of the world that are still sometimes a bit scary – even for a 34-year-old man. I see her as a friend that spent many years showing me this wonderful world and then graciously watched as I set off to explore on my own. (If only I had her grace at that moment.)

My mother is also a schoolteacher. She spends her days at work with a room full of fourth graders. She teaches them to read and write. She teaches them history and science and math. She teaches them about our country and what it means to live in the world’s greatest nation. She teaches them about working and playing with others. She celebrates their accomplishments and stays awake at night worrying about their problems.

My mother is also an active leader in her union, which is an affiliate of the National Education Association. She advocates for smaller class sizes so that she and her colleagues can give each child more individual attention. She stands beside her fellow teachers when they feel poorly treated by management. She spends hours working with the school board to negotiate fair contracts. She advocates for better health care coverage.

Rod Paige, the US Secretary of Education, has a very different view of my mother. He believes the National Education Association is a terrorist organization. He evidently believes my mother is best compared to Osama bin Laden. My mother? A terrorist? Only someone completely detached from reality could make such a comparison.

My mother isn’t a terrorist. My mother is a woman who cares passionately about her family, her co-workers, her community, her state and her country. She believes that we all should leave the world in better shape than we found it. To do so my mother has devoted her career to teaching the kids in her community. She has devoted a significant amount of time and energy to caring for the needs of her co-workers. She has labored as a secretary, a waitress and a teacher all while working with my father to raise their two children.

The President needs to fire Rod Paige. He should not be given the dignity of being allowed to resign. In 2004, our Secretary of Education should certainly know the difference between a terrorist and a teacher.

Cambridge, MA

I've spent the day attending a conference at the Harvard law school titled, "Votes, Bits & Bytes." www.internetandsociety.org. It has mostly been a fascinating conference and I'm glad I'm here. I'm most interested in following up with Professor Robert Putnam from the Kennedy School of Government. It sounds to me like he has been doing some interesting research into grassroots organizing.

One quick take away from the conference. I believe the Bush campaign may have run the best field campaign ever. That's hard for me, as a Democrat, to say. I spent the entire campaign watching their work and it was very well done. It was interesting today to see both the Bush campaign and the Kerry campaign talk about their online grassroots organizing efforts. It is clear that the Republicans out-organized the Democrats.

California Sunday Mornings

I’m in a state park in Southern California, high on a bluff, 100 feet above a well-worn beach and the noise of the sea. A cool salt breeze causes ripples in my Seattle Supersonics T-shirt. The warm sun on my neck reminds me to keep my already burned face pointed west. I silently chide myself for not bringing sunscreen and wonder if after this morning, my neck will match my nose and forehead.

For a moment there is no horizon. The world and the sky have combined and dance softly between gray and blue. Somewhere in that haze the sky meets the Pacific.

Part of the beauty of this place is the sound. Growing up on the Great Plains of the Midwest, I know the wind as a relentless battering ram. It buffers your ears against most other sounds you might rather hear. Today, however, the wind is subtle. It gently wraps itself around my ear and is more cool than loud. What I hear today is the constant, inconsistent roar of water crashing into itself and the rocky shore. Nothing else is audible.

It is tempting, sitting on gravelly sand a hundred feet in the air, to throw something. I want to launch a pebble or small stone into the sky and watch it plummet toward the beach below until it falls out of site beyond the bluff and all I can do is listen to see if I can hear it reunite with the earth. I would do it if I were ten years old once again. But I am not. Instead I am old enough to know that somewhere directly below me is the path that leads to the beach and directly below the path, is the beach. While there aren’t many people here, there are a few. Joggers. Walkers. Most of them pause and stretch at a spot just below me. Right down there, just out of site. It is at that spot that they stretch before beginning their Sunday morning exercise. So I pick up a small stone, turn back into the hill, and give it a short toss into the thick vegetation. It is not nearly as much fun. I am also not ten years old.

The land I occupy is right on the edge of the bluff. It is not far from a path but a small ridge keeps my location hidden. I’ve been here since about 7:30 It has been peaceful.

It is 8:47 A.M. My solitude is broken now by a family. Dad comes first. He pops quickly up on top of the ridge ready to claim this spot for his family’s Sunday picnic brunch. He stops, sees me sitting just six feet away. He is irritated. For a moment, he just stares. His fingers clutch the plastic bag wrapped around his L. A. Times just a little tighter. He is wearing tan shorts, a black T-shirt, white sweat socks, tennis shoes, and aviator sunglasses. I’m irritated. He’s invaded my space. I silently return his stare. He turns, faces north and determinedly, quickly makes his way up the bluff to find his spot.

Just seven seconds behind the father is his teenage son. Remarkably, the son is wearing tan shorts, a black T-shirt, white sweat socks, tennis shoes, and sunglasses. He looks at me for just a second. He couldn’t care less that I’ve occupied this space. He turns to follow his father.

As the men are about to disappear over the bluff, the teenage little sister appears. She pays absolutely no attention to me. She is simply irritated. It is, after all, vacation. She ought to be able to sleep in. Now she’s going to be stuck with her family in some isolated spot for as long as it takes her father to read the Sunday paper. She had tried to talk them into going all the way down to the beach. There she could escape. She could walk by herself along the edge of the water and maybe even get a chance to talk to those guys that are surfing. Instead she is trapped.

Finally, just behind the daughter, comes Mother. In her right hand she holds a large plastic bag filled with all of the necessary ingredients for Sunday brunch at the beach. She appears over the ridge but doesn’t stop to look. Instead, she offers a quick smile and an awkward wave with her free hand. She leans forward slightly as she begins to make the trip up and over the bluff. Slowly, mother and daughter disappear and I am alone again.