Tagged: children

I Can Now Describe Gravity. Could You?

Gravity is one example of a certain force, being the centripetal force. This force can be analogized to the force that is keeping a rock in the whirling sling of a warrior or hunter—it is a force, not merely the leather or fabric that connects the rock and hand.

Gravity, then, is the name of this centripetal force when describing why we walk on the Earth instead of drift away, and gravity is how the moon maintains its orbit. And gravity is how the Earth (and moon) maintains its orbit around the sun.

Or at least that is how Newton conceived it.

Thank you, Great Ideas Program and Great Books of the Western World. Thank you very much.

Why I Can’t Adopt MLK’s “Content of Character” Line

“Is that okay to say these days?”

“Probably not. To be sure, ‘No.’ But they’re my kids, and I like mulatto best. Haha.”

****

Mulatto has a certain clarity of meaning beyond just the fact that they are the product of me and their mom. Don’t you agree? Yes, it means white and black parents. But it also conveys, in 2024, “You’re kinda barking up the wrong tree already, stupid.”

Sure, I admit this is a bit harsh. And as such, I have not been using it exclusively. But my wife and I’s two kids garner enough attention, or I should say, my wife and I’s two kids’ hair garners enough attention that I needed something “full Pete” to say in response to all comers. In other words, I needed a line. But mulatto wasn’t cuttin’ it.

Naturally, MLK’s “not by the color of their skin” line is accurate, but as everyone has seen, it is also terribly ineffective. At the least, it is tired.

In having and using a “line”, I also am arming the two kids with their own “line”. Cuz, despite my general optimism in life and even my new line’s particular contribution to that hope, the problem ain’t going away. So I have been wanting to come up with something worthy of my progeny, for my progeny. And I have.

Again, they’re mulattos. Through and through. That is a fact. But while that word is funny to me and folks who know me well, it is unintelligible to Ethiopians and taboo to Yankees.

Here’s my solution. It starts with the fact that “mixed” is kinda en vogue. So, picture with me, say, a Home Depot parking lot. On a Sunday. Got it? Heavy foot and vehicle traffic. Sunny blue sky. Wind that negates low-talk.

I have J- in the cart, An- is at the car, and Ag- is about to help An- into her door when a dude, older, and a mix between homeless and Colorado Native, says to his partner—wife or fellow bum—and loud enough for all to hear, “Oh those are two beautiful babies.”

I smiled and thanked him politely.

Then he randomly re-appeared and continued as if never having left the area—but he and his companion had left—“I have some mixed grand-babies and they are just the most beautiful kids. You are lucky to have them grand-babies.”

I informed him, good-heartedly, that they were my own children, to his shock, and then he doted some more before leaving.

Mixed? Hmm. Mixed.

Eureka!

Next time, here’s my response.

“Mixed? Oh, look kids! A purebred! In the flesh! It is a pleasure to know you. Good day, Sir.”

****

That is my new Full Pete “line” and I believe it accomplishes everything I want it too and probably a teensy bit more at no additional charge. It has bite, but is not record-stopping like mulatto. It is at least as memorable as “content of character”, if not more so. And most importantly, it can carry the fire of truth forward into future generations.

Mixed?

We have to stop the nonsense, folks! Who’s with me?

“Mixed? Oh, look kids! A purebred! In the flesh! It is a pleasure to know you. Good day, Sir.”

Passing Tests: A Primer On Purpose

Certain unpleasant circumstances (whose ultimate superficiality are yet to be determined) have led to me taking back full control of my step-son’s education. Long story short, I had it once, lost it in hopes of marital bliss, and have now taken it back. The long game is back in view—marriage be damned.

He’s newly 14. And he does not think. “But I repeat myself,” by Twain applies here.

Pilots take many, many tests. Merely to become a pilot requires passing many tests. It stands to reason, then, that as a group, we pilots know a thing or two about passing tests. Relatedly, we know a thing or two about the skill of memorizing information. One example, before returning to the step-son bit, of these test-taking skills conveniently aligned to memory skills is when taking a multiple choice test, there is a general rule, “too long to be wrong.” Get it? If three of the four answers are tremendously shorter than the other, it is more than likely (but don’t blindly skip reading the long one—always read in full the answer you select) that the test creator did not suddenly choose to waste their time by typing out an unnecessarily long wrong answer. Take away from this tip that we pilots (among other test taking masters) put to use other factors than content when viewing a test. Think of it like the self-defense advice to not forget about all available ways to use your surroundings during attacks etc.

One task that I have my step-son accomplishing each day, then, is reading from the classics (currently on The Apology of Socrates) one paragraph at a time and writing as brief as possible an abstract of the paragraph. This is not easy—and that’s the point.

We skipped chatting about Tuesday’s and so yesterday we had to cover two paragraph’s worth. Both attempts were unsatisfactory (he seemed to have skipped reading in favor of using some commentary I had previously provided to accomplish the summaries—which I take as evidence that his culture’s ignorant and unfortunate reliance on oral tradition still outweighs his reading level). This was disappointing, but that’s okay—the process is half the point.

But then there was one of those moments which make ya lose all hope. As I tried to grease the wheels a bit for the next day (I had read ahead), I said something like, “So as you do tomorrow’s paragraph, keep in mind that yesterday’s had Socrates dealing with politicians, then today’s had him dealing with poets-” I was suddenly interrupted by a boastful, “-Yeah, tomorrow’s is a short paragraph.”

Hmm.

At least he knows what a paragraph is?

As evidenced in “too long to be wrong” and throwing office chairs at gunmen, he’s not wrong in hoping to draw a connection between paragraph length and difficulty of meaning. But he clearly stopped listening at “tomorrow’s paragraph”.

In the end, this whole experience of family and children seems to be an experiment on “purpose”. My revised hypothesis today is, “If there is no purpose, then there can be no test.” This updates what I now see as the laudable—but I’m suspecting will prove to be merely laughable—claim to “teach kids to think”.

Where does purpose originate? Easy: the living god. But who knows his ways?

Onward!

Report Cards in 2024: Grandparents Don’t Know—But Now You Do

I want to homeschool my step-son. His mother wants him to go to school. Naturally, she wins.

Here’s the rub. I actually do care about the boy. I actually do know that he has a bright future ahead of him—economically and in the ability to become fully man. I actually do want him to have a good life—something totally within his grasp as both an American and as my step-son. But especially as my step-son.

The image above is from his first report card (of course it not called that anymore—one up-vote for truth) at this new school.

I speak and read (and write) English very well. In fact, my communication abilities are excellent, as you can surely tell. Furthermore, I believe that I understand and can explain to you what this image states about my step-son.

Because of that, I know with certainty that it does not tell me anything about how my step-son is performing. According to this document, there is no standard. There is no benchmark. There is no measure.

This document is worse than a teacher grading on a curve to pass the class rather than admitting failure and reteaching the concept. It is also worse than just failing the students and dealing with whatever consequence is already designated in the rulebooks.

As an American, and former military officer, what really pisses me off though is how the document seems to indicate some amount of success to folks that cannot read English—vis-à-vis his mother.

The catalyst for this post is that the human bloggers who sometimes read my posts likely have not seen this type of performance document. They hear about climate change, CRT, book banning, soft standards, social justice, and all the other hot button cable news cycle topics which fall under the “education” umbrella. But they do not see or hear that the real problem is actually much worse. They do not see that there is actually no measure of performance anymore. None. Zero. Zilch. Nada.

Keep in mind, to be clear, I am not claiming that this is a case of “the blind leading the blind”. Or “stupid is as stupid does”. I am pointedly claiming that this is knowingly wrong. It would be better if the school did what “developing” countries (third world) do and just gives “A’s” to everyone, regardless of performance, with the reasoning that an A is the best grade, so it must be desirable.

The American Black Church has a proverb you can hear from the pulpit almost every Sunday: “People who know better, do better.”

The American Education system resoundingly proves that that proverb is merely trite, wishful thinking. In fact, the schools prove it is a stupid saying. The teachers’ proverb is, “People who know better, submit without resistance.”

She Wanted to Be Caught!

To the toddler, the crack of their door at night is more precious than all the gold and silver in the world. Shut the door and they cry and cry. But open it just a crack and they sleep restfully.

So what happened last night? I still don’t know. But I do know that the non-toddler family members were watching the latest Mission Impossible—the one, like all its predecessors, which always had the team simultaneously realizing and then stating aloud, “He wanted to be caught!”

The toddlers went down pretty easy—door was cracked. My hearing is the best out of the three of us, and so I was the first to hear some noises from their room and eventually paused the flick and rounded the corner to see that A- had climbed out of bed and turned on the hall light. Door was now wide open. J- was standing in his crib and now had Paddington—a gift from his older sister, I had to assume. As I laid him back down, he was in the mood to play, but I wasn’t, so I just covered him and turned my attention to A-.

“Gotta stay in bed, A-. It’s bed time.”

She put her arms out for a hug.

After the hug, I whispered to the dark room, “I love you. Goodnight.” Then I closed the door to just a crack and turned off the hall light as I went back to the movie.

A few minutes later, and I could hear more toddler shenanigans. Pretty much the same scene, but J- may have been closer to sleep than I would’ve guessed. Turning my attention to A-, I softly threatened, “It’s time for bed, A- If you get up again, I will shut the door.” She nodded like the perfect little angel that she is.

Back to the movie.

A few minutes later, back up stairs.

I left A-, saying, “I am closing the door. I told you this would happen.”

That was odd, I thought, as she didn’t make a peep of protest as I shut the door.

Back to the movie.

I just wanted to make it through the car chase scene, which I knew was about 10 minutes, and was sure to begin soon.

“Fart!” I suddenly had a sinking feeling. “She wants to be in the room with the door shut!”

Hitting pause once again, I went up the stairs to check on the two of them.

“No hall light on. Good,” I noticed as I turned the corner. Looking at the crack under the door, I saw the bedroom light was still off too. “That’s gotta be a good sign,” I thought. But in the movies the bad guys are always one step ahead of us good guys. So I did the unthinkable. I slowly turned the handle—so slowly. And then I opened the door a crack, and without the crack sound. As I continued in, I found little A- in some level of pre-sleep that was happy to be tucked in once again, but absolutely void of any contest. J- was out like a light.

Back downstairs we were able to finish the film without trouble. And I secretly acknowledged, with joy and anticipation, that the toddlers might actually allow me to sleep in a bit in the morning, given all these post-bedtime antics.

I was right.

Well, not about A- wanting to get shut in. But they did sleep in a bit.

So What That She Was Wrong?

So what that she was wrong? So what? She’s two and a half. How many times is little A- gonna be right at such a tender age?

Here’s how it started. A big winter storm was forecast to roll through over the night. (She couldn’t have known this, obviously.)

Then, this morning, as I surveyed the damage, I noticed it wasn’t quite as much snow as I feared, but I also knew more was on the way.

During breakfast, a certain sound, a bit like crackling, began as I monitored A-’s progress through her bowl of oatmeal and strawberries.

Focus in here: I wanted to test her meteorological knowledge. You see, she’s been the daughter of a pilot her entire life and school is always in session.

So I asked, casually, “What is that sound, A-?”

Simple enough question, right?

Apparently she hasn’t kept up her studies over winter break.

After turning towards the window, “Water?” was all that she could guess.

Much like you, when I heard this answer I naturally thought, “Wrong!”

To bring out the lesson, I got my phone, opened up ForeFlight, and read off the current METAR for the nearby airport, here redacted for national security purposes.

031415Z AUTO 01011G16KT 2 1/2SM UP OVC008 M03/M04 A2968 RMK A02

Obviously the only important part, the part she had neglected in her studies of late, was understanding just how broad a category “UP” was.

Sure, there is a certain sense in which precipitation of an unknown type and water are synonymous. But she was supposed to know the answer verbatim. Ver. Batim.

Maybe I’m being too hard on her. I don’t know.

So what that she was wrong? At least she heard the question. At least she considered it and gave an answer that reflected as much.

Hack Life Out of the Wilderness; In a Word—Work Hard

I married a woman from Ethiopia.

For the purposes of this post, the single cultural trait in focus is polygamy. Ethiopians are only generations away from the practice of polygamy. The mooslims still do practice it.

This manifests itself in the fact that they currently live in multi-family homes. I don’t mean apartments, I mean one larger home wherein many family members are supported by a few family members. My wife might tell me, “There aren’t enough jobs, so only my brother works,” to describe this particular living arrangement.

In our family, my wife and I’s current blended family here in the good ol’ US of A, it has become clear that she does not want to work hard. The way this has appeared is that she has chosen to take a minimal wage, part-time, night shift job rather than be a stay-at-home mom with her two babies.

Don’t mis-hear me. I’m admitting, confessing, and asserting that being a stay-at-home mom with two babies is hard work—far harder than any minimal wage part-time work. I’m knocking my own wife, to support the archetypical stay-at-home wife.

She hasn’t quite said the following, but indirectly she has indicated that if we lived in Ethiopia, then our two babies would be passed around all day, every day. “Okay, I need a break, you watch them. Okay, I need a break, you watch them. Okay, I need a break, you watch them.” Then rinse and repeat until they find themselves passing around their own babies.

As the dad, as the father, as the patriarch of my family, I want my children to be the strongest adults possible. Warrior poets. Scholar athletes. I want fearless giants. To be sure, I want pilots. (Forgive me, I couldn’t resist.)

I’m here to tell you that fearless giants are not possible if raised like an Ethiopian, fearless giants are not possible if raised by polygamists.

In the passing around of the children, something else gets passed around—responsibility. And accountability. The lack of responsibility and accountability is the direct manifestation of laziness.

“He did what?! That’s not how I taught him when I had him for two minutes of every morning,” the third cousin, twice removed on the mother’s side says, feigning to be indignant.

I didn’t see it coming when I proposed this marriage, but nearly every day of my life, I see more and more why American culture is the dominant one on Planet Earth. Today, I see it in terms of monogamy as the one and only producer of giants. Polygamy went away, not because of the New Testament or because of some other philosophy. Polygamy dropped off the earth because its offspring were weak and incapable of hard work. Polygamy is not practiced by Americans because the children raised by only two people, by only one man and one woman are more capable adults. Where did Americans learn to work hard? The wilderness. Americans hacked life out of the wilderness. And that took hard work. You should thank your national ancestors.

Children need to see—from their first breaths—that hard work is good, hard work is rewarding, and hard work is rewarded. And children cannot see that if they don’t see their fathers and mothers working hard to raise them—all day, every day.

As for this fearless giant, this pilot, as for this American? I’m a man who believes in hard work. So I married a woman from Ethiopia.

Written Record of One Conclusion after Observing One Illiterate Child in the 21st Century

This post is tricky for two reasons. Firstly, the child I’ve been observing could someday read it. Secondly, while it’s true that you’re reading this, I’m not sure you’re ‘literate’.

To cancel out any negative repercussions possible within the first reason, I want to clarify that my intentions are to simply record an observation that is interesting to me. There’s no judgement here. You didn’t cause yourself to be illiterate.

Regarding the second reason, I consider literacy to include the actual ability to imagine that you’re someone else. Literacy is not about lofting the sounds of symbols into the air. It is about understanding the author’s written ideas, their point-of-view, inasmuch as they can be understood by a reasonable person.

Quickly, then, the word of the day is “mimic”. That’s the best way I can think to capture the process. I have now watched for many months a unique-to-me case of an illiterate child growing up. They look just like us. Dress like us. Eat the same food. Drink the same beverages. But when it comes to talking, they exhibit a totally different pattern. Without having been read to in the womb, without having been read to as an infant, without having been read to as a toddler, without having begun to read in kindergarten, without having been reading on their own for the next three years, the illiterate child can only mimic sounds.

Think bird calls or mating calls–nature style.

I suppose in the pre-television/pre-entertainment-on-demand days this might have been an acceptable path to wisdom. But in our day, what this can mean is the child picks the reaction they like best–say laughter–and then begins to mimic or simply repeat the words which the characters uttered which preceded the laughter. Again, think about how a young animal might learn to imitate its parent’s audible warning or mating calls.

The important, and new-to-me, thing that I want to draw attention to is the lack of thinking. At the illiterate level, the child makes noises to obtain desired responses. Maybe crying for food, age-inappropriate jokes for laughter, coughing for a hug, gulping loudly for encouragement–all things that would be missed by a deaf parent.

Even more to the point, the illiterate child can start to use words instead of sounds, but–and don’t miss this–to the child the words are still merely sounds. They are empty words. If another set of words accomplished the desired goal, the illiterate child would use those. For the illiterate child, achieving the desired response is the only thing that matters.

Put inversely, coherence has no place. Truth has no place. Consistency has no place. Particulars have no place.

Again, for the illiterate child, achieving the desired response is the only thing that matters.

There is a flip-side, too. If I’m right, it means that for the literate there is something more in life.

Three More Days Until Home School

“No mistakes!” the boy beamed.

Scrunching up his forehead and sharpening his eyes, the man replied, “This one is wrong. And this one.” Then he turned the page over. “This is wrong. And this one isn’t exactly wrong, but it isn’t worded correctly enough to be right.”

Silence.

“Why did you say, ‘no mistakes’?”

“Because the teacher put a star right there.”

“Well, there are mistakes.”

“Well, the teacher doesn’t grade it. She just looks to see that we did it.”

I ask you, reader, do you know what it feels like to have Ignorance violently and maliciously knock you unconscious at breakfast?

“Well,” he began again, “Why did you tell me that there were no mistakes if you didn’t know?”

Crickets.

“Okay. How about, ‘What does mistake mean?'”

“Like when you accidentally make a mistake.”

“Well, you can’t use the word in the defin-”

“-something wrong!”

“Right. But it’s not really limited to ‘accidents’.” A pause. “So why did you say, ‘no mistakes?'”

“I was guessing?”

“Why guess?”

Silence.

“Never mind. How about, ‘If the teacher says, “No mistakes,” when they haven’t looked at the work, then what is that called?'”

A searching pause. This, reader, was then followed by a nine year old’s terrifying, confusing, distasteful, and yet somehow innocent identification of everything wrong with public schools.

“A lie?”

(In case you missed it, the beginning of my tale found a child–Hero? Villain? We do not know–in Fantasy Land, and he felt like a million bucks. Then the end of my tale landed our hero in the real world, where A- was repulsed by the thought of moral responsibility–not just moral responsibility but mere moral reality–and longed for that Fantasy Land of yester-minute filled with lies and no responsibility.)

Because We Were The Nazis

This one is long overdue–not for the reading, but for the writing of it.

I have a step-son now. He was not born in America. He does not know much about the West.

A few days ago he asked me, “Why does everyone talk about World War Two so much?”

I said, “Huh?”

“You just said, ‘World War Two.’ The other day at school my teacher said, ‘World War Two.’ Why is everyone saying ‘World War Two’ so much?”

Yesterday we were in the car for long enough that I finally took the time to answer him.

“Well, what do you know about how many people are in our town?” I began. I quickly and subsequently learned that the boy is not quite a census expert. So I remedied this as best I could. Then I let Siri do the persuading.

“Hey Siri!” I began, to his delight. “How many people died in World War II?”

“Do you see now?” I asked the boy.

He says he does, but he probably doesn’t. That’s the way these things go.

But there’s something I haven’t taught this young man. Well, it’s more accurate to say that there’s something that I haven’t spoken aloud to this young man. In truth, I’ve been teaching him this thing, and nothing but this thing, since he moved in. I breathe this thing. I eat and drink this thing.

This thing: there’s a deeper, more hidden reason everyone talks about World War II. The reason is because we were the Nazis. Humans were the Nazis. Not corporations. Not aliens. Not AI. Not the poor. Not the rich. Not those with guns. Not those without guns. Not the Muslims. Not the Christians. Not the Blacks. Not the Whites. Not the immigrants. Not the healthy. Not the sick. Not Trump. Not Obama. Not the LGBTQ+. Not the Non-Binary. Not Antifa. Not #IMWITHKAP. Not Greta. Not Climate Deniers. Humans were the Nazis.

The reason everyone talks about World War II is because we were the Nazis. And we cannot forgive ourselves.

But worse, we believe that if we teach what happened, if we just talk about what happened, then we believe it will not happen again.

That, of course, is simply not true. To be crystal clear here, George Santayana’s eloquent sounding sentiment, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” is dead wrong. He was perniciously wrong.

So I’m raising my step-son (and H-) with this in mind–constantly. I do nearly everything with one singular goal in mind: teach him to be a man. That is, I teach him to think for himself.

We were the Nazis. But I was not a Nazi. And LORD help me, I will never be a Nazi. Instead, I am a man.

Moreover, I will not let the voices of doubt win when it comes to raising a boy to become a man.

I’m talking now to all of you who think it is cruel to make a child work on handwriting. Cruel to make a child read aloud until they get it right. Cruel to punish a child for disobedience. Cruel to create a standard and hold a child to it. Cruel to keep a child from TV and YouTube. Cruel to teach a child that children do not boss adults. Cruel to have a bedtime schedule. Cruel to make them eat the same meal everyone else at the table is eating. Cruel to make them finish their food entirely–and their milk. Cruel to make them do chores. Cruel to say “no” to a child–every single time they ask for something stupid like more dessert, more time, or any and everything they ever see at the store.

I’m raising a man. I’m not trying to have a friend. And I’m not trying to please you and your gay sensibilities. We were the Nazis! Do you get it? “We” were the Nazis. The only thing that can defeat “We” is “Me.” I won’t join you. And I promise you that my adult children will surely feel a shame second only to the one which comes from awareness of having sinned against their maker, if they find themselves joining the “we” on some distant day.

Enough about me. What about you? What about your sons and daughters? Are they going to come after my children some day?