"What's wrong with me?"

  French Immersion schooling has become a major part of the education system where I live. Parents queue up to enroll their darlings in schools that offer Immersion programs, believing it gives their children an advantage.

When our daughter reached school-age, we had a lot of very long discussions about whether to enroll her in Immersion, or in Mainstream. Choosing French or English as the language of instruction was what we were faced with, in a Province that lists Cantonese as it's predominant 'second' language.

We'd done our homework: talked to young adults (now in their mid-20's) that were among the first to know education in an Immersion program, talked to those that did a “late” Immersion program (starting in Grade Six), talked with other parents as well as teachers, talked to managers in government agencies; and reflected on the fact that Momma, here, did a form of “late” Immersion, and while I'm awfully rusty, je peut parler en francais aujourd'hui.

We heard stories of students unable to write properly in English, but unable to pass the language testing for bilingualism for employment in Government offices. One particularly candid young lady had taken the trouble to track down former classmates: she was one of more than half that had had to take remedial English courses post high school in order to gain employment. She was quite bitter about it, as were a few of her former classmates: parental egos and misinformation about the benefits of Immersion were pointed at as having contributed to hardships they'd not have known in Mainstream.

We decided that it would be best for the tyke to be enrolled in the Mainstream program; if she wants to do “late” Immersion come Grade Six, it's HER decision, and not ours. The basics of English will already be in her arsenal, and given that English is the predominant language spoken outside of school, that made sense to us. It would let her have say in the matter: at five, there was no way she could choose for herself.

There was only 11 children in the Kindergarten class (English) that year. There was 44 in the Immersion program, 2 full classes of kids being instructed in French. With Kindergarten being so insular, the child wasn't aware that the class she was in was unusually small, she just knew she liked going to school.

Come Grade One, our daughter was excited: larger classes and exposure to other kids on the playground had her very eager to start the year. It didn't take long for that excitement to wear off, and before the first month of school was done, she'd become quiet, almost sad.

“What's wrong with me?”, she quietly asked me, one afternoon after school.

It turns out that because she was in the Mainstream (English) school program, her class was home to all of the ESL kids, the behaviorally challenged, and the disabled. There were 22 kids, a regular teacher, a student teacher, 2 teachers aides, and a lot of “out of the classroom” sessions with support staff. One young man was prone to violent outbursts that included profanities; he actually bit our daughter during one of his rages. A non-speaking Autistic child that would shriek and hit, three children absolutely incapable of communicating in English with another 10 challenged by a language barrier and participating in ESL; there was another handful that required out-of-class counselling during the week, all involving behavioral issues. Our daughter was one of only four in a class of 22 that wasn't somehow in need of 'extra' input, counselling, or special resources. She had become convinced that she, too, must have a problem, because the Immersion classes didn't have students like that: there had to be something “wrong” with her. Nothing I said would convince her that she was just another kid in an English Grade One class, her own observations contradicted what I said, outright.

A parent-teacher conference had her Father and I bring that up: the teachers (2 of the four were present) were horrified at the question she'd asked of me. No child in past had reached such a conclusion, in classes of similar make-up. After hearing the explanations we knew were coming, her Father and I asked a question of our own: what was the school going to do to disavow the child of the conclusion she had reached? They were as responsible for addressing the matter as we were (as far as we were concerned), and we were looking it the issue from a “team” approach: help us help her make peace with the classroom environment and perform to the best of her abilities.

The child's scholastic performance was stellar. Behaviourally....

A few years have passed since that initial meeting. The question is still asked by the child, and dutifully taken to the teacher(s) at parent-teacher conferences. The school has done nothing to address her beliefs that she, too, must have an “issue” of some sort to be in a class full of children with “issues”. She has taken to back-talk, petulance, disrespect, and other “misbehaviors” in imitation of her classmates: my 6 yr old was taught to cuss in the school yard, throw tantrums when frustrated, and be non-compliant in the classroom : “I don't get it” is her catch-phrase of choice to avoid doing something she doesn't want to. The ESL kids have begun to teach her Chinese word-characters: she can write a dozen or more.

We're now questioning if we did the right thing by having the child in Mainstream: we'd never stopped to consider that it would also be the only place for students with special needs, regardless of the form, and in such numbers. When 18 out of 22 children have some sort of need for extra support, counselling, and resources, it's not hard to commiserate with the tyke and the conclusions she's drawn from her experiences.

There were no behavioural issues to speak of prior to Grade One. Now there is. “What's wrong with me?” has become an effort to fit in, and be like the others in the class, in all it's ugliness. We told the child that swearing and violence were for those not smart enough to use their words properly, but that's a tough line to follow when you're being hit and called a “f**king b**ch” by a classmate. When the other children are given less work than you are, because they're language-challenged, you feel resentful and don't want to do the extra work: it doesn't seem “fair”.

“What's wrong with me?” .... not a damned thing, until a Mainstream class placement in an Immersion school lent itself to an education of a different sort.No one wants to talk about it, or work to finding a solution, either. There's absolutely no accountability or help to be had, we're on our own to deal with the issue ourselves.

I've reached the conclusion that Immersion and Mainstream don't belong in the same school. I've got walking proof that the kids NOT in Immersion are suffering for their placement in bilingual school set-ups. I wanted my child to be proficient in her Mother Language, which happens to be the accepted International language of business and commerce, before she learned another.

The result is that I have a daughter that can read and write extremely well for her age, and that is now a behavioural handful and disciplinary issue.

Mich's Mumbles © 2011

How it started: an odyssey into Elder Care

Christmas of 1976 was one of excitement and anticipation. Our family had moved in to the Interior, to my Dad's family's farm; my Mom had relatives in that small town, too.

Part of the excitement was that us kids were to see two really BIG Christmas celebrations over two days : one with our Mom's Danish side, and one with our Dad's farming side. ALL of the family members (on both sides) were present that year, including my father's 76 yr old grandmother, Gramma Lora.

Lora lived in an extended care unit attached to the hospital in town. A brain aneurism in her late 60's had left her a hemi-plegic on the left side, and with a nasty speech slur. Wheel-chair dependent, she wasn't happy about where she was living ... but also knew, there wasn't a helluva lot of choice. I remember my Dad bribing us kids with DQ sundaes , so we'd go with him to visit Gramma Lora in the hospital with him : we HATED goin' there, it smelled ooky, and there was all these old people reaching out to try and touch us and talk to us (until Gramma Lora clued in , and then she'd bark to leave her kin be ).

My Mom had always wanted to be a nurse, and had even gone as far as getting textbooks from a friend to read up and study the subject ... but it would be another 10 yrs before she acted on that desire and followed through. As soon as my Dad and Granddad got back to the farmhouse with Gramma Lora, my Mom snapped into action ... and what a show.

It was like my Mom had an INSTINCT for helping mind Gramma Lora : it was as if she had precognitive abilities, she was anticipating things that others didn't seem to .

As the drinks were poured and the conversations got louder, my Mom leaned over and said to Gramma Lora " Gramma, I have to use the lil girls room, c'mon, let's go, you're coming with me ... " , then leaned over and fetched her makeup bag from her purse with the comment , "and we'll freshen up before dinner while we're at it".

My Mom wheeled Gramma Lora down to the main bathroom, closed the door ... and what the Hell, I hear GIGGLES from Gramma Lora ?

If they were gone for 5 minutes of "real" time, I'm a liar ... but my Mom had known that the old girl wouldn't ask to be taken and transferred to a toilet , it was too embarassing for her to do so ... there'd been a previous visit when my Mom had NOT been there, and a pee accident was the result : that wasn't happening on my Mom's watch !

Gramma Lora was returned to the head of the table, fresh powder and lipstick on her face, BEAMING , and with an empty bladder. My nose told me that my Mom had found Gramma Fran's baby powder in the main bathroom, and it was obvious she'd helped Gramma Lora with a comb, as well. No one else took Gramma Lora to pee that night : my Mom kept an eye on what she was drinking and when, and used her OWN bladder as an excuse to take Gramma Lora WITH HER to the bathroom : sorta like the ladies will do at a restaurant, going together to find a ladies room.

There was humor and dignity in my Mom's actions that Christmas, ones that ensured Gramma Lora adored her as much as she adored my Dad . The nursing home could serve Gramma Lora poached eggs and toast for breakfast, and she'd KICK at the nurses with her good foot ... but if WE served it at the farmhouse for her, it was five-star dining ... both of my parents would tease about that when she wasn't around to hear.

I decided, then and there, that nursing homes / extended care units were not good places, and be damned my mom or dad would ever know what it was like to be in one.

Fast forward 9 years ... the Summer of 1985. We were back in Vancouver by then, Gramma Lora had passed away the Summer following that awesome Christmas. I met my husband that year, and was surprised to discover that his mom and my Dad's mom were the same age : both women were born in 1922. As we talked and came to know one another, I made it quite clear that I could not be married to a man that did not share my views on taking care of older parents : he shared that view. He'd watched as his parents had tried to take care of HIS grandma, and resort to a care home for her when they couldn't muster the necessary support ; he wanted better for his own mother.

I took two runs at nurses training over the next 7 yrs ... nope, didn't graduate, didn't licence, and did NOT like working in the field, either : undignified assmebly line care that didn't acknowledge the PERSON within , was a huge piss off and was disrespectful to the clientele.

In 1999, hubby's mom approached us ... she was 77 years old, and was going blind . She lived in fear of being in a care-home , but knew that it wouldn't be much longer before she was gonna be unsafe in her own house ....

And so, the odyssey began.

We made a deal to BUY the house from my Mother-in-Law, and let her live on in it . We'd suite the basement and live down there --- her overhead meant I could hear her better (and she became prone to falling, so this was a wise move on our part !).

We had NO idea of what we'd gotten ourselves into ... but I'd like to share some of what we learned . I'd have given almost anything to have had such an option in '99, there was no information for us to wield as regards help and outside resources .

I called that woman, "Skinny Blind Thang" , and kid ya not, she'd laugh about it .... I remember my Dad calling Gramma Lora "Old Chickie Skin", and Lora laughing in the same way .

That twisted sense of humor was to be integral to the next 8 years. I was puked on, shit on, and argued with ; issues of immediacy and manipulation were rife. But until her final illness, Skinny Blind Thang was cared for and minded in her home of 40 years.

What an odyssey it turned out to be, too.

Mich's Mumbles © 2011

My Daughter's Nickname

 We all do it: our children are given a name, and somehow or another end up with a "pet" name within the family.  There's love to be had in those goofy monikers.

Many years ago now, KOKANEE beer was hitting the air with commercials for (what was then) a new brew. These commercials featured a sasquatch, of all things, and played off of the legends of the creatures in B.C.. One of the commercials had said sasquatch speaking to his Missus, unseen by the camera: he referred to her as his "MugWump".


Once our infant daughter was mobile, she proved to be very determined to get into mud and mud- puddles: anything to do with water, and she made a bee- line for it. As her first birthday approached, and I was spending time out in the back yard gardening and such, it was a daily battle to keep that child from wearing the outdoors into the indoors! Of course, being the evil Momma that I am, I have video footage of the child playing naked in a mud puddle: she'd stripped herself down on her way to play in it. Her blue eyes were the only part of her recognizable, all else was hidden by the mud she'd painted herself in.

"O you little MuDwump", is what came out of my mouth with a sigh.  Her Dad just roared, and she had a nickname, one that remains with her to this day.

Anyone that knows me any well knows I've a love of reading and trivia. I'd rather poke my nose into a book than to watch TV at night. The local library is a favorite weekend trip for all of us, and was so again just recently.

I'm reading a trivia book called "- ISMS AND - OLOGIES", by Arthur Goldwag... and came across this entry:

MUGWUMPISM
Probably a corruption of MUGGUOMP, an Algonquin word for "war chief".

Apparently Ambrose Bierce's DEVILS DICTIONARY defines it as " one who is afflicted with self respect and addicted to the vice of independence". (that is SO my daughter.... rofl).

The term was given a negative connotation in the 1930's , as being "one of them boys who always has his mug on one side of the political fence, and his wump on the other"; that connotation is apparently the still- present one (boo).

I find irony in discovering the history of the word, and it's meanings .... and hooo boy, does the first two definitions ever suit the determined scamp: while there isn't a destructive or mean bone in her body, she will do battle over anything she doesn't want to do.... she'll simply refuse to cooperate, and question you to death as a stall tactic.

I'm raising a MUDWUMP.... and arguing my way through a lot of laundry.



Mich's Mumbles©2011