60 Years Are Too Many: Teaching

 27 June 2026

    While stupidity reigns and I finished The Stand, here I go writing again.

    Because Trump posted on Truth social that he hardly ever poops his pants, and people just yell and nobody listens. And they're doing baptisms on the national mall.  Christian Nationalism is doing its damndest to destroy our country.

    So.

    Way back in 2002, I had decided to start subbing. I worked at my alma matter GMHS in theatre for Barb-who had taken over when Bud retired-and lang arts for Kathy Starkey. Kathy had been my lang arts teacher Back In The Day. I also subbed for Tim Brown at Bear Creek, I liked him a lot.

    But subbing doesn't come with insurance benefits, so I decided I'd try to teach. My children were in kindie and second grade when I made the decision. I loved staying at home, but we had moved and expenses were increasing. The why is not important, nor a question educators like ot answer in faculty meetings. This is how.

    I had my BA and sub license, and I had worked in enough buildings to know high school was my jam. Either lang arts or theatre was good with me. But I didn't have my teaching license. So I did some research and learned about the TIR program at Metro. The catch was you had to get hired as a teacher in a building first, and then you could enter the program. It was the only way around the horrible and financially impossible student teaching requirement. Nobody should work for free---ever. But here we are.

    These were the early years of desktops and limited internet. I found two theatre openings in two buildings, Littleton and Ponderosa. Ponderosa's online application required a teaching license number just to apply, with no way to contact HR or ask questions. I had no such number because I did not have my license. Littleton did not require the number, and the application could be printed and snail mailed to HR.

    And that's how that happened.

    It was much more difficult, but it's fine. Not the point of the story.

   This story is about the teachers who circled back into my life more than once.

                                                      Peter Melbach

    Melbach was my high school history teacher. One of the smartest humans I've ever met. He told the truth, he taught real history and he held us accountable. Because of him I understand colonialism, El Salvador in the 1980's, I can identify countries on a map and knew about the Red Scare and the real definition of communism.

    I flunked his class when I left my world map project on a bus during a concert choir tour. He essentially said "Thank sucks". I never forgot my homework again.

    In 1999 I was attempting to launch my own theatre company, raise two children and worked at My Brothers Bar in Denver. Melbach was a semi regular. Because I assume I am invisible, or at least not memorable, I didn't say anything. But he recognized me and we struck up a few brief exchanges. Most of them centered around his thesis "When are you going to become a teacher?"

     "I don't want to be a teacher."

    " You are, I've always known it. You've always been a teacher. Let me know when you figure it out."

    In 2012 while I was at the Boettcher---wait, you may not know what a Boettcher Scholarship is. Students in Colorado apply for the scholarship, which pays 100% of their tuition and housing for four years at any Colorado university. Students who are awarded the scholarship "share" their Boettcher with one of their teachers. It's usually an IB techer, AP math or science teacher, as those are the kids who generally win. Occasionally it's an elective teacher-say choir from a Cherry Creek School. It is rarely a theatre teacher. The teacher gets $1,000 for their department and attends the ceremony. It is a very generous prize.

    My theatre student had been awarded the Boettcher and chose to share it with me. So I was at The Thing at the Botanic Gardens. We were all seated as our students read words about us and presented us with a plaque.     

    Guess whose name was read?

    Peter Melbach.

    So I hunted him down and smiled grandly. Jim compared it to Spicoli and Mr. Hand meeting years later. If you don't know the reference, trust I looked like an idiot grinning at Melbach.

    He said "Hey, you're a teacher!"

    I sighed and smiled. Dammit, he called it.

    I said "And I have a Boettcher, just like you." Because I had no idea how to respond. "Yes" would have been a reasonable response, but no. I had to say something idiotic.

    He shrugged "It's my fifth one."

    Of course it is.

    And of course he fell into a casual conversation with me like we were...colleagues. He told me about the book he wanted to write, and that he was going to retire. Just like I was a regular person. Not a waiter, not a student. A regular person worthy of conversation.

    We had a lovely chat, took a photo and I haven't seen him since.

    My Boettcher is on the wall downstairs. I walk past it daily and smile.

                                                        Steve Meinenger

    Steve was my high school choir teacher. He smoked in the choir office with the band teacher, a story that blows kids' minds these days. He retired from teaching but his legacy in Denver music is massive. The choir and band teachers at Littleton knew Meinenger. He was all over CHSSA and an All State Judge, and probably All State President, and he worked in some way the the music program at Metro and possibly UNC. For all I know he invented educational music. He's a Very Big Deal.

    In or around 2011, Littleton's band teacher crossed the hall to 146 (backstage/my classroom) to confirm that I'd attended GMHS and that Meinenger had been my choir teacher. I had no idea why he was asking. 

    Turns out Meinenger in his Very Big Deal status was going to be in our building to work with the band teacher On A Thing. The band teacher said "I have an idea". He was always full of ideas, a delightful light hearted prankster-y and relentlessly positive man- I frequently hated him. Why are you happy, stop it. 

    I really am that miserable. 

    Anyway, he said "I'm going to pretend you're a problem, like we can't work together at all, and ask him to come meet you and give me advice."

        "Why?"
        "It'll be funny. He'll meet you and remember you and it will be a reunion."
        "That's a big assumption. He's had thousands of students, I haven't seen him since high school. There is no reason to believe he will remember me."
        "Seriously? Do you not know who you are? He'll remember."

    So on the assigned day, he brought Meinenger across the hall to "meet" me. He opened the door and ushered him in. Meinenger was looking at Don the whole time, he didn't look up at me until Don was finished talking. He said "This is Mrs. Martin, our theatre teacher." Then, in an exaggerated and unsuccessful stage whisper, " The one I told you about. We're having problems with her."

      Meinenger looked up at me. He always had to look up due to his short stature-not unlike a gnome-but he seemed to have shrunk. His ice blue eyes peered at me through his squinty face. His blonde hair had turned grey. I just looked at him and smiled. In my head I was running through all of the ways to introduce myself and remind him who I am and explain that Don thought this would be funny.  

      It took him three seconds of contact before he said "Wyckoff, you got old!" and started cackling. 

                                                        Bud Simmons

    Bud was my high school theatre teacher. I've written of him often. Not just because he was as mean as a snake, but because in so many ways he shaped how I teach. And there's the whole "opened the door to theatre" part of it too, but whatever.

    Bud and his wife Janet communicated with me primarily through emails. I had not seen him with my eyeballs in years by the time I directed my first musical The Pirates of Penzance at Littleton in 2009. I do not recall inviting him directly, which feeds the mystical idea that he Just Knew and showed up. I did not know he was coming, and completely melted down when I saw him. I couldn't speak, I just jabbered and drooled, much to the amusement of the music director who had a front row seat to the show titled "Kmart Comes Apart" at the lobby doors.When Bud finally went in to take his seat, Farrell asked me-through a tight smile- what was going on. I sobbed "My dad is here", and then immediately blubbered that he's not my dad dad, he's my theatre dad but ya he was like my dad and his opinion is everything to me and I can't believe he's here and I have no idea what I'm doing pardon me I have to throw up." He was stuck for Act 2 of "Kmart Comes Apart".

    I paced the lobby the entire show and have no memory of seeing Bud at intermission. I will put money on me hiding. That tracks.

    After the show, Bud found me and crushed my bones with his hug. I couldn't speak. He smiled and said "You know, they aren't supposed to walk and talk at the same time," with that crazy predator smile and those mirthfilled eyes. Without skipping a beat, I said "Did you just give me a note old man?" I was again crushed, this time the last of my tears were squeezed from me.

                                                            Kathy Starkey

    Kathy was my creative writing teacher at Green Mountain. I also had her for 10th regular lang arts- Big Chiefs were our journals. And when I started subbing, she started calling. She was teaching AP( or at least some higher level) at the time, and I loved subbing her classes. They were smart kids but not assholes about being smart. I subbed for a year, and then she retired the year I started at Littleton.

    The TIR program has you take classes on Monday nights while you're teaching during the day for year one, and year two you are assigned a mentor teacher who gets you across the finish line. This teacher does observations, checks boxes in paperwork and makes sure your license appliaction is in the clear.

    The summer after year one, when my Monday night teacher was "Stu" and apparently he was a former colleague of another Littleton lang arts teacher so I was double supported, I received a phone call from Kathy Starkey.

    She asked if I knew why she was calling. Since it was A) summer and B) she had retired, I was at a loss. She said plainly "I am a mentor teacher at Metro now, through the TIR. Sweetheart, you've been assigned to me."

    I'll let that one settle. That's the biggest slam dunk true "sign" a person could ever encounter. The rest of the connections are supporting cast to this main character. When I have doubts---and I Have Doubts---about becoming a teacher, I remember that this happened. Who else has a story like this in their

    This post was likely triggered by a dinner invite from K.Starkey via my high school friend Mike. I do not have a "come to my house for dinner" relationship with ...many people. But certainly not my high school lang arts teacher and TIR mentor. I assume I was invited as an afterthought, or an accident. You read my previous words, you know I choose to be invisible whenever possible and assume that tactic is working. I get dysregulated when I am unexpectedly seen. It troubles me, and my go to is that it was a mistake. I do not do curtain speeches and our final candle moments are only structured by me, I rarely speak. I cannot function without a script and I do not like to be the center of attention.

    You can stop making that face. If you know me, you know it's true. I was an actor so I could Be Somebody Else. And I need a script. If I'm comfortable at home in a social situation, I will stage manage, absolutely. But I won't perform. I've always been awkward and stand offish. Which some people would call "shy" and others would call "rude". Depends on the people watching. I leave it open to their interpretation because frankly, I have no idea which one is correct.

    But that's another story.

    Two and a half decades after I started subbing, I'm still teaching. I don't know "why", but I can tell you "how" and I decided the signs all told me to teach.

    Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: The Off Ramp

 

    26 June 2026

        The other afternoon on NPR they had an Oceanographer. I think from Washington State.

        The topic was climate change. The question, paraphrased loosely here, was "Is it too late?"

        He was clearly in front of a live audience, and I suspect he was in California, because he answered "Look, if you miss your exit, do you just keep driving to LA?"

        He went on to clarify that the smart oceanographer people have a way to help the rising temperature of the ocean, and the details were above my education grade. But I liked his thesis.

        Just because you missed your off ramp, you don't just keep driving straight. There's another off ramp. Take that one.

        Apply this to the current "political" climate. In quotes because it's not about politics, or even parties at this point. It's split between right and wrong. Cruelty and empathy. Misinformation and education.

        You're smart, you don't need me to further pontificate on that point.

        My point is that our choices in life are never without an exit ramp.

        Our parents lives and careers were very much a two lane highway to retirement with no exits. One career, 30 years, retire, collect retirement and social security. Cost of living dictated that was possible. Gosh, you may even get to buy a Winnebago and see the country.

        We tried that.   

        It didn't work, and gratefully we noted the off ramps. Some of us took them sooner than later. Some of us are still scared to commit to exiting. 

        Our children are not only well versed in these ramps, they will turn back around and re-enter the highway looking for the next off ramp, or tool through town in the business loop. They are much more adventurous and brave than we were. 

        Well...me. Than I was.

        Capitalism killed my joy and all I see are dollar signs around everything. How much does it cost? I can't afford this or that or these. I hear Princess Lea in my head "If money is what you love, then that's what you'll receive." 

        I don't love it. How can I love what I don't have?

        I just want to live debt free.

        Own my house. My car. Help my children.

        But I don't dare say anything, because a Boomer will just attack me for not working hard enough. For not saving my money.

        What money?

        I didn't sell a company and make money that I could then invest.

        My cousin is doing great, she's thrifty and learned how to invest what very little she had, she learned from her mom. So when her mom died, there was a significant amount for her and her surviving brother to then invest. I'm not mad at her. She works her ass off. As did her mom.

        I'm mad at me. 

        Did I miss an exit that would have taught me how to invest even though I had nothing to invest?

        I met with an investment guy once who straight up told me I had nothing but my house, which I could use for its equity. He couldn't understand why I had no real savings, or retirement or a portfolio. He seemed to miss the fact of the recession, when Jim lost his job and was unemployed for two years and we had to cash in his retirement to save the house.

        I felt so stupid.

        At 60 the only off ramp I see is death. Nothing is going to get any easier and I'm not inheriting money, nor do I have any to invest.

        Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: June Pony School

     26 June 2026

        My friend Andrew died a year ago.

       Sometimes you don't tag an event until you see the date in writing.

       I felt him around a few months ago. I assumed it was becuase that's when he "knew" his diagnoses was terminal, or when he started to feel poorly.

        ANYWAY.

        Pony School 2026

        I did not post daily as I had hoped. Turns out 60 is old and I would come home very tired.

        Also, I chose to pick up The Stand again and I was reading instead of writing. Which I say is perfectly reasonable.

        In addition, plain preschool pony camp is not nearly as entertaining as wrangling the ponies was.

        Our characters this year have not changed too much. The Director was here week one and then went on vacation, so AL was running things in the office with Improv Office Mananger. The elder teacher Jeep was doing science instead of teaching a class. Ree is a newer teacher, Crochet Headbands is a new co teacher, Smurf is my co teacher and Mines was promoted to lead teacher the second week when they fired Mean Words. The Mormon Bros are both there. The oldest was on his mission last year and his brother was my co Mustang teacher. The older is back and caring for the ponies with the Mustangs and Cowboy Boots, and his younger bro is doing afternoon ponies and is primarily a floater. And the office floater/co teacher Piper who I am naming after her dog that she talks about constantly always greets me with a big smile, a story about her dog and that she's going to the pool after work. She's been there a few years, she's in her early 20's.

        I don't want to use real names, and I get bored with initials. So they get descriptors. Like teaching "sign" names to my Peer to Peer students, we take an element of the person in the name. IE Val is the letter "V" in sign, but you rotate  the V in a circle to indicate movement: Val doesn't sit still. I am the letter "K"  pressed to your mouth because I talk a lot.This is me doing that in writing, I got tired of weird initials. 

        I laid out the strucutre in the first pony blog. We have 17 kids on M/W AM and 18 on T/Th AM.

        One kid did not return the second week. Both Smurf and I had refused to allow her four year old manipulation schemes to work. "Tuck my towel around my feet, my hands are holding the top of the towel", stuff like that. After three requests---because other kids had also made such requests---we exchanged glances and I said-as the Designated Bad Cop- "You can do this yourself, dear. You do not need our help."

        She did not return Monday. I cannot say why. But if I was to hazard a guess, it would be that she was not used to being told "no" and did not like it.    

        Smurf is a 20 year old former barista and current bakery employee doing what they all do in 2026; working more than one job to pay her half of the rent. She is a friend of the director's daughter. Many people are friends of the director's kids or the director. If you own a pony school and have a community, this is what it looks like. We have high school helpers from Arvada West constantly, many who are associated with either the family or the church or both.

         I love these teenagers, they are crazy respectful, positive, thoughtful and it's good for my brain to be called "kryssi" by high schoolers. It takes a mintue to adjust, but I like it. Even when I'm being called out for putting a kid's helmet on backwards. The Older Bro was directly behind me, and his deep voice said "Uh, kryssi...this doesn't look right." I laughed and the kid made a face, because he knew it was backwards, but an adult put it on that way so he wasn't going to say anything. This week, the same kid told me his helmet was on backwards. I had put in on properly but did so from behind while he was seated on the bench, so he took the moment to mess with me. He's four. It was awesome.

        Smurf has blue hair, patience, an open face and kind voice. She's the perfect Good Cop to my Bad Cop. I like working with her alot. We have a few siblings in our room, and one grandparent made sure to stop me at pickup and say "Tell the young lady with blue hair how much the kids love her. They talk about her all day after camp." I relayed the message and Smurf touched her heart and honestly teared up. She works with the general public at the bakery, I understand how much this moment meant to her. It was likely the kindest thing she'd heard in days.

        This week, instead of calling them 'Bears', which they are (there are Mustangs, Rangers and A Third I've Forgotten)I started calling them "Bananas In Pajamas". Because it rhymes and I'm 60 and losing my mind, so things must rhyme.

        See?

        I mean it! Anybody want a peanut?

        I made some notations:

        *Three and four year olds are wearing sweatshirts from Martha's Vineyard, Hoodies from Disney and even Paris, ball caps from NASA and Hawaii. Crochet Headband was wearing her T Shirt from BUCEES.

        * Older Bro was sitting in the office as the kids were getting picked up. He was humming the opening bass riff from "Smoke on the Water". He is maybe 21 years old at best. I stopped cold. "Dude, how do you even know that song?"

        He smiled "How old do you think I am?"
        
        "Not 60."

        Apparently that was an hilarious response as the Office Folx and Bro's laughter followed me back into the classroom.

        * The beginning of week two I was greeted by Improv telling me Mean Words had been fired. I didn't know her but by sight, and I have zero interest in any adult drama, thanks. But Improv is very much Drama Based, and this was (apparently) a doozie. My response was "Who is Mean Words?"  I was pretty sure I knew, but I felt like passive aggressively sending an "I Don't Care" vibe so I didn't have to say it outloud. I honestly could care less, I stopped moving only because she was blocking my way, and I started pushing past her within seconds of her breathless news delivery. I have shaving cream, glue and food coloring I need to mix for craft, thanks for the news flash. As I walked to my room, Mines emerged from the other room she co taught with Mean Words, and I smiled at her and said "I heard you've been promoted" she shrugged and smiled "Ya, I guess so." That's all you need to do, no drama necessary. 

       * A mama bunny had her babies within 20 feet of the pony ring. It was discovered too late to move the den very far, so an experienced team led by Improv moved them another 10 feet, put a cardboard box with a door cut out over the den, and an orange traffic cone on top. This was on a Wednesday, so the true relocation didn't take place until Friday when there were not students. I don't know where the den moved, but mama bunny has been very busy digging holes around the tricycle track.

        * A barn cat in training was added. Apparently there is a regular teacher who adopts and fosters cats. One had a litter a year or so ago, and she felt one of them would do well as a barn cat. So he's being trained. He has a cage in the barn to adapt him to the smells, they walk him around on a leash so he knows the area. I'm unsure if they've had a barn cat previously, but this was a new approach to me. On my grandparents' farm, barn cats were born in the barn. You know: Barn Cats.

        * Smurf had a small group of bug minded girls who would stop at every spider on the playground, pointing out colors and number of legs. They found a grasshopper they named "Jewel" and I made them move him back to the grass before they inadvertently murdered him. A roly poly was also found, but he had long since stopped roly polying. Smurf looked at the kids and said "He's a goner", and the girl who had relocated Jewel asked if she could move him to the grass with Jewel. "He'll be happier there," she said.  I agreed. Nobody should die on the playground and be left to the shuffle and stomp of preschool herds. 

        * The pony named Rocket was put into time out for two days. He bit Older Bro. It wasn't like he nibbled his hand while being fed, he walked over and chomped on his thigh. All the ponies were off the last week, Older Bro got stomped on a few times as well, and Taz dug in and refused to move more than once. While the Bears were riding, a breeze blew a plastic tub lid off of the tub and the three ponies on the ring all startled. Which is pretty terrifying if you are four and riding on the back of what is a horse to you. And we cancelled pony rides once for wind--they are truly skittish---and yesterday for mud puddles and rain.

        * The kids discovered that Smurf will play tag with them. One boy caught her, and declared "I'm the fastest like a cheetah because I ate my rasperries this morning".

        * One girl did not wear her swimsuit under her clothes for the last water day. Which is fine, I told her she could splash and go home wet. She went straight to the wading pool and took off her clothes. By the time I got to her, she was pulling off her unders. "My goodness, dear, let's put your clothes back on, ok? You can splash in your clothes." She redressed--pants inside out, shirt inside out and backwards---then ran banshee  screaming with joy to the edge of the water tower with an empty bucket. I explained why her clothes were inside out and backwards when her grandma arrived to pick her up, because I don't want the police involved. Grandma brushed it of "Ya, she does that."

        * The last water day on Wednesday was epic, behaviors and meltdowns everywhere. By week three they start to let you see who they really are. One kid was already on the struggle bus when the water tower ladder collapsed, and the dogpile of kids landed on her since she was on the bottom rung. So Much Screaming. Nothing broken except her spirit. Once she calmed down, she returned only to have a kid "touch" her on her leg, which resulted in another meldown. I called AL at that point and sent her to the office. This kid also did not wear her swimsuit under her clothes as directed, so additional time had to be carved out so she could change.

        * A Kid was having a rough day with behaviors. It was the last Weds, so they weren't wearing name tags. I called her the wrong name all day--no wonder she didn't stop jumping on the pony umbrella stand. I even said "I've asked you wrong name repeatedly to stop." Older Bro had to correct me, because the child whose name I was using was standing next to me, looking up at me like "What?" That was not an "I'm 60" moment; I was fully 80 years old. Dear Lord.

        * The name tag thing; yes, I'm 60. But I struggle with names for a cornucopia of reasons. Firstly, teaching for 23 years means several hundred students whose names and faces are ultimately archetypes. Nobody is truly unique, just own it. I know you if you spent two to four years in my department. I make up names all the time for high school kids becuase their name is the same as someone who looked nothing like them years ago, or yesterday, but they look like a different kid and I have to differentiate. It's fine, the kids kinda dig it. At Hinkley there were a small group who called me "Bob" for the same reason I renamed them. 

        These kids are three and four years old, the same height, hair color and frequently, same colored shirt. So yes. I struggle. If their personalities are not strongly differentiated, like a few who are relentlessly quiet, I cannot remember their names. I remember the name of the kid who is three and never stood in line. Whenever we went outside, he made a beeline for the playhouse. That's how I learned his name. Three others were there all four days, easy to remember. The one who clung to her dad every morning--her name was easy to learn. There were two little bittie blondes who wore princess dresses that I mixed up constantly. It's not the names themselves---they are truly unique. Parents are really digging into old names. It's attaching the name to the kid. The director wants constant name to face in the Brightwheel app, but I refuse to put more apps on my phone, so I made Smurf do it. Which is also why I struggled with names. It's not like when I was at Littleton and every blonde boy was Jake and I had three Brittneys.   

        I made noise about not returning in July. I want my summer, but I said I'd help. It's not like I work in a coal mine. It's preschool. And I'm a nice guy, and they clearly need my help.

        I just won't do it next year.

        I mean it.

        Anobody want a peanut?

        Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: Frazzle

 20 June 2026

        "Democrats and republicans are two cheeks of the same butt." -Parkrose Permaculture

        Let's discover today's thoughts together. I have no thesis going in.

       The rental car smells like sweat socks and BO. How is that possible? They detail these things, and they didn't notice becuse it didn't smell like smoke? Dude.

        First I awknowledge my privilege. My oldest wants to borrow my car for a camping trip. Theirs won't make the trip, and they can't afford pay it off or fix it, in addition they also cannot afford health insurance, which is not relevent to cars but relevent to life. They are a successful hairdresser who is booked solid, makes too much money to qualify for medicaid and not enough to pay for inflated cost poor insurance coverage on the exchanges. They are the example of how our society is murdering an entire generation. But I digress. Or do I? I have no opening statement.

        My privilege is that Jim and I have the means, through his job, to rent cars when needed. So G can take mine, I'll take the rental and he'll take the corvette. Because we're also short his Subaru which has an oil change date on Monday, so he has to take the corvette. So Much Privilege.

        But not enough to make my child's car or insurance payments. I have to have a car because I have to work over the summer to sustain my privilege.

        Meanwhile the newly uncovered, true "deep state" of millionaires are planning their yearly retreat outside of Dublin, and our POS governor is on the guest list. Since he pardoned Trump's election fraud lackey---again, the left are frauds?---we all knew something was up. I'll put money on this group, led by Thiel, being the true Epsteiners that Trump was trying to protect.

        Good thing I didn't like Polis in the first place.   

        He may be Epstein class, but he's gay so I'm pretty confused. 

        Good thing I cast my ballot in the primaries so the next guy should Do Better.

        Right after he was elected to office the DPS teachers went on strike. His response was to...do nothing...for way too long. Immediately I knew he was a fraud. Any governor worth a box of crayons would immediately jump in and begin to mediate, and a smart one would side with the teachers.    

        I would say "but I digress" but I did not begin with a thesis.

        We're driving out to Genoa today, to the Glen Cemetery. I have unrelenting anxiety. The kind I get when something big is coming.

        And there it is. Jim decided not to come with us to the cemetery. For reasons that are selfish, period.

          More to come...

        

        

60 Years Are Too Many: The Goats Are Dead

  19 June

    My Facebook memories-which are how I track my life since my brain is gone-tell me that last Juneteenth was a Thursday, so we didn't have pony school. But I was reminded of a pony school story that insists on being repeated.

    In June of 2025, my second summer of pony school, we had been told at the beginning of summer meeting that the goats had died. There were two goats who were elderly and got sick. There was also a missing pony, Aspen, but I think she was just mean and "moved to a different farm".  She'd been relieved of her duties long before the school year began,but the two goats had been present through the end of the school year and had literally just died days before. So many of the kids would notice the lack of caprines in the pen. 

    It's also important to note that the vet who put the goats down is a pony school parent. Many of the kids had already heard rumors. Just because they're in preschool, doesn't mean they're stupid. But it does mean that they will share whatever information they have with the group the moment they all descend on the farm.

    The director decided the best choice was to not tell the children unless they asked. Her logic was that many parents aren't ready for death conversations, and it's not on us to have them.

    On a preschool farm. Where---I'd wager a guess--many animals have died.

    But hey, gratefully, I Am Not In Charge. I love that journey for me.

    So on Day One of pony school, there were 60-ish five and unders, and a handfull of six through eight year olds who were the Mustangs--the pony wranglers. The Mustangs were my kids, so I focused on them.

    As we were all crammed into the entrance after lawn check in, the call went up. 

    It was like the Mockingjay call from District 12. Hands waving and scattered, small voices stage whispering "The goats are dead! The goats are dead!"

    I laughed out loud. Because what did the director think was going to happen? And the look on her face said it all: panic. She hurridly pretended she didn't hear the kids and parced them into their rooms.

    So we herded the kids into their classrooms, mine went out to the ponies, and I assume the other poor teachers had to explain that the goats were in fact dead to wide eyed pony school campers. Welcome to summer camp! We're going to ride ponies and pet Poe the Pig and the goats died, but don't ask about it. Today's craft is a suncatcher, pay attention.

    I had five kids--the oldest was eight, the youngest was six. Being the Rule Following White Girl that I am, I did not address the dead goats. The kids took care of it themselves.They stood looking at the empty goat pen and devised their own explanations: the goats were sick, they were old, they fell down, they are buried under the barn. My only contribution was to tell them that we would not be digging under the barn to find the bodies. The kids were not just fine but hilarious, I didn't need to call a school psychologist. We moved to care for the ponies and they forgot about the goats.

    Later we were in the classroom drawing, and one of the eight year olds was drawing  a rocket ship with what looked like Santa riding along. I asked if that was Santa and he replied plainly and loudly, like I was an idiot, "There is no Santa. Everyone knows that."

    The six year old did not know that. 

    Her eyes widened, and she looked to me. She looked at the adult in the room, expecting the truth. The truth about the goats, the truth about Santa. I panicked--we can't talk about death, there was a Whole Meeting, but what am I supposed to do about Santa? So I looked her straight in the eye and responsed:

    "The goats are dead!"

__________________________________________________________________________

    June 2026 week two at pony school has been "uneventful".

    Instead of the wonderful, older Mustangs who can function, I have eighteen three to five year olds who cannot. They do not say funny and clever things. They do not pontificate on the burial customs of farm animals. Several are barely verbal. I have five kids across two classes who are speech delayed. One clearly knows what she is talking about, I just don't understand what she's saying. She's in speech therapy, and her mom came to camp this week, so I watched her interact with her child and got a few ideas. It's not sign language--there is a kid with hearing aids with whom I use that mode. I told his mom-who is a para at camp- that I know just enough sign language to be dangerous. She mistook my signing as an indication that I Know Sign Language. The speech therapy tools are more about gestures to remind her to use her tongue, open her mouth fully and feel where the words are. It's super cool.

    But delays are not why I don't love these classes. I can do delays, I've had kids on IEP's for centuries, I can adapt. It's their age. 

    They aren't funny.

    That's it. I spend my three hours every morning chasing, repeating, hand holding, sunscreening, schlepping up and down on and off the ponies, cleaning the tables constantly because craft is messy and snack is messy and differentiated for allergies and sanitizing blocks and yesterday was bread day which is a fun day if you're six and misery with eighteen three year olds who cannot hold their pan of bread in both hands and sit quietly for five minutes waiting for their parents;trampled bread, dropped bread, the call of "Bread Down!" going out like "Clean up on Aisle Nine!", the auctioning off of forgotten water bottles, sun hats and weirdly a pair of socks that nobody seems to remember removing from their feet-it's endless.

    Preschool teachers are angels.

    And yet...every day I am acutely aware that I am sixty, and I cannot retire from teaching and pay my mortgage, so I'll need a job with insurance and...I could do this. Teaching preschool could be my retirement.

    I'm done with high school theatre after this year. Enough.4e3 ccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccc

    That was Houston stopping by, stomping across the keyboard while I let the dogs in.

    I can't sub: no insurance.

    I can't work part time in a school district: no insurance.

    So I'd have to find a non-public/private/charter situation who do not participate in pera so I can get my big 53% of my salary as retirement, and work doing Something Else that has insurance attached.

    While I'd be OK clerking at King Soopers, I am not OK working at Starbucks. I need a low cognitive load with zero leadership responsibility.

    Like preschool teacher.

    Which is physically demanding, but cognatively just about right and I'm only in charge of my class. BoooohhYA, no building a department, dealing with renovations and misfiring tech, sudent absences, etc. 

    I'd love to work from home. My cousin works for Progressive as a trainer. I'm not interested in training people, I'll just take phone calls, watch videos of accidents and fill out forms. I know the shitty side---having to deny a claim because the leak that flooded your house was pre-existing, watching the parking lot video of you backing directly into the other car as I listen to you name call and insist You Didn't Do It through my headset, knowing the blood on the bumper was not from a deer and passing the info on to the police--I've heard some doozies.  

    And I'd get to work from home.

    My Cuz makes as much as I do as a trainer/supervisor working from home.

    If you would pay me $50k a year and offer insurance I'd do data entry from home. Sounds Great. I like my house, I hate leaving it and I'm 60. I'd love to retire but that is not a reality for me.

    I'd also teach preschool at a farm preschool, where the kids can ride and pet ponies, feed goats and a pot bellied pig named Pigger Alan Poe.

    Sigh.

    Scene.

        

60 Years Are Too Many: I Passed The Thing

 16 June 2026

    I'm listening to Short History of British Punk. Recommend.

    Today at Pony School:

    * A four year old needed to list/name all of her stuffies. Their names are outstanding, reflecting the depth of intellect of her household. My favorite was an Octopus named Socrates.

    * I remembered most of their names without having to look at name tags. M/W I have three boys who look exactly alike, and yesterday I was able to differentiate them.On T/Th it's the girls who look the same. Because all small white children look exactly the same. I said what I said. I had the same issue at Littleton with teenaged white boys sporting the exact same blonde buzz cuts with a Jersey handle up front and they were all named Jake or Jack. 

    I also got home to the email that I passed the stupid district thing. Whether I passed or they just decided after three tries they were tired of reading I dunno and I don't care. It was a distraction I guess. Now I need something else.

    I am not well, mentally.

    The cruelty of this country is getting to me and I refuse to look away. Even though there is nothing I can do to stop it. Send the comet please, hit reset, do what you gotta do but please blow up this experiment and let God sort us out. All the Pretti Good people, children, and those desperately doing the right thing are tired. We're ready to go. I'm not interested in trying to change minds. I'm not interested in "holding out" until the midterms. 

    People are dying.

    They're being killed, by lack of healthcare, concentration camp incarceration...by cruelty.

    Cruelty.

    A specific human trait.

    While dolphins are ass hole rapists, nature doesn't deliberately refuse help to her inhabitants. They lack the science and skill to help the three legged wolf, but they try. They keep the sick and old in the middle of pack for protection. Whales raise the children together.

    We're the only ones that attack one another because we hate.

    We are the only ones that are cruel.

    And I can't watch it anymore.

    Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: Racism, District PD's and Preschoolers

 15 June

    No one of taste needs to repeat what was said last night after the UFC fight.

    No one of intellect is surprised.

    Which is why it is heartbreaking.

    Also he's now investigating Gavin Newsom.

    I hate it here.

    Which is why I guess I am grateful  that the district PD I have been assigned has gone sideways, causing a New And Exciting Distraction. 

    All who know me know the motorcycle accident in 2015 seriously snapped my brain synapses. Like permanently. They do not reattach after the age of 50. So since then, the brain fog, in ability to remember names ---I'm  a TEACHER---or names of a thing I'm looking at, let alone lines, is frustrating. I'm not old, this is not because I'm 60. It's because I wrecked my motocycle and landed head first, skidding 30 feet on the left side of my body. That's also why I have a limp, but I digress.

    The point is that things like reading comprehension have become a struggle bus.

    I've adapted, but this particular PD was a bitch.

    It's The Latest And Greatest manifesto on forcing culturally responsive equality in the classroom.

    Because nobody is teaching equitably, I guess. Or some suits at the district without real job descriptions got jumpy and needed something to do.

    It's hours of video and journaling and reading and all saying The Same Thing that everyone already knows. Kids Learn Differently, So Adapt.

    I know. Shocking.

    Their culture, language, religion, history all inform how they learn. 

    So does their emotional state, autism, Down Syndrome, disabilities, Tik Tok and Snapchat addictions.

    After wasting hours of my life I will never get back, I learned my mistake was to lead my answers with MI/S kids -special needs-and ELL-English Language Learners. Because it seemed to me, the whole thing was about inclusion, and those populations are the two I have the largest number, so I led with them and how I include them.

    I submitted my answers,and was chastized for focusing on only MI/S adaptations. The grader's tone was "That's nice, but there are other kids."

    OK, so I rewrote my answer to include ELL.

    Again, I Did Not Pass the class. She wants me to be more ...wordy...about All Kids. This time she said not to include MI/S or ELL. Talk about all kids and how I teach in a culturally responsive way. Because, as she pointed out, there's a lot of culture in theatre...

    I had no idea. Really? 

    And how come I'm not forcing kids to talk about social injustice? She was really hot on social injustice. 

    Ummmm...because it's not in my content to force the issue? It comes up naturally in scene work and play reading later, but stage combat is taught the third week of class. Which is where my Spanish speakers create scenes about being pulled over by the police, police brutality and ICE. Isn't that a social injustice issue? We don't TALK about it, and I do not PLAN for it. It's not my lesson plan, and no, I'm not going to create a lesson plan about it just because they shared their personal experiences. Want to know why?

    I Am Not A Counselor. I am not qualified, it is not my job.

    I have been give one slide per question to use as my answer. In some cases, there are three parts to the answer, all on one slide. And I'm supposed to choose one unit, which I decided was stage combat.

    I was being precise and to the point, but that was wrong.

    I expanded the second time, but that was also wrong.

    So I added slides and literally took every vocab word they gave me and added What I Do To Support That Word in class, which sounded very much like I teach everybody the same and do not differentiate for anyone. 

    So I'm quite pissed at this point, largely because I read the questions and I answered them deliberately pointing out how flexible theatre is, only to be told I don't force kids to talk about their personal lives enough.

    By the time I got to the third edit, I knew I wasn't "doing it right', but she kept telling me I was vague and wanting me to add "social injustice" when I do not do lessons on social injustice.

    I came home today exhausted. I've written five pages of responses that had to be edited to three slides---to which I added two more---and I know I Did Not Pass. Because I cannot grasp what it is I'm being asked to do. If I understood, I'd just make something up. But I can't make up that I deliberately create lessons about domestic abuse because a kid is abused and created a scene about the abuse. That's for counseling to deal with, not for me to dig farther.

    I have been teaching theatre for 23 years. I teach Spanish speakers, Swahili,  Tongan, Maori and Chinese speakers. I teach LGBTQ kids, black kids, brown kids, autistic kids, kids in wheelchairs, blind kids, severe needs kids. I teach them all equally, I adapt to each one and I can't pass a class on culturally responsive teaching because I do not use their personal lives directly in my lesson plans, or force them to talk about social injustice?

    I call Bullshit, Hal.

    I just spent a week struggling with feedback that was supposed to be precise but kept telling ME I was vague. I wasn't vague, you just don't want to know what I do for my kids.  I wasn't vague, I told you specifically how I adapt to get MI/S kids on stage and involved, and how I communicate with MLL kids. I  wrote in paragraphs, and then in bullet points that had to be edited down for the slide but was not In Depth Enough. I went back to the slideshow class to pull specific vocab to attach to What I Do and I have concluded that if I don't pass, and somehow this effects my employment, then my employment ends here.

    I repeat this mantra constantly: If you wanna know how I teach, come watch me teach.

    We in the performing arts do All Of The Things---adapt, differentiate, counsel, feed, listen support, lather, rinse repeat---but we do not base our lessons on these things. We still have to teach our content. Music is music. Words are words. We can discuss how they impact you, but a lesson on Why Mozart Is Just Like You is not a real thing. I have way too much PTSD about the plays I taught in Litteton being "triggers" for the kids, I will not be forcing personal issues  into a lesson plan. I supposed I could say I teach Fences to every class, but I don't. Ugh. What Do They Want?

    I can't even lie and make something up that fits what they want, because as soon as I think I know, I go back and read the feedback and I'm not creating lessons to specifically reflect a kid's personal life. I think I know what they mean, and it's not authentic. Teach Fences for the one black kid in class. There are no spanish plays that I am aware of that are appropriate for high school students. I think I know what they mean---let the autistic kid tell his story in a scene with non autistic kids--but, that assumes that they want to.

    I did write a version of this: they tell their stories in scenes. I force nothing, I'm just there to allow it to happen and teach them how to structure a story and project. They give feedback in a circle, and share their lives and cultures in two speeches in the fall.

    If I'm not mistaken, and clearly I am---re: snapped synapses---they want me to forcibly ask a kid about their personal life and then build an entire lesson around that kid's experiences. I can't even lie about doing that because I can tell you right now it would fail. They have to reveal in their own time. They have to trust the class and trust me. I get it---I've had kids from Kazitstan and Moldovia do speeches about their countries. But I didn't then do an entire lesson on the theatre of their country. I didn't see that it was necessary. It means more to them to share it and have it recieved--and then have a scene partner suggest their culture or personal life is included in the scene. It's about them connecting, not me forcing the connection.

    I get it-force the white kids to learn about the other kids. I do show and tell in high school for precisely this reason.

    I disagree that I should then build an entire lesson on each diverse student's culture. That's not inclusive, that's intrusive.

    I could lie. I could make something up.

    I don't want to. 

    If this is where culturally resposive teaching and equity is going, I'm out.

     I don't know where I'd go, because preschool is not my jam. At least summer camp. It's too many kids with limited ability to communicate their legion needs.

    It wasn't even that hot today and I'm wiped out. The late bloomer talkers are also wanderers and have no interest in doing what the other kids are doing.

    I dunno man...we'll see. I clearly am not understanding the assignment.

    Scene.