Consensual Living

It's probably not what you think. It's certainly not what I thought. What "Consensual Living" is, is a parenting "technique" that damn near guarantees that the children "raised" with it will turn out to be hellions. An excerpt:

In the consensual living model, father doesn't know best. Neither does mom. Instead, parents and children are equal partners in family life, according to the principles laid out at consensual-living.com.
...
Devotees study books such as Unconditional Parenting by Alfie Kohn and Marshall Rosenberg's Nonviolent Communication, and they consider parenting based on punishment and reward structures to be "coercive."

In contrast, "consensual" parenting is non-hierarchical.

The article, which I trust you can read without me continuing to blockquote it, goes on to discuss how the mommy and daddy of this little family negotiate with their toddlers, asking them for feedback on the rules with questions like "will that work for you?" and so on. I cannot even begin to describe all the ways this makes me angry.
But I'll try.

Let's start with the obvious: Consensual implies consent on the part of all people involved, and the way this reads to me, mommy and daddy are doing all of the bending. The children are certainly not mature enough to understand the need to compromise. They're still thoroughly planted in the "MINE MINE MINE!" phase of life and need to be taught how to act like good, selfless people. They do not need to be given the impression from birth that they can demand their way and that the people in authority over them actually aren't.

Let's also consider that our parents are our models for dealing with anyone else "bigger" than we are (older, more powerful, authority figures). Do we honestly believe that little Johnny's teacher or boss is going to give half a rat's ass about his feelings and "need to be validated?" (What does this mean, anyway? To me, "validation" is something they do with parking. But, I digress.)

Parents are responsible for giving their children the tools they need to survive in their world. Which means these children need to know that they are not the axis upon which the Earth spins. This is the absolute worst in lazy parenting, in psychobabble nonsense that makes parents feel that their job is to be the child's friend.

Another excerpt, this time from Consensual Living. This is from the section entitled "Principles of Consensual Living":

* Equality

The thoughts, feelings, wants, needs and/or solutions, of each individual involved, are equally valued, and equally considered. Everyone has thoughts, feelings, opinions, wants, needs, and/or solutions. We all must see those and the individual as equal regardless of our differences. It is more than just treating everyone as equal, each member of the family must be equal. If all family members do not truly feel equal, the process will be less than successful.

Doesn't that sound nice? Doesn't it sound like butterflies and rainbows and happiness? The problem here is that in point of fact, it never works this way. The parent demonstrates patience and spinelessness, whilst the child grows into an unholy terror. This is somewhat akin to the Tragedy of the Commons, the concept of a Miracle occurring and causing humans to not act like humans. Humans are selfish creatures. Young ones especially, for their instincts towards preservation of the species exist only inasmuch as they feel the need for survival.

The infant quickly learns that if it performs certain actions, others will respond in predictable ways. The parents of babies who pick baby up whenever it cries will create babies who cry when they want to be picked up. (Not to say that parents should not pick up their babies when they cry, but that parents should learn the difference between "I need something" cries and "I demand attention!" cries.)
The child who learns that saying things like "I feel hurt and rejected when you won't let me X" will get the parent to let him/her do X will fall back on those buzzwords. And what's worse, the child will not respect the parent, or itself. The child will loathe itself because deep down, it knows what it is doing is wrong. And that's the best case scenario. The worst case is one I've seen far too often: the sociopath.

This is just...UGH. I can't even begin to describe how angry I am about this. Parents are responsible for their children, but they are also responsible TO them, and as parents you have a real responsibility to make sure your child turns out as well-educated, well-socialized, and well-adjusted as possible. Some kids will go bad no matter what, but it's YOUR JOB to make sure that your child is given the best possible chance at becoming a decent human being. And this is NOT the way it's done.

Your Child, The Common Cold, and Your Friendly Neighborhood Tutor

We all know that children are susceptible to all manner of nasty little viruses (virii?) and bacteria. We all know that children, not fully aware of how icky it is to forget to wash their little hands after using the facilities, or to wipe their runny little noses on the backs of their cartoon-character-festooned shirt sleeves, or to cough in the faces of those they hold dear, are prone to catching lots of curable, but highly annoying diseases. If I had a child, I would probably be more tolerant of my child's inability to understand Universal Precautions. But I do not have a child. I have cats and they do not sneeze, cough, puke, bleed, piss, or crap on me. Your children do.
I have had nearly every bodily fluid sprayed on me during the course of my job, and it's disgusting. For the most part, these children do horrible things to me because their parents are not cognizant of my status as a human being. I am, according to these people, a machine which does not succumb to illness. Unfortunately for all of us, I am not a Stepford Tutor and I have a very weak immune system. All this means that if your little plague rat enters my facility with even the barest whisper of a cough, I get bronchitis. If your child has an upset tummy, I get the kind of intestinal infection that makes one pray for the sweet kiss of death.
My facility has a very liberal policy regarding illness. If the child is sick, keep it at home and we will happily schedule a make-up hour for it when it is no longer a possible Patient Zero for a tutoring facility epidemic. Since we do have such a nice, easy, liberal policy regarding sickness, I cannot imagine why a parent would send their ill child to be tutored. Do they think that precious will learn anything while hacking, coughing, sneezing, or barfing? Do they think anything will be retained? Or possibly, should we let little precious stay home, drink some ginger ale, and watch Spongebob reruns?
I bring all of this up because today I am running a fever and coughing my lungs out thanks to a plague rat child. It's not the child's fault, of course, because the child did not choose to be sick nor did the child choose to come to see me. I blame the parent. I blame the inconsiderate parent who didn't want to upset his/her routine. So now, the child is still sick, and still being sent to before-school care, school, after-school care, and then finally to me. Apparently the child is less important that mommy and daddy's day planner.

Charisma

It's something a person like me needs to guard against. I'm not exactly sure that I do a good job of it. Allow me to explain.
I am well-educated, and I am well-read, but I am not a genius. I can appear to be smarter than I really am, because I have learned that the trick to looking smart is to ape smart people. I get an awful lot of credit for seeming really smart and really on top of things because I can retain information and, when the need arises, discuss the information passionately, with great dramatic voice and captivating gestures that my audience feel what I want them to feel. Reagan had it, Obama has it. George W. Bush had it more than either of his serious opponents (Gore and Kerry). This is why actors get paid so much, because they can lie convincingly.
Don't misunderstand me. I'm not suggesting it's a bad thing to be able to do. It's a good thing. People like being lied to. They like believing that their Hollywood heroes are real people. We like that. It's not bad or good. It's a neutral thing. The bad stuff only happens when people don't separate the fantastic from the real.
There's a book called Double Star, written by a man named Robert Heinlein, whose early work is the stuff on which I was weaned. (My parents, as far as I can remember, didn't really buy us kids "children's literature." Instead, we read stories we couldn't fully understand, but could at least get the surface plot of, and were never subjected to your average child's diet of morality plays.) The book, Double Star, is about an actor who has to play the part, to truly become, a kidnapped politician. I don't mean politician as we mean it today. Think Churchill. A good man, and an honest politician. As the story is written as a first-person narrative, an extended journal entry almost, the actor discusses his beliefs and his ability to take on the role he is required to play. He suggests that he could come to love and understand Jack the Ripper if required to play him. Jack Nicholson has said similar things about the baddest of baddies he plays so well.
In a favorite movie of mine, The Jackal starring Bruce Willis, Richard Gere, and Sidney Poitier, Bruce plays the title character, a cold-blooded monster of an assassin. But he has charisma, and as you watch the movie, during the scenes in which it's The Jackal versus other bad guys, you want The Jackal to make it. You want him to win. He's a sympathetic character. This is the danger of charisma. Charismatic people can make you believe what they want you to. They can make you love what they love, and fear what they fear. This is how people have been convinced throughout history to do terrible, terrible things. And I'm good at it.
A couple of my friends and I were discussing a mutual acquaintance the other night. I was assuming the pose of the lecturer, and waxing philosophic about the acquaintance's failings, chiefly his need to be the Arbiter of Cool in our circle of friends and acquaintances. I find him incredibly annoying because of his need to be smarter and cooler than other people. As I was driving home that night, it struck me how much like him I am. And I felt ashamed. I felt suddenly how much I need to be the smart one. I wear my nerd-status proudly. I want people to believe I know more than they do, and that I am smarter than they are. I talk about subjects that people find difficult and painful to work with as if they are easy. For me, they are. I routinely tell my students that something difficult isn't "that hard." I have told myself in the past that I say this because I want to inspire self-confidence instead of fear. Now I'm not so sure. Do I, perhaps, say these things more so that the child will be confident in himself, or in me? Does my need to be the smart one override what's best for the child? I hope not.
As I think about the way that we approach our students and their parents, I am stunned by how fake we are, how much of an act we put on. We can fake sincerity like no one else. We can sit and listen, make the right noises at the right times, fix a face of concerned sympathy, and finish the sentences for you as if we understand exactly what you're going through when in fact we are just remembering the last twenty parents who said this same thing. But we can pretend as though your situation is unique and different, that your child is special and important to us personally. And when our meeting is concluded, we will bad-mouth you and your child. We can't seem to help ourselves. We belittle your beliefs and your stupid kid and your inability to deal with reality.
What does all this mean? Why did I write this post? I think to warn you. As much as parents can be unpleasant and obnoxious, teachers can be more so. Do not assume that all teachers who claim to care actually do. Teachers, tutors, administrators and managers of teaching facilities are not to be trusted without good cause. Don't trust us just because we have our sheepskins. We don't always know what's best, and sometimes we don't really care. We're just trying to make you think we do so we can get our jobs done.

Lack of Planning On Your Part...

does not constitute an emergency on mine.

I wouldn't think this would be hard to understand, but apparently it is. We are not drop-off sites. Tutors get paid by the hour. Tutoring centers charge by the hour. This is not the gym, it's not the rec center, the Boys & Girls Club, or your mother's house. We have calendars and schedules that are more important to us than your child. Some of us even have friends and spouses, maybe we have children, too! We certainly have lives. So, if your precious little baby has not gotten something done in a timely manner, it is not our fault and it is not our responsibility. I cannot even begin to count the number of times someone has come into this facility, and asked--nay, demanded--that we work with their child immediately! They don't care if we don't actually have any tutors fluent in the K'thvalgean dialect of Klingon. (Yes, I just made that up.) The fact that we can't help their child is proof that we are racist/bigots/Trekkie-phobes/mean/baby-eaters/seal-clubbers. Riiiiiight, because we don't like making money. We'd rather turn you away for no good reason than squeeze a couple hundred bucks out of you.
Most of the people who do this to us are not clients. They walk in off the street, look around the facility, make snarky comments about our decor, prices, and/or policies, and then act as though they are being magnanimous for deigning to speak to us without holding a lace perfumed handkerchief over their noses and mouths. When we tell them that we are unable to accommodate their requests, they begin their tirade.
Just this past week I had a couple come barging into the lobby, snapping their fingers and trying to talk to me through the (closed) receptionists' window. I am not the receptionist. I was just in the receptionist's office. Nevertheless, I did my best to discuss the lay of the land with these parents. As I do have administrative duties, and as I have been working here almost since the doors opened, I do know a thing or two about the rates, policies, procedures, and programs. Like your average gym, we do not simply let people walk in off the street. We have paperwork. We have managers with whom one must meet prior to service. There are agreements to make, schedules to consider, and so forth.
When I explained to these parents that while I understood that their child had a test tomorrow, and that young Master Bates most certainly needed some assistance with the History of Cauliflower, there were no Vegetable History tutors scheduled that night and I didn't know of any who were available on this short notice. Mr. and Mrs. Bates were incensed and explained to me that this was unacceptable and if I weren't an incompetent nitwit, I would get on the deleted phone and call some censored people and make sure that someone got his or her redacted into our penny-ante unprintable facility immediately to help their precious baby boy.
Anyone who works in customer service knows how irritating "That's unacceptable!" is. In all honesty, this phrase is more likely to damn you in the eyes of the service people than a steady stream of profanity. These days, vulgar language is like litter: it's everywhere and no one really notices anymore. However, sayings gleaned from '90's management philosophy books are the same trite nonsense we've been hearing for many, many years and we're frankly damn well sick and tired of it. We've heard it enough from our bosses, many of us left the corporate world to get away from that silliness, and hearing it infect the everyday world is enough to send us all running for the hills. So, please believe me when I tell you that if you tell a customer service representative in any store, restaurant, or business "that's unacceptable!" or "failure is not an option!" or "mistakes are not tolerated!" or reference the moving of cheese in anyway, you will only succeed in making a highly negative impression on the person to whom you speak. We will remember you, your image and your whining, angry voice branded into our minds, and we will remember that you believe that you are above not only the rules of etiquette and common decency, but the laws of thermodynamics as well, specifically the one about creating something from nothing. So, please for the love of whatever you hold holy or sacred, just stop.
And, shockingly enough for those of you who fall into the above category, regardless of the feelings of the person in question, the truth does not care if it is acceptable, printable, convenient, or likeable. And none of us in the customer service enjoys telling a potential customer or client that we can't help them. It's lost revenue, and no one likes this. We lose bonuses, we lose scheduled hours, and we lose the chance to make a difference. We are genuinely unhappy when we have to turn someone away. We don't do it lightly. We don't do it when we can possibly avoid it. We are greedy capitalist pigs and we like money. We want to be Tutor of the Month, because we want that $100 bonus.
Anyway, Mr. and Mrs. Bates had nothing but rude things to say to me, as I stood there with the fake Customer-Service smile plastered on my face, one part of my brain thinking about what it would feel like to--just once!--fight back while another part repeated the Litany Against Rage (lesser-known than the Bene Gesserit's Litany Against Fear) while a third part said, bemused and slightly bewildered "I'm so glad I went to college for this." My reptilian brain just wanted a Twinky and my creative side considered if the National Endowment for the Arts would endorse a mural made of blood and brain matter. Eventually Mr. and Mrs. Bates stormed off, saying we shall never hold their custom! Never! They would go to the Swanky Overpriced Tutoring Center instead.
Oh, heavens no. Please don't go! We'll do anything! We didn't mean to drive you away! Look, we'll cancel all our other appointments and go kidnap an appropriate tutor and force them, at gunpoint if necessary, to tutor your precious baby if only you'll promise not to go! is what I did not shout as I watched them struggle to open the door that's always locked. (Why do we do this? Why is one door only for show?) They eventually figured out their error, cursed the door and suggested it do something utterly impossible with itself (as it lacks the motive power, flexibility, and requisite anatomy) before storming off in search of someone else who would be willing to endure hell for the sake of $100 or so.

God help the child these people have conceived. He never had a chance.

Helicopters and Hellions

I'm sure you've all heard the term "Helicopter Parent." Maybe you are one. I certainly hope not. But just in case someone out there has never become acquainted with this term, a Helicopter Parent is the kind of parent who buzzes over their child, like a toy helicopter with no safety guard around its blades. What this means for we tutors is, in the midst of hovering about their children, making sure nothing damages the little tyke's self-esteem, we often incur serious injury at their blades. Metaphorical, of course, but the fear of a real attack is sometimes lurking in our minds. Call it the reptilian brain assuming that any threat is a physical one. The Helicopter Parent's biggest flaw, in my so-very-humble opinion, is that she does not realize the damage she is doing to her child.
I have never seen a Helicopter Parent create a lovely or even likable child. Their children are, by definition, obnoxious, entitled, demanding, rude, selfish, evil little hellions. You've seen them in the supermarket, the theater, and the park. They're the ones screaming, screwing their faces up into gargoyle-esque pouts, crying crocodile tears, or decrying the unfairness of life because they can't have a treat, can't run through the aisles of the store, were forced to sit in a "baby chair," or couldn't climb the monkey bars because some "big mean kids" had taken it over.
The Helicopter Parent, when not the cause of the temper tantrum, buzzes in with automatic weapons firing devastating barrages of accusations. "What happened? Who hurt you, precious? Show mommy your boo-boo! Did that big mean kid do something?" Then the Helicopter Parent will turn on the "big mean kid" who is usually all of seven years old, and begin to berate the child for not sharing a toy (that belongs to the child being castigated, usually) or not being careful enough of her little baby, or some other ridiculous imagined crime.
I had one student in particular who is a Spawn of the Damned, and his mother is an Apache model Helicopter. She gets a particular look on her face whenever Spawn is unhappy, and I know I'm about to catch it. Her face always makes me think, first and foremost, of this:
Her son was just the most precious little thing ever, and he was important and special and needed to be treated that way. We needed to make sure that we took extra special care of Spawn, because he's very, very SPECIAL. He has ADHD (no, he doesn't, but that's another story). He has learning "differences" (we're not allowed to call it a disability). He has emotional issues (No shit!). He is in all ways very, very special. Did I metion he is special? Because he IS.
Yes, there are children out there with real problems and real issues, but this is not one of them. This is a spoiled-rotten little bastard whose mother is enabling his entitlement attitude, and turning him into a sociopathic misfit who will wind up euthanizing puppies or cleaning crematoriums for a living. If he doesn't go serial killer.
The reason I think this child is going to go bad is that I've seen it before. I had a similar child, the youngest of four and the only son, who was spoiled by his mother and three older sisters. He used to take off his belt and hit people with the buckle. When he was about twelve, he attacked someone with a hammer but no charges were filed. He started abusing his sisters at 14, his mother at 16. Spawn is way too much like that kid. Just way too much like him. He gets that dead-eyed look, and I just want to run screaming. I don't like working with this kid. And I wonder how many parents do this kind of thing. How many of them create sociopaths without realizing it? How many more of these little monsters, and I mean that quite seriously, will I have pass through my life before one of them takes a swing at me?

First!

Is this the obligatory first blog post in which I say things I'll regret later? I've been reading blogs long enough to know that yes, yes it is. So, in an attempt to avoid saying too many embarrassing things, I'll just give you the basics, the rundown, if you will. And until I can figure out how to do things in the fancypants way that most blog-aficianados are accustomed to, you'll have to deal with my little "About" section being rye-cheer:

I live on the East Coast of the United States. I'm a registered independent with few political leanings and less desire to talk about them. This is not a political blog. I'm a Christian and will reference my church occasionally, I'm sure. But this is also not a religious blog. I have three cats, and may say something about them from time to time, but this is not a cat blog. I promise. The cats' names will, for the purposes of this blog, be 1) Lazy, 2) Spaz, and 3) Runt. These are not their real names. I also have a husband, whom I will refer to as Teddy, which is definitely not his name. This will not be a marriage blog.

I am a math teacher who does not teach school. I tutor. I tutor all manner of things, from reading to math to test preparation. This is a blog about that. Mostly, it is about the things that annoy me. I will refer to myself as Cranky, or some variation thereof. None of the children or parents will be referred to by their real names. If you can't figure out why, then please leave my property.

I do cuss. A lot. I will try not to do it here, as it's usually just filler. If I do use a naughty word that offends you, please retire to your fainting couch, have a restorative adult beverage of your choice, have the maid cool you with an inordinately large lacy fan, and when you feel able, have your houseboy block access to my blog. Alternatively, put your big girl/boy britches on and get over it.

A blogger whom I respect and enjoy reading has a wonderful little bit about how his blog is a dinner party amongst friends, not a public forum. I'll not steal it directly, but I will say that you are on my property, as it's my blog, and if you annoy me too much, I'll probably stop letting you clutter up my little internet home. Deal with that in the same manner as you would for a naughty word. Seriously, are there people out there who spend their lives reading blogs they hate just so they can post rude and unclever things? That's just...sad.

So, I think I've covered all the bases one should cover in a first post, and I'll leave it at that. Tomorrow, if I am able to pry myself away from my other duties, I shall tell the internet The Dreadful Story of Harriet and the Variables. Maybe.

Oh, and thanks for playing along!