bring the noyz

First my dear reader, please allow me the indulgence to proverbially toot my own horn and share with you a sample from some recent electronic correspondence:

"I love your blog. . . I am addicted to your blog. You are a great writer. I am proud to know you."

The blog format is a wonderful thing. It really is a remarkable tool for connecting people. In the world of cyberspace I have met many people from literally across the globe. I yearn for their feedback, good or ill, for the knowledge and validation that my voice was somehow heard above the din of a few hundred million or so silently illuminated screams. I am joyfully amazed each time my meager words make so great an impression they compel another to consult the doctor.

To read words of great praise from a friend who has recently heard my bright yet quiet call is most humbling.

So I feel compelled to do my best to return the favor and request that you, my dear reader, visit the online home of a talented musician, a dedicated co-worker, and a friend whom I greatly respect and admire:

Paul Edward Sanchez

I would also like to take this opportunity to share what he had to say last week about another graduate from our school. It was a wonderful and beautiful tribute to another remarkable human being.

When I began teaching over 12 years ago this student was in my first class. I was her teacher for two years, 1993 - 1995. She was smaller then, although not by much. Now she's 22 and aged out of special education and into life's next chapter. She has no mobility. She does not move her arms. She does not move her legs. Her beautiful big brown eyes dance and sparkle but they see very little. She is totally 100% dependent upon others to meet her every basic need. Although she does not speak, she does not need to do so as she communicates more with her facial expressions than many do with words. And she has a smile that is as big as Texas and brighter than the Sun on an August afternoon. I cherish each memory and am grateful for the opportunity to have been involved in her life.

But I digress. . .

This is what he had to say (The first paragraph is from his draft, and for reasons I think will be rather obvious when read he deleted that passage from the actual speech. I have included it here because I think it's funny):

All through this month all sorts of self-important people have been blubbering away at graduation ceremonies about gifted students. They talk about the TAKS tests and grade point averages and "the future of America is your hands" while cramping their elbows panting themselves on the back.

Well, you want to hear about a gifted student? I'll tell you about a gifted student. Bisi has been at Rosedale since she began in school. She has learned many important things, like how to work. She has learned how to make choices. She has learned to manipulated various switches, and she has learned to communicate a myriad of emotions in all sorts of ways.

But to me, the main skill Bisi has is being a master of music.

All musicians should be blessed to know someone as gifted as Bisi. She simply has the best ears of anyone I have ever known. She can turn the sound of a shaking popcorn bag into a secret symphony. The grains of sand inside a rhythm egg may be a thousand tiny drumbeats. Ever listen to the aural beauty of rushing water? Try it. Turn the faucet on for yourselves. There's a world, a wild frontier in there.

You add this gift to Bisi's immense capacity for joy, and you have artistic explorations even the most brilliant composers would have to surrender to. She is a student so gifted that we can only be proud and thankful that she is one of the shining lights of here, of our school. Speaking for myself, Bisi has taught me more than I will ever realize. We will always be connected, Bisi and me, because we have experienced together the unexplainable mystery of sound and music.

So go ahead. It's your turn. Be a gifted student. Shake the popcorn bag. Turn on the faucet. Try on your own song like it's a handmade blanket from the cold. That is Bisi's gift to us.

And that, my dear reader, is why I do it.

It is my life's passion, whether or not (most likely not) I ever get that raise.

And I will not get the raise because by and large the weasely egocentric self-serving political pig-fucking bastards who waggle their lips while grandstanding about not leaving children behind do not even know these children exist. They are truly the most special of education, almost abandoned, all but forgotten.

They are not left behind if you never consider taking them with you.

But again my dear reader, we all know the refrain. . .

All For the Love of The Boy

(and for all The Children like him. Angels, each and every one.)