I haven't been able to post here this past week because I started a job working nights at a private test scoring company. There's 54 of us sitting in this room from 5 to 9 reading on computer these high school students' responses to a writing prompt, which I can't discuss because we all had to sign a confidentiality agreement on our first day of work. The company doesn't want us to reveal the questions and answers on the test to some student scheduled to take it in the near future. Not that they are particularly hard, though they're kinda tricky. If you don't answer the question exactly as it is asked, then you get a zero. It doesn't matter how well the response is written, or for that matter, how insanely bad the grammar and spelling are: if it doesn't contain the elements the testers asked for, you've flunked it.

For example (I'm just making this up,so don't think you're getting any hints from this, kids): "In a couple of weeks, Sandy will be visiting a number of colleges. She needs to prepare a set of questions to ask the admissions people when she comes to each campus. What two questions could she ask the admissions officer?" There's a page with 12 printed lines for the student to write in her/his answer, so obviously it has to be short. No introduction, no complex metaphors or allusions please. Just answer the prompt.

Most of the students understood it, which shows that teachers are training them how to take tests, though not much else. The grammar was often laughable, the spelling so awful you could barely make out what the writing was about. And all of it was handwritten . Some of it tall and narrow  and some of it so microscopic you could barely read the words.
But we weren't allowed to take points off for any of those things. We just had to check to make sure the question had been answered and give the test a score of two, one or zero.

Call me cynical, but I've been doing stuff like this for a long time and I understand why they do this: they know that most of the students aren't going on to college, or if they are, it's not their problem if the kids won't be able to pass freshman comp. They just want these kids to pass the damn test so they can graduate high school and the state can be shed of them.

What gives me pause is that this was a graduation standards test. The kids who pass this will be receiving their diplomas in June. So in some state in the great Midwest a bunch of 18- and 19-year-olds will be released upon the world, unable to spell or construct a half-decent sentence. They're going to be sorting mail, driving delivery trucks, assembling machinery and building things like jet planes and automobiles and freeway bridges. Maybe they'll be able to read the instructions or addresses or blueprints. Maybe not. Maybe they'll go on to some community college, where they'll sit next to someone like me who will look at their papers and say, "Um, do you know how to use a comma?"

And they'll say, "No, nobody ever taught me how to use punctuation." Or maybe, "Wha?"

But I especially felt bad for the kids who obviously didn't understand the question, much less were able to write a decent response. I saw a lot of bizarre syntax, which usually indicates that the answer was written by an ESL student or someone with a learning disability. ("you ansur the question you can aks for help somtim they will help her") I heard other testers howling with laughter in the back---and some of the answers were funny: "the higher up you go in school, the more teachers you see who only know one thing". But mostly they pained me, especially the ones that were blanks or which seemed to cry out in anguish: "I cant think of enythin to writ about."

I think a lot of kids got left behind in the last four years, regardless of the intent of Bush's no-funds-provided program. And they will be the state's responsibility, if not in school, then in the jails and the public assistance offices.  

Why do you think it is some people don't get along with you?

Sometimes---well, maybe a lot of times---I'm just plain tactless. If someone makes me really mad, I fire at will.

I'm also up front with my political opinions. I won't spout off in front of my students, partly because I can be fired for doing so, but mostly because I realize I'm in a position of power over them and they don't feel free to disagree with me. But with my coworkers and friends I'm honest, which does not earn points with those who are conservative or libertarian.

(Some of you might have noticed I have socialist-leaning tendencies. I think business and the private sector should be monitored and regulated by government. I believe those who are better able to should help pay for services that those who have nothing can't afford, like medical care and housing.)

I also like garlic. That's a real room-clearer.

Garlic

I was feeling really glum today, more so than the usual. I couldn't figure out why until it hit me that this was the first holiday I've ever spent with no family around: no kids, no parents, not even siblings to rabbit punch at the dinner table.

I was invited to an Easter dinner, but the hostess cancelled at the last minute after she realized she was coming down with the flu. That didn't bother me that much. I don't eat ham, and boiled eggs stained with food dye are somewhat repellent to me. But I wanted a distraction from my self-pity.

Even though we weren't Christian my grandmother would have Easter dinner at her house, and all of my cousins and aunts and uncles would show up, each bringing some dish full of unhealthy goodness: scalloped potatoes with loads of butter, jello salads, buttered rolls, cakes and pies and yellow and purple candies of every sort. My father had 6 siblings, 5 of whom lived in town, and each of them had three kids. Except my Uncle Fred, who was considered a little strange. His wife supposedly had been deported during the war for starting a riot in the internment camp (Poston?) where she and her parents were held, but my father used to snort she couldn't get water to boil. My mother called her "knucklehead" when talking about her at home. Auntie Matsu was considered a trouble maker. I thought she was just spiteful and angry. But her showing up always made the dinners interesting.

When my grandmother died, the family broke apart in a fight over the cash the quarry company paid for her farm. The Teichert Quarry Company (a curse on their greedy little hearts) ripped the place apart within days of my relatives cleaning it out.There was a giant hole there the last time I visited.  Seems like a metaphor for how I feel about my past.

Anyway, I went to Starbuck's, the only place open Easter evening, and nursed a green tea chai while thinking about my grandmother and my parents and the gigantic mess I was snagged in. I didn't dare think of my kids: I didn't want to start bawling in the midst of all those hipster-wannabes drinking their lattes and digging on the canned jazz on the PA system.

I used to say I would rather be lonely alone than lonely with another person, meaning I didn't want to get into an empty relationship just because I hated being single: but suddenly the bald guy in the corner with a crutch reading ESPN magazine was looking pretty available.

Fought off the urge to say hi though. My troubles are many, but not so bad that I have to go picking up guys filling out their NCAA brackets in Starbucks.

What quality in your best friend are you most envious of and why?

Money.

One thing I cannot figure out is how I ended up running with a crowd of very affluent people while I'm limping around

Kato and his 15 minutes.

(I think Lillian Hellman had a similar comment about Dorothy Parker, but I can't find it anywhere---it might have been from Pentimento, which, I was told, was full of lies. Hellman was also mad because Parker had left the copyright to her literary work to the NAACP and not to her. Since I won't have anything to leave anybody when I die 'cept maybe my mother's jewelry and my old engagement ring, I won't have to worry about anyone being posthumously envious or mad at me.)

It could be worst. But not even French champagne taste good when you've got unpaid bills sitting on your desk and your checking account has a negative balance.

What have you tried in life that you just weren't very good at?

Golf: I chop such huge holes in the turf that there's actually a golf club in Sacramento that won't let me in anymore.

I don't get it.

My cousin the I'll-play-golf-anywhere guy tried to teach me and I think I scared him, I was so bad. I slammed a ball into the party next to ours and almost took the head off of an old guy. Another shot ripped off all of the leaves on this one baby tree. I think I also hit a car in the parking lot, but I didn't bother to go out and check. I was afraid the owner would go after me for damages.

My cousin at one point screamed, this isn't baseball! You're supposed to aim at the hole, not the fence.

I screamed back, I AM aiming at the hole, dammit. I can't help it if it's so itty bitty.

Then my cousin told me this joke about a Japanese businessman who tried to learn how to play golf while he was visiting the U.S. but when his friends back home asked him what the name of the game was, he said, "Ah Shit!"

That's not funny, I said. That's racist.

It's not racist. You have no sense of humor, he said.

But it's obviously a play on the stereotype that all Japanese say "Ah so," I retorted. I think at that point I sent a ball flying into the water trap.

The problem is you turn everything into this heavy argument about racism and sexism....you know, I think you've wasted like a hundred dollars' worth of balls here.

I did not. I do not. Turn everything into an argument about racism....[It was getting hot that morning and I was out of breath from the walk between holes. Especially since it was taking me forever to whack the balls out of the sand traps. I think I was something like 60 above par.] You're the one who told the joke....

I think we should quit and go back to the clubhouse for a drink, my cousin sniffed. This is just a waste of time.

You're the one who said I should learn golf because it would be a great way to meet people and get some exercise. How come you never take your wife out golfing, by the way?

Because she hates it. And she's no good.

She's no good? Or her teacher is no good? You tried to teach her, right?

Okay, that's it....I tried. I'll tell your dad I tried.

Yeah, you do that. Tell him the "Ah shit" joke too.

I went to the clubhouse and had a Long Island iced tea. The only thing I enjoy about golf is sitting in fancy clubhouses and staring out at the green fairway while holding a cold drink in my hands. It seems so Gatsby-like.

I got an email from my building manager yesterday saying I can break my lease and move provided I pay two months' rent on April 1, April Fools' Day.

(Coincidence? Dunno: with the streak of luck I've been having, this actually looks good.)

The problem is, after giving $2800 to the mechanic for dropping a new engine in my car, I don't have two months' rent. I'll barely squeak by paying one month's rent.

I can hit up my parents, but I know I'll have to subject myself to ridicule and humiliation for a half hour on the phone. (If my dad can hear me: he answers the phone without his hearing aid and screams at me to speak up. I can hardly wait for the day I have to break some sort of sensitive, awful news to him: "Dad, I have cancer and I have just 6 weeks to live." "WHAT?!  Speak up! You're always mumbling! What the hell is wrong with you?!")

Or I can humbly ask my more affluent friends. I have no pride anymore. I just want to get out before I get hurt. The Gollum upstairs is at war with the bullethead next door to him. Bullethead loves playing his stereo loud, though I admit I like his tastes in music: Joe Walsh, Gram Parsons, Buena Vista Social Club, Bob Marley. I wanted to knock on his door the other day and ask him what CD he was playing, except I was afraid I might be greeted with gunfire. Gollum is a coward and does stuff like pound the walls and slam doors. Bullethead pounds on Gollum's door and shouts threats of mayhem and destruction. I wonder if I should call the cops, or if I should let them have it out with the hope that Gollum gets carried out on a stretcher and Bullethead gets carted off to jail. A two for one deal. Except if there is gunplay, I'd be afraid a stray bullet might come through my ceiling or wall and I'd be the one being carried out feet first.

Eliza has taken to hiding under my bed or the futon in the living room. She meows and stares at me from the darkness beneath: "Why did you move us here? Can't we go back to the house? Even the garage would be better." No kidding. I've actually thought of doing a Bartleby the Scrivener and living out of my office at work, now that I have the place to myself. Bringing Eliza to work might be a problem, but I might be able to hide her in the car during the day. I could use the women's locker rooms to take showers and get ready for work. And I could live off of ginger-nuts and a morsel of cheese. (See Bartleby.)

Anyway, I need to think about this. This could be a great opportunity. Or an invitation to disaster.

www.chicagotribune.com/news/nationworld/chi-031908-cartoon-ambassadormar20,1,2445826.story

chicagotribune.com

Japan appoints cartoon robot cat 'ambassador'

9:11 AM CDT, March 19, 2008

    

By Mari Yamaguchi

Associated Press

TOKYO — Japan has created an unusual government post to promote animation, and named a perfect figure Wednesday to the position: a popular cartoon robot cat named Doraemon.

Foreign Minister Masahiko Komura appointed the cat an "anime ambassador," handing a human-size Doraemon doll an official certificate at an inauguration ceremony, along with dozens of "dorayaki" red bean pancakes — his favorite dessert — piled on a huge plate.

Komura told the doll, with an unidentified person inside, that he hoped he would widely promote Japanese animated cartoons, or "anime."

"Doraemon, I hope you will travel around the world as an anime ambassador to deepen people's understanding of Japan so they will become friends with Japan," Komura told the blue-and-white cat.

The appointment is part of Japan's recent effort to harness the power of pop culture in diplomacy. Japan also created an International Manga Award last year under comic enthusiast former Foreign Minister Taro Aso, who likened it to a "Nobel Prize" for an artist working abroad.

Manga, the name used for Japanese-syle comic books, often combine complex stories with drawing styles that differ from their overseas superhero counterparts, particularly in their emphasis on cuteness.

This year, the ministry plans to arrange showings of a Doraemon film in Singapore, China, Spain, France, and at other Japanese diplomatic missions around the world.

Doraemon, through voice actress Wasabi Mizuta, promised Komura that "through my cartoons, I hope to convey to people abroad what ordinary Japanese people think, our lifestyles and what kind of future we want to build."

Created by cartoonist Fujiko F. Fujio, Doraemon is a Japanese cultural icon and is popular around the world, especially in Asia. The robotic cat travels back in time from the 22nd Century and uses gadgets such as a "time machine" and an "anywhere door" that come out of a fourth-dimensional pocket on his stomach to help his friends, allowing them to travel anywhere and to any time they wish.

Astro Boy, another cartoon icon, was named last November as ambassador for overseas safety.

Copyright © 2008, Chicago Tribune

Doraemon accepts his (its?) appointment

After weeks of avoiding them, I finally called my parents today. They left a message at work for me this morning. I freaked---I was feeling guilty enough as it was, and they've never called me at work before. I just assumed then Dad had had another heart attack or Mom had finally walked in front of a truck.

Instead I got a verbal pounding. Again.

It is kind of a cultural tradition thing vs. me wanting my own life, however impoverished and tattered it's been lately. In old-country Japanese culture, the unmarried daughter is supposed to stay at home and look after her parents. The idea of her having a job outside of the home or living in her own digs never enters this viewpoint. "Why do you need to live in an apartment when you have a home here?" And a "girl" having a career? Pffft.

It's even worst that I'm a widow. Widows are pathetic losers in traditional Japanese culture. If this had been the 17th century and my husband was a samurai who had been killed in battle, I should have taken out the dagger given as part of my dowry and stuck it in my throat.

(No, I didn't really get a dagger as part of my dowry. I didn't even get a dowry, unless you count the hand me down 12-place china set I got from my mother. My sister got to choose her own pattern when she got married, to a nice Japanese boy. Coincidence? I don't think so. Am I bitter? No: the china set is sitting in a friend's garage and I've no idea what to do with it. Sell it on eBay?)

But if your husband had died of natural causes---again we are talking about the 17th century---you got to live with your in-laws as a slave, living off of the dregs of whatever charity they might spare you. If you were lucky enough to have a son, you might hope someday he got to be head of the household so you too might someday get to treat your daughter-in-law like a scullery maid.

My parents aren't that backwards. They're more like, oh, the way Japan was in 1930. So having an educated daughter was okay, up to a point. Just as long as I kept doing the housework and had dinner on the table when they got home from work. (After years of fighting with my father about it, my mother went back to work as a secretary when I was 14. She said she was only doing it because we needed the money, but I suspect she had never been happy as a stay-at-home mom.) But when I got to college, trying to be a good Japanese daughter and a B+ student got to be a strain, so I asked if I could live on campus instead of having to commute 20 miles a day.

It was like asking if I could pose for the Playboy College Issue. Mom began crying. Dad gave me a lecture about single women and loose morals and you know what happens to a girl when she loses her reputation. "No, Dad, tell me. What happens when a girl loses her reputation? Is it like losing her virginity?"

I kinda remember my ears ringing for a few hours after that. My father was an auto mechanic, and his hands were thick and hard. His slap could knock a kid out, and I can recall a few times where I woke up on the floor. We never thought of it as abuse. It was expected if you mouthed off to your parents in my neighborhood, during my childhood. I used to think I was lucky, since my father would only hit me once and hard, as opposed to the other fathers in the neighborhood who would whup my friends with belts (buckle end when they did something really bad) or hairbrushes or, in one case, with a meat tenderizer. You could hear the shrieks up and down the block, and no one thought twice about it.

So I had to divorce my parents, in a manner of speaking. I packed my bags and got a friend to drive me to the university, where I got shoehorned into a dorm where two women had had a fight and one moved out. I was welcomed brusquely by the remaining resident, and from hence I became a real college student, learning how to roll joints and fall asleep while someone played their stereo at 2 a.m. (Supertramp still brings back memories of German History 1103 and groggy conversations with my roommate, who was a nice but unhappy 20 year old from Mountain View. She became an accountant and worked in the state of California's Comptroller's office. I have no idea what a comptroller does, but my ex-roomie is still unhappy.)

But from that day forth I was a bad daughter. Ungrateful like the serpent's tooth. "Just asking for it someday." When I got married to a white man, from Minnesota, it was just confirmation of my parents' worst opinions of me. "You can't do any better?" Better than what? Than my sister, who married a guy of pure Japanese blood? The forest ranger? My husband was an artist, but he also worked full time in a managerial job. He wore a suit and a tie. His hair was short, not mohawked or mullet-ed like the other guys I brought home. But he lacked a certain ethnic background, so he didn't pass.

Anyway, he got brought up tonight. Dad wanted me to "come home," his argument being that Minnesota was a bad place and nothing good had ever happened to me there. He didn't mention my husband directly, but he did say that at my age I shouldn't be living alone, and I was stupid to not take advantage of the empty room back in my parents' house. Free, no rent, you can live here as long as you want.

But in my father's house there is no such thing as a free room. I'll pay for it with my sanity. I know he and my mother need help, but they still have enough energy to fight with me over little things---the amount of water you put in the rice, the number of times the floor should be vacuumed, why I should never touch the stack of Sears catalogs that date back to when I was in high school.

---Because they plan to donate them to the Smithsonian? So they can use them to set the house on fire when they decide they've lived too long? Their house is begging for a visit from the health and fire inspectors, but I'm afraid as soon as the city gets wind of what's going on in that sad, dusty house my parents will get hauled off to locked facility for observation, and my mother will never come out again. They need help, but they don't want to surrender their right to live in an archaeological dig. I once told them to call me when they were willing to let me clean out the house.

That was two years ago. I don't think I'm gonna get that call. But I can't believe after all these years, my father still thinks I should be chained to the kitchen table.