A Grim Fairy Tale

Mayor, May I? by Sister Grim

Once upon a time it was the merry month of May in the city of Chicago, the Windy City, rapidly regaining its reputation as a crime capital, famous for fast-talking politicians, still located in the upper northeast part of the sorry cheapskate state of Ill-A-Noise.

The temperatures gradually warmed, and the trees began to show the promise of spring. Against that background, the increasingly overworked membersheep of the CTEwe were dutifully trudging towards the finish line, a/k/a the traditional end of the school year, shimmering like a mirage, down the road on June 41st, doing their best with the hurdles of standaardized student tests, somewhat unrealistic high school graduation requirements, and the latest hoop through which they were expected to jump: teacher recertification.

As a result of “No Child Left Behind”, the federal equivalent of that other bright idea in public education, Chicago School Reform, many membersheep were being labeled (libeled??) as “not highly qualified”; it was an awfully ambiguous appellation.

“Is that like plain old ‘qualified’?” asked Ewenice, who was still Toonice for her own good.

“No. It means ‘not qualified’,” said her friend, Millicent Militant.

“Then why don’t they just say that?”

“Something ‘not highly’ is ‘ordinarily’, not faaancy, in my opinion. What, exactly, does ‘not highly’ mean?”

“Is it like a null hypothesis?” asked Nancy Naive, the new teacher, who had been uncharacteristically untalkative ever since NCLB had arrived on the scene.

“Ah. That’s a good question,” said Scott Skeptic, journalism teacher-in-exile. “Unfortunately, there is no good answer. This is a perfect example top-down decisions where no one has the sense to ask ‘what if?’”

“So parents, whose kids are failing in school for any assortment of reasons, could conceivably receive notification in the mail that their child’s teacher is ‘not highly qualified’. Isn’t that going to be a wonderful scene?”

“Well, there are a few things in our favor,” said Scott.

“Like what?” asked Nancy Naive, who, due to her previous pre-CPS employment status, was likely to be ‘not highly qualified’ herself.

“First, the mail might get lost. That does happen. Second, the parents might not show up. That happens a lot, too. As a matter of fact, that’s frequently a reason why the kids aren’t doing well to begin with,” he concluded.

“ But this is a mess. I’m soooo confused!!! And then there are those CEUs and CPDUs, and the review by the LPDC. And what if they don’t approve what I’ve already done and paid for?” whined Ewenice.

“And why do WE have to pay for everything ourselves? Do you know that in other school districts, teachers get reimbursement for college courses?”

“And conventions, conferences, seminars and symposium participation, too,” added Scott. “And that is pretty depressing, too.”

Everyone nodded in agreement, and returned to the ongoing angst of grading papers, except for Scott, who had time to skim through the Scabune and the Scum-Times looking for education news.

Once upon a time, it seemed as though the formerly famous “fuzzy” math was being reinvented by Arne (YoYo) Duncan, who utilized it while explaining the Su-prize, Su-prize closing of several schools. “Duh. We can save like $2 million by closing seven or eight undercrowded schools,” he began at the hastily arranged press conference.

“Excuse me,” said Scott, who had the freedom to travel around the city during the school day, since he remained in exile from his previous teaching position, due to a very long story, to be told on another day. “Wouldn’t undercrowding be advantageous for those students, since many are considered to be ‘at risk’?”

“Well, we can save like $ 2 million by closing those schools. And, at the same time, we can get rid of a bunch of teach—” he stopped abruptly as an overpaid aide yanked him away from the microphones.

“But isn’t it true that the newest high schools have run into the $40 million or $50 million range, with planned enrollments of 800 specially selected students?”

“What’s your point?” demanded the overpaid aide. Arne was still speechless.

“My question is this: if is it O.K. to disrupt 1300 kids and maybe 100 teachers in order to ‘save’ $2 million, how can you justify spending $45 million on a fancy new high school for a maximum of 800, to be taught by second- and third- year teachers? With politically powerful principals who were selected by the old system?”

Arne-YoYo pondered. “What old system?”

“It’s not what you know, it’s whom you know,” recited everyone in earshot.

“Really? I never heard that before,” said Arne.

“And,” Scott continued in the silence that followed, “is it reasonable to assume that the aforementioned $2 million in savings will go to pay the inflated salaries of the newly added bureaucrats in your 24 new districts? Is that how you reduce the bureaucracy downtown?”

Arne looked slightly guilty, although it was more of a guilty-because-someone- caught-me-look than guilty-for-doing-something-rotten-look.

“Why are you condoning and encouraging such a thing?”

Arne pondered. And pondered. And scratched his head, and pondered some more. Finally, his expression brightened. “Because we can,” he answered, and the press conference was over.

Meanwhile, on Da Fift’ floor of City Hall, the mayor, Li’l Hizzoner, was saying much the same thing to his trusted aides as they planned the Battle of Meigs Field. It was very hush-hush, of course. The actual campaign was to begin at midnight.

“Whaddabout da Moon?” demanded Da Mare.

“It will be dark, sir,” an aide assured him.

“How do you know dat?”

“It says so on the calendar, sir.”

“How do THEY know?”

“It’s all planned, sir. There are books that figure this all out in advance.”

Da Mare giggled his maniacal little giggle. “Very funny,” he smiled. “Dere better be no moon in da dark. And don’t forget about it.”

“Yessir, yessir,” they nodded in synchronized sycophancy.

“And ya know what?”

“What, sir?”

“If dis works like I think it will, remind me to call my Pal Paul in da morning.”

“Paul?”

“Paul Vallas. From da schools. Remember?”

“Paul Vallas, sir? He’s probably still in Philadelphia,” the aide answered, cringing. He knew what would happen next, because it had happened before.

“Whaddaya mean he’s in Philadelphia??!!!” screamed Li’l Hizzoner. “What’s he doing dere? What would anybody be doing dere? Huh? Answer me!!!”

“Remember last year, sir?”

“What?” screamed Da Mare, pounding on his desk, turning red in the face.

“Well, sir,” said the aide, considering his employment options elsewhere, “I’m sure it was all his fault, but you sort of did kind of maybe perhaps suggest that he would be happier someplace else. Much happier.”

“I did?”

“Yes, sir. Last year some time. I could consult my notes, but —”

“Never mind all dat. Who’s da new guy I picked?”

“That would be Arne Duncan, sir.”

“Oh, right. Tall guy. Like Paul. I remember. Except that he still has some hair,” Da Mare giggled again. It was a disturbing kind of giggle, and one that did nothing to instill confidence in his leadership capabilities. “Call him up and tell him I need da list.”

“Da — the list, sir? What list?”

“Da list of da next bunch of schools we’re gonna close.”

“I thought the Big Baaad Bored of Education would make those decisions,” said the aide. “With input from the CTEwe.” Da Mare tried to stare him down, but finally exploded in laughter.

“So tell me,” he managed between guffaws. “Who’s Da Mare of dis wonnaful city?”

“You are, sir. Of course.”

“Re-elected by anudder landslide, by da way,” he preened.

“That is correct, sir,” echoed the assembled gaaaggle of mayoral assistants.

“Well then, who’s in charge?”

“You are, sir.”

“And don’t forget it,” he said, as he dialed the demolition crew at Streets and Sanitation. “Meigs. Let’s roll.”

Once upon a time, on the morning after the night before, the citizens of Chicago awoke to news of a vandalized runway at Meigs Field, the small airport on the lakefront. As the day wore on and the truth finally emerged, Da Mare was in his office, gleefully chortling over his historic feat. “X marks da spot!!” he exclaimed. “Lots of ‘em!! It’s my airport and I’ll do whatever I want. Who’s gonna stop me?”

Indeed.

Once upon a time, plans were being made for a summer spectacular — in addition to destroying light-aircraft runways — in the Windy City.

“It’s gotta be good,” Da Mare’s staff agreed.

“Better than the ping pong idea.”

“Better than the cement furniture on the sidewalks.”

“It’s gotta be better than the cows!!”

“Nothing can top the cows,” they agreed, as they mulled over the latest plan to lure tourists into Da Loop, and Da Pier, and Da Magnificent Mile, and all da udder — oops, there go the cows again — attractions, where the sales taxes were very high and the chances of finding reasonable parking were very low.

Finally, after much anguish and late-night brainstorming sessions, they were ready to unveil plans for summer 2003. The tourist-trappers were ushered into Da Mare’s inner office.

“Bobble-heads? What are bobble-heads?” demanded Da Mare.

“They’re like those little dogs with the wobbly heads that you see in the rear windows of cars.”

“Huh??” Da Mare was mystified. “How’s dat gonna work? People will step on ‘em. They’ll be smooshed.”

“No, sir, these will be on life-size models of major-league baseball players, all over the city.”

“Wobbly dog heads on baseball players? Are you crazy?”

“No, sir. There will be people-heads on the baseball players.”

Da Mare mulled.

Meanwhile, baaack at school, Ewenice Toonice and Millicent Militant and Nancy Naive and Clara Clark, the clerk, along with others, were discussing the bobble-heads. Some thought it would be fun, and others were not impressed. Such as Scott Skeptic.

“This idea isn’t new,” he said. “And I don’t think it’s unique to Chicago, either.

“What do you mean? I thought it was just invented.”

“Nope,” said Scott.

“How do you know?” they asked in ewenison.

“I’m so glad you asked,” he answered, wearing a smirk “There already seems to be a pair of Bobble-Head Dolls in Philadelphia.”

“What? From what team?” they asked resentfully.

“The Vallas team.”

“Our Pal Paul IS in Philadelphia,” they agreed. “But who is on his team?”

“It’s the Pammy Gammy twins!” he exclaimed.

By way of explanation, he added: “Pammy Pretty, formerly Chief of Screech for the CTEwe, and Gammy Sue, formerly Head of Special Ed for the Bored. They have now ascended to royalty.”

“You don’t mean —?”

“Yes. They are now consultantesses.”

“Oh, I see,” they concurred.

“O.I.C.”