I’ve read the news accounts of Stacy Campfield’s latest proposal regarding school discussions on homosexuality and transgender. Ol’ Stacy sounds once again like a guy trying to grab a headline. I also listened to Campfield spew his venomous ideas on WIVK’s “Sound Off.” Before long, the talk on the radio show turned toward weapons on school campuses, and again, this legislator stirred the waters with his bill that would allow school employees to carry weapons.
This gun-carrying bill is moronic. Sure, let’s arm teachers and principals with weapons. I know plenty of teachers who aren’t capable of carrying a weapon. I’m one of them. We are scared of guns. I don’t need a gun. Other teachers aren’t on an even enough keel to carry a weapon. Some would lose their tempers when they are confronted by hostile students. They’d start shooting out of fear. Before any of us could blink our eyes, wounded and dying children would lie in a heap on classroom floors. That would be okay to Campfield because the schools would be protected. Right! A roomful of teens who watch as a teacher guns down a whacked out kid aren’t going to produce any kind of physical injury, but what about psychological harm? Or does this legislator assume that kids would straighten up after a couple of classmates are stone-cold dead?
Another reason Campfield’s proposal is nothing more than the raving of a buffoon is that society isn’t about to allow teachers to escape legal battles after they pull the trigger on students. In the present climate, many parents are just waiting to sue a teacher over the smallest things. Teachers no longer can administer corporal punishment; lawyers are attacking when they bruise students’ egos. Millions of dollars have been awarded in “Iffy” cases of negligence against professionals in education. Without a doubt, teachers are going to be in legal swamp water up to their eyeballs if they shoot, injure, or kill a student.
Okay, let’s play out the armed teacher scenario. A couple of questions come to mind. First, will teachers be able to use Better Education Plan (BEP) money to purchase handguns? Will limits be imposed on the caliber of the gun? Next, can a teacher carry a shotgun or rifle instead of a handgun? If a teacher guns down more than one student, will he/she be penalized or required to have a mentor to better handle situations? You get the idea.
We need to take this idea of arming faculties a bit farther. Why don’t we do what folks do when they shoot a crow? Let’s hang bodies on the fences around the schools so that would-be attackers will know what happens to those who dare cross us. Maybe teachers could be assigned an extra duty during planning periods. Let’s station them on rooftops of buildings where they can patrol the campus. Any suspicious character who comes on the grounds can be dropped by these snipers.
Stacy Campfield’s proposals are always designed for nothing more than drawing attention to himself. Sure, he puts forth these proposals, but he surely knows they have no chance of passing. Campfield brings up these things because he knows they’ll make the newspapers, radio stations, and television newscasts. Then he is contacted to discuss his proposals in public forums or on the airways, thereby increasing his name recognition. What’s the man’s long-term plan? I wouldn’t think he could ever win an election for a more serious political office, but then again, I never thought he could win the position that he now holds. It goes to show that we voters get what we deserve when we either fail to vote or fail to inform ourselves about candidates for office. Knox County already has one commissioner who loves the sound of his own voice and who takes every chance to roil the waters. Another one isn’t needed.
The situations in schools are scary. However, arming teachers isn’t the answer. A better approach might have school boards with enough fortitude to expel problem students and to develop discipline plans with decisive and severe consequences for misbehavior. If these things take place, Stacy Campfield and his gun-toting ideas can both disappear in a world where logic rules. I know I’ll feel safer when one individual no longer can rattle his saber.
POLISHING THE ELEPHANT
I’ve watched several debates between both Republican and Democratic hopefuls. Now, both sides have whittled down their lists to two candidates each: McCain and Romney for the Republican side and Clinton and Obama for the Democrats. Super Tuesday could decide the issue for both parties, and then it’s on to the general election. I remember some earlier election times in my home when I was a child. Things were just a bit tense.
My dad was a Republican. I never figured out why he chose that party because it seems as if the Democrats have always offered the working class of this country more hope and help. Daddy was one of those hard-working men, and for years he toiled at a job that would later contribute to the lung cancer that killed him. Our lives back then were lived paycheck to paycheck. My dad spent countless hours seated at the kitchen table. Armed with a cup of coffee so strong it could eat the enamel off of a person’s teeth and a pack of Winston cigarettes that filled the room with a cloud of smoke, he “figured” in a little pocket notebook that he kept with him. He could stretch a dollar farther than anyone else I’ve ever known, and it was a good thing for his family that he did.
At any rate, when election time came, whether the candidates were running for local, state, or national seats. Daddy was ready. We boys knew little about politics, but we always knew when elections were on the horizon. It was then that the male head of our household retrieved his election ashtray. It was small, and on one side an elephant stood. The ashtray was made of brass and had a piece of felt attached to the bottom to prevent scratches to furniture. Daddy would empty that ashtray and then carefully wash it so as to not wet the bottom. Then he grabbed a rag and began to polish that elephant. He’d rub until the animal and the rest of the ashtray gleamed. I always felt that Daddy polished that ashtray more to aggravate Mother than to express his undying loyalty to the Republican Party and its candidates.
On the other hand, Mother was more inclined to vote for Democrats, at least in national elections. She did, however, cross over and vote for Republican candidates in local elections. She was loyal to individuals whom she perceived to be willing to help others. The truth is that Mother probably could be labeled more of an independent when it came to electing local officials.
In national elections, it was a different story. Maybe it was because she’d witnessed the things Roosevelt accomplished to help people during the Great Depression. Maybe it was because she was a teacher who saw the many needs of the schools and the children. Maybe it was because she was a liberal on social issues. Whatever the case, Mother supported Democrats in presidential elections. At least that’s what we believed. The woman didn’t have a donkey to polish; she didn’t place campaign signs in the yard, and she never came out and declared her preference. Still, we were certain her convictions were left of center.
The maddest Mother ever got about an election was when she and Daddy went to the polls. They were waiting their turns, and at some point he turned to her and said, “We might as well not even vote. All that happens is one vote cancels the other.” Mother turned furious, and my poor dad was chastised for having made such a comment in public. I don’t believe they ever went to another election together.
I love politics. It’s one area where a rousing debate can always begin and last for hours. The process of choosing a candidate and following that person through the bitter end in some way creates a bond that turns the politician into someone on the same level as a family member. Over the years I’ve become an independent like my mother. I don’t buy the belief “my party, right or wrong.” I vote for the person whom I think can best do the job. Daddy’s ashtray was taken to Nashville by my older brother. He was a liberal-minded person, so I know the only shining that elephant got was to keep away the tarnish. Before long, this year’s final candidates will be selected, and then the time to choose a side will come. I hope plenty of Americans will join in that decision. Voting is what we’re all about.
My dad was a Republican. I never figured out why he chose that party because it seems as if the Democrats have always offered the working class of this country more hope and help. Daddy was one of those hard-working men, and for years he toiled at a job that would later contribute to the lung cancer that killed him. Our lives back then were lived paycheck to paycheck. My dad spent countless hours seated at the kitchen table. Armed with a cup of coffee so strong it could eat the enamel off of a person’s teeth and a pack of Winston cigarettes that filled the room with a cloud of smoke, he “figured” in a little pocket notebook that he kept with him. He could stretch a dollar farther than anyone else I’ve ever known, and it was a good thing for his family that he did.
At any rate, when election time came, whether the candidates were running for local, state, or national seats. Daddy was ready. We boys knew little about politics, but we always knew when elections were on the horizon. It was then that the male head of our household retrieved his election ashtray. It was small, and on one side an elephant stood. The ashtray was made of brass and had a piece of felt attached to the bottom to prevent scratches to furniture. Daddy would empty that ashtray and then carefully wash it so as to not wet the bottom. Then he grabbed a rag and began to polish that elephant. He’d rub until the animal and the rest of the ashtray gleamed. I always felt that Daddy polished that ashtray more to aggravate Mother than to express his undying loyalty to the Republican Party and its candidates.
On the other hand, Mother was more inclined to vote for Democrats, at least in national elections. She did, however, cross over and vote for Republican candidates in local elections. She was loyal to individuals whom she perceived to be willing to help others. The truth is that Mother probably could be labeled more of an independent when it came to electing local officials.
In national elections, it was a different story. Maybe it was because she’d witnessed the things Roosevelt accomplished to help people during the Great Depression. Maybe it was because she was a teacher who saw the many needs of the schools and the children. Maybe it was because she was a liberal on social issues. Whatever the case, Mother supported Democrats in presidential elections. At least that’s what we believed. The woman didn’t have a donkey to polish; she didn’t place campaign signs in the yard, and she never came out and declared her preference. Still, we were certain her convictions were left of center.
The maddest Mother ever got about an election was when she and Daddy went to the polls. They were waiting their turns, and at some point he turned to her and said, “We might as well not even vote. All that happens is one vote cancels the other.” Mother turned furious, and my poor dad was chastised for having made such a comment in public. I don’t believe they ever went to another election together.
I love politics. It’s one area where a rousing debate can always begin and last for hours. The process of choosing a candidate and following that person through the bitter end in some way creates a bond that turns the politician into someone on the same level as a family member. Over the years I’ve become an independent like my mother. I don’t buy the belief “my party, right or wrong.” I vote for the person whom I think can best do the job. Daddy’s ashtray was taken to Nashville by my older brother. He was a liberal-minded person, so I know the only shining that elephant got was to keep away the tarnish. Before long, this year’s final candidates will be selected, and then the time to choose a side will come. I hope plenty of Americans will join in that decision. Voting is what we’re all about.
Wanted…SNOW!
To say I’m disappointed is an understatement. To blame things on the weather forecasters in the area is going over the top. The bottom line is I woke up this morning and expected to see some white stuff on the ground. Instead, all that came to view were puddles of water and soggy grass. The explanations of weather systems not moving into the right positions fall on my deaf ears. I want—I need some snow! All of us in East Tennessee need it.
I well remember the snow days that came when I was a boy. My brothers and I never had proper snow attire. Mother made us put on a couple of layers of clothes, and then we covered our old shoes with pairs of socks. They did little to keep out the dampness, but our feet stayed just a bit drier.
Some years we had some deep snows, and those were the best. We’d build snowmen and bombard each other with snowballs. On one occasion, the boys from next door joined in and we built an igloo. The work we put into the project kept us plenty warm, and the cold temperatures preserved our ice house for several days. It was large enough to accommodate two of us at a time. Suddenly we became “Sergeant Preston of the Yukon” and Royal Canadian Mounties.
After long afternoons in the snow, we returned home to strip the soaked clothing from our bodies. Mother fed us tomato soup and melted cheese sandwiches. Afterwards, we went to our rooms and drifted off into long afternoon naps. As night began to fall, we made another trip outside and discovered that falling temperatures turned slush into ice, the perfect conditions for riding shovels and trashcan lids down sloping pastures. The ends of those days were topped off when Mother made a bowl of snow cream, something almost as good as homemade ice cream.
Snowfalls provide many people with much needed days away from work. There’s something wonderful about waking up, discovering snow, and burrowing under the covers again. Those times provide some of the best sleep that a person can experience. The remainder of a day at home is spent idly in activities such as reading a book, watching movies, or mindlessly surfing the web for unimportant topics.
During the early years of my teaching career, Knoxville was hit with several huge snowfalls. In fact, we missed so much school that days were extended and Saturdays were added to the normal schedule. Still, those days out were beneficial. I had time to take it easy and drive Amy to her classes at U.T. In the evenings I joined the kids outside, and they gave me turns riding their sleds down a steep hill on which we lived.
The best snow days have been spent with my two children. We survived the blizzard of 1993, as well as a couple of ice storms. When they were small, I’d give them rides on a coal scoop that I’d salvaged from my parents house. They giggled and laughed as I pulled them up and down the driveway and the road. When we bought sleds, I’d pull them across the slushy snow and ride down the hill with them the next day when the stuff froze into a solid sheet of ice.
After a romp outside, we’d go back inside, and I’d pop waffles in the toaster or pizza bites in the oven. Those two children followed the same patterns that my brothers and I had traveled: eat and sleep. We sometimes sat together and watched for the zillionth time “Princess Bride” or “Goonies” or “Willow.” Later, they’d ask to go back outside, and I’d tromp back into the cold with them for one last time each day.
These days Knoxville gets maybe a total of two inches of snow each year. I declare it’s proof that global warming is real and has changed our climate. No, I don’t want mountains of the white stuff, but I’d like one snow a year so that I can look out the window of my office and remember the good times from years gone by. I’d especially like to experience one of those “snow days” during this last year of teaching. They bring about a time of quietness and stillness that makes our lives slow down for just a while. Knoxvillians need to put an ad in the paper: Wanted…SNOW!
A True East Tennessean
One of the shows I enjoy on television is “Cold Case,” that is until I watched an episode the other night. The storyline had the stars of the show traveling to Nashville and Knoxville to question people about a murder that had occurred some time before. Some of the things that were included in the program griped me.
For one thing, the actors who played the parts of folks from Tennessee were foreigners. It was obvious by the way they spoke. Their fake East Tennessee drawls grated on my nerves. To those who don’t know better, the minor characters probably sounded fine, but to us who know how a real East Tennessean speaks, the accents were pitiful. Being able to speak the language of our region requires a flatness of pronunciation that just can’t be mimicked. It’s part of our laid-back way of life. We get where we’re going, but along the way there’s no need to run over everybody in the way; the same applies to how we talk.
I’ve taught thousands of kids over the years, and one thing is apparent: people from other parts of the country are moving here in droves. Identifying immigrants from north of the Mason-Dixon line is simple. They have different ways from ours, but what stands out the most is the accent. No matter how long a person lives in the areas after a move from other parts of the country, he never sounds like an East Tennessean. Don’t get me wrong; some of my best friends are from other parts of the country, but they don’t try to speak the dialect. Eventually, some of it creeps into speaking, but they just can’t get down pat the accent of the region.
Another thing that griped me about this show was the way Tennessee was viewed by the characters. It’s the same that’s held by too many others. At one point, the female detective decided to drive from Nashville to Knoxville. She did so because she held fond memories about getting married. According to her, she passed the courthouse in Knoxville where she and some young man went to exchange vows.
Tennessee and its cities are presented as either country music producing places or towns somewhat akin to Mayberry. In both cases, we who live in Tennessee are considered rednecks who come from a life that is backward at best and ignorance-filled at worst. WRONG! A few points about us need to cleared up:
- We have in-door plumbing.
- We wear shoes all year round—for most of the year at least.
- We do read.
- We can write.
- We don’t marry our relatives.
- Our homes aren’t shacks with rusted car bodies in the yard and porches with refrigerators.
In an effort to educate some of those who sneer at us, I present this demographic information from the Internet. Knox County has approximately 400,000 residents. When the surrounding areas are included, the number jumps to more than 700,000. Nashville has a population of 1,363,394. Combined, the two cities have a population of more than 2 million—and that number continues to grow. That doesn’t sound too much like “Hicksville” to me. Couldn’t we find the some small towns in isolated parts of New York State? The problem is that folks equate ignorance with our speech. They assume that we are less than intelligent because we speak slowly and with flatness in the enunciation of words.
A short anecdote might shed some light upon things. Several years ago I spent a weekend with my in-laws in Gatlinburg. Our room had a balcony that overlooked the main street, and we delighted in sitting there and watching people go by. I noticed that several people, young and old, were walking with pieces of rope that had been stiffened. On one end was a loop, and on the other was a configuration that looked like a harness of some kind. Other tourists stopped these people and said, “Geeeez, what is that and where did you get it?” The answer was that they had purchased from a souvenir shop a “dogless leash.” Yep, people who spoke accents peculiar to some northern state paid $20.00 a pop for pieces of robe with loops on each end. I could hear shop owners saying to those customers, “You come back now, ya’ hear!”
Enough said.
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