I don't like unions. I believe, like many institutions, they have served a necessary purpose, but they have outlived their necessity. I believe that unions are divisive, by nature, and have made the designation "Made in the USA" a joke, if not extremely rare. But my dislike, distrust, and distain for unions comes from a more personal standpoint. To understand, you need to have the whole story...
In the summer of 1999, I was working as a mechanic in a bowling center. I had completed my BA in English, and had spent much of the previous year substitute teaching, during the day, and being a mechanic at night. As a "sub," I made $90 for five classes. At the bowl, I was earning $7.50 an hour. I wanted to teach, but lacked the "fifth-year studies" required to become a credentialed teacher, so I subbed. I was moving into a new home, and a friend, who happened to be the Summer School Principal for that year, asked me if I would consider teaching a couple of 9th grade English classes over the summer. It meant a lot, as I was able to procure an "emergency" credential, which meant I was legal for a year. I made about $4,000 for the summer, plus my bowling alley job.
I was in the Personnel Office, one afternoon, visiting with a friend, who said I should talk to a guy at Vacaville High (my alma mater), about a 60% teaching position for the fall. Emergency credential in-hand, I talked to the guy, and got the job. Face it, even 3/5 of a teacher's salary was better than being a grease-monkey, and I gave my notice to the bowling alley.
It was a strange year, but a good year. I started with three 9th grade classes, but ended up with two 11th grade, and one 9th. I was back at my old school as a teacher, with a novel approach to "Back-to-School Night." Most other teachers would have only a handful of parents stop by for their 10 minute "Meet the Teacher" sessions; my room was packed every period. My colleagues all wanted to know how I managed it, it was simple. Being back in Vacaville, there were many last names the same as some of my former schoolmates. In fact, more often than not, they were children of my former schoolmates. I told my classes to tell their parents that their English teacher said that if they went to Vaca High between 1965 and 1972, and claimed to have never been in trouble, they were liars, and I had the pictures to prove it. Presto! One great parent event.
I coached both boy's and girl's golf the following year, in addition to teaching two 10th and three 11th grade classes. Heaven? Hell yes!! It's what I had always wanted to do, teach English and coach golf. The year after that, 2002 - 2003, I should have known things weren't going to last. I had been named Head Coach for the girl's golf team, and had a stroke 10 days before our first practice.
The girl's were great, plain and simply great. Some visited me in the hospital, but all of them helped me work through my physical problems, from the first practice to the last. We didn't do well, but everyone learned something, and had a great time playing golf along the way.
The Head Coach position opened-up that year for the boy's team, and I had been an Assistant for two years, the girl's Head Coach, and the recommendation of the previous Head Coach. I knew the drill, knew the boys, and knew all of the other teams. I didn't get the job. I won't get into the details, suffice to say that the Number 1 guy said, "He f-ed things up." I was too busy with other issues to sympathize.
The School District announced in March 2003, that they would be laying off teachers at the end of the year. The union demanded that a full accounting of seniority be made, and the District stripped me of my tenure (after 2000 - 2001), three years of seniority, and handed me a pink slip. I was furious, but sure the union would do something to help. Yeah, those three years were on an emergency credential, but I met all requirements necessary to renew it twice. Yeah, it probably isn't right to grant tenure to someone without a Preliminary, or Permanent credential, but I never asked for it, applied for it, or even thought of it. I was the most surprised person of all, opening that letter in my box. But I did it all. No matter what was asked of me. My class sizes always exceeded the norm, others would have 30, I'd have 38. I even performed the twice-yearly slave labor ("supervising" two events per year on my time) without a great deal of complaining. I did it for my school, and my students. Now I was being screwed.
The union didn't want to talk to me, and a lawyer frankly told me that.
I don't like unions.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Computer Nostalgia
I was just thinking about computers. We're having a few problems with our desktop, and have ordered another, which will arrive soon. It's been pretty frustrating, "blue screens" all the time, and we've taken off as much of our personal stuff as would fit on 12 GB flash drives, but it's made me think of how far computers have come in my lifetime.
Thirty years ago, I was working at one of the largest computer facilities owned by the Navy. We had an IBM Systems 360, and it filled a large room, and took five people to operate. We were tied, by dedicated land-line, to the IBM 370 at NAVPERS. I was about to transfer to a submarine tender, and work with a system designated as the AN/UYK-5, and the actual computer was a water-cooled, 3 x 3 x 6 foot box that had a memory capacity of 16,000 bits (not bytes). Three years later, I was transfered to Monterey, CA, and worked on a computer system that filled a building. It was actually about six different systems, each feeding a "super" computer, which could handle the massive amounts of data, and process 700,000 instructions per second.
We used to store data on "punch cards," and magnetic tape. Then came the invention of a disk. The first I saw was eight "platters" (disks in a stack), that measured about 24" across, and about a foot high. Disks could be removed using a cover, which aided in unscrewing the platters, which could then be lifted out of the drive (a "drawer," actually, one of four in a 6 x 6 x 3 foot cabinet), and placed on a plastic bottom. Each disk-pack weighed about eight pounds, and could store over 300,000 bits (again, not bytes) of information.
Updating information was a tedious process, that took hours to accomplish, and the only output, other than tapes, cards, or disk files, were listings, usually multi-part, that took a full box of 8.5 x 14 inch paper to make.
I remember when the first "home" computers hit the scene. The first I ever saw was a Radio Shack TRS-80 ("Trash" 80). The guy who owned it, was the first "computer geek" I ever met, Joe Wolf. He wanted to get a look at the source code for the Supply System, because he could do it better and faster on his "micro" computer. I laughed, then, but he probably owns part of Microsoft, or something, now, so who was naieve?
I write this bit of nostalgia, because I have just ordered a home computer that has 4 gigabytes of memory, and 1 terabyte of storage. Back then, we got the information we needed, but it was a series of processes, consuming great quantities of time. Now, as fast as you can push a button, you get whatever you want. Unless your computer screws up. Then, you can simply buy another. Who'd of thunk that?
Thirty years ago, I was working at one of the largest computer facilities owned by the Navy. We had an IBM Systems 360, and it filled a large room, and took five people to operate. We were tied, by dedicated land-line, to the IBM 370 at NAVPERS. I was about to transfer to a submarine tender, and work with a system designated as the AN/UYK-5, and the actual computer was a water-cooled, 3 x 3 x 6 foot box that had a memory capacity of 16,000 bits (not bytes). Three years later, I was transfered to Monterey, CA, and worked on a computer system that filled a building. It was actually about six different systems, each feeding a "super" computer, which could handle the massive amounts of data, and process 700,000 instructions per second.
We used to store data on "punch cards," and magnetic tape. Then came the invention of a disk. The first I saw was eight "platters" (disks in a stack), that measured about 24" across, and about a foot high. Disks could be removed using a cover, which aided in unscrewing the platters, which could then be lifted out of the drive (a "drawer," actually, one of four in a 6 x 6 x 3 foot cabinet), and placed on a plastic bottom. Each disk-pack weighed about eight pounds, and could store over 300,000 bits (again, not bytes) of information.
Updating information was a tedious process, that took hours to accomplish, and the only output, other than tapes, cards, or disk files, were listings, usually multi-part, that took a full box of 8.5 x 14 inch paper to make.
I remember when the first "home" computers hit the scene. The first I ever saw was a Radio Shack TRS-80 ("Trash" 80). The guy who owned it, was the first "computer geek" I ever met, Joe Wolf. He wanted to get a look at the source code for the Supply System, because he could do it better and faster on his "micro" computer. I laughed, then, but he probably owns part of Microsoft, or something, now, so who was naieve?
I write this bit of nostalgia, because I have just ordered a home computer that has 4 gigabytes of memory, and 1 terabyte of storage. Back then, we got the information we needed, but it was a series of processes, consuming great quantities of time. Now, as fast as you can push a button, you get whatever you want. Unless your computer screws up. Then, you can simply buy another. Who'd of thunk that?
Monday, October 4, 2010
Home Port
That was my dad's idea, a very old Navy tradition where fleets are berthed. That's your "Home Port". All most all sailors enjoy an extended stay in the ship's homeport. Yes, there are two spellings, there's a difference. "Home Port" emphasizes the "Home". Again, my dad's idea, but I understand it totally, which scares me some... Am I really that much like my dad? But it's cool; I get it.
Non-military families have "home towns". For a military family, home town is a difficult concept to grasp. One tends to get a little jaded by the constant moving. I used to get a little anxious when people spoke of home towns; I never really had one. "Where ya from?" "Uh, how much time you got?"
The worst of it was early in life. By the time I entered Hunter's Point Elementary for Kindergarten, I had moved from my birthplace, been in Stubenville, Ohio; with three trips to San Diego, two to Pearl Harbor, and one to San Francisco. Kind of a whirlwind tour, huh? Well, it didn't quite stop there, as I was in three separate Kindergartens, and two first grade classes. It slowed down a lot after that. I was at Pennycook, in Vallejo, from grades 1 - 6, and Springstown Junior High for 7 and 8. My sister attended Hogan High from 7 - 12, as it became a Senior High School at the beginning of her sophomore year. We used to joke about her taking six years to graduate from Hogan.
Then one evening, my parents informed us we would be moving in July (1965), once again. We were moving from East Vallejo, to an apartment in Vacaville, until construction of a new home was completed in February 1966. At the time, Vallejo had a population of 65,000; Vacaville, 16,500. Well, actually 16,504, as of July 1065. Vallejoans thought of Vacaville as "the sticks". I was all against it, but really had no choice. Besides, while all my friends would be "Nineth Graders" at a "junior" high, I would be a "freshman," at Vaca High. Vallejo would just be another homeport.
As a small, rural town, with generational roots, Vacaville turned out to be a little suspicious of newcomers, and as a "new kid," didn't fit in with the Native Vacavillian very well. We were, pretty much, lumped into one of three categories: Military, Inmate Family, or Transient. We were largely ignored by the "lifers," as some referred to the Natives. We were the old, proverbial "out-crowd". Being forced to seek out non-lifer friendships, we became a sub-culture around Vaca High, we became "Hippie-esque," and tried our best to follow the examples being set in San Francisco. We dressed Hippie, let our hair grow some, and knew about sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll, long before it became popular.
It wasn't a "revolution," or rejection of anything, it was mostly survival. We lost some, along the way, people whose entire history is just a name carved in a stone, as far as our lifer-classmates knew, or cared. The friendships forged during those times have long outlived any lingering effects of being ignored by half of your high school. Even the teachers wanted to know what brought us to Vacaville, and we were treated differently because we lacked a Vacaville pedigree. It was a shame, but it was true, with few exceptions.
Tom Zunino noticed that I had a talent for "shoe wrestling", and notified Larry Nelson, who came down, on his prep-period, to watch me go up against a guy, literally, twice my size. My strength was quickness, and a bullied-kids adept knowlege of escape. When my "match" was over (I had the shoe), Tom and Larry conferred for a minute, and Z tells me I'm going out for Wrestling. It was the best thing I had ever done (to that point). I was pretty good, and "lettered" as a sophomore. I was fortunate, because of Wrestling, I was able to break through the social barrier, and I started to think of Vacaville as my home town.
Throughout my Navy career, I called Vacaville my home town. I came back often, whenever I could get the time off. I've watched it grow into a City of 100,000. albeit at a distance. My last assignment was to a squadron at Moffett Field. We checked for rentals around the base, and could only afford a studio, which would not do for the five of us. My loving wife, whom I met at Vaca High, asked where we could live. "Vacaville" came out so quickly, both of us jerked. We knew it was home, a place where we both had some roots.
Moved a couple more times, over the years, but we keep coming back. It's home.
Non-military families have "home towns". For a military family, home town is a difficult concept to grasp. One tends to get a little jaded by the constant moving. I used to get a little anxious when people spoke of home towns; I never really had one. "Where ya from?" "Uh, how much time you got?"
The worst of it was early in life. By the time I entered Hunter's Point Elementary for Kindergarten, I had moved from my birthplace, been in Stubenville, Ohio; with three trips to San Diego, two to Pearl Harbor, and one to San Francisco. Kind of a whirlwind tour, huh? Well, it didn't quite stop there, as I was in three separate Kindergartens, and two first grade classes. It slowed down a lot after that. I was at Pennycook, in Vallejo, from grades 1 - 6, and Springstown Junior High for 7 and 8. My sister attended Hogan High from 7 - 12, as it became a Senior High School at the beginning of her sophomore year. We used to joke about her taking six years to graduate from Hogan.
Then one evening, my parents informed us we would be moving in July (1965), once again. We were moving from East Vallejo, to an apartment in Vacaville, until construction of a new home was completed in February 1966. At the time, Vallejo had a population of 65,000; Vacaville, 16,500. Well, actually 16,504, as of July 1065. Vallejoans thought of Vacaville as "the sticks". I was all against it, but really had no choice. Besides, while all my friends would be "Nineth Graders" at a "junior" high, I would be a "freshman," at Vaca High. Vallejo would just be another homeport.
As a small, rural town, with generational roots, Vacaville turned out to be a little suspicious of newcomers, and as a "new kid," didn't fit in with the Native Vacavillian very well. We were, pretty much, lumped into one of three categories: Military, Inmate Family, or Transient. We were largely ignored by the "lifers," as some referred to the Natives. We were the old, proverbial "out-crowd". Being forced to seek out non-lifer friendships, we became a sub-culture around Vaca High, we became "Hippie-esque," and tried our best to follow the examples being set in San Francisco. We dressed Hippie, let our hair grow some, and knew about sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll, long before it became popular.
It wasn't a "revolution," or rejection of anything, it was mostly survival. We lost some, along the way, people whose entire history is just a name carved in a stone, as far as our lifer-classmates knew, or cared. The friendships forged during those times have long outlived any lingering effects of being ignored by half of your high school. Even the teachers wanted to know what brought us to Vacaville, and we were treated differently because we lacked a Vacaville pedigree. It was a shame, but it was true, with few exceptions.
Tom Zunino noticed that I had a talent for "shoe wrestling", and notified Larry Nelson, who came down, on his prep-period, to watch me go up against a guy, literally, twice my size. My strength was quickness, and a bullied-kids adept knowlege of escape. When my "match" was over (I had the shoe), Tom and Larry conferred for a minute, and Z tells me I'm going out for Wrestling. It was the best thing I had ever done (to that point). I was pretty good, and "lettered" as a sophomore. I was fortunate, because of Wrestling, I was able to break through the social barrier, and I started to think of Vacaville as my home town.
Throughout my Navy career, I called Vacaville my home town. I came back often, whenever I could get the time off. I've watched it grow into a City of 100,000. albeit at a distance. My last assignment was to a squadron at Moffett Field. We checked for rentals around the base, and could only afford a studio, which would not do for the five of us. My loving wife, whom I met at Vaca High, asked where we could live. "Vacaville" came out so quickly, both of us jerked. We knew it was home, a place where we both had some roots.
Moved a couple more times, over the years, but we keep coming back. It's home.
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