The Bitter Homeschooler

1. Work for an organization dedicated to forwarding the rights of a misunderstood minority group — a group about which there are many unfortunate and unfair stereotypes, making it necessary for an organization such as yours to fight for the social and legal equality of this group’s members.

2. Manage to reach me on the phone. (This may be the most difficult step.)

3. Ask me to donate $200 to your cause.

4. When I explain that it would be impossible for me to go along with this request, mention that a donation of time is also quite valuable. Ask about my schedule.

5. Register the fact that I homeschool.

6. Explain that this is fine with you.

7. Explain that, as a matter of fact, you know someone who was homeschooled.

8. Add that this wasn’t a good experience for your acquaintance — that frankly, it “messed up her life” — but that you’re sure I’ll do a much better job than your friend’s parents did.

9. Remain oblivious to the scientific and ethical problems inherent in judging an entire group on the basis of a vanishingly small sample.

10. Remain oblivious to the insult inherent in telling someone that while you haven’t been impressed with her group in the past, you’re willing to believe that she could be okay. If she works at it.

11. No matter how difficult it becomes, don’t give in to the temptation to acknowledge how this idea of positive exceptionality may have held back the rights of the very group you’re working to support.

12. Instead, explain to me what I ought to be doing in order not to fit the stereotypes generally associated with my group.

13. Taking my child outside, for instance, is a good idea.

14. Meeting other people? Also excellent.

15. Continue to advise me on the life I’m currently leading. This advice should be based entirely on the broadest possible stereotypes.

16. Insistently fail to see any irony here.

17. Convince me that there is no hope at all that even those impacted by prejudice can learn the critical thinking processes necessary to make a truly egalitarian world.

18. Finally hang up and allow me to spend the rest of the evening muttering under my breath.

1. An hour before we’re supposed to leave, my son wanders into my room.

“I just remembered I wore my dress pants yesterday,” he announces.

Well, that’s understandable. He was a judge at a Lego competition yesterday. Why wouldn’t he wear his only pair of non-jeans for such an august occasion? Especially when today he’s just going to be playing violin in front of dozens of people — and his performance will be filmed, so make that more like hundreds.

Please note also that even if there were time to muck about with throwing a load of laundry on, we don’t own a washer or a dryer and the building’s laundry room is very busy on weekends. Plus I’ve still got this miserable cold and am barely upright.

“Where are the pants?”

“In the hamper.”

I love how he stares at me so expectantly after saying this, waiting for me to work some kind of magic. No, wait — I don’t love that at all.

“Take. Them. Out.”

“Oh.”

Thankfully, they didn’t end up under anything soggy. And they’re corduroy and he actually remembered to turn them inside out.

He’s still looking at me expectantly.

“PUT. THEM. ON.”

“Oh.”

2. Sonny again, twenty minutes before he’s supposed to leave: “I really need a pair of dress shoes.”

“Didn’t you just go shoe shopping two months ago with Grandma?”

“Yes.”

“And when you got home, didn’t I ask if you’d gotten any dress shoes?”

“Yes.”

“And didn’t you say that you didn’t because you only need them once a year so why bother?”

“Yes.”

Before my head can explode, my husband interjects that they’d actually looked for dress shoes on that trip, but couldn’t find any that weren’t made of leather, which my son has ethical objections to.

“Okay,” I said. “Fine. But then you do one of two things. You go online or out shopping some more and look for ethical dress shoes and buy them and have dress shoes. Or you don’t buy dress shoes and just fake it on special occasions. But you don’t specifically decide not to buy dress shoes since after all you don’t need them that often and then complain on the morning you do need them that you don’t have any.”

“Oh.”

&*$#%.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

3. Ten minutes before liftoff: “I really need some Chapstick. I keep thinking I have some, but I’m actually out.”

“How many times have we done some kind of shopping this week?”

“I don’t know.”

“At least two. How many times could Dad have stopped by the store on the way home from work?”

“I don’t know.”

“At least four. How many times before this morning when there is NO time to run an extra errand did you mention that you need Chapstick?”

“Oh.”

4. Me: “Did you wash your face?”

“Was I supposed to?”

&*$#%. “Are you out of your cleanser?”

“Um, almost.”

“And you were going to mention this when, exactly?”

“Oh.”

5. “Mom, will you help me comb my hair?”

“Yes, but you’re supposed to ask me to do that before you put your dress shirt on, so I don’t have to worry about getting water on it. We’ve talked about this.”

“Oh.”

“And you really should comb your hair after you wash it, so it doesn’t look so crazy in the morning. You washed your hair last night, and you knew you’d have a special event today.”

“Oh.”

After copious quantities of water and product have been worked in to little effect:

“Look, you have to start taking more care of your hair. I’m not that good with hair anyway. I can barely manage my own. I can’t work miracles, here.”

He smiles seraphically. “I’m sure you can.”

“NO. I CAN’T. AND I DON’T NEED THIS KIND OF PRESSURE WHEN I’M STILL SICK AND YOU HAVE TO LEAVE IN FOUR MINUTES.”

“Ow.”

6. My son won a small, high-quality video camera a few years ago. He’s very proud of it, especially since it’s the only one we have.

Dad: “Should we bring extra batteries for the video camera?”

Son: “I don’t know. Should we?”

“Did you put in new batteries this morning?”

“Um, no.”

Expectant silence. My husband is an eternal optimist. Finally:

“So do you think we should bring extra batteries?”

“I don’t know. Should we?”

[sound of me heaving a dramatic sigh as my eyes roll clear into the next room and I collapse into a chair]

Son: “Are you okay?”

“Just get the extra batteries and go. And if you ask me where we keep batteries, I will commit entirely justifiable homicide!”

“Make it quick. If we don’t leave now, we’ll be late.”

That last one was my husband. There’s a reason we’re still married. And I’m sure there’s a reason I’m not a charter member of Childless By Choice. Now that I have a minute to myself, I’ll try to remember it.

Well, it happened and we all saw it coming: The Bitter Homeschooler needs to be able to bitter about stuff that isn’t even remotely connected to homeschooling. (By the way: if you know anyone with the right kind of connections, I want credit in the OED for making “bitter” a verb.) I’ve been faking it with that whole “Well, I’m a homeschooler and I’m writing about it, so it must be about homeschooling, sort of” line for too long. I’d like this site to be relatively family-friendly, which means I need one where I can really cut loose with the bitter.

I was hoping to be able to call the new blog “The Bitter,” but that was taken. “Rage On Tap” was my next choice, but I wanted to keep the continuity of bitterness.

So: As well as writing here, I’ll be ranting over at Bitter Notes. Hope you’ll spread the word and let me know what you think.

“Deborah Markus!”

Yes, “Deborah” won the coveted ERW prize, narrowly edging out April. April’s writing is outstanding and her name is not in quotes; but after the entries I just received from “Deborah Markus,” I’m forced to acknowledge that someone is even more skilled at imitating Josh Mason than she.

Here’s the first one, which I found in my email early this afternoon:

“Hello everyone. My name is Deborah Markus. But, I am really a lesbian and a public school activist masquerading as a home school advocate. My children are functionally retarded.

Love,
Deborah Markus

P.S. I suspect my husband is a homosexual.”

Notice how thriftily the writer saved the comma the first sentence needs in order to use it unnecessarily after the “but” in the third sentence. Note also how the entrant manages to imply that both members of a male-female couple can be gay and engage in baby-making activities with one another. Admire the reference to retardation — seriously, Josh couldn’t have done it better himself.

Here’s the second entry from “Deborah:”

“I have decided to shut down Secular Homeschooling Magazine. It is poorly written and I can no longer support homeschooling in general. Public schools are far superior and my children are basically functionally retarded because I have homeschooled them. If you have a subscription, you will not get a refund. Sorry, you’re out of luck. Love, Deborah Markus.”

Admittedly, this isn’t as brilliant as the first entry. None of the sentences begin with “so” or “but,” only to be followed by that trademark ERC incorrect comma. But at least we have the all-important reference to retardation.

Technically, I suppose I shouldn’t be referring to these as entries. They weren’t posted here, nor were they emailed to me privately. They did show up in my email, because Facebook always lets me know when and what someone posts to the Secular Homeschooling Magazine FB page. And these were posted as comments on existing threads of said page.

Perhaps from some sense of modesty, “Deborah” appears to have deleted her comments immediately on posting them. But they’re still in my email box, which is how I was able to quote them in their entirety.

“Deborah” also seems to have deleted her Facebook account. Which is taking modesty pretty far, but I’m not here to judge.

What I couldn’t get over was the coincidence that someone else named Deborah Markus would post on the SHM FB page. I mean, I know there are other people out there with that name, but still — what are the odds?

Hey, wait a minute…

You don’t think…

Could it be…?

No, of course not.

I mean, how could someone who teaches elementary school and runs Extra Reading have time for this kind of shenanigans? And how could someone with the demonstrated maturity of Josh Mason have the inclination?

Okay, okay. You’ve convinced me. It’s him.

So let’s go ahead and give the prize to April after all. And then let’s talk about a place called Worksheet Library.

Not my company. Never an advertiser with SHM. Just a site that educators, home and otherwise, might be interested in checking out.

I subscribed to Worksheet Library a few years ago, when along with homeschooling, I was doing some tutoring. For $29.95 a year, I had access to K-8 worksheets for math, language arts, Spanish, French, science, and social studies. There were thousands of worksheets available in each category.

I was happy to find that the price and the merchandise are still the same. Thirty dollars a year. No haggling. Thousands of worksheets in a range of grades and subjects, as well as just-for-fun and holiday-oriented pages.

Hmm.

As opposed to — who was that guy, the one whose company offered a few language arts materials for grades 3-8, and who insisted that $40 a year was an absolute bare-bones minimum how-dare-you-even-think-of-paying-less-than-this price?

Whoever he was, his site looks a lot different than it did a few weeks ago. The CEO was accused of using art he had no right to. He huffily replied that he had every right to use this art — and to prove it, he’d shut down his site for a few days just to make sure everything was kosher. And when his site came back online…hey, look! No more art! That’s telling them, Josh!

If you want to see what his materials and front page used to look like, check out this picture on Tracy’s Techy Tidbits, a site that ran an article about ERC a few months ago. Gorgeous, huh? Wonder why he didn’t keep it that way.

Anyway. Sorry to wander like that. Congratulations, April! Keep up the good work!

Just to drive home the point I made in the last posting: hey, look what graced my mailbox this morning!

From a Mr. Charles Buchanan, whose last name is almost as hard to stop typing as “banana:”

“I am also an athiest, but the phrase ‘me and my kids’ really doesn’t drive your homeschooling argument home (you figure it out) and as a side effect it makes us all look like inbred douchebag hicks. thanks.”

This letter startled me. I am horrifyingly absentminded, so I ran to do a quick sweep of the apartment. Turns out, I do only have one kid.

So I have no idea (clearing throat in preparation for severe grammatical correctness) to which piece of my writing he could be referring.

I sent him a link to the previous posting in this blog, chided him for coming so late to the grammar snob party, and added in a postscript that it’s spelled “atheist,” not “athiest,” dearie.

Whatever he’s quoting, though, he really made his point. Because that’s the thing you always notice about people who went to public school: they never make grammatical errors. Or use revolting language in an effort to shock the grownups.

I’m going to sit around and wait for the chocolate I’m sure some adoring stalker will be sending any minute now, just to balance out all the wickedness of this world.

This column is dedicated to June Casagrande, writer and goddess. My family is using her Grammar Snobs Are Great Big Meanies: A Guide to Language for Fun and Spite
as our grammar curriculum this year. If you like happiness and joy and writing that’s the closest you can get to actual chocolate without all those pesky calories, please visit her blog and buy all her books, not necessarily in that order.

The Bitter Atheist list I wrote had a surge of visits this past week. Cool. I like knowing I’m being read.

I don’t get much hate mail, but this comment was passed along to me from the site. Please bear in mind that I’m quoting verbatim.

“Grammar is terrible in ’16 things’ article, as is the article itself. I, an atheist myself has never appreciated the snarky or militant ‘atheist’s rebuttal to Christianity’ type article — seems so petty. Let’s give it a rest, okay?”

The easy out would be to bwahahahaha about the glaring mistakes in that note. I comma an atheist myself no comma has never appreciated? Really? This man is ragging on my writing abilities? Please.

(In case no one has staked an official claim on this territory yet, let it now be known as Markus’ Rule: If you complain about a writer’s spelling, grammar, or punctuation errors, your letter is guaranteed to contain exactly the sort of errors about which you complained.)

The slightly-more-work path (which I’ll take — it’s the day after Thanksgiving, and I need the exercise) is to point out that there are several writing styles or voices. Highly formal is not more correct than colloquial in and of itself; context is all. Twain didn’t write Huckleberry Finn that way because he didn’t know how to write right. He shocked the lit world by writing an entire novel in a colloquial voice because his priority was sustaining an authentic voice. Or, to put it colloquially, who the heck he was writing about.

Oh, look. I wrote Huckleberry Finn when the book is actually called Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. (No “the” at the beginning.) And I ended a sentence with a preposition, and said “who” when the rules call for “whom.”

Guess what? That paragraph is still perfectly okay.

Point out all the mistakes you like. If you don’t understand that a piece of writing can be full of grammatical errors and still be correct, you don’t understand writing.

The only time it’s appropriate to allow grammatical correctness to be absolute monarch of your work is when you’re writing a tech manual, a grant proposal, or a speech you’ll be delivering before the Supreme Court of the United States. As soon as your writing is intended to sound as if a natural human voice had uttered (or could be imagined to utter) your words, grammar rules become the regent in a constitutional monarchy. They’re important, and you should know they’re out there; but they’re not the boss of you.

It would have been incorrectly correct of me to write out the entire title of Twain’s book a paragraph or two ago. It’s customary in everyday speech to refer to the book by the nickname of its shortened title. If I were referring to it in an essay I’d be graded on, or a book of literary history or theory, I’d use the long version. Hauling out the whole title in this setting would be announcing that I’m a pretentious twit and you should leave now, before I give you a headache.

Similarly, when I said I was going to rephrase my premise in a colloquial manner, it was correct of me not to say, “about whom he was writing.” Because that’s not how people talk. Unless they’re insufferable snits.

Obviously the guy who wrote me the note about my alleged errors doesn’t know grammar rules from Grandma Walton. He doesn’t have to. He knows that most people are intimidated by the idea that someone smarter than they are might come along and — gasp — correct their grammar.

Sorry. Pedantic terrorism holds no terror for me.

Pedantry, as Judith Martin points out, usually isn’t evidence of solid grammatical skills. “All you have to do is to grab one grammatical werewolf and run with it.”

That’s all most of us do. I’ve done it myself, when I’m in a mean mood. I’ll silently sneer at people who talk about gilding the lily. I’ll utter traffic-stopping screeches when someone says “irregardless.”

Okay, “irregardless” is wrong and must be stopped. But even I can’t muster up a genuine heart attack about the fact that the quote in question refers to painting the lily, not gilding it. If you can manage some genuine outrage about that one, it’s evidence that you’re evil.

The fact is, the guy who wrote me that note is a jerk. And not because he disagrees with me. If he’d stuck with his real point, which is that he thinks that drawing up this kind of list is a petty exercise in snarky superiority, he would have been worth listening to, because he’d be introducing a valid debate. Is my bitter atheist ranting small-minded, shabby, and even harmfully divisive? Or is this kind of humor a valid way for the community to let off some collective steam? Those are questions worth asking and discussing, even if a definitive answer is impossible to reach.

But this guy was only interested in being a condescending arse. If the writing in my list is so “terrible,” why are thousands of people a day reading it months after it was posted? And “Let’s give it a rest, okay?”

As Twain would say, “Bite me.”

I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch the footage of you in action at UC Davis. I’ve seen one still shot — I’m sure you can guess which one — and that was revolting enough.

But Anonymous outed you, Mr. Pike, and someone else made wonderfully mocking art out of the only thing anyone will ever remember about you; and it made me think about history.

It’s possible that when it comes to Occupy, this too shall pass from popular memory. Other important movements have. For instance, I’ve asked several educated people if they’ve heard of the Bonus Army. None of them had. I hadn’t myself until it was described on a pod cast. It involved thousands of activists, millions of sympathetic Americans, and all the key issues of the time, not to mention many famous figures. The Bonus Army and the American Government’s response to it had direct, important consequences — social, political, and legal ones. And very few people remember it today, though 1932 isn’t all that long ago.

So you never know. Occupy could be another Bonus Army, or it could be the beginning of America’s second revolution. And this one could be even more impressive than the first, in its own way, thanks to the fact that its participants are married to the idea that lasting change does not require violence.

I happen to hope that Occupy lasts long enough to make a difference and a permanent place in our cultural memory.

You, clearly, hope for the opposite. You hoped for that even before you blasted those sitting students.

Because if you’d believed for a minute that this movement would live on in any way, self-interest alone would have stopped you from choosing such a place in history.

If this fizzles, you’ll be nothing but a nasty footnote to a footnote.

And if it doesn’t?

Abraham Zapruder wasn’t setting out to make history on November 22, 1963. He almost didn’t bring his camera with him. Circumstances colluded to make this ordinary man’s name immortal.

It can happen. You can wake up one morning and make history just by being there.

You can be going about your ordinary life and rise to terrifying heroism when all you really wanted was to live. Flight 93.

Or you can go to work and casually lash out at people you know won’t hurt you back. You can exploit the power you have because you think you can get away with it, and not realize you’ve gone too far until — how many enraged phone calls have you received now, Mr. Pike? Have you changed that number yet?

Intellectually, we all know that the smallest choices we make may lead to something dizzyingly huge. None of us expects to be the one it happens to, though. Even people who want to be famous assume that the desired fame will blossom from their brilliant work, not some YouTube video in which they attempt to eat an overstuffed sandwich on an equally overstuffed airplane with disastrous results. (I made this one up. It might be true, though.)

But temporary notoriety is the best you can hope for now, Mr. Pike. What you did will probably cost you your job. It’s already cost you your good name. And it could still get worse.

For example: How do you feel about the idea of this shot heard ’round the world having a name attached to it?

All of a sudden the idea of dying unwept, unhonored, and unsung doesn’t sound so bad, now, does it, Mr. Pike?

I’m not assuming that future history books will bother to mention Occupy, any more than most of them mention the Bonus Army.

But you never know.

My son studies history every day. So do I.

I wonder what tomorrow’s lesson will be?

Yes, I’m a homeschooler, and yes, I’m somewhat of a loopy lefty. Which means that I love the Occupy movement enough to forgive it even when one of its members thinks it would be a good idea to make homeschooling illegal because “religious fanatics use it to feed their children propaganda.”

This is just one person speaking, and no one is claiming that this person speaks for the group. So I’m not going to do my usual flipping out, as good as I am at that.

Instead, I’ll answer by pointing out a few facts.

1. Homeschooling is the ultimate freedom, my Occupying friend. You like freedom. You’re fighting for freedom. No fair deciding that one of the things you’d like to do with any freedom you win is take away some of mine.

2. If you believe that homeschooling = religious fanaticism, while public schooling = disinterested secular meritocracy, you need to meet some actual homeschoolers and visit a few more public schools.

3. Instead of making homeschooling illegal, let’s close all the public schools. Fanatical lobbyists use them to feed our children pizza — and to teach those children that pizza is a vegetable.

Homeschoolers are accused of being anti-science — but what could be more anti-science than insisting that nutritional value can be legislated?

If you haven’t kept up with the news, an excellent Minnesota Public Radio article sums it up nicely in the first sentence: “Congress agreed this week to continue counting the tomato sauce on a slice of pizza as a serving of vegetables for federally-sponsored school lunches.” You can read the rest of the article here.

Two tablespoons of sauce — which is how much these slices generally have — is not a serving of vegetables. If you don’t believe me, ask any nutritionist. She won’t say, “Well, that depends. Where are you buying lunch today?” She’ll say, “Are you nuts? That’s not a serving of anything! That’s freakin’ nutritional background music!”

So remember, anonymous Occupier: Insisting that children be put in public schools is no way to guarantee they’ll get an evidence-based education. The cafeteria may not be a classroom, but kids are still learning important lessons there.

Hey, look! More high weirdness from the zombie known as The Extra Reading Company — a creature that just won’t die no matter how many times it’s shot and that suffers from a desperate lack of brains.

If you care to, you can read the short article I wrote about ERC for Secular Homeschooling:

http://www.secular-homeschooling.com/004/extra_reading.html

If you have another eight or nine hours to spare, you can read the follow-up rant at the Mad Editor blog:

http://www.madeditor.com/2008/10/im-not-nellie-bly-or-let-me-hold-your.html

If you don’t have that kind of time, take my word for it: ERC is bad news. Their CEO is nasty, deceptive, and a terrible writer — and that last one is a particularly unforgivable quality in someone who writes educational material for children.

More evidence of this ickiness landed in my mailbox this morning. Someone posted a comment on the Mad Editor blog posting letting me know that, sadly, ERC is still in business and still being run by someone whose idea of outstanding customer service is siccing his non-rabid starving guard dog on your newborn.

A woman who was hoping to be an ERC customer posted the entirety of an email exchange she had with Josh Mason on The Parenting Pod, a link to which was given to me and which I offer now to you. This one I need you to read, if only so that you don’t have to take my word for it that ERC’s idea of customer service also includes helpful hints, such as that their customers please refrain from being retarded on the premises:

http://www.theparentingpod.com/The_Extra_Reading_Company.htm

The guy doesn’t admit that he’s Josh, but that writing style is unmistakable. Lots of quotation marks. A surfeit of sentences beginning with “so” or “but” followed by an unnecessary comma. Lots of random commas, in fact. Hyphens, hyphens everywhere. A deep and abiding love of the word “such.”

And an ego the size of the moon, with no discernible redeeming qualities with which to rationalize it. Yep, that’s him.

As I wrote, I’ve had my own run-ins with him. It’s been a few years, though, and I’d forgotten just what a nasty piece of work he is.

Seen from the right angle, though, he can be deeply entertaining. And that’s where you come in.

I read the entire Parenting Pod posting aloud to my husband and son at the dinner table, including such gems as the hyphenation of phrases like “lighten-up” and “time-to-time.” We were all incensed — but by the end of the exchange, we were also howling with laughter.

That evening turned into “Write Like Josh!” night at our house — especially when I shared some choice bits from ERC’s “Questions and Answers” page, which reads in spots as if it’s been translated into Japanese and back again by someone struggling to understand our punctuation. “Our advice as to choosing a price is for you to offer the most you can afford to pay; given your financial situation. The way this system works is that those who pay more, allow others to pay less who struggle financially.”

This style turns out to be delightfully contagious.

“Mom,” my son said. “Could you, comma, rinse hyphen this hyphen dish? Semicolon.”

Which gave me one of those brilliant ideas that happen maybe once in a lifetime.

You know the Bad Hemingway contest?

It’s time for some Bad Extra Reading Writing.

Post your entries here. They can be as long or as short as you like. Content is entirely up to you, but you need to include at least one sadly misplaced comma and one jarring semicolon. A special prize will be awarded for best use of bizarrely random hyphenation. Remember: NEVER use italics for emphasis. That’s what capital letters are for. And don’t forget that oozing condescension!

When we get enough entries, we will publish them in a book that will be available at whatever price you can afford ($100).

Sometimes the postings here are about homeschooling. Which is as it should be.

Sometimes, though, I decide to just run with the bitter part. And that’s okay, too.

This one’s super bitter and not about homeschooling at all, unless you count the fact that 1) a homeschooling parent is writing it, and 2) she’s writing it because her poor family, who are also homeschoolers, have had to listen to this as one big nonstop screaming rant and she’s trying to give them a well-earned break.

I’m going to add right now that this is not going to be good clean family fun. If your kids like to read over your shoulder, shoo them out now and read ahead to make sure you feel comfortable having them see this. If you’re a kid, please go clear this article with your mom or dad now before you read any further, okay?

What I need to talk about is a part of the Penn State hideousness that hasn’t been discussed anywhere else, so far as I can see. And I listen to the news for hours every day. (Hurray for free podcasts and a lot of mindless housework necessary in an allergy-suffering household. Actually, just hurray for that first part.)

Joe Paterno is stealing all the headlines lately. I’m not here to talk about him — although let’s give whatever’s the opposite of a shout-out (an arse-punch?) to the supporter who recently brandished a sign saying “JoePa Got Screwed.” Wow. You win a special award: the coveted Cluelessness Inadvertently Hits High Irony medal. Congratulations!

But as I said, I’m not here to talk about him. Everybody else already is — and I’m not saying they shouldn’t be.

There’s something else that everybody else should be talking about, though; and by talking I mean screaming in incoherent rage. It’s about the assistant coach, Mike McQueary.

All the news I’ve heard focuses, quite correctly, about the fact that McQueary waited a whole day to report what he’d seen Sandusky doing, and that he reported it to his boss rather than to the police. An entire interview with a legal expert on this kind of crime was devoted to what McQueary’s legal obligations were, and how he failed to meet them.

Fair enough and fine.

But why hasn’t ANYONE said the following?

McQueary witnessed a rape.

Specifically, he witnessed the rape of a child.

There hasn’t been anything in the news to imply that he couldn’t clearly see what was happening, or that he felt any uncertainty at the time of the event as to what he was seeing.

Why the bloody hell wasn’t his first instinct to YELL?

This is a repulsive, unthinkable, unspeakable act (and thanks a LOT, Mr. McQueary, for making me think and speak about it — it’s a gorgeous Sunday afternoon and I’d love to be out enjoying it). How did he not instinctively jump to intervene?

What the hell is this person made of that shock and revulsion didn’t make him holler first and ask questions later?

I don’t care what he eventually thought about which side his bread was buttered on, career-wise. Where was his gut?

NOBODY is talking about this.

WHY? HOW are we past being shocked at this? Where is the screaming?

Is McQueary married? Is his wife aware of the fact that when McQueary witnesses a rape, he quietly goes home and ponders his career? Has she castrated him yet? Does she need help? Tell her I’ll pay for my own plane ticket if I can be of any assistance.

I guess in a way this rant does tie in to homeschooling. I have one kid, a boy. He’ll be a man soon. And now I know that if I don’t teach him anything else, I’d damned well better teach him that there are some fights you jump into without thinking twice. Without thinking once, even.

Except that I still can’t believe this needs teaching. I can’t believe there are some things you don’t just know.

Well, I’m a homeschooler. We believe in learning something new every day.

And I hate this lesson.