Addressing the Substitute Teacher Shortage

In an effort to address an anticipated substitute teacher shortage for the 2020-2021 school year, Missouri’s Department of Elementary and Secondary Education (DESE) issued a press release last week that read in part:

“Currently, individuals looking to obtain a substitute certificate must complete 60 semester hours or more of college-level credit from a DESE-recognized and regionally accredited academic degree granting institution. Following the State Board of Education’s decision today, individuals who possess a high school diploma or equivalent may complete a 20-hour state-approved substitute teacher online training to be eligible for a substitute certificate.”

I can attest to the fact that there has been an ongoing shortage of substitute teachers for the last several years. On many occasions, I have personally witnessed students being sent to other classrooms when a substitute could not be found to teach their class. With the very real possibility that teachers will be sent home to quarantine after being exposed to the coronavirus when children return to crowded classrooms this fall, the need for qualified substitutes will be greater than ever before.

The first question I pose to you today is this: Is lowering the certification requirements for substitute teachers in the best interest of our children?

Although substitutes are currently required to have completed the equivalent of two years of college classes, many subs(including myself) possess a four-year degree. Taking various college-level courses gives future substitutes a solid background in a wide range of fields. This is important because subs often teach a variety of subjects including math, science, biology, social studies, reading, writing, physical education, music, art, library, and more.

A person who dropped out of high school but managed to later earn a GED could obtain their sub certificate through DESE’s new plan. This means there could be a very real possibility that a person who dropped out of high school as a junior and never had a senior year could end up teaching high school seniors. This seems like a bad idea to me.

The second question I have for you is this: Is there a better way to address this shortage of qualified substitutes?

I have a bachelor’s degree and eight years of substitute teaching experience, and I earn $80 per day as a sub. This means that for working a full eight-hour school day, I earn just $10 per hour. According to Indeed.com, the average wage of an employee at McDonald’s is $10.48 per hour—no diploma or GED required.Therefore, subs earn less money for teaching high school students than high school students earn for flipping burgers at McDonald’s.

I can earn $400 per week if I work every school day, and even if I were to sub all 175 days of a school year, I would only earn $14,000 in nine months. Long-term subbing assignments pay $125 per day, which comes to $21,875 for an entire academic year of teaching. For reference, the Department of Health and Human Services fixes the official poverty level for a family of three at an income of $21,720.

I have taught students in general classrooms in six different grade levels and in PE, Art, Music, Library, Guidance, and Special Education. I’ve worked long-term teaching gigs in Art, Music, and second grade, and now I am mentally preparing to teach a long-term subbing assignment in kindergarten this fall during the world’s worst pandemic in the last 100 years.

I am a professional educator, and I deserve to be compensated as such.

Here’s a radical idea: Instead of allowing practically anyone with a pulse to become a certified substitute teacher, (as long as they can stay awake through 20 hours of online video training), why not pay professional substitute educators professional wages?

I do not fault my school district for my low pay. Southern Boone, like most districts, is in a budget crunch right now. In June, Missouri Governor Mike Parson announced his plan to cut $131 million from elementary and secondary education funding. “You could have never imagined that this is where we’d be today,” Parson said of the state’s financial crisis. But I disagree with the governor.

In 1980, Missourians passed what is now commonly called the Hancock Amendment. This measure makes it mandatory to refund to taxpayers any surplus in revenues greater than 1% of the revenue limitation. In other words, this measure makes it impossible to build up a “rainy day fund” that could be used to make up for future revenue shortfalls. This amendment to the Missouri constitution guarantees that when a crisis like the COVID-19 pandemic causes a sharp drop in tax revenues, there would be no other choice but to cut funding for essential programs such as education.

If Missouri’s tax revenues are higher than expected next year, that money cannot be allocated to education to make up for this year’s shortfall. The Hancock Amendment would mandate that the money be refunded to taxpayers. Education funding will continue to suffer as long as this amendment is a part of our constitution.

 

Just how bad is it for educators in our state? According to the National Education Association, Missouri ranks 48th out of 50 states in starting teacher salary. If we pay our full-time teachers that poorly, then it can be no surprise that we pay substitutes less than fast food employees.

 

DESE’s plan to make it easier for unqualified people to become substitute teachers is not a solution to the sub shortage. Better pay for qualified, professional educators (substitutes and full-time teachers alike) is what will benefit our students and our communities the most.

Hello, Dolly!

 “When a man loves cats, I am his friend and comrade, without further introduction.” – Mark Twain

In addition to hailing from the same hometown, and possessing a similar proclivity for writing, Mark Twain and I also have in common an affection for creatures of the feline variety. However, my predilection for cats is unfortunately countered by a severe allergy to the small beasts.

My earliest memory of having an allergic reaction to cats occurred when my parents decided to move our family into a rental property in Hannibal, Missouri, when my brother and I were young boys. As our parents carried furniture and boxes into the house, Blake and I occupied ourselves in our usual fashion—a spirited wrestling match.

Though three and a half years separated us in age, my younger brother often proved to be a worthy adversary. Whenever he felt that I had gained the upper-hand in one of our skirmishes, Blake would employ his patented “kicking machine” technique in an attempt to fend off my attack. This method, one in which Blake would lie on his back and flail his legs as if he were frantically pedaling an invisible, inverted bicycle, inevitably provoked me to react in one of two ways: Uncontrollable laughter and/or uncontrollable rage.

 

On the occasion of our family’s move-in day, the only reaction I recall experiencing was an allergic one. As Blake and I rolled around on the deeply carpeted floor of our new living room, my eyes became itchy and watery. Naturally, I did what any child would do were he or she in my situation: I rubbed them ferociously. Within minutes, both of my eyes had swollen completely shut.

More worrisome was the fact that my airway was quickly closing as well. When it became obvious that I was having a severe allergic reaction, my parents whisked me away from the house and informed the landlord that we would not be taking occupancy of the premises after all. After that episode, I avoided cats as much as I could throughout my childhood.

Years later, during my college days, I made some close friendships with my coworkers at Eastgate Foods. All of them, unfortunately, had cats as pets. Whenever I visited any of their homes, I was careful to never touch my eyes, but I could do nothing to avoid the familiar tickle in my windpipe that occurred after breathing the cat-infused air for a few minutes.

In late October of 1993, during what proved to be the worst week of my life, I was evicted from my apartment, rejected by an old flame, and I dropped out of Mizzou to avoid flunking out. My friends Ed and Troy graciously allowed me to sleep on their couch until I could make other arrangements, but after two days of breathing the allergen-filled atmosphere of their two-cat household and puffing on a borrowed inhaler every few minutes, I realized that if I didn’t leave soon, I would probably die.

 

I considered living in the small storage unit I had rented until I could figure something else out, but instead I opted to move in with my father, his wife, and their two small children in northeast Iowa. A day or two after I arrived, Dad insisted on taking me to the emergency room where I was diagnosed with having a prolonged asthma attack triggered by my cat allergy.

 

The doctor said something about me being lucky to be alive, but after the week I’d just had, I didn’t feel very lucky at all. I can only imagine what he must have written in my medical chart: “22-year-old male, evicted, homeless, heartbroken, alcoholic, college dropout—deathly allergic to kitty cats. Diagnosis: asthmatic/pathetic. Prognosis: not good.”

Against all odds, I survived that historically horrible week, and everything else life has thrown at me since—including living with asthma. I’ve learned to limit my time of exposure to indoor cats and to always a have a rescue inhaler at the ready, just in case.

Almost fifteen years ago, a stray cat showed up at our house and had a litter of kittens. I took all of them to the vet to be spayed, got them their initial shots, and welcomed them to our homestead as “barn cats”. (Being in close proximity to cats while outdoors in fresh air doesn’t trigger my asthma.) One of those kittens is still with us today, a gray and white female named Boots.

 

Our neighbors have three cats, one of which, a calico named Ginger, decided she liked our accommodations better and has been living in and out of our garage for the last year or so. She and Bootsie get along well enough to follow our family on our evening walks down our gravel road most nights.

 

It was on one such stroll last week when we met our new cat, now called Dolly, who was near death when we found her starving and covered in fleas in the weeds beside our driveway. I’m happy to report that she has been eating and drinking well, is now free of fleas, and has made herself quite at home in our garage. As tiny as she is, the vet assured me that she’s no kitty. Dolly is, in her professional opinion, at least eight years old—and lucky to be alive.

 

Of course, I’m completely smitten with her.

Sam Clemens said, “Some people scorn a cat and think it not an essential; but the Clemens tribe are not of these.” Neither are the Naughtons.

Welcome to the family, Dolly. 

 

Thank You For Reading

 “People say, ‘Why do you go through so much trouble to offend people?’ And I say, ‘It’s no trouble.’” – Comedian Ricky Gervais

I try to be a good boy. I really do. When I sit down to write, I honestly don’t go out of my way to offend people. Nevertheless, it seems that the old adage is true: You can’t make everyone happy.

 

Since I resumed my career as a columnist in March, I have largely avoided writing about controversial topics. There have been a few occasions, however, when I felt so passionately about subjects that I felt compelled to write about them, at the risk of causing some readers to take exception with my views.

Recently, a loyal reader expressed his displeasure with a piece I wrote about the Bill of Rights. He said that months ago I had made a commitment to quit politicizing my columns and to “quit criticizing and denigrating his and OUR President, Donald John Trump.” Initially, I felt guilty. Had I really broken a promise to you, my readers? If so, then I indeed deserved to be called out for such an egregious act.

I decided to go back and re-read what I had written all those months ago in my comeback column entitled “United We Stand”. Here is what I said:

 

“The reason I decided to resume my career as a writer for the Journal is because I want to help bridge the divide in our community. I want to use my column as a way to bring people together. I want to uplift people. I want to do whatever I can to make our small corner of the world a better place.

“Shouldn’t that be the case for all of us? For the sake of our children and our children’s children, can’t we all come together to ensure that the Ashland area continues to be a great place to live and raise a family? I’m not naïve. I recognize that there are some difficult issues confronting our community right now. But if we work with one another instead of against each other, our odds of solving our problems increase dramatically. United we stand, divided we fall. The choice is ours.

“I choose to be someone who unites. I choose to be someone who writes. I choose to write for the Boone County Journal. Thanks for having me back, Gene.”

Did I promise to refrain from criticizing the president? Absolutely not. The column I wrote two weeks ago about the importance of defending the First Amendment is a perfect example of why I would never promise to refrain from criticizing the president. It is my duty as an American citizen and an opinion columnist to shine light on injustice—especially if that injustice is being committed by the POTUS. 

I did commit to helping bridge the divide in our community, however. It is fair to hold me accountable for keeping that promise. In the months since my column returned to the Journal, I have written about the joys of teaching young people, about heroes working on the frontlines in the battle against COVID-19, about mental health awareness, about the amazing teachers I work with in Southern Boone County, about the healing power of art, about the SoBoCo community in general, and about family. 

I’ve also written about white privilege, civil rights, and the president. Whenever I write about these subjects, I endeavor to avoid personally attacking anyone in particular. If I touch an occasional nerve, so be it. Honest opinion writing will make readers uncomfortable at times. Honest opinion writing will offend people now and then. Honest opinion writing will rarely make everyone happy.

I really do try to be one who unites, rather than divides, people in our community. When I point out injustices, it is my intention to unite people against those injustices. Can I do a better job of bringing people together? Most definitely.

I promise that I will never stop trying to improve myself as a writer, as a member of the Southern Boone community, and as a human being. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading my weekly musings and for holding me accountable.  

 

Colorado is my second home

Happiness is losing track of how many times one has visited Colorado. By my estimation, I believe I’ve visited the Centennial State more times than any other place outside of Missouri. (A native of Hannibal, I refuse to count Quincy, Illinois, a.k.a. “America’s Armpit”, because I only went there for their mall and off-track betting.)

The first time I can remember visiting Colorado was when I was very young, maybe six or seven years old, back in the late 1970s. My family and I toured the Colorado Springs area on our way to California, taking in attractions such as the popular Seven Falls park and the Royal Gorge bridge.

That road trip included stops at the Grand Canyon, Disneyland, and the Golden Gate Bridge as well, and it proved to be the only big vacation our family ever took together due to my parents divorcing just a few years later. Maybe that’s why I make family vacations such a priority now.

The next time I visited Colorado was in the early 1990s when my college roommate and I embarked upon an unforgettable road trip to Las Vegas. On our way back to Missouri, we decided to take I-70 through Colorado. We stopped at a visitors’ center outside the small town of Rifle, where we told the nice lady at the information desk that we were from Hannibal, Missouri.

“You’re like Tom and Huck going on an adventure!” she said.“The mayor will want to meet you!” She quickly pointed us in the direction of the mayor’s restaurant and said he would be expecting us.

When we arrived at the greasy spoon, the mayor welcomed us as the folk heroes we knew ourselves to be. Mayor Dave plied us with free bison burgers and Rockies beer and declared us honorary goodwill ambassadors from Rifle. He deputized us with decals shaped like sheriff’s badges, and the three of us posed for pictures together. I haven’t been back there since, but I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to see our photo hanging on the wall.

In 2007, Bethany, Alex, and I joined Bethany’s sisters and their families on a camping trip to Estes Park and Colorado Springs. We hiked in Rocky Mountain National Park, drove through the Garden of the Gods, and sampled water at Manitou Springs. We visited Estes Park again in 2015 at the end of an epic RV adventure through the Badlands, the Black Hills, Yellowstone, the Grand Tetons, and the Rockies. We went back to Estes again just last week.

During this latest trip, the Naughtons, the Heckers (Bethany’s twin sister Charla’s family), and the twins’ mother Glee once again visited Rocky Mountain National Park where we drove theTrail Ridge Road, the highest elevation road of any national park, hiked to 12,000 feet on the Alpine Ridge Trail, climbed Alberta Falls, and circumnavigated our old favorite, Bear Lake, for the third time.

 

We also spent some time in nearby Fort Collins. I had been to the northern Colorado town several times over the years to visit my friend Troy, with whom I share a love of live music. He and I have been to concert venues up and down the Front Range. During this most recent trip, in the age of Covid, live music was not an option, so Troy and his lovely girlfriend Tina hosted an 80s-themed backyard movie night for the Naughton family. Beetlejuice was a big hit with the kids, even if Troy and I laughed louder than them.

Since November, Fort Collins has also been home to my brother Blake and his family. Both he and his wonderful wife Meredith are now professors at Colorado State University. All of us, including my dad—who felt adventurous enough to drive out to Colorado to stay at the famous Stanley Hotel in Estes—spent a fun afternoon together exploring Old Town and dining at local eateries. (We wore masks and/or maintained social distancing everywhere we went, and not once did I feel like my civil liberties were being infringed upon.)

No Naughton trip to Colorado would be complete without a complication or two. Five years ago, on the way home from Estes Park, the selector on the dashboard of our RV that switched from heat to a/c got stuck in the blast furnace position. To make matters worse, the generator stopped working, which disabled the rooftop air conditioning unit as well. For fourteen excruciating hours, we drove across eastern Colorado and the full length of Kansas (a state I hate even more than Illinois) in our sweltering motor home. We opened all the windows to try to get some relief, but whenever one of the kids opened the bathroom door to relieve themselves, a vacuum was created that sucked the sewer gases through the toilet and into the RV’s cabin, turning the recreational vehicle into Satan’s colon.

This year, the trip home was marred by a severe oil leak from the rear differential of my heavy-duty truck that caused our camping trailer to look like it had been towed behind the Exxon Valdez. The sound emanating from the differential’s under-lubricated gears was so loud that even the radio could not drown it out. 

The problem was unfortunately discovered somewhere in the wilds of Nebraska (because I refused to repeat the drive through Hell/Kansas again) after all the service stations had closed for the evening, so we were forced to drive slowly for the remainder of the trip, expecting a catastrophic failure to happen at any moment. 

Luckily, we made it home in one piece after fifteen tension-filled hours on the road. 

Maybe the problems we’ve had while driving back to Missouri are just Colorado’s way of trying to convince us that we belong in the mountains. Take it easy, Colorado, I don’t need that much convincing.

Defending the First Amendment

In Defense of the First Amendment

“A well-regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.” – The Second Amendment to the United States Constitution

  

When mass shootings occur, and gun-control advocates talk about banning certain types of weapons such as assault-rifles with high-capacity magazines, gun-rights advocates are quick to reply, “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.”

In other words, don’t blame guns. Blame the people who use them. I find it interesting that many of those self-described defenders of the Bill of Rights do not use that same argument to defend the Constitution’s First Amendment, which reads as follows:

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.”

In authoritarian regimes such as North Korea, Russia, the Philippines, and Iran, the government jails, tortures, and murders journalists who dare to report the truth. Here in the United States, the beacon of free speech, President Donald Trump has said on more than one occasion that the free press is “truly the enemy of the people”. According to John Bolton, Trump’s former National Security Advisor, the president has even discussed jailing and executing reporters who refuse to give up their sources.

Blame the media for everything, Trump and many of his followers say. 

Those defenders of the Constitution should instead come to the aid of the First Amendment, employing the same argument they use to defend the Second Amendment, saying, “Don’t blame the media. Blame the people who consume the media.”

I am sick to death of the “Blame the Media” movement. As difficult as it may be for some people to accept, including the president, the media is not to blame for society’s problems. It is the media’s job to report on those problems. Like it or not, it just so happens that many of those problems involve Donald J. Trump. Does the phrase “Don’t kill the messenger” mean nothing to you, Mr. President?

Unfortunately, many of those folks who claim to be staunch supporters of the Bill of Rights fail to condemn Trump’s war against the free press. As a longtime member of the free press, and the parent of a cub reporter, I take that wanton disregard personally.

The president’s distain for the First Amendment doesn’t end with the media. Trump has recently sent armed federal agents into the city of Portland, Oregon, to suppress Black Lives Matter demonstrations. Video and photographic evidence shows these agents deploying tear gas, batons, and rubber bullets against peaceful protesters. I will readily admit that there are, without a doubt, some people participating who are not peacefully assembling. Portland authorities have every right to arrest those law-breakers. However, the federal government has no authority to use violence against those who are peacefully exercising their Constitutionally protected First Amendment right to assemble.

The silence of the pick-and-choose Constitutionalists is deafening. 

People who ignore or support Trump’s blatant disregard for the sanctity of the First Amendment while adamantly defending the Second Amendment are hypocrites, plain and simple. Imagine their reaction had the president sent paramilitary agents to stop the gun-toting protesters who stormed the Michigan state house to voice their displeasure with the governor’s stay-at-home order aimed at protecting lives amid the coronavirus pandemic.

Donald Trump and his followers pay a great deal of lip-service to believing in the Constitution. It’s time they refamiliarize themselves with the other amendments to that hallowed document, beginning with the First.