Can't believe my Mom didn't keep my satin jacket, or the t-shirt that had his face ironed onto it....What will I wear to see @Shaunpcassidy tonight? #firstcrush
@rodjnaquin As an advocate for public education, I read a lot of education posts on X. Most contain the usual āhaters gonna hateā comments (I live in Texas, after all). But such comments are lacking in posts like this, because what can you say when the chaos is all too real? #pastors4txkids
I'm fascinated by Mary Kennedy's work because she shows why school reforms keep failing. It's not that teachers resist changeāit's that reformers don't understand classroom reality. Teachers aren't leading calm seminars; they're managing 30 kids with constant interruptions, time pressure, and a million logistics. When reforms ignore this chaos and propose idealized methods, they're doomed. Teachers want to improve, but they have to keep the class actually functioning, which means the beautiful new approach often can't survive contact with real students and real constraints.
https://t.co/y74ZW45TnT
The lowest estimate for the lowest level of coverage for ONE adult in a household of three with one income: $1,034/month for, basically, catastrophic coverage. Our healthcare system is beyond broken.
And when the charter schools fail them, many families turn to their local public school, which takes all kids in their zone, and operates with fewer and fewer resourcesā¦. #pastors4txkuds
The State owned Bluebonnet Learning Curriculum formerly known as Texas Amplify undermines local control by incentivizing schools with financial rewards. Parents and communities, not the state, should decide whatās best for their children. #LocalControl#RejectBluebonnetĀ Ā @TXSBOE@willhickman@KevenEllisDC
@KellyRasti So easy for #txlege to schedule critical hearings when public ed professionals cannot attend. They have to live with the laws made by non-educators. Why shouldnāt they be able to hire lobbyists to represent their interests?
"My name's Raymond. I'm 73. I work the parking lot at St. Joseph's Hospital. Minimum wage, orange vest, a whistle I barely use. Most people don't even look at me. I'm just the old man waving cars into spaces.
But I see everything.
Like the black sedan that circled the lot every morning at 6 a.m. for three weeks. Young man driving, grandmother in the passenger seat. Chemotherapy, I figured. He'd drop her at the entrance, then spend 20 minutes hunting for parking, missing her appointments.
One morning, I stopped him. "What time tomorrow?"
"6:15," he said, confused.
"Space A-7 will be empty. I'll save it."
He blinked. "You... you can do that?"
"I can now," I said.
Next morning, I stood in A-7, holding my ground as cars circled angrily. When his sedan pulled up, I moved. He rolled down his window, speechless. "Why?"
"Because she needs you in there with her," I said. "Not out here stressing."
He cried. Right there in the parking lot.
Word spread quietly. A father with a sick baby asked if I could help. A woman visiting her dying husband. I started arriving at 5 a.m., notebook in hand, tracking who needed what. Saved spots became sacred. People stopped honking. They waited. Because they knew someone else was fighting something bigger than traffic.
But here's what changed everything, A businessman in a Mercedes screamed at me one morning. "I'm not sick! I need that spot for a meeting!"
"Then walk," I said calmly. "That space is for someone whose hands are shaking too hard to grip a steering wheel."
He sped off, furious. But a woman behind him got out of her car and hugged me. "My son has leukemia," she sobbed. "Thank you for seeing us."
The hospital tried to stop me. "Liability issues," they said. But then families started writing letters. Dozens. "Raymond made the worst days bearable." "He gave us one less thing to break over."
Last month, they made it official. "Reserved Parking for Families in Crisis." Ten spots, marked with blue signs. And they asked me to manage it.
But the best part? A man I'd helped two years ago, his mother survived, came back. He's a carpenter. Built a small wooden box, mounted it by the reserved spaces. Inside? Prayer cards, tissues, breath mints, and a note,
"Take what you need. You're not alone. -Raymond & Friends"
People leave things now. Granola bars. Phone chargers. Yesterday, someone left a hand-knitted blanket.
I'm 73. I direct traffic in a hospital parking lot. But I've learned this: Healing doesn't just happen in operating rooms. Sometimes it starts in a parking space. When someone says, "I see your crisis. Let me carry this one small piece."
So pay attention. At the grocery checkout, the coffee line, wherever you are. Someone's drowning in the little things while fighting the big ones.
Hold a door. Save a spot. Carry the weight no one else sees.
It's not glamorous. But it's everything."
Let this story reach more hearts....
Credit: Mary Nelson
The TX State Board of Education signed an emergency contract to hire Tim Davis, former general counsel of the Tarrant County GOP and now candidate for chairman. I previously reported that four local school boards taken over by well-financed right wing candidates also hired Davis.
School funding has not increased anywhere near the pace of unfunded mandates, technology reqās, dramatic rise in insurance costs in Texas, & other costs the ISDs canāt control. Itās time to elect a governor who is not actively working to dismantle our public schools.
"Iām 79. My nameās Agnes. I walk to Oakwood Elementary every Tuesday and Thursday at 2:45 p.m. Not for my grandkids, I donāt have any. I go for them. The kids waiting for parents who are late. Again.
It started three years ago. I saw Miguel sitting alone on the schoolās concrete steps, tracing math problems in the dirt with a stick. His mom worked double shifts at the canning factory. His homework was smudged with tears.
I didnāt say much. Just pulled a folding chair from my tote bag (I carry it everywhere, bad knees) and sat beside him. "Show me where youāre stuck, mijo," I said. He flinched like Iād startled a bird. But he showed me.
I was a teacher for 42 years. Fractions, state capitals, how to hold a pencil, I know them like my own heartbeat. That day, we solved 3 problems in the dirt. When his mom finally rushed up, breathless and apologizing, I just nodded. "Heās got a good mind," I told her. Her eyes got wet. Not from sadness. From being seen.
Next week, I brought my old teacherās stool and a clipboard. Set up under the oak tree across from the school gates. No sign. No fanfare. Just me, my red pen, and a jar of butterscotch candies.
Kids started coming. Not all at once. First Miguel. Then Aisha, whose dadās truck broke down again. Jamal, who whispered, "My grandmaās sick." I never asked why parents were late. I just opened my clipboard.
Some days, I only helped one child. Other days, five crowded around my stool. I taught multiplication tables while braiding Mayaās hair. Showed Leo how to write his name in cursive on a foggy window. Never took money. Never called the school. This wasnāt their job. It was ours.
Then came Mrs. Chen. She stood at the edge of the sidewalk for weeks, watching her daughter Linh hover near my bench but never approach. One rainy Thursday, Mrs. Chen finally walked over. Her hands shook. "I failed school," she admitted in broken English. "I canāt help her." I slid my stool aside. "Sit," I said. "Today, you do the math. Iāll hold the umbrella."
Last month, the principal found me packing up in the rain. "Weāve had complaints," he said gently. "About āunauthorized tutoring.ā" I braced for the end. But then Linh ran over, dragging her mother. Aisha brought her little brother. Miguel stood tall beside his mom, the one who once cried on the steps. Twelve parents and kids formed a circle around my soggy stool. "This bench stays," Miguel told the principal. "Or we all leave."
Today, the PTA provides the folding chairs. Retired nurses check kidsā ears for infections. A barber gives free trims. But the homework bench? Thatās still mine.
Last Tuesday, Linh placed a college acceptance letter on my clipboard. "You taught me numbers," she said. "But you taught Mama something bigger." She pointed to Mrs. Chen, now helping a boy sound out words. "You taught us weāre not broken."
I packed up my red pen that night, my hands steady for the first time in years. Hereās what nobody tells you about growing old, The world doesnāt need your savings or your spare room. It needs your stubborn, ordinary love. Show up. Sit down. Make space. The rest will grow around you like wildflowers through concrete.ā
Let this story reach more hearts....
By Mary Nelson