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Why Is It So Difficult To Fire Bad Teachers?
Ant writes with this depressing story about how public schools sometimes work: "This six-page Los Angeles Times article shares its investigation to find 'the process [of firing poor teachers] so arduous that many school principals don't even try (One-page version), except in the very worst cases. Jettisoning a teacher solely because he or she can't teach is rare ...'"
Yep, pretty honest.
I mean look at Detroit. It was a bustling industrial town. African Americans moved in because the companies there would hire blacks (unlike other places) and they took over.
Look at Detroit today: Little Somalia.
Ever try to drop off a lunch to your little brother in high school, at lunch-time, only for the principal to call the Sheriff to say you are trespassing? Then now that the deputies are there and find that you did not trespass per the rule of entering the premises "violently" or "with intent to harm" or even had caused any kind of damage to the property nothing short of walking through the school's unattended front gate entrance, they kidnap you to Jail just to process you for other causes.
You get into Jail to be interviewed by psychologists. They don't don't like you because you want to be the one writing on the cliboard, rather than they mis-interpret your words by them adapting their words for all reasons necessary even without any self harm or ill-will to others, throw you into Solitary on Psych-ward L Block.
After being dismissed from the judge, you await to be unhanded by the bastards but they won't let you go because you will not disclose whom you will be traveling away with. They declare you a 5150 homeless, and extradite you to a Therapeutic Recovery Center for 3-day involuntary. Ambulance arrives, you volunteer to be restrained because you want no ill-will to the handlers in this misunderstanding. You arrive down the road perhaps in or near a vietamese district of America and enter to an awaiting table with the head psychologist and chief. Of'course, you see a contract in front of you that says "involuntary" on its face, but they force you to agree to voluntarily enter. Great.
You get put in the "High Flight Risk" of this mental institution where you wait 3 days. You've never had any meds in your life and they call you up to say you have meds. "What are they for" you ask? They'll tell you it'll help you sleep easier, despite not having any problems or complaining. Of'course you have no disclosure what the "drug" is, what the symptoms would be, what are the adverse reactions, who and where and why it is financed to you to take, and what any alternatives are at your option.
The first night was a living hell and you couldn't sleep. You are asked every 4 hours if you have any intent to harm yourself or others and are you hearing voices. You finaly see the head psychoanalyst and have a talk. Nothing becomes of it, other than discussion of the medications given you; he moves it to somthing else. People you see arrive emotionaly distraut from a mere property dispute or failed marriage are arriving in droves; you talk with them and make a fool of yourself to chear them up. You notice that as the hours pass by, they are all calming down. By the end of the day, they are walking zombies of their former selves that need assistance from someone just to walk and enter a bathroom. This place is a drug-dealer's haven, you might think. You go on to conclude your second day, waiting to be let go, but you notice that among the "checks" someone sees on a clibboard is your aptness to the schedule: bowel movement, location, meal attendance, out-door activities under their balcony, horror movies in the entertainment room with the other medicated people, or drawing activities in the "kindergarten" room. If only you had bought that PDA wrist-watch from Fossil... The head psychotrist, as it seems he becomes in his eagerness to put you on nasty medications, is considering you put on 14-day involuntary. Great. This is the day you hear of there ever being a "patients bill of rights" and a "hearing" fom a commissioner of some sort. There are people around you that are looking for legal loopholes themselves, but just don't measure-up to the nature of one of the freemen of Montana. You are called to take that fuzzy-mind mangling medication again before bed, and you keep it on your molar tooth to keep it from dizzolving as you walk away to spit it out in your room. You finally call a friend to pick you up on the 3rd day, because what little currency you had for a payphone was converted from 5 quarters to a useless 1 dollar bill and a quarter that the hallway payphone doesn't accept. Apparently