Interesting Blog Worth Watching

Interesting Blog Worth Watching

I mean, not as interesting as my blog, but still interesting in a somewhat more intellectual sort of way. Kristen describes herself as:

I'm an overeducated Arizonian with a Ph.D from University of Chicago in history and a M.A. in philosophical theology from Yale University.

She's a stay at home Mom, at the moment.

What brought her to my attention was this devastating description of growing up in overprivileged, very liberal Palo Alto, which is why she's one of us right-wing whackos now. Just an excerpt:

I grew up in Palo Alto/Los Altos Hills in the 1960s and attended public school well into the 1970s. A few memories.

I remember four school trips to the tertiary sewage plant where we watched poop and paper swirl around in giant vats as an environmentalist droned about saving the planet. This was science.

I remember pulling tires out of the bay for a biology class.

I remember grabbing oil-covered birds and wiping them clean for health class. Perhaps, though, this was during the Sunday School program at the Presbyterian Church that my parents inexplicably attended for one, odd year. I can’t recall.

I remember catching my French teacher boinking the boy’s coach in the woods behind the school, my lesbian gym teacher watching us undress with dilated pupils, my social studies teacher arrested during the protests, my math teacher standing on her desk, foaming at the corners of her mouth and (inadvertently?) revealing her underpants during a diatribe against Nixon.

I remember drugs in every third, or so, locker and smoky parties sanctioned by the school that made my throat raw for days.

I remember volunteering at the front office and looking at the charts of students that were in an accessible file drawer. They had asked me to file a couple charts. IQs and standardized test information were written on the front on each chart. Apparently this personal information wasn't considered worthy of keeping in a back office.

I remember neighborhood “wife swaps” with disgust. We would meet under a designated tree to discuss where our moms and dads were bedding that night. Of course, they were back home in the wee hours, pretending to us that nothing happened.

I remember the gut-wrenching fear that overtook us when we learned that one of our parents was driving toward Reno. That meant divorce. Or skiing. We were never sure.