C4
THE BULLETIN • TUESDAY, DECEMBER 27, 2011
E Military program must prove itself in coming year
T
The Bulletin AN INDEPENDENT NEWSPAPER
B M C G B J C R C
Chairwoman Publisher Editor-in-Chief Editor of Editorials
he Navy announced in July that Mountain View High School’s junior ROTC program would be shut down in June because it didn’t meet the required en-
rollment of 100 students.
That was sad news for a program that met the needs of some students, instilled discipline and cultivated leadership. But we were pleased to see the announcement that Bend-La Pine district will be offering a similar program known as the Navy National Defense Cadet Corps. The district approved the program for a one-year trial. The program is a bit less demanding than NJROTC, which may be a good balance between offering the benefits to students while making it more appealing to enough students. The cadet corps program was approved by Congress in 2008 and formally kicked off last April, according to its website. Unlike NJROTC, it is financed primarily by participating school districts rather than by the U.S. Navy. Lt. Cmdr. Niels Farner, who has run the local NJROTC pro-
gram, will stay with the new cadet program. He has his work cut out for him. He will have no assistant and he must offer classes not only at Mountain View, but also at Bend and Marshall high schools. Perhaps most important, he will have to nearly double enrollment — to 150 students — to keep the cadet program alive. That latter condition was set not by the Navy, but by Bend-La Pine Schools. It makes sense. The district is strapped for funds, and there’s no indication the situation will improve much during the next school year. Unless Farner can demonstrate demand for the cadet corps, the district will have to decide the best place to spend the $70,000 it will invest to bring the corps to Bend for the 2012-13 school year.
Minimum wage hike trade-off is too steep
O
regon’s minimum wage goes one way: up. It doesn’t matter if the economy contracts, if thousands of Oregonians are jobless or if the consumer price index goes down; Oregon’s minimum wage can not go down. On Jan. 1, Oregon’s minimum wage will go up to $8.80 an hour. That’s an increase of 30 cents. The boost means Oregon will hold on to the second-highest minimum wage in the nation. Oregon voters chose to peg the minimum wage to inflation in a ballot measure in 2002. Ten other states do the same thing. Oregon’s minimum wage rises with increases in the consumer price index. The Commissioner of the Bureau of Labor and Industries adjusts the minimum wage every September, rounded to the nearest five cents. The change takes effect Jan. 1. Oregonians may not have ever imagined prices might decline. The ballot measure didn’t make any allowance for a decrease — only for an increase. There are arguments to be made for tying the minimum wage to inflation. If prices go up, linking the minimum wage to inflation is a way of ensuring that buying power does not go down for minimum
wage workers. Chuck Sheketoff, executive director and co-founder of the Oregon Center for Public Policy, pointed out earlier this year that with a minimum wage of $8.80 an hour, a full-time minimum wage worker will still make enough for one and two-person families to stay above federal poverty levels. But there is a major trade-off. Wages move to balance supply and demand. Dictating the minimum wage stops that from happening and hurts some people who need help. When the wages for minimum wage workers go up, it puts pressure on employers to drive up wages or salaries for other employees. Those increases and the increase in the minimum wage means there’s less money around to hire other workers. Employers have less money to hire people who are out of work. Try to convince somebody who is jobless that pushing up the minimum wage is really for the best. With so many people still struggling to find work, why is Oregon making it harder? We know not everyone will agree with that argument, but if Oregon is going to tie the minimum wage to inflation, let’s at least tie it to deflation, too.
Unheard by Redmond schools By Leah Wilcox ompelled by an increasing sense of powerlessness regarding the direction of my children’s education in public schools and a belief that if I don’t speak up I may lose the privilege, I recently participated in the controversial Redmond School District “discussion� regarding International Baccalaureate and Advanced Placement courses at Redmond and Ridgeview high schools. I was encouraged by the school board’s repeated commitment to hear from the public, but began to suspect, at the first signs of opposition, that “listening� meant placating. So I asked, “Do you really want to know what we have to say or have you already made up your minds?� With prevarication came acknowledgement — yes, their position was decided — but with a diplomatic (if not ambiguous) qualification that they were always open to change. That seemed hopeful. Surely sufficient logic and common cause could promote said change. In good company, I chose to carry on. Later, in an attempt to ascertain the board’s perspective regarding new information presented by Bob Perry, whose research I applaud, I was informed by Jim Erickson not only that “there is no absolute truth� — maybe he forgot about the ones we used to call “self evident� — but also that board members had no obligation to reveal their stance until the issue became an agenda item. Who knew political transpar-
C
IN MY VIEW ency requires formality? Following this enlightenment, in chorus with others, I immediately appealed for the issue to be placed on the next agenda, which it was. Encouraged, I idealistically anticipated a straightforward exchange, but it was not to be. In the next meeting, the public was invited to voice concerns not previously presented — presumably, details of former concerns could be recalled by the board at will — followed by a board discussion and decision. Brevity was urged in order to allow time for that discussion, but ironically, it comprised the briefest portion of the meeting. There were no deliberations. Justification superseded explanation, punctuated by a high five from Erickson to Perry for returning to the fold. Erickson’s earlier statement: “Hopefully we’ll come out on the back side of this understanding why things will be the way they will be� meant precisely what it implied: what “will be� had already been decided. As a member of a group of concerned parents stonewalled in conscientiously early attempts to obtain budget and enrollment numbers from the high school and the district, I was especially disheartened when the district presented those numbers to the board — unskewed, I assume — after opportunity for public comment was closed, despite the fact that our group’s representa-
tive emphasized, even in the course of the meeting, the district’s failure to provide that information. Significantly, an enrollment comparison of IB diploma and AP students was conspicuously missing from the district’s presentation. This omission made Superintendent Shay Mikalson’s recommendation regarding enrollment as the basis for current offerings impossible to assess. For now, despite staff cuts and crowded classes, we will continue to pay $18,750 in annual IB subscription fees and $98,000 for three part-time coordinators in addition to more than $285,838 the district has already paid to cover deficit budgets for a program selected by a still-undisclosed but historically small number of students. Why? We need a superior education alternative. While I emphatically agree with the need, I regret IB is evidently the district’s sole solution. Ultimately, I recognize the majority of parents and community members trusted our board and superintendent, with their expert interpretations, to make this decision for their children and themselves. It was this silent majority the board did hear and represent. I hope, if we don’t live happily ever after with the outcome, the brave few who lifted their voices will dare to run the gauntlet again. After all, the district is committed to “Fostering effective and respectful communication networks with all (its) stakeholders.� — Leah Wilcox lives in Redmond.
Letters policy
In My View policy
How to submit
We welcome your letters. Letters should be limited to one issue, contain no more than 250 words and include the writer’s signature, phone number and address for verification. We edit letters for brevity, grammar, taste and legal reasons. We reject poetry, personal attacks, form letters, letters submitted elsewhere and those appropriate for other sections of The Bulletin. Writers are limited to one letter or Op-Ed piece every 30 days.
In My View submissions should be between 550 and 650 words, signed and include the writer’s phone number and address for verification. We edit submissions for brevity, grammar, taste and legal reasons. We reject those published elsewhere. In My View pieces run routinely in the space below, alternating with national columnists. Writers are limited to one letter or Op-Ed piece every 30 days.
Please address your submission to either My Nickel’s Worth or In My View and send, fax or email them to The Bulletin. Write: My Nickel’s Worth / In My View P.O. Box 6020 Bend, OR 97708 Fax: 541-385-5804 Email: bulletin@bendbulletin.com
Life gets tougher for the autistic and their families as they age By Susan Senator Special to The Washington Post
I
’m tired of being called brave. But being the mom of a deeply autistic young man of 22, I can’t avoid it. Because I survived. Ever since Nat’s birth, in the Autism Stone Age of 1989, I have had to be a Saber-Toothed Tiger Mother — or at least pretend to be one. From finding the right doctors to getting my town to do right by him to also doing right by my other two sons, I have always had to be strong — or feign strength. What to expect when you’re not expecting autism? No one has real answers. They didn’t then, and they don’t now. It has always been up to my husband and me. I never thought that figuring out autistic adulthood would be the same way. Now that Nat has finished school, I feel like I am right where I started, the diagnosis days: grieving, confused, panicked. I’m sad because I miss the comfort and safety of the old routines.
I miss the school-day structure and the knowledge that Nat had caring, qualified people teaching him things. Even when Nat moved out at 17 and into his school residence, I felt like we had a routine — and a lifeline — in the school professionals. Anchored by the federal mandate of special education, staffers were required to be responsible for Nat’s growth, and they were. But it isn’t even that incredible system that made the school years so great. Teachers don’t work with autistic children if they’re concerned about all the regulations and paperwork. They go into teaching guys like Nat because they are game for the challenge, they think on their feet and — most of all — because they are special. Those teachers who worked with Nat through the withdrawn, too-quiet years to the scary-tantrum phases — they are the heroes. Still, I am told that I am special because I am Nat’s mom — as though I am a saint, somehow chosen. I’m not. I’m just a mother trying to raise my
son to be the best he can be. The other thing I hear a lot is that Nat is an angel, closer to God than others, here to teach me something. No, he’s not. He is just a complex young man. He’s not a spiritual messenger or a puzzle. The adult-services system, or perhaps the lack thereof, is the puzzle. Helping Nat have a decent adult life is our family’s greatest challenge — not Nat himself. We want him to have a life with something to do: a job, volunteer work; a place to live safely, cared for; days with a rewarding rhythm. These are things I’ve been working on since he was a teenager — along with his school. Those teachers had Nat working at Meals on Wheels by 14 and at Papa Gino’s by 19. Now, Nat is transitioning to adulthood. He is finished with public education services, and navigating the far more complex adult-services system. I’ve done everything “they� tell you to do. I attended workshops, seminars and conferences. I pushed to get Nat funding and to qualify for
whatever programs might help him live as independently as possible. I know I can’t afford a staff person myself, nor will I live forever. I did my homework. I visited an adult group home before Nat graduated and did not like what I found. Care was adequate but lifeless. Some of my friends’ children had it even worse: from regularly missed appointments to soiled, unchanged underwear. We’ve all learned that adulthood can be abysmal for kids like ours. And yet without the programs we’ve got — troubled though they may be — we have practically nothing. I cannot fathom what would happen to all of us without programs such as Medicaid and the other gossamer-thin safety nets. It dawned on me recently that I am going to have to do more than act tough and tireless: I have to become what they say I am. Because I have to face the fact that no matter how hard I push, we still may not end up with a good situation for Nat. If only there were a waiting list for a stable adult-
hood experience like those to get into the good autism schools. I know how to be on those. I’ve tried for the past year to put together my vision for Nat: a group home of my own, with like-minded families and staff that we help choose. And every time I get close to succeeding, some piece or another does not fall into place. You can’t get funding until you have a group. You can’t get the group together until you have a house. You can’t get the house until you have the funding. And so, on top of all the emotional upheaval, Nat’s turning 22 is a Catch22. Funding is scarce, and the programs can be iffy because of it. As always, there is no one to ask; every expert and professional has a different story. In the end, I’m figuring it out as I go, only now I am no longer a young mother. I am, however, still Nat’s mother. So I suppose I will continue to roar. — Susan Senator is the author of “The Autism Mom’s Survival Guide� and “Making Peace With Autism.�