Discussion:
Active-Shooter Drills Are Tragically Misguided - There's scant evidence that they're effective. They can, however, be psychologically damaging-and they reflect a dismaying view of childhood.
(too old to reply)
Ubiquitous
2019-02-10 16:33:03 UTC
Permalink
At 10:21 a.m. on December 6, Lake Brantley High School, in Florida,
initiated a “code red” lockdown. “This is not a drill,” a voice
announced over the PA system. At the same moment, teachers received
a text message warning of an active shooter on campus. Fearful
students took shelter in classrooms. Many sobbed hysterically,
others vomited or fainted, and some sent farewell notes to parents.
A later announcement prompted a stampede in the cafeteria, as
students fled the building and jumped over fences to escape. Parents
flooded 911 with frantic calls.

Later it was revealed, to the fury of parents, teachers, and
students, that in fact this was a drill, the most realistic in a
series of drills that the students of Lake Brantley, like students
across the country, have lately endured. In the year since the
shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School last February,
efforts to prepare the nation’s students for gunfire have
intensified. Educators and safety experts have urged students to
deploy such unlikely self-defense tools as hockey pucks, rocks,
flip-flops, and canned food. More commonly, preparations include
lockdown drills in which students sit in darkened classrooms with
the shades pulled. Sometimes a teacher or a police officer plays the
role of a shooter, moving through the hallway and attempting to open
doors as children practice staying silent and still.

These drills aren’t limited to the older grades. Around the country,
young children are being taught to run in zigzag patterns so as to
evade bullets. I’ve heard of kindergartens where words like
barricade are added to the vocabulary list, as 5- and 6-year-olds
are instructed to stack chairs and desks “like a fort” should they
need to keep a gunman at bay. In one Massachusetts kindergarten
classroom hangs a poster with lockdown instructions that can be sung
to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”: Lockdown, Lockdown,
Lock the door / Shut the lights off, Say no more. Beside the text
are picture cues—a key locking a door; a person holding up a finger
to hush the class; a switch being flipped to turn off the lights.
The alarm and confusion of younger students is hardly assuaged by
the implausible excuses some teachers offer—for instance, that they
are practicing what to do if a wild bear enters the classroom, or
that they are having an extra-quiet “quiet time.”

In the 2015–16 school year, 95 percent of public schools ran
lockdown drills, according to a report by the National Center for
Education Statistics. And that’s to say nothing of actual (rather
than practice) lockdowns, which a school will implement in the event
of a security concern—a threat that very well may turn out to be a
hoax, perhaps, or the sound of gunfire in the neighborhood. A recent
analysis by The Washington Post found that during the 2017–18 school
year, more than 4.1 million students experienced at least one
lockdown or lockdown drill, including some 220,000 students in
kindergarten or preschool.

In one sense, the impulse driving these preparations is
understandable. The prospect of mass murder in a classroom is
intolerable, and good-faith proposals for preventing school
shootings should be treated with respect. But the current mode of
instead preparing kids for such events is likely to be
psychologically damaging. See, for instance, the parting letter a
12-year-old boy wrote his parents during a lockdown at a school in
Charlotte, North Carolina, following what turned out to be a bogus
threat: “I am so sorry for anything I have done, the trouble I have
caused,” he scribbled. “Right now I’m scared to death. I need a warm
soft hug … I hope that you are going to be okay with me gone.”

As James Hamblin wrote for The Atlantic last February, there is
precious little evidence that the current approach is effective:

Studies of whether active-shooter drills actually prevent
harm are all but impossible. Case studies are difficult to
parse. In Parkland, for example, the site of the recent
shooting, Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, had an
active-shooter drill just [a] month [before the massacre].
The shooter had been through such drills. Purposely
countering
them may have been a reason that, as he was beginning his
rampage, the shooter pulled a fire alarm.

Moreover, the scale of preparedness efforts is out of proportion to
the risk. Deaths from shootings on school grounds remain extremely
rare compared with those resulting from accidental injury, which is
the leading cause of death for children and teenagers. In 2016,
there were 787 accidental deaths (a category that includes
fatalities due to drowning, fires, falls, and car crashes) among
American children ages 5 to 9—a small number, considering that there
are more than 20 million children in this group. Cancer was the
next-most-common cause of death, followed by congenital anomalies.
Homicide of all types came in fourth. To give these numbers yet more
context: The Washington Post has identified fewer than 150 people
(children and adults) who have been shot to death in America’s
schools since the 1999 shooting at Columbine High School, in
Colorado. Not 150 people a year, but 150 in nearly two decades.

Preparing our children for profoundly unlikely events would be one
thing if that preparation had no downside. But in this case, our
efforts may exact a high price. Time and resources spent on drills
and structural upgrades to school facilities could otherwise be
devoted to, say, a better science program or hiring more experienced
teachers. Much more worrying: School-preparedness culture itself may
be instilling in millions of children a distorted and foreboding
view of their future. It’s also encouraging adults to view children
as associates in a shared mission to reduce gun violence, a problem
whose real solutions, in fact, lie at some remove from the
schoolyard.

We’ve been down this road before. In an escalating set of
preparations for nuclear holocaust during the 1950s, the “duck and
cover” campaign trained children nationwide to huddle under their
desk in the case of a nuclear blast. Some students in New York City
were even issued dog tags, to be worn every day, to help parents
identify their bodies. Assessments of this period suggest that such
measures contributed to pervasive fear among children, 60 percent of
whom reported having nightmares about nuclear war.

Decades later, a new generation of disaster-preparedness policies—
this time geared toward guns rather than nuclear weapons—appear to
be stoking fear once again. A 2018 survey by the Pew Research
Foundation determined that, despite the rarity of such events, 57
percent of American teenagers worry about a shooting at their
school. This comes at a time when children are already suffering
from sharply rising rates of anxiety, self-mutilation, and suicide.
According to a landmark study funded by the National Institute of
Mental Health, 32 percent of 13-to-18-year-olds have anxiety
disorders, and 22 percent suffer from mental disorders that cause
severe impairment or distress. Among those suffering from anxiety,
the median age of onset is 6.

Active-shooter drills reflect a broad societal misunderstanding of
childhood, one that features two competing images of the child: the
defenseless innocent and the powerful mini-adult. On the one hand,
we view children as incredibly vulnerable—to hurt feelings, to non-
rubberized playground surfaces, to disappointing report cards. This
view is pervasive, and its consequences are now well understood: It
robs children of their agency and impedes their development, and too
often prevents them from testing themselves either physically or
socially, from taking moderate risks and learning from them, from
developing resilience.

But on the other hand, we demand preternatural maturity from our
children. We tell them that with hockey pucks and soup cans and deep
reservoirs of courage, they are capable of defeating an evil that
has resisted the more prosaic energies of law-enforcement officers,
legislators, school superintendents, and mental-health
professionals. We ask them to manage not the everyday risks that
they are capable of managing—or should, for their own good, manage—
but rather the problems they almost by definition cannot.

This second notion of the child stems from what I call
adultification, or the tendency to imagine that children experience
things the way adults do. Adultification comes in many forms, from
the relatively benign (dressing kids like little adults, in high
heels or ironic punk-rock T-shirts) to the damaging (the high-stakes
testing culture creeping into kindergartens). We also find
adultification in the expectation that kids conform to adult
schedules—young children today are subjected to more daily
transitions than were previous generations of children, thanks to
the dictates of work and child-care hours and the shift from free
play to more programmed activities at school and at home.

Similarly, we expect children to match adults’ capacity to hurry or
to be still for long periods of time; when they fail, we are likely
to punish or medicate them. Examples abound: an epidemic of
preschool expulsions, the reduction in school recess, the
extraordinary pathologizing of childhood’s natural rhythms. ADHD
diagnoses, which have spiked in recent years, are much more common
among children who narrowly make the age cutoff for their grade than
among children born just a week or so later, who must start
kindergarten the following year and thus end up being the oldest in
their class; this raises the question of whether we are labeling as
disordered children who are merely acting their age. The same
question might be asked of newer diagnoses such as sluggish
cognitive tempo and sensory processing disorder. These trends are
all of a piece; we’re expecting schoolchildren to act like small
adults.

Adultification is a result of a mind-set that ignores just how
taxing childhood is. Being small and powerless is inherently
stressful. This is true even when nothing especially bad is going
on. Yet for many children, especially bad things are going on.
Nearly half of American children have experienced at least one
“adverse childhood experience,” a category that includes abuse or
neglect; losing a parent to divorce or death; having a parent who is
an alcoholic or a victim of domestic violence; or having an
immediate family member who is mentally ill or incarcerated. About
10 percent of children have experienced three or more of these
destabilizing situations. And persistent stress, as we are coming to
understand, alters the architecture of the growing brain, putting
children at increased risk for a host of medical and psychological
conditions over their lifetime.

How misguided to take young brains already bathed in stress hormones
and train them to fear low-probability events such as mass
shootings—and how little most of us think about what we’re doing.
Whereas much adultification involves subjecting kids to things we
adults do to ourselves (sleep too little, rush too much), we are at
some distance from the harms being inflicted in schools. Even though
only a quarter of shootings that involve three or more victims take
place at schools, we seldom hear about realistic live-shooter drills
in nursing homes, places of worship, or most workplaces. They would
likely inconvenience if not incense adults, and scare away business.
But we readily force them on children.

If today’s students feel anxious, perhaps it’s partly because, after
being told by adults that they’re not capable of handling life’s
little challenges, those same adults are bequeathing them so many
big challenges, ranging from the college-admissions rat race to an
economically precarious future; from climate change to gun violence.
Of course, this impulse fits into a longer history of dispatching
children to fix adults’ messes, a history that connects the young
civil-rights icons Ruby Bridges and Claudette Colvin with the
Parkland survivors-turned-activists David Hogg and Emma González.

Audrey Larson, a Connecticut high-school student, would seem to fit
squarely into this tradition, having recently won an engineering
prize for designing a collapsible, bulletproof wall intended for use
in classrooms. Because she grew up near Sandy Hook Elementary
School, the site of a 2012 massacre, she wanted to do something
tangible to alleviate her classmates’ fear of school shootings.
Larson told a reporter that “we can’t wait around anymore” while
politicians dither on gun violence. One judge lauded the project’s
“robustness and detailed design work.” But I was struck more by the
contrast between her prizewinning effort and her earlier, more
whimsical entries: a dog-scratching gadget and a pair of glowing
pajamas.

Our feverish pursuit of disaster preparedness lays bare a
particularly sad irony of contemporary life. Among modernity’s gifts
was supposed to be childhood—a new life stage in which young people
had both time and space to grow up, without fear of dying or being
sent down a coal mine. To a large extent, this has been achieved.
American children are manifestly safer and healthier than in
previous eras. The mortality rate of children under 5 in the United
States today is less than 1 percent (or 6.6 deaths per 1,000
children), compared with more than 40 percent in 1800. The reduction
is miraculous. But as in so many other realms, we seem determined to
snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

At just the moment when we should be able to count on childhood, we
are in danger of abandoning it. When you see a toddler dragged along
with her parents to a restaurant long past bedtime; or when you
consider the online kindergarten-readiness programs that are
sprouting up like weeds (preventing kids from rolling around in
actual weeds); or when you think about that 12-year-old North
Carolina boy writing an anguished farewell note to his parents, it’s
hard to avoid the sense that we are preparing a generation for a
kind of failure that may not be captured in actuarial statistics.
Our children may be relatively safe, but childhood itself is
imperiled.
--
Trump: A president so great that Democrats who said they would leave
America if he won decided to stay!
Steve Carroll
2019-02-11 10:24:00 UTC
Permalink
Post by Ubiquitous
At 10:21 a.m. on December 6, Lake Brantley High School, in Florida,
initiated a “code red” lockdown. “This is not a drill,” a voice
announced over the PA system. At the same moment, teachers received
a text message warning of an active shooter on campus. Fearful
students took shelter in classrooms. Many sobbed hysterically,
others vomited or fainted, and some sent farewell notes to parents.
A later announcement prompted a stampede in the cafeteria, as
students fled the building and jumped over fences to escape. Parents
flooded 911 with frantic calls.
Later it was revealed, to the fury of parents, teachers, and
students, that in fact this was a drill, the most realistic in a
series of drills that the students of Lake Brantley, like students
across the country, have lately endured. In the year since the
shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School last February,
efforts to prepare the nation’s students for gunfire have
intensified. Educators and safety experts have urged students to
deploy such unlikely self-defense tools as hockey pucks, rocks,
flip-flops, and canned food. More commonly, preparations include
lockdown drills in which students sit in darkened classrooms with
the shades pulled. Sometimes a teacher or a police officer plays the
role of a shooter, moving through the hallway and attempting to open
doors as children practice staying silent and still.
These drills aren’t limited to the older grades. Around the country,
young children are being taught to run in zigzag patterns so as to
evade bullets. I’ve heard of kindergartens where words like
barricade are added to the vocabulary list, as 5- and 6-year-olds
are instructed to stack chairs and desks “like a fort” should they
need to keep a gunman at bay. In one Massachusetts kindergarten
classroom hangs a poster with lockdown instructions that can be sung
to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”: Lockdown, Lockdown,
Lock the door / Shut the lights off, Say no more. Beside the text
are picture cues—a key locking a door; a person holding up a finger
to hush the class; a switch being flipped to turn off the lights.
The alarm and confusion of younger students is hardly assuaged by
the implausible excuses some teachers offer—for instance, that they
are practicing what to do if a wild bear enters the classroom, or
that they are having an extra-quiet “quiet time.”
In the 2015–16 school year, 95 percent of public schools ran
lockdown drills, according to a report by the National Center for
Education Statistics. And that’s to say nothing of actual (rather
than practice) lockdowns, which a school will implement in the event
of a security concern—a threat that very well may turn out to be a
hoax, perhaps, or the sound of gunfire in the neighborhood. A recent
analysis by The Washington Post found that during the 2017–18 school
year, more than 4.1 million students experienced at least one
lockdown or lockdown drill, including some 220,000 students in
kindergarten or preschool.
In one sense, the impulse driving these preparations is
understandable. The prospect of mass murder in a classroom is
intolerable, and good-faith proposals for preventing school
shootings should be treated with respect. But the current mode of
instead preparing kids for such events is likely to be
psychologically damaging. See, for instance, the parting letter a
12-year-old boy wrote his parents during a lockdown at a school in
Charlotte, North Carolina, following what turned out to be a bogus
threat: “I am so sorry for anything I have done, the trouble I have
caused,” he scribbled. “Right now I’m scared to death. I need a warm
soft hug … I hope that you are going to be okay with me gone.”
As James Hamblin wrote for The Atlantic last February, there is
Studies of whether active-shooter drills actually prevent
harm are all but impossible. Case studies are difficult to
parse. In Parkland, for example, the site of the recent
shooting, Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, had an
active-shooter drill just [a] month [before the massacre].
The shooter had been through such drills. Purposely
countering
them may have been a reason that, as he was beginning his
rampage, the shooter pulled a fire alarm.
Moreover, the scale of preparedness efforts is out of proportion to
the risk. Deaths from shootings on school grounds remain extremely
rare compared with those resulting from accidental injury, which is
the leading cause of death for children and teenagers. In 2016,
there were 787 accidental deaths (a category that includes
fatalities due to drowning, fires, falls, and car crashes) among
American children ages 5 to 9—a small number, considering that there
are more than 20 million children in this group. Cancer was the
next-most-common cause of death, followed by congenital anomalies.
Homicide of all types came in fourth. To give these numbers yet more
context: The Washington Post has identified fewer than 150 people
(children and adults) who have been shot to death in America’s
schools since the 1999 shooting at Columbine High School, in
Colorado. Not 150 people a year, but 150 in nearly two decades.
Preparing our children for profoundly unlikely events would be one
thing if that preparation had no downside. But in this case, our
efforts may exact a high price. Time and resources spent on drills
and structural upgrades to school facilities could otherwise be
devoted to, say, a better science program or hiring more experienced
teachers. Much more worrying: School-preparedness culture itself may
be instilling in millions of children a distorted and foreboding
view of their future. It’s also encouraging adults to view children
as associates in a shared mission to reduce gun violence, a problem
whose real solutions, in fact, lie at some remove from the
schoolyard.
We’ve been down this road before. In an escalating set of
preparations for nuclear holocaust during the 1950s, the “duck and
cover” campaign trained children nationwide to huddle under their
desk in the case of a nuclear blast. Some students in New York City
were even issued dog tags, to be worn every day, to help parents
identify their bodies. Assessments of this period suggest that such
measures contributed to pervasive fear among children, 60 percent of
whom reported having nightmares about nuclear war.
Decades later, a new generation of disaster-preparedness policies—
this time geared toward guns rather than nuclear weapons—appear to
be stoking fear once again. A 2018 survey by the Pew Research
Foundation determined that, despite the rarity of such events, 57
percent of American teenagers worry about a shooting at their
school. This comes at a time when children are already suffering
from sharply rising rates of anxiety, self-mutilation, and suicide.
According to a landmark study funded by the National Institute of
Mental Health, 32 percent of 13-to-18-year-olds have anxiety
disorders, and 22 percent suffer from mental disorders that cause
severe impairment or distress. Among those suffering from anxiety,
the median age of onset is 6.
Active-shooter drills reflect a broad societal misunderstanding of
childhood, one that features two competing images of the child: the
defenseless innocent and the powerful mini-adult. On the one hand,
we view children as incredibly vulnerable—to hurt feelings, to non-
rubberized playground surfaces, to disappointing report cards. This
view is pervasive, and its consequences are now well understood: It
robs children of their agency and impedes their development, and too
often prevents them from testing themselves either physically or
socially, from taking moderate risks and learning from them, from
developing resilience.
But on the other hand, we demand preternatural maturity from our
children. We tell them that with hockey pucks and soup cans and deep
reservoirs of courage, they are capable of defeating an evil that
has resisted the more prosaic energies of law-enforcement officers,
legislators, school superintendents, and mental-health
professionals. We ask them to manage not the everyday risks that
they are capable of managing—or should, for their own good, manage—
but rather the problems they almost by definition cannot.
This second notion of the child stems from what I call
adultification, or the tendency to imagine that children experience
things the way adults do. Adultification comes in many forms, from
the relatively benign (dressing kids like little adults, in high
heels or ironic punk-rock T-shirts) to the damaging (the high-stakes
testing culture creeping into kindergartens). We also find
adultification in the expectation that kids conform to adult
schedules—young children today are subjected to more daily
transitions than were previous generations of children, thanks to
the dictates of work and child-care hours and the shift from free
play to more programmed activities at school and at home.
Similarly, we expect children to match adults’ capacity to hurry or
to be still for long periods of time; when they fail, we are likely
to punish or medicate them. Examples abound: an epidemic of
preschool expulsions, the reduction in school recess, the
extraordinary pathologizing of childhood’s natural rhythms. ADHD
diagnoses, which have spiked in recent years, are much more common
among children who narrowly make the age cutoff for their grade than
among children born just a week or so later, who must start
kindergarten the following year and thus end up being the oldest in
their class; this raises the question of whether we are labeling as
disordered children who are merely acting their age. The same
question might be asked of newer diagnoses such as sluggish
cognitive tempo and sensory processing disorder. These trends are
all of a piece; we’re expecting schoolchildren to act like small
adults.
Adultification is a result of a mind-set that ignores just how
taxing childhood is. Being small and powerless is inherently
stressful. This is true even when nothing especially bad is going
on. Yet for many children, especially bad things are going on.
Nearly half of American children have experienced at least one
“adverse childhood experience,” a category that includes abuse or
neglect; losing a parent to divorce or death; having a parent who is
an alcoholic or a victim of domestic violence; or having an
immediate family member who is mentally ill or incarcerated. About
10 percent of children have experienced three or more of these
destabilizing situations. And persistent stress, as we are coming to
understand, alters the architecture of the growing brain, putting
children at increased risk for a host of medical and psychological
conditions over their lifetime.
How misguided to take young brains already bathed in stress hormones
and train them to fear low-probability events such as mass
shootings—and how little most of us think about what we’re doing.
Whereas much adultification involves subjecting kids to things we
adults do to ourselves (sleep too little, rush too much), we are at
some distance from the harms being inflicted in schools. Even though
only a quarter of shootings that involve three or more victims take
place at schools, we seldom hear about realistic live-shooter drills
in nursing homes, places of worship, or most workplaces. They would
likely inconvenience if not incense adults, and scare away business.
But we readily force them on children.
If today’s students feel anxious, perhaps it’s partly because, after
being told by adults that they’re not capable of handling life’s
little challenges, those same adults are bequeathing them so many
big challenges, ranging from the college-admissions rat race to an
economically precarious future; from climate change to gun violence.
Of course, this impulse fits into a longer history of dispatching
children to fix adults’ messes, a history that connects the young
civil-rights icons Ruby Bridges and Claudette Colvin with the
Parkland survivors-turned-activists David Hogg and Emma González.
Audrey Larson, a Connecticut high-school student, would seem to fit
squarely into this tradition, having recently won an engineering
prize for designing a collapsible, bulletproof wall intended for use
in classrooms. Because she grew up near Sandy Hook Elementary
School, the site of a 2012 massacre, she wanted to do something
tangible to alleviate her classmates’ fear of school shootings.
Larson told a reporter that “we can’t wait around anymore” while
politicians dither on gun violence. One judge lauded the project’s
“robustness and detailed design work.” But I was struck more by the
contrast between her prizewinning effort and her earlier, more
whimsical entries: a dog-scratching gadget and a pair of glowing
pajamas.
Our feverish pursuit of disaster preparedness lays bare a
particularly sad irony of contemporary life. Among modernity’s gifts
was supposed to be childhood—a new life stage in which young people
had both time and space to grow up, without fear of dying or being
sent down a coal mine. To a large extent, this has been achieved.
American children are manifestly safer and healthier than in
previous eras. The mortality rate of children under 5 in the United
States today is less than 1 percent (or 6.6 deaths per 1,000
children), compared with more than 40 percent in 1800. The reduction
is miraculous. But as in so many other realms, we seem determined to
snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.
At just the moment when we should be able to count on childhood, we
are in danger of abandoning it. When you see a toddler dragged along
with her parents to a restaurant long past bedtime; or when you
consider the online kindergarten-readiness programs that are
sprouting up like weeds (preventing kids from rolling around in
actual weeds); or when you think about that 12-year-old North
Carolina boy writing an anguished farewell note to his parents, it’s
hard to avoid the sense that we are preparing a generation for a
kind of failure that may not be captured in actuarial statistics.
Our children may be relatively safe, but childhood itself is
imperiled.
--
Trump: A president so great that Democrats who said they would leave
America if he won decided to stay!
I still am uncertain that these nonstop posts are unequivocally scripted. With no reason at all, as is the norm for Klaus Schadenfreude.

Klaus Schadenfreude is trying "really hard" to project their crap onto bigdog. For years Klaus Schadenfreude has pushed the belief that bigdog needs 'documentation' to point out all his lies. The fact is that nobody needs any documentation to do that. So Klaus Schadenfreude pulls this ridiculous trolling poppycock in a weak attempt to 'hawk' the idea that bigdog is like he is.

Not only did bigdog's request fail to allude to the "GPL", it has nada to do with open source. Klaus Schadenfreude should go lock the medicine chest. In spite of my experiences with openSUSE, I nonetheless continue to load it for newbies who've had down time with macOS, particularly if I have seen that they aren't experienced at installing software and sending / receiving emails. He is as incompetent as Klaus Schadenfreude. I'm guessing, after blocking all the flooding, it is principally just two trolls authoring the vast majority of the crap in here. Crystal clear. And both in every way whackadoodle maniacs.
--
Live on Kickstarter

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100012978552519
Jonas Eklundh
BeamMeUpScotty
2019-02-11 14:20:52 UTC
Permalink
Post by Ubiquitous
At 10:21 a.m. on December 6, Lake Brantley High School, in Florida,
initiated a “code red” lockdown. “This is not a drill,” a voice
announced over the PA system. At the same moment, teachers received
a text message warning of an active shooter on campus. Fearful
students took shelter in classrooms. Many sobbed hysterically,
others vomited or fainted, and some sent farewell notes to parents.
A later announcement prompted a stampede in the cafeteria, as
students fled the building and jumped over fences to escape. Parents
flooded 911 with frantic calls.
Later it was revealed, to the fury of parents, teachers, and
students, that in fact this was a drill, the most realistic in a
series of drills that the students of Lake Brantley, like students
across the country, have lately endured. In the year since the
shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School last February,
efforts to prepare the nation’s students for gunfire have
intensified. Educators and safety experts have urged students to
deploy such unlikely self-defense tools as hockey pucks, rocks,
flip-flops, and canned food. More commonly, preparations include
lockdown drills in which students sit in darkened classrooms with
the shades pulled. Sometimes a teacher or a police officer plays the
role of a shooter, moving through the hallway and attempting to open
doors as children practice staying silent and still.
These drills aren’t limited to the older grades. Around the country,
young children are being taught to run in zigzag patterns so as to
evade bullets. I’ve heard of kindergartens where words like
barricade are added to the vocabulary list, as 5- and 6-year-olds
are instructed to stack chairs and desks “like a fort” should they
need to keep a gunman at bay. In one Massachusetts kindergarten
classroom hangs a poster with lockdown instructions that can be sung
to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”: Lockdown, Lockdown,
Lock the door / Shut the lights off, Say no more. Beside the text
are picture cues—a key locking a door; a person holding up a finger
to hush the class; a switch being flipped to turn off the lights.
The alarm and confusion of younger students is hardly assuaged by
the implausible excuses some teachers offer—for instance, that they
are practicing what to do if a wild bear enters the classroom, or
that they are having an extra-quiet “quiet time.”
In the 2015–16 school year, 95 percent of public schools ran
lockdown drills, according to a report by the National Center for
Education Statistics. And that’s to say nothing of actual (rather
than practice) lockdowns, which a school will implement in the event
of a security concern—a threat that very well may turn out to be a
hoax, perhaps, or the sound of gunfire in the neighborhood. A recent
analysis by The Washington Post found that during the 2017–18 school
year, more than 4.1 million students experienced at least one
lockdown or lockdown drill, including some 220,000 students in
kindergarten or preschool.
In one sense, the impulse driving these preparations is
understandable. The prospect of mass murder in a classroom is
intolerable, and good-faith proposals for preventing school
shootings should be treated with respect. But the current mode of
instead preparing kids for such events is likely to be
psychologically damaging. See, for instance, the parting letter a
12-year-old boy wrote his parents during a lockdown at a school in
Charlotte, North Carolina, following what turned out to be a bogus
threat: “I am so sorry for anything I have done, the trouble I have
caused,” he scribbled. “Right now I’m scared to death. I need a warm
soft hug … I hope that you are going to be okay with me gone.”
As James Hamblin wrote for The Atlantic last February, there is
Studies of whether active-shooter drills actually prevent
harm are all but impossible. Case studies are difficult to
parse. In Parkland, for example, the site of the recent
shooting, Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, had an
active-shooter drill just [a] month [before the massacre].
The shooter had been through such drills. Purposely
countering
them may have been a reason that, as he was beginning his
rampage, the shooter pulled a fire alarm.
Moreover, the scale of preparedness efforts is out of proportion to
the risk. Deaths from shootings on school grounds remain extremely
rare compared with those resulting from accidental injury, which is
the leading cause of death for children and teenagers. In 2016,
there were 787 accidental deaths (a category that includes
fatalities due to drowning, fires, falls, and car crashes) among
American children ages 5 to 9—a small number, considering that there
are more than 20 million children in this group. Cancer was the
next-most-common cause of death, followed by congenital anomalies.
Homicide of all types came in fourth. To give these numbers yet more
context: The Washington Post has identified fewer than 150 people
(children and adults) who have been shot to death in America’s
schools since the 1999 shooting at Columbine High School, in
Colorado. Not 150 people a year, but 150 in nearly two decades.
Preparing our children for profoundly unlikely events would be one
thing if that preparation had no downside. But in this case, our
efforts may exact a high price. Time and resources spent on drills
and structural upgrades to school facilities could otherwise be
devoted to, say, a better science program or hiring more experienced
teachers. Much more worrying: School-preparedness culture itself may
be instilling in millions of children a distorted and foreboding
view of their future. It’s also encouraging adults to view children
as associates in a shared mission to reduce gun violence, a problem
whose real solutions, in fact, lie at some remove from the
schoolyard.
We’ve been down this road before. In an escalating set of
preparations for nuclear holocaust during the 1950s, the “duck and
cover” campaign trained children nationwide to huddle under their
desk in the case of a nuclear blast. Some students in New York City
were even issued dog tags, to be worn every day, to help parents
identify their bodies. Assessments of this period suggest that such
measures contributed to pervasive fear among children, 60 percent of
whom reported having nightmares about nuclear war.
Decades later, a new generation of disaster-preparedness policies—
this time geared toward guns rather than nuclear weapons—appear to
be stoking fear once again. A 2018 survey by the Pew Research
Foundation determined that, despite the rarity of such events, 57
percent of American teenagers worry about a shooting at their
school. This comes at a time when children are already suffering
from sharply rising rates of anxiety, self-mutilation, and suicide.
According to a landmark study funded by the National Institute of
Mental Health, 32 percent of 13-to-18-year-olds have anxiety
disorders, and 22 percent suffer from mental disorders that cause
severe impairment or distress. Among those suffering from anxiety,
the median age of onset is 6.
Active-shooter drills reflect a broad societal misunderstanding of
childhood, one that features two competing images of the child: the
defenseless innocent and the powerful mini-adult. On the one hand,
we view children as incredibly vulnerable—to hurt feelings, to non-
rubberized playground surfaces, to disappointing report cards. This
view is pervasive, and its consequences are now well understood: It
robs children of their agency and impedes their development, and too
often prevents them from testing themselves either physically or
socially, from taking moderate risks and learning from them, from
developing resilience.
But on the other hand, we demand preternatural maturity from our
children. We tell them that with hockey pucks and soup cans and deep
reservoirs of courage, they are capable of defeating an evil that
has resisted the more prosaic energies of law-enforcement officers,
legislators, school superintendents, and mental-health
professionals. We ask them to manage not the everyday risks that
they are capable of managing—or should, for their own good, manage—
but rather the problems they almost by definition cannot.
This second notion of the child stems from what I call
adultification, or the tendency to imagine that children experience
things the way adults do. Adultification comes in many forms, from
the relatively benign (dressing kids like little adults, in high
heels or ironic punk-rock T-shirts) to the damaging (the high-stakes
testing culture creeping into kindergartens). We also find
adultification in the expectation that kids conform to adult
schedules—young children today are subjected to more daily
transitions than were previous generations of children, thanks to
the dictates of work and child-care hours and the shift from free
play to more programmed activities at school and at home.
Similarly, we expect children to match adults’ capacity to hurry or
to be still for long periods of time; when they fail, we are likely
to punish or medicate them. Examples abound: an epidemic of
preschool expulsions, the reduction in school recess, the
extraordinary pathologizing of childhood’s natural rhythms. ADHD
diagnoses, which have spiked in recent years, are much more common
among children who narrowly make the age cutoff for their grade than
among children born just a week or so later, who must start
kindergarten the following year and thus end up being the oldest in
their class; this raises the question of whether we are labeling as
disordered children who are merely acting their age. The same
question might be asked of newer diagnoses such as sluggish
cognitive tempo and sensory processing disorder. These trends are
all of a piece; we’re expecting schoolchildren to act like small
adults.
Adultification is a result of a mind-set that ignores just how
taxing childhood is. Being small and powerless is inherently
stressful. This is true even when nothing especially bad is going
on. Yet for many children, especially bad things are going on.
Nearly half of American children have experienced at least one
“adverse childhood experience,” a category that includes abuse or
neglect; losing a parent to divorce or death; having a parent who is
an alcoholic or a victim of domestic violence; or having an
immediate family member who is mentally ill or incarcerated. About
10 percent of children have experienced three or more of these
destabilizing situations. And persistent stress, as we are coming to
understand, alters the architecture of the growing brain, putting
children at increased risk for a host of medical and psychological
conditions over their lifetime.
How misguided to take young brains already bathed in stress hormones
and train them to fear low-probability events such as mass
shootings—and how little most of us think about what we’re doing.
Whereas much adultification involves subjecting kids to things we
adults do to ourselves (sleep too little, rush too much), we are at
some distance from the harms being inflicted in schools. Even though
only a quarter of shootings that involve three or more victims take
place at schools, we seldom hear about realistic live-shooter drills
in nursing homes, places of worship, or most workplaces. They would
likely inconvenience if not incense adults, and scare away business.
But we readily force them on children.
If today’s students feel anxious, perhaps it’s partly because, after
being told by adults that they’re not capable of handling life’s
little challenges, those same adults are bequeathing them so many
big challenges, ranging from the college-admissions rat race to an
economically precarious future; from climate change to gun violence.
Of course, this impulse fits into a longer history of dispatching
children to fix adults’ messes, a history that connects the young
civil-rights icons Ruby Bridges and Claudette Colvin with the
Parkland survivors-turned-activists David Hogg and Emma González.
Audrey Larson, a Connecticut high-school student, would seem to fit
squarely into this tradition, having recently won an engineering
prize for designing a collapsible, bulletproof wall intended for use
in classrooms. Because she grew up near Sandy Hook Elementary
School, the site of a 2012 massacre, she wanted to do something
tangible to alleviate her classmates’ fear of school shootings.
Larson told a reporter that “we can’t wait around anymore” while
politicians dither on gun violence. One judge lauded the project’s
“robustness and detailed design work.” But I was struck more by the
contrast between her prizewinning effort and her earlier, more
whimsical entries: a dog-scratching gadget and a pair of glowing
pajamas.
Our feverish pursuit of disaster preparedness lays bare a
particularly sad irony of contemporary life. Among modernity’s gifts
was supposed to be childhood—a new life stage in which young people
had both time and space to grow up, without fear of dying or being
sent down a coal mine. To a large extent, this has been achieved.
American children are manifestly safer and healthier than in
previous eras. The mortality rate of children under 5 in the United
States today is less than 1 percent (or 6.6 deaths per 1,000
children), compared with more than 40 percent in 1800. The reduction
is miraculous. But as in so many other realms, we seem determined to
snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.
At just the moment when we should be able to count on childhood, we
are in danger of abandoning it. When you see a toddler dragged along
with her parents to a restaurant long past bedtime; or when you
consider the online kindergarten-readiness programs that are
sprouting up like weeds (preventing kids from rolling around in
actual weeds); or when you think about that 12-year-old North
Carolina boy writing an anguished farewell note to his parents, it’s
hard to avoid the sense that we are preparing a generation for a
kind of failure that may not be captured in actuarial statistics.
Our children may be relatively safe, but childhood itself is
imperiled.
Democrats count on creating fear and panic, it's who they are!
--
That's Karma
Steve Carroll
2019-02-11 14:48:56 UTC
Permalink
Post by BeamMeUpScotty
Post by Ubiquitous
At 10:21 a.m. on December 6, Lake Brantley High School, in Florida,
initiated a “code red” lockdown. “This is not a drill,” a voice
announced over the PA system. At the same moment, teachers received
a text message warning of an active shooter on campus. Fearful
students took shelter in classrooms. Many sobbed hysterically,
others vomited or fainted, and some sent farewell notes to parents.
A later announcement prompted a stampede in the cafeteria, as
students fled the building and jumped over fences to escape. Parents
flooded 911 with frantic calls.
Later it was revealed, to the fury of parents, teachers, and
students, that in fact this was a drill, the most realistic in a
series of drills that the students of Lake Brantley, like students
across the country, have lately endured. In the year since the
shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School last February,
efforts to prepare the nation’s students for gunfire have
intensified. Educators and safety experts have urged students to
deploy such unlikely self-defense tools as hockey pucks, rocks,
flip-flops, and canned food. More commonly, preparations include
lockdown drills in which students sit in darkened classrooms with
the shades pulled. Sometimes a teacher or a police officer plays the
role of a shooter, moving through the hallway and attempting to open
doors as children practice staying silent and still.
These drills aren’t limited to the older grades. Around the country,
young children are being taught to run in zigzag patterns so as to
evade bullets. I’ve heard of kindergartens where words like
barricade are added to the vocabulary list, as 5- and 6-year-olds
are instructed to stack chairs and desks “like a fort” should they
need to keep a gunman at bay. In one Massachusetts kindergarten
classroom hangs a poster with lockdown instructions that can be sung
to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”: Lockdown, Lockdown,
Lock the door / Shut the lights off, Say no more. Beside the text
are picture cues—a key locking a door; a person holding up a finger
to hush the class; a switch being flipped to turn off the lights.
The alarm and confusion of younger students is hardly assuaged by
the implausible excuses some teachers offer—for instance, that they
are practicing what to do if a wild bear enters the classroom, or
that they are having an extra-quiet “quiet time.”
In the 2015–16 school year, 95 percent of public schools ran
lockdown drills, according to a report by the National Center for
Education Statistics. And that’s to say nothing of actual (rather
than practice) lockdowns, which a school will implement in the event
of a security concern—a threat that very well may turn out to be a
hoax, perhaps, or the sound of gunfire in the neighborhood. A recent
analysis by The Washington Post found that during the 2017–18 school
year, more than 4.1 million students experienced at least one
lockdown or lockdown drill, including some 220,000 students in
kindergarten or preschool.
In one sense, the impulse driving these preparations is
understandable. The prospect of mass murder in a classroom is
intolerable, and good-faith proposals for preventing school
shootings should be treated with respect. But the current mode of
instead preparing kids for such events is likely to be
psychologically damaging. See, for instance, the parting letter a
12-year-old boy wrote his parents during a lockdown at a school in
Charlotte, North Carolina, following what turned out to be a bogus
threat: “I am so sorry for anything I have done, the trouble I have
caused,” he scribbled. “Right now I’m scared to death. I need a warm
soft hug … I hope that you are going to be okay with me gone.”
As James Hamblin wrote for The Atlantic last February, there is
Studies of whether active-shooter drills actually prevent
harm are all but impossible. Case studies are difficult to
parse. In Parkland, for example, the site of the recent
shooting, Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, had an
active-shooter drill just [a] month [before the massacre].
The shooter had been through such drills. Purposely
countering
them may have been a reason that, as he was beginning his
rampage, the shooter pulled a fire alarm.
Moreover, the scale of preparedness efforts is out of proportion to
the risk. Deaths from shootings on school grounds remain extremely
rare compared with those resulting from accidental injury, which is
the leading cause of death for children and teenagers. In 2016,
there were 787 accidental deaths (a category that includes
fatalities due to drowning, fires, falls, and car crashes) among
American children ages 5 to 9—a small number, considering that there
are more than 20 million children in this group. Cancer was the
next-most-common cause of death, followed by congenital anomalies.
Homicide of all types came in fourth. To give these numbers yet more
context: The Washington Post has identified fewer than 150 people
(children and adults) who have been shot to death in America’s
schools since the 1999 shooting at Columbine High School, in
Colorado. Not 150 people a year, but 150 in nearly two decades.
Preparing our children for profoundly unlikely events would be one
thing if that preparation had no downside. But in this case, our
efforts may exact a high price. Time and resources spent on drills
and structural upgrades to school facilities could otherwise be
devoted to, say, a better science program or hiring more experienced
teachers. Much more worrying: School-preparedness culture itself may
be instilling in millions of children a distorted and foreboding
view of their future. It’s also encouraging adults to view children
as associates in a shared mission to reduce gun violence, a problem
whose real solutions, in fact, lie at some remove from the
schoolyard.
We’ve been down this road before. In an escalating set of
preparations for nuclear holocaust during the 1950s, the “duck and
cover” campaign trained children nationwide to huddle under their
desk in the case of a nuclear blast. Some students in New York City
were even issued dog tags, to be worn every day, to help parents
identify their bodies. Assessments of this period suggest that such
measures contributed to pervasive fear among children, 60 percent of
whom reported having nightmares about nuclear war.
Decades later, a new generation of disaster-preparedness policies—
this time geared toward guns rather than nuclear weapons—appear to
be stoking fear once again. A 2018 survey by the Pew Research
Foundation determined that, despite the rarity of such events, 57
percent of American teenagers worry about a shooting at their
school. This comes at a time when children are already suffering
from sharply rising rates of anxiety, self-mutilation, and suicide.
According to a landmark study funded by the National Institute of
Mental Health, 32 percent of 13-to-18-year-olds have anxiety
disorders, and 22 percent suffer from mental disorders that cause
severe impairment or distress. Among those suffering from anxiety,
the median age of onset is 6.
Active-shooter drills reflect a broad societal misunderstanding of
childhood, one that features two competing images of the child: the
defenseless innocent and the powerful mini-adult. On the one hand,
we view children as incredibly vulnerable—to hurt feelings, to non-
rubberized playground surfaces, to disappointing report cards. This
view is pervasive, and its consequences are now well understood: It
robs children of their agency and impedes their development, and too
often prevents them from testing themselves either physically or
socially, from taking moderate risks and learning from them, from
developing resilience.
But on the other hand, we demand preternatural maturity from our
children. We tell them that with hockey pucks and soup cans and deep
reservoirs of courage, they are capable of defeating an evil that
has resisted the more prosaic energies of law-enforcement officers,
legislators, school superintendents, and mental-health
professionals. We ask them to manage not the everyday risks that
they are capable of managing—or should, for their own good, manage—
but rather the problems they almost by definition cannot.
This second notion of the child stems from what I call
adultification, or the tendency to imagine that children experience
things the way adults do. Adultification comes in many forms, from
the relatively benign (dressing kids like little adults, in high
heels or ironic punk-rock T-shirts) to the damaging (the high-stakes
testing culture creeping into kindergartens). We also find
adultification in the expectation that kids conform to adult
schedules—young children today are subjected to more daily
transitions than were previous generations of children, thanks to
the dictates of work and child-care hours and the shift from free
play to more programmed activities at school and at home.
Similarly, we expect children to match adults’ capacity to hurry or
to be still for long periods of time; when they fail, we are likely
to punish or medicate them. Examples abound: an epidemic of
preschool expulsions, the reduction in school recess, the
extraordinary pathologizing of childhood’s natural rhythms. ADHD
diagnoses, which have spiked in recent years, are much more common
among children who narrowly make the age cutoff for their grade than
among children born just a week or so later, who must start
kindergarten the following year and thus end up being the oldest in
their class; this raises the question of whether we are labeling as
disordered children who are merely acting their age. The same
question might be asked of newer diagnoses such as sluggish
cognitive tempo and sensory processing disorder. These trends are
all of a piece; we’re expecting schoolchildren to act like small
adults.
Adultification is a result of a mind-set that ignores just how
taxing childhood is. Being small and powerless is inherently
stressful. This is true even when nothing especially bad is going
on. Yet for many children, especially bad things are going on.
Nearly half of American children have experienced at least one
“adverse childhood experience,” a category that includes abuse or
neglect; losing a parent to divorce or death; having a parent who is
an alcoholic or a victim of domestic violence; or having an
immediate family member who is mentally ill or incarcerated. About
10 percent of children have experienced three or more of these
destabilizing situations. And persistent stress, as we are coming to
understand, alters the architecture of the growing brain, putting
children at increased risk for a host of medical and psychological
conditions over their lifetime.
How misguided to take young brains already bathed in stress hormones
and train them to fear low-probability events such as mass
shootings—and how little most of us think about what we’re doing.
Whereas much adultification involves subjecting kids to things we
adults do to ourselves (sleep too little, rush too much), we are at
some distance from the harms being inflicted in schools. Even though
only a quarter of shootings that involve three or more victims take
place at schools, we seldom hear about realistic live-shooter drills
in nursing homes, places of worship, or most workplaces. They would
likely inconvenience if not incense adults, and scare away business.
But we readily force them on children.
If today’s students feel anxious, perhaps it’s partly because, after
being told by adults that they’re not capable of handling life’s
little challenges, those same adults are bequeathing them so many
big challenges, ranging from the college-admissions rat race to an
economically precarious future; from climate change to gun violence.
Of course, this impulse fits into a longer history of dispatching
children to fix adults’ messes, a history that connects the young
civil-rights icons Ruby Bridges and Claudette Colvin with the
Parkland survivors-turned-activists David Hogg and Emma González.
Audrey Larson, a Connecticut high-school student, would seem to fit
squarely into this tradition, having recently won an engineering
prize for designing a collapsible, bulletproof wall intended for use
in classrooms. Because she grew up near Sandy Hook Elementary
School, the site of a 2012 massacre, she wanted to do something
tangible to alleviate her classmates’ fear of school shootings.
Larson told a reporter that “we can’t wait around anymore” while
politicians dither on gun violence. One judge lauded the project’s
“robustness and detailed design work.” But I was struck more by the
contrast between her prizewinning effort and her earlier, more
whimsical entries: a dog-scratching gadget and a pair of glowing
pajamas.
Our feverish pursuit of disaster preparedness lays bare a
particularly sad irony of contemporary life. Among modernity’s gifts
was supposed to be childhood—a new life stage in which young people
had both time and space to grow up, without fear of dying or being
sent down a coal mine. To a large extent, this has been achieved.
American children are manifestly safer and healthier than in
previous eras. The mortality rate of children under 5 in the United
States today is less than 1 percent (or 6.6 deaths per 1,000
children), compared with more than 40 percent in 1800. The reduction
is miraculous. But as in so many other realms, we seem determined to
snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.
At just the moment when we should be able to count on childhood, we
are in danger of abandoning it. When you see a toddler dragged along
with her parents to a restaurant long past bedtime; or when you
consider the online kindergarten-readiness programs that are
sprouting up like weeds (preventing kids from rolling around in
actual weeds); or when you think about that 12-year-old North
Carolina boy writing an anguished farewell note to his parents, it’s
hard to avoid the sense that we are preparing a generation for a
kind of failure that may not be captured in actuarial statistics.
Our children may be relatively safe, but childhood itself is
imperiled.
Democrats count on creating fear and panic, it's who they are!
--
That's Karma
The one thing bigdog learned sufficiently is to attempt to guilt Scout into false confession and if that doesn't work, flood the thread or quickly change the argument. Sadly this is what comes about when dangerously negative self-respect takes over bigdog's psyche. Protected code is totally screwing up your program.

It's trivial to essentially lie by bragging about a handful of exceptions unrepresentative from what's mainstream. What holds more weight from an advocacy vantage point are the non-exceptional circumstances.

I'd counter bigdog at once but he is an ignoramus who distorts your words to realize his yearning to call everyone a con artist.

bigdog claims to be the MySQL guru. Let's see him put up a form but lacking the data correction routines.

Really, what lie?



-
"You'll notice how quickly he loses interest when everything is about him. He clearly wants the attention"
Steve Carroll, making the dumbest comment ever uttered.
chasseur
2019-02-11 14:28:49 UTC
Permalink
Post by Ubiquitous
At 10:21 a.m. on December 6, Lake Brantley High School, in Florida,
initiated a “code red” lockdown. “This is not a drill,” a voice
announced over the PA system. At the same moment, teachers received
a text message warning of an active shooter on campus. Fearful
students took shelter in classrooms. Many sobbed hysterically,
others vomited or fainted, and some sent farewell notes to parents.
A later announcement prompted a stampede in the cafeteria, as
students fled the building and jumped over fences to escape. Parents
flooded 911 with frantic calls.
Later it was revealed, to the fury of parents, teachers, and
students, that in fact this was a drill, the most realistic in a
series of drills that the students of Lake Brantley, like students
across the country, have lately endured. In the year since the
shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School last February,
efforts to prepare the nation’s students for gunfire have
intensified. Educators and safety experts have urged students to
deploy such unlikely self-defense tools as hockey pucks, rocks,
flip-flops, and canned food. More commonly, preparations include
lockdown drills in which students sit in darkened classrooms with
the shades pulled. Sometimes a teacher or a police officer plays the
role of a shooter, moving through the hallway and attempting to open
doors as children practice staying silent and still.
These drills aren’t limited to the older grades. Around the country,
young children are being taught to run in zigzag patterns so as to
evade bullets. I’ve heard of kindergartens where words like
barricade are added to the vocabulary list, as 5- and 6-year-olds
are instructed to stack chairs and desks “like a fort” should they
need to keep a gunman at bay. In one Massachusetts kindergarten
classroom hangs a poster with lockdown instructions that can be sung
to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”: Lockdown, Lockdown,
Lock the door / Shut the lights off, Say no more. Beside the text
are picture cues—a key locking a door; a person holding up a finger
to hush the class; a switch being flipped to turn off the lights.
The alarm and confusion of younger students is hardly assuaged by
the implausible excuses some teachers offer—for instance, that they
are practicing what to do if a wild bear enters the classroom, or
that they are having an extra-quiet “quiet time.”
In the 2015–16 school year, 95 percent of public schools ran
lockdown drills, according to a report by the National Center for
Education Statistics. And that’s to say nothing of actual (rather
than practice) lockdowns, which a school will implement in the event
of a security concern—a threat that very well may turn out to be a
hoax, perhaps, or the sound of gunfire in the neighborhood. A recent
analysis by The Washington Post found that during the 2017–18 school
year, more than 4.1 million students experienced at least one
lockdown or lockdown drill, including some 220,000 students in
kindergarten or preschool.
In one sense, the impulse driving these preparations is
understandable. The prospect of mass murder in a classroom is
intolerable, and good-faith proposals for preventing school
shootings should be treated with respect. But the current mode of
instead preparing kids for such events is likely to be
psychologically damaging. See, for instance, the parting letter a
12-year-old boy wrote his parents during a lockdown at a school in
Charlotte, North Carolina, following what turned out to be a bogus
threat: “I am so sorry for anything I have done, the trouble I have
caused,” he scribbled. “Right now I’m scared to death. I need a warm
soft hug … I hope that you are going to be okay with me gone.”
As James Hamblin wrote for The Atlantic last February, there is
Studies of whether active-shooter drills actually prevent
harm are all but impossible. Case studies are difficult to
parse. In Parkland, for example, the site of the recent
shooting, Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, had an
active-shooter drill just [a] month [before the massacre].
The shooter had been through such drills. Purposely
countering
them may have been a reason that, as he was beginning his
rampage, the shooter pulled a fire alarm.
Moreover, the scale of preparedness efforts is out of proportion to
the risk. Deaths from shootings on school grounds remain extremely
rare compared with those resulting from accidental injury, which is
the leading cause of death for children and teenagers. In 2016,
there were 787 accidental deaths (a category that includes
fatalities due to drowning, fires, falls, and car crashes) among
American children ages 5 to 9—a small number, considering that there
are more than 20 million children in this group. Cancer was the
next-most-common cause of death, followed by congenital anomalies.
Homicide of all types came in fourth. To give these numbers yet more
context: The Washington Post has identified fewer than 150 people
(children and adults) who have been shot to death in America’s
schools since the 1999 shooting at Columbine High School, in
Colorado. Not 150 people a year, but 150 in nearly two decades.
Preparing our children for profoundly unlikely events would be one
thing if that preparation had no downside. But in this case, our
efforts may exact a high price. Time and resources spent on drills
and structural upgrades to school facilities could otherwise be
devoted to, say, a better science program or hiring more experienced
teachers. Much more worrying: School-preparedness culture itself may
be instilling in millions of children a distorted and foreboding
view of their future. It’s also encouraging adults to view children
as associates in a shared mission to reduce gun violence, a problem
whose real solutions, in fact, lie at some remove from the
schoolyard.
We’ve been down this road before. In an escalating set of
preparations for nuclear holocaust during the 1950s, the “duck and
cover” campaign trained children nationwide to huddle under their
desk in the case of a nuclear blast. Some students in New York City
were even issued dog tags, to be worn every day, to help parents
identify their bodies. Assessments of this period suggest that such
measures contributed to pervasive fear among children, 60 percent of
whom reported having nightmares about nuclear war.
Decades later, a new generation of disaster-preparedness policies—
this time geared toward guns rather than nuclear weapons—appear to
be stoking fear once again. A 2018 survey by the Pew Research
Foundation determined that, despite the rarity of such events, 57
percent of American teenagers worry about a shooting at their
school. This comes at a time when children are already suffering
from sharply rising rates of anxiety, self-mutilation, and suicide.
According to a landmark study funded by the National Institute of
Mental Health, 32 percent of 13-to-18-year-olds have anxiety
disorders, and 22 percent suffer from mental disorders that cause
severe impairment or distress. Among those suffering from anxiety,
the median age of onset is 6.
Active-shooter drills reflect a broad societal misunderstanding of
childhood, one that features two competing images of the child: the
defenseless innocent and the powerful mini-adult. On the one hand,
we view children as incredibly vulnerable—to hurt feelings, to non-
rubberized playground surfaces, to disappointing report cards. This
view is pervasive, and its consequences are now well understood: It
robs children of their agency and impedes their development, and too
often prevents them from testing themselves either physically or
socially, from taking moderate risks and learning from them, from
developing resilience.
But on the other hand, we demand preternatural maturity from our
children. We tell them that with hockey pucks and soup cans and deep
reservoirs of courage, they are capable of defeating an evil that
has resisted the more prosaic energies of law-enforcement officers,
legislators, school superintendents, and mental-health
professionals. We ask them to manage not the everyday risks that
they are capable of managing—or should, for their own good, manage—
but rather the problems they almost by definition cannot.
This second notion of the child stems from what I call
adultification, or the tendency to imagine that children experience
things the way adults do. Adultification comes in many forms, from
the relatively benign (dressing kids like little adults, in high
heels or ironic punk-rock T-shirts) to the damaging (the high-stakes
testing culture creeping into kindergartens). We also find
adultification in the expectation that kids conform to adult
schedules—young children today are subjected to more daily
transitions than were previous generations of children, thanks to
the dictates of work and child-care hours and the shift from free
play to more programmed activities at school and at home.
Similarly, we expect children to match adults’ capacity to hurry or
to be still for long periods of time; when they fail, we are likely
to punish or medicate them. Examples abound: an epidemic of
preschool expulsions, the reduction in school recess, the
extraordinary pathologizing of childhood’s natural rhythms. ADHD
diagnoses, which have spiked in recent years, are much more common
among children who narrowly make the age cutoff for their grade than
among children born just a week or so later, who must start
kindergarten the following year and thus end up being the oldest in
their class; this raises the question of whether we are labeling as
disordered children who are merely acting their age. The same
question might be asked of newer diagnoses such as sluggish
cognitive tempo and sensory processing disorder. These trends are
all of a piece; we’re expecting schoolchildren to act like small
adults.
Adultification is a result of a mind-set that ignores just how
taxing childhood is. Being small and powerless is inherently
stressful. This is true even when nothing especially bad is going
on. Yet for many children, especially bad things are going on.
Nearly half of American children have experienced at least one
“adverse childhood experience,” a category that includes abuse or
neglect; losing a parent to divorce or death; having a parent who is
an alcoholic or a victim of domestic violence; or having an
immediate family member who is mentally ill or incarcerated. About
10 percent of children have experienced three or more of these
destabilizing situations. And persistent stress, as we are coming to
understand, alters the architecture of the growing brain, putting
children at increased risk for a host of medical and psychological
conditions over their lifetime.
How misguided to take young brains already bathed in stress hormones
and train them to fear low-probability events such as mass
shootings—and how little most of us think about what we’re doing.
Whereas much adultification involves subjecting kids to things we
adults do to ourselves (sleep too little, rush too much), we are at
some distance from the harms being inflicted in schools. Even though
only a quarter of shootings that involve three or more victims take
place at schools, we seldom hear about realistic live-shooter drills
in nursing homes, places of worship, or most workplaces. They would
likely inconvenience if not incense adults, and scare away business.
But we readily force them on children.
If today’s students feel anxious, perhaps it’s partly because, after
being told by adults that they’re not capable of handling life’s
little challenges, those same adults are bequeathing them so many
big challenges, ranging from the college-admissions rat race to an
economically precarious future; from climate change to gun violence.
Of course, this impulse fits into a longer history of dispatching
children to fix adults’ messes, a history that connects the young
civil-rights icons Ruby Bridges and Claudette Colvin with the
Parkland survivors-turned-activists David Hogg and Emma González.
Audrey Larson, a Connecticut high-school student, would seem to fit
squarely into this tradition, having recently won an engineering
prize for designing a collapsible, bulletproof wall intended for use
in classrooms. Because she grew up near Sandy Hook Elementary
School, the site of a 2012 massacre, she wanted to do something
tangible to alleviate her classmates’ fear of school shootings.
Larson told a reporter that “we can’t wait around anymore” while
politicians dither on gun violence. One judge lauded the project’s
“robustness and detailed design work.” But I was struck more by the
contrast between her prizewinning effort and her earlier, more
whimsical entries: a dog-scratching gadget and a pair of glowing
pajamas.
Our feverish pursuit of disaster preparedness lays bare a
particularly sad irony of contemporary life. Among modernity’s gifts
was supposed to be childhood—a new life stage in which young people
had both time and space to grow up, without fear of dying or being
sent down a coal mine. To a large extent, this has been achieved.
American children are manifestly safer and healthier than in
previous eras. The mortality rate of children under 5 in the United
States today is less than 1 percent (or 6.6 deaths per 1,000
children), compared with more than 40 percent in 1800. The reduction
is miraculous. But as in so many other realms, we seem determined to
snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.
At just the moment when we should be able to count on childhood, we
are in danger of abandoning it. When you see a toddler dragged along
with her parents to a restaurant long past bedtime; or when you
consider the online kindergarten-readiness programs that are
sprouting up like weeds (preventing kids from rolling around in
actual weeds); or when you think about that 12-year-old North
Carolina boy writing an anguished farewell note to his parents, it’s
hard to avoid the sense that we are preparing a generation for a
kind of failure that may not be captured in actuarial statistics.
Our children may be relatively safe, but childhood itself is
imperiled.
You stupid snowflake, I can't believe what I just read.... So if I
follow your line of reasoning, it is a waste of time to learn to swim
(it could save your life one day) it is useless to learn first aid or
CPR or basic home firefighting or disaster home preparedness, etc. etc.
When a life threatening situation happens, having proper training means
EVERYTHING. That is why the military train, the police train,
firefighters train, pilots train, medics train etc. There is no age too
young or to old to train when the existence of dangerous situtions is a
known fact and demonstrates the need for training. Your views and
HYPOCRISY border on advocating child neglect. Hopefully you have no
power to implement your views for your kind will only produce a
generation of weaklings preoccupied only by their «feelings». You are
well deserving of the iron collar that will sooner or later be clamped
around your neck.

Chasseur
Gunner Asch
2019-02-12 19:00:44 UTC
Permalink
Post by chasseur
Post by Ubiquitous
At 10:21 a.m. on December 6, Lake Brantley High School, in Florida,
initiated a “code red” lockdown. “This is not a drill,” a voice
announced over the PA system. At the same moment, teachers received
a text message warning of an active shooter on campus. Fearful
students took shelter in classrooms. Many sobbed hysterically,
others vomited or fainted, and some sent farewell notes to parents.
A later announcement prompted a stampede in the cafeteria, as
students fled the building and jumped over fences to escape. Parents
flooded 911 with frantic calls.
Later it was revealed, to the fury of parents, teachers, and
students, that in fact this was a drill, the most realistic in a
series of drills that the students of Lake Brantley, like students
across the country, have lately endured. In the year since the
shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School last February,
efforts to prepare the nation’s students for gunfire have
intensified. Educators and safety experts have urged students to
deploy such unlikely self-defense tools as hockey pucks, rocks,
flip-flops, and canned food. More commonly, preparations include
lockdown drills in which students sit in darkened classrooms with
the shades pulled. Sometimes a teacher or a police officer plays the
role of a shooter, moving through the hallway and attempting to open
doors as children practice staying silent and still.
These drills aren’t limited to the older grades. Around the country,
young children are being taught to run in zigzag patterns so as to
evade bullets. I’ve heard of kindergartens where words like
barricade are added to the vocabulary list, as 5- and 6-year-olds
are instructed to stack chairs and desks “like a fort” should they
need to keep a gunman at bay. In one Massachusetts kindergarten
classroom hangs a poster with lockdown instructions that can be sung
to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”: Lockdown, Lockdown,
Lock the door / Shut the lights off, Say no more. Beside the text
are picture cues—a key locking a door; a person holding up a finger
to hush the class; a switch being flipped to turn off the lights.
The alarm and confusion of younger students is hardly assuaged by
the implausible excuses some teachers offer—for instance, that they
are practicing what to do if a wild bear enters the classroom, or
that they are having an extra-quiet “quiet time.”
In the 2015–16 school year, 95 percent of public schools ran
lockdown drills, according to a report by the National Center for
Education Statistics. And that’s to say nothing of actual (rather
than practice) lockdowns, which a school will implement in the event
of a security concern—a threat that very well may turn out to be a
hoax, perhaps, or the sound of gunfire in the neighborhood. A recent
analysis by The Washington Post found that during the 2017–18 school
year, more than 4.1 million students experienced at least one
lockdown or lockdown drill, including some 220,000 students in
kindergarten or preschool.
In one sense, the impulse driving these preparations is
understandable. The prospect of mass murder in a classroom is
intolerable, and good-faith proposals for preventing school
shootings should be treated with respect. But the current mode of
instead preparing kids for such events is likely to be
psychologically damaging. See, for instance, the parting letter a
12-year-old boy wrote his parents during a lockdown at a school in
Charlotte, North Carolina, following what turned out to be a bogus
threat: “I am so sorry for anything I have done, the trouble I have
caused,” he scribbled. “Right now I’m scared to death. I need a warm
soft hug … I hope that you are going to be okay with me gone.”
As James Hamblin wrote for The Atlantic last February, there is
Studies of whether active-shooter drills actually prevent
harm are all but impossible. Case studies are difficult to
parse. In Parkland, for example, the site of the recent
shooting, Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, had an
active-shooter drill just [a] month [before the massacre].
The shooter had been through such drills. Purposely
countering
them may have been a reason that, as he was beginning his
rampage, the shooter pulled a fire alarm.
Moreover, the scale of preparedness efforts is out of proportion to
the risk. Deaths from shootings on school grounds remain extremely
rare compared with those resulting from accidental injury, which is
the leading cause of death for children and teenagers. In 2016,
there were 787 accidental deaths (a category that includes
fatalities due to drowning, fires, falls, and car crashes) among
American children ages 5 to 9—a small number, considering that there
are more than 20 million children in this group. Cancer was the
next-most-common cause of death, followed by congenital anomalies.
Homicide of all types came in fourth. To give these numbers yet more
context: The Washington Post has identified fewer than 150 people
(children and adults) who have been shot to death in America’s
schools since the 1999 shooting at Columbine High School, in
Colorado. Not 150 people a year, but 150 in nearly two decades.
Preparing our children for profoundly unlikely events would be one
thing if that preparation had no downside. But in this case, our
efforts may exact a high price. Time and resources spent on drills
and structural upgrades to school facilities could otherwise be
devoted to, say, a better science program or hiring more experienced
teachers. Much more worrying: School-preparedness culture itself may
be instilling in millions of children a distorted and foreboding
view of their future. It’s also encouraging adults to view children
as associates in a shared mission to reduce gun violence, a problem
whose real solutions, in fact, lie at some remove from the
schoolyard.
We’ve been down this road before. In an escalating set of
preparations for nuclear holocaust during the 1950s, the “duck and
cover” campaign trained children nationwide to huddle under their
desk in the case of a nuclear blast. Some students in New York City
were even issued dog tags, to be worn every day, to help parents
identify their bodies. Assessments of this period suggest that such
measures contributed to pervasive fear among children, 60 percent of
whom reported having nightmares about nuclear war.
Decades later, a new generation of disaster-preparedness policies—
this time geared toward guns rather than nuclear weapons—appear to
be stoking fear once again. A 2018 survey by the Pew Research
Foundation determined that, despite the rarity of such events, 57
percent of American teenagers worry about a shooting at their
school. This comes at a time when children are already suffering
from sharply rising rates of anxiety, self-mutilation, and suicide.
According to a landmark study funded by the National Institute of
Mental Health, 32 percent of 13-to-18-year-olds have anxiety
disorders, and 22 percent suffer from mental disorders that cause
severe impairment or distress. Among those suffering from anxiety,
the median age of onset is 6.
Active-shooter drills reflect a broad societal misunderstanding of
childhood, one that features two competing images of the child: the
defenseless innocent and the powerful mini-adult. On the one hand,
we view children as incredibly vulnerable—to hurt feelings, to non-
rubberized playground surfaces, to disappointing report cards. This
view is pervasive, and its consequences are now well understood: It
robs children of their agency and impedes their development, and too
often prevents them from testing themselves either physically or
socially, from taking moderate risks and learning from them, from
developing resilience.
But on the other hand, we demand preternatural maturity from our
children. We tell them that with hockey pucks and soup cans and deep
reservoirs of courage, they are capable of defeating an evil that
has resisted the more prosaic energies of law-enforcement officers,
legislators, school superintendents, and mental-health
professionals. We ask them to manage not the everyday risks that
they are capable of managing—or should, for their own good, manage—
but rather the problems they almost by definition cannot.
This second notion of the child stems from what I call
adultification, or the tendency to imagine that children experience
things the way adults do. Adultification comes in many forms, from
the relatively benign (dressing kids like little adults, in high
heels or ironic punk-rock T-shirts) to the damaging (the high-stakes
testing culture creeping into kindergartens). We also find
adultification in the expectation that kids conform to adult
schedules—young children today are subjected to more daily
transitions than were previous generations of children, thanks to
the dictates of work and child-care hours and the shift from free
play to more programmed activities at school and at home.
Similarly, we expect children to match adults’ capacity to hurry or
to be still for long periods of time; when they fail, we are likely
to punish or medicate them. Examples abound: an epidemic of
preschool expulsions, the reduction in school recess, the
extraordinary pathologizing of childhood’s natural rhythms. ADHD
diagnoses, which have spiked in recent years, are much more common
among children who narrowly make the age cutoff for their grade than
among children born just a week or so later, who must start
kindergarten the following year and thus end up being the oldest in
their class; this raises the question of whether we are labeling as
disordered children who are merely acting their age. The same
question might be asked of newer diagnoses such as sluggish
cognitive tempo and sensory processing disorder. These trends are
all of a piece; we’re expecting schoolchildren to act like small
adults.
Adultification is a result of a mind-set that ignores just how
taxing childhood is. Being small and powerless is inherently
stressful. This is true even when nothing especially bad is going
on. Yet for many children, especially bad things are going on.
Nearly half of American children have experienced at least one
“adverse childhood experience,” a category that includes abuse or
neglect; losing a parent to divorce or death; having a parent who is
an alcoholic or a victim of domestic violence; or having an
immediate family member who is mentally ill or incarcerated. About
10 percent of children have experienced three or more of these
destabilizing situations. And persistent stress, as we are coming to
understand, alters the architecture of the growing brain, putting
children at increased risk for a host of medical and psychological
conditions over their lifetime.
How misguided to take young brains already bathed in stress hormones
and train them to fear low-probability events such as mass
shootings—and how little most of us think about what we’re doing.
Whereas much adultification involves subjecting kids to things we
adults do to ourselves (sleep too little, rush too much), we are at
some distance from the harms being inflicted in schools. Even though
only a quarter of shootings that involve three or more victims take
place at schools, we seldom hear about realistic live-shooter drills
in nursing homes, places of worship, or most workplaces. They would
likely inconvenience if not incense adults, and scare away business.
But we readily force them on children.
If today’s students feel anxious, perhaps it’s partly because, after
being told by adults that they’re not capable of handling life’s
little challenges, those same adults are bequeathing them so many
big challenges, ranging from the college-admissions rat race to an
economically precarious future; from climate change to gun violence.
Of course, this impulse fits into a longer history of dispatching
children to fix adults’ messes, a history that connects the young
civil-rights icons Ruby Bridges and Claudette Colvin with the
Parkland survivors-turned-activists David Hogg and Emma González.
Audrey Larson, a Connecticut high-school student, would seem to fit
squarely into this tradition, having recently won an engineering
prize for designing a collapsible, bulletproof wall intended for use
in classrooms. Because she grew up near Sandy Hook Elementary
School, the site of a 2012 massacre, she wanted to do something
tangible to alleviate her classmates’ fear of school shootings.
Larson told a reporter that “we can’t wait around anymore” while
politicians dither on gun violence. One judge lauded the project’s
“robustness and detailed design work.” But I was struck more by the
contrast between her prizewinning effort and her earlier, more
whimsical entries: a dog-scratching gadget and a pair of glowing
pajamas.
Our feverish pursuit of disaster preparedness lays bare a
particularly sad irony of contemporary life. Among modernity’s gifts
was supposed to be childhood—a new life stage in which young people
had both time and space to grow up, without fear of dying or being
sent down a coal mine. To a large extent, this has been achieved.
American children are manifestly safer and healthier than in
previous eras. The mortality rate of children under 5 in the United
States today is less than 1 percent (or 6.6 deaths per 1,000
children), compared with more than 40 percent in 1800. The reduction
is miraculous. But as in so many other realms, we seem determined to
snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.
At just the moment when we should be able to count on childhood, we
are in danger of abandoning it. When you see a toddler dragged along
with her parents to a restaurant long past bedtime; or when you
consider the online kindergarten-readiness programs that are
sprouting up like weeds (preventing kids from rolling around in
actual weeds); or when you think about that 12-year-old North
Carolina boy writing an anguished farewell note to his parents, it’s
hard to avoid the sense that we are preparing a generation for a
kind of failure that may not be captured in actuarial statistics.
Our children may be relatively safe, but childhood itself is
imperiled.
You stupid snowflake, I can't believe what I just read.... So if I
follow your line of reasoning, it is a waste of time to learn to swim
(it could save your life one day) it is useless to learn first aid or
CPR or basic home firefighting or disaster home preparedness, etc. etc.
When a life threatening situation happens, having proper training means
EVERYTHING. That is why the military train, the police train,
firefighters train, pilots train, medics train etc. There is no age too
young or to old to train when the existence of dangerous situtions is a
known fact and demonstrates the need for training. Your views and
HYPOCRISY border on advocating child neglect. Hopefully you have no
power to implement your views for your kind will only produce a
generation of weaklings preoccupied only by their «feelings». You are
well deserving of the iron collar that will sooner or later be clamped
around your neck.
Chasseur
Bravo! Well said!!

__

"Poor widdle Wudy...mentally ill, lies constantly, doesnt know who he is, or even what gender "he" is.

No more pathetic creature has ever walked the earth. But...he is locked into a mental hospital for the safety of the public.

Which is a very good thing."

Asun rauhassa, valmistaudun sotaan.


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