Tax cuts for the rich and potatoes instead of Easter eggs. This is where we are at.

I hope this works... is there a way for bluesky to link?

Tax cuts for the rich, potatoes for the poor and a king demanding the peasants grovel for his handouts.

Good Lord. tis like we are a colony again.

www.cbc.ca/news/world/e...

— Brett Bigham (I go by Mr B-the PhD is honorary) (@2014ortoy.bsky.social) 2025-04-15T19:49:12.644Z

Tax cuts for the rich and potatoes instead of Easter eggs. This is where we are at.

I hope this works...

Tax cuts for the rich, potatoes for the poor and a king demanding the peasants grovel for his handouts.

Good Lord. tis like we are a colony again.

www.cbc.ca/news/world/e...

— Brett Bigham (I go by Mr B-the PhD is honorary) (@2014ortoy.bsky.social) 2025-04-15T19:49:12.644Z

The stock market IS sending a message today...but it is not the message everyone is talking about...

I've never linked a tweet or Bluesky post before... I hope this works! (linking both Bluesky and twitter)

I am not making this up...the stock market sent a very clear message today about how it feels about trump.

— Brett Bigham (I go by Mr B-the PhD is honorary) (@2014ortoy.bsky.social) 2025-04-08T23:38:26.978Z

The Last Biden Christmas is a Gift That Will Keep On Giving.

This Christmas is a bit different. It feels I am standing on pins and needles, instead of the usual simple pine needles that the tree has shed across the living room.

We live in a strange time. Rupert Murdoch, the Grinch Who didn't steal Christmas, but used it as a bludgeon to divide the country, has nearly succeeded in his goal. To force us all numbly to bow down to his idea of how a lowly common person should carry the wealthy on our shoulders in adoration, as though they are the Christ. As though Christ's words are forgotten and replaced by the words of blonde harpies shrieking their Christmas has been stolen. When, in fact, it is they who have twisted the words of a peaceful man and celebrate a religion he would not even recognize as following his words.

That is where we sit. And that is why I stand on pins and needles. My safety blanket, a kindly older gentleman, President Joe Biden, who has watched over us for the last four years, is about to kiss us good night, turn out the light, and step out of the room. We are about to face our closet monsters without Joe there to make us feel safe.

Like many a great provider and parent-figure, like many a great teacher, in fact, have been teaching us in ways we don't know about. Giving us skills we didn't know we learned. Because of this, we underestimate ourselves. Good parenting is often what you don't see. It includes the safeguards put in place to keep your family safe. Joe has been a good shepherd in his time in office. He leaves us in much better shape than we were. But he has put things in place to help us in the future.

My mom recently passed from cancer. I wrote a much of the checks myself for her treatment. The new $2000 cap for medicine for seniors is a gift Joe gave us. It will be Christmas year, after year, after year for the people who can stop writing checks for medicine. Those road workers and bridge builders who were left jobless when the last administration stopped investing in infrastructure, will have Christmas over and over again as they are hired for the new road, or the new bridge or the new factory.

Most importantly, friends and allies, is that Joe showed us Trump can be beaten. He can be stood up to. He can be laughed at and, like a tube of liverwurst in your fridge, thrown out at the expiration date, which is already counting down.

Thank you Joe for all the good you have done. Thank you for the gifts that will keep on giving long after you are gone. And thank you to DU. I cannot think of a better group of people to spend Christmas Day with. You too, are a gift that keeps on giving.

Cheers and Blessings for an interesting upcoming New Year.
Brett

Cancelling my Washington Post subscription saved me $12.00 a month. Guess what I did with it...

"The Golden Hour." Can we talk about it for a minute?

On a beautiful August morning my husband was leaving for work. He's a 9-11 dispatcher. I was in bed reading DU. As he was about to walk out the door, our little kitten, (named Pepper Cat, tabby, cute, cute, cute) popped out of a hidey hole so he grabbed her and brought her upstairs to bed before he left.

"I was about to go but brought you a present."

The present probably saved my life.

I tried to say "I love you" and words did not come out. A stuttered out a garbled mish-mash did and we both realized something was wrong. He saw my face was drooping. I couldn't talk, my arm was numb. In an airy whisper, not speech, but "whisper talking"-that trick used in theater so a crowd makes noise, but it isn't actually speech. I whispered out "I'm having a stroke."

9-11 dispatchers have a stroke protocol and he began that as he dialed his own work place. When they answered he told them who he was and that the stroke was at the highest risk level. The ambulance was here in less than eight minutes. I was being wheeled in the hospital doors at 20. At 35 minutes the cat scan showed us what we already knew. Clot. Communication center of the brain. It was getting worse and worse.

Decision time with two choices. Leave it, and when it was all said and done we would pick up the pieces, if there were any. Or, a newer medicine, a clot-buster. It would either bust the clot up, stopping further damage or it would kill me.

I have spent the last ten years public speaking and I am a teacher. My last speech, $5000, was paid to my school and it covered our "food home on the weekend" for more than a school year. My other speeches have been equally weighty. On the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, sandwiched in between Diane Ravitch and Reverend Barber, I spoke about LGBTQ youth and kids with special needs and those kids that get left behind. For ten years, ever since my Teacher of the Year award, I have used my voice to be the voice of my non-verbal students. It has been the voice of gay youth who are being alienated by hate-laws and denigrated by right-wing elected officials. My voice became someone else's voice in 2014 and that has not ever changed.

Mute me would be the waste of the opportunities I can get for those I am advocating for. I love my life. I love my pets. I love my husband but I long-ago realized that some things are bigger than our own lives and comforts. I took the clot buster.

As the hours progressed the clot was destroyed. Now we would find out the extent of the damage. But, in one of those miraculous moments where the professionals were at a loss for words, something became clear. The damage was disappearing. My voice started coming back, my face started moving, the numbness went away. 24 hours later, as I sat, bewildered by what had happened to me, the neurologist shook her head and told me the damages all seemed to be reversed. That's not how the medicine was supposed to work, but, apparently, that is how my brain decided it was going to be.

But the one thing every nurse, every doctor mentioned was "the golden hour." With a stroke, you are on a precipice, friends. At the end of the golden hour, you step off into the unknown. But during that golden hour the drs have the ability to drag you back from the edge. I woke up with numb fingers. I thought I slept wrong. I was wobbly when I went to the bathroom, I thought I was tired. I crawled back into bed and would have spent an hour reading, then made some coffee, then, maybe then, I would have tried to say something to the dog, or a cat and would have then realized I could no longer speak. I would have missed my golden hour.

You cannot miss your golden hour. You must listen to your body and you must act on what it is telling you.

Am I free and clear? No. Residuals from the stroke are ongoing and strange. For several days I had neon colored disco lights flashing across my vision so bad I could not drive or hardly read. For the past week I have phantom smells. Not toast or flowers or my mom's hand lotion but the exact smell of my dad's John Deere power mower exhaust circa 1980-except we are in a locked garage and it is on full throttle. For those of you who remember the smell of leaded gas burning hot, you know the smell I mean. The front half of my brain says, "It's all OK." The lizard brain is running around screaming I am being poisoned and must get out now. Waking up at 2 am when lizard brain just dumped a days worth of adrenalin in your system is not a nice wake up call.

I returned to my classroom last week, only to have it last a day, then get cut to half day, and, as of yet, I have not been able to return. Lizard brain might need a little more time to get used to things. These things are passing, I hope. Some are amusing-like, attempting to put the clutch in and shift even though I have not driven a manual transmission for over a decade. I spent five minutes looking for a can opener, only to realize I was looking for my parent's can opener that I grew up with. When that clicked, it also clicked that the cat food brand I use has a pull top. It is what it is.

I'm rolling with it. I will be voting with it. And I am going to master it.

But in the mean time, I wanted to talk to you about that golden hour. The numbness I ignored was the clock starting. The wobbly walking was the ten-minute warning. The kitten was fate and my husband (and all 9-11 dispatchers) was the hero.

Friends, I ask you remember my golden hour. I also recommend kittens.

(EDITED TO ADD: This post is sitting in the top spot on DU. I have been so honored and will admit to getting the feelings while reading all of your loving comments. Thank you so much. I know I don't write the typical DU posts, and they are rarely short and sometimes not so easy to read. I wanted to write something that was memorable. Something that would pop up in your head if your body was ever sending a message. You made it clear I achieved that, but what I didn't expect was the outpouring of such caring words. Thank you. I've been trying to say thank you individually, and I will, but it will take me a bit. Have a lovely day, you all certainly made sure I would. Cheers)

The unease I feel is not because he can win, but because he is such an obvious LOSER.

Why pick a losing horse like this unless you want to lose? It makes no sense.

Unless they need the loss to start their civil war. In which case this night-Mare-a-lago-loser is the perfect candidate.

"If you say you are gay in public you will be shot in the head." My bittersweet anniversary.

Yesterday was my 10th wedding anniversary. My wedding was very bitter. It was not very sweet.

In 2014 I was named the Oregon State Teacher of the Year.

With that came an order from my supervisor. She told me if I said I was gay in public I would be "shot in the head." She then told me I would be fired if I said it publicly. I was ordered to not speak any words in public without her permission. I was ordered not to write any words without written permission. I was not allowed to talk to any person she did not approve of. I was ordered to bring all mail from home for her to read my personal correspondences. I stopped writing on DU because of this. It was like living in the book 1984.

On May first of 2014 I received White House Honors. I had my portrait taken with President Obama. I was in a bit of a daze as I watched the other Teachers of the Year as they moved through the most important day of their lives. My day was different. If the press ran a picture of me and my soon-to -be-husband, I would probably be fired. If I said anything about being gay I would probably be fired. Actually, if I said anything, I would be fired because I did not have permission to speak.

After the ceremony we were introduced to the international press that covered the White House. We were asked if we wanted to say anything about our students. I watched as other teachers spoke so easily about their lives and work. I was lost in thoughts of the past. I thought of my best friend at 15, Mark. I thought of the last time I saw him, when he came out to me and then drove away on his motorcycle. He killed himself that weekend. I thought, "What if Mark had seen a gay teacher? What if by seeing that teacher he knew he was not alone?"

As I stood on the White House steps, it was Mark I was seeing, not the day in front of me. I stepped to the microphone and made, what was to be, my declaration of war with my school district. "As one of the first openly gay Teachers of the Year..." I began, and then I discussed how anti-gay laws are hurting LGBTQ youth and it needed to stop.

On the steps of the White House I fired my first shot but the the next month would be a battle.

On May 17, 2014, gay marriage became legal in Oregon. Against my district's orders, I wrote on Facebook, "I'm getting married today." We headed downtown to City Hall to get our license. The press was there waiting for us and they followed my husband and I through the entire day. At our ceremony there were more tv cameras than guests. We were promised a private room but the press pushed their way in and refused to leave. The venue told us we would either have to get married in front of the cameras or we would have to go somewhere else to get married.

My shy husband, traumatized by all the cameras, looked at me and said, "I have waited a long time to marry you." He made the decision and as we started our vows the cameras started rolling. We were married on live tv. The Oregonian ran 45 pictures on their website.

While my husband and I slept the photos went round the world. Headlines like "Oregon Teacher of the Year marries his long-term partner" bounced around the internet. Some people were enraged. Some of those people I worked for.

My vows violated my school district's orders. I spoke in public without their permission. I kissed my husband, at my wedding, on live tv. A kiss heard round the world. I would soon be fired. The death threats would come after. But for a day, 10 years ago, I was a newlywed with a ring on my finger. And despite the difficulties of the day, we rested easy knowing that there would be young LGBTQ people who would see the pictures and the videos and they would see a possible future for themselves. Gay people can be professionals. They can be teachers. They can be Teacher of the Year with a handsome husband on their arm.

I wish my friend Mark could have seen us. His life would have been...

Well, I was going to say more but that sums it up. His life would have been.

My Nose Knows I Blew It. A Rough time To Be A Teacher.

Pardon my horrible nose joke. It will make more sense later on.

Since Covid things have changed in schools. Staff has changed, students have changed and the system as changed. None of it for the good.

At my school the injuries have gone through the roof. When I used to post on DU (I'm back from a nine year hiatus) I shared some of my injuries on here. I think people are kind of shocked when they hear how much of a beating a special ed teacher takes. I was writing a national column while gone from DU and my essay on injuries had over 100,000 reads. It is a topic that needs to be discussed. https://www.edpost.com/stories/im-a-teacher-not-a-boxer-and-im-tired-of-being-beat-up-by-my-students

In the few years since I wrote that, the injuries have multiplied at a pace that is mind boggling. After three concussions in my old classroom (one in December, one in January and a third on in February) that left me dazed and confused, I was moved to a 3rd grade classroom. Jokingly I was told it would be harder for the kids to reach my head. Truthfully, it was because it would be harder for the kids to reach my head.

But our program of seven classrooms has taken hit after hit. Last year the K-1 teacher, next door to my left, quit just before school. They could not get a replacement. I got half of her kids and suddenly my 3rd grade class had K, 1,2 and 3. Four grade levels are hard to juggle and my class only had half of it's paraprofessional staff for almost half of the school year. This year they hired two conditionally licensed teachers in my program of seven teachers. (meaning they are in school to become teachers and have a conditional license until they graduate (ahem, or, in a more honest term, while they are trained how to do the job they are already doing). These teachers are struggling to work full time and be full time college students at night and on the weekends.

This year, the other K-2 teacher, on my right, quit just before school started, as did the 5th grade teacher. Both classrooms remain empty with no teacher. Once again, the kids were shuffled and this year, once again, I have four grade levels. 1,2,3 and 4. One student is deaf and I am learning sign language as we go.

The day before school started I was giving a tour and the student kicked me between the legs so hard I threw my back out. I started the year with a hurt back and the inability to cross my legs for several weeks. In December I would kicked there again so badly I had to go to Urgent Care for an ultra sound followed by several weeks of misery.

But I don't learn, I guess, and I went back to work. I had to have my arm xrayed last month (metal thermos full of oatmeal pitched across the room) and my foot after it was slammed in a door (multiple times). I had a really pronounced limp so an angry kid started stomping on my foot. I've been in a boot for two weeks and my foot has been attacked all but three of those days. Punched, stomped on, my foot is beyond sad, at this point.

The boot makes the job more difficult, that is for sure. I'm off balance and our stretched-out school means 7-8000 steps on an average day. Now I'm in a boot. I'm slow. The kids are targeting my foot. All reasons I should have stayed home. I could probably have had workman's comp if I asked. I'm a big guy putting a lot of weight on a sad little foot. That keeps getting stomped on.

But there are few subs willing to work in my room. I've had covid twice this year and my staff had to plow on without a teacher on some of those days. My absences put a huge burden on my staff. A lot of the anger is taken out on me-the guy making them work and not letting them go to recess. When I'm not there that anger goes to my staff. Who make half of what I make and who don't get the same workman's comp benefits I do. (they use their sick days when injured, I do not).

My kids also struggle when I am not there. I have a lot of single moms and that means, for many of my students, I am the man in their everyday life. It is unavoidable that my being gone stresses them out.

With all that in mind, I've continued to go to school, even with my limpy foot.

Yesterday I woke up, excited it was Friday. I usually spend Friday nights trying to catch up on paperwork so I can have at least one day of the weekend where I don't have to do school stuff. But last night I made plans. My husband is a 9-11 call dispatcher and works late, he was off though, so I was going to go out and eat and see a movie, then hang with my husband.

Instead I spent Friday evening in Urgent Care. I had to restrain a violent kid, but my boot threw me off balance and I had to grab a wall for balance. That created an opening and I took a punch, square on to my nose. I saw stars but had to restrain the student anyway. My ears were ringing, my nose swelled shut, I couldn't hear right out of my left ear. The headache took me back to my one-two-three concussions two years ago. Only this time my nose was making a crunching noise when I touched it.

They sent me to Urgent Care. On a Friday at 3 pm. I cried. Not because my nose hurt so bad, but because I didn't want to go sit in urgent care again. Two weeks ago I left school at 2;45 and didn't get home until almost 9 pm. And then I had to write the incident reports for the injuries before I could go to sleep (must be done by the end of the school day or you can be written up).

When I was sitting in Urgent Care. Masked up and stressed out I might get covid for a third time this year, I was beating myself up for putting my students before the health of my (piñata-like) head. Why did I go to work in this painful and awful boot and put myself at more risk? I pushed on my nose ("crack&quot and muttered to myself, "You blew it."

And there, alone in the corner at Urgent Care, I started to chuckle to myself, (kind of like a madman), as I pushed my nose again and thought, "my nose knows I blew it." Two women nearby gave a funny look, saw my t-shirt with my school's name on it (a specialized school for kids with behavioral needs) and one says, "I'm a special ed teacher too!" And the other woman says, "I'm a teacher!" and another woman who I hadn't noticed said, "I'm not a teacher but I work in a school too."

That's when they called my name and I left but think of that. Four school employees at urgent care. On a Friday. With a 3-4 hour wait to be seen.

And that, my friends and fans of nose puns, is why our communities need to step up and support their educators more. We are blowing it. Our students deserve better and so do our educators.

Why We cracked Up Laughing... My Lunch With Dr Jill Biden

Dr Jill Biden announced that the 2024 State Teachers of the Year and the National Teacher of the Year will be honored by a state dinner at the Whitehouse. What an incredible honor.

During my year of service (Teacher of the Year, is one of those things where you aren't a "past Teacher of the Year" but you are the 2014 Teacher of the Year. We have a "year of service" where we are expected to perform a number of duties. Kind of like a Miss Oregon or a Miss Rhode Island does).

In my year Dr Jill Biden was the Second Lady and hosted us for lunch at the Vice Presidential Mansion. It was a lovely event that came with a photo. When I walked into the room to meet her and get the photo taken she and I both immediately burst into laughter. The Whitehouse had sent us a "dress code" of sorts. They asked for light colors and a warning that patterned shirts/jackets/ties do not photograph well and gave us suggestions on what to wear to the Whitehouse events. Neither one os seemed to have got that memo.

By bright blue shirt and her bright blue dress we're the same color. My houndstooth jacket in blues and my polka dot tie were the exact colors of her vividly striped dress. It gave us the giggles and you can see in the picture what a warm and kind person she is.

A few years later she was the headline speaker at the National Education Association's LGBTQ conference. Again, we both started laughing. My pink shirt and striped pink, Pink and PINK tie matched her dress exactly. We had a second laugh together.

I appreciate and respect Dr Biden on so many levels and I find we have much in common.. That she has stayed in the classroom when life gave her so many opportunities echoes my own life. She respects the profession so much and she gives much of her time to support her peers. But I also appreciate her love of color. Why be a navy blue or a grey when you can be aqua or hot pink?

(I don't know how to add a picture to DU but Alamy has a copy of the photo up and you can see it on their website....but don't buy it from them, for goodness sake. It is a photo taken by the US Government and available on Wikipedia for free. Alamy seems to just take any photo they find and slap a price tag on it, even though they have no ownership of the photo).

https://www.alamy.com/second-lady-dr-jill-biden-and-oregon-teacher-of-the-year-brett-bigham-image456848248.html