I taught public school music for thirty years starting in 1977, so I watched as many young teachers gave up on educating within their content area and turned instead to inculcating partisan whims and political fancies.  It was the path of least resistance chosen by the least of us.

The effects were not at first sensed, but suddenly, in the mid-nineties, classroom response evidenced that women were someday going to be big trouble on the playground of life.  A refusal to accept and account for reality began to set like concrete in the minds of some little girls.

In second-semester third-grade classes I would expand on previous explanations of the Grand Staff and point out that it is a graph of the human voice: men below middle C, and women and children on the treble clef, with the notes closely surrounding C4 a shared area.  For the first seventeen years, I could point out that the male voice would slowly but surely migrate to the lower range at the onset of adolescence.

In 1994, I first heard a female student gasp, "That's unfair!" when this biological fact was mentioned.  In the ensuing 13 years, the number of girls reacting in this way grew to the size of a small chorus.  I noted it, and I even told my daughter to watch for the antiphon when she was in third grade.  Sure enough, she heard it.

I was there to teach music, so I didn't stop and give a speech; I merely acknowledged the complaint and smiled while suggesting they could blame God or Mother Nature or whomever they liked, but it was a fact that someday would add a new element of texture to their harmonic performance.  By initially meeting the resistance head on in a friendly manner, I was able to encourage a broader understanding of this musical element during the three or four years it would take for the change to be clearly heard and appreciated.  Fourth-grade girls and above just went with it because they knew I wasn't going to stop teaching in support of a refusal to face reality. 

But they knew which teachers would.  "She's not like a teacher.  She tries to be more like a counselor," a female eighth-grade chorister once told me while complaining that her science class had wasted six weeks on one "stupid" chapter in the text.

So there's Megan and her lesbian posse, hailed with "Our Lesbian Soccer Players Make Us Proud" by Froma Harrop last week and "The Many Lessons of Megan Rapinoe" by Connie Schultz.  Imagine taking pride in second-rate athletic accomplishment on the basis of lesbianism.  Further imagine claiming that profane and spoiled little whiners living an American life couched in entitlement and privilege have anything to teach the rest of us.  Only an obsequious lackey slave to self-indulgent dogma would suggest such a thing.

"I'm not going to the f------ White House," Rapinoe has said.  "No, I'm not going to the White House.  We're not going to be invited.  I doubt it."

She was and is, of course, wrong.  Donald Trump loves a winner, and he did invite "Our Lesbian Soccer Players" to the White House.

He did so because Donald Trump is not a churlish and spoiled little girl who never matured above a rueful level of third-grade faux feminism.   

Second-class journalism supporting second-best lesbian soccer — America is forced to eternally waste too much time on one stupid chapter.