I remember trying to learn HTML on my own, back when the public schools were just inching onto the technology bubble. In need of a little job security, I had convinced East to add a Webpage Publishing class before I actually knew how to publish anything on the web.
Guess what I spent my summer learning that year?
In a weird way, my first exposure to HTML--an unforgiving language, indeed--came to mind this morning as I got up the courage to turn on the radio and listen in a bit as people tried to explain yesterday's horrific events. Most of their explanations felt a bit hollow, in part, because they were offering them in the wrong language. And I suspect more than a few teachers could have told them so.
Teach long enough and you'll bump into a kid who is utterly confounding, one for whom rules and consequences are as foreign as HTML was to me 15 years ago. Yet, we confound our professional psyches all the more by using the wrong measuring sticks--the wrong language--to explain or take apart that abhorrent behavior.
"What kind of normal person would do THAT?!" we sputter.
Well, not a one, probably. And that's the point. This is not normal behavior, so we might as well throw out all the norms, standards and practices if we want to find a meaningful solution.
So, what do we do when "normal" doesn't fit anymore? Well, for starters, we do what we do when our jeans don't fit anymore. We set them aside and get to work again. We remind ourselves of the basics--those things that we all need and share--and look for the gaps in our current practices.
We start addressing hunger, for instance. And mental illness. We start to set aside our obsessive refusal to pay more for the right to live in this country, and begin to funnel our time and money into meaningful, substantial changes in the way we do things. We throw out the hollow "bottom line" for something more apropos for humanity--like compassion and teamwork, dignity and doing what's right.
And, since I'm dreaming here, we shrink the airwaves just a wee bit and give less time to gasbags like Rush Limbaugh and 24-hour news networks and build in some pauses between our storytelling. I mean, honestly, what do we really get by staring into that box, nonstop, or injecting the vitriol into our ears and veins over and over and over again?
I'd say we get what we got yesterday--a whole lot of heartbreak with a rush of goodwill on its backside.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Rock of Ages
Math does funny things to my mind. Especially as I've gotten older.
When I turned ten, I remember being amazed that I had lived to be a decade old. Looking back at photos from that year, I should have been amazed that no one had kidnapped me, shaved off my bleach-blonde mullet and stripped me of my slippery, silk, button-down shirt. I suppose you could say I was a "looker." But not the kind that drew positive reactions.
In honor of my 25th birthday, I designed a funky, die-cut, dinosaur-themed birthday card for an assignment in my Typography class. The card celebrated the fact that "I'm old. A quarter century old." Again, I remember being stunned that I'd reached such a summit in my life.
On the day I turned 36, I remember realizing that I was now at least twice as old as my oldest student. And that fact left me speechless.
This morning, on my pre-dawn walk, I realized that I have been teaching for 25 years. Twenty five years. Which is exactly. . . half. . . of . . . my . . . lifetime. Such revelations justify an abundance of elipses.
I remember reaching my tenth year as a teacher, and being stunned that I had kept a job for that long. My own dad, whom I respected greatly, changed jobs about every 6 or 8 years. Why, then, would I ever expect to stick with one for an entire decade? But, by the time I reached that tenth year of teaching, I remember thinking that I just might be able to stick with this job until I retire.
Fifteen years later, and I still believe I can stick with this until I retire. I suppose, then, the question becomes whether or not the kids can stick with me for that long. It's no longer a question of me sustaining an interest in the subject so much as it is a question of whether I can remain relevant enough to reach that age.
Well, that's not entirely true. There is the question of whether I can stick with it. And it's not the students who've led me to wonder this; rather, it's education's recent adoption of the business model that has left me wondering. If you ask me, this is one adoption that never should have happened. How on earth could we expect a business model to work when our clients--who, for the most part, are required by law to be our clients--also happen to be our products? And, as long as we insist upon using measuring sticks created by distant entities obsessed with rote, standardized outcomes, we should expect public education to "fail."
Pinch me, but I still happen to believe that the relationships I foster with my students will go much further in nudging them along in their development as caring, connected human beings than will any coaching I provide them on how best to take a standardized test.
Next week, I turn 51, which means that I will no longer have taught for half of my life. But this is a fact in only the most Pharisaic way, me quibbling with myself over a handful of days or weeks as the dividing line lengthens. What strikes me most, as I ponder this surprisingly long ride I've taken, is how much I still enjoy it all. And by "it" I mean "the students."
Twenty five years later, and they continue to be vibrant, connected, funny, brave folks who give me great hope in the future. The fact that one or two of them might end up changing my Depends down the road? Well, by then, maybe they'll have spent half a lifetime preparing for that moment and I can be at ease, knowing I'm in good hands.
When I turned ten, I remember being amazed that I had lived to be a decade old. Looking back at photos from that year, I should have been amazed that no one had kidnapped me, shaved off my bleach-blonde mullet and stripped me of my slippery, silk, button-down shirt. I suppose you could say I was a "looker." But not the kind that drew positive reactions.
In honor of my 25th birthday, I designed a funky, die-cut, dinosaur-themed birthday card for an assignment in my Typography class. The card celebrated the fact that "I'm old. A quarter century old." Again, I remember being stunned that I'd reached such a summit in my life.
On the day I turned 36, I remember realizing that I was now at least twice as old as my oldest student. And that fact left me speechless.
This morning, on my pre-dawn walk, I realized that I have been teaching for 25 years. Twenty five years. Which is exactly. . . half. . . of . . . my . . . lifetime. Such revelations justify an abundance of elipses.
I remember reaching my tenth year as a teacher, and being stunned that I had kept a job for that long. My own dad, whom I respected greatly, changed jobs about every 6 or 8 years. Why, then, would I ever expect to stick with one for an entire decade? But, by the time I reached that tenth year of teaching, I remember thinking that I just might be able to stick with this job until I retire.
Fifteen years later, and I still believe I can stick with this until I retire. I suppose, then, the question becomes whether or not the kids can stick with me for that long. It's no longer a question of me sustaining an interest in the subject so much as it is a question of whether I can remain relevant enough to reach that age.
Well, that's not entirely true. There is the question of whether I can stick with it. And it's not the students who've led me to wonder this; rather, it's education's recent adoption of the business model that has left me wondering. If you ask me, this is one adoption that never should have happened. How on earth could we expect a business model to work when our clients--who, for the most part, are required by law to be our clients--also happen to be our products? And, as long as we insist upon using measuring sticks created by distant entities obsessed with rote, standardized outcomes, we should expect public education to "fail."
Pinch me, but I still happen to believe that the relationships I foster with my students will go much further in nudging them along in their development as caring, connected human beings than will any coaching I provide them on how best to take a standardized test.
Next week, I turn 51, which means that I will no longer have taught for half of my life. But this is a fact in only the most Pharisaic way, me quibbling with myself over a handful of days or weeks as the dividing line lengthens. What strikes me most, as I ponder this surprisingly long ride I've taken, is how much I still enjoy it all. And by "it" I mean "the students."
Twenty five years later, and they continue to be vibrant, connected, funny, brave folks who give me great hope in the future. The fact that one or two of them might end up changing my Depends down the road? Well, by then, maybe they'll have spent half a lifetime preparing for that moment and I can be at ease, knowing I'm in good hands.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Cooking Light
Every home should have a nest or two, some place where you can go to feel warm and connected, hugged by familiar things and an easy rhythm. Yesterday, around dusk, that place was the kitchen. With some old mixes providing the soundtrack (how can it be that even a really sad Beck makes me smile?), I set out not to dazzle my family so much as to simply provide a meal for them.
Wanting a little company, I bring in Finn's bed and tuck it underneath the miniature pleather benches of the breakfast nook, where he too could be cozy and content. Settled in, I knew he would have a perfect view of any wayward, kamikaze orts tumbling from the cutting board.
It's hard to beat the 5:30 glow of a cloudy winter afternoon, especially set against the indirect lighting peeking out from under the cupboards. That glow somehow transforms the most mundane things--dicing onions, for instance--into something more admirable and important.
I run my fingers along the tops of the spice containers, slowing at the more exotic choices--Look at that! Garam masala!--but, mostly, it's an exercise in enjoying the order and promise of these mostly alphabetized-by-size options.
Like my fingers, my mind wanders, too, and, for some strange reason, I can't shake ketamine from my thoughts. Twice in the last month, I've heard or read stories about this strong anesthetic and its unexpected side benefits--namely, it's ability to smooth away depression in the matter of hours, not months. I think of friends and acquaintances who have spent years trying to find the perfect magic formula for rewiring a blue brain, often with unsatisfying, slurring results. And now, researchers are talking enthusiastically about the speedy potential of a repurposed drug.
My mind wanders from ketamine to baking soda...something so ordinary that that's the best name they (whoever "they" are) could devise. Utterly ordinary yet surprisingly transforming, remember to add it to batter and your pancakes become light and airy. Forget it and you've started your own communion-bread side business, minus the transubstantiation. And it's got a nice list of side benefits outside of the kitchen, as well--tamer of bug bites, burns and indigestion, for instance.
Aside from being food central, this nest called "the kitchen" seems to encourage the fermenting of ideas, as well. Here, I'm free to draw tenuous threads between anesthetics and leavening agents. Here, I can make something with my hands while my head goes somewhere else, and usually without disastrous results.
Like a safe room, without all the drama.
Wanting a little company, I bring in Finn's bed and tuck it underneath the miniature pleather benches of the breakfast nook, where he too could be cozy and content. Settled in, I knew he would have a perfect view of any wayward, kamikaze orts tumbling from the cutting board.
It's hard to beat the 5:30 glow of a cloudy winter afternoon, especially set against the indirect lighting peeking out from under the cupboards. That glow somehow transforms the most mundane things--dicing onions, for instance--into something more admirable and important.
I run my fingers along the tops of the spice containers, slowing at the more exotic choices--Look at that! Garam masala!--but, mostly, it's an exercise in enjoying the order and promise of these mostly alphabetized-by-size options.
Like my fingers, my mind wanders, too, and, for some strange reason, I can't shake ketamine from my thoughts. Twice in the last month, I've heard or read stories about this strong anesthetic and its unexpected side benefits--namely, it's ability to smooth away depression in the matter of hours, not months. I think of friends and acquaintances who have spent years trying to find the perfect magic formula for rewiring a blue brain, often with unsatisfying, slurring results. And now, researchers are talking enthusiastically about the speedy potential of a repurposed drug.
My mind wanders from ketamine to baking soda...something so ordinary that that's the best name they (whoever "they" are) could devise. Utterly ordinary yet surprisingly transforming, remember to add it to batter and your pancakes become light and airy. Forget it and you've started your own communion-bread side business, minus the transubstantiation. And it's got a nice list of side benefits outside of the kitchen, as well--tamer of bug bites, burns and indigestion, for instance.
Aside from being food central, this nest called "the kitchen" seems to encourage the fermenting of ideas, as well. Here, I'm free to draw tenuous threads between anesthetics and leavening agents. Here, I can make something with my hands while my head goes somewhere else, and usually without disastrous results.
Like a safe room, without all the drama.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Something's Afoot...and Happily So
There
is something sacred about shared ground, about knowing that someone you
love has walked this same path, warmed their toes in the same ancient
sands and waters. That’s why I wasn’t even jealous last night while
listening about my friends’ recent adventures in Cancun. Well, maybe I
was a wee bit envious. . .
It’s been almost ten years since my family headed to Mexico, settling along the shores of Isla de Mujeres, a half-hour boat ride from booming Cancun. It was there where the Holts baptized ourselves in turquoise waters, swam among Crayola-colored fish, observed our first topless bather. And it was there where a pudgy, young Eric Holt swam with a nurse shark, despite his fears of drinking the water at the local restaurant.
Last night, it was that nurse shark that bridged yesterday and today. My friend mentioned a side trip to a local island, charming and slow-paced, that was punctuated by the opportunity to swim with a shark. That’s when I knew we had walked the same shores, separated by a thousand high tides, but tied to that very place, nonetheless.
Why is it that we are comforted by knowing our friends have “been there,” too? Maybe, in spite of the Internet’s “shrink wrap” tendencies, the world is still a vast and mysterious place. Maybe, such shared experiences--even when shared at different times--confirm that there is, in fact, such a magical place out there. That the waters really were that color. That it wasn’t just us.
Honestly, when I think about the vastness of outerspace, I am not bothered by the “just us-ness” of it all. But, somehow, I need to know that, here on earth, at least, we are connected to each other, and that those connections are anything but tenuous or discountable. It matters that, last weekend, my friends stood on the very Mexican shore a hundred yards from where my family stayed a decade ago.
Like thumbtacks lovingly pressed into the cork board, our shared footprints are our declarations that, like Kilroy, “I was here.” We anchor each other--and ourselves--when we walk these common paths, no matter how far we are from home.
It’s been almost ten years since my family headed to Mexico, settling along the shores of Isla de Mujeres, a half-hour boat ride from booming Cancun. It was there where the Holts baptized ourselves in turquoise waters, swam among Crayola-colored fish, observed our first topless bather. And it was there where a pudgy, young Eric Holt swam with a nurse shark, despite his fears of drinking the water at the local restaurant.
Last night, it was that nurse shark that bridged yesterday and today. My friend mentioned a side trip to a local island, charming and slow-paced, that was punctuated by the opportunity to swim with a shark. That’s when I knew we had walked the same shores, separated by a thousand high tides, but tied to that very place, nonetheless.
Why is it that we are comforted by knowing our friends have “been there,” too? Maybe, in spite of the Internet’s “shrink wrap” tendencies, the world is still a vast and mysterious place. Maybe, such shared experiences--even when shared at different times--confirm that there is, in fact, such a magical place out there. That the waters really were that color. That it wasn’t just us.
Honestly, when I think about the vastness of outerspace, I am not bothered by the “just us-ness” of it all. But, somehow, I need to know that, here on earth, at least, we are connected to each other, and that those connections are anything but tenuous or discountable. It matters that, last weekend, my friends stood on the very Mexican shore a hundred yards from where my family stayed a decade ago.
Like thumbtacks lovingly pressed into the cork board, our shared footprints are our declarations that, like Kilroy, “I was here.” We anchor each other--and ourselves--when we walk these common paths, no matter how far we are from home.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
7:30 on a Quiet Saturday Morn
My hand languishes atop the seat of Eric's bike,
unfamiliar dewdrops collecting on my fingertips.
I will not wipe them away,
these rare, soft diamonds.
Instead, they shall sit undisturbed, until their cool weightiness
leads them to each other,
where, eventually, they do a slow swan dive,
landing quietly atop the parched earth.
How many days have I squandered?
More than I can count.
This, however, is not one of them,
the quiet fog having none of it.
I wend my way through the park,
its features softened and hugged by condensation,
and I am content to be silent,
hearing only the crackle of curled Oak leaves,
floating to the dewy earth.
This is my walking prayer, whispered on a foggy Saturday morn,
my quiet words taken in by the soft air that wraps around me.
unfamiliar dewdrops collecting on my fingertips.
I will not wipe them away,
these rare, soft diamonds.
Instead, they shall sit undisturbed, until their cool weightiness
leads them to each other,
where, eventually, they do a slow swan dive,
landing quietly atop the parched earth.
How many days have I squandered?
More than I can count.
This, however, is not one of them,
the quiet fog having none of it.
I wend my way through the park,
its features softened and hugged by condensation,
and I am content to be silent,
hearing only the crackle of curled Oak leaves,
floating to the dewy earth.
This is my walking prayer, whispered on a foggy Saturday morn,
my quiet words taken in by the soft air that wraps around me.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Time is on My Side
Some days unfold slowly, taking their time to reveal themselves. Today was one of those days, certain in its quiet unraveling, and I was content to be patient with it, gently running my fingers across each crease of change.
I woke from ambling dreams filled with a hundred familiar rooms, warm under the weight of my blankets. As I lay there, I held my breath, listening for the rhythmic signs of a family surrounding me. A mumbled word, escaped from a dream. The contented release of breath. A shuffle of blankets to chase away the early-morning chill.
I took my time getting up. And, in return, the day delighted in pulling its chapters, end to end, like warm taffy.
A Sunday morning almost always is magical. Born first of chasing away the monsters--thanks to Finn's property-trolling diligence and a comfy chair--Sunday morning greets me like a good friend, not so much with words but with quiet opportunities--pillows and newspaper, a soft conversation over the radio, the delight of two crosswords from which to choose.
This particular morning is punctuated with the pleasure of Mark's rare appearance (thank you, vacation days!) and two puzzles that are surprisingly supple for being Sunday's children (thank you, Will Shortz, for not making me feel like a complete idiot!). And then there is church, another treat to enjoy with Mark, whose weekend work schedules leave little time for religious rituals.
You'd think we would have behaved better, for how little time we spend in church together. Ah, but this Sunday service was punctuated with the joy of sitting among friends--funny friends--which isn't the best formula for salvation. And yet, as we quietly piled up hymnals and pamphlets, kleenex and prayer cards atop our friend Susan's purse (she was foolish enough to sit in the pew in front of us), I felt tickled by a playful God, warmed by his silly sense of humor.
Even the woman sitting next to us--astute enough to notice the vanishing hymnals and quiet disarray--was quick with a smile, a relief to me, considering what could have been her reaction. "I teach 8th graders," she explained. My 13-year-old self smiled at her forgiveness.
And all day was like that--simple, unexpected, slow, forgiving. Even the homework I continued to ignore wasn't so bad when I finally tackled it. It was a day of comfort--from chilly walks exploring Lincoln's newest sculptures and murals to making soup with the remnants of a Thanksgiving feast, I felt glad to be alive.
All day, the fireplace whispered its warmth towards us, keeping the Holts together. Even when we were doing our own things--Allison putting up Christmas lights in her newly organized room, Eric chipping away at college homework, Mark mastering puzzle number two or me, both hungry for and resisting the last few pages of "The Book Thief"--even in our separateness, we could sense the gentle tie that binds.
That is the magic of a day that strolls-, somehow creating more time by opening up the spaces in between.
I woke from ambling dreams filled with a hundred familiar rooms, warm under the weight of my blankets. As I lay there, I held my breath, listening for the rhythmic signs of a family surrounding me. A mumbled word, escaped from a dream. The contented release of breath. A shuffle of blankets to chase away the early-morning chill.
I took my time getting up. And, in return, the day delighted in pulling its chapters, end to end, like warm taffy.
A Sunday morning almost always is magical. Born first of chasing away the monsters--thanks to Finn's property-trolling diligence and a comfy chair--Sunday morning greets me like a good friend, not so much with words but with quiet opportunities--pillows and newspaper, a soft conversation over the radio, the delight of two crosswords from which to choose.
This particular morning is punctuated with the pleasure of Mark's rare appearance (thank you, vacation days!) and two puzzles that are surprisingly supple for being Sunday's children (thank you, Will Shortz, for not making me feel like a complete idiot!). And then there is church, another treat to enjoy with Mark, whose weekend work schedules leave little time for religious rituals.
You'd think we would have behaved better, for how little time we spend in church together. Ah, but this Sunday service was punctuated with the joy of sitting among friends--funny friends--which isn't the best formula for salvation. And yet, as we quietly piled up hymnals and pamphlets, kleenex and prayer cards atop our friend Susan's purse (she was foolish enough to sit in the pew in front of us), I felt tickled by a playful God, warmed by his silly sense of humor.
Even the woman sitting next to us--astute enough to notice the vanishing hymnals and quiet disarray--was quick with a smile, a relief to me, considering what could have been her reaction. "I teach 8th graders," she explained. My 13-year-old self smiled at her forgiveness.
And all day was like that--simple, unexpected, slow, forgiving. Even the homework I continued to ignore wasn't so bad when I finally tackled it. It was a day of comfort--from chilly walks exploring Lincoln's newest sculptures and murals to making soup with the remnants of a Thanksgiving feast, I felt glad to be alive.
All day, the fireplace whispered its warmth towards us, keeping the Holts together. Even when we were doing our own things--Allison putting up Christmas lights in her newly organized room, Eric chipping away at college homework, Mark mastering puzzle number two or me, both hungry for and resisting the last few pages of "The Book Thief"--even in our separateness, we could sense the gentle tie that binds.
That is the magic of a day that strolls-, somehow creating more time by opening up the spaces in between.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Tighten Up!
Almost 51 years old and I'm just now learning how to carry myself. Nothing like an aching back to bring these things to light. But I've got to give it to the physical therapist. He's right. How we carry ourselves pretty much decides how we're going to feel.
It's only the second time in my life that a stranger has talked to me about my pelvis. The first time was 19 years ago, when Mark and I took a few months of yoga. For people who could put their legs over their heads--WHILE STANDING!--they were a surprisingly inflexible bunch, far too serious for me. I know I've mentioned the "Voluminous Farting Incident at Yoga" before, but, doggone it, farts are funny! And when a roomful of stretchers can't appreciate or even acknowledge the malodorous elephant in the room, well, they are NOT my people!
Anyway, the yoga instructor would say all kinds of things that, if Mark and I had been better students, probably were very useful. As it were, though, they mostly just cracked us up. Like that fart. That no one else "heard." Several times during each yoga session, the instructor would utter things like "unfurl your pelvis to the world" and, despite her best intentions, I never could make out what it was I was supposed to do.
It's only the second time in my life that a stranger has talked to me about my pelvis. The first time was 19 years ago, when Mark and I took a few months of yoga. For people who could put their legs over their heads--WHILE STANDING!--they were a surprisingly inflexible bunch, far too serious for me. I know I've mentioned the "Voluminous Farting Incident at Yoga" before, but, doggone it, farts are funny! And when a roomful of stretchers can't appreciate or even acknowledge the malodorous elephant in the room, well, they are NOT my people!
Anyway, the yoga instructor would say all kinds of things that, if Mark and I had been better students, probably were very useful. As it were, though, they mostly just cracked us up. Like that fart. That no one else "heard." Several times during each yoga session, the instructor would utter things like "unfurl your pelvis to the world" and, despite her best intentions, I never could make out what it was I was supposed to do.
Now, almost 20 years later, another stranger (who I happen to believe might think a public fart is funny) tells me that I thrust my pelvis forward when I walk. Like some lower-level evolutionary figure.
For the past three weeks, I've been doing my darnedest to push back my pelvis. Down, boy! I've also been stretching, lifting my arms into funny positions, blowing up acrid-tasting balloons and pinching them closed with my teeth and tongue. And I'm actually starting to feel better. Maybe even starting to carry myself better, too.
I'm not saying the second half of my life (yes, I'm an optimist, if not a tired and slightly apprehensive one) will be upstanding or that I will start to carry myself better when facing a public fart. But I do think I'll be a bit more comfortable in my own skin, slowly edging my way up the evolutionary scale towards full-blown homo erectus.
Homo. Erectus. Heh, heh, heh. That's funny!
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