For all intents and purposes, my school year is at an end. I leave tomorrow afternoon for South Dakota with the family where Kristie and I will be married on Friday.
Now I just have to wrap up a few loose ends around the school. I spent the bulk of my evening in my room finishing grading and entering grades. That was when I noticed a little flashing light on my phone. It was from a concerned mother (and those are often the worst). Apparently her student was 'devastated' by their score on their College Comp research paper (C).
So I returned her call. She wanted to let me know how concerned she was because her student had worked really hard on it and was shocked at their grade, and they were worried about the impact it would have on the student's final grade. Given that the student could revise one of their lowest papers, they still have a shot at an A.
But part of me wanted to laugh in her face. What is she going to do next year when her precious student is off in the world of college? Call up and complain to a professor! Ha. I'd like to see that.
I reassured her that her student peeked at their paper while I wasn't in the room - which should have pissed me off right there and I should have let her have it about that, but I didn't think of it until just now. I said I should have been there to explain my comments, which - taken out of context, so to speak, could have seemed harsh. But they were honest comments. I told the students right away that I don't sugarcoat things when I look at their writing. They never get better if all I tell them is that their words are wonderful.
So I called and left a message with the student. They can stop by tomorrow for an explanation if they like. But in the end they learned the same lesson I have preached from day one in that class, hard work just isn't always enough. Sometimes you have to actually pay attention in class (going over MLA formatting and how to analyze rather than summarize), actually read your sources (they only cited a few times from any other source that their two novels. Not always bad. But in this case, I think it is more the result of lazy research rather than in-depth knowledge with their novels).
Plus, I was nice enough to let the student switch their novel right before the second novel test from "The Grapes of Wrath" to "Of Mice and Men" because they were too damned lazy to get around to reading it in time. Of course, this thought enters my head now rather than when I'm visiting with the mother.
And besides, I wish I would have just told her straight to her face that her student may be an honor student in high school but they are a very average college student. That is one thing I need to work on better next year: telling it like it is, regardless of the cost or impact.
Chalk that one up for next year.
*****
I finished my vows on Friday night. A great idea hit me on the way home a few days earlier, and I left it turning over in my mind. Then it felt ready, and I took a peak in and sure enough, there was an idea staring back at me. So I opened up the labtop and started typing, and sure enough, within an hour, I had most of the vows complete.
I loved playing with the language, trying to get it to say exactly what I wanted, trying to get the words to sound good together, trying to manipulate the syllables and mood. Great stuff. I could have spent another hour on them.
I was going to post them, but Kristie might take a look, though she vowed (no pun intended) to not take a look. But I also like the idea of Kristie being the first one - other than me, of course - to hear/read them. Though, now that I think of it, she has shared her vows with a select few.
Postings will be few and far here over the course of the week. But after Friday, I'll try to post some pictures.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
The Results are In . . .
While the students' opinions were ALL over the place, most enjoyed "Beowulf" and the Middle Ages to anything else. "The Picture of Dorian Gray" was third. Most hated all of the terms and the poems. (By the way - I reminded the students to NOT put their names on this survey, but as usual, they didn't listen and most did. So I tried to some objectivity, but that didn't work)
As far as rating their knowledge and the class here are some excerpts
Rating their knowledge of the class --
* "7 out of 10. I really don't remember much. The Battle of Hastings was in 1066. That's about all I remember."
"3 out of 10. The information enters my head and exits in a day."
"7. I probably could have studied more."
"8. It could have been a 10 if I would have paid more attention."
"7. Maybe a 5. I didn't read anything after we were supposed to and then I probably forgot it."
Rating the class overall --
* "7 out of 10. Wasn't too boring."
"5 out of 10. I was going to give it a one, but the teacher made it fun."
"10. I thought this class was going to be boring and hard. It was hard, but it wasn't boring."
"8. Overall, it was a fun class, even though I hate reading."
"7. Was kind of fun but a lot of work."
"9. Not great. However it was a lot better than I expected."
Ha. I know this isn't an accurate representation of anything. But it's still amusing to look at. How someone could say they didn't remember much but still rate themselves as a 7 is mind boggling. Then, God forbid, what would a 2 look like? Someone who ends the class comatose?
I guess, all in all, it was a typical high school class in the spring of the year. The seniors had more important things on their minds than analyzing the impact of the Trench Poets on 20th century Britain. But I tried to make it as relevant and interesting as possible. I truly think they enjoyed it. And I truly think I worked them pretty hard. But only a few put in the effort that they should have.
And life goes on.
Now it's time to look at what my College Comp students had to say. For their final theme I had them write an essay in response to this -- "Look back at this past semester. Then write a thorough essay in which you illustrate what you have learned about writing, what advice you would offer to help me improve this class (other than not doing the final research paper, of course), and what advice you would offer future students of College Comp. Be honest. This is not meant to try and suck up. Be sincere in your advice and appraisal of what you have learned. I will not grade on whether or not I LIKE or AGREE with what you advice. I will only grade on the strength of your paper and your writing."
Some excerpts --
"I used to be afraid to write because I knew that grammar was not my strong suit (and still isn't), so all my time was spent making sure everything was grammatically correct. By doing this, all of the fun was sucked out of my writing. I would write using simple sentences, avoiding commas at all costs. I rarely put myself into my writing and my style was nonexistent . . . I learned that style and creativity are what makes a good paper a great paper. The voice of a piece is what makes or breaks it . . . As long as the meaning of the writing is clear, why does it matter if I forgot a comma in the third paragraph?"
"What I have learned about writing in this class is that you need to include yourself in your writings, such as your own personal style, journeys, and opinions. I have also learned that there will always be a comma missing somewhere in my papers, and you need to show what you're trying to say, not just tell it. . . . Some advice I would give to make your class better is to use more examples of students' work so that it will be easier for them to get started. When I would start a theme, it would take me awhile to get going, and I think that it would have been easier for me to start a theme if I had a short example to by. However, don't completely show your future students how to get an A. Make them earn one. Another thing that would have helped me would be to know where to put commas. I always seem to forgot."
Ha. Do I see a pattern emerging? The elusive/dreaded comma, eh?
Here are some excerpts on advice for next year's crop of students -
"My second piece of advice is pretty straightforward: don't whine. Nobody likes a whiner, and you joined this class out of freewill. If you are unprepared for what you're being asked to do, see a counselor, and grab a drop slip. Taking this class is going to save you hundreds of dollars, so complaining about being required to write seven or eight papers is childish and unappreciative. If you would much rather have a full schedule in college and actually pay to take this class next year, be everyone's guest -- just keep your mouth shut."
"Another thing you should do is buy a huge folder because you will get a forest worth of papers. When I say "huge folder," I would recommend that you buy those ones that old people normally have, the ones that spread open into about 12 pocket folders. Believe me, this will come in handy because I end up ripping two folders due to overstuffing."
And as far as improving the class, this was by far the most interesting comment -
"I personally think that you don't implement much consistency when grading papers in class. I believe a few of my lower-graded papers were much better than some of my higher-graded papers and also better than some of my peer's papers that scored higher. This is really my only complaint about the class.'
Now that is interesting. I can certainly understand how he feels that way. Grading is a very subjective thing. No matter how many rubrics we use, that isn't going to change. I'm always going to love a paper with voice and style over a perfect five paragraph theme. Will everyone agree with me? No. But that's fine.
So I need a way to deal with this because no matter how many rubrics I use, the consistency still won't be there (at least in the minds of students). First, I'll have them choose what they think is their strongest piece and then their weakest piece. I'll have them examine each and write up their opinions. Then I think I'm going to develop an essay where they examine two of their own essays (one will be their highest graded essay and the other their lowest) and then analyze why they think the essays were scored that way. That might give us some info on what they perceive as their strong points and what I conceive as their strong points. Because it happens time after time - students will tell me, "I thought I did horribly on this theme, yet it was my highest grade." And why is that? I like good writing. Don't get me wrong. But I need to make my ideas about what makes writing good more evident (of course, that was the first assignment of the semester). But I always reasoned this away to the the idea of kids writing honestly about something and when they do that, it often doesn't seem like work. They often come in with the idea that in order for writing to be good it has to be slaved over. And in some instances that is true, but it is often not true. So I think they don't trust something when it flows right out of them (and I think makes better, more honest writing) as to something they 'slaved' over and ends up being formulaic, wordy drivel.
But what really worries me is that this student was comparing his work to others. I wish there was a way to squash this type of competition in the classroom. We call all write. Get over it. Now write something interesting that is full of voice and style.
Well, the weekend is here and I'm outta here.
As far as rating their knowledge and the class here are some excerpts
Rating their knowledge of the class --
* "7 out of 10. I really don't remember much. The Battle of Hastings was in 1066. That's about all I remember."
"3 out of 10. The information enters my head and exits in a day."
"7. I probably could have studied more."
"8. It could have been a 10 if I would have paid more attention."
"7. Maybe a 5. I didn't read anything after we were supposed to and then I probably forgot it."
Rating the class overall --
* "7 out of 10. Wasn't too boring."
"5 out of 10. I was going to give it a one, but the teacher made it fun."
"10. I thought this class was going to be boring and hard. It was hard, but it wasn't boring."
"8. Overall, it was a fun class, even though I hate reading."
"7. Was kind of fun but a lot of work."
"9. Not great. However it was a lot better than I expected."
Ha. I know this isn't an accurate representation of anything. But it's still amusing to look at. How someone could say they didn't remember much but still rate themselves as a 7 is mind boggling. Then, God forbid, what would a 2 look like? Someone who ends the class comatose?
I guess, all in all, it was a typical high school class in the spring of the year. The seniors had more important things on their minds than analyzing the impact of the Trench Poets on 20th century Britain. But I tried to make it as relevant and interesting as possible. I truly think they enjoyed it. And I truly think I worked them pretty hard. But only a few put in the effort that they should have.
And life goes on.
Now it's time to look at what my College Comp students had to say. For their final theme I had them write an essay in response to this -- "Look back at this past semester. Then write a thorough essay in which you illustrate what you have learned about writing, what advice you would offer to help me improve this class (other than not doing the final research paper, of course), and what advice you would offer future students of College Comp. Be honest. This is not meant to try and suck up. Be sincere in your advice and appraisal of what you have learned. I will not grade on whether or not I LIKE or AGREE with what you advice. I will only grade on the strength of your paper and your writing."
Some excerpts --
"I used to be afraid to write because I knew that grammar was not my strong suit (and still isn't), so all my time was spent making sure everything was grammatically correct. By doing this, all of the fun was sucked out of my writing. I would write using simple sentences, avoiding commas at all costs. I rarely put myself into my writing and my style was nonexistent . . . I learned that style and creativity are what makes a good paper a great paper. The voice of a piece is what makes or breaks it . . . As long as the meaning of the writing is clear, why does it matter if I forgot a comma in the third paragraph?"
"What I have learned about writing in this class is that you need to include yourself in your writings, such as your own personal style, journeys, and opinions. I have also learned that there will always be a comma missing somewhere in my papers, and you need to show what you're trying to say, not just tell it. . . . Some advice I would give to make your class better is to use more examples of students' work so that it will be easier for them to get started. When I would start a theme, it would take me awhile to get going, and I think that it would have been easier for me to start a theme if I had a short example to by. However, don't completely show your future students how to get an A. Make them earn one. Another thing that would have helped me would be to know where to put commas. I always seem to forgot."
Ha. Do I see a pattern emerging? The elusive/dreaded comma, eh?
Here are some excerpts on advice for next year's crop of students -
"My second piece of advice is pretty straightforward: don't whine. Nobody likes a whiner, and you joined this class out of freewill. If you are unprepared for what you're being asked to do, see a counselor, and grab a drop slip. Taking this class is going to save you hundreds of dollars, so complaining about being required to write seven or eight papers is childish and unappreciative. If you would much rather have a full schedule in college and actually pay to take this class next year, be everyone's guest -- just keep your mouth shut."
"Another thing you should do is buy a huge folder because you will get a forest worth of papers. When I say "huge folder," I would recommend that you buy those ones that old people normally have, the ones that spread open into about 12 pocket folders. Believe me, this will come in handy because I end up ripping two folders due to overstuffing."
And as far as improving the class, this was by far the most interesting comment -
"I personally think that you don't implement much consistency when grading papers in class. I believe a few of my lower-graded papers were much better than some of my higher-graded papers and also better than some of my peer's papers that scored higher. This is really my only complaint about the class.'
Now that is interesting. I can certainly understand how he feels that way. Grading is a very subjective thing. No matter how many rubrics we use, that isn't going to change. I'm always going to love a paper with voice and style over a perfect five paragraph theme. Will everyone agree with me? No. But that's fine.
So I need a way to deal with this because no matter how many rubrics I use, the consistency still won't be there (at least in the minds of students). First, I'll have them choose what they think is their strongest piece and then their weakest piece. I'll have them examine each and write up their opinions. Then I think I'm going to develop an essay where they examine two of their own essays (one will be their highest graded essay and the other their lowest) and then analyze why they think the essays were scored that way. That might give us some info on what they perceive as their strong points and what I conceive as their strong points. Because it happens time after time - students will tell me, "I thought I did horribly on this theme, yet it was my highest grade." And why is that? I like good writing. Don't get me wrong. But I need to make my ideas about what makes writing good more evident (of course, that was the first assignment of the semester). But I always reasoned this away to the the idea of kids writing honestly about something and when they do that, it often doesn't seem like work. They often come in with the idea that in order for writing to be good it has to be slaved over. And in some instances that is true, but it is often not true. So I think they don't trust something when it flows right out of them (and I think makes better, more honest writing) as to something they 'slaved' over and ends up being formulaic, wordy drivel.
But what really worries me is that this student was comparing his work to others. I wish there was a way to squash this type of competition in the classroom. We call all write. Get over it. Now write something interesting that is full of voice and style.
Well, the weekend is here and I'm outta here.
More from Friday
The seniors are out of here. Now for some reason the rest of the student body must attend for three more days.
My room is a mess. Stacks of papers and assignments have been constructed on my desks and student desks. I just need to wade through them.
But now I'm turning my attention to the class evaluations I handed out this week. The first one is for my Brit Lit class. It was just a quick 10 question survey to see how the class went. I asked things like what did they like the most, the least, and what they would change if they could. I ended the survey asking the students to rate both their knowledge of Brit Lit and the class on a scale of 1-10. Can't wait to see the results.
My room is a mess. Stacks of papers and assignments have been constructed on my desks and student desks. I just need to wade through them.
But now I'm turning my attention to the class evaluations I handed out this week. The first one is for my Brit Lit class. It was just a quick 10 question survey to see how the class went. I asked things like what did they like the most, the least, and what they would change if they could. I ended the survey asking the students to rate both their knowledge of Brit Lit and the class on a scale of 1-10. Can't wait to see the results.
Next Week at this Time
This just hit me - next week at this time, I will be both nervous and happy beyond imagination.
Final Friday
I finished the College Comp papers this morning. I'm wiped out. The average length was 10 pages. I'm pleased with their work. No overt plagiarism and good analysis.
Some, though, weren't always pleased with their grades. You sure can tell who has been used to getting their way from Mommy and Daddy this time of the year. I handed one paper back to a girl, and she read it and then tossed it back on my desk - when she could just have easily and politely handed it to me. I guess she was displeased with her B-.
Life goes on.
I always tell them - just because you work hard doesn't mean you're going to get the grade you want. It's funny because I think it was this girl who wrote on an earlier essay concerning how to improve education in American and in our school about how she never really had been challenged in school before. I guess she didn't like the challenge after all.
Life goes on.
******
I just was handed this by a college -
A large school district recently hired several cannibals. "You are all part of our school team now," said the HR director during the welcoming briefing. "You get all the usual benefits, and we have a lounge area where you can get snacks to eat. But please, don't eat any of our staff or students."
The cannibals promised they would not. Three weeks later the HR director remarked, "You're all working very hard, and we are satisfied with your work. However, one of our secretaries has disappeared. Do any of you know what happened to her?"
The cannibals al shook their heads, no.
After the HR director had left, the leader of the cannibals said to the others, "Which one of you idiots ate the secretary?"
A hand rose hesitantly.
"You fool!" the leader continued. "For three weeks we've been feasting on administrators and school specialists and no one noticed anything! But NOOOOooooo. You had to go and eat someone who actually does something!"
Ha. Loved it.
****
Here is snippet from another blog I constantly read (countryscribe.com) that really states how I feel too about the overly conservative faction in our country. The article speaks out on the use of torture. But it also can translate into many other areas as well.
"Amongst those are many supporters who claim to be quite Christian, despite their contempt for the rule of law, their zeal for military solutions to every problem, their paralyzing fear of all that isn't familiar to them, and their willingness to hand moral authority and governmental power over to anybody willing to mouth the right phrases about the Lord. These moral midgets clothe themselves in righteousness over issues like gay marriage but seem downright enthused about torturing people. They have been leant far more credibility and attention than they deserve."
Some, though, weren't always pleased with their grades. You sure can tell who has been used to getting their way from Mommy and Daddy this time of the year. I handed one paper back to a girl, and she read it and then tossed it back on my desk - when she could just have easily and politely handed it to me. I guess she was displeased with her B-.
Life goes on.
I always tell them - just because you work hard doesn't mean you're going to get the grade you want. It's funny because I think it was this girl who wrote on an earlier essay concerning how to improve education in American and in our school about how she never really had been challenged in school before. I guess she didn't like the challenge after all.
Life goes on.
******
I just was handed this by a college -
A large school district recently hired several cannibals. "You are all part of our school team now," said the HR director during the welcoming briefing. "You get all the usual benefits, and we have a lounge area where you can get snacks to eat. But please, don't eat any of our staff or students."
The cannibals promised they would not. Three weeks later the HR director remarked, "You're all working very hard, and we are satisfied with your work. However, one of our secretaries has disappeared. Do any of you know what happened to her?"
The cannibals al shook their heads, no.
After the HR director had left, the leader of the cannibals said to the others, "Which one of you idiots ate the secretary?"
A hand rose hesitantly.
"You fool!" the leader continued. "For three weeks we've been feasting on administrators and school specialists and no one noticed anything! But NOOOOooooo. You had to go and eat someone who actually does something!"
Ha. Loved it.
****
Here is snippet from another blog I constantly read (countryscribe.com) that really states how I feel too about the overly conservative faction in our country. The article speaks out on the use of torture. But it also can translate into many other areas as well.
"Amongst those are many supporters who claim to be quite Christian, despite their contempt for the rule of law, their zeal for military solutions to every problem, their paralyzing fear of all that isn't familiar to them, and their willingness to hand moral authority and governmental power over to anybody willing to mouth the right phrases about the Lord. These moral midgets clothe themselves in righteousness over issues like gay marriage but seem downright enthused about torturing people. They have been leant far more credibility and attention than they deserve."
Thursday, May 24, 2007
A slice of life
Yesterday our bedroom furniture arrived. Kristie left work early to be there when they arrived. Then when it was all set up, she went back to work, and I attempted to hang the new shades. I was using Dad's old trusty knife, which I used when opening the hallway blinds. However, the main blade's tip is broken off. So when I was trying to pierce the plastic, the knife folded over. Right onto my right index finger. It hurt and, at first, I thought it was just pinched. But then I foolishly tried to test it. When the flesh parted, revealing sliced layers of first pink and then red meat (it reminded me of pulling apart deli meat for a sandwich), I got a bit woozy.
Of course, who knows what Dad used his knife for, so a booster shot was in order. I called Kristie at work to see what the rules were for stitches - how deep? how much bleeding? how much pain? She just suggested going to the clinic quickly.
No stitches were needed, but I did get a booster shot. I didn't envy trying to recite my vows with a case of lockjaw.
*****
We reviewed in Brit Lit today. We did it Jeopardy style. It killed. I had a ton of super duper prizes - old computer speakers, old barbecue sauce from 2005 in my car, and a lot of other crap I wanted to get rid of.
Then the seniors were let out early to clean out their lockers. So I went down there with a bag to get more super duper prizes for next year. I cleaned up!
*****
Now I must finish my College Comp research papers. I got through four last night. I should be able to do another four or five today. Tonight will be a late one. The tuxedos are in and Casey, Lon, and I have to run to GF to try them on. Then after that, I'm a man on a mission.
Of course, who knows what Dad used his knife for, so a booster shot was in order. I called Kristie at work to see what the rules were for stitches - how deep? how much bleeding? how much pain? She just suggested going to the clinic quickly.
No stitches were needed, but I did get a booster shot. I didn't envy trying to recite my vows with a case of lockjaw.
*****
We reviewed in Brit Lit today. We did it Jeopardy style. It killed. I had a ton of super duper prizes - old computer speakers, old barbecue sauce from 2005 in my car, and a lot of other crap I wanted to get rid of.
Then the seniors were let out early to clean out their lockers. So I went down there with a bag to get more super duper prizes for next year. I cleaned up!
*****
Now I must finish my College Comp research papers. I got through four last night. I should be able to do another four or five today. Tonight will be a late one. The tuxedos are in and Casey, Lon, and I have to run to GF to try them on. Then after that, I'm a man on a mission.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Dad's Farm
Our farm has a large gravel pit on it. It has been relatively dormant - gravel wise - but it has flourished in terms of wildlife. After Thorson hauled the bulk of the gravel out (first for highway 32 in 1988 and then for county road 49 in 1992) the pit has been pretty quiet, so flocks of geese have moved in and now call it home. Dad and Mom were quite protective of them, in fact. Often hunters would ask Dad for permission, but he never let anyone set foot on his land.
So now that he is gone, I often worry about hunters stopping out there. But Dad was well respected and quite loved (no one has even attempted to force a door on the house or any of the sheds - though they are right on highway 32 and only half a mile from highway 2) that no one ventures out there. So the geese are safe.
Now too that Dad is gone, I hope the muskrats return. Dad didn't want them bothering his geese, so he shot them. As a total pacifist (well, except for mosquitoes and deer that careen off my car), I'm pulling for the mustrats' return.
Here is a shot of the pit from the front.
And from the back.
I was even able to get a shot of a goose (you'll have to click on the picture to enlarge it to see the goose I believe).
Initially, I swam in the pit quite often - the sand was great and the water wasn't deep enough to be really cold (though in some spots it was over 20 feet deep). But as the activity in the pit tapered off, the more the weeds and algae moved in. Now I wouldn't swim in it at all. Though two summers ago they drained a good portion of it and the water was great again. In fact, we went out there once for the Fourth of July. It was getting late and the mosquitoes were absoutely hellacious, so we left our chairs out side and headed for the car. The next day I went to retrieve them and found them blown out into the pit. I dove in to get them and when I lifted one out of the water, the largest leech I have ever seen plopped out and fell into the water - at my feet! Initially I thought it was just a large soggy leaf (that gives you an idea of how large it was), but once the 'leaf' hit the water it began to wriggle quickly through the water. I was safely on the beach by that time - and likely screaming like a ninny - but I was safe. Since then I've been careful about setting foot in the pit.
So now that he is gone, I often worry about hunters stopping out there. But Dad was well respected and quite loved (no one has even attempted to force a door on the house or any of the sheds - though they are right on highway 32 and only half a mile from highway 2) that no one ventures out there. So the geese are safe.
Now too that Dad is gone, I hope the muskrats return. Dad didn't want them bothering his geese, so he shot them. As a total pacifist (well, except for mosquitoes and deer that careen off my car), I'm pulling for the mustrats' return.
Here is a shot of the pit from the front.
And from the back.
I was even able to get a shot of a goose (you'll have to click on the picture to enlarge it to see the goose I believe).
Initially, I swam in the pit quite often - the sand was great and the water wasn't deep enough to be really cold (though in some spots it was over 20 feet deep). But as the activity in the pit tapered off, the more the weeds and algae moved in. Now I wouldn't swim in it at all. Though two summers ago they drained a good portion of it and the water was great again. In fact, we went out there once for the Fourth of July. It was getting late and the mosquitoes were absoutely hellacious, so we left our chairs out side and headed for the car. The next day I went to retrieve them and found them blown out into the pit. I dove in to get them and when I lifted one out of the water, the largest leech I have ever seen plopped out and fell into the water - at my feet! Initially I thought it was just a large soggy leaf (that gives you an idea of how large it was), but once the 'leaf' hit the water it began to wriggle quickly through the water. I was safely on the beach by that time - and likely screaming like a ninny - but I was safe. Since then I've been careful about setting foot in the pit.
Out at Dad's
A few weekends ago, I loaded up our dogs and headed out to Dad's. I had to move the bales around his house before they rotted too much and before the mice and rats moved in.
There were no rats, but the bales were really rotten. Some had been there for several seasons, so a pitchfork was necessary.
It was odd working there without Dad. But I had his voice in the back of my mind. He was critiquing my technique on tossing the bales and my strategy for loading them in the back of Casey's pickup. I also heard him cracking jokes. It was good for me to hear that voice again - even if it was faint.
After removing the bales, I turned Kozy and Joker loose in the pit.
Joker had to cool off and get a quick drink.
Kozy found a stick was eager to play fetch. So I was interested to see if she would brave the water to fetch the stick. She loved the water. Joker will wade in, but he doesn't like to swim. Kozy, on the other hand, was all about the water.
But Joker wasn't too keen on playing fetch with her.
I tried having her fetch a rock, but she lost it in the water. It was still fun to see her bury her face in the water in search of it.
Finally, she had to stop for a gulp of water.
There were no rats, but the bales were really rotten. Some had been there for several seasons, so a pitchfork was necessary.
It was odd working there without Dad. But I had his voice in the back of my mind. He was critiquing my technique on tossing the bales and my strategy for loading them in the back of Casey's pickup. I also heard him cracking jokes. It was good for me to hear that voice again - even if it was faint.
After removing the bales, I turned Kozy and Joker loose in the pit.
Joker had to cool off and get a quick drink.
Kozy found a stick was eager to play fetch. So I was interested to see if she would brave the water to fetch the stick. She loved the water. Joker will wade in, but he doesn't like to swim. Kozy, on the other hand, was all about the water.
But Joker wasn't too keen on playing fetch with her.
I tried having her fetch a rock, but she lost it in the water. It was still fun to see her bury her face in the water in search of it.
Finally, she had to stop for a gulp of water.
Wednesday
Yesterday afternoon I settled down to read my new book (well, it's new to me. It was originally published way back in '97), Leon Botstein's "Jefferson's Children." I was just through the introduction when KoKo and her friend, Rachel, burst through the door. KoKo was in tears and Rachel seemed solemn. Between fits sobs KoKo was able to tell me that they had walked to Uncle Bill's (a generic version of Dairy Queen). But on the way, since it was incredibly windy, her glasses had gotten smudged and she took them off and placed them in her pocket. Well, right then I knew that was a recipe for disaster. She said when they were eating at Uncle Bill's, she realized her glasses were no longer in her pocket. So they hurried home in search of her glasses. But they were unable to find them.
She was worried that she was going to get in some big time trouble. Poor thing. I reassured her that these things happen from time to time. I remember breaking a pair when I was in junior high and fearing the repercussions from Mom and Dad.
So we set out in search of them. Unfortunately for KoKo, she had Rachel had decided to walk in the middle of the street on their way to Uncle Bill's. I was hoping to find her glasses a bit scratched but maybe the frames were salvageable.
However, Rachel's eagle eye spotted them not a block from our house. Here they are --
I couldn't help but giggle when I saw how mangled they were. Of course, KoKo didn't think there was anything remotely funny about her crushed glasses. Rachel and I tried to persuade her to put them on, but she was furious. Only her mom could calm her down. This picture is after Kristie came home and made everything better - as Moms have a way of doing.
She was worried that she was going to get in some big time trouble. Poor thing. I reassured her that these things happen from time to time. I remember breaking a pair when I was in junior high and fearing the repercussions from Mom and Dad.
So we set out in search of them. Unfortunately for KoKo, she had Rachel had decided to walk in the middle of the street on their way to Uncle Bill's. I was hoping to find her glasses a bit scratched but maybe the frames were salvageable.
However, Rachel's eagle eye spotted them not a block from our house. Here they are --
I couldn't help but giggle when I saw how mangled they were. Of course, KoKo didn't think there was anything remotely funny about her crushed glasses. Rachel and I tried to persuade her to put them on, but she was furious. Only her mom could calm her down. This picture is after Kristie came home and made everything better - as Moms have a way of doing.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
A Long Time Coming
It's been a long, long while, but this morning I was able to fit into a 34 inch waist pair of khakis. I figure I have close to 90 miles under my belt since March, so I'm glad it's paying off. Now the trick will be keeping myself at a 34 inch waist the rest of the summer and fall.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Final Thoughts
The last Monday of the school year is history. My College Comp kids are sweating bullets. Their research papers are due on Wednesday. Most are in good shape. I'm only really worried about one or two. My Brit Lit class is in good shape too. Well, the seniors are. For whatever ungodly reason, our school graduates the seniors a week ahead (I stand corrected. The Powers that Be like to say "It's just three days ahead) of the underclassmen. And if it is really no big deal, then why do we have those final three days anyway? Little productive gets done. I mean how can you justify adding extra work to a class? And it just isn't fair. What happens to a teacher who has all seniors when another one has all freshmen? Why should they get an extra week (oops, I mean three days) off while the other has to work.
So I'm using up all of my 'accommodation' days in my College Comp class and just telling my juniors that they're done on Friday with the seniors. I still have some things planned for my Brit Lit juniors. And most of the juniors in my Comp II class will just say screw it and skip the final week - I mean three days - of school anyway.
Really, this concerns me little, for come Tuesday, we're off to get married.
*****
I mowed our lawn for the first time this evening. I was not alone either. The roar of mowers echoed throughout the neighborhood. When I was a kid, doing yard work was my favorite things. Dad would push the mower. Barb and Mom would tend to the garden and trim. Kevin would usually be gone while I just bounced around from job to job. What I loved about it was that the family was together and working. Good stuff.
*****
I missed the annual spring clean up day at the cemetery where Mom and Dad are buried (I had KoKo's Girl Scout Awards day). So Barb went with her family. At the end of the meeting it was decided that new officers for the cemetery board would be elected (Dad had served as vice president and Willard Purath had served as president, but both died from cancer). So Barb, in her infinite wisdom, volunteered me for president. And I won unanimously (I'm a Democrat, so I won, of course). Luckily, I'm just a figurehead. The real president is Lucille Wiess, who does a magnificent job running the place.
Can't wait to add that accolade to the old resume.
So I'm using up all of my 'accommodation' days in my College Comp class and just telling my juniors that they're done on Friday with the seniors. I still have some things planned for my Brit Lit juniors. And most of the juniors in my Comp II class will just say screw it and skip the final week - I mean three days - of school anyway.
Really, this concerns me little, for come Tuesday, we're off to get married.
*****
I mowed our lawn for the first time this evening. I was not alone either. The roar of mowers echoed throughout the neighborhood. When I was a kid, doing yard work was my favorite things. Dad would push the mower. Barb and Mom would tend to the garden and trim. Kevin would usually be gone while I just bounced around from job to job. What I loved about it was that the family was together and working. Good stuff.
*****
I missed the annual spring clean up day at the cemetery where Mom and Dad are buried (I had KoKo's Girl Scout Awards day). So Barb went with her family. At the end of the meeting it was decided that new officers for the cemetery board would be elected (Dad had served as vice president and Willard Purath had served as president, but both died from cancer). So Barb, in her infinite wisdom, volunteered me for president. And I won unanimously (I'm a Democrat, so I won, of course). Luckily, I'm just a figurehead. The real president is Lucille Wiess, who does a magnificent job running the place.
Can't wait to add that accolade to the old resume.
Last Monday of the school year
What a weekend! I'm still reeling. There is just TOO much to do. So why am I blogging then? Good question. I'll be a succinct as possible.
The RRVWP pre-inservice was great. It sounds like we have a great group of teachers. Plus I'll be in more of leadership role than last time, so that will be interesting. I will need to get the readings done. The first is a writing text called "Writing Brave and Free" by Ted Kooser and Steve Cox. Looks like a quick read. The next is the one that I think will be most interesting, "A Report to Carnegie Corporation of New York: Writing Next - Effective Strategies To Improve Writing of Adolescents In Middle And High Schools." This has me interested.
The next step will be to produce three pieces of writing. They must be in at least two different genres - with one being a serious 'research' piece. I'm thinking of using a poem, a creative nonfiction piece, and for the 'serious' piece a state of union kind of essay about where I am in terms of theory and practice in my career.
*****
The varsity basketball coach had a surprise party for Kristie Friday night to thank her for all of her years of volunteer service. She has done a phenomenal job. The coach was able to get every girl Kristie had coached - and most aren't playing basketball anymore - the varsity coach tends to weed them out - but while they play for Kristie they all get regular playing time, regardless of wins and losses - to sign a plaque that she had made.
*****
Saturday afternoon brought a ruckus on the porch and then the doorbell. That intro means only one thing: Blake Allen. This time he brought his step brother. They also brought weapons, well toy weapons. So I quickly joined in for a shootout. Blake had a small old west six shooter (with a sheriff's star pinned to his t-shirt) while his step brother and I had double barreled shot guns that shot out suction darts. We had a blast.
After about 30 minutes their mother showed up. She was taking them to Shrek 3. However, they were back within 15 minutes because they couldn't find a baby-sitter for their youngest brother. We had another shootout, but Blake and his brother were more interested in playing on the computer, so Casey was gracious enough to set them up on Disney.com.
When their mother came to pick them up to go to Shrek 3, Kristie recalled a story she heard from the elementary school secretary at her surprise party.
Kristie was telling them how Blake stops over from time to time and even helped find Mischa and how we gave him six dollars as a reward. Now I originally thought he had spent his fortune on gum and that incredibly large jaw breaker. However, that doesn't seem to be the case.
Kristie said that the secretary couldn't believe it when Kristie told her that we had given Blake six dollars. Apparently, Blake never has lunch money - so he has to eat the peanut butter sandwiches the school provides for those who don't qualify for free or reduced lunches and whose parents don't give them a lunch for school. The secretary said that Blake came in on two weeks ago and handed her six dollars and asked, "Is this enough money for lunch?"
Now if that doesn't just make you want to cry, I don't know what will. The poor kid spends his reward money on lunch! I felt like giving him a $20 the next time he comes over and telling him to keep quiet and just give it to the secretary. She also said that she asks him if he has money for lunch and Blake just replies, "No. My dad says we're broke." Yet, they don't bother to try and qualify for free and reduced lunch? Yet, they buy their kids toy guns and take them to Shrek 3 (well, maybe take them. Blake said they were going to go Sunday instead), but they can't buy their kid lunch at school? All I could picture was little Blake sitting there watching his classmates eat normal lunches while he eats that stupid old peanut butter sandwich day after day.
*****
And I will no longer have to recycle my Mystery Friday mysteries. They worked for the first month and then went south in a hurry. The kids tired of them, and, quite honestly, the mysteries were worthless. We could get more out of doing the jumble or crossword out of the paper. Third quarter I had first prep so I didn't have to waste my time on them. For fourth quarter I simply gave my Brit Lit class a choice - SSR or the mysteries. It wasn't even close. So I recycle them.
I like the idea behind this Mystery Friday activity, but I just hope a better text is decided upon or better strategies are used. But then again, what do I know?
Okay, enough of this. I have to get some work done.
The RRVWP pre-inservice was great. It sounds like we have a great group of teachers. Plus I'll be in more of leadership role than last time, so that will be interesting. I will need to get the readings done. The first is a writing text called "Writing Brave and Free" by Ted Kooser and Steve Cox. Looks like a quick read. The next is the one that I think will be most interesting, "A Report to Carnegie Corporation of New York: Writing Next - Effective Strategies To Improve Writing of Adolescents In Middle And High Schools." This has me interested.
The next step will be to produce three pieces of writing. They must be in at least two different genres - with one being a serious 'research' piece. I'm thinking of using a poem, a creative nonfiction piece, and for the 'serious' piece a state of union kind of essay about where I am in terms of theory and practice in my career.
*****
The varsity basketball coach had a surprise party for Kristie Friday night to thank her for all of her years of volunteer service. She has done a phenomenal job. The coach was able to get every girl Kristie had coached - and most aren't playing basketball anymore - the varsity coach tends to weed them out - but while they play for Kristie they all get regular playing time, regardless of wins and losses - to sign a plaque that she had made.
*****
Saturday afternoon brought a ruckus on the porch and then the doorbell. That intro means only one thing: Blake Allen. This time he brought his step brother. They also brought weapons, well toy weapons. So I quickly joined in for a shootout. Blake had a small old west six shooter (with a sheriff's star pinned to his t-shirt) while his step brother and I had double barreled shot guns that shot out suction darts. We had a blast.
After about 30 minutes their mother showed up. She was taking them to Shrek 3. However, they were back within 15 minutes because they couldn't find a baby-sitter for their youngest brother. We had another shootout, but Blake and his brother were more interested in playing on the computer, so Casey was gracious enough to set them up on Disney.com.
When their mother came to pick them up to go to Shrek 3, Kristie recalled a story she heard from the elementary school secretary at her surprise party.
Kristie was telling them how Blake stops over from time to time and even helped find Mischa and how we gave him six dollars as a reward. Now I originally thought he had spent his fortune on gum and that incredibly large jaw breaker. However, that doesn't seem to be the case.
Kristie said that the secretary couldn't believe it when Kristie told her that we had given Blake six dollars. Apparently, Blake never has lunch money - so he has to eat the peanut butter sandwiches the school provides for those who don't qualify for free or reduced lunches and whose parents don't give them a lunch for school. The secretary said that Blake came in on two weeks ago and handed her six dollars and asked, "Is this enough money for lunch?"
Now if that doesn't just make you want to cry, I don't know what will. The poor kid spends his reward money on lunch! I felt like giving him a $20 the next time he comes over and telling him to keep quiet and just give it to the secretary. She also said that she asks him if he has money for lunch and Blake just replies, "No. My dad says we're broke." Yet, they don't bother to try and qualify for free and reduced lunch? Yet, they buy their kids toy guns and take them to Shrek 3 (well, maybe take them. Blake said they were going to go Sunday instead), but they can't buy their kid lunch at school? All I could picture was little Blake sitting there watching his classmates eat normal lunches while he eats that stupid old peanut butter sandwich day after day.
*****
And I will no longer have to recycle my Mystery Friday mysteries. They worked for the first month and then went south in a hurry. The kids tired of them, and, quite honestly, the mysteries were worthless. We could get more out of doing the jumble or crossword out of the paper. Third quarter I had first prep so I didn't have to waste my time on them. For fourth quarter I simply gave my Brit Lit class a choice - SSR or the mysteries. It wasn't even close. So I recycle them.
I like the idea behind this Mystery Friday activity, but I just hope a better text is decided upon or better strategies are used. But then again, what do I know?
Okay, enough of this. I have to get some work done.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Random wonders
Some random observations from the past few days --
Blake Allen finally showed up yesterday. We were beginning to miss him. I knew he was over as soon as I pulled up. I saw his chopper spilled on our lawn.
Casey was playing with him in his room on one of his video games. KoKo had a friend over, so Blake played with them for awhile. In fact, I noticed a little note on the table. It was from KoKo. She began by explaining that she had been responsible for breaking several things in the past, so I knew what was to follow. She explained how she and Rachel had been chasing each other around the table. Then Blake decided to join in. Apparently, KoKo's friend, Rachel, got knocked into one of our cases and a leaf display fell. The tip broke off. KoKo was sorry and said that they would never chase each other in the house again. Included with the note was all the cash she had ($11.00). How can you not love kids?
I didn't get to visit with him, though, because I went out to the backyard to pick up and Blake's mom came over to get him for supper. But he did come back right after and we were able to visit a bit.
He informed me that today was his graduation - from kindergarten. He seemed pretty fired up by it. We had a nice little before we had dinner and I had to send him home. But he didn't make it too far, for as we were eating, I saw him over at our neighbor's helping him mow lawn.
*****
What a difference a week can make. The student who wrote about feeling most alive at a party and driving drunk (I blogged about this last week or the week before) and pouted royally when I made him re-do the essay, is now my best buddy. The trick? Just getting to know him - and letting him get to know me.
We had a little down time today since a bulk of our students are out for choir rehearsal. So we just talked. I found out I taught his older brother. I also found that I would have this student in my summer classes. Then we talked about his work and his future plans. Before I knew it, he was smiling and opening up - and, of course, getting no work done - but he at least wasn't disruptive. Now that I've let him in and vice versa, now I'll start to push him to work more. And I think it'll work. He likes me again - and that's half the battle.
*****
I think I've realized why I've often been so bitter and disappointed this year. I'm in need of renewal. When I took a leave of absence and went to graduate school, it was because I was disappointed in myself. I wasn't teaching as well as I could. Nor were my courses what I wanted them to be. I was disillusioned. I knew coming in to teaching that I'd be unprepared. Who isn't? But I lived through my first year and started my second with much higher expectations. And I did do better. In my third year, I wasn't scared of teaching. I related well to the students. We covered a lot of material. However, I just felt empty in what I was doing. There had to be more. That's when I went to graduate school.
I still don't think I'm teaching as well as I could, but I now have the tools and perspective to know I can improve. I had that renewal at graduate school. For the most part, we do good things in my classroom. I have a genuine feeling that I provide my students with useful skills, ideas, and experiences. I wasn't sure of this before. I even can say - without being conceited - that there are some things I do better than anyone. Not many, but a few.
Now, however, the new disillusionment is from the environment around me. Instead of wanting more out of myself and my classes, I want more out of the school. And it just isn't there. I need some way to conquer or fix that.
One thing that will help is the Red River Valley Writers Project at UND. It will be four weeks of intensive reading and writing about reading and writing with other teachers. Here I'll get a chance to see what they have to think and say not only about their classes and teaching styles but also about their teaching environments. It is here that I hope to get some renewal. Either it will confirm that my experiences are not unique and that I have to just suck it up and know that what I do in my room during my class time is all that I can control or it will offer me hope that there are things that can be done to turn the school environment into what I experience often in my classroom.
And if nothing else, the summer and time with family is enough to erase the frustration that has built up this year.
*****
The blue Kristie started in our room last weekend is too light. The stone white/brown that she added to the other walls last night is great. But the blue looks too childish. So she will get a gallon of darker blue and repaint. All that work!
Last night I tried to help her paint, but my attention to detail and her attention to detail are light years away. In fact, as we were painting last night (Kristie handed all of the edge and trim work), I couldn't help but think of an Oscar Wilde quote from a few days earlier. He said something to the effect of spending all morning editing a poem. At lunch he decided to remove a comma. But then later than night he decided to put it back. That focus and attention to detail is exactly how Kristie paints.
Over that past year or so, since we've been done painting most of the rooms, I've begun to take all of her original hard work for granted. If I had painted the place . . . well, we won't think about that. It probably would never have been painted at all. Our house (and lives) need her attention to detail.
Blake Allen finally showed up yesterday. We were beginning to miss him. I knew he was over as soon as I pulled up. I saw his chopper spilled on our lawn.
Casey was playing with him in his room on one of his video games. KoKo had a friend over, so Blake played with them for awhile. In fact, I noticed a little note on the table. It was from KoKo. She began by explaining that she had been responsible for breaking several things in the past, so I knew what was to follow. She explained how she and Rachel had been chasing each other around the table. Then Blake decided to join in. Apparently, KoKo's friend, Rachel, got knocked into one of our cases and a leaf display fell. The tip broke off. KoKo was sorry and said that they would never chase each other in the house again. Included with the note was all the cash she had ($11.00). How can you not love kids?
I didn't get to visit with him, though, because I went out to the backyard to pick up and Blake's mom came over to get him for supper. But he did come back right after and we were able to visit a bit.
He informed me that today was his graduation - from kindergarten. He seemed pretty fired up by it. We had a nice little before we had dinner and I had to send him home. But he didn't make it too far, for as we were eating, I saw him over at our neighbor's helping him mow lawn.
*****
What a difference a week can make. The student who wrote about feeling most alive at a party and driving drunk (I blogged about this last week or the week before) and pouted royally when I made him re-do the essay, is now my best buddy. The trick? Just getting to know him - and letting him get to know me.
We had a little down time today since a bulk of our students are out for choir rehearsal. So we just talked. I found out I taught his older brother. I also found that I would have this student in my summer classes. Then we talked about his work and his future plans. Before I knew it, he was smiling and opening up - and, of course, getting no work done - but he at least wasn't disruptive. Now that I've let him in and vice versa, now I'll start to push him to work more. And I think it'll work. He likes me again - and that's half the battle.
*****
I think I've realized why I've often been so bitter and disappointed this year. I'm in need of renewal. When I took a leave of absence and went to graduate school, it was because I was disappointed in myself. I wasn't teaching as well as I could. Nor were my courses what I wanted them to be. I was disillusioned. I knew coming in to teaching that I'd be unprepared. Who isn't? But I lived through my first year and started my second with much higher expectations. And I did do better. In my third year, I wasn't scared of teaching. I related well to the students. We covered a lot of material. However, I just felt empty in what I was doing. There had to be more. That's when I went to graduate school.
I still don't think I'm teaching as well as I could, but I now have the tools and perspective to know I can improve. I had that renewal at graduate school. For the most part, we do good things in my classroom. I have a genuine feeling that I provide my students with useful skills, ideas, and experiences. I wasn't sure of this before. I even can say - without being conceited - that there are some things I do better than anyone. Not many, but a few.
Now, however, the new disillusionment is from the environment around me. Instead of wanting more out of myself and my classes, I want more out of the school. And it just isn't there. I need some way to conquer or fix that.
One thing that will help is the Red River Valley Writers Project at UND. It will be four weeks of intensive reading and writing about reading and writing with other teachers. Here I'll get a chance to see what they have to think and say not only about their classes and teaching styles but also about their teaching environments. It is here that I hope to get some renewal. Either it will confirm that my experiences are not unique and that I have to just suck it up and know that what I do in my room during my class time is all that I can control or it will offer me hope that there are things that can be done to turn the school environment into what I experience often in my classroom.
And if nothing else, the summer and time with family is enough to erase the frustration that has built up this year.
*****
The blue Kristie started in our room last weekend is too light. The stone white/brown that she added to the other walls last night is great. But the blue looks too childish. So she will get a gallon of darker blue and repaint. All that work!
Last night I tried to help her paint, but my attention to detail and her attention to detail are light years away. In fact, as we were painting last night (Kristie handed all of the edge and trim work), I couldn't help but think of an Oscar Wilde quote from a few days earlier. He said something to the effect of spending all morning editing a poem. At lunch he decided to remove a comma. But then later than night he decided to put it back. That focus and attention to detail is exactly how Kristie paints.
Over that past year or so, since we've been done painting most of the rooms, I've begun to take all of her original hard work for granted. If I had painted the place . . . well, we won't think about that. It probably would never have been painted at all. Our house (and lives) need her attention to detail.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Frightening
One of our coaches here sent around a forwarded email that he received from another teacher/coach whose school will be closing in 3 or 4 years - "I'll have a teaching job, but coaching is why I teach."
Am I the only one who is frightened by that kind of sentiment?
I knew many guys in college who earned phy-ed degrees because they wanted to coach, not teach. But I thought that ended when they flooded the job market and had to find something else to do. Maybe this is the real reason why athletics are so driven in high schools. Maybe this is the real reason so many of test scores are low. What does it matter as long as we field athletics?
This kind of thinking sickens me.
I love coaching, but first and foremost, I'm a teacher. And it will never be any other way.
Am I the only one who is frightened by that kind of sentiment?
I knew many guys in college who earned phy-ed degrees because they wanted to coach, not teach. But I thought that ended when they flooded the job market and had to find something else to do. Maybe this is the real reason why athletics are so driven in high schools. Maybe this is the real reason so many of test scores are low. What does it matter as long as we field athletics?
This kind of thinking sickens me.
I love coaching, but first and foremost, I'm a teacher. And it will never be any other way.
First (and last) complaint
I promise this will be my first and last bitch for the day. But just today.
Yesterday, I left my checkbook at the post office in the town where I teach. When I reached my hometown, some 15 miles away, I began wondering where my checkbook was (something I do about ten times a day - absent minded - I know - I know). I couldn’t find it, so I thought I’d call the post office from our house.
As I walked in the door, KoKo told me that the police department called (always what you want to hear when you get home). She said they had my checkbook. A concerned citizen was nice enough to turn it in! Karma baby, Karma!
So I headed back out the door for the trek back to where I work. On the way up, I turned on the radio to listen to the baseball team. The pre-game show was on and they were giving area scores. One happened to be from our softball team.
This got me thinking about the one player on that team who came into my room after a terrible incident in their family. They said they wouldn’t be able to attend regularly, and I said you just take care of your family and get this cleared up. When that is done, we’ll figure out what to do about your classes.
And sure enough they missed my classes yesterday. But I bet my mortgage that this person played in the softball game last night. How is that possible?
Now I don’t want to seem like a prick, but where are our priorities. So today I will email her coach and a power that be and try to get to the bottom of this. I know it will do little good (two years ago I had a hockey player failing two of my classes, yet they still were allowed to play - well, he didn’t really play, he just dressed - but still he was failing! I actually had a power that be come up and tell me that he talked to the player and that he wasn’t going to do anything about his F’s because he wanted him to dress for the state playoffs. I’m not making this up! Are we a school or what? What kind of message is this sending, “I’m not worried that you have to F’s third quarter of your senior year and that you might not graduate, but I hope you enjoy dressing for the state hockey tournament?” Idiocy), but I’m hoping to make a point: athletics are fine, but in the grand scheme of things, they won’t make a difference in your life. Getting your high school degree will. Learning how to write effectively will. Going 15-5 in softball won’t. Sorry.
This whole spring quarter has gotten me so damn frustrated with all the other extra curricular crap that goes on here. School is not even second. It’s more like third or fourth. If it’s not baseball games, it’s the choir rehearsal. If it’s not choir rehearsal, it’s the orchestra trip. And on and on and on.
It’s to the point where I feel ashamed to be a coach. I mean where are our priorities? What message are we sending to these kids? If some worked half as hard in their studies as they did in their off season and in-season conditioning programs, who knows where they’d end up (and to his credit, the football coach routinely preaches, “If you want your kid to get a scholarship, don’t point him toward the practice field. Point him toward the library. There are nine academic scholarships for every athletic scholarship.” Now that is some sanity).
I mean could I live with football. Damn right. I wouldn’t have to devote three hours every Sunday to my damn Bengals. Then I wouldn’t have to sulk and mope around after they blew their lead in the fourth quarter and snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. What a blessed relief that would be.
Does anyone have an answer?
I’m so frustrated with what is happening with our kids that I’ve sought an answer in the book “The Case Against Adolescence.”
Here is an excerpt from the book jacket - “This groundbreaking book argues that adolescence is an unnecessary period of life that people are better off without. Robert Epstein, former editor-in-chief of “Psychology Today,” shows that teen turmoil is caused by outmoded systems put in place a century ago which destroyed the continuum between childhood and adulthood.”
Now that sounds interesting!
Yesterday, I left my checkbook at the post office in the town where I teach. When I reached my hometown, some 15 miles away, I began wondering where my checkbook was (something I do about ten times a day - absent minded - I know - I know). I couldn’t find it, so I thought I’d call the post office from our house.
As I walked in the door, KoKo told me that the police department called (always what you want to hear when you get home). She said they had my checkbook. A concerned citizen was nice enough to turn it in! Karma baby, Karma!
So I headed back out the door for the trek back to where I work. On the way up, I turned on the radio to listen to the baseball team. The pre-game show was on and they were giving area scores. One happened to be from our softball team.
This got me thinking about the one player on that team who came into my room after a terrible incident in their family. They said they wouldn’t be able to attend regularly, and I said you just take care of your family and get this cleared up. When that is done, we’ll figure out what to do about your classes.
And sure enough they missed my classes yesterday. But I bet my mortgage that this person played in the softball game last night. How is that possible?
Now I don’t want to seem like a prick, but where are our priorities. So today I will email her coach and a power that be and try to get to the bottom of this. I know it will do little good (two years ago I had a hockey player failing two of my classes, yet they still were allowed to play - well, he didn’t really play, he just dressed - but still he was failing! I actually had a power that be come up and tell me that he talked to the player and that he wasn’t going to do anything about his F’s because he wanted him to dress for the state playoffs. I’m not making this up! Are we a school or what? What kind of message is this sending, “I’m not worried that you have to F’s third quarter of your senior year and that you might not graduate, but I hope you enjoy dressing for the state hockey tournament?” Idiocy), but I’m hoping to make a point: athletics are fine, but in the grand scheme of things, they won’t make a difference in your life. Getting your high school degree will. Learning how to write effectively will. Going 15-5 in softball won’t. Sorry.
This whole spring quarter has gotten me so damn frustrated with all the other extra curricular crap that goes on here. School is not even second. It’s more like third or fourth. If it’s not baseball games, it’s the choir rehearsal. If it’s not choir rehearsal, it’s the orchestra trip. And on and on and on.
It’s to the point where I feel ashamed to be a coach. I mean where are our priorities? What message are we sending to these kids? If some worked half as hard in their studies as they did in their off season and in-season conditioning programs, who knows where they’d end up (and to his credit, the football coach routinely preaches, “If you want your kid to get a scholarship, don’t point him toward the practice field. Point him toward the library. There are nine academic scholarships for every athletic scholarship.” Now that is some sanity).
I mean could I live with football. Damn right. I wouldn’t have to devote three hours every Sunday to my damn Bengals. Then I wouldn’t have to sulk and mope around after they blew their lead in the fourth quarter and snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. What a blessed relief that would be.
Does anyone have an answer?
I’m so frustrated with what is happening with our kids that I’ve sought an answer in the book “The Case Against Adolescence.”
Here is an excerpt from the book jacket - “This groundbreaking book argues that adolescence is an unnecessary period of life that people are better off without. Robert Epstein, former editor-in-chief of “Psychology Today,” shows that teen turmoil is caused by outmoded systems put in place a century ago which destroyed the continuum between childhood and adulthood.”
Now that sounds interesting!
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Tuesday
Today was a winner. In Brit Lit we took a look at Oscar Wilde. I printed off a list of his infamous quotes (you can see on on the sidebar) and had students choose one to analyze. That will make for some interesting reading. Then we tackled chapter one of "Dorian Gray."
Next up was Comp II. I usually bang my head against a wall with these guys, but today they were raring to go. After a some quick routine work on adverb clauses, I introduced theme #8, the persuasive essay. Gulp, I teach this in the traditional five paragraph theme. Well, almost. It's got a thesis and three supporting paragraphs, but I've put my own twist into it. Instead of beginning with a generic intro, I give them some options - they can begin with an explanation of their topic, a narrative introducing us to their topic (this is the one I always push for), or creative a vivid example of their subject. Then, of course, they have to have their three pronged thesis in there. But here I introduce another twist. Their first two points have to be from their side of the argument. Then for their final supporting paragraph they have to take an opponent's viewpoint and reason it back against them. For example, if I'm arguing (as we did today) in class against country music, my two reasons against it would be that it's cliché and unoriginal. Then for my third point, I'd take a country music aficionados point, say that country music is popular and appeals to a very wide array of people, and reason it back against that claim (maybe stating that just because something is popular doesn't mean it should be blindly followed - that's how we got country music in the first place - along with tractor pulls, Nascar, line dancing, electric bull riding, and all other sorts of hick phenomena).
I began by introducing them to the Toulim Method of persuasion. He proposes that all successful arguments contain three things. First, one must have a claim (where the arguer states what they want). Second, one must base their claim on grounds (the proof the arguer must supply about their claim). Third, and most importantly, one must achieve a warrant (this is the interaction of the first two elements. The warrant is usually implied.)
Here is how it works in advertising. Pick up a magazine. You'll undoubtedly find cigarette ads. The claim of the tobacco company is 'buy our product.' Their warrants vary - 'they are cheap,' 'they are refreshing,' 'they are quality' . . . Now each advertisements usually has some young, hip people on it doing all sorts of athletic or fashionable things. That is the warrant - it implies to the viewer that if they buy the cigarettes not only will they be refreshing and of high quality, but they will make the smoker better looking, more popular, and quite fashionable. Now this is, of course, ridiculous. But it works. Just check out the tobacco sales despite the prices. The Joe Camel advertising campaigning by Camel cigarettes used the Toulim method to perfection to addict millions of kids to tobacco.
I ran into this type of argument two years ago when we took a trip to Dickenson, ND. We gave KoKo $20. She was told this was her spending money for the trip. We thought we'd teach her some responsibility. Inevitably, we entered the Dickenson Mall. KoKo spotted and Claire's and headed in. Kristie and her mom were off shopping somewhere and Casey was too, so I sat down and kept an eye on KoKo.
Eventually, I got the beckoning wave from KoKo. I tried to ignore her, but that only last a few minutes. Finally, I got up and trudged over the store. KoKo has about a dozen littler trinkets picked out that came to about $2.34. That wasn't the problem. The problem was that she wanted me to pay for it (her claim). I said no way. But she said she didn't want to break her $20 (her grounds). That was when they warrant hit me: in my mind I saw her trying to manage all of the change in her little purse. Then I saw her trying to fish out a quarter for a gumball machine and then having a five fall out. Then I saw her squandering more of her money. Before I knew it, I was plunking down the change and shuffling her out of there with her nice crisp $20 intact. She had perfectly manipulated me using the Toulim Method!
I had students come up with their own examples of using this - many knew perfectly well how to use it - to get the keys for the weekend, to get new vehicles, to get money, and so on and on.
And it's true. We are all expert manipulators. We were just getting around to debating topics when time ran out.
I love it when that happens.
Next up was Comp II. I usually bang my head against a wall with these guys, but today they were raring to go. After a some quick routine work on adverb clauses, I introduced theme #8, the persuasive essay. Gulp, I teach this in the traditional five paragraph theme. Well, almost. It's got a thesis and three supporting paragraphs, but I've put my own twist into it. Instead of beginning with a generic intro, I give them some options - they can begin with an explanation of their topic, a narrative introducing us to their topic (this is the one I always push for), or creative a vivid example of their subject. Then, of course, they have to have their three pronged thesis in there. But here I introduce another twist. Their first two points have to be from their side of the argument. Then for their final supporting paragraph they have to take an opponent's viewpoint and reason it back against them. For example, if I'm arguing (as we did today) in class against country music, my two reasons against it would be that it's cliché and unoriginal. Then for my third point, I'd take a country music aficionados point, say that country music is popular and appeals to a very wide array of people, and reason it back against that claim (maybe stating that just because something is popular doesn't mean it should be blindly followed - that's how we got country music in the first place - along with tractor pulls, Nascar, line dancing, electric bull riding, and all other sorts of hick phenomena).
I began by introducing them to the Toulim Method of persuasion. He proposes that all successful arguments contain three things. First, one must have a claim (where the arguer states what they want). Second, one must base their claim on grounds (the proof the arguer must supply about their claim). Third, and most importantly, one must achieve a warrant (this is the interaction of the first two elements. The warrant is usually implied.)
Here is how it works in advertising. Pick up a magazine. You'll undoubtedly find cigarette ads. The claim of the tobacco company is 'buy our product.' Their warrants vary - 'they are cheap,' 'they are refreshing,' 'they are quality' . . . Now each advertisements usually has some young, hip people on it doing all sorts of athletic or fashionable things. That is the warrant - it implies to the viewer that if they buy the cigarettes not only will they be refreshing and of high quality, but they will make the smoker better looking, more popular, and quite fashionable. Now this is, of course, ridiculous. But it works. Just check out the tobacco sales despite the prices. The Joe Camel advertising campaigning by Camel cigarettes used the Toulim method to perfection to addict millions of kids to tobacco.
I ran into this type of argument two years ago when we took a trip to Dickenson, ND. We gave KoKo $20. She was told this was her spending money for the trip. We thought we'd teach her some responsibility. Inevitably, we entered the Dickenson Mall. KoKo spotted and Claire's and headed in. Kristie and her mom were off shopping somewhere and Casey was too, so I sat down and kept an eye on KoKo.
Eventually, I got the beckoning wave from KoKo. I tried to ignore her, but that only last a few minutes. Finally, I got up and trudged over the store. KoKo has about a dozen littler trinkets picked out that came to about $2.34. That wasn't the problem. The problem was that she wanted me to pay for it (her claim). I said no way. But she said she didn't want to break her $20 (her grounds). That was when they warrant hit me: in my mind I saw her trying to manage all of the change in her little purse. Then I saw her trying to fish out a quarter for a gumball machine and then having a five fall out. Then I saw her squandering more of her money. Before I knew it, I was plunking down the change and shuffling her out of there with her nice crisp $20 intact. She had perfectly manipulated me using the Toulim Method!
I had students come up with their own examples of using this - many knew perfectly well how to use it - to get the keys for the weekend, to get new vehicles, to get money, and so on and on.
And it's true. We are all expert manipulators. We were just getting around to debating topics when time ran out.
I love it when that happens.
Monday, May 14, 2007
More creativity
One vow I'm making for next year is to incorporate more creativity into my classes. When I spoke at the honor's banquet a few weeks ago, the banquet happened to fall on our annual "Evening with the Arts." I was amazed at how creative some teachers are. One of my favorite displays involved an assignment freshmen had concerning "The Odyssey." On display were several games the kids created based on the epic. Others had sculptures (my favorite involved Legos). I was impressed. And I'm stealing the idea for next year too.
At my history class Wednesday, we had a theater person from the cities lead us in a session. Now this scares the hell out of me. I was scared too severely in college. It seemed like every damned Education class I ever took had to involve some kind of skit or role playing gag. I hated it all.
So when the presenter had us move the tables and get into a large circle, I was skeptical. In fact, the teacher next to me said in a hushed whisper, "If you think I'm hugging you, you're crazy!" It had that touchy feely kind of vibe.
Things didn't improve either . . . at least at first.
The first thing we had to do was step out into the circle and say our name and then perform an action. Then the rest of the group had to say "Hi . . ." and repeat the action.
Unfortunately, I was about five from the end, so most of the good actions were taken. However, I did step out say my name and then did the good old hand in the armpit to make farting noises gag. My personal favorite was when one of my colleagues stepped out, said his name, and then performed his action: slapping the teacher next to him (another colleague of ours) across the face. That was classic, easily the funniest thing I've seen this year.
After that we had to step out into the circle and perform a pose and then hold it for three seconds. Then the person to our left had to make a pose in reaction to our pose.
Finally, the presenter chose several people to act out various events or descriptions from the Dakota War. Then he had those of us who weren't involved give them lines. On his command he had them repeat the lines.
This was when the whole thing became pretty interesting. After various groups acted out different scenes, we were able to get into analyzing the presentations and interpretations. This was very interesting.
And though I can ham it up with the best of them, there is just something about this touchy feely stuff that turns me off. But I know I have several students in every class that would really get into this type of stuff. And it really wouldn't be that hard to implement either. I think it would be even more applicable to English rather than history. I could march them down to the stage while reading a short story and have students form groups and perform short 'stills' of key scenes. Then I could have the remaining students give them lines. I could even have the class divide into groups and have them develop short 'stills' of key scenes. Then I could assign them to teach it to another group rather than perform it themselves.
And instead of hating the session, it turned out to be one of my favorites.
At my history class Wednesday, we had a theater person from the cities lead us in a session. Now this scares the hell out of me. I was scared too severely in college. It seemed like every damned Education class I ever took had to involve some kind of skit or role playing gag. I hated it all.
So when the presenter had us move the tables and get into a large circle, I was skeptical. In fact, the teacher next to me said in a hushed whisper, "If you think I'm hugging you, you're crazy!" It had that touchy feely kind of vibe.
Things didn't improve either . . . at least at first.
The first thing we had to do was step out into the circle and say our name and then perform an action. Then the rest of the group had to say "Hi . . ." and repeat the action.
Unfortunately, I was about five from the end, so most of the good actions were taken. However, I did step out say my name and then did the good old hand in the armpit to make farting noises gag. My personal favorite was when one of my colleagues stepped out, said his name, and then performed his action: slapping the teacher next to him (another colleague of ours) across the face. That was classic, easily the funniest thing I've seen this year.
After that we had to step out into the circle and perform a pose and then hold it for three seconds. Then the person to our left had to make a pose in reaction to our pose.
Finally, the presenter chose several people to act out various events or descriptions from the Dakota War. Then he had those of us who weren't involved give them lines. On his command he had them repeat the lines.
This was when the whole thing became pretty interesting. After various groups acted out different scenes, we were able to get into analyzing the presentations and interpretations. This was very interesting.
And though I can ham it up with the best of them, there is just something about this touchy feely stuff that turns me off. But I know I have several students in every class that would really get into this type of stuff. And it really wouldn't be that hard to implement either. I think it would be even more applicable to English rather than history. I could march them down to the stage while reading a short story and have students form groups and perform short 'stills' of key scenes. Then I could have the remaining students give them lines. I could even have the class divide into groups and have them develop short 'stills' of key scenes. Then I could assign them to teach it to another group rather than perform it themselves.
And instead of hating the session, it turned out to be one of my favorites.
Slacking on my Diet
So far this month, I've eaten a lot of foods that I've avoided for the previous two months. And it's starting to show. In our biggest loser contest here, I actually went up .8 pounds. UGH! And that's after losing nearly 20 pounds. I need to get back to trimming out the evils (fast food and take out, ice cream, cookies, and all desserts) and get back to the good stuff (salads, fruits, and vegetables).
I'm still running as much as ever - I finished my first four consecutive mile run yesterday. It actually felt great. I just need to balance my diet out, so some of those 450 calories I burned running can go toward my waist and not burning off excess calories.
I'm still running as much as ever - I finished my first four consecutive mile run yesterday. It actually felt great. I just need to balance my diet out, so some of those 450 calories I burned running can go toward my waist and not burning off excess calories.
Back to the Grind
This is what frustrates me about school: first block, Brit Lit, we're analyzing William Blake's "The Lamb" and "The Tyger." Students are taking turns reading stanzas. We are discussing the literal and figurative meanings. They are connecting things to our world today.
Then the meat heads from Ch 1/2 arrive (this is a mock news show put on in one of our classes. It is usually really good, but this year's group of students is not stellar at all). There are about five of the loudest mouthed of the students barging in. I let three go, but they wanted more. And I think the kids enjoy being on the show, but they were making it such a big disturbance that I finally started offering bonus points to students NOT to go out in the hallway and participate in the show.
And what is the deal with all of the hockey players constantly wearing their hats? Has anyone noticed this? I assume the powers that be have, but you know what will come of that. The hat policy is one of those little issues that has built all year into a symbol for how this school is not run by the powers that be but by the students. That's a fact. A damned sad fact.
Then the meat heads from Ch 1/2 arrive (this is a mock news show put on in one of our classes. It is usually really good, but this year's group of students is not stellar at all). There are about five of the loudest mouthed of the students barging in. I let three go, but they wanted more. And I think the kids enjoy being on the show, but they were making it such a big disturbance that I finally started offering bonus points to students NOT to go out in the hallway and participate in the show.
And what is the deal with all of the hockey players constantly wearing their hats? Has anyone noticed this? I assume the powers that be have, but you know what will come of that. The hat policy is one of those little issues that has built all year into a symbol for how this school is not run by the powers that be but by the students. That's a fact. A damned sad fact.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
300th Post
It's hard to believe that I'm already on my 300th post. That's a lot of writing. Since this is kind of a special occasion, and seeing how this kind of special occasion falls on a really bonafide special occasion, Mother's Day, I thought I'd dedicate this entry to my mother.
Here she is in the 60's with my brother, Kevin. When I came across this picture a few months ago, I was shocked to see Mom so young. I wish I would have known her as a young woman.
Here is a picture of Jim (my mom's brother), Mom, and me at my grandmother's grave. This too might have been taken on a Mother's Day about 20 years ago. Now this is how I will always remember Mom. She wasn't 'young' but I remember that she loved to laugh and tell stories. I think those traits have been passed on. You'll have to forgive my picture. It's probably around 1988. People weren't even aware what a mullet was back then. And I don't think I've worn jeans shorts in at least ten years.
One thing that Mom loved to do was sit down with me and talk about our favorite moments together. She heard on NPR how one good parenting practice was to sit down with your child and have them pick their top three favorite moments with their parent. Then the parent would do the same. Then you'd share your moments to see how close you came.
Not surprisingly, my mom and I picked the same moments.
#1 - Buying my first dirt bike at Target in Grand Forks. I had saved up all winter and spring for a new bike. My previous one had never really recovered from a free fall down the hill across the street (resulting in a broken ankle). Finally, the day came when Mom said we were going to go shopping for one. And she meant business too. We weren't going to hit any of the towns around our small home town. We were going to Grand Forks, which to the ten year old me back then was a metropolis.
I'm rather certain I wanted the very first bike I laid my eyes on. But my, like me now, was diligent shopper. This just about killed me though. Finally we spotted one in Target. Mom wasn't sure and wanted to look around some more.
But I knew that one was the bike for me. I damn near threw a tantrum, but I held it together as best I could. I remember sulking out of Target trying so hard to hold back the tears - but not the sniffles - and trying hard to keep gravity from dragging the corners of my mouth to my shoes. I'm not sure how successful I was, but Mom must have felt sorry for me because she turned me around and marched me back for the bike.
#2 - Mom was going shopping in Thief River Falls. She asked me if she should look for a new Halloween costume for me (my Spiderman outfit was literally splitting at the seams). So I gave her implicit instructions to come home with a large Boba Fett costume. This was around 1981, so he had just made his big screen debut in The Empire Strikes Back.
I went off to school while Mom went shopping. I thought about that costume all day. Finally, school was over and I made my way home.
I burst down the door in search of the costume. Nothing. I found Mom in kitchen. I frantically asked her where the costume was. She began with, "Well . . ." and any kid in the known universe will tell you that the odds of anything positive following that word are nearly impossible.
And it seemed that way as she told me how they were all sold out. So she was actually in the check out line when she happened to class up and see a display model of that costume hanging from the ceiling. She quickly found an attendant and had them take it down. And it was a large! The costume was in her room.
Glorious, glorious, glorious. They just don't make raw, simple happiness like that anymore.
#3 - The first baseball playoff game of my senior year pitted us at home against Hallock-Kennedy, a team we had absolutely crushed 15-1 the year before. However, they were more than up to the task in the spring of '92 as we were knotted up 0-0 late in the game.
I was up to bat and connected with a fast ball, sending right by the second baseman's head. I made it to second. The next batter struck out, but we got a run.
Eventually, we won 1-0. We would go on to win two more games and take home the sub section championship.
After the game as I was getting into the pickup with Mom she said, "Nice job. You singled in Harry for the game winning run."
I hadn't even noticed. They don't make raw, simple pride like that anymore either.
Here she is in the 60's with my brother, Kevin. When I came across this picture a few months ago, I was shocked to see Mom so young. I wish I would have known her as a young woman.
Here is a picture of Jim (my mom's brother), Mom, and me at my grandmother's grave. This too might have been taken on a Mother's Day about 20 years ago. Now this is how I will always remember Mom. She wasn't 'young' but I remember that she loved to laugh and tell stories. I think those traits have been passed on. You'll have to forgive my picture. It's probably around 1988. People weren't even aware what a mullet was back then. And I don't think I've worn jeans shorts in at least ten years.
One thing that Mom loved to do was sit down with me and talk about our favorite moments together. She heard on NPR how one good parenting practice was to sit down with your child and have them pick their top three favorite moments with their parent. Then the parent would do the same. Then you'd share your moments to see how close you came.
Not surprisingly, my mom and I picked the same moments.
#1 - Buying my first dirt bike at Target in Grand Forks. I had saved up all winter and spring for a new bike. My previous one had never really recovered from a free fall down the hill across the street (resulting in a broken ankle). Finally, the day came when Mom said we were going to go shopping for one. And she meant business too. We weren't going to hit any of the towns around our small home town. We were going to Grand Forks, which to the ten year old me back then was a metropolis.
I'm rather certain I wanted the very first bike I laid my eyes on. But my, like me now, was diligent shopper. This just about killed me though. Finally we spotted one in Target. Mom wasn't sure and wanted to look around some more.
But I knew that one was the bike for me. I damn near threw a tantrum, but I held it together as best I could. I remember sulking out of Target trying so hard to hold back the tears - but not the sniffles - and trying hard to keep gravity from dragging the corners of my mouth to my shoes. I'm not sure how successful I was, but Mom must have felt sorry for me because she turned me around and marched me back for the bike.
#2 - Mom was going shopping in Thief River Falls. She asked me if she should look for a new Halloween costume for me (my Spiderman outfit was literally splitting at the seams). So I gave her implicit instructions to come home with a large Boba Fett costume. This was around 1981, so he had just made his big screen debut in The Empire Strikes Back.
I went off to school while Mom went shopping. I thought about that costume all day. Finally, school was over and I made my way home.
I burst down the door in search of the costume. Nothing. I found Mom in kitchen. I frantically asked her where the costume was. She began with, "Well . . ." and any kid in the known universe will tell you that the odds of anything positive following that word are nearly impossible.
And it seemed that way as she told me how they were all sold out. So she was actually in the check out line when she happened to class up and see a display model of that costume hanging from the ceiling. She quickly found an attendant and had them take it down. And it was a large! The costume was in her room.
Glorious, glorious, glorious. They just don't make raw, simple happiness like that anymore.
#3 - The first baseball playoff game of my senior year pitted us at home against Hallock-Kennedy, a team we had absolutely crushed 15-1 the year before. However, they were more than up to the task in the spring of '92 as we were knotted up 0-0 late in the game.
I was up to bat and connected with a fast ball, sending right by the second baseman's head. I made it to second. The next batter struck out, but we got a run.
Eventually, we won 1-0. We would go on to win two more games and take home the sub section championship.
After the game as I was getting into the pickup with Mom she said, "Nice job. You singled in Harry for the game winning run."
I hadn't even noticed. They don't make raw, simple pride like that anymore either.
The Great Escape II
When I let Kozy and Joker in, Misha made a break for it. She shot past me and was in the middle of the yard before the door was even half closed. I had the camera in my hand, so I was able to capture her frolicking. That's before I had to put it down and chase her across the neighborhood.
LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!
LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!
Outside
The trees in our backyard are in full bloom. I had to trim the hell out of one in order for our satalite to get quality reception. I know that's horrible, but nothing stands between me and my NFL Network dammit!
Sunday Painting
Kristie woke up Sunday morning raring to paint. In the first two months of moving in to our house, she pretty much painted every single room. It's one of the many things she was just meant to do. However, for the past few months she has been trying to persuade me into re-doing our bedroom.
Initially I was against it. But she worked on me and finally convinced me. So today she started transforming it from red and brown to blue and brown. While she is working, I'm trying to make myself as scarce as possible. She paints the way I write: diligent with every attention focused on detail.
Here are some shots I just took of the last remaining hours of the red and brown look of our bedroom.
And now here is the blue going on over the red. I think what finally convinced me to relent (other than Kristie already buying the paint at Lowe's) was a great painting we found a few weeks ago in Fargo. It incorporates the color scheme Kristie was going for perfectly.
And finally, Misha has the same attitude toward painting as I do. She must be worn out from her escape attempt earlier this morning (pictures to be posted above).
Initially I was against it. But she worked on me and finally convinced me. So today she started transforming it from red and brown to blue and brown. While she is working, I'm trying to make myself as scarce as possible. She paints the way I write: diligent with every attention focused on detail.
Here are some shots I just took of the last remaining hours of the red and brown look of our bedroom.
And now here is the blue going on over the red. I think what finally convinced me to relent (other than Kristie already buying the paint at Lowe's) was a great painting we found a few weeks ago in Fargo. It incorporates the color scheme Kristie was going for perfectly.
And finally, Misha has the same attitude toward painting as I do. She must be worn out from her escape attempt earlier this morning (pictures to be posted above).
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Vows
Kristie woke early this morning while I slept in. After an hour or so, she returned to bed beaming that she had finished her vows. And a full page no less! Judging from her grin and the gleam in her eye, I know they are excellent.
Now I have my work cut out for me.
Time to take a peek in that folder in my mind and see what my subconscious has been up to. Last time I checked I had the first two lines. I hope it's gotten some work done.
Now I have my work cut out for me.
Time to take a peek in that folder in my mind and see what my subconscious has been up to. Last time I checked I had the first two lines. I hope it's gotten some work done.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Blake revisited
In reading what I wrote on the newest addition to our family, Blake Allen, I cannot help but think about how I must have pestered our neighbors. One reason I go out of my way (though it might not seem like it from my previous post) to visit with and get to know Blake is simple: it is what Dad would have done. Dad was the neighborhood father. He often loaded up his old Chevy pickup with us kids and took us out to the farm. Dad knew, as I am now discovering as a step-father, the importance of teaching kids the value of work and the freedom offered by farmland.
Kristie is worried about Blake's home life. And so am I. He seems to have an inordinate amount of freedom to roam the neighborhood. I too had this as a child. But it really didn't extend beyond Mom's vocal range. For if she yelled that supper was ready and I didn't come, there was trouble. So I quickly learned to stay within ear shot.
I think too that part of Blake's neediness is that Kristie, KoKo, Casey, and I are pretty normal family. I am always home around 4:30 or so. Kristie follows about an hour later. KoKo and Casey are home too - sports permitting. We have dinner together and usually do something as a family in the evenings. I wonder if Blake doesn't crave some of this normality. Again, I know nothing of his home life - other than his parents seem to let him wander freely and attach himself to strangers.
I did the same thing as a child. But the world in the late 70's and early 80's was quite different than our world today.
If I hounded anyone, it had to be Mr. and Mrs. Curry. They were an elderly couple who lived in a large green house at the west end of our block. I remember her in a constant state of skirts and aprons while Mr. Curry seemed to favor green coveralls and work boots.
My relationship didn't start off too well. Mrs. Curry had a huge garden. In fact, it was pretty much her entire yard. This fascinated me since Mom didn't have a garden. So I, along with several neighbor boys, would often stray into it. Well, you can just imagine how well that went over. Plus it didn't help matters that our alley ran right by her garden, and we were always playing around back there.
Inevitably one day I innocently got caught up in a game involving the garden. The Schultz boys, one who was my age and one who was two years older, and several other older boys began chucking vegetables at each other. I was probably five that the time. I don't remember throwing anything, but I do remember Mrs. Curry yelling at us to get out of her garden and that she was calling the cops.
Instantly the other boys scattered. I too ran - home. Now I know I was the only one she probably recognized. But I was terrified back then. I know this because I remember hiding in my special hiding spot - reserved for particularly evil deeds - underneath our couch (we had one of those vintage ones that was brown with the embroidered lines and ripples in it. I don't know that it technically was a couch or sofa - Mom always referred to it as a davenport. It stood on four wooden legs that were screwed into the frame.) I quickly slid under there and awaited my doom.
I don't remember the rest. But Mom loved to tell the remaining events from her point of view.
Apparently, there was a knock on our front door. She opened it to see a police officer. He said hi and asked if Kurt was home.
Mom asked him matter of factly if he didn't mean Kevin (my older brother who was always in and out of trouble).
But the officer insisted that he was there for Kurt.
So Mom ushered him into the living room. She called out for me. I waited for three calls before crawling out right beneath their legs. I don't remember their reactions.
I just know Mom said that once the officer saw how old I was and from where I came, he just said, "Never mind" and walked back out.
I'm sure she asked me for the details, and I'm sure I squealed. Then I'm sure Mom marched me over to Mrs. Curry's to apologize. After that we became good friends. I remember being invited in to her house quite regularly for cookies and milk. And I never once remember declining the invitation.
But my hi jinx with the Curry's didn't end there. I was fascinated too by her husband. He had a little garage to the west of the garden. This too bordered the alley. Several things fascinated me about his garage. First, he had a garage. All we had was a driveway and some lilac bushes (that's where I tended to park my bike and wagon). Second, he always was working in it. Third, it felt good - unlike our other neighbor at the east end of the alley who had a dirty calendar that we all tried to peak at and that he tried to protect with an angry fury every time we tried to peak in there. Finally, it was neatly organized and had a couch. I imagine he spent most of his time in there doing little fix 'em up odds and ends and listening to the Twins. At least that's how I remember it. But what seemed so ingenious to me then - and so frustrating - was that he had his tools hanging on one side wall. Now I was tempted to 'borrow' a tool, for he had an incredible assortment of tools. But what prevented me from 'borrowing' one was that he had painted or traced an outline in white around each tool. So if one were to turn up missing, there would be its outline up there on the wall - like the body outline of a murder victim.
The other thing that stands out most vividly to me about Mr. Curry was his odd jar on top of their refrigerator. It was one of those large canning jars and it was packed with tiny gold chunks. One day I stopped by for a visit and Mrs. Curry wasn't home. So Mr. Curry invited me in and we visited for awhile. Finally, I got around to asking him about his jar.
He took it down and let me hold it and shake it.
Then he explained that he had been a flame thrower in WWII. The gold pieces were fillings from the Nazis he'd torched. Once an area was secure, they'd go around and bash out the gold from the fried corpses.
Well, to a six year old that was about the coolest damn thing ever. I remember looking at all those little pieces and thinking how each one was a human life. There was not only something morbidly fascinating by that, but also something horribly wrong. I put the jar down and never touched it again.
Years later I would learn that many veterans said that they measured a flame throwers life in seconds - they were the top targets of snipers - especially when they were involved in Island hopping. I thought of Mr. Curry's jar right away.
Kristie is worried about Blake's home life. And so am I. He seems to have an inordinate amount of freedom to roam the neighborhood. I too had this as a child. But it really didn't extend beyond Mom's vocal range. For if she yelled that supper was ready and I didn't come, there was trouble. So I quickly learned to stay within ear shot.
I think too that part of Blake's neediness is that Kristie, KoKo, Casey, and I are pretty normal family. I am always home around 4:30 or so. Kristie follows about an hour later. KoKo and Casey are home too - sports permitting. We have dinner together and usually do something as a family in the evenings. I wonder if Blake doesn't crave some of this normality. Again, I know nothing of his home life - other than his parents seem to let him wander freely and attach himself to strangers.
I did the same thing as a child. But the world in the late 70's and early 80's was quite different than our world today.
If I hounded anyone, it had to be Mr. and Mrs. Curry. They were an elderly couple who lived in a large green house at the west end of our block. I remember her in a constant state of skirts and aprons while Mr. Curry seemed to favor green coveralls and work boots.
My relationship didn't start off too well. Mrs. Curry had a huge garden. In fact, it was pretty much her entire yard. This fascinated me since Mom didn't have a garden. So I, along with several neighbor boys, would often stray into it. Well, you can just imagine how well that went over. Plus it didn't help matters that our alley ran right by her garden, and we were always playing around back there.
Inevitably one day I innocently got caught up in a game involving the garden. The Schultz boys, one who was my age and one who was two years older, and several other older boys began chucking vegetables at each other. I was probably five that the time. I don't remember throwing anything, but I do remember Mrs. Curry yelling at us to get out of her garden and that she was calling the cops.
Instantly the other boys scattered. I too ran - home. Now I know I was the only one she probably recognized. But I was terrified back then. I know this because I remember hiding in my special hiding spot - reserved for particularly evil deeds - underneath our couch (we had one of those vintage ones that was brown with the embroidered lines and ripples in it. I don't know that it technically was a couch or sofa - Mom always referred to it as a davenport. It stood on four wooden legs that were screwed into the frame.) I quickly slid under there and awaited my doom.
I don't remember the rest. But Mom loved to tell the remaining events from her point of view.
Apparently, there was a knock on our front door. She opened it to see a police officer. He said hi and asked if Kurt was home.
Mom asked him matter of factly if he didn't mean Kevin (my older brother who was always in and out of trouble).
But the officer insisted that he was there for Kurt.
So Mom ushered him into the living room. She called out for me. I waited for three calls before crawling out right beneath their legs. I don't remember their reactions.
I just know Mom said that once the officer saw how old I was and from where I came, he just said, "Never mind" and walked back out.
I'm sure she asked me for the details, and I'm sure I squealed. Then I'm sure Mom marched me over to Mrs. Curry's to apologize. After that we became good friends. I remember being invited in to her house quite regularly for cookies and milk. And I never once remember declining the invitation.
But my hi jinx with the Curry's didn't end there. I was fascinated too by her husband. He had a little garage to the west of the garden. This too bordered the alley. Several things fascinated me about his garage. First, he had a garage. All we had was a driveway and some lilac bushes (that's where I tended to park my bike and wagon). Second, he always was working in it. Third, it felt good - unlike our other neighbor at the east end of the alley who had a dirty calendar that we all tried to peak at and that he tried to protect with an angry fury every time we tried to peak in there. Finally, it was neatly organized and had a couch. I imagine he spent most of his time in there doing little fix 'em up odds and ends and listening to the Twins. At least that's how I remember it. But what seemed so ingenious to me then - and so frustrating - was that he had his tools hanging on one side wall. Now I was tempted to 'borrow' a tool, for he had an incredible assortment of tools. But what prevented me from 'borrowing' one was that he had painted or traced an outline in white around each tool. So if one were to turn up missing, there would be its outline up there on the wall - like the body outline of a murder victim.
The other thing that stands out most vividly to me about Mr. Curry was his odd jar on top of their refrigerator. It was one of those large canning jars and it was packed with tiny gold chunks. One day I stopped by for a visit and Mrs. Curry wasn't home. So Mr. Curry invited me in and we visited for awhile. Finally, I got around to asking him about his jar.
He took it down and let me hold it and shake it.
Then he explained that he had been a flame thrower in WWII. The gold pieces were fillings from the Nazis he'd torched. Once an area was secure, they'd go around and bash out the gold from the fried corpses.
Well, to a six year old that was about the coolest damn thing ever. I remember looking at all those little pieces and thinking how each one was a human life. There was not only something morbidly fascinating by that, but also something horribly wrong. I put the jar down and never touched it again.
Years later I would learn that many veterans said that they measured a flame throwers life in seconds - they were the top targets of snipers - especially when they were involved in Island hopping. I thought of Mr. Curry's jar right away.
Blake Allen
We have an interesting problem at our home now. Our cat rescuer (who I believe I blogged about a few days ago), Blake Allen, has now adopted us as his second family. At least once a day, and often more, he pops in to visit and just belong.
On Monday he stopped by to make sure that we got our cat (our other neighbor, Nancy, informed us that she was sitting on her deck when Blake and his brother stopped by with Misha in their arms. I guess he was not just filling me full of it when he informed me that he had actually seen Misha). I talked with him briefly in the backyard while I was loading up branches and leaves.
I said I would gladly give him a reward. But I wasn’t sure what amount of money I should give him. I figured I’d play it safe and get Kristie’s advice. She was still at work, so I’d have to wait.
So I finished loading things up and went into the house with Blake. I told him that I had to run an errand and that he should stop by another time. He agreed and I left.
When I returned, after an hour or so, I found that KoKo was entertaining him. She let him play with her on the computer. And they even played hide and seek. I told Blake that his parents were probably worried about him and shooed him out the door.
In the meantime, Kristie came home. She took Joker walking while I went running on the treadmill. After a half hour run, I came upstairs to see Kristie talking with Blake. Apparently he was out biking around the neighborhood and saw Kristie out walking and latched on to her much like he latched on to me when I was out searching for Misha.
We figured we would give Blake six dollars for bringing Misha back. He quickly deposited the money into a front pocket. This surprised me. If I were in his shoes, I’d have been out of the house so fast, eager to spend that money, that by the time the screen door shut I’d have been halfway down to the arcade. Blake, however, smiled and plopped down on the couch to chew the old fat with us.
And that he did. For about 15 minutes. Finally we had to shower and leave, so we told Blake to run home for supper and stop by another time.
That lasted until Tuesday.
Again, I had finished running and came up to shower when I saw Blake attempting to eat a jaw breaker that was roughly the size of an apple. Unfortunately, I think I know what he has been spending his reward money on.
His hands were covered in sticky, red goo from the jaw breaker. His face was even worse. He had it smeared all over. I told him that he had to leave because KoKo had to pack for her upcoming class trip and I had to shower. So again he gleefully bounded out the front door.
I showered and KoKo packed. Kristie came home and left the Blazer running since we had to do some last minute shopping to get KoKo all ready for the trip. While we were getting ready, I noticed Blake had returned.
He was even redder than ever, though he did ride his new bike over. So while Kristie was getting ready, I took Blake outside - fearing red smears all over our furniture and walls.
Blake and I had a nice little jaw session. He even let me ride his bike and pop a wheelie.
Blake was asking about us. He knew KoKo from the bus stop. He knew Kristie and me. He was asking about the boy’s voice he heard from upstairs. This, of course, was Casey doing his homework in the office, but I didn’t want him plagued by Blake, so I simply said that it was my stepson who was working and couldn’t be disturbed.
Then Kristie and KoKo came out ready to go shopping. I shooed Blake away again.
After two hours we returned to Casey mowing the lawn - always a nice sight, especially since it saved me from having to do it. When he finished, he came in to see scrounge up some food.
We began visiting and he informed us that Blake had stopped back yet again! Casey heard him knocking at the front door, which would explain the red stains - about mouth level for a kindergartner - on our front screen door. So Casey - ever the polite gentleman - invited Blake in and played computer with him. How many sophomores would do that for a kindergartner? Ha.
Casey even let Blake help him mow the lawn. I kidded Casey that this might prove to be a beneficial arrangement for him - knowing how young boys tend to worship older boys - he could have a slave for the summer. But Casey said that Blake was butchering the lawn, so he took over and set Blake to watching him do the work. Finally, after feeding him some too I believe, Blake’s mother came over to get him.
On Monday he stopped by to make sure that we got our cat (our other neighbor, Nancy, informed us that she was sitting on her deck when Blake and his brother stopped by with Misha in their arms. I guess he was not just filling me full of it when he informed me that he had actually seen Misha). I talked with him briefly in the backyard while I was loading up branches and leaves.
I said I would gladly give him a reward. But I wasn’t sure what amount of money I should give him. I figured I’d play it safe and get Kristie’s advice. She was still at work, so I’d have to wait.
So I finished loading things up and went into the house with Blake. I told him that I had to run an errand and that he should stop by another time. He agreed and I left.
When I returned, after an hour or so, I found that KoKo was entertaining him. She let him play with her on the computer. And they even played hide and seek. I told Blake that his parents were probably worried about him and shooed him out the door.
In the meantime, Kristie came home. She took Joker walking while I went running on the treadmill. After a half hour run, I came upstairs to see Kristie talking with Blake. Apparently he was out biking around the neighborhood and saw Kristie out walking and latched on to her much like he latched on to me when I was out searching for Misha.
We figured we would give Blake six dollars for bringing Misha back. He quickly deposited the money into a front pocket. This surprised me. If I were in his shoes, I’d have been out of the house so fast, eager to spend that money, that by the time the screen door shut I’d have been halfway down to the arcade. Blake, however, smiled and plopped down on the couch to chew the old fat with us.
And that he did. For about 15 minutes. Finally we had to shower and leave, so we told Blake to run home for supper and stop by another time.
That lasted until Tuesday.
Again, I had finished running and came up to shower when I saw Blake attempting to eat a jaw breaker that was roughly the size of an apple. Unfortunately, I think I know what he has been spending his reward money on.
His hands were covered in sticky, red goo from the jaw breaker. His face was even worse. He had it smeared all over. I told him that he had to leave because KoKo had to pack for her upcoming class trip and I had to shower. So again he gleefully bounded out the front door.
I showered and KoKo packed. Kristie came home and left the Blazer running since we had to do some last minute shopping to get KoKo all ready for the trip. While we were getting ready, I noticed Blake had returned.
He was even redder than ever, though he did ride his new bike over. So while Kristie was getting ready, I took Blake outside - fearing red smears all over our furniture and walls.
Blake and I had a nice little jaw session. He even let me ride his bike and pop a wheelie.
Blake was asking about us. He knew KoKo from the bus stop. He knew Kristie and me. He was asking about the boy’s voice he heard from upstairs. This, of course, was Casey doing his homework in the office, but I didn’t want him plagued by Blake, so I simply said that it was my stepson who was working and couldn’t be disturbed.
Then Kristie and KoKo came out ready to go shopping. I shooed Blake away again.
After two hours we returned to Casey mowing the lawn - always a nice sight, especially since it saved me from having to do it. When he finished, he came in to see scrounge up some food.
We began visiting and he informed us that Blake had stopped back yet again! Casey heard him knocking at the front door, which would explain the red stains - about mouth level for a kindergartner - on our front screen door. So Casey - ever the polite gentleman - invited Blake in and played computer with him. How many sophomores would do that for a kindergartner? Ha.
Casey even let Blake help him mow the lawn. I kidded Casey that this might prove to be a beneficial arrangement for him - knowing how young boys tend to worship older boys - he could have a slave for the summer. But Casey said that Blake was butchering the lawn, so he took over and set Blake to watching him do the work. Finally, after feeding him some too I believe, Blake’s mother came over to get him.
Expertise
One thing that always amazes me about these MNHS class sessions is how one person could know so much about something. I am an expert on zilch - nothing. I have become an expert at making it seem like I’ve known all my life what I just learned an hour before class or read the night before.
I am passionate about many, many things. But, alas, an expert on none. I’ve always been interested in a few areas but I never seem to take the next step beyond simply being interested.
And just what is that next step that qualifies a person as an expert? I think it is time. These experts often devote their lives to their specific field - and that devotion takes the form of lectures, published essays, books, and so on.
Again, I have the passion, but where do they get the time?
Today’s expert is one the Dakota War of 1862. He is from the University of Oklahoma. I marvel at his command of names and dates. He can call to mind a treaty between the Indians and US government like it’s written on the inside of his eye lids. Amazing.
I am passionate about many, many things. But, alas, an expert on none. I’ve always been interested in a few areas but I never seem to take the next step beyond simply being interested.
And just what is that next step that qualifies a person as an expert? I think it is time. These experts often devote their lives to their specific field - and that devotion takes the form of lectures, published essays, books, and so on.
Again, I have the passion, but where do they get the time?
Today’s expert is one the Dakota War of 1862. He is from the University of Oklahoma. I marvel at his command of names and dates. He can call to mind a treaty between the Indians and US government like it’s written on the inside of his eye lids. Amazing.
So much to do
There is so much to do as the year winds down. I have currently a list of 17 things I'd like to blog on, but there simply isn't time. I might be able to drop a few things in here from time to time, but the school work comes first.
The history classes were great. I was reminded that - even though I get worn down by outside forces and student apathy - this still is the greatest job. As one of our presenters said, "Teaching is the greatest job. I get paid to read books. Then I get paid to tell students about them!" That's right. This is the greatest job.
The history classes were great. I was reminded that - even though I get worn down by outside forces and student apathy - this still is the greatest job. As one of our presenters said, "Teaching is the greatest job. I get paid to read books. Then I get paid to tell students about them!" That's right. This is the greatest job.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
History Class
I get a little break from teaching this week. Several teachers in our high school are part of a history grant through the Minnestoa Historical Society. We get together twice in the fall, twice in the spring, and for an intense week in late summer. Time for a little renewal.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
The New Sisyphus
In Albert Camus's essay entitled "The Myth of Sisyphus," the author depicts a portrait of Sisyphus not as a man suffering the tragic fate of having to roll a rock up a steep mountain, only to deliver it to the top and have it roll back to the bottom. And for all eternity he must repeat this - never accomplishing his task, constantly facing failure, realizing all of his hard work is for nothing. Camus views Sisyphus not as a tragic figure but as a heroic figure who may even enjoy his perpetual torment. I too have a unique view on Sisyphus's plight. His eternal struggle is akin to that of a teacher.
I squat, dig my heels in, and push.
Camus argues that while Sisyphus's struggle seems to be in vain, it is really just the opposite. While it is true every effort to deliver the rock to the crest of the mountain is met with disappointment, it is also true that Sisyphus has time to reflect during his descent back down the mountain and to his boulder.
The rock is smooth against my face and drops of sweat sprout on my forehead and forearms.
Each day a teacher enters his or her classroom filled with students. This is their mountain. The knowledge or information that he wants to share with the students is his boulder. One hundred and eighty days a year, surely nothing compared to eternity, but when one multiplies that by the number of students in each class (roughly 30) and by the number of periods in a day (3-6), you get a staggering 16,200 opportunities for the teacher to lug his burden up his mountain. Like Sisyphus, somewhere along the journey, the rock slips and thunders back to the bottom. For the teacher, this can occur in a number of ways. First, a student can simply refuse to partake in class. Second, the teacher can fail to make a student understand. Third, the teacher may impart some form of knowledge to the student but be unhappy with his instruction. Fourth, the student may get the teacher's drift only to become frustrated and give up. Fifth, . . . well you get the point.
The students begin to drift or disagree. I can see it in their faces. They look away when I look at them. They doodle in their notebooks - if they are even open. They look out the window.
I dig in further and try to shove the boulder. My lower back is white hot. My calves strain. I am slick with perspiration. I can see the peak. On I push.
However, like Sisyphus, the teacher too returns to the bottom of the mountain to try again. Here the teacher also has time for reflect on their effort. The effort is worthy; it is good work. It is difficult, not in the physical sense, but of course, in the mental and spiritual sense. Often our success cannot be measured in high test scores (though the state would like to believe so) nor can it necessarily be measured in grades. It could be measured by the 'hellos' we get from students in the morning or by the number of students who pop in during the day to see what is new or by the few who say "I wish Mr. or Mrs. So and So would teach like you" or by those students who let us 'in' and show us sides of themselves that few are ever privy to. Or maybe our biggest success is that our students continue to come to our class everyday.
Maybe their task as students isn't so entirely different from that of Sisyphus either.
I have totally lost them now. They didn't pay attention when I was explaining the directions. Nearly 20 hands shoot into the air when I ask, "Any questions?"
The rock teeters at the summit for one second, a split second of victory, then gravity wins and it topples back down.
Like Sisyphus, we will never achieve our task. We too are doomed. I will never teach every single student every single day every single thing I must. I will never reach every student and motivate them to question and examine this great world around them. I will never inspire every student. I will never push every student hard enough.
However, I can derive enjoyment in the work. Just today, four students showed up from Composition II. Several skipped - as is customary. I saw one this morning, but he is not here now. Another told me yesterday he had to meet with a psychologist. Another has missed her tenth class period. Another has missed her seventh class. Both skipping. Two are gone for track. Three are gone for testing.
And four show up on time to learn something. Yet my plan was to re-show the film “Little Mis Sunshine” so the ones who missed it the first time (about four students) could get to actually see it. Those who were on their second time around would take notes for their film review. Yet, only four show up. All the ones who missed it the first time are gone. Ironic.
Maybe instead of continually pushing the boulder up just one mountain, teachers are instead called on to push the boulder up and over a never ending chain of mountains.
And, of course, that is torture. Just like trying to teach today.
And sometimes the boulder doesn’t even get up the hill. Like today. Sometimes the boulder is just too damned impossible to budge.
I guess, though, there are times when my students do achieve, though they rarely achieve all that I want them to. And some rarely achieve anything at all.
But there are times when I do finally place that burden at the summit and see it teeter for a moment and then hurl down the other side . . . all the way down to the base of another mountain.
Reading the "About the Author" segment in the poet Li-Young Lee's new book, he states that he works in a warehouse. I like that. There is some ignorant, tough charm in that phrase. We too work in a warehouse, the school. I would continue, but I'm mixing my metaphors.
I better get that damned boulder up this new mountain . . .
I squat, dig my heels in, and push.
Camus argues that while Sisyphus's struggle seems to be in vain, it is really just the opposite. While it is true every effort to deliver the rock to the crest of the mountain is met with disappointment, it is also true that Sisyphus has time to reflect during his descent back down the mountain and to his boulder.
The rock is smooth against my face and drops of sweat sprout on my forehead and forearms.
Each day a teacher enters his or her classroom filled with students. This is their mountain. The knowledge or information that he wants to share with the students is his boulder. One hundred and eighty days a year, surely nothing compared to eternity, but when one multiplies that by the number of students in each class (roughly 30) and by the number of periods in a day (3-6), you get a staggering 16,200 opportunities for the teacher to lug his burden up his mountain. Like Sisyphus, somewhere along the journey, the rock slips and thunders back to the bottom. For the teacher, this can occur in a number of ways. First, a student can simply refuse to partake in class. Second, the teacher can fail to make a student understand. Third, the teacher may impart some form of knowledge to the student but be unhappy with his instruction. Fourth, the student may get the teacher's drift only to become frustrated and give up. Fifth, . . . well you get the point.
The students begin to drift or disagree. I can see it in their faces. They look away when I look at them. They doodle in their notebooks - if they are even open. They look out the window.
I dig in further and try to shove the boulder. My lower back is white hot. My calves strain. I am slick with perspiration. I can see the peak. On I push.
However, like Sisyphus, the teacher too returns to the bottom of the mountain to try again. Here the teacher also has time for reflect on their effort. The effort is worthy; it is good work. It is difficult, not in the physical sense, but of course, in the mental and spiritual sense. Often our success cannot be measured in high test scores (though the state would like to believe so) nor can it necessarily be measured in grades. It could be measured by the 'hellos' we get from students in the morning or by the number of students who pop in during the day to see what is new or by the few who say "I wish Mr. or Mrs. So and So would teach like you" or by those students who let us 'in' and show us sides of themselves that few are ever privy to. Or maybe our biggest success is that our students continue to come to our class everyday.
Maybe their task as students isn't so entirely different from that of Sisyphus either.
I have totally lost them now. They didn't pay attention when I was explaining the directions. Nearly 20 hands shoot into the air when I ask, "Any questions?"
The rock teeters at the summit for one second, a split second of victory, then gravity wins and it topples back down.
Like Sisyphus, we will never achieve our task. We too are doomed. I will never teach every single student every single day every single thing I must. I will never reach every student and motivate them to question and examine this great world around them. I will never inspire every student. I will never push every student hard enough.
However, I can derive enjoyment in the work. Just today, four students showed up from Composition II. Several skipped - as is customary. I saw one this morning, but he is not here now. Another told me yesterday he had to meet with a psychologist. Another has missed her tenth class period. Another has missed her seventh class. Both skipping. Two are gone for track. Three are gone for testing.
And four show up on time to learn something. Yet my plan was to re-show the film “Little Mis Sunshine” so the ones who missed it the first time (about four students) could get to actually see it. Those who were on their second time around would take notes for their film review. Yet, only four show up. All the ones who missed it the first time are gone. Ironic.
Maybe instead of continually pushing the boulder up just one mountain, teachers are instead called on to push the boulder up and over a never ending chain of mountains.
And, of course, that is torture. Just like trying to teach today.
And sometimes the boulder doesn’t even get up the hill. Like today. Sometimes the boulder is just too damned impossible to budge.
I guess, though, there are times when my students do achieve, though they rarely achieve all that I want them to. And some rarely achieve anything at all.
But there are times when I do finally place that burden at the summit and see it teeter for a moment and then hurl down the other side . . . all the way down to the base of another mountain.
Reading the "About the Author" segment in the poet Li-Young Lee's new book, he states that he works in a warehouse. I like that. There is some ignorant, tough charm in that phrase. We too work in a warehouse, the school. I would continue, but I'm mixing my metaphors.
I better get that damned boulder up this new mountain . . .
Vent
I don't know why we even bother to have school in the spring. Here is just a sampling of things students miss school for - track, boys tennis, baseball, softball, state testing, tanning appointments, prom shopping, choir rehearsals, band rehearsals, school sponsored trips, family vacations, hockey tryouts, and on and on and on. What is the use trying to teach something in the face of this?
*****
During first block, one moron comes in and asks if I'll let him skip second block. Great - addition by subtraction. When I said no, he couldn't believe it.
Then I polled my Brit Lit class - which he was interrupting - to see how many of them skipped. So I called on a few students who I knew were both honor students and attended regularly. They agreed - they attended regularly.
He was not impressed.
So he is not in second hour. I was afraid he would show up and make class unbearable because he wanted to skip. At least he skipped (I believe he want to work on a trailer) so the class doesn't have to be distracted by how much he doesn't want to be here.
I just don't understand why we tolerate this type of attitude in our school. I'll mark him unexcused and he'll get a detention. But what will come of that? Nothing.
As one administrator told one of my colleagues when he wanted to kick a kid out who was being a real distraction, "There are only a few weeks left of school, let's just make the most of it."
What a joke.
******
At the first communion dinner Kristie and I attended last weekend, the host's mother talked about how shocked she was that something like the killing spree at West Virginia could actually happen. Why didn't they stop him? Why wasn't the campus locked down.
I just shook my head and said, "That could happen in my school right now." And I think that's true for the majority of the schools in our state - if not the country.
We do our mandatory lock downs and evacuations. But that is just for face value. Here is how secure we are here - when we evacuate, the student body is marched over to another location several blocks away. This location is supposedly secure. However, this was reported at the school board meeting, and that information found it both into the paper and onto the radio, so anyone could tune in and found out our 'safe spot' for evacuations. Not that it would be hard to figure it out, but it's just one example of our veil of security.
It's no secret that you can push hard enough and pop open one of our entrances - any time you want. Our administration has made the school board aware of this. But it would take close to 20 grand to secure all the entrances. Our school board apparently doesn't want to spend that. So let's just say someone were to enter that way and - God forbid - do something awful - and then the media descends and the public wants to know how a tragedy like that could possibly happen. Then the finger pointing would start. I imagine the school board would say they weren't officially or thoroughly notified of the breech in security - the administration would say they did notify all the proper authorities - law enforcement would give their standard, "We have done the best we could do" - the teachers would criticize the whole ordeal - and we'd all look like complete incompetents.
*****
During first block, one moron comes in and asks if I'll let him skip second block. Great - addition by subtraction. When I said no, he couldn't believe it.
Then I polled my Brit Lit class - which he was interrupting - to see how many of them skipped. So I called on a few students who I knew were both honor students and attended regularly. They agreed - they attended regularly.
He was not impressed.
So he is not in second hour. I was afraid he would show up and make class unbearable because he wanted to skip. At least he skipped (I believe he want to work on a trailer) so the class doesn't have to be distracted by how much he doesn't want to be here.
I just don't understand why we tolerate this type of attitude in our school. I'll mark him unexcused and he'll get a detention. But what will come of that? Nothing.
As one administrator told one of my colleagues when he wanted to kick a kid out who was being a real distraction, "There are only a few weeks left of school, let's just make the most of it."
What a joke.
******
At the first communion dinner Kristie and I attended last weekend, the host's mother talked about how shocked she was that something like the killing spree at West Virginia could actually happen. Why didn't they stop him? Why wasn't the campus locked down.
I just shook my head and said, "That could happen in my school right now." And I think that's true for the majority of the schools in our state - if not the country.
We do our mandatory lock downs and evacuations. But that is just for face value. Here is how secure we are here - when we evacuate, the student body is marched over to another location several blocks away. This location is supposedly secure. However, this was reported at the school board meeting, and that information found it both into the paper and onto the radio, so anyone could tune in and found out our 'safe spot' for evacuations. Not that it would be hard to figure it out, but it's just one example of our veil of security.
It's no secret that you can push hard enough and pop open one of our entrances - any time you want. Our administration has made the school board aware of this. But it would take close to 20 grand to secure all the entrances. Our school board apparently doesn't want to spend that. So let's just say someone were to enter that way and - God forbid - do something awful - and then the media descends and the public wants to know how a tragedy like that could possibly happen. Then the finger pointing would start. I imagine the school board would say they weren't officially or thoroughly notified of the breech in security - the administration would say they did notify all the proper authorities - law enforcement would give their standard, "We have done the best we could do" - the teachers would criticize the whole ordeal - and we'd all look like complete incompetents.
Monday, May 07, 2007
New Age of Students
What has happened to your average, every day, show up and do their work and go home student?
I see a large number of students who tune in to their ipods and drop out of school existence. They muddle along doing as little as possible and then litter the halls until late in the afternoon, contributing nothing.
I see a large number of student driven hard to excel - in athletics or some other extra curricular activity.
In the mean time, what the hell happened to school? I mean school where you sit in your desk, discuss the assignment, and learn something? It rarely exists here.
An example -
One of my students was gone today. They came in during my prep. There is a problem at home. A serious problem. (And what happened to students without problems at home? What happened to students had loving and caring homes?) They are needed to run their home and raise the kids. I reassured them that given the situation, we could work something out. My hear goes out to this student too. I'm not being callous on their part. I feel bad for the circumstances they are caught up in. For this child is bright and hard working and wants to succeed. Then as they leave, I notice something, they are dressed in athletic attire and likely headed to practice.
Then it hits me, school is optional. Athletics aren't. How sad is that?
Now I could be wrong. Maybe they were in gym. Maybe they were going to tell their coach they'd have to miss practices and games. But I don't think that's true.
Why do they value athletics - something they really get little out of - certainly nothing that will help them get a job or improve their lives a decade in the future - so much more than they value school?
Is it something unique here in our own little corner of Minnesota? Or is it something that plagues our entire culture?
I see a large number of students who tune in to their ipods and drop out of school existence. They muddle along doing as little as possible and then litter the halls until late in the afternoon, contributing nothing.
I see a large number of student driven hard to excel - in athletics or some other extra curricular activity.
In the mean time, what the hell happened to school? I mean school where you sit in your desk, discuss the assignment, and learn something? It rarely exists here.
An example -
One of my students was gone today. They came in during my prep. There is a problem at home. A serious problem. (And what happened to students without problems at home? What happened to students had loving and caring homes?) They are needed to run their home and raise the kids. I reassured them that given the situation, we could work something out. My hear goes out to this student too. I'm not being callous on their part. I feel bad for the circumstances they are caught up in. For this child is bright and hard working and wants to succeed. Then as they leave, I notice something, they are dressed in athletic attire and likely headed to practice.
Then it hits me, school is optional. Athletics aren't. How sad is that?
Now I could be wrong. Maybe they were in gym. Maybe they were going to tell their coach they'd have to miss practices and games. But I don't think that's true.
Why do they value athletics - something they really get little out of - certainly nothing that will help them get a job or improve their lives a decade in the future - so much more than they value school?
Is it something unique here in our own little corner of Minnesota? Or is it something that plagues our entire culture?
Monday
Papers, tests, papers, quizzes, papers, reading guides, papers, vocab sheets, and papers. That is what my school life has been like these past few days. I'm swamped. So posts will be infrequent.
*****
On my way home from the honors banquet on Thursday evening, I hit a deer. Rather, it hit me. I was about three miles from town and hurrying to the elementary school to try and catch KoKo's last elementary school choir concert.
Then out of nowhere, two deer were right next to me. I swerved, but one still slammed into my front fender. It careened off and then hit my rear fender. By the time I stopped, the deer was lying in the road. I didn't know what to do. As a Virgo, I'm an official tree-hugger and animal lover. I even take the Lady Bugs out of our dogs' water dish before I fill it up.
So wounding a deer was a catastrophic event. I did the only thing I thought I could do to end the poor things suffering. I ran it over again. Unfortunately this left it flopping on the road hurt even worse. I could have vomited. Maybe it wasn't hurt as bad as I originally thought and now I doomed it. So I turned around and ran it over yet again. This time, or so I thought, I killed it.
Shaken, I drove to the elementary school and caught KoKo's concert.
After we drove back and couldn't find it. I was disgusted with myself. What happened it if wasn't killed and crawled away. Then we saw a form in the opposite ditch. It had to have been the deer. Hopefully, someone pulled it out of the lane and into the ditch (this too never occurred to me).
In hindsight, I should have called the sheriff's office to kill the poor thing, but I never thought of that.
*****
Kristie, her mother, and I spent Saturday shopping in Fargo. After about eight hours of shopping, the Kristie called to check on the kids. Casey said they couldn't find Misha.
He searched the whole house, and she was nowhere to be found. This left only one alternative - she must have snuck out. Kristie and I are diligent about watching that she doesn't sneak out - for she doesn't know her way around yet and she has a tendency to just run and run and run - oblivious to her surroundings. So we were alarmed. She must have snuck out either when we left or when one of the kids were letting out the dogs.
So when we finally got home - around 11 or so. Kristie and I were out with our flashlights. Unfortunately, Misha never meows. She just squeaks. So if she were stuck in a tree, we'd have no way of hearing her. To make matters worse, it was storming. Reluctantly, we had to call off the search.
It was more of the same yesterday. I got up early and walked around the neighborhood, but I didn't have much luck. I did, though, meet a young gentleman, roughly five or six, who was out on his bike. We struck up a good conversation. Since I figured he had a greater knowledge of the stress than I, I enlisted his aid in my search for Misha, and he was only too glad to help.
Finally, at the end of the day, as I was about to give up all hope - after another hour biking around the neighborhood - our neighbor came over with Misha cradled in her arms.
Apparently when she and her husband got home, they found her huddled on their porch. Never mind I had just biked past their calling her name. Misha walked right into their house, took a drink of water from the dog's dish, and made out like the place was all hers. Luckily, our neighbor recognized her from our window and brought her over.
*****
On my way home from the honors banquet on Thursday evening, I hit a deer. Rather, it hit me. I was about three miles from town and hurrying to the elementary school to try and catch KoKo's last elementary school choir concert.
Then out of nowhere, two deer were right next to me. I swerved, but one still slammed into my front fender. It careened off and then hit my rear fender. By the time I stopped, the deer was lying in the road. I didn't know what to do. As a Virgo, I'm an official tree-hugger and animal lover. I even take the Lady Bugs out of our dogs' water dish before I fill it up.
So wounding a deer was a catastrophic event. I did the only thing I thought I could do to end the poor things suffering. I ran it over again. Unfortunately this left it flopping on the road hurt even worse. I could have vomited. Maybe it wasn't hurt as bad as I originally thought and now I doomed it. So I turned around and ran it over yet again. This time, or so I thought, I killed it.
Shaken, I drove to the elementary school and caught KoKo's concert.
After we drove back and couldn't find it. I was disgusted with myself. What happened it if wasn't killed and crawled away. Then we saw a form in the opposite ditch. It had to have been the deer. Hopefully, someone pulled it out of the lane and into the ditch (this too never occurred to me).
In hindsight, I should have called the sheriff's office to kill the poor thing, but I never thought of that.
*****
Kristie, her mother, and I spent Saturday shopping in Fargo. After about eight hours of shopping, the Kristie called to check on the kids. Casey said they couldn't find Misha.
He searched the whole house, and she was nowhere to be found. This left only one alternative - she must have snuck out. Kristie and I are diligent about watching that she doesn't sneak out - for she doesn't know her way around yet and she has a tendency to just run and run and run - oblivious to her surroundings. So we were alarmed. She must have snuck out either when we left or when one of the kids were letting out the dogs.
So when we finally got home - around 11 or so. Kristie and I were out with our flashlights. Unfortunately, Misha never meows. She just squeaks. So if she were stuck in a tree, we'd have no way of hearing her. To make matters worse, it was storming. Reluctantly, we had to call off the search.
It was more of the same yesterday. I got up early and walked around the neighborhood, but I didn't have much luck. I did, though, meet a young gentleman, roughly five or six, who was out on his bike. We struck up a good conversation. Since I figured he had a greater knowledge of the stress than I, I enlisted his aid in my search for Misha, and he was only too glad to help.
Finally, at the end of the day, as I was about to give up all hope - after another hour biking around the neighborhood - our neighbor came over with Misha cradled in her arms.
Apparently when she and her husband got home, they found her huddled on their porch. Never mind I had just biked past their calling her name. Misha walked right into their house, took a drink of water from the dog's dish, and made out like the place was all hers. Luckily, our neighbor recognized her from our window and brought her over.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)