|
Aug. 6. Beyond yes and no, beyond training, beyond good dog/bad dog, beyond treats and choke collars....
The five dogs and I have arrived at such a strange place.
The other day we were exploring a new path and they charged ahead 20 or 30 yards, but I decided we had to turn around. I said, very softly, 'Let's go back,' and then I turned and walked away without waiting or watching (if one watches a dog approach, they often get doubtful, taking a full frontal look as a signal they should be wary.) Within five seconds they were ahead of me, racing back the way we had come.
It's like that all the time now. All other things being equal (no fox scent), they are extremely eager to keep together in a loose file and to follow me. The quieter I am, the more attention they pay. A headshake, a hand gesture, a tiny warning grunt, a hard look, a muttered remark, a shift of body weight, a tap on the table--they see it all and respond.
I never expected this.
One day in 1969, my wife came home with a stray beagle and a few months later she managed to find a mate for him. For the next 16 years, I lived in a delusionary universe.
I thought beagles were dogs.
I thought all dogs were slaves and addicts, hooked on smell, deaf to their owners when howling after a scent, pleasant enough indoors but
likely to disappear for hours or days if allowed outside without a fence or leash. It really wasn't much fun, and it lasted 16 years.
I thought that's what having a dog was all about: frustration, anxiety, anger, embarrassment....
Then after Argo and Susie the beagles had gone to the Big Boneyard In The Sky, my wife came home with another stray, a poodle/terrier cross
already mature, already named Precious. Precious began my real education with dogs, but training Precious was not necessary because she already knew everything she needed or I wanted her to know, and the slightest cue or clue was enough to get her to do any trick in the world.
I wish I had known about clicker-training with Presh, though, as I say, she needed nothing more to be perfect.
But after years of clicker training the guys I have now and teaching them dozens of tricks both useful and useless, I have come out on the other side of training, a place I never knew existed. Training is not the goal. It's a means to an end and when the end is reached, the need for training dries up.
If I can take them on a walk, control them with a quiet word or a gesture, if they know and love their routines and are civilized, responsible citizens, then school is out.
Aug. 4. My perseverance may be a sign of mental disturbance or it may be a sign of a sterling work ethic. It may mean I'm dumb, it may mean I'm smart.
I just don't know.
How long do you think it took me to add two pictures to the gallery above, to caption them, to get them all more or less in line? Five minutes? Five hours? Somewhere in-between?
Understand that I really know nothing about sharepoint. When something gets done, it gets done because I play with it, mess around, fiddle, try, fail, get disgusted, curse, walk away, come back, try some more, give up, come back again, etc.
Which is why I get discouraged when people tell me they are 'confused." Of course, they are confused! That's the human condition. The universe is very big and very very confusing!
Then what?
July 18. The education biz likes to imagine that there is no problem that cannot be fixed with a nice, handy dose of education.
Someone beating their kids? They just don't know how to parent so give them a parenting class! Drinking and drugging? They just don't understand how that stuff messes up brain chemistry, so give them a dose of rehab. Kids smoking? Explain what cigarettes do to lungs. Guy running too many redlights? Send him back to driver ed for screwups as an alternative to jailtime.
But so often it isn't a matter of education. It isn't a cognitive issue. They understand. They just have a different idea.
I'm a teacher, but I'm pretty modest about what I think education can affect--not a whole lot. Because most of the time people already know what's right or what they might do or what they should do. They just don't want to do it.
Let's leave people alone and use dogs for examples.
At night when little dog Boca won't come under the covers with my missus and me, it isn't because she doesn't know what we're asking her to do. It isn't because she doesn't know how to get under the covers. If we tell her it's a wanna, not a gotta--she doesn't wanna so, as far as she's concerned, she ain't gonna.
Same with Scoot. Give him a cold night or a thunderstorm, and he'll be under the blanket in a second. But if you ask him and flap the covers a little and he isn't in the mood, he gives you the 'are you effin crazy' look.
Same with swimming in the farm pond on these hot days. I go down to the diving rock and say, "Scoot, c'mon, I'll lower you into the water." If you want to see a dog sit--sit suddenly and hard, with absolute intention to communicate--just ask him if he'd like to be dipped in the pond.
But that refusal isn't because he doesn't understand that water would cool him off. He gets it! No need for remedial education. He just wants to do it his way.
Yesterday he and I paddled out to an island on Pitcher Pond. We sat on a rock that trended into the water very shallowly. After a few minutes, Scoot stood up and tiptoed in just far enough so that when he lay down the water came up to his leg pits. Cool! Perfect! He looked extremely pleased with himself and with the way the day was going.
He did not indicate any need for a teacher's intervention.
June 23. Maybe because I'm Jewish, maybe because I was born the year World War 2 ended, maybe because I think a lot about words and their connotations, maybe just because I have an mean and nasty disposition, but every time I see the words "Camp Survivor" on the EMCC home page, I first laugh in horror, shaking my head, telling my wife, "You've either got to laugh or cry." Then I get mad at the blithe stupidity of it.
It doesn't seem possible to me that the words "camp survivor" could mean anything other than a Margaret Bourke White photo of the filthy, starving, typhus-ridden inmates of Buchenwald, taken after the camp's liberation by Patton's Third Army.
EMCC is partnering with EMHS in this "Camp Survivor" program, and I am sure it's worthy and educational. But whoever thought it was a cute name was tone-deaf to any nuance of language and ignorant of any history older than the day before yesterday. American soldiers died to free those camps and to see that some of the inmates survived.
Each one who did was a 'camp survivor.' That is the only possible meaning for the phrase in English.
June 15. To some extent we know or can guess, but to another large extent, the way animals think about things is a mystery to us.
I know when a horse is frightened, angry, or calm. Frightened: they snort, roll their eyes, try to run, wheel away, lift tail. Angry: squeal, pin ears, bite, kick, tuck tail. Calm: soft eye, head down to the ground, tail easily switching flies.
Dogs aren't very stoical. Frightened: they cry, whine, shake, slink, hide. Angry: snarl, growl, snap, show teeth, bite. Calm: probably asleep....
And they can be predictable too. When my wife started giving Timmie the Poodle a bath the other day, Chloe the malti-poo peeked into the bathroom and dropped her tail to the floor. I said, "She's gonna beat it upstairs and hide." Sure enough, when I went up ten minutes later, she was lying in a big box of tee-shirts, almost completely camouflaged--and did not move a muscle when I came into the room. "If we wanted you, we'd take you, little girl. You can't fool a primate. Come on back downstairs."
Out of the box and down the stairs she went.
Then there are the mysteries. When we started on our afternoon walk, Boca was hanging around the cat dishes, scouting stray kibble. I didn't have time or patience for persuasion. Without a word, I walked over, picked her up, all ten pounds of her, and carried her about 25 yards until I could see she was in walk-mode instead of scavenger-mode. But then the damnedest thing happened.
The dogs, all five of them, thought I was doing a dominance display. They figured that they must have screwed up and that I was making some cosmic point about their lowly position in the universe. So, for 20 minutes, for about half the walk, they carefully lined up behind me in single file, alpha dog in the lead, scrupulously taking care not to pass me, not to disrespect my leadership and authority, not to piss off the big ugly primate boss-man.
I was surprised because I had originally intended to do nothing but insure Boca's presence. They saw it differently. I felt honored to receive their silent single-file homage.
May 28. Last week I watched a beginner horsewoman try to bridle a horse. A bridle is the leather thingie that holds the metal bit in the horse's mouth and also has attached the reins the rider uses to put pressure on the bit. Lots of straps, buckles, ways to get things confused and screwed up.
Think about it. The horse weighs a half-ton and it can easily raise its head so that its mouth is seven feet high--and that's where the bit goes, right between those big choppers, and if the mouth is seven feet high, the strap that holds the bit in place behind the horse's ears will have to be lifted eight feet. So, there are potential problems.
It's a process an experienced horse person knows so well, there is no thought involved. No more thought than knowing the technique of steering a car. It's all muscle memory.
But this beginner was having all kinds of troubles. She tried with the bridle inside out. She tried with the reins on the ground instead of over the horse's head. She tried to do the job facing the horse instead of facing forward. Worst of all, she tried the 'please-horsey-open-your-mouth-and-let-me-insert-this-heavy-chunk-of-metal' technique.
I can say without much fear of being proven wrong that in all of horse & human history that technique has worked zero times.
Here's how it's done. Gently put the reins over the horse's head. Stand facing forward with your butt against the horse's near shoulder. With the right hand you lift the bridle and start slipping it over the horse's ears while simultaneously--it has to be simultaneously--you insert your left thumb into the horse's mouth....
Whoa! Stop right there! The beginner horse person says, 'WTF! I stick my tender and soft finger where????'
Into the horse's mouth, pressuring down on the lip and feeling for the so-called 'bar' where there are no teeth. Press thumb on bar and with the rest of your left hand, which is still holding the bit, press the bit home, gently always gently. A few minor adjustments, a buckle or two to deal with and you're done.
It should take about five seconds.
For the beginner, dealing with a few false attempts, coping with the embarrassment and fear and the horse's growing impatience and suspicion, it takes somewhere between a minute and forever.
As she stands there tangled in a bridle and staring at a grumpy horse, the beginner is tempted to blame the horse, the horse's trainer, the first person who ever domesticated horses, the designers of dumb horse equipment, etc, etc. When really her own inexperience, ignorance, and fear have led her here.
What's an experienced horse person to do when faced with someone melting down over something as elementary as bridling a horse? We show them the right way, demonstrate, have them try, coach them through it, offer advice, congratulate them on their success, assure them that the day will soon come when they will not give it a thought. But the experienced horse person knows that in the end only trying over and over, shoving your thumb in the horse's mouth with both firmness and gentleness, will teach the beginner how to do it.
I bring it up because EMCC is developing a policy to make sure that students signing up for online courses can actually do online stuff, write emails with attachments, cruise the internet, find their way around Blackboard. (My students won't be using Blackboard so they have a different set of skills to master.)
Early on, the thing I hear most from my online students is that they are confused. I can help them with that, but one of the things that hurts the most in clearing away confusion is the student repeating over and over, "I'm confused, I'm confused...."
I feel like saying, "Get a grip!" But I show them what to do, sometimes more than once. I have them try it, whatever it is, coach them through it. I offer advice, congratulate them when they get it right, assure them that the day will come when they will not give it a thought. But I know that in the end only trying over and over and dealing with one's own inexperience, ignorance and fear will teach them how to do it.
May 10. I'm not saying that words can't or shouldn't change their meanings. They do, and that's okay, but sometimes in the middle of that process of change what sounds fine to one speaker will sound very odd to another.
For instance, if someone says, "Late blight decimated my tomato crop last year," I reply, "You got off lucky. I lost all my tomatoes, every one."
The person looks at me, puzzled. "Me too. That's what I said. I was decimated."
And I'm thinking, "Technically, 'decimate' means one out of ten died, not a total massacre the way this person is using it. Does he want to hear my wise-ass English teacher lecturette, or should I go with the always-handy, 'Oh sorry, I misunderstood.'?"
The meaning of 'decimate' is changing in English. I'll close the door behind me when I leave the language lab, and then no one will be left who uses it the old way.
And that brings us to language leadership. Who pioneers these changes? In one case, it is possible that Presidents Hedlund and Fitzsimmons are the leaders!
The word is "integral." I believe it is coming to mean "important." But it has an older meaning which is that it is "necessary to the completeness of the whole." (Thanks for the definition, online dictionary!)
So, when I sliced last night's eggplant, mushroom, and anchovy pizza and slipped a spatula under a slice, I was serving an integral part of the pizza. It wasn't that it was an important part of the pizza--after all, there were still seven slices left. But it was integral. What remained on the pan was not a pizza and would never again be a pizza. It was part of a pizza. An integral part was sitting on my plate, contemplating its fate.
Hence, when I read in the Eagle Eye that John Fitzsimmons is quoted as saying that Joyce Hedlund is "integral" to EMCC, I have to shake my head in disagreement. She is important, but she is no pizza slice. Without her, the college is not missing a part that makes it incomplete. It will have a new president, it will be whole.
And when Joyce in the same article is quoted as saying that her new school, WCCC, is "integral" to Calais, again I shake my head. The school is important and a lot of people would be hurting if it closed, but, again, Calais would still be completely Calais even devoid of the smallest jewel in the Maine Community College System crown. Calais would only lose something integral if, say, St. Stephen decided to annex Calais' Main Street....
May 6. I wrote back on April 26 about how a day of reading and grading can turn a man's mind to moosh. I've been at it since 6 this morning, 12 hours (with one big break) and not nearly done yet. So far I've just dealt with the online stuff. Next comes the live.
Suddenly all my sinners have got religion and are giving me papers!
But that's not what this entry is about. It's about horse piss and that one big break I mentioned.
A few years ago, I pulled down a partition between two box stalls to give my big girl more room to stretch. (That's my horse I'm talking about when I say 'big girl', not my missus, who weighs less today than the day I met her in 1963.)
But now we're getting another horse and that double stall has to be repartitioned. So, missus drags me away from my online work for an hour of rough carpentry.
There I am hammering away, my foot slips on a rubber mat soaked with horse piss--and next thing I know I'm sitting in a puddle of it....
But, given how my brain is all moosh these days? I was happy enough to be soaked in horse piss and nailing big spikes--WHAM WHAM WHAM!!! All it took was my eye, hand, and arm. It was loud and dramatic. No words were needed. Any correcting I did I did with a big wrecking bar!
May 6. You have to be careful about this caring business. When I worked at Penobscot Job Corps, there was an RA everyone loved. His voice was soft and warm, he always had a hug for the sad and lonely, and he was forever willing to volunteer his own time for special projects with corpsmembers.
But some of the women eventually got a little spooked by his hugginess. When I say he "always had a hug', I mean he always had a hug. Tick tock hug. Tick tock hug. And some people didn't like it or want it. Some people found it creepy. But how could you be mad at him? He cared so darn much.
I don't want to care that much. I have family, friends, and so on to hug. I'll hug a great essay, how's that? What I care about is not students so much as student writing and student success. But I won't be hugging a student, however sad and lonely.
I don't want students to think I'm a pal, a relative, a counselor, or anything other than an English teacher. I care about my professionalism and--whether I like you or not, whether I'd like to hug you or not--I care about your writing. The world is a better place for every piece of improved prose existing in it--this is my faith! And it requires no hugs whatsoever.
I bring it up because at the meet-the-presidential-candidate breakfast the other day, one of my colleagues got all emotional about how we need another president who "cares."
I have a list of qualities I'm hoping for in a new president: intelligence, decisiveness, flexibility, determination, psychological acuity, ability to communicate, sense of humor, vision...and, down the list, right after 'good tapdancer,' maybe number 16, comes 'caring.'
May 1. My response to a recent freestyle post by a student upset at lack of respect some students show to teachers:
I don't exactly disagree with you, but a certain amount of the disrespect problem the teacher has to own. If you want respect, you have to give it. If you want respect, you have to be teaching in a respectable way (I mean a way I, the instructor, am proud of.) If you want respectful students, part of the job as instructor is to show what respect means in a given classroom.
For example, I don't like it if a student comes in late, but I don't consider it disrespectful to me. But if a student at this point in the semester gives me a paper with no details, full of blah, the kind of paper he'd run by his old hs teacher, that I would consider displaying contempt and disrespect for my standards. The way to show respect to me in my class is not to be on time but to write respectably--not respectfully but respectably. Big difference.
April 28. Next week the beauty pageant starts, but instead of long-legged beauties in bathing suits who smile and tap-dance for the talent section, we will have four educational bureaucrats or decision-makers or adminstrators or whatever they prefer to call themselves these days in their best business attire, heading to 354 Hogan Road to vie for the honor of being crowned Eastern Maine Community College's second president.
The candidates may well tap-dance gracefully through interviews and interrogatories, but they will be wearing sober wing-tips or modest heels as they do their routine.
Our job as students, staff, and faculty is to talk to these people whose leadership will certainly deeply affect our professional lives and conceivably our personal ones as well. We will talk in order to estimate. To estimate what kind of people they are, what sorts of decisions they are likely to make, what ways they will make our jobs harder or easier, how the campus will fare under their leadership, whether they will stand up or fold when the troubles come as they inevitably will, what their graduation speeches will be like, whether their very voices will someday sound like fingernails on a blackboard to us--or be the sweet music of a respected and admired mentor, boss, and friend.
What kind of English comp teacher would I be if I didn't tell you that there are three sorts of questions these presidential candidates will be faced with next week and that these questions have a hierarchical order?
The very lowest sort of question the candidate can be asked is what might be termed a catechism or gotcha question, the sort of question that is designed to elicit a particular answer, and woe betide the candidate who does not know his or her catechism. A faculty member might ask if a candidate has studied TQM. Or believes in shared governance. Or in faculty ranks. Or a student might ask the candidate if they were big boosters of campus sports or of campus parking lots reserved for faculty alone.
Trust me, these questions are quicksand. If the candidate has the wrong answer? SLURP! The quicksand will suck them down never to be seen again. They didn't know the secret handshake and will not pass go.
The next and better kind of question is the information-please question. What's the legislative scene like in your state? Has your school developed interesting new programs? How is the Great Recession affecting your school? Can you picture a school somehow embracing the highway strip it has to coexist with?
People who ask those questions don't have some predetermined answer in mind and are not grinding some weird ax. They really want to know, want to hear the candidate's take on professional questions of interest to everyone. Fair enough. Answer those questions, candidates, but for heavenssake, don't answer them with blah, safe, bureaucratic, jargony, airy, empty, visioneeristic, illiterate b.s., or you will definitely lose at least this English teacher.
Man up, whatever your gender, and answer the damn question!
By the way, asking an information-please about someone's educational philosophy is just a waste of time. Everyone--everyone!-- has a very good educational philosophy but none of them are really worth listening to. The only real answer in my opinion is the one I learned as a newbie at Penobscot Job Corps: "I'd toss every philosophical belief I have in a second if it did not fit and was wrong for the situation I found myself in, and I hope I'd be wise enough to recognize that situation in half a second."
The final type of question for a presidential candidate is the best type of question. It's the conversational question. How was your flight? Did you try Maine lobster last night? Doesn't this rain suck? Those questions are non-threatening, do not ask the candidate to roll out the big guns. The underlying question in a conversation with a stranger always is: what kind of person are you? Are you an egomaniac, a jerk, a bs artist, funny, dull, really present, distant, bored, boring, fascinating, stand-up, fall-down, what? If the candidate says in answer to the questions above, "Fine; no, a steak; yes, the rain certainly is pelting down," then that's one type of person.
But if after tossing out a little conversationsal chum, you find yourself discussing travel, Paul Theroux, solo round the world sailing, trout-fishing, gardening, Michael Pollan....that's another kind.
And your estimation is likely to be much more accurate after a conversation than after a quiz, whatever the important people may say about data-driven decisions.....
April 27. I don't expect my students to feel sorry for me: teaching is very well-paid, considering the lightweight skills it takes and the time off given.
But this end-of-the-semester thing really fries a teacher's brain, and I don't mean cheap drugs either. Saturday I read isearches, prompts, freestyles, essays, and creative non-fiction and, of course, I commented on everything. 5 hours.
Sunday I did more of the same. 9 hours.
Yesterday I dealt with live students, talking to them about isearches.
Today, back at the reading again. 12 hours--with an hour off for a walk with the dogs and a few mini-breaks here and there.
I'll be up at six tomorrow to read for at least an hour to get ready for my live classes.
Here's the thing about a fried brain. The littlest break in the routine of reading and writing hits my mind like a trip to Disney World, like an audience with the Dalai Lama, like making love for the first time, like hitting the snow after an hour in the sauna.
A few minutes ago, I didn't start supper but I decided it was time to start to start supper. I got up from my computer. Then:
I cleared pots and pans from the prep area and cutting board. I could feel the weight of the cast iron pots in my arms and shoulders--I could really feel it. I let myself feel it. I noted it, I thought about it. Then I spun, stepped back one giant step, opened my fridge, and squatted. Oh, my knees--they ached but it was glorious, glorious to feel my own body and to think of nothing at all but my knees. The vegetable drawer came out, crooked as always, but tenderly I straightened it out, my usual impatience with it and its crappy design somewhere else. It is innocent and deserves tenderness!
Out came the spinach, so dark; the mushrooms, so white. Then the mozzarella, so soft; the Romano so hard. I dumped the vegetables in the sink--my god, the same sink I've used since 1973. Imagine the thousands of mushrooms I've washed! A half-spin I long ago gave up having to think about or measure, and I was at my cutting board again. I reached for a jar of olive tapenade in the cupboard, keeping my eye on the corner of the cupboard door because I've bonked my forehead into it a thousand times, but today it looked friendly, familiar.
I did a quarter spin and there in the corner of my eye I saw Boca, not begging, but, out of traffic, resting her chin on the handle of the oven broiler, just as I've taught her. I clicked and treated her, my angel dog. I looked around to see if there were any more of these deeply satisfying prep tasks to do--and I'm not being sarcastic. Just picking things out of the cupboard and mindlessly spinning here and there IS deeply satisfying after reading a dozen isearches.
But, no, nothing to do until it's time to put the pizza together. Time to go back to work.
April 10. Lately I've been telling my students some of my teaching secrets, showing them the reality behind the illusion....
Student was talking about the effects of studying judo on his life, one of which was his increased awareness of his body. I mentioned dance and then described how riders on horseback have to control their bodies in subtle ways, sitting tall in the saddle, as they say, with a lifted sternum.
I had a small audience by then so I said, "You guys are so scary and intimidating that the only way I can bring myself to start class is to move from my usual posture [miming slumped, anxious, fearful] to this [lifted sternum, tall, proud, intense, determined]. You've seen me! Watch for it Monday!"
A student says, "You get a psychological boost with the increased oxygen. You get the command presence."
That's it!
Funny--my wife just told me about meeting a horse in a pasture in England last week. The horse was crowding her a little, so she lifted her sternum, took a deep breath, and froze, fixing the horse with her eyes. Without panic, the horse immediately veered off, saying, "Righty-o--I can see you are far too important a person for me to even think of mugging...."
Earlier in the week I had a student try the same basic trick on me that the horse was trying on my missus--crowding my space a little. "You're going to love this," he said. "It's really funny."
That's a good student tactic because it puts a subtle, coercive pressure on the teacher to see it the student's way. If I don't like it, it becomes a personal thing: 'you don't think I'm funny' instead of a writing thing. It's called advertising; the student is selling the sizzle and hoping I'll overlook any problems with the steak.
So I had to counter. First I said what I just said in the graf above: that's a good student tactic. That put the counter-pressure back on him. Then I told him how writers who try humor take a terrible risk of only getting the great stone face from their readers, and nothing is worse than a flat joke or a stepped-on punchline.
I wasn't ROTFLMAO when I read his piece. But I took it!
Mar. 6. Something about an English teacher!
Yes, there is something not quite right about English teachers. I realize that is hardly late breaking news, but today's BDN lays it out for those who have somehow missed it.
A 41 year-old English teacher lady in a NH high school was arrested after allegedly emailing photos of herself to a student. A 15 year-old student. A guy student.
Yes, photos. Not photos of her feeding her parakeets either! Nude photos! Bare-naked! Stripped to the skin! Nothing held back! Immodest to the extreme! Eve in Eden photos! All the naughtiest of naughty bits.
What was she thinking? What did she imagine a 15 year-old lad was going to do with those photos? (Well, after he did that, I mean. Would he send them to all his buds, just maybe? No, we English teachers are not the suspicious types. )
Maybe, being an English teacher, she wanted her student to understand that the photos were only meant to be taken symbolically! Maybe she wanted him to see that in the never-ending literary struggle to rip down the curtains that separate appearance and reality, sometimes appearance (in living color yet!) is reality!
Anyway, a math teacher would be more likely to stalk a student on line. A science teacher to stake out the student's house using a telescope. A home ec teacher to bake him something. A phys ed teacher to challenge him to arm wrestle. A language teacher to just brood and mutter unintelligibly and drink too much.
Only an English teacher would have the idea for a great multimedia project like this--to advertise, to communicate, to reach across the generation gap and connect.
Only an English teacher!
Feb. 27. Today's BDN has a very interesting article about some Brewer High students who were busted by the high school. Busted for Facebook posts: some hateful, probably racist remarks about student athletes from another town. Those Brewer students are banned from extra-curricular activities indefinitely.
What is wrong in this picture? First of all, nothing the students posted on Facebook amounted to a crime. Second, the Facebook postings were not done at school or on school computers. Third, the postings had no direct effect on school operations. Finally, once the school starts monitoring students outside of school, where does it stop?
Where does it stop? I should have posted a week or so ago about the school district in Pennsylvania that was secretly activating laptop cams and mikes on school-issued laptops at the students' homes. That violation of privacy is enough to make you paranoid! So I have no particular reason to trust a school's good faith or good judgment.
The end of today's BDN article was even more interesting to this instructor. Any teacher who claims never to have been frustrated by students is a liar. Frustration goes with the territory. Back in the day, one might have joked about it along the lines of 'I'd like to wring his neck' or 'That boy is going to come to a bad end, heh heh.'
So, here was a prof at East Stroudsburg University in Pennsylvania, who (quoting the BDN): "...jokingly referred to looking for a 'discrete' hit man...and said she didn't want to kill any students, but 'Friday was a different story.'"
Administrators at East Stroudburg! I don't ask you to show a sense of humor because this prof was just not a very funny lady. I don't even ask you to show a sense of perspective because I know the lawyers are the ones who really run everything and lawyers are supposed to be jerks.
I just ask you to show a sense of self-preservation. I just ask whether the resultant publicity you got by suspending Professor Gloria Gadsden indefinitely was offset by an increased sense of security on campus? Was the game worth the candle? Was slamming this silly Facebook stuff worth winding up a laughingstock?
Feb. 5. I'd be the world's worst poker player. Deal me a good card, and I'd giggle, smirk, clap my hands, wink, every tell there is. Deal me a stinker, and I'd frown, sigh, grimace, rub my eyes in disbelief, throw the cards down, mutter a curse under my breath, every tell there is.
In life, in conversation, in class, I can't and I don't always say what I want to say, and usually that is indicated by my hand hovering in front of my mouth and then coming in for a soft landing so no words can escape. The say-no-evil monkey. Mr. Oh-So-Hard-To-Read-His-Body-Language.
Very recently I've found that in some cases when there are things I ought not to say to students, I not only hide my mouth but also scrunch my face up, roll my head on my neck, flubber my lips, pound both fists on the table, push my wheelychair across the room, etc.
Things I don't want to say:
* That is a totally outlandish notion.
* I wasn't born yesterday, y'know.
* That's just complete hooey.
* I've never heard such nonsensical gobbledygook in all my years of teaching.
* Listen to yourself!
* I'd like to tell you otherwise in a major way, but it really is none of my business.
* I can't stop you from pursuing this line, but it's bound to end in heartbreak and disaster.
So, students, don't let me walk away with the pot. Just watch for the tell!
Feb 2. I was standing in the hall outside 223, taking a mini-break to clear my head before class, and student N, just inside the door, says, "How come you're always out there before class?"
"Trolling for students. Sometimes they try to sneak past and go to real teachers' classes down the hall."
"They wouldn't dare try that--you're way too intimidating!"
"Oh right, I'm about as intimidating as chocolate eclair. You--" I point my finger at someone. "Are you intimidated?"
She shakes her head. "You?" Another shake.
I say, "I'll show you intimidating. I used to work with a first grade teacher who came to work drunk, only way she could stand it. Around 8:30 every day, I'd hear her lighting into those five and six year olds."
I ask student R if she'd like to do a role play, and she agrees. I point my finger at her, shaking it furiously. Now I'm a drunken first grade teacher! "R, get up here, come here this instant!" My finger is wagging in her face. "You! You're an agitator, R, you're an agitator, aren't you, aren't you?"
The first graders were usually crying by this point, but my college students were either laughing or totally weirded out. Time to start class!
Jan. 30. No one enjoys the sensation of not-knowing, of being confused, of not seeing the way clear. Of course, computers offer a lot of that feeling. There are multiple ways of doing most things, and people who like to find the answer and then steam full ahead are bound to be disappointed in the branching pathways and options of the computer. People who are afraid of breaking something are particularly susceptible to frustration--not because it's really that easy to break stuff on a computer--but because the computer is quite willing to shut down, toss error messages, or sit and refuse to do a thing and that induces helplessness in newbies.
"I told it to go this website, and it says it can't find it. What do I do now?"
The great thing about computers is that if the person has got a little bounce to them, the correct answer to that question is, "Try again, try something different, go back a step or two, check the stuff you put in, google the problem, ask an expert--as long as you are asking the right question." And these are all first class ways to proceed.
The only wrong answer to the question is, "If it won't do what you want, you might as well give up."
I get worried by students who have had success at being helpless and confused. The more helpless and confused they are, the more help they have been given in school, but I would argue that more is learned from a lonely struggle to understand than from Cliff's Notes or from step-by-step failsafe instructions. I would argue that being confused is, after a point, a way of unconsciously avoiding the further trials ahead. I would argue that being confused is like choosing to hang around bad company--you know you can do better but even bad old friends can be reassuring sometimes. At best, being confused is a way of marking time, of catching your breath, but looking to become unconfused probably is not a big educational step forward.
Try something, do something, take a risk, experiment, dare to be ignorant, dare to be wrong, screw up. That's education.
Jan. 23. A few minutes before 11 yesterday, I was standing in the hall outside 223, along with a bunch of students who were waiting for the 10 o'clock in 228 to dismiss.
And there was the woman in the Yamaha sweatshirt.
--Hey, nice Yammy logo. Motorcycle, fourwheeler, snowmobile, guitar, piano?
--Not piano, that's for sure.
--How's classes?
--I wish I had your class again.
--All the crap I gave you?
--It's better than the courses I have now.
--Now you have real teachers, not lame-o's like me.
--I guess so.
--Hey, no, c'mon, I liked that other stuff better. Tell everyone here in the hall how you wished you had me again. (Still quite a few people hanging around.) Hey, (loud) she wishes she had me again! (Speaking through the doorway to my waiting students in 223.) Hey, here's an ex from last semester wishes she was back in good old 223! Listen up!
Jan 18. Last September I wrote: "in class yesterday, I learned that our public school teachers who, presumably, have heard something about diversity and sensitivity to differences, encourage in some of our high schools both a Slave Auction and official cross-dressing days.
I try to imagine how it might seem to a descendant of slaves to have official Slave Auctions at school. I try to imagine how it might seem to a woman a few years into puberty when the guys arrive at school wearing hilarious smeary lipstick, wobbly heels, and bouncing bazoombas.
But my imagination does not run that far, alas."
I bring it up because in today's Bangor Daily News there's an article about a male beauty pageant at Oxford Hills HS, the winner being named 'Miss Womanless,' much like the 'Miss Ugly' contest Eastern Maine Technical College used to hold.
I want to confess that, before my inner puritan kicked in, I'd probably laugh as loudly as anyone at the sight of strapping lads teetering around in heels, dressed in drag, and taking an "exaggerated feminine attitude." But I recognize there are many things that might lift my spirits that I cannot allow myself, if I can possibly resist temptation, because those things are wrong, stupid, hurtful, cruel, selfish, destructive, nasty.
Temptation--it's there to be resisted.
Oxford Hills doesn't see it that way.
Will Oxford Hills hold a reverse pageant? The gals would dress up and act like guys: scratching their crotch, strutting around and showing off anytime they get within a thousand yards of a whiff of estrogen, belching, farting, cursing, unshaven, unwashed, overeating, out of shape, watching football, getting drunk, crying, fighting, forgetting to wash their hands or put the toilet seat down, loud, inconsiderate, insensitive, arrogant, horny, driving to endanger, risk-taking, shouting, angry, cheating, controlling. Typical guys, right?
Guys, does that description of stereotypical male behavior offend you? But that's what the Miss Womanless pageant does to women: it tells us that women are flighty, flirty, lightweight, clothes- and image-obsessed, flamboyant ditzy dames.
Strangely enough, the beauty pageant article shares the page with the obituary of Mary Daly, who refused to let men into her classes at Boston College because "men have nothing to offer but doodoo." She thought that once men were around, women couldn't freely exchange ideas.... In other words, this so-called "first feminist philosopher" pretty much thought women needed to be protected since Everyone Knows they are flighty, flirty, lightweight, clothes- and image-obsessed, flamboyant ditzy dames.
Jan 17. The relationship between student and teacher can be tricky. I certainly don't want or expect to make my students into Mini-Me's. On the other hand, by the end of the semester, there should be a teensy little English teacher growing in the student brain, saying, "There's got to be a better way to put that," or, "I've got a great example for this," or, "Nope, gotta try again, maybe sleep on it...."
So, although I really don't want my students to be like ventriloquist dummies, only saying stuff that's really stuff they get from me (and I don't think of my students as dummies anyway), I can't help what I dream, and I had a school dream the other night.
I'm on a stage in front of a huge audience in a tux and with my tux-clad ventriloquist's dummy. We didn't have time to rehearse and since I'm a ventriloquist, not a telepathist, I don't know how to tell him his lines and what we're supposed to be doing. So, we sit there in embarrassed and difficult silence....
Trust me. It is a school dream!
And, puhleeze, don't bother telling me the dummy will do whatever I tell him to do without instructions. He just didn't seem to be that sort of dummy.
Jan 15. Nice piece in today's BDN about Bangor police officer Rob Angelo. He managed to talk a potential suicide off the Penobscot Bridge....
When I've got a hassle with a student, I always try the oblique approach, the indirect avenue to communication. My classic example used to happen at Job Corps all the time. I'd whip the evildoer out of class and take them to someplace quiet. Then I'd turn to the corpsmember, watch his resistance and anger start to reach the boiling point, but before it boiled over, I'd say, "Well, I suppose you've heard Lecture # 23 a thousand times before from a thousand teachers before me, so let's skip right ahead to the magic trick I want to show you."
The student would be all: huh, wha-, magic trick?
Which was the idea. I wanted to cool off the situation, let the student know what he was doing wasn't good. And I did that. But the rest of the deal is to let the student save face so a permanent problem wasn't created. I wanted to distract him from the whole situation.
And it is a great magic trick!
When I can pull something like that off, just shooting from my hip, letting myself be in the situation but not controlled by it, using myself in a disciplined kind of way, it feels very good, personally and professionally.
...Rob Angelo did something similar in a much tougher situation.
What do you say to a woman who wants to kill herself on the anniversary of her children's death? I'm sure there's a playbook, things the experts tell you to say to this woman. But Rob Angelo did better than the experts. As I say, he let himself be in the situation and tailor his response to the situation, to the woman standing on the wrong side of the railing.
He said to her--and this is interpersonal genius: ""It's my daughter's birthday. You can't do this on my daughter's birthday."
Well, that's not a logical argument and it might have backfired, but it was precisely the right thing to say to this woman (and it really was his daughter's birthday), and she let herself be rescued.
I just choked up reading how Angelo managed to connect personally and professionally in extreme circumstances.
Jan. 15. I'm a coffee fanatic. I buy whole beans and I grind them in a handgrinder, but, you know what? I can never grind them as fine as I really want them. I want them like baby powder and instead, the best I can do is like...coffee grounds. It's still a pretty good cup of French Roast though.
Now, it turns out Bangor High is dealing with the same problem in reverse. Instead of getting a tighter, scrunchier, closer, funkier, groovier, grindier grind--what I guess you could call a heavy grind--they want their students to work on a light grind, the dance that somehow avoids stepping over the line of good clean fun into the dangerous heavy grind, the dance that adults find "inappropriate."
(In fact, this morning's BDN uses the educators' favorite weasel word "inappropriate" three times in a very short update on BHS principal Norris Nickerson's crusade to make the world safe for chaperones whose eyes have taken to falling out of their heads at BHS dances.)
Anyway, students have promised to be good, or at least better, and, as the student government president says, "protect... the community." And now having protected Bangor from sexy dancing, the student council is looking at Bangor's economic stagnation, urban gridlock, and deteriorating infrastructure, some of the other things threatening BHS students in their near future.
Jan. 13. Always reassuring to know the Bangor Daily News has a nose for what news is really important in the world.
Today's Page 1, above the fold, big headline: "A Grinding Halt to BHS Dances?" Yep, those Bangor kids are at it again with the dirty dancing. I wrote all about it in 2008:
Oct. 16. My morning definitely began looking up when I hit page B8 of today's BDN: "2 Southern Maine high schools ban sexually suggestive 'grind' dancing."
Exactly the kind of nonsense I love. I read the headline out loud to my missus three times, putting as much oomph and drool as I could in the words "sexually suggestive 'grind' dancing."
I just knew that the article would have lots of hormones, plenty of pompous administrators who would sound like they'd never heard of such an outrage as s-x, and, of course, as much sexual suggestiveness as the BDN would dare allow. I was not disappointed.
Sure enough, come to find out, when kids dance they rub against each other (male pelvis to female backside, we are told. The missus got up from her breakfast tea and me from my French roast coffee so that we could step out on the dance floor and try various possible ways that might work.... The dogs were not impressed.) And astonishingly enough, neither were the adult school administrators who found themselves with "concerns" about the grind; they actually come right out and call it "inappropriate."
The news story did mention the fact that dance controversies are nothing new, describing how the twist was banned in the swingin' sixties. But that does not go nearly far enough into the history of lewd dance crazes: it's worth remembering that people of my parents' generation knew very well what 'rock 'n' roll' meant and had no intention of letting their children hear wild lyrics like: "We're gonna rock around the clock tonight, We're gonna rock, rock, rock, 'til broad daylight. We're gonna rock, gonna rock, around the clock tonight."
'Rock'--hmm, a four letter word ending in 'ck.' Whaaaaa? NO CHILD OF MINE WILL EVER BE ALLOWED TO ...'ROCK'!
And, of course, the very word 'jazz' means, well...um, "nobody would have dared include jazz in a respectable book or article a century ago because it was decidedly obscene...."
And when I googled 'waltz lewd,' I found nice stuff like this below, stretching back to the 16th Century, though there are plenty more examples going back to the invention of writing of adults dead-sure that the latest dance craze spelled the end of civilization:
"The waltz also sparked a storm of controversy for its lewd and lascivious posture that required men and women to embrace on the dance floor....Other writers of the nineteenth century were equally uncomplimentary of the waltz. In his poem The Waltz: an Apostrophic Hymn, Lord Byron refers to the "lewd grasp and lawless contact...."
"A Viennese ordinance of 1572 warned: "Ladies and maidens are to compose themselves with chastity and modesty and the male persons are to refrain from whirling and other such frivolities. Whichever man or fellow, woman or maiden will turn immodestly in defiance of this prohibition and warning of the city fathers will be brought to jail...." ...A Dresden wedding ordinance of 1595 advised similar decorum: "Several honor dances are to be held, chaste, and without voluptuous turning, jumping, or running hither and yon. The ladies and maidens are to be led to and from the dance by the arm and without holding hands."
Anyway, it's nice to note that our highly-paid Maine school administrators having solved all the big educational problems now have the leisure to join the long line of historical fusspots standing squarely and successfully against juvenile hijinx.
Today's BDN adds little to the story (even repeating the favorite weasel word "inappropriate") but it does have a fascinating photograph of the principal of Bangor High taken by a photographer with a malicious sense of humor that appeals to me.
We see Norris Nickerson standing at the top of a long sunlit ramp stretching away to infinity or the central crossroads of the school, whichever comes sooner. A checkerboard pattern in the linoleum on the floor subtly matches the checkerboard pattern of his plaid sweater, hinting either that the man regularly is walked all over or that he deeply identifies with the school's bricks and mortar. Or both.
Two students shimmer in the sunlight but they are not in his vision at all. He faces the camera but is not looking at the photographer. His eyes are off to his right, suspicious under a wrinkled brow, clearly looking for and expecting trouble.
His arms are crossed, denying all access. Hands are clenched and half-hidden, again denying access. An ID necklace like a giant dog tag hangs around his neck displaying his photograph, no doubt one taken on a happier day. (Inquiring minds always want to know but can not quite see with this level of resolution: was he wearing an older ID tag in the ID photo, one showing an earlier year's ID photo? And, if he was, in that ID photo was he wearing an even earlier ID with an even earlier photo and so on?)
Anyway, there he is patrolling the halls, on the lookout for sex and frivolity, doing the job the anxious parents of Bangor pay him for.
Just as the schools prevent noisy lunchrooms by enforcing total silence and prevent recess problems by abolishing recess, Norris Nickerson has cleaned up the dirty dancing--by seeing to it that the music has died and that no more dances will be held until BHS students promise to be good.
Jan. 8. I've got over a hundred titles in my Netflix queue. On a scale of 1-5 stars, only three even get a nibble of that fifth star (Goodfellas, Jean De Florette, Anne Of Green Gables).
And these movies are rated by the viewers, not by some snooty East Coast la-di-dah film critics.
This Netflix queue has several lessons. First, it means that regular people just like you are stingy with praise. Dozens of movies rate fours, but people don't want to be played for suckers. They say, "Oh yeah, I liked that, I'd recommend that to friends, I gobbled down a lot of Orville Redenbacher watching it. But it's only Very Very Good, not Most High and Excellent!"
Second, there is not a single 1 or 2 star rating in the whole queue. (There is one 2.04 or something for a compilation of silent film comedy segments.) People don't want to be mean or judgmental! The movie may have sucked, but they don't want to hurt anyone's feelings! So, instead of slagging the thing, they ease up, just when the rubber should meet the road.
Almost all the ratings are right up the middle: 3s or 3 and change.
What does this have to do with a blog about school? People who are both my students and Netflix subscribers may get weirded out when it comes to thinking about their grades.
I have very few students in the middle of the queue at the end of the year. Unlike Netflix movies, people in my writing courses either get fives or no stars whatsoever. They either have written--or they haven't.
If you're wondering what your English teacher-to-be prefers most of all, I confess that the actor most represented in my Netflix list is...not Kenneth Branagh or Sir Lawrence Olivier or one of those arty, Shakespearey types.
It's...Clint Eastwood. The Man With No Name. Dirty Harry. Mr. Do You Feel Lucky, Punk. Mr. Go Ahead Make My Day. But I promise to my students: in class I will not apply any sudden impact, magnum force, or put you in the line of fire (three titles in my queue!)
Jan. 2. Where do old politicians go?
Some go on the lecture circuit and make tons of money recycling old speeches and holding hands with sheikhs and shaking hands with despots and founding libraries and charities that honor their own name.
Others get rid of the missus and find fancy new trophy wives while they lobby their former colleagues. Or they make Oscar-winning documentaries. Or they found consulting firms. Or go back to practicing law. Or open think tanks. Or become CEOs of international corporations notorious for their taste for corporate welfare. Or are elected to the boards of businesses with a yen for prestigious names on their letterheads.
But what of the politicians whose names don't move and shake us with shock and awe? Of politicians with no special talents? Of politicians whose speaking style is so dull that no one would willingly listen to them? Of politicians without law degrees or doctorates?
Which brings us to Governor John E. Baldacci, now entering his last year in the Blaine House. One of his post-political plans, we learn in today's BDN, is to do a job that takes no particular skill or talent or ability or training or knowledge. That is to say, he has nominated himself to be a teacher, preferably at Orono.
Never mind that he's never shown any previous interest in teaching. That he has no experience. That his degree (BA in History from UMO) does not qualify him to teach at UMO.
Never mind that his policies have put the University on a starvation budget and that positions have to be cut, not added.
Never mind that, so far as today newspaper report tells us, no one has actually asked him to teach.
How hard could it be? You show up. You sit down. You regale the eager young minds with a few war stories from your decades of distinguished service to the people of the State of Maine. You hand out the A's. You collect your paycheck. You go home.
You are now a teacher, Governor!
Dec. 25. Traditions are what you do, over and over.
Our traditional Christmas has very little to do with Santa, Jesus, mangers, gift wrap, mistletoe, holly, little drummer boys.
In the holiday season, my missus goes to nursing homes and churches and sings. I grade papers, and when that is done, I fire up my chainsaw, kill trees, and when I get tired of that, walk my dogs.
Then Christmas Day, a very special tradition: off to Bangor to Hoyt's Cinema 10! (We saw 'Up in the Air.' Give it 4.5 stars.) Then off to Oriental Jade for the holiday meal of eggrolls and moo shoo gai pan.
Sadly, Oriental Jade (whose fryolaters' peanut oil can be smelled all over the EMCC campus when the wind is right) was so crowded we decided not to wait. Instead we found the Chinese buffet on Stillwater (one of these posts I'll describe Thanksgiving at the Epic Buffet at Hollywood Slots--a brand-new family tradition!) Food was fine, price was right, company was perfect.
And, man oh man, were the dogs glad to see us when we got home.
Nov. 18. Back in the day if you were lucky--
and had an infected salivary gland-- swollen, pulsing, and hot, shooting pain over half your face, from burning lips to stinging tongue to aching tooth to aching ear to tender jaw--someone who loved you would put you to bed, read to you quietly, hold warm compresses over your infection and cool ones on your forehead, offer you water (from clean wells you can hope), bring you a little broth and help slide it over your swollen tongue, pray with you. The rest was up to God and your immune system.
Eventually, your fever would break, the infection would be beaten, and you would slowly get better.
Or the fever would get worse, the infection would spread, and you would die.
That was the best.
The worst was that medical help would be called in. Doctors might suggest leeches on the site of infection, bleeding to draw off some of the heat, cold baths, purges to help you vomit, enemas for your bowels, or, really, pretty much anything that seemed dramatic enough to justify their fees.
In class Monday I was quite a few notches south of 100%. By the time noon arrived and I could go home, the pain was such that I could not think of anything except the pain. I called the doc, managed to get my appointment moved up from Wednesday afternoon to a little later Monday.
Got an Rx for antibiotic Augmentin. Visited RiteAid in Belfast (Motto: "We can have that for you after 3 pm tomorrow.")
Visited Hannaford in Belfast (Motto: "We can have that for you in forty minutes.")
Forty-five minutes later, took dose 1. Took dose 2 twelve hours later. About two hours after that, I began feeling...not so bad. Swelling down, fever down, pain going going gone.
When I came into class today, I said, "Thank God for Dr. Alexander Fleming and the invention of penicillin." (One of my students quite rightly corrected me and said, "The discovery of penicillin.")
Other students offered me advice: take the whole course of the antibiotics even if you feel okay; try yogurt to avoid yeast infections. It was great to be back from the half-dead! It beat leeches and cold baths. God bless Dr Alexander Fleming, the discoverer of penicillin.
Nov. 18. Thrill a minute in 223!
txt: Tell Goldfine I can't come to class. I forgot my flashdrive in class Monday and someone stole it. I have to stay home and write my isearch from scratch.
stu: X says, "Tell Goldfine I can't come to class." Someone stole his flash drive.
teach: "Goldfine"! Professor Goldfine! Doctor Goldfine! Goldfine???
stu: Blame X.
teach: Tell X I have his flash drive.
stu: You do?
teach: I'm not really a professor or a doctor, but I do really have his flash drive.
(A second later) stu: He wants to know if you can leave it at the desk downstairs.
teach: On its way!
Nov. 12. EMCC student James Blakeman was killed yesterday in Bangor. Apparently, he ran a red light at speeds around 100 mph, crashed into a building, and died instantly.
I had James in ENG 101 in the fall of 2008. I've been thinking all day if I could post here on James, if I could describe what he was like as a student, what kinds of things he wrote about, how he did in the course.
I know a lot about him in some ways. Any student who writes 10 grafs, 15 freestyles, 15 prompt reactions, nine essays, an isearch, and a final exam winds up telling the reader a good deal about his personality, tastes, history, and attitude. I certainly knew (and I'm not telling any secrets here because all this was in today's BDN) that he had many speeding tickets and license suspensions. In fact, his license was suspended for a while during his time in ENG 101, and that was something he talked and wrote about.
I've wondered what duty of confidentiality remains after a student is dead. What consideration of privacy is due his family. What I could say that would be acceptable, what would be tasteless.
I've decided that, beyond ordinary condolences to his friends and family, there's nothing I should say about James Blakeman. A philosopher once said, "Whereof we cannot speak, thereof we must not speak."
Nov. 9. Some are born, others are made.
Some teachers have it, are born with it. They have rapport with students, they inspire, amuse, light fires, move mountains. They just are that way. Others of us have our strengths and our virtues, but we are not born teachers. To get a tenth as far as the naturals, we have to sweat it out. It's frustrating to see colleagues do with ease what we can barely do at all, but there you go, that's life.
Missus and I were walking on the road today, and suddenly three toy poodles--one brown, one black, and one white--came racing towards us across their lawn....
Understand that the missus and I are very proud of our dog training. I have dogs who will stand on their hind legs, walk forward, backwards, spin like a ballerina, drop into sitting-pretty, jump up into a full stretch, and then do a deep knee bend back to sitting pretty, all on hand signals. I have dogs who, when I say, "Up against the wall, Yankees fan, spread 'em!" will do exactly that and let me frisk them without moving.
So, these three dogs were charging us, and we both knew to get off the road into the ditch so that the dogs wouldn't be in danger from cars, when suddenly their boss turned around and said completely calmly, though with a touch of disgust, "Hey, get back here."
All three dogs stopped on a dime, wheeled, and raced back to her, leaving the missus and me totally flabbergasted. Those dogs weren't responding to training or a command or shock collars or anything at all except a desire to do exactly what the boss wanted at all times and as quickly as possible. They were overjoyed to have the chance to race back to her.
Some trainers are born, others are made.
Oct. 28. Today's silly moment.
Student: What'd you have for supper last night?
Me: Spaghetti. My colleague gave me a bunch of green tomatoes so I made sauce from scratch.
Student: Your wha-aaa gave you the tomatoes?
Me: My colleague.
Student (relieved): Jeez, "colleague!" I thought you said your collie!
Me: My collie! We don't let her in the garden!
Oct. 26. Silly moment.
Student sees cobweb in 223, slung between two computers, tiny spider hanging around....
"Ewww," she says. "A spider! Don't they clean this place?"
I touch the edge of the web to send a little communication spiderward. Spider goes "Bzzzzzzzzzip!" and drops 12 inches in two seconds, on her nearly invisible line. Then, immediately goes, "!pizzzzzzzzzB" and reverses the process so she is right back where she started.
I put on my most pompous teacher voice and said, "We could all learn a little lesson from that spider. What a work ethic!"
Student rolls her eyes.
Sept. 29. We had a college forum for faculty, administrators, and staff yesterday. Some of my colleagues and associates have gotten confused and deluded and think that we are involved in social work at EMCC.
Perhaps to make their own jobs feel more significant, they imagine they do more than teach classes, shuffle papers, make plans and attend conferences. Oh no, that is not enough and it's not what we really are about....
They think we actually are in the business of helping the poor, weak, and disadvantaged to be happy and successful.
I hate that model--the notion that we are rescuing helpless people.
Every single student at EMCC is already a success story! Every single student at EMCC is a college student! Every single student at EMCC has a hs diploma, GED, or some similar equivalency! Every single student at EMCC has it together enough to navigate the admissions process, the business office, the registration and enrollment process, and find their way to class.
If you think those are not significant achievements, go visit the people who did not graduate hs, who do not have jobs, who are helpless, hopeless, directionless, and despairing.
Dear colleagues and supervisors, those are NOT our students. Our students deserve from us a clear-eyed look, a willingness to teach, to shuffle papers, and to attend conferences and make plans. They do not deserve nor need nor should they have our condescension or our pity.
Sept. 22 An administrator I spoke to in the hall yesterday commented on the young age of this semester's student population, I automatically tried fitting all my student problems into the Very Young category to see if that was a likely explanation.
My biggest problem this semester has been students' unwillingness or inability to focus long enough to read their assignments or to realize that all around them people are doing something they have no clue about--instead of a salutary worry leading to questions and explanations, they just blithely bop along, assuming everything will work out somehow.
With the administrator's hint about youth, my theory today is that many of the students are very used to having teachers organize their academic lives for them through incessant reminders and regular punitive quizes. 'Learned helplessness' is the term that springs to mind.
Their reaction when they find it is fruitless to wait for that kind of help from me is the sulks or the assumption of a supine posture before the inscrutable hand of fate.
I lay the blame for creating this kind of attitude squarely on the schools the students have attended.
Not a completely separate topic: in class yesterday, I learned that our public school teachers who, presumably, have heard something about diversity and sensitivity to differences, encourage in some of our high schools both a Slave Auction and official cross-dressing days.
I try to imagine how it might seem to a descendant of slaves to have official Slave Auctions at school. I try to imagine how it might seem to a woman a few years into puberty when the guys arrive at school wearing hilarious smeary lipstick, wobbly heels, and bouncing bazoombas.
But my imagination does not run that far, alas.
Sept. 5. 'The Perfect is the Enemy of the Good." That's the motto for my writing classes. The road to hell is paved with perfectionism in my opinion.
There are two ways of teaching writing: the sharpshooter approach and the shotgun approach.
The sharpshooter teacher tells his students how to aim for the target and then has them go do it. Then he has the students show their pieces to a peer editing group and afterwards rewrite. Then the students show the rewrite to the peer editing group. And so on until slowly. through rewrites and criticism, the writing is supposed to approach perfection.
When the piece is 'perfect,' the student finally gets his teacher to read it and respond.
The student may do a half-dozen pieces in a semester. The teacher reads a half-dozen times.
But what if perfection is impossible? What if the piece was hamburger to start with and no amount of tinkering is ever going to transform it into steak? All that work...and still it's just ground beef.
I don't believe in any of that. I like the scattershot approach. My students will write a lot, write fast, not spend a lot of time editing and perfecting a piece. Then they move right on to something else.
Naturally, I prefer steak to hamburger, but the huge disadvantage of the sharpshooter approach is that if a student only writes a half-dozen pieces, they only have a half-dozen chances to discover the steak they have been searching for. If they write constantly, at least something for every class, they have much higher chances of suddenly finding themselves writing better than they ever thought they could. A shotgun has more chance of hitting a target, even if it makes a mess doing it.
Of course, a shotgun approach means that instead of reading student writing only a few times a semester, I have to read the way the students write--constantly. But I believe that writers learn by writing, not by editing, polishing, re-writing, agonizing, and perfecting. I believe that teachers who tout perfectionism are rationalizing their own laziness. I believe that students who want to create something perfect should be honored for their ambition but discouraged from wasting the resource of a college instructor in trying to attain that ambition.
Aug. 29. I was watching the second season of 'Mad Men' last night, and there was mean old Duck Phillips who's been trying desperately to stay on the wagon falling right off with a martini. Actually, two martinis.
And the next day we see him going to a very important meeting. We're all wondering: was it just those two? Can he get sober again? Is he messed up?
The writers want to be subtle with the answers to these questions. They could show Duck in his office guzzling an open bottle of gin, but that's too crude. Instead, they show him on the way to his meeting. He takes out of his pocket a package of Lifesavers, pops one, and continues on.
Aha! Say no more. The breath mint tell us all we need to know!
But what if Duck, like me, has a dental problem the dentist is still working on, and it requires a daily dose of Lifesavers, TicTacs, Clorets, and peppermints? And that's the real answer to the Lifesavers?
I have to confess I never go to class without taking a drink beforehand. About 15 hours beforehand in my case--my daily beer with supper, every night at 6 pm or so, like clockwork.
So, when you see me Monday, I'll be the guy who has just been handling alcohol--ethyl alcohol, that is, aka hand sterilizer--with the peppermint in his mouth.
Aug. 24. One week from today, in the immortal words of Chuck Berry I'll be "sweet sixteen and back in class again."
But after only three months of vacation, am I ready? Have I done what I am supposed to do?
Well, I have my syllabuses all updated. I have my school clothes all ready. (I'm too old to be buying 'back-to-school clothes.' Look for the jeans and polo shirt.) I have my motorcycle backpack with school papers and gradebook sitting on my kitchen table. (In all honesty, it hasn't moved or changed since I plopped it down there on May 16.) So, am I really ready?
No, 'fraid not. I'm an English teacher, and if I don't have my teacher vocabulary in order, I'm going to be screwed at 10 am, Monday Aug 31. And my vocabulary is sadly lacking.
Today's Bangor Daily News ran an article on students using cellphones to sext or harass each other, and the adults, naturally, are frantic. Could this article have run without the teacher's favorite weasel word? I think not.
"Inappropriate" and "appropriate" are used nine times in a quite short article. Such helpful words. We teachers are reluctant to be judgmental. It might blight and warp forever the spirits of our students if we used words like 'dumb' and 'stupid' and 'risky' and 'self-indulgent' and even 'bad' to describe sexting. Or 'evil,' 'cruel,' 'hateful,' 'sadistic,' 'dangerous,' and 'really really dumb' to describe harassment.
No, indeed. We need a word that conveys a certain amount of unhappiness without committing ourselves to anything very much. Hence, 'inappropriate.'
Years ago, 'immature' had the same function. Streaking was immature. Mooning was immature. Wedgies were immature. Noogies were immature. Waterbombs and stinkbombs and panty raids and smoking in the boys' room were all immature. Calling your teacher an a-hole and storming out of class was very immature.
Now the descendants of these old-timey mischievous behaviors are styled 'inappropriate.' I used to think 'inappropriate' was for, like, using the salad fork on your steak, but, no, not according to my colleagues.
Until I can really get my tongue around that word, I won't be ready for class.
July 3. In lieu of anything better to do in this crap weather, I took a 3 mile walk down the road. About a quarter mile from the turnaround point, I heard someone screaming.
Sounds like...a child. A girl. Saying (eventually I could hear): "I want my sock! Give me my sock! NOW!!! Give me my sock, my foot is cold, I want my sock. NOW!!!"
Repeat screams for a quarter mile. She was on a trampoline and a male adult was saying with ever-increasing volume: "Stop shouting. First you have to stop. Stop shouting!" On and on the pair of them went, til finally, thank god, she lowered her voice a dite. "I want my sock, give me my sock."
Guess what dad/stepdad/mom's bf said? G'wan, you have to guess! Give up? Did he reward her for doing as he asked? Did he immediately reinforce the behavior he wanted? Did he toss the sock onto the trampoline and praise her?
Or did he say, "Now say please. 'I want my sock please.'"
Naturally the little girl was outraged and began screaming again immediately, and naturally the guy began, again, to tell her to stop shouting.
I turned around and could hear them at it, hammer and tongs for a quarter mile until the road dips down and the voices faded out.
My takeaway is that a) the guy was terminally dumb or b) he was actually enjoying hearing her shout or c) he hated her or d) all of the above.
Do not try these tricks at home on your own kids! And if you are a colleague, don't do the equivalent in class with students--it's not an unknown practice among teachers to nag and nag and never be satisfied with anything you get. You know, there is a philosophy widespread in faculty lounges that you catch more flies with vinegar than honey....
June 6. It must come as a bit of relief to First Lady of the State o' Maine to get the heck out of Augusta and return to Bangor and Vine St School where she used to teach. Friday, she read selections of EB White's 'Trumpet of the Swan' to the kids who were all sitting on the gym floor (don't they have bleachers, folding chairs? why do kids being read to always have to sit on the floor, looking up at the adult?)
Everyone knows about 'acquiring a taste' for something as one ages. A taste for liquor or for cigars, for example. Is there some comparable phrase for losing a taste for something? When I was little I liked EB White's 'Stuart Little,' but by the time I was reading aloud to my own kids (they were not required to sit on the floor!), I didn't like him at all anymore. Too much cruelty, tears, sadness, and misery in 'Trumpet' and 'Charlotte's Web.' I know they're beloved classics, but I don't love them or even like them anymore.
(Whereas I still love the Carl Barks' version of Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge that I also grew up with.... Maybe I just have low tastes.)
But each to her own. Karen Baldacci came prepared to challenge the kids to read on their own this summer. It's important to read, she says, because without practice ("like Dustin Pedroia....") skills deteriorate.
Really? Skills like knowing how to ride a bicycle? Skills like swimming? I think that once someone knows how to read, they know how to read. They can certainly improve but I'd like to see the studies proving the 'Summer Slide.' Or studies not produced by education professors--they are hardly unbiased researchers.
Anyway, the people in the English Department at EMCC are talking about what courses we might want to teach in the future. Usually an English teacher's dream is to get away from teaching writing and into teaching literature. The idea is that it's more fun to get students comparing and contrasting Lennie and George in 'Of Mice and Men' that it is to read a batch of essays entitled 'How I Spent My Summer Vacation.'
But what if a teacher could get a student to talk about their real lives over summer vaykay? What they say, felt, thought, did, suffered, and conquered? What if the teacher could help them write in a way that sounded like them alone instead of everyone else? What if the writing were actually funny, surprising, interesting, sharp, edgy, gutty?
Already I'd rather be reading what that student did over summer vacation than anything John Steinbeck had to say about mice or men.
I don't want to find myself at the twilight of my career trying to pull correct answers out of bored students: "So, why would I want to read it again?" was one of Karen Baldacci's questions.
Kids responded that she must have liked it or was trying to see more by rereading....
In other words, guess what I'm thinking, kids! Guess the two or three 'right' answers. Karen Baldacci said, "Oh, I love those answers."
But what if a kid had said, "Because you don't know how to find new books you like?" Or "Because you have an obsessive and unhealthy relationship with EB White?" Or "Because White lived in Maine and so you, as Governor's wife, need to talk him up?" Or "Because he is a certified classic and you don't have to worry that he might say something that makes you uncomfortable?"
What would she have said then?
Teachers treat literature like it is a puzzle, and it is their job to ask questions to show students how the sneaky author loads on the symbols and the secret meanings and little moral lessons. (You can't read a book without a teacher to explain it to you, you know!) But the answers teachers want are usually so obvious that only the brownnosers would stoop to answer them.
So, no, I don't really have better questions than Karen Baldacci, but that's why I would never want to teach literature.
May 14. When is the best time to have school anxiety dreams? Anytime....
Typically, I have them just before a semester starts. Longtime readers can look back to Augusts and Januarys past to see my typical not-prepared, too-many-students-too-few-computers dreams.
But is it right to have school anxiety dreams just after the end of the semester?
I had an 11 o'clock exam to give. When I woke up, it was still darkish but I checked my watch. It seemed to say about 5:15. No problem. But when I woke up again, the hands had fallen off my watch and were rattling around in there under the crystal. It was nearly noon!
I was back at the Edith C. Baker School in Brookline Massachusetts where it all begin for me in 1950, desperately hunting for 225 Maine Hall EMCC, Bangor Maine, desperately hoping that my students would have waited for me. I hunted and hunted and hunted and hunted....
Students! I will be there at 1 pm today! I will be there at 8 am tomorrow!
May 5. When do you have to worry?
When people start reassuring you about something you never before had even dreamed of considering a problem.
"Don't worry, John. That spinach you ate last night wasn't infected with flu--trust us, we're sure."
"Don't worry, John. There aren't any three-foot rats living in your attic. How could there be?"
"Don't worry, John. Your new reading glasses won't make you go blind. How likely is that?--ha ha ha!"
Today's paper reports a double dose of bad news to any state worker nearing retirement age. First, my pay may be frozen for two years, permanently reducing any pension. And, second, even at a reduced payout to John A. Goldfine, the state's pension fund is looking at a half-billion dollar hole just around the time I'm ready to start organizing the missus's kitchen cupboards fulltime.
But both Democrats and Republicans in the legislative assure me: "Don't worry, John. When you give up your job and are depending for income on the promises we made to you decades ago, we'll figure out some way to pay that pension. It won't be easy, but somehow, some way, we'll see to it that your dogs don't starve. It's a promise. Count on it. Trust us. Don't worry. Did we already mention you should trust us?"
April 16. Every year I get a year older than most of my students.
Average age of students at EM is dropping, whereas my average age is a minute older every minute every day. When I started here in 1987, I was a bit more than twice as old as my youngest students....now I'm more than three times as old as the youngest.
So, students get to laugh at the old guy who doesn't know the difference between a cell phone and an I-Pod, or between wireless and wii, who has no clue what is in those ginormous containers from coffee shops his students bring to class.
But I never thought it would get to the point I'd need a translator for life's little moments.
When I was growing up, men greeted each other this way: "Well, how goes the battle?" Life is War metaphor.
Or: "How's business?" Life is All About Money metaphor.
Or: "How's life treating you?" Life as Cruel Mistress metaphor.
Or: "What do you know?" Life is a Crazy Quiz Show metaphor.
Or, if one were feeling especially breezy, "How's tricks?" Life as Carnival Show metaphor.
That's the way it was done. In the movies, you could see Jimmy Cagney being the quintessential cocky streetwise, smalltime hood: "Whaddaya hear? Whaddaya say?". But that was just a variation of "What do you know?"
Still, despite the passing years, I was surprised today when I greeted a student of mine in the hall with, "Whaddaya say?" And he stared at me like 'Huh?' And replied, "About what?"
Polled my class. Asked about most of those greetings mentioned above. Class shook collective head at the old guy asking weird questions.
Fine! You guys don't care? Then I don't care about the difference between a cellphone and an I-pod!
April 2. Here's comes my Cheap Shot of the day! Cheap Shot alert!
Okay, April 2. No, it isn't April Fools Day, though you wouldn't know it by looking at the item in today's BDN: "Bankers' Visit to kids will stress ways to save."
Yes, since 1997, "60,000 bankers have taught basic finance skills to almost 2.8 million young people."
What is wrong in this picture? Banks have been doing wicked, naughty things and are going belly up all over the place! Bankers have been stuffing their pockets with our tax money! Bankers have figured out ways to evict millions of people from their now-boarded-up homes. Bankers lately have given banks, saving, investment, and capitalism a bad name!
And now the bankers want to come into schools and tell children to put their money into crappy savings accounts whose interest rates are less than the rate of inflation, even in times which are not particularly inflationary? It makes much much more sense to indulge yourself and spend it now on a new i-pod than to watch it grow through the magic of compound interest into a big enough wad so that you can invest it in a 401-K when you grow up, kiddies, and then watch it disappear down the black hole the bankers have kindly prepared for your hopes and dreams.
It's bad enough that little kids are expected to believe teachers.... But bankers???
Mar. 23. I've been realizing more and more
that students and I often have diverging ideas about teaching and learning.
If students say they are confused or don't get it or have no idea what they are supposed to be doing--naturally, that threatens a teacher. "OMG," a teacher might be expected to say, "I've failed because there is doubt and confusion and darkness, and I am supposed to be the Giver of Light!"
But over the years (nearly 38 teaching), I think more and more that a little confusion won't hurt, trying and maybe not succeeding right away will not destroy self-confidence, and figuring it out yourself might be the best kind of learning around.
Students tend to say, "Show me what you want, and I'll do it."
But that's too limited. There are no equations I can do on the blackboard. I can't show you completely what It is!
I want to show you the way to what's being asked. I'm less interested in the final production than I am in mistakes, problems, misconceptions, second tries, and so on. You've heard it a million times but it's true--you learn from trying and sometimes failing. That doesn't scare me and it shouldn't scare you, but a lot of people feel like failures if they aren't immediate successes! They haven't got time for anything but doing it right the first time every time (and how is that working out for you?)
So, yes, glad to offer any help I can, but, sure, stretching your mind to the point of pain and frustration is okay.
Mar. 16. Moments:
* I found a green spitball at my desk when I came into 225 at 10 this morning, a good old fashioned spitball, none of these new-fangled, electronic ones--just lock, load, let fly. Before I began my lecturette, I offered to send it student-wards and several customers looked game, but when I thought of spending my declining years giving depositions to lawyers about how I managed to blind a student in one eye, all as part of a 'joke,' haha, I had second thoughts.
* Friday, when a cell phone went off and I instinctively brought my hands together in the classic 'I'm ready to throttle you' pose, the sinning student pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and winged it with great force against the wall behind the trash basket. That's what I call respect! Today that very same student begged for the spitball, but as I said, professionalism asserted itself at the last second.
* I read student writing online every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday--students can count on that. And I will return every live student paper by the following class--again, students can count on it.
But is there any rule about when between classes I am supposed to read the live student papers? If I'm given a paper Friday morning, does it matter whether I read it Saturday or Sunday or...what about Monday an hour or two before class? I think students might think it's irresponsible to be reading a few hours before class, but, really, why? I will have it front and center, ready freddy, all set and prepped to go when the student's fanny hits the wheelychair in Room 225.
So, this past Sunday night, I told my missus I was going to put my papers off til Monday morning. She called me a procrastinator, and I protested, "I'm not procrastinating; I'll be ready for class." At which point, I realized that my wife was precisely right, but that for years, I have been accepting the student definition of procrastination.
When a student tells me he procrastinates, he does not mean he puts it off til the very last second, which is what my wife was accusing me of. The student means he blows through all deadlines and warnings and waits until about five weeks past the very last second. That's his definition of procrastination! And that's the definition I somehow got into my mind. I was telling my wife I wasn't doing that! I'd be ready JIT-style, just in time!
Gotta start correcting that mis-definition. Student, I am a procrastinator, but you? You are a dead-butt lazybones.
March 14. My poltergeist is back. Here's what I wrote back in the summer of 2007 about the poltergeist's attentions to my name card on the door of Room 155:
For several years, my name card on the room door has been defaced by what look like spattered coffee stains. When I replace the card, new stains quickly appear. By the end of Spring 2007 semester, the ink had so run on the card that phone numbers, email addresses and so on were illegible.
I t all seems both trivial and beyond solution, but when I was in today I noticed that sometime since the end of the semester my card had been vandalized with what looks like a slashing knife cut. All that remains of the original card is a corner.
So, yesterday as I was locking up and leaving, there it was again...the stain, faint, not on Rob Freeman's card or Thom Amnotte's. On mine.
When I mention to people that someone is persistently vandalizing that card, I get many types of denial in reaction. I am told, variously, that it must be a student doing it (despite it occuring over many years now); that it's a joke; that it's an unsolvable mystery; that it's meaningless. Most annoyingly, people I talk to sometimes stare at me, obviously thinking: 'This crazy a-hole is defacing his own card to get attention in his pathetic little life....'
Truth is I have long suspected who the culprit is.
* Someone I have known for 22 years
* Someone with a notorious penchant for the antic
* Someone who refuses to look me in the eye in the hall or greet me with more than an incomprehensible mutter
* Someone with the reputation for a sunny disposition whose dark side I have seen
Yes, that someone. I wish they'd cut it out.
.
March 4. This blog dates back to October 2003 (Halloween, actually) (when some of my current readers were still in middle school.)
Even during summers, I don't think I've ever let a month go by without posting, so February of 2009 was a first.
I'm not sure why that happened. My school life is still full of incident. I still get pissed off at stupid crap I read or am forced to listen to, and, not coincidentally, The Important People are still around. I haven't been particularly depressed. My classes are not going particularly badly. My health is good for an old guy, my sense of humor as good--or bad--as ever. My family, knock on wood, is also healthy. I get a paycheck every other week. As ever, I continue to drink my daily bottle of beer (every day since mid-1965) and as ever, each night after supper I am tempted (without yet surrendering) to smoke a Toscano- style cigar. I have plans for the garden, for my canoe, for my hiking boots, for my horses. My 40th Wedding Anniversary approaches, and no doubt the champagne will flow.
And I don't recognize any such creature as Writer's Block.
So, if just about everything is going so peachy grand in my little English teacher life, what is the problem with the blog?
I've decided to blame my silence on the weather. Part of my daily routine is supposed to be me, the missus, and the dogs taking one, two, three, or four walks, the longest about 45 minutes, the shortest about 20. But it's been over a month since I was able to actually walk a dog.
I'm not talking about stumbling around on the Devil's Slippers, aka Snowshoes, watching the dogs flounder in the drifts until they finally, sadly, and prematurely turn back for home. I'm talking simple walking, where I can watch the dogs race off into the underbrush after who knows what; where I can laugh as Timmie, who can outrun anyone, still can't stop Scoot from knocking him over and thrashing him; and where I can mosey up to a handy bush to start a parade of pyramid pissing, as each dog tries to top me.
Yes, I've been walking three miles daily on the road but those walks with dogs seem to be an essential part of my psychic well-being (not to mention the dogs'--they are depressed....), and since those walks have stopped, I have not had the impulse to blog either. Cause, correlation, or merest coincidence?
I report, you decide.
Jan 31. This message came into my anonymous bee-yatch line a few days ago. Here it is and my response:
ok. so no offense to you as a teacher. you are a good teacher im sure in the right setting. but i have you for english and i feel that i get just as much out of our online course assignments as I do in class, probably the same amount or more. i mean, why isnt this class considered an oline course, i have to haul ass from my house before your class. because my first class is out at 930. its a nice break between but it seems this class is a waste of time if i only go to show face. and your online outline is cool because if i miss a class i dont have to worry about missing things in class cause its all right there. but am i going to get penalized for missing your classes......?
im actually really busy and why go to a class i just show face in if i can learn the same from the online site.
but you are a good guy and im not trying to put you down. cause your funny in class and supportive. but it frustrates me.
bye for now
As the semester goes on, I do less and less lecturing and more and more of my teaching face-to-face, one-to-one. You write something, and I will sit down with you and talk about it--very much the way I'm talking to people right now about isearch topics.
That's how I do most of my teaching. I want you in class so I can talk to you about writing, not so that I can check your name off a list.
I think that what I've described above is a good way of teaching and learning, but it is not, perhaps, what you are used to in other classes or schools, and my approach may definitely not be right for you and maybe you'd be happier in a class with more lecturing and traditional structure or, alternatively, in my online class.
I often sense students' disappointment in me. Many students are happiest with what they know, even if all they know about what they know is that they don't like it. Real teachers give worksheets, insist on outlines, offer tons of red pen corrections, plan long lectures, give lots of notes and quizzes, go on endlessly about grades, have strict attendance policies and flamethrower deadlines.
By these standards I am a long way from being a real teacher. I might look at first glance like one of those horrible burnout teachers who are only waiting for the paycheck and retirement. But that would be a huge misreading of me! Check it out!
Jan. 21. I've written before of my love of D1, the vending machine call code for Austin Cheese Crackers with Peanut Butter, and I must confess that when I arrived in school Friday Jan. 16, I had a cracker jones I did not deny or delay. Those six little bad boys were long gone before my 10 o'clock class.
I was not surprised this morning that the vending machines at school had been stripped bare since Friday.... Those crackers and a million other brands have been recalled due to possible salmonella contamination whose symptons are typically nausea, diarrhea, and vomiting.
But you probably do not want to know what particular events over my weekend made me so unsurprised today.... Let me repeat though, I was totally not-surprised....
Jan. 21. If only I could hit the bag a little--the heavy bag, the speed bag. But the heavy bag is leaking guts, duct-taped, and is shaped like a beat-up shoe. The speed bag has disappeared, and the swivel and backboard for it were useless for years anyway. So my gloves and my peanut speed bag gather dust in my locker.
While I was pumping out a few pathetic pec sets in the gym today, I watched a posse of young men toss a few punches at the heavy bag and the little green rubber man who sits on a heavy base. Wow! Those guys are full of testosterone, strong, fast, and have some steam to release. Their casual dada-dada-bomp had more behind it that anything I could ever summon. No one could ever be hurt by one of my punches, unless it was me breaking my fist...but those guys could be out collecting debts for loan sharks....
Jan. 20. I did a lot of work on ML King Day, but all of it was paid work--reading and commenting on student writing. Not the sort of roll-up-your-sleeves volunteer work, President-Elect Obama has in mind.
The only thing I did for anyone other than myself yesterday happened as I walked along the Upper Oak Hill Rd. Six feet to my left was a vole racing along the snow berm. I'm not much for rodents, and if my cats had caught her, I wouldn't have blinked. If she'd been nibbling at my fruit trees or vegetables, I'd dispatch her myself.
I stopped to watch and the vole stopped too and then tumbled down the berm onto the shoulder. She (the vole looked so much like a miniature version of my dog Boca that I couldn't help thinking of the creature as female) ran halfway across the road and stopped.
Here's where my volunteerism came in. I walked over and tapped my boot behind her; she ran to the far shoulder and again stopped. This time I touched her butt with my finger and up the berm she raced: safe for the moment.
Jan.
19.
I'm
with
Dr.
Martin
Luther
King
Jr.
I
want
to
be--and
want
everyone
to
be--
judged
by
the
content
of
their
character,
not
the
color
of
their
skin,
which
is
why
I am
so
tired
of
reading
(at
least
three
times
in
today's
BDN)
that
Barack
Obama
will
be
our
first
black
president.
It's
said
with
such
a
self-congratulatory
air,
as
if
there
can't
be
any
racism,
evil,
prejudice,
bigotry,
or
hatred
in
OUR
hearts,
oh
no--because
we
are
a
country
that
has
just
elected
its
first
black
president.
But
there
really
are
no
winners
once
we
start
down
the
road
of
judging
skin
color
to
be
worthy
of
notice,
when
we
start
thinking
that
justice
requires
that
every
category
gets
its
turn.
When
do
we
get
our
first
black
president
whose
ancestors
arrived
here
in
slave
ships?
When
do
we
get
our
first
woman
president?
When
do
we
get
our
first
black
woman
president?
When
do
we
get
our
first
gay
president?
Our
first
black
gay
president?
Our
first
black
lesbian
president?
Our
first
Asian-American?
Our
first
Jewish-American?
Our
first
Muslim-American?
Our
first
Mormon?
Our
first
First
People
president?
'When
do
we
get
an intelligent,
honest,
sensible,
decent,
modest,
tolerant,
competent
president?'
is
the
only
question
worth
asking
and
the
only
president
worth
electing,
whatever
race,
religion,
or
background
that
president
sports.
Jan.
14.
Great
moments
in
communication.
I'm in
Room
225,
giving a
woman
student
directions
to IT.
"Out the
door,
turn
left,
down the
stairs,
turn
left, last
door on
your
left."
She
walks
toward
the
hall. A
little
alarm
bell
rings,
rings,
rings.
"Wait! I
just
gave you
directions
to the
men's
room!
Last
door on
your
right!
Not your
left,
your
right!"
She
gives me
a look:
another
pointy-headed
prof who
can't
even
park his
bicycle
straight.....
Jan. 14.
Parallels.
I'm standing
right under
the ceiling
fixture in
the kitchen,
left hand a
few inches
from my
nose,
fingers straight
up,
thumb cocked,
and a
needle in my
right hand
jabbing the
ball of my
left thumb.
From my
point of
view, I'm
getting as
much light
as possible
on the pesky
stickle,
thorn, or
splinter
that is
bedeviling
me every
time I put
my tight
gloves on.
That's not
what Boca
sees. She
is very used
to hand
signals in
training:
sit, lie,
stay, sit
pretty, bow,
jump, up,
down, turn
away, roll
over, and so
on are all
on hand and
word
signal. But
this thing
I'm doing
now. Am I
telling her
to sit? To
stay? It
looks like
something all
right, and
she would
love to obey
my command,
whatever it
is, and get
rewarded,
but, damned
if she can
figure out
what I want.
What's a dog
to do?
Well, she
decides to
woof at me.
"Hey, doofus,"
she says,
"get with
the
program! If
you want
something,
tell me. If
you don't,
put your
hand in your
pocket or in
the
woodstove
for all I
care." She
woofs a
second time
when I
ignore her.
I'm standing
in Room 225,
9:58 am,
first class
of 2009,
waiting for
the big hand
to hit the
twelve so I
can start.
I have my
eye on the
second hand,
waiting,
waiting,
when I
suddenly
notice...dead
silence, 30
eyes
all staring
at me.
I get it!
These guys
have all had
that
teacher, the
one who is
far too
important to
say what he
actually
wants.
Students are
supposed to
just
know.... So
he stands
there
waiting for
total
silence,
total
attention,
total
respect.
And god help
you if you
fail his
test! He'll
tear
your ears
off with
sarcastic
lectures
about your
lack of mat-oor-ity
and your bad
attitude.
So, my
students
think I'm
giving them
a silent
command,
and, first
day of
class, no
way do they
want to miss
the signal.
It's
just--it
wasn't a
signal. It
was me
waiting on
the clock.
When it's
actually
showtime,
I'm not shy
about
calling the
masses to
classes,
trust me!
You won't
have to
guess!
At least my
so-called
signal
didn't cause
anyone to
woof at
me....
Jan. 7. How do
teachers spend
vacation?
Studying in
libraries,
writing
scholarly
papers,
re-reading
Shakespeare from
start to
finish? That's
for some of my
colleagues
maybe, but my
days are spend
more humbly.
Take yesterday:
My temporary
crown had been
on there so long
that the top had
worn away
exposing the
ground-down
molar beneath.
Off to the
dentist where
the new crown
was cemented in
without any
problem.
My silly dentist
had suggested a
gold crown at
first, but I
wasn't
interested
unless it could
have an inlaid
diamond (which
would let me
start my
celebrity
career) so when
my students see
me Monday, if I
open wide in
class, just
classic offwhite
porcelain....
This must be my
45th crown. I'm
afraid to open
wide and count.
You do it.
But why go in to
the dentist for
only one thing?
What about that
honking cavity
that was tearing
up my gums and
making every
meal a
negotiating
session between
pain and the
need to feed?
The dentist
really didn't
want to know
about it.
He had suggested
back around
Halloween that
my problems were
probably due to
oral cancer, old
age, lack of
exercise, a mean
disposition, and
a totally
wasted, misused
life, but
fortunately he
had a hygenist
who had the
bright idea of
x-raying
me--it's this
machine, you
see, which peeks
right through
your skin to the
problems
beneath! He was
quite angry that
she gave me the
xrays without
his leave, but
in the end had
to admit that
there was
something up in
there he
supposed could
be regarded as a
cavity.
Bam! He filled
that right up
yesterday.
Afterwards, I
felt like
James Brown!
So good, so
good, boom boom
boom boom!
Then I went and
had coffee with
a colleague and
a retired
colleague. I
petted the
retired
colleague's dog,
drank a lot of
coffee not quite
as thick as
mine, and we all
three gossiped
about EMCC,
slandered the
administration
shamelessly,
jested about
everything
sacred, and had
a fine time.
On to grocery
shopping.
Grabbed some
under-$5
haddock,
pull-date 1/8.
When I got it to
the check-out,
man, I sniffed
it--and fish
should not
smell, but it
did; I thought
of the date,
rationalized,
and bought it.
But by the time
I unloaded it,
whew, it had
stunk the car
and the kitchen
both. Missus
said, "No!' very
firmly and that
was that.
I grabbed the
register slip
for the
inevitable
return, but, lo
and behold, the
cashier, already
upset about a
bad can of tuna
she found in my
basket (perhaps
thinking that
the dented can
of tuna was what
was stinking up
her station),
had not rung up
the haddock.
(Why oh why do I
shop so
faithfully at
the
Whatchamacallit
Grocery???)
So, the haddock
wound up as
kitty treat,
but...as fate
would have it,
the cats in the
barn were
terrified by
that fish and
headed for the
hills as soon as
missus laid it
down for them.
Maddie the
collie will no
doubt eat it,
puke it, and we
will deal with
it one last time
as we toss it
into tomorrow's
snowdrift, from
whence it will
surely disappear
somehow by early
May.
I walked the
dogs for an hour
or so, good time
had by all as we
went over the
hill to the lake
and back--they
don't know it,
but with snow
and ice in the
forecast they
may not get this
walk again until
Patriot's Day.
Then I made my
famous Poor
Man's
Vegetarian-Wife
Lasagne
(rigatoni, no
lasagne
noodles, three
cheeses layered
on top, baked on
the woodstove,
you don't want
to hear about a
sauce missing
sausage,
hamburger, and
all the stuff
that makes
lasagne worth
eating.)
Then I lay down
on the couch and
began re-reading
that pesky
Shakespeare....
Jan. 3.
Long time readers know that school
anxiety dreams are a
regular part of this
teacher's night-time
existence. 37 years in
the saddle has not made
me immune. Last night,
I had the first one of
the new year....
...I was in the math
classroom at my junior
high school, not notably
a scene of much glory
for me, but in fact I
was there to teach
college composition, ENG
101, my bread-and-butter
course. My old
girlfriend, in real life
also an English teacher,
was there in her
real-life prim blue
blazer and prim gray
flannel skirt and prim
blue pumps with the prim
little heels.
I wanted to impress her
with my humor, control
of the class, knowledge
of the material, and
ability to teach it, but
wanting and getting are
two different things.
I couldn't find my
assignment chart so I
didn't know what I was
supposed to be teaching
and while I desperately
hunted in my bag for
anything that would give
me a clue, my students
began cutting up: "Mr.
Goldfine, did you
hand back my essay?"
"John, can you give me
my grade average to
the nearest tenth?"
I kept trying to
tapdance past the
reality that I had no
idea what I was supposed
to be doing, but
students know
when teachers are
vamping, and side
conversations started,
ignoring me. My old
girlfriend sat still, no
doubt judging and
finding me wanting and
in my embarrassment, I
started saying dumb
things I wouldn't dream
of actually saying in
class, things like,
"Don't piss me off!"
And "Just because I'm
not ready is no reason
to...."
And when I couldn't get
anyone's attention I
bulldozed the teacher's
desk ten feet into the
room, pushing against
the student desks. One
dumb thing after
another....
My wife says I was
moaning in my sleep so
she woke me up, and I
woke up cursing, "Oh
s---, oh f---!" And
that was my dream.
But
now in the light of day,
I expect to be in Room
225 Maine Hall January
12, 2009, hot to trot,
loaded for bear, ready
to teach, all my papers
in order....
Dec.
8. Even with only two live
classes
(three online), I spend
nearly as much time
commuting as I do
teaching in Room 223 so what
happens on that 34 mile, 45
minute strip between
Swanville and Bangor matters
considerably to my life and
mental outlook.
Sometimes I listen to CDs,
but my CD machine only holds
six disks and is located in
my trunk. Sometimes a year
goes by before I overcome
inertia and change those
disks. I have heard various
Ry Cooder, Van Morrison, and
BB King songs so many times
I almost feel that I could
actually sing them, silly as
that is.
So,
more often I listen to the
radio. Going up, I'll check
out the news on MPBN and
then when I get tired of
those serious, earnest
voices.... More serious
earnest voices on WERU,
talking in their patented
self-congratulatory,
sanctimonious way about
peace and vegan food, but
occasionally playing a
blues, country, oddball song
I like.
I
used to listen to Imus
sometimes but wasn't sorry
when he talked himself out
of his job. There's Hannity
now, who doesn't even
pretend to be funny or
entertaining like Rush in
the afternoon or Howie Carr.
Hannity just is nasty.
Rush is nasty and totally
going nuts with Obama, which
is both amusing and
distressing--can more than
half of the voters have
chosen a vicious monster to
be their leader? Howie is
very very funny--always mean
but mean in a resentful,
contemptuous, edgy way I
understand perfectly.
I used
to listen to Bob and Sherri
in the morning--I loved Bob
and Sherri and Lamarr and
Max and don't know why I
stopped listening. I hit
them this morning for the
first time in two years and
was laughing almost
immediately: they are a
first class act, playing off
each other perfectly.
Why did
I so decisively give up
something I loved? And why
did I go slinking back this
morning?
Ah, you
may well ask....
Nov. 13. I was reading an
article recently
about how: "Yiddish speakers
speak not so much with
individual referring words as
with such clusters of relations,
ready-made idioms, quotations
and situational responses. Since
each word may belong to several
heterogeneous or contradictory
knots, ironies are always at
hand."
It occurred to me that, although
I don't speak Yiddish, my
language is full of dozens of
ready-mades. I don't know
why this should be so--although
my grandfather's first language
was Yiddish, he never spoke it
to me. Maybe it has
something to do with watching
and loving so many comedians who
grew up with Yiddish and who
used English as if it were
Yiddish.
I started listing things I
say--reflexively and often--to
cover various recurring
situations--here's a guide to
understanding John A. Goldfine:
Phrase.........................................................................Translation
|
Give it a whirl
|
Try!
|
|
Born to be wild!
|
Getting on my
motorcycle!
|
|
Born to be mild....
|
Getting on my motorcycle
but feeling more English
teacher than Hells Angel
|
|
Hot to trot!
|
Eager,
enthusiastic--let's do
it!
|
|
Running on empty....
|
Read too many student
essays....
|
|
I'm whupped....
|
See 'Running on empty'
|
|
Sounds like a plan.
|
Good idea, let's do it.
|
|
|
|
|
Be good or be gone.
|
Getting tired of your
jive.
|
|
Tired of your jive!
|
I've had enough!
Except that I say it to
my missus about 79 times
a day, and in 45 years I
still haven't gotten
completely tired of her
jive, so one has to
wonder just how tired I
am.
|
|
|
|
|
X also ran.
|
Somebody has to be a
loser.
|
|
The no's validate the
yes's.
|
Sugar will always taste
sweeter if you add a
little salt too.
All-sugar does
not cut it.
|
|
It can't be wrong when
it feels so right.
|
It's probably illegal.
Forget it.
|
|
On a scale of 1 to
1001? 36!
|
I feel like crap, of
course--how do I look?
|
|
That's a theory.
|
You're entitled to your
opinion, however dumb it
is....
|
|
That's what makes horse
races.
|
You're entitled to your
opinion, however
foolish.
|
|
We aim to please...all
others we shoot.
|
Glad you like it.
If you don't, to heck
with you!
|
|
Every day.....
|
Yes, I've been John
Goldfine EVERY DAY since
1945!
|
|
Seems to be the case.
|
Well, yeah, duh, of
course.
|
|
There you go!
|
Well, yeah, duh,
of course.
|
|
Too frippin true.
|
Well, yeah, duh, of
course.
|
|
What does that tell
you?
|
Well, yeah, duh, of
course.
|
|
Tell me something I
don't know.
|
Well, yeah, duh, of
course.
|
|
Y'think?
|
Well, yeah, duh, of
course.
|
|
Pretty much!
|
Well, yeah, duh, of
course.
|
|
Greatest thing since
sliced bread.
|
Good work!
|
|
Bee's knees!
|
Good work!
|
|
Can't beat it with a
stick!
|
Good work!
|
|
Hot stuff!
|
Good work!
|
|
Hot stuff!
|
Get outa my way--quick!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
I have here a check for
one million dollars!
|
I have here a big
handful of nothing.
|
|
Don't say I never gave
you nothing!
|
Here--just for you!
|
|
You're stealing the
food out of my baby's
mouth!
|
Aw' let me be the
English teacher and wear
the black hat; you be
the student.
|
|
Don't shuck a shucker!
|
Can't fool me!
|
|
My IQ is well into the
double digits.
|
Can't fool me!
|
|
Pays your money, takes
your choice.....
|
Toss up situation....
|
|
That's all there is,
there ain't no more.
|
I'm tapped right out.
|
|
Home again!
|
Thank god, home again!
|
|
And that's just the B's
(or D's or...)
|
Bewitched, bothered,
bewildered ( or
'depressed, distressed,
dismayed', etc
|
|
Is you is or is you
ain't?
|
How 'bout it?
|
|
Bigger than a breadbox?
|
Tell me more.
|
|
Don't go there...
|
...really.
|
|
You know my methods,
Watson.
|
I'm pretty predictable.
|
|
That's the kind of man
you're married to....
|
Explaining to the missus
some new dumb thing I've
done--implying that she
ought not to be
surprised after 45 years
of living with me.
|
|
Hi ho!
|
It's off to work I go!
|
|
Time to smite the
heathen, hip and thigh!
|
It's off to work I go!
|
|
Off to the see the
wizard....
|
I'm outa here.
|
|
See you in September.
|
I’m outa here.
|
|
Syanuckinfara
|
I’m outa here.
|
|
|
|
|
If you don't believe
I'm leaving, you can
count the days I'm gone.
|
I'm outa here.
|
|
|
|
|
Serve it forth….
|
I cooked it, missus—you
put it on the table.
|
|
Don’t spare the horses!
|
Give it all you got!
|
|
Must be nice!
|
I don’t really envy
you—but if I did….
|
Nov. 3. The dogs aren't
doing Daylight Savings
and so were up at 5 this morning
complaining about our sleepy
ways, moaning, crying, barking,
whining, clicking toenails,
tapping tambourines, whatever it
took.
I lay there, realizing I had a
very bad headache, drifting back
and forth over
the threshold between awake and
asleep. When I finally
persuaded myself to sit up, I
gagged and retched, a matter of
great interest to Chloe, who was
lying on my wife's pillow and
thought I might bring up a snack
for her. The house was in
the low fifties but I was
burning up, pouring sweat, but,
still, my forehead was dead
cold. Whew, I felt like
major shucks.
Took my aspirin, blew my nose,
made my coffee, fried my toast
(a habit I got into during the
Great Icestorm ten years ago),
read the paper, tried to imagine
myself driving to Bangor,
getting up in front of my class
(not that I stand up), and
teaching. Gathered as much
pity from the missus as possible
and found my car keys.
I was next to delirious by the
time class started, what with
fever, headache,
lightheadedness, and general
overall woozy.
So, I'm in the hall propping up
the green lockers and patrolling
for any late-comers, thinking
about the lecturette I was about
to deliver, feeling the
anxiety build of a naturally shy
person who does not like to
speak in public as he prepares
to speak in public, laughing at
the fact that a teacher with 37
years on the books would feel
nervous--until finally...it is
time to stand and deliver.
I step into Room 223 and begin
closing the door.
SCREEE-EEEK! That puppy
could use some oil. I
re-open the door.
"Hey, class, hey ya!"
They slowly turn from the
computers; they are wary: I only
have one way of summoning the
faithful to their education and
it goes: "Hey, ladies and
gentleman, boys and girls of all
ages, lend me your ears and spin
away from those fascinatin'
computers and come into my inner
office. Come on, come on,
closer, closer, step into my web
said the spider to the fly.
Come on, all the way."
And I wasn't saying all that--no
wonder they are wary.
Instead I say:
"Hey, hey ya, Room 223 went to a
Halloween party Friday night and
dressed as a haunted house.
Check out the costume."
And I close the door:
SCREEE-EEEK!
A few laughs, but still not
quite enough of the adrenaline
jolt I need. So I spread
my arms and sing in a big phony
bass voice: "Goo--oood morning,
boys and girls!" And then
I wave them into my web, or, as
a sharp student pointed out last
week, "Mr Goldfine, it's
supposed to be 'Come into my
parlor,' not 'Welcome to my
web....'"
And they come, by golly, pretty
quickly, probably afraid the
singing will start again if they
don't.
I sit down and start my spiel
about the isearch. The
door opens. A student with
a white clamshell container pops
in , grabs a chair, sits, looks
studious, opens clamshell,
removes a foot long sausage on a
stick, takes bite. I'm
deep into the intricacies of the
Collected Data section of the
isearch, but when I glance over
and see that damned sausage, I
totally lose it.
(Remember, I'm delirious with
fever.) I put my head on
the table laughing.
I look up and ask him, mock
seriously, "Have you got enough
there to share with everyone?"
And then I lose it all over
again. He begins pulling
mysterious wrapped items out of
the clamshell until I wave him
away and head back to
Isearchland for a good long
stretch, hoping to reestablish
my credentials as Mr. John A.
Goldfine, Doesn't Crack a Smile
Before Christmas.
Oct. 28. It all started
with a grape Tootsie Pop,
nice hard sugar-syrup wrapped
around a Tootsie Roll center,
which is made of, I assume, lots
more sugar and some sort of
artificial choko-flaveur.
One day many years ago, some
colleague or student or someone
dumped a pile of Tootsie Pops on
my desk. I swept them into
my top drawer and have been
sucking on them ever since.
That's what I was doing two
weeks ago as I yakked to my
favorite adjunct, Ms Louise, in
my office. Except I rarely
suck. I actually crunch.
And when I'm done crunching,
because I miss smoking so darned
much (last cigarette 12/14/67) I
leave the stick in my mouth and
roll it around until it's pulped
and disgusting.
This day, as I crunched that
Pop, I got more than I bargained
for....
I have lost teeth and
fillings to pork chop bones, to
unpopped popcorn, to crusty
french bread (I bit down funny),
but this was my first lollipop
accident. I started
spitting out bits of amalgam and
called my dentist the next day.
I got in at 7:30 this morning
and lay comfortably in one of
those sleep-inducing dentist
chairs. Doc came in, poked
around a little. I can have a
quick patch or a crown, he tells
me--we've had this identical
conversation many times before,
and I'm not quite ready to admit
that my days on earth are so few
as to be covered by a quick
patch, so I say, "Crown."
While his assistant takes my
x-ray, he goes across the hall
to his second patient. I
can't help hearing that she's in
about the same situation I'm
in--does she want a patch or a
crown? Oh, but wait,
wait--his voice (I can't see
him) is different than it was
when he asked me. If he'd
had that tone with me, I'd have
reared half out of that dentist
chair trying to get a reading of
his face.
She says in an old lady voice
('old' means older than me),
"Oh, a patch is fine, I guess,
Doctor."
And he comes back in to me.
"Are you working today?" he
asks.
"Working on line. I'm
teaching three classes on the
internet."
"Is that a lot different than
teaching live?"
"Yeah, I wind up teaching the
subject more. When I have
live students, I have to
consider their personalities,
their quirks, their faces
and body language, and I teach
the student more than the
material some days." He
doesn't look like I've really
shed an adequate amount of
sunshine and light on the
differences between online and
live. I say, "I couldn't
help overhearing your
conversation just now. The
difference between online and
live is like the last five
minutes here. You ask two
people the same question, but
you asked in different ways and
got different answers."
That makes him laugh. "I
did say it differently, didn't
I? And I knew you'd be
listening...."
"And I knew you knew I'd
be listening."
Doc says, "Well, when I start
doing all my dentistry online,
all I'll do is fill those
cavities. No more
personalities and quirks."
Then he got that drill buzzing,
and the conversation was over.
Oct. 6. A typical John A.
Goldfine breakfast:
big bowl of unsweetened
goatsmilk yogurt sprinkled with
wheatgerm and flaxseed; two
apples; two oranges; a bowl of
unsweetened oatmeal; two slices
of unbuttered and untoasted
homemade whole wheat bread
dribbled with molasses; all
washed down with organic herbal
tea.
:) Just kidding!
I was wandering around class
this morning and saw ace student
DC eating some of those round
crackers with cheese filling
sold in the vending machines.
(I prefer the square day-glo
orange ones with peanut butter
filling--D1 in the vending
machine closest to my office.)
I just couldn't resist sticking
my nose in. In my
chirpiest home-ec teacher voice,
I said, "Hey, DC, breakfast is
the day's most important meal!"
She replied, "I hate breakfast!"
I smiled, thinking what a
repulsive hypocrite I was.
I said, "Tell you the truth,
this is a case of
do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do 'cause
my breakfast today was two cups
of black coffee and an Isamax
gingerbread whoopie pie."
Even DC looked a little
home-ec-teacherish at that
confession....
Oct. 5 As a high school
junior
I thought A. was a thousand
miles above me--she was a
senior, class of '62. But
I sure liked her style, so much
so, in fact, that I was pretty
tongue-tied around her. I
just sort of watched and admired
A. from a distance, a distance
of a thousand miles.
But A. had a friend, W., who I
liked the other way--just as a
chum, a bud, a pal. Her I
could talk to, and we laughed at
each other's jokes and told each
other about our lives.
Eventually, with W. acting as a
sometime go-between, I got over
a little of my shyness and at
the end of my junior year, A.
and I became an item for a
little while.
But I still couldn't talk to
her. I really didn't
want to talk to her.
Some people you find easy and
sympathetic; others live in
mystery beyond a wall. A.
was a mystery--and talking was
not exactly the point of the
relationship anyway.
And then A. & W. went on to
college and I finished my senior
year and we all lost touch for a
long time, but sometime around
1990, I began writing W. and
talking on the phone (she lives
in Seattle) and then emailing,
and a couple of times when she
came east I'd go to Boston to
see her. We still
understood each other and still
had fun shooting the breeze.
Once, we saw A. in New York, and
not only could I still not talk
to her, but I was no longer
attracted to her either.
What business did she have being
30 years older than the last
time I'd seen her!
Maybe you're thinking about now
that W. should have been the
heart-throb for me from the
beginning, since she was the
girl I actually liked, as
opposed to lusted after.
But no. Just the way some
people live behind mysterious
walls--others just are not
fancied by that primitive part
of the brain that goes hunting
for a genetic partner.
I talked to W. on the phone this
morning. She was all in a
state because our high school
was having reunions and, rather
than sending out letters to the
Class of '62, the school just
sent a sort of dear-all,
inviting all 60s graduates to a
dinner.
She was outraged that they had
respected her so little that
they couldn't have a special
dinner and a special letter for
her class. It was the same
sort of disrespect they'd shown
us 45 years ago! W. was
having a fine old time being
offended, being a victim,
nursing her hurt feelings.
But for once, I didn't get it at
all. W. was on the other
side of that wall. Really,
I said, who gives a hang?
I can't say I don't nurse
injustices, but this one escaped
me altogether, and I had a raft
of online papers to read for ENG
101 and 162, so...we said
goodbye, not quite as good
friends as before, perhaps.
Sept. 24. I was on the town
planning board
years ago and we approved a
housing development called
Eastwind overlooking Swan Lake.
The developers logged over the
whole area, built a very steep
and narrow dirt road up the hill
(much steeper than the Board had
approved), and then tried
selling lots.
One look at that road would have
scared away any builder who
knows what winter is like in
Maine, and I don't believe the
development had any bites.
Then one of the developers went
to Tommytown for raping little
boys in an old barn on the
property, and the whole thing
sort of folded.
But the road was still there
and my wife and I have walked
down it on foot with dogs or on
horseback many many times.
Where the road ended, up on the
hill, became a Spot.
A Spot to dump crankcase oil.
And condoms. White goods.
Brush. Beer cans.
Deer carcasses. Bags of
trash.
Two times my wife and I have
stumbled on couples without the
price of a motel doin' it up
there on blankets.
Fortunately we were on horseback
those times and had no dogs with
us. I've never yet met a
dog who reacted with anything
but outrage to the thought of
humans grunting and rolling
around in the middle of a dirt
road. Horses might
be startled but aren't nearly as
judgmental.
Lately action seems to be
picking up on the dirt road.
Last week I met a couple of
jokers in the woods who
apparently were just out for a
casual hike (the first hikers
I've seen in 35 years, but so
what!) One of them was in
camo, wore a knapsack, and had a
big old machete with an electric
tape handle. Their van was
at the Spot and a woman was in
it, smoking. I'm not
Sherlock Holmes, but that
knapsack/machete combo did make
me wonder.
Today there was an SUV there,
and I think it was a couple
again, but this time we had the
dogs with us, and they raced
down the hill to check out the
action. The car started up
and headed off, but was forced
to go slowly with all the ruts
after the rain, and the dogs
trotted along with it--they were
perfectly cool, no barking.
But it was funny to see this
poor couple chased away from
their bower of love by a pack of
five dogs and two laughing and
unsympathetic oldtimers who have
totally forgotten what it's like
to be young, in love, and horny.
Sept. 12. So there I am
in my 10 o'clock class about to
sound off on brainstorming the
isearch when I look down.
On the back of my hand, on the
knuckle of my middle finger is a
large scrape and blood is
welling out, lots of blood.
I make a very inappropriate joke
about having to deal with a
rowdy student (cheap laugh), and
sort of hide it under the table.
A few minutes later I've gone to
the men's room, grabbed a hank
of paper towel to sop the blood,
and am talking to a student at
her computer.
Kind and decent student,
Liltowngirl, comes over with her
little first-aid kit containing
an ointment, some bandaids, and
gauze. I thank her, remind
her that teachers can't accept
gifts from students, and then
tell her I will make an
exception in this case.
Everyone looked relieved that a
nice neat bandaid replaced my
crappy blooded-up paper towel.
Well, how did I get scraped?
When I told my wife, she was
disgusted with my duh-ness*.
I was in the weightroom and took
some barehand swings at the
rubber boxing dummy. After
only a few of the powerful
Goldfine right hooks and
crosses, I was looking at a big
blister, which eventually burst.
Unfortunately, whenever I reach
in my jeans for a dog treat or
my knife or some change, the
scab on the knuckle scrapes
right off again, starting the
blood flowing.
Just before class, I had reached
for my wallet to pay ace
colleague DW for some fancy
coffee beans she'd mail-ordered
for me. With the results
I've described.
* What bothered the missus so
much was she knows darn well
that down in my gym locker I
have both heavy and light boxing
gloves, suitable for pounding
Rocky to smithereens or for
making the light bag ratatat
like a machine gun on a coke
jag. But did I go down and
get them? Was I too lazy?
Or did I say, 'Oh, frick it!'?
I hated to confess, but
there are no secrets from the
missus.
Sept. 8. Between sets in
the weightroom
today I watched four guys
finally get to work pulling up
the old basketball floor, ruined
by rain damage in the Spring of
2007.
If you think there is some fancy
technique or machine for lifting
a basketball floor, think again.
They had one circular saw, a
broom, and a claw hammer apiece.
Not even a wrecking bar, a
ripping bar, or a pry bar.
No respirators, no gloves, no
hardhats, no eyegoggles or
shields, no steel toes.
Doing it the good old way like
back before the darned
government got involved in
everything. I will say one
guy had knee pads!
Imagine if EMCC were a
basketball powerhouse!
Each piece of that floor would
be carefully collected by the
company whose job it would be to
make the wall plaques. A
few inches of basketball court
would be mounted on dark wood
with a brass shield underneath,
saying, "A Little Piece of
Johnston Gym, Home of the EMCC
Golden Eagles. Presented
to you for your many
contributions to education in
Eastern Maine."
Only the big contributors would
get one of these completely
worthless but possibly
sentimentally-valuable objects!
They'd take them back to their
offices and have someone mount
them on their ego wall, along
with awards from local service
organizations and photos of
themselves with politicians
and other notables.
As it is, I suppose that floor
is destined for Sawyer Mountain
or Red Shield.
Sept. 8. So there you are
taking your driver's license
exam and you just can't get that
car parallel parked. You
fail. Too bad. Try
again another day.
Wait a second, not so fast!
That isn't necessarily how the
State of Maine operates.
Maybe the test wasn't valid!
Maybe your boss snapped at you
that morning and put you off
your game. Maybe the
examiner reminded you of your
first spouse, that jerk.
Maybe you "had an emotional
response" to the test so it was
"not an accurate reflection" of
your skills. It might be
"irresponsible to release" your
test results.
Yes, maybe the state should just
throw out the test and give you
a different one, without
parallel parking!
Sound silly? Tell it to
the taxpayers whose tax dollars
go to support the State
Department of Education.
When 78% of the 15,000 students
taking the MEA writing sample
flunked, Susan Gendron's
reaction was to shoo the results
under the rug. "Kids got
ticked off..." at the prompt,
she said. The prompt was,
"Television may have a negative
impact on learning."
But keeping cool is a big part
of writing a persuasive essay.
You can't persuade people if
you're stomping around shouting,
'Why do grownups always pick on
TV! I don't see any
grown-ups I know sitting around
reading Shakespeare instead of
catching the Olympics!
That is such a lame prompt.'
No, you have to marshal your
arguments and appeal to the
reader's mind and heart both.
If you can't do that, why
then--you flunk. And no
matter how hard your teacher or
Susan Gendron make excuses for
you, the essay still is no good,
and it still flunks.
Or it did until recently.
The State of Maine has decided
to scrap the MEA results....
And you may just be in luck if
you are going for a driver's
license soon and have somehow
never managed to figure out that
parallel parking deal.
Sept. 1. Student stares at a
blank screen,
says, "I'm thinking...."
It always reminds me of the old
Jack Benny joke. A mugger
says to the notoriously cheap
Benny, 'Your money or your
life,' and Benny stops, puts his
hand to his chin and replies,
'I'm thinking, I'm thinking!'
Hey, don't think! That's
not the part of your brain where
writing comes from!
Have you ever backed a trailer?
Horse trailer, boat trailer,
wood wagon, tractor trailer?
The last thing you want to do is
think about what you're doing.
If you say, 'Should I be
spinning the wheel clockwise or
counter-clockwise, looking in
the rearview or over my left
shoulder..." you're already
jack-knifed!
To back a trailer successfully
you need experience (the
experience of success and the
experience of failure), muscle
memory, confidence, and the
ability to blank your mind out
and avoid thinking.
To write successfully, pretty
much the same. Ask any
trucker!
Aug. 25. Disorganized
people only get into worse
trouble
when they try organizing
themselves....
Last May I sorted through 21
years of student papers, just
picking out the keepers. I
put a heavy paper clip on them,
slipped them into my
bookbag--promising myself I'd
give them a second look over the
summer and reorganize them even
better. And, then,
naturally, two minutes later,
forgot about them completely.
So, there I am before my first
class this morning, desperately,
hopelessly, sorting through the
folder of 21 years hunting for
'Double Standard Dad',
having, as I say, totally
forgotten about the new,
clipped-together stuff in my
bookbag.
Finally, the penny dropped about
15 minutes into class. If
you're born a slob, as I was,
it's better to know your
weakness and never try to do
better. Ever. Live
with it.
Aug. 22. Confused, miserable,
wondering what this computer
stuff is all about and why you
have to deal with it on top of
your crying baby, your empty gas
tank, your nagging mom, your
mean boss, your play-around
significant other, etc, etc???
Me too!
Until the day before yesterday,
I opened Frontpage, logged in,
got on this website, and did my
thing. But since the day before
yesterday, I’ve downloaded two
new programs, tossed two useless
Ethernet cables, written endless
pleading letters to IT, called
my ISP—oh, man, you do just not
want to know.
If you like you can picture me
right now, sitting on a hassock,
facing my laptop, which is
sitting on a shoebox which is
sitting on a kitchen chair.
My back is killing me,
typing like this.
My human-size computer is
two feet away, not hooked up to
the internet and not owning the
Sharepoint Designer software
required to update my faculty
page.
My comfortable chair is
also sitting two feet away, but
it won’t drop low enough to
access the laptop.
As I said, you don’t want to
know….
Aug. 18. I had a student
many years ago
who worked at Diva's as a dancer
(and now that I come to think of
it, I had another who danced at
La Casa, up past
Millinocket....)
The La Casa student had a kid, a
loan, and a college education to
get and was completely
matter-of-fact about her job.
It wasn't an occasion for jokes,
eye-rolling, winks,
snickers--she needed a job, she
had a job, end of story.
The Diva's student was
different: she brought the job
up herself and immediately said,
"It's not what you think."
I said, "Okay," and never
mentioned it again.
But she did, and
always defensively, angrily,
until I couldn't help but decide
that whatever she did there was
making her pretty unhappy.
I thought of these women the
other day because of my dream.
In my dream Hollywood Slots had
contacted the school and asked
us to create a certificate
program for women in the Escort
Service Industry (it was
just a
dream--Hollywood Slots is in the
gambling business, not escort
services!) I told the
Powers at school that--humans
being the weak and fallen
creatures we are-- the Escort
Service Industry was always
going to wind up in the
newspapers on the court pages.
But the Powers pooh-poohed my
typical negativity and said I
needed to be more
forward-thinking and
entrepreneurial.
Aug. 13. I've reached the
age
when I pay a lot of attention to
the obituaries to see what the
future holds.
One thing I enjoy in the obits
is checking out the first names
of some of the older folks:
not many Scotts, Jasons,
Brandys, or Mandys--but lots of
Avises, Mavises, Violas,
Alberts, and Edgars.
Nicknames, especially for guys,
were big back in the day: Buzz,
Dink, Bud, Dub, Frenchy....
Well, obviously If some kid
tried tagging you with a
nickname like one of those
today, there'd be a recess
lockdown and bullying lawsuit
right behind.
I don't have a
nickname--not Johnny, Jack,
J-Boy, J-Head, J-Go, or anything
like any of those. I call my
wife by her name (Jean), like
mine a classic. The only
nicknames around the house are
the names we call the
dogs, namely:
Scooter: Scoot, Scootie, Scoots,
ScootieBug, ScootieBub, Oot,
Ooteyscay, Scootonius,
Scootonius Maximus, Scootski
Chloe: Chlo, Chloster, Chloina,
Chloke, Cloaca (look it up!),
Chloberry, Miss Chloe, Chlorina
Chlorina, Chloski, Chloey Woey
Maddie: Mads, Mad, Maddylou,
Maddywaddy, Madderina, Madalina,
Madaluna
Boca: Bocalou, Bocaboo, Bocaroo,
Bocarina, Bocabug, Bocabub,
Boke, Miss Boke, Bocaluca,
Bokina, Bocawoca, Bocadel, Boki,
Bokiewokie, Bokiesmokie,
Bocagranday, Pinky (it's a long
story)
Timmie: Tim, Teem, Timster,
Timbalino, Timbub, Timbubtoo,
Timmywimmy
Can you tell from the list who
my favorite is?
Aug 12. Human
communication,
alas, remains mostly a mystery
to this teacher of
communications. So, I keep
my eye on the dogs hoping for a
few clues. Here are some
things I've found out:
* When the neighbor's dogs are
in their pen (which is
rarely--usually they're out and
about on my property, crapping
on my path, infuriating my dogs,
swimming in my pond, eating my
cats' food, barking at me, and
generally being nuisances)...when
they are penned,
they bark a particularly piteous
bark, which makes even me feel a
little sorry for them. My
dogs understand that it is the
bark of a slave, of a prisoner,
and does not require any
response from them except quiet
contempt. They pay no
attention whatsoever.
* When the neighbor's dogs bark
at a deer, my dogs are all
attention, ears up, noses in the
wind.
* When the neighbor's dogs bark
angrily at a stranger in their
yard, my dogs bark angrily too,
then stop and listen.
* When I take Scoot to the store
and come home, the four dogs
left on the porch bark, the bark
that says, 'Unidentified dog in
the 'hood!' Scoot hears
that bark and goes running
behind the barn hunting for the
stranger, never once guessing
that it might be him his pack is
barking at.
* When the coyotes howl at
night, my dogs all race to the
window, bark anxiously, and then
shut up and slink over to me and
the missus, getting as close as
possible.
* When Scoot growls, Timmie and
Maddie cower. Boca and
Chloe know his growl is not for
them and ignore it.
* When Chloe growls, everyone
ignores her and carries on doing
whatever it was that made her
growl originally.
* When Boca growls, everyone
finds something very interesting
to do somewhere far far away
(She weighs 10 pounds to
Maddie's 70.)
* Maddie and Timmie aren't
allowed (by dog ordinance) to
growl, except at each other and
then neither pays the other much
attention.
* When the Thunder God growls,
every dog needs to be touching
me. If I get up for a
glass of water, a cloud of dogs
moves with me, pressing against
my legs--it's very easy to step
on paws at moments like these.
* When I try to talk dog
and growl at a misdemeanant, I'm
ignored. Apparently, my
vocabulary or accent is wrong.
If, however, I refuse to look at
or speak to a dog, in no time
they are hanging around trying
to get on my good side again.
* When I shout at a dog, the dog
is frightened, but also
embarrassed for me that I have
so little self-control.
Powerful animals are not
yappers.
Aug. 7. A man came to the
door today.
He wore a green tee shirt which
said, 'Kiss me, I'm drunk.'
He was smoking, unshaven, and
toothless--and I thought of him
as an old guy, though he might
have been my age or younger.
"Have you got any scrap metal.
Cast iron? Appreciate it...."
I thought about it a second: he
was going from door to door
asking people for something
which, if they were so inclined,
they could take to the scrapyard
themselves and get money for.
But he wasn't a beggar. He was
offering a service in return for
the scrap: clean-up.
When we moved in here in 1973,
all sorts of stuff had been left
behind in the cellar, in the
shed, in the woods behind the
shed: a pedestal grinder wheel,
the kind of pipe you use to
support cellar beams, an
agricultural spreader, a coal
stove, a truck engine, an
ancient reel type lawn mower
with an engine mounted above and
a chain running down to the reel
and to the wheels. Other
stuff. Stuff I haven't
done anything with in 35 years.
Stuff that will make it hard for
my kids to sell this place after
my wife and I are dead.
He made two trips. The
truck engine is buried under the
winter's supply of firewood,
but he promised to come back for
it in the spring.
Aug. 7. Gearing up
mentally--not
for the start of school which
doesn't trouble me-- but for the
inservice faculty development
day which always infuriates me.
I have to work hard now to
inoculate myself against the
anger that results from 6 hours
of unfunny jokiness, droning
voices, trivial material
presented excruciatingly slowly,
and most of all the insulting
cultural
sensitivity 'training,'
mandated by the federal
government, which usually
amounts to someone on a high
moral horse telling assembled
faculty that we are insensitive,
crude, racist, sexist dolts.
So, how is that approach working
out, administrators?
Boyoboy, I hate being preached
at. But that's how the
school year starts for faculty.
Part of my way of inoculating
myself is to read things that
underline how dumb the preaching
approach is and what a big world
it is out there, so big the
cultural-sensitivity warriors
have been left behind, able to
flourish only in the backwaters
of academia.
From a review by Simon Blackburn
in the 8/13 New Republic of a
book by Alan Sokal called
"Beyond the Hoax": back
before 9/11, the writers say,
cultural relativists were in the
saddle. "It didn't do to
thump the table or insist too
much...especially if the ones
being thumped at were victims of
the colonial past or descendants
anxious to claim the status of
victim. In that sacred
sector, respect was the order of
the day, even if it meant
smiling politely at creationist
timetables of earth history,
Hindu versions of science,
homeopathic medicine....
There are times when we have to
do better than 'whatever' and
'anything goes.' A country
needs to understand what is
good, and also what is not good,
about its preferred ways of
living. It needs
to understand what is good, and
why, about its science, history,
and self-understandings...."
Aug. 2. Nice article in
today's BDN
about plans in a Texas school
district to have student
violators of the school dress
code wear prison jumpsuits in
lieu of an in-school suspension.
Good photo of a pudgy Deputy
Superintendent staring at the
jumpsuit as if he already had a
recalcitrant teen rebel in it.
Isn't it nice to be in college
and away from all the incredibly
petty bs that high school often
seems to be about?
Administrators who obsess over
teenage clothing and skin--what
can I say? They spend a
lot more time than is healthy...
obsessing about teenage skin.
In this particular district,
there seems to be a fantasy
about prisoner teens helpless
while stern prison wardens do
'stuff' to them...for their own
good--of course!
Kinky!
Aug. 1. How I Spent My Summer
Vacation...
Aug 1. World War I started
on August 1, 1914. One
result of World War I was the
destruction of the Ottoman
Empire, which led to the
creation of of Iraq and a
promise from the British to
allow Jewish immigration to
Palestine, results we still live
with.
More results we still live with:
the Russian Revolution, the
Nazis, Chinese communism--they
too all stem from events
beginning on that August 1.
Even community colleges owe
their existence to World War
I--without that war and the
Second World War, we might well
be living in a world without
electronics, satellites,
computers, commercial aviation,
mass automobile travel, a
pre-1914 world where even a high
school education was considered
more than most people needed.
Aug.1. Cheer up, writers!
"Eventually, all novelists, if
they persist too long, get
worse. No reason to name
names, since no one is spared.
Writing great fiction involves
some combination of energy and
imagination that cannot be
energized or realized forever.
Strong talents can simply
exhaust their gift, and they
do."
--Larry McMurtry, author of
'Lonesome Dove'
July 18. I know plenty
about school anxiety dreams,
but this wasn't one of them.
It was not one of the classics
where I show up in class
unprepared, too many students,
too few computers.
There's no nice way to say it:
I'd been fired, terminated,
sacked, made redundant, let go,
given my walking papers, told to
hit the highway. After 21
years, EMCC had snitcanned me.
I still don't know why!
I had to give my keys back to
Larry Cossar--and somehow they'd
grown tiny over the years.
(Freudians can snicker now,
'cause we all know what keys
symbolize, eh?) I tried
writing Larry a note that would
say, 'These are my keys,' but
someone in the office was
talking while I was trying to
write, and instead of my words,
I kept writing his down.
He was saying, "Well, according
to the King James Version of the
Bible...."
Bad as it was to lose my job and
my keys, to find myself unable
to write my own words...for this
English teacher, that hurt.
So, later (real time now, no
dream), to banish the image of
the tiny keys, I got my wife to
put on her shorts and my new
raincoat (getting kinky!), and I
took her outside where I sprayed
her down good with the garden
hose (I hope you Freudians
are still paying attention!)....
Yep, the new raincoat works
fine, and I can pack it for my
trip to the rainy places
starting tomorrow.
My neighbors, god love them,
what did they think of the two
old-timers dancing around the
back yard, dogs barking,
spraying each other?
June 28. I like to think
of myself as a Writing Warrior,
open to all assignments, any
style, every challenge, quirky,
funny, persuasive, devastating,
menacing, reassuring--whatever
the situation demands I can do
and do do. I will stand
and deliver. And I will
bring it to the reader in
spades. And I will clamp
my jaws on his jugular until
there are simply no more
metaphors to be mixed!
And what's more: the Writing
Warrior constantly recharges his
batteries by running the motor.
The Writing Warrior Writes, good
times bad times richer poorer
sickness health rain snow
darkness commas no commas, he
writes.
Now you'll note my last
observation here was on June 15
and today is June 28, a time
lapse which hardly squares with
the Writing Warrior ethos....
I keep trying--and failing--to
write about some of the things
that have distracted and
exhausted me this past few
weeks: rebuilding a stone wall,
scything, repairing a tractor
radiator, weeding asparagus and
blueberries, bushhogging,
splitting next winter's
firewood, exercising my horses
and dogs.
I write a graf about how much
better at laying up stone the
oldtimers were than I'll ever
be, or about how the
aristocratic dilettantes in
'Anna Karenina' played at
scything and peasant virtues for
an hour or two (until they got a
little warm and bored), or about
how my vertebrae rebel at the
acceleration of the axhead and
the torque of the scythe, or how
even levers and inclined planes
don't take all the brutality out
of moving stones...but I lose
interest in my own material.
I do
exactly what I order
my students not to do: I write
it, say, 'What a POS,' and dump
it.
I just don't want to write those
grafs and I'm not sure why, so
here I am doing
exactly what my
students do when they are
running on empty: writing a
piece about running on empty.
Usually those pieces are process
essays about not being able to
write process essays--at best,
they can be witty; at worst,
they are smirky, generic, and
pointless.
Two months more of vaykay, and
then, in the immortal words of
Chuck Berry:
"Oh, but tomorrow morning
She'll have to change her trend
And be sweet sixteen
And back in class again."
That 'she' is really 'he', dear
reader, (which is to say, 'me')
or possibly 'you,' future
student or colleague. And
maybe by then, I'll be Sweet
Sixteen, out of my slump and
hitting again, the Big Papi, the
Manny, the happy Warrior.
June 15. The local paper
came with a supplement
this week: "Class of 2008
Graduation Keepsake Edition"
with pictures of Belfast, Mt
View, Searsport, and Isleboro
graduates.
I don't know what other people
do with it. I study the
pictures, imagine the lives the
graduates have had and the lives
they're going to have, starting
the morning after the graduation
parties.
My thoughts go something like:
"Geewhiz, why is he wearing a
baseball hat? And
backwards? That guy looks like
he's about ten. Whew,
she's awfully cute, and this guy
is pretty stuck on himself,
huh--what's up with his hair?
Oh no, not a cowboy hat? I hope
you play in a country band, pal!
Good lord, girl, button up!
And you--wipe that stoner smile
off your face.... Omigod, that
must be so & so's
grandchild--where does time go?
This guy in the trotting sulky
and driving silks--I can respect
that. Heavens, mercy!
Are Big Macs and Dunkin Donuts
the only foods available in this
school district? Hmm,
you're not a Waldo County
native, are you--how did you
like your exchange year?
Haha, you are going to be so
sorry you let this picture get
printed, Miss, so sorry the rest
of your life--how could you!!!
Hmm, this guy's gonna be in my
ENG 101 next fall, and I can
already see he HATES to write."
June 3. Yesterday the BDN
had an article
in which a recent hs graduate
talked about his plan to attend
SMCC to get a firefighting
education. But 'plan' was
not the word he used, nor was
target, goal, ambition, hope,
desire, or objective.
He used the word 'dream.'
To study hard to go to school is
a plan. To earn a degree
in a particular subject is an
ambition. If that sounds
dreary and humdrum, so be it.
First you get the degree.
Then you fight fires until you
can retire. Then you
retire. Then you die.
That sounds like a nightmare,
but god is in the
details--firefighters do good,
necessary work, have fun in the
stationhouse, cook for each
other, work out and stay strong,
marry, have kids, fish at camp,
and so on.
That's a lot less nightmarish,
but it still is not what I'd
call a dream.
A dream has to imply something
so unusual, so unlikely, so
far-fetched (yet still tenuously
possible) that it starts to
lose the quality of reality.
If he'd said that after he got
his firefighting degree he
planned to walk from Tierra del
Fuego to the Aleutians and then
sail single-handed around the
world, that would be a dream.
If he'd said he wanted to breed
monarch butterflies that could
live anywhere and eat anything
and were not subject to the
shrinking environment of their
Mexican winter hideaway, that
would be a dream. If he'd
said he wanted to bring peace to
the world and perfect harmony to
all God's creation, well...that
would be pure crazy--but dreams
have to have a little of that
crazy quality to be dreams.
Becoming a firefighter is a fine
thing to become and will still
leave him plenty of room to
dream.
June 1. The first flush of
summer things done:
garden mostly in, tractor
greased, motorcycle
inspected--and so last night, my
first school dream.
I was meeting a composition
class in a student's house in
Brewer. George W. Bush was
somehow involved and he had 39
pinstriped blue suits, for both
men and women, which the Brewer
student had to hem before class.
Impossible, she said. The
President was annoyed but took
it well.
39 students was a lot!
Nearly twice what my contract
states is my maximum. But
we all crowded into the living
room. Did students want me
to talk about the differences
between writing for television
and movies, about the importance
of both continuity and
cliffhangers in tv and finality
and satisfaction in movies?
Or about isearches?
Mmmm, they all could see I
didn't want to talk about
isearches, but isearches is what
they voted for, so off I went.
End of dream.
This morning, walking the dogs,
I thought about new approaches
to the isearch, about making it
more than a dreary exercise.
As so often when I run into my
own limitations as a teacher, I
start blaming students. Why
can't they be more this or less
that? Why can't they
appreciate the opportunity?
Why do they always-- and why
don't they ever...?
So, I imagine giving angry
little lecturettes I well know I
should never and would never
give. Speeches a baby
teacher, who thinks you catch
more flies with vinegar than
with honey, would give.
That ain't me. But the
impulse to hector, hassle,
insult, sneer, maybe even rant,
is not far from the surface in
the Goldfine psyche.
Between now and the start of
school, I have to figure out
what I actually can do to
glorify that isearch.
May 16. Wandering around
this morning, nothing to do--I've
gone from top gear to reverse
overnight. Check my email.
Check my student blogs,
but--face it!--the grades are
in, and, other than fielding
complaints and tinkering with my
syllabus, there's nothing left
to do for three months.
My missus says it's
post-prison-release syndrome,
noting that this syndrome is not
in DSM. She just invented
it. "You need the guards
to tell you to get up, to go to
breakfast. You can't
handle freedom."
I said, "Fine, I'm going back to
bed. Wake me when school
starts."
"You'll get over it."
"It's either sleep for three
months or I start rearranging
the cupboards today."
"If you do that now, what will
you do after you retire?"
|
