Retrospective on Education and Literature is all very well, and what we need. With this new double-digit year (2010) though, I am using the education aspect of the website to write about a project: moving a course from classroom to online. The process is not interesting to the tekkies, probably – since they have been living and talking computer talk for years, but as more and more of us classroom people are asked (expected, required) to present material not only in the classroom but also online to the classroom students, to the students whose life emergencies have kept them from attending class, and to the world, online has become a significant factor in our lives.
If I could, I would draft Julie, the über-IT, to sit by my side, or at least to be on call. Julie, with good old MN independence, would point out that I learn much more when I do it myself. Maybe I don’t want to learn more, I think rebelliously, and my self responds just as rebelliously, ‘Then whyever did you enter education.’ I am checkmated, to use a mishmash of metaphors.
Each system is different and each class requires different information: we know that already. Now, though, I need to talk with a computer to stash (shovel, throw, catapult) what was in the classroom into its logical-to-the-tekkie format. Classrooms don’t run on logic. Computers do.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
With a Little Help from Our Friends
B-r-r-r-r-r: the sound of the Sawzall cuts through not only concrete block wall, but also our concentration. Ta-ta-tap: someone’s hammer tattoos the wall. This morning, when I left the faculty office, the door banged into lengths of aluminum and caught on a vacuum hose. “Just a minute,” said the friendly worker, as he moved things out of the way so we could go off to our classes. A metal toolchest the size of a pickup truck bed sits next to the door; a stack of fiberglass panels lies at the hallway juncture; a rack of brightly colored insulated wire waits to dispense its wares. The restroom is temporarily closed.
It’s lucky we weren’t barricaded into the offices because this is final exam week: students come to class frowning as they balance notes in their hands and thoughts in their heads. We come into the classrooms with crisp papers clipped into a pack, and leave with sheaves of hand-written answers. Calculators ponder averages and students hope for good results (or in some cases, the miraculous).
In the midst of this end-of-semester, one anatomy lab is being reconfigured to provide not only body part study, but chemistry and physics lab work. What took three months to complete in Room 228, should be happening over winter break in Room 220.
In theory, the liberal arts classrooms escape the technological updating and remodeling. In theory works for three hours. “Do you have a cable junction box here?” the man in the stocking cap and overcoat asks. I look up from grading exams and the students still writing theirs concentrate more fiercely on the thoughts they are putting on paper. “I don’t know,” I answer, hoping he will go away. Is any exam safe from disruption? “I’m a contractor,” he adds, looking around the room. He closes the door, but he’s back five minutes later, looking under machines and desks, moving around the students; he’s back again five minutes after that, with our IT person, discussing the frayed wires under a strip of plastic, studying the system. The students persevere.
When I come back to the offices after the first exam, the fiberglass panels have been set into place as a temporary vestibule; the tool chest and a companion occupy the hallway. I think how lucky we are. When some people can’t afford to have problems fixed, ours are being addressed. We see not only the standard wastebasket emptying and floor cleaning. Upgrades happen. Wires are mended. Labs are renewed.
The physical plant is being cared for, and the learning continues. We’re not only learning that people care about our well-being and classroom standards; we’re practicing our concentration and also learning flexibility.
It’s lucky we weren’t barricaded into the offices because this is final exam week: students come to class frowning as they balance notes in their hands and thoughts in their heads. We come into the classrooms with crisp papers clipped into a pack, and leave with sheaves of hand-written answers. Calculators ponder averages and students hope for good results (or in some cases, the miraculous).
In the midst of this end-of-semester, one anatomy lab is being reconfigured to provide not only body part study, but chemistry and physics lab work. What took three months to complete in Room 228, should be happening over winter break in Room 220.
In theory, the liberal arts classrooms escape the technological updating and remodeling. In theory works for three hours. “Do you have a cable junction box here?” the man in the stocking cap and overcoat asks. I look up from grading exams and the students still writing theirs concentrate more fiercely on the thoughts they are putting on paper. “I don’t know,” I answer, hoping he will go away. Is any exam safe from disruption? “I’m a contractor,” he adds, looking around the room. He closes the door, but he’s back five minutes later, looking under machines and desks, moving around the students; he’s back again five minutes after that, with our IT person, discussing the frayed wires under a strip of plastic, studying the system. The students persevere.
When I come back to the offices after the first exam, the fiberglass panels have been set into place as a temporary vestibule; the tool chest and a companion occupy the hallway. I think how lucky we are. When some people can’t afford to have problems fixed, ours are being addressed. We see not only the standard wastebasket emptying and floor cleaning. Upgrades happen. Wires are mended. Labs are renewed.
The physical plant is being cared for, and the learning continues. We’re not only learning that people care about our well-being and classroom standards; we’re practicing our concentration and also learning flexibility.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Extra Credit
Dear Teacher,
It’s near the end of the semester, and I’m worried about my grade. I missed a few assignments and there were some weeks I couldn’t do my assignments because I had family problems. I need to pass this class. Can you give me some extra credit to bring up my grade?
Dear Student,
You are right: we are nearing the end of the semester. In two weeks we will be writing final exams. I’m glad that you are working on your current assignments and also that you care about your course grade, because one of the best ways to earn a good grade in a course is to care about that grade.
I do not use extra credit in the course, for several reasons.
Extra credit means work beyond the required work in the course. We complete assignments each week, to practice the skills and ideas in the textbook readings and class assignments. Based on this work, a student should have accumulated over 100 individual grades – enough to create an average and result in a course grade.
In the past, some students have believed that they could ignore the required work and find extra credit work that would be fun. There are choices in each assignment; hopefully students will find some fun aspect in each assigned work.
As part of my work as teacher, I write assignments, teach about their ideas, and then grade the assignments students submit. I enjoy teaching; I spent a lot of hours each week on this job. Extra credit would mean even more hours for me: writing up assignments, explaining assignments, and grading additional papers. I would rather spend my preparation time, trying to make assignments for the complete class even better.
Keep doing your best on the assignments we are completing each week. Read the instructions carefully, ask me if you have questions about the work. Submit the work on time. In a few weeks I will begin averaging semester grades; I hope that yours average out to be what you wish.
It’s near the end of the semester, and I’m worried about my grade. I missed a few assignments and there were some weeks I couldn’t do my assignments because I had family problems. I need to pass this class. Can you give me some extra credit to bring up my grade?
Dear Student,
You are right: we are nearing the end of the semester. In two weeks we will be writing final exams. I’m glad that you are working on your current assignments and also that you care about your course grade, because one of the best ways to earn a good grade in a course is to care about that grade.
I do not use extra credit in the course, for several reasons.
Extra credit means work beyond the required work in the course. We complete assignments each week, to practice the skills and ideas in the textbook readings and class assignments. Based on this work, a student should have accumulated over 100 individual grades – enough to create an average and result in a course grade.
In the past, some students have believed that they could ignore the required work and find extra credit work that would be fun. There are choices in each assignment; hopefully students will find some fun aspect in each assigned work.
As part of my work as teacher, I write assignments, teach about their ideas, and then grade the assignments students submit. I enjoy teaching; I spent a lot of hours each week on this job. Extra credit would mean even more hours for me: writing up assignments, explaining assignments, and grading additional papers. I would rather spend my preparation time, trying to make assignments for the complete class even better.
Keep doing your best on the assignments we are completing each week. Read the instructions carefully, ask me if you have questions about the work. Submit the work on time. In a few weeks I will begin averaging semester grades; I hope that yours average out to be what you wish.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Late Work
Dear Techer,
I didn’t turn in 3 of my but it wasnt my fault. I had a family emergency. Then we had to go out of town to see my grandma. Then my friend’s computer would not print and I need to get my printer fixed but I’m working a lot of hours and can’t get my new printer until I get my work paycheck witch isn’t for another four weeks. But I want to turn in my work from last month. Because it’s not fair if I have no grade.
Dear Student,
You asked about submitting assignments 8 weeks after their deadline:
The syllabus states that all work must be submitted by deadlines. The course is built on acquiring and using skills: the ideas we practiced in week 2 are the ones we applied in the assignments for Weeks 3, and 4.
To help students understand that they needed to submit the assignments in order, so we can use the skills we learn, the syllabus states that all assignments that earn credit must be submitted on time. If I allowed you to submit work late for grade credit, I would be breaking the rules in the syllabus.
If you would like to write those assignments to practice the skills, I am willing to look at what you have done. By practicing the things we worked on in the second week in the semester, you will see improvement in your work. However, it would be unfair to the students who made time in their schedules to turn those assignments in on time, for you to earn that same credit for turning in work 8 weeks after it is due.
I didn’t turn in 3 of my but it wasnt my fault. I had a family emergency. Then we had to go out of town to see my grandma. Then my friend’s computer would not print and I need to get my printer fixed but I’m working a lot of hours and can’t get my new printer until I get my work paycheck witch isn’t for another four weeks. But I want to turn in my work from last month. Because it’s not fair if I have no grade.
Dear Student,
You asked about submitting assignments 8 weeks after their deadline:
The syllabus states that all work must be submitted by deadlines. The course is built on acquiring and using skills: the ideas we practiced in week 2 are the ones we applied in the assignments for Weeks 3, and 4.
To help students understand that they needed to submit the assignments in order, so we can use the skills we learn, the syllabus states that all assignments that earn credit must be submitted on time. If I allowed you to submit work late for grade credit, I would be breaking the rules in the syllabus.
If you would like to write those assignments to practice the skills, I am willing to look at what you have done. By practicing the things we worked on in the second week in the semester, you will see improvement in your work. However, it would be unfair to the students who made time in their schedules to turn those assignments in on time, for you to earn that same credit for turning in work 8 weeks after it is due.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Those that can, do; those that can’t, teach
Someone told me that comment (with a large smile) when I finished college and began teaching. It hurt then – the assumption that teachers are more fitted for talking about the greats in their field than producing in their field – and it still leaves me pondering.
I think what the critics forget is that teachers are often so busy finding great examples, inspiring people, and solid ways to teach the range of students in our classes, that when the end of our day comes, there is much less time for our own creativity. We’ve given that time and a lot of that energy to our students. We’re researched, we’ve met with parents and colleagues to devise individual lesson plans. We’re made batches of clay for tomorrow’s art project or cut out blanks of colored paper for the placards in the gym. We’ve shopped for tissue because the school supply is depleted. Instead of composing music or writing novels or creating art, we do the dishes, mop the floor, and head off to bed – tomorrow we’ll be back in the classroom, encouraging, mentoring, reading student papers, and monitoring the lunch room.
Maybe we need to re-define “do” and “teach.” We are doing: we are demonstrating commitment and artistry. Maybe we’re not applying paint to canvas or crafting a new novel each year. Yet, I would prefer to argue that those who want to spend their time for the betterment of others, are doing. We may be crafting, writing, drawing, and photographing in our spare time. We may be living novels and writing them. But we’re also sharing knowledge and our time with our students.
I think what the critics forget is that teachers are often so busy finding great examples, inspiring people, and solid ways to teach the range of students in our classes, that when the end of our day comes, there is much less time for our own creativity. We’ve given that time and a lot of that energy to our students. We’re researched, we’ve met with parents and colleagues to devise individual lesson plans. We’re made batches of clay for tomorrow’s art project or cut out blanks of colored paper for the placards in the gym. We’ve shopped for tissue because the school supply is depleted. Instead of composing music or writing novels or creating art, we do the dishes, mop the floor, and head off to bed – tomorrow we’ll be back in the classroom, encouraging, mentoring, reading student papers, and monitoring the lunch room.
Maybe we need to re-define “do” and “teach.” We are doing: we are demonstrating commitment and artistry. Maybe we’re not applying paint to canvas or crafting a new novel each year. Yet, I would prefer to argue that those who want to spend their time for the betterment of others, are doing. We may be crafting, writing, drawing, and photographing in our spare time. We may be living novels and writing them. But we’re also sharing knowledge and our time with our students.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
for Phil
I can remember the ragman, walking down the alley with his refrain of “r-r-r-r-aaags, R-r-r-r-ags!” He came through the steep and pitted alley between the garages in my grandmother’s neighborhood, and collected clothing too worn to be given to charity or donated to family members. He had a cart, that I remember, and his pronunciation of the letter “R” was rich, almost foreign. The fabric lay stuffed in bags in his cart. Where did those rags go? When I asked my grandma, she said, “Good paper. Good paper is made from rags.” I learned not only where the rags went, but that there was an indisputable caste system in the world of paper.
This is perfectly appropriate, because now we have the bookmen. They come to campus about every six weeks – similar to the ragman’s scheduled wanderings down the alley – and they take our unused examination copies of texts. What do they do with them? Resell, to schools or other teachers.
They have a lancet window of time: a textbook company issues a new edition of a book every three years, making the previous edition obsolete. They used to do it more infrequently, explained the textbook rep – but the competitive market from used book purveyors is so intense, that to survive they need to reissue every three, or even every two years.
We part with our examination copies unwillingly or gladly: wary of letting go the example we could use for an exam, the favorite stories appearing in yet another edition; gladly: happy for an extra 10 inches by 7 inch space on our desks where the stack of books to be sold had sat. And we wait, sometimes months, for our favorite bookbuyers to show up. Many of us waited for Phil.
Phil was huge: wide face and wide grin, large stomach, and acres of appetite for knowledge. He talked of stories with the English teachers, formulas and applications with the chemistry teachers, historical parallels with present events with the history teachers. Each group swore he must have professional knowledge of its subject, arcane and broad levels. He did not simply buy books; he read them. The first time I talked with him, we discussed Kafka’s Metamorphosis, and I shared a comic book version that some of my students prefer. But Phil already knew Kafka’s themes and sorrows. He spoke with us as learner to learner, and when he did not come to buy books, we grieved.
Phil’s body had cancer. Phil’s spirit was finally set to wander even broader halls of books. Some of us refused to sell books to Phil’s wife and son for six months, waiting for him to return. His spirit walks our hallways, visiting schools in many cities, drawing us learning, reminding us of our community. “Phil was a builder of relationships,” says Phil’s widow. “That’s what he did best.” They link us: the delivery people, the ragman, the book buyers. Phil and his like made the circle complete.
This is perfectly appropriate, because now we have the bookmen. They come to campus about every six weeks – similar to the ragman’s scheduled wanderings down the alley – and they take our unused examination copies of texts. What do they do with them? Resell, to schools or other teachers.
They have a lancet window of time: a textbook company issues a new edition of a book every three years, making the previous edition obsolete. They used to do it more infrequently, explained the textbook rep – but the competitive market from used book purveyors is so intense, that to survive they need to reissue every three, or even every two years.
We part with our examination copies unwillingly or gladly: wary of letting go the example we could use for an exam, the favorite stories appearing in yet another edition; gladly: happy for an extra 10 inches by 7 inch space on our desks where the stack of books to be sold had sat. And we wait, sometimes months, for our favorite bookbuyers to show up. Many of us waited for Phil.
Phil was huge: wide face and wide grin, large stomach, and acres of appetite for knowledge. He talked of stories with the English teachers, formulas and applications with the chemistry teachers, historical parallels with present events with the history teachers. Each group swore he must have professional knowledge of its subject, arcane and broad levels. He did not simply buy books; he read them. The first time I talked with him, we discussed Kafka’s Metamorphosis, and I shared a comic book version that some of my students prefer. But Phil already knew Kafka’s themes and sorrows. He spoke with us as learner to learner, and when he did not come to buy books, we grieved.
Phil’s body had cancer. Phil’s spirit was finally set to wander even broader halls of books. Some of us refused to sell books to Phil’s wife and son for six months, waiting for him to return. His spirit walks our hallways, visiting schools in many cities, drawing us learning, reminding us of our community. “Phil was a builder of relationships,” says Phil’s widow. “That’s what he did best.” They link us: the delivery people, the ragman, the book buyers. Phil and his like made the circle complete.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
?
“From what I have read about marriage and adultery, I have discovered that although I think it’s a terrible thing, it could be justified.” ~ a student
? I ponder how large I could make the question mark indicating my astonishment and my confusion. What? What’s terrible? Marriage with adultery? Adultery? Marriage? Whichever we find most convenient or incomprehensible?
My writing students explain their ideas; I am left to ponder their meaning, how their meaning differs from mine, and another essential aspect of life: punctuation. As I argue to students when we are discussion punctuation: it’s important. Those little marks not only sort out our meaning, but convey our message. Punctuation allows us to know if the problem relates to the brother’s or brothers’ situation, among other choices.
I’ve written odes to semi colons, and have pondered the construction of a rubber stamp to explain the relationship of quote marks with closing punctuation. I have written illustrations on the chalkboard and their essays. Do they remember for next time? Not usually. Perhaps they believe punctuation is irrelevant (because they are busy text messaging?). Because “everyone talks now and nobody writes.” Because a starlet featured on the cover of the Sunday newspaper magazine brags how she dropped out of high school and has since won two awards (not for writing). Because punctuation too closely resembles the smudges left from papers residing too long in the bottom of a book bag?
Or maybe because life is more exciting when we can’t decipher whether it’s marriage or adultery or the combination that is terrible, and some of us just want to find out.
? I ponder how large I could make the question mark indicating my astonishment and my confusion. What? What’s terrible? Marriage with adultery? Adultery? Marriage? Whichever we find most convenient or incomprehensible?
My writing students explain their ideas; I am left to ponder their meaning, how their meaning differs from mine, and another essential aspect of life: punctuation. As I argue to students when we are discussion punctuation: it’s important. Those little marks not only sort out our meaning, but convey our message. Punctuation allows us to know if the problem relates to the brother’s or brothers’ situation, among other choices.
I’ve written odes to semi colons, and have pondered the construction of a rubber stamp to explain the relationship of quote marks with closing punctuation. I have written illustrations on the chalkboard and their essays. Do they remember for next time? Not usually. Perhaps they believe punctuation is irrelevant (because they are busy text messaging?). Because “everyone talks now and nobody writes.” Because a starlet featured on the cover of the Sunday newspaper magazine brags how she dropped out of high school and has since won two awards (not for writing). Because punctuation too closely resembles the smudges left from papers residing too long in the bottom of a book bag?
Or maybe because life is more exciting when we can’t decipher whether it’s marriage or adultery or the combination that is terrible, and some of us just want to find out.
Monday, September 14, 2009
The best class I ever taught
Every class is the best class I’ve ever had, and every class is different. Some are larger, some more talkative. Some show us their inspirations and enlightenments right there – as they happen. Some ponder quietly and it’s only later – sometimes semesters later – that people come back to tell me what happened. “Yours was the first class on my way to a law degree.” “I still remember that story we read.”
In December or spring, we leave our students – or they leave us. They’ve finished the semester. Sometimes we’re relieved, but more often we’re melancholy. By now, the classes are so much more than a roster of names.
One of the best classes was the semester I taught Women’s Lit to a group of extroverts. Nobody was afraid to share any topic, no matter how sensitive; and everyone had an opinion, no matter what the topic. They enlightened each other – usually at the tops of their voices. They used the text readings as lawyers search for support from court decisions. They began the semester despising someone else in the class, and ended it being friends – or the opposite.
We heard stories: how Civil Rights, Women’s Rights, and life collided; the influence of art and nationality on learning; how thick-headed Slavic men could be; how irrelevant gender was to attitude: the hundred opinions and experiences that made these people who they were. As they came to know and trust their classmates, they shared revelations and past pain, incredulity, and ignorance – which their classmates were happy to resolve. Should this one leave the husband she married so quickly and so much in love? What would Nick and Andre battle this week, in their science-religion war? We argued. We created a class identity, and we also created our own vocabulary.
Charlotte, with two young sons, described how a mom can become immersed in being a mom. “You lose yourself. You don’t want to, “ looking at her classmates who were not above pouncing on opinions before they were finished, “but you just get so involved in what your children need. You – you go to the left.” She wasn’t talking about political leanings; she was talking about motherhood, and for the rest of the semester, every time we talked about a mother who over-mothered, we would say in chorus, “She went too far to the left,” and guffaw in unison. Nick told us about his favorite scientist, explaining and supporting before he revealed the name. “Why did you look at me that way?” he demanded when he had finished. “Because Feynman’s also mine,” I answered. “I’ll bring in my Feynman books next week.”
We began the semester with loud arguments, in pursuit of 3 credits and a minority studies requirement. We finished the semester and went on our paths: law school, hospital operating rooms, nursing studies, the MA in business, life. When we reached summer, more than a few of us thought, ‘This was one of the best classes I have ever had.’ I was one of them.
In December or spring, we leave our students – or they leave us. They’ve finished the semester. Sometimes we’re relieved, but more often we’re melancholy. By now, the classes are so much more than a roster of names.
One of the best classes was the semester I taught Women’s Lit to a group of extroverts. Nobody was afraid to share any topic, no matter how sensitive; and everyone had an opinion, no matter what the topic. They enlightened each other – usually at the tops of their voices. They used the text readings as lawyers search for support from court decisions. They began the semester despising someone else in the class, and ended it being friends – or the opposite.
We heard stories: how Civil Rights, Women’s Rights, and life collided; the influence of art and nationality on learning; how thick-headed Slavic men could be; how irrelevant gender was to attitude: the hundred opinions and experiences that made these people who they were. As they came to know and trust their classmates, they shared revelations and past pain, incredulity, and ignorance – which their classmates were happy to resolve. Should this one leave the husband she married so quickly and so much in love? What would Nick and Andre battle this week, in their science-religion war? We argued. We created a class identity, and we also created our own vocabulary.
Charlotte, with two young sons, described how a mom can become immersed in being a mom. “You lose yourself. You don’t want to, “ looking at her classmates who were not above pouncing on opinions before they were finished, “but you just get so involved in what your children need. You – you go to the left.” She wasn’t talking about political leanings; she was talking about motherhood, and for the rest of the semester, every time we talked about a mother who over-mothered, we would say in chorus, “She went too far to the left,” and guffaw in unison. Nick told us about his favorite scientist, explaining and supporting before he revealed the name. “Why did you look at me that way?” he demanded when he had finished. “Because Feynman’s also mine,” I answered. “I’ll bring in my Feynman books next week.”
We began the semester with loud arguments, in pursuit of 3 credits and a minority studies requirement. We finished the semester and went on our paths: law school, hospital operating rooms, nursing studies, the MA in business, life. When we reached summer, more than a few of us thought, ‘This was one of the best classes I have ever had.’ I was one of them.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Thought for the new school year
“Final Deadline” carries the same urgency to some of our students as “This is your final notice to renew your subscription” alerts magazine subscribers. Both believe there will always be another extension, and some in each category are surprised when the last day of the semester and the last issue of the magazine arrive – without warning.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Return to School
One of the abundance of gifts we receive in late August-early September, is coming back. Like Lazarus, we arise from summer somnolence or frenzy depending on our personal proclivities and our family situation, and return to our first calling: the classroom.
Every student is a potential A. Any learning experience can happen. The pencils are freshly sharpened, the chalk comes out of its box in long undented cylinders, the room smells of wax, summer afternoons, and that ever-receding horizon as we explore the subject matter we have chosen.
We’re poised on the edge of a continent – a universe. Together with our students of this semester, we turn our faces away from the placid ocean of summer lapping the soil behind us, and make our way toward that treeline on the far horizon. Learning continues.
Every student is a potential A. Any learning experience can happen. The pencils are freshly sharpened, the chalk comes out of its box in long undented cylinders, the room smells of wax, summer afternoons, and that ever-receding horizon as we explore the subject matter we have chosen.
We’re poised on the edge of a continent – a universe. Together with our students of this semester, we turn our faces away from the placid ocean of summer lapping the soil behind us, and make our way toward that treeline on the far horizon. Learning continues.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
The Books we Leave Behind
Ed Weninger died, and left his books to the library. There were 107 books about vitamins, food additives, cooking without additives, cooking with stevia. There were 410 books about investing (Investing for a profit, How to profit in the coming bad times, how to get rich in real estate, how to beat the stcck market averages, unimproved land speculation). There were 300 books on prolonging life (The Time-Life Series of Life, Living Forever, How to Avoid Hypertension, Your Blood Pressure). And there were 100 or so books on abstract issues (Christianity as a Worldwide Religion, the Encyclopedia of the Occult: a 20 volume set, including witchcraft, UFOs, and Egyptian alchemy). We sorted through them, shelved them for the sale, and thought about Ed (whom we never met, but who reportedly was a nice guy).
Then we came across three books on winning community elections and one on staying elected, plus duplicate copies of The Blood of Turin and The Power of Positive Thinking.
Ed may or may not have died rich, but eventually he went to the library in the sky, leaving his purchases for other minds to ponder. Better than if all he left behind was a stack of dusty textbooks, unopened since high school.
Then we came across three books on winning community elections and one on staying elected, plus duplicate copies of The Blood of Turin and The Power of Positive Thinking.
Ed may or may not have died rich, but eventually he went to the library in the sky, leaving his purchases for other minds to ponder. Better than if all he left behind was a stack of dusty textbooks, unopened since high school.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Teenage Pregnancy
It’s an epidemic, we know: more and more girls become pregnant while still in their teens, from boy-men who have little intention of marrying and settling down. It’s a breakdown of society and morals, we’re told. It’s the end of what we know, some alarmists warn.
The adult students in my class are 8 months to 18 years past that pregnancy. Some of them enroll in class just for the money; most of them enroll for the life results: credits, job and earning potential. Many of them say that while they wouldn’t necessarily make that same choice to become pregnant, they’re not sorry it happened. Early motherhood didn’t harden most of them: it solidified their values. They made choices about what was important.
“There have been days when I haven’t eaten, but I’ve always had the money to feed my children,” Susan tells us. “I’m never going to depend on a man to support us, because I’ve learned that I can’t depend on a man. There have been times I’ve worked three jobs – but I’ve always taken care of my children.” Jane comments, “Like a lot of girls I was rebellious, and became pregnant in high school. When I married the father of my child; she and I changed our last names to his, because he would not hyphenate my last name with his own. But when she graduated high school, my daughter demanded a graduation certificate with each of her last names, because she said she’s proud of her mom, and what I’ve accomplished.” Jane’s no longer with that man: she now is committed to someone who listens to her voice, and values her independence, her desire to learn, her life goals.
These mothers have learned that the fairy tale stories of their childhood: true love and a prince will come riding to rescue each maiden, can be dangerous. They know that the prince may come as a career or a dream, not as a person. Happily ever after grows from how we respond to the decisions and events in our lives. If we sit back and wait to be rescued, we might be crouching in the chimney corner for a long time. Even Cinderella put on her dancing shoes and went out to the ball.
I’m not advocating teen pregnancy; it brings heartache, deprivation, judgment, fear, and too often abuse in less than ideal relationships. I am celebrating what many of my students have made of their choices. They are in school to learn. Side by side with their children, they sit at the dining room table, doing homework. These are the ones who have kept faith: with their children, with the values they learned through life, with themselves.
The adult students in my class are 8 months to 18 years past that pregnancy. Some of them enroll in class just for the money; most of them enroll for the life results: credits, job and earning potential. Many of them say that while they wouldn’t necessarily make that same choice to become pregnant, they’re not sorry it happened. Early motherhood didn’t harden most of them: it solidified their values. They made choices about what was important.
“There have been days when I haven’t eaten, but I’ve always had the money to feed my children,” Susan tells us. “I’m never going to depend on a man to support us, because I’ve learned that I can’t depend on a man. There have been times I’ve worked three jobs – but I’ve always taken care of my children.” Jane comments, “Like a lot of girls I was rebellious, and became pregnant in high school. When I married the father of my child; she and I changed our last names to his, because he would not hyphenate my last name with his own. But when she graduated high school, my daughter demanded a graduation certificate with each of her last names, because she said she’s proud of her mom, and what I’ve accomplished.” Jane’s no longer with that man: she now is committed to someone who listens to her voice, and values her independence, her desire to learn, her life goals.
These mothers have learned that the fairy tale stories of their childhood: true love and a prince will come riding to rescue each maiden, can be dangerous. They know that the prince may come as a career or a dream, not as a person. Happily ever after grows from how we respond to the decisions and events in our lives. If we sit back and wait to be rescued, we might be crouching in the chimney corner for a long time. Even Cinderella put on her dancing shoes and went out to the ball.
I’m not advocating teen pregnancy; it brings heartache, deprivation, judgment, fear, and too often abuse in less than ideal relationships. I am celebrating what many of my students have made of their choices. They are in school to learn. Side by side with their children, they sit at the dining room table, doing homework. These are the ones who have kept faith: with their children, with the values they learned through life, with themselves.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Broken Hearts and Empty Seats
The following is excerpted from a forthcoming book about teaching.
Or maybe it’s the opposite: Empty Seats and Broken Hearts.
Whatever the order of the phrases, they seem to accompany each other. We believe that we can’t teach unless our students are in the classroom, and for a variety of reasons, sometimes our students are physically absent.
In the words of one student, “After this semester I will no longer be welcome in any public college in this state for two years.” It may be the students’ problems (when we teach at the college level); it may be their parents’ problems (when we teach at the elementary and high school level), but wherever and whenever we teach: brick buildings, day care centers, online or weekend college, the stories and the absences from class continue to break our hearts and theirs.
Why? Wandering into every third class (late), not coming to class, forgetting to submit papers until 8 weeks past their due date, chronic illness, chronic absenteeism, chronic discipline. They’re going to do better in school after they: stop smoking, kick the drug habit, get successful on their diet, put in enough hours at work to pay the month’s rent, care for their ill children, attend the funerals of their grandmother. They have been evicted from their apartments, thrown out of their parents’ homes after weeks of friction, broken up with their fiancé, lost their job and their identities.
Like the dieter (“Just one donut”) or the inveterate channel changer (“One more round, before I turn off the set”), these students acknowledge the effects of their behavior – but they don’t change it. “I know I’m not doing well in this course,” they shrug, “But I gotta ---.” Their arguments are valid: everyone needs to eat, to have a place to live, to be satisfied in love. But their belief systems aren’t conducive to their educational goals – or maybe that’s simply our perception.
We can argue with them, take the hard line, refuse to compromise our philosophical principles. We can bend the course requirements. We can meet with them before and after school, provide boxes of Kleenex and pens to write their in-class work. But we can’t change their universe.
What you want to create, is what you will create. That’s a very hard-line stance, on one hand, because it seems to say that we are refusing to meet our students halfway. But we are not, and that’s not what it means. It means that until our students want to create that essay, that class, that diploma, we cannot force them. We can make learning as interesting, enticing, and fervent as we are able. We can listen and make accommodations as far as our beliefs will allow. We can give the students with difficulties extra time, allow them to forego a required paper with no penalty, allow them to miss more than the maximum number of class sessions. But we cannot force them to succeed in our class. We cannot force their parents to keep the students in school, when those parents are consumed with other worries.
We cannot find identities for these students, but we can assist them as they find their identities on their own. Maybe our class is not the turning point, maybe it’s another in a series that will lead to the turning point. Every one of us has been in that euphoric moment when a student has understood that puzzling concept. Every one of us hopes to be the memorable teacher for many of our students. But there are only one or two memorable teachers in a person’s life, and there are a lot of adequate or forgotten ones.
We send our concern and caring to all our students. We silently commit them to the beneficent care of our belief system, by prayer or thought or devotion. We keep the recriminations out of our mouths and the understanding look on our faces. We listen. Instead of telling them the right way to live their lives, we listen to where they are, who they are. We give them the perfect gift of acknowledging them as worthwhile people. In the end, maybe listening to them is the best gift we offer them. We believe in them as people, and as learners. That’s not such a bad thing to do.
Or maybe it’s the opposite: Empty Seats and Broken Hearts.
Whatever the order of the phrases, they seem to accompany each other. We believe that we can’t teach unless our students are in the classroom, and for a variety of reasons, sometimes our students are physically absent.
In the words of one student, “After this semester I will no longer be welcome in any public college in this state for two years.” It may be the students’ problems (when we teach at the college level); it may be their parents’ problems (when we teach at the elementary and high school level), but wherever and whenever we teach: brick buildings, day care centers, online or weekend college, the stories and the absences from class continue to break our hearts and theirs.
Why? Wandering into every third class (late), not coming to class, forgetting to submit papers until 8 weeks past their due date, chronic illness, chronic absenteeism, chronic discipline. They’re going to do better in school after they: stop smoking, kick the drug habit, get successful on their diet, put in enough hours at work to pay the month’s rent, care for their ill children, attend the funerals of their grandmother. They have been evicted from their apartments, thrown out of their parents’ homes after weeks of friction, broken up with their fiancé, lost their job and their identities.
Like the dieter (“Just one donut”) or the inveterate channel changer (“One more round, before I turn off the set”), these students acknowledge the effects of their behavior – but they don’t change it. “I know I’m not doing well in this course,” they shrug, “But I gotta ---.” Their arguments are valid: everyone needs to eat, to have a place to live, to be satisfied in love. But their belief systems aren’t conducive to their educational goals – or maybe that’s simply our perception.
We can argue with them, take the hard line, refuse to compromise our philosophical principles. We can bend the course requirements. We can meet with them before and after school, provide boxes of Kleenex and pens to write their in-class work. But we can’t change their universe.
What you want to create, is what you will create. That’s a very hard-line stance, on one hand, because it seems to say that we are refusing to meet our students halfway. But we are not, and that’s not what it means. It means that until our students want to create that essay, that class, that diploma, we cannot force them. We can make learning as interesting, enticing, and fervent as we are able. We can listen and make accommodations as far as our beliefs will allow. We can give the students with difficulties extra time, allow them to forego a required paper with no penalty, allow them to miss more than the maximum number of class sessions. But we cannot force them to succeed in our class. We cannot force their parents to keep the students in school, when those parents are consumed with other worries.
We cannot find identities for these students, but we can assist them as they find their identities on their own. Maybe our class is not the turning point, maybe it’s another in a series that will lead to the turning point. Every one of us has been in that euphoric moment when a student has understood that puzzling concept. Every one of us hopes to be the memorable teacher for many of our students. But there are only one or two memorable teachers in a person’s life, and there are a lot of adequate or forgotten ones.
We send our concern and caring to all our students. We silently commit them to the beneficent care of our belief system, by prayer or thought or devotion. We keep the recriminations out of our mouths and the understanding look on our faces. We listen. Instead of telling them the right way to live their lives, we listen to where they are, who they are. We give them the perfect gift of acknowledging them as worthwhile people. In the end, maybe listening to them is the best gift we offer them. We believe in them as people, and as learners. That’s not such a bad thing to do.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Eat Locally
I will be an even stronger supporter of Eat Locally, when the botanists develop a cacao tree that thrives in the Upper Midwest.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
End of semester and MamaRobin
A robin has built her next on top of the patio light fixture. For weeks we were showered by detritus: dried grass, bits of stick, thin wrappings of plastic, string. Maybe she will give up, dumb bird, we thought: the fixture top slopes sideways, to drain water. Maybe she will realize that plastic plus gravity plus unruly barking dogs don’t make a peaceful nursery. PotentialMamaBird did not. I swept away the piles of excelsior; she brought more. The nest sagged into deconstruction; she rewove it. Finally, it sat, a coil of grass and sticks with a wing bobbing length of plastic like the tail on a dumpy kite. MamaBird sat also, bright eyed and unblinking, except for the times she took fright and flight. I felt responsible for our lack of hospitality. “Don’t let the dogs bother the bird,” I would caution. “Don’t hold the door open too long; it bothers the bird.” The dogs barked with abandon. The Bird sat on her precariously shored up nest, staring at us.
After a while we saw other movement in the nest: round heads made of blob of brownish head and wide open mouth. Their mouths were larger than their heads, and bobbed up, almost creatures of their own, each time MamaBird left the nest or returned to it. How could one MamaBird keep up with such expectations? We tried to do our part: when she was tugging worms out of the grass, or snapping them into bits, we sat in the car, waiting for her to finish. We shuffled the dogs out and in with a minimum of dog noise. We stayed back from the windows, though we did peer into her incubator from a distance. The chicks sat in the nest, mouths unhinged to open to their full width, tipped toward the sky. Their mouths seemed wider than their heads, than MamaBird’s head. I would look at them, waiting, greedy, expecting and imploring, and think about the expectations of teaching. Such blind demand is terrifying. How could a mother – or a teacher – ever hope to full those wide open mouths. When will it stop?
How can we read all the texts and reference materials, read the ed journals, read and assess the student papers, maintain discipline and respect, geniality and joy? How can we meet everyone’s expectations: the students, the parents, the support staff, the administration, the public, the country, the future, our family and our own?
The answers are partly and never, or at the end of the semester/school year.
MamaRobin pushes and guides her babies out of the nest. She teaches them to fly, so that next spring while we are snuggling in our fleece jackets and watching baseball televised from the desert lots and orange groves, they can be building their own nests, and looking after their own demanding chicks. Our cycle is years longer; we worry that some of our students will never learn to fly, or nurture others (much less compose an essay free of misspellings and sentence fragments).
What keeps both of us – MamaBird and us – going is not belief that the feeding will end, but determination and faith that we will fulfill our part in the cycle. That’s all we can do. We need to trust to a larger faith: (Mother) Nature, the world, the universe, God, a Supreme Being. We need to believe in Something and Someone beyond our own nest. Then we can bring bits of knowledge and our own energy to the task, believing that what we do in our best efforts will suffice.
After a while we saw other movement in the nest: round heads made of blob of brownish head and wide open mouth. Their mouths were larger than their heads, and bobbed up, almost creatures of their own, each time MamaBird left the nest or returned to it. How could one MamaBird keep up with such expectations? We tried to do our part: when she was tugging worms out of the grass, or snapping them into bits, we sat in the car, waiting for her to finish. We shuffled the dogs out and in with a minimum of dog noise. We stayed back from the windows, though we did peer into her incubator from a distance. The chicks sat in the nest, mouths unhinged to open to their full width, tipped toward the sky. Their mouths seemed wider than their heads, than MamaBird’s head. I would look at them, waiting, greedy, expecting and imploring, and think about the expectations of teaching. Such blind demand is terrifying. How could a mother – or a teacher – ever hope to full those wide open mouths. When will it stop?
How can we read all the texts and reference materials, read the ed journals, read and assess the student papers, maintain discipline and respect, geniality and joy? How can we meet everyone’s expectations: the students, the parents, the support staff, the administration, the public, the country, the future, our family and our own?
The answers are partly and never, or at the end of the semester/school year.
MamaRobin pushes and guides her babies out of the nest. She teaches them to fly, so that next spring while we are snuggling in our fleece jackets and watching baseball televised from the desert lots and orange groves, they can be building their own nests, and looking after their own demanding chicks. Our cycle is years longer; we worry that some of our students will never learn to fly, or nurture others (much less compose an essay free of misspellings and sentence fragments).
What keeps both of us – MamaBird and us – going is not belief that the feeding will end, but determination and faith that we will fulfill our part in the cycle. That’s all we can do. We need to trust to a larger faith: (Mother) Nature, the world, the universe, God, a Supreme Being. We need to believe in Something and Someone beyond our own nest. Then we can bring bits of knowledge and our own energy to the task, believing that what we do in our best efforts will suffice.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
End of semester
This week’s non-entry is dedicated to all the other teachers out there who are grading last minute submitted papers, averaging grades, writing finals, grading finals, averaging semester grades, and listening patiently to the 100th student’s repetition of “sick grandmother” as a viable reason for not producing (work, not grandmother).
It’s an educational belief that grease, salt, and chocolate make grading a stack of papers more palatable. Bring on the chocolate and potato chips.
It’s an educational belief that grease, salt, and chocolate make grading a stack of papers more palatable. Bring on the chocolate and potato chips.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
What do you mean?
In a world where we often seem divided (political viewpoints, money, time, free time, computers which are supposed to simplify our lives, and spring weeds which will turn into summer pestilence), I’ve found that asking my students to define words in their experience by their personal opiions, can lead to clarity. Definitions don’t always lead to tolerance or improved communication, but they do frequently lead to clarity. Buckmaster Fuller pondered how he defined words, and commented that creating his personal (connotative) dictionary [in contrast to our shared Webster’s denotative dictionary] was a turning point in his communication with others and himself.
I explain this idea of personal knowledge through understanding how we use words, to the students, and ask them to create a dictionary of their meanings, using words of their own choice. Following are some of the students’ definitions.
Education: The difference between making five dollars an hour and thirty dollars an hour. An accomplishment that pays off both physically and mentally.
Education: to learn a skill. A block of instruction. Something I received after I said, “I do.”
Education: Something I realized after fifteen years is the hardest thing to come back to and it sucks to have to admit my mother was right when she said, “Trust me. Go to school now while you’re in high school, or you’ll regret it later.”
Too much homework: three essays assigned in one week for my favorite English class. When my backpack is so full that I can’t even walk standing straight up, but leaning forward.
Too much homework: two papers due on the same day, a test, a presentation on the same day. This semester being my first in over a decade made me feel overwhelmed at times because of all the after-class assignments. Sometimes I would get home from work and realize there were assignments due the next day and work on them till early the next morning.
I explain this idea of personal knowledge through understanding how we use words, to the students, and ask them to create a dictionary of their meanings, using words of their own choice. Following are some of the students’ definitions.
Education: The difference between making five dollars an hour and thirty dollars an hour. An accomplishment that pays off both physically and mentally.
Education: to learn a skill. A block of instruction. Something I received after I said, “I do.”
Education: Something I realized after fifteen years is the hardest thing to come back to and it sucks to have to admit my mother was right when she said, “Trust me. Go to school now while you’re in high school, or you’ll regret it later.”
Too much homework: three essays assigned in one week for my favorite English class. When my backpack is so full that I can’t even walk standing straight up, but leaning forward.
Too much homework: two papers due on the same day, a test, a presentation on the same day. This semester being my first in over a decade made me feel overwhelmed at times because of all the after-class assignments. Sometimes I would get home from work and realize there were assignments due the next day and work on them till early the next morning.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
What do you mean?
In a world where we often seem divided (political viewpoints, money, time, free time, computers which are supposed to simplify our lives, and spring weeds which will turn into summer pestilence), I’ve found that asking my students to define words in their experience by their personal opiions, can lead to clarity. Definitions don’t always lead to tolerance or improved communication, but they do frequently lead to clarity. Buckmaster Fuller pondered how he defined words, and commented that creating his personal (connotative) dictionary [in contrast to our shared Webster’s denotative dictionary] was a turning point in his communication with others and himself.
I explain this idea of personal knowledge through understanding how we use words, to the students, and ask them to create a dictionary of their meanings, using words of their own choice. Following are some of the students’ definitions.
Engagement ring: An engagement ring shows my love for another person and symbolizes that I want to spend the rest of my life with them. Hopefully it isn’t cheap because giving up my money also shows I love them.
Engagement ring: beginning of a life-altering mistake.
Engagement ring: One step before Neurological failure. Or, getting a challenging new job, with excellent perks.
Engagement ring: one of a kind. A delicate symbol of commitment and hope for the future. Eternity set in a fragile housing. “The Rock.”
Engagement ring: death…the end of the road. Unfulfilling road of life stops and repeats itself forever and ever…but many go through it many times.
Engagement ring: It will be one of the happiest days of my life when I receive one. It shows love for one another and lets me know that this person wants to share a future with me. It will hopefully be around two carats and white gold or platinum.
Engagement ring: A round ring with a diamond on top, usually given to female from male when he realizes he’s somewhat mature and sleeping around isn’t appealing to him. In some cases used to resemble love. Expensive piece of jewelry that is easy to pawn.
Ex-husband: the man who lived off me for 17 years. He is the cause of my bad nightmares and flashbacks. He is also the man whom I paid a lot of money to get out of my life.
Ex-husband: The man I should have realized was a complete idiot. I spent too many years of my life on him. Unfortunately, I must still deal with him until my son and daughter are 18 years old.
Father: An exceptionally amazing person who can fix anything with just a few tools and a lot of bad words. A man who acts like he is the toughest and meanest hombre in town but when no one is looking will pet the cat.
Feng Shui: An ancient Japanese way of putting furniture in a room that makes no sense because it affects nothing.
First Anniversary: The point in a relationship when people realize living alone isn’t so bad.
I explain this idea of personal knowledge through understanding how we use words, to the students, and ask them to create a dictionary of their meanings, using words of their own choice. Following are some of the students’ definitions.
Engagement ring: An engagement ring shows my love for another person and symbolizes that I want to spend the rest of my life with them. Hopefully it isn’t cheap because giving up my money also shows I love them.
Engagement ring: beginning of a life-altering mistake.
Engagement ring: One step before Neurological failure. Or, getting a challenging new job, with excellent perks.
Engagement ring: one of a kind. A delicate symbol of commitment and hope for the future. Eternity set in a fragile housing. “The Rock.”
Engagement ring: death…the end of the road. Unfulfilling road of life stops and repeats itself forever and ever…but many go through it many times.
Engagement ring: It will be one of the happiest days of my life when I receive one. It shows love for one another and lets me know that this person wants to share a future with me. It will hopefully be around two carats and white gold or platinum.
Engagement ring: A round ring with a diamond on top, usually given to female from male when he realizes he’s somewhat mature and sleeping around isn’t appealing to him. In some cases used to resemble love. Expensive piece of jewelry that is easy to pawn.
Ex-husband: the man who lived off me for 17 years. He is the cause of my bad nightmares and flashbacks. He is also the man whom I paid a lot of money to get out of my life.
Ex-husband: The man I should have realized was a complete idiot. I spent too many years of my life on him. Unfortunately, I must still deal with him until my son and daughter are 18 years old.
Father: An exceptionally amazing person who can fix anything with just a few tools and a lot of bad words. A man who acts like he is the toughest and meanest hombre in town but when no one is looking will pet the cat.
Feng Shui: An ancient Japanese way of putting furniture in a room that makes no sense because it affects nothing.
First Anniversary: The point in a relationship when people realize living alone isn’t so bad.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
You're Setting my Teeth on Edge: Cliches
Alot
[thankfully Spell Check will now automatically separate this into its two correct words. Now if only we can enlist the software programmers to distinguish there/their/they’re]
If you love someone, set them free
[and if you dislike them, keep them close? What’s that about holding friends close and enemies closer? Do I want to?]
whatever
[Oh please: go somewhere else to be bored.]
[thankfully Spell Check will now automatically separate this into its two correct words. Now if only we can enlist the software programmers to distinguish there/their/they’re]
If you love someone, set them free
[and if you dislike them, keep them close? What’s that about holding friends close and enemies closer? Do I want to?]
whatever
[Oh please: go somewhere else to be bored.]
Sunday, April 12, 2009
On apples
Sometimes we get a Golden Delicious and sometimes we get a mouth-puckering Granny Smith. Sometimes the universe thinks we need a little more protein, and we end up with a worm.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Observations on life and literature from students
I do not except this either.
His wife made a slow descent into madness, which was prescribed by her husband, with little known facts about the effects.
A rabbi is a professional someone without alterer motives.
Adultery is one of the worst things that a person can do, it has been written in the Bible as one of the then commendams not to break and yet people are still braking.
His wife made a slow descent into madness, which was prescribed by her husband, with little known facts about the effects.
A rabbi is a professional someone without alterer motives.
Adultery is one of the worst things that a person can do, it has been written in the Bible as one of the then commendams not to break and yet people are still braking.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Observations on life and literature from students
Another aspect of love is being faithful to the person you exploit this phrase to.
What do young men do, they chase down woman.
As a double partner [in adultery] that person has to know how to cover up his or her tracts.
A person can have multiple personalities if they have been at it for a while.
His parents never taught him how to great a girl respectively.
Why did you go along with marring your wife if you were not sure you loved her?
Every man’s personality changes weather they are with the guys or just hanging out with a group of girls from work or something.
True love has the same characteristics as one true love, but unlike one true love, regular love is not forever.
True love is when you find someone that can finish your sentences.
What do young men do, they chase down woman.
As a double partner [in adultery] that person has to know how to cover up his or her tracts.
A person can have multiple personalities if they have been at it for a while.
His parents never taught him how to great a girl respectively.
Why did you go along with marring your wife if you were not sure you loved her?
Every man’s personality changes weather they are with the guys or just hanging out with a group of girls from work or something.
True love has the same characteristics as one true love, but unlike one true love, regular love is not forever.
True love is when you find someone that can finish your sentences.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Vermin
“This is not a story about a bug.” I look at my class. We have just finished discussing The Metamorphosis. We have argued, questioned, though, been saddened, vindicated, revolted. We have shared death and dying stories, and remembered people we love who are on the other side of time and memory.
We began this class discussion with accusations and judgments. “This is a stupid story.” “I can’t believe you made us read this.” “Nobody could turn into a bug.” The students were dismayed and disbelieving. They were puzzled. Why would I have forced them to read this awful thing? Instead of defending the assignment, I listened to all they have to say, and nodded my head in acknowledgment of their opinions.
Empty of annoyance and rebuttal toward the assignment, they begin questioning the story events. Maybe it was a dream? “Look at the first part of the story,” I tell them, “See where Kafka writes, ‘It was no dream.’” That finishes our happy solution of waking-up-from-a-dream. It was no dream.
“I hated how his family turned against him,” one student says. “Me, too,” answers another. “My family did that to me,” offers a third. “My family did that when my grandma was sick.” We move from angry and annoyed to thoughtful. We ponder fear and love, racial profiling and sacrifice. We look at how we feel about money and family. We hurt for Gregor Samsa and we pity his sister Greta. We wonder how Gregor’s society came to the point it did. We look at our own. The comments are longer and the silences more thoughtful than when we began talking about the story.
We read and write from our hearts, because the story is true.
We began this class discussion with accusations and judgments. “This is a stupid story.” “I can’t believe you made us read this.” “Nobody could turn into a bug.” The students were dismayed and disbelieving. They were puzzled. Why would I have forced them to read this awful thing? Instead of defending the assignment, I listened to all they have to say, and nodded my head in acknowledgment of their opinions.
Empty of annoyance and rebuttal toward the assignment, they begin questioning the story events. Maybe it was a dream? “Look at the first part of the story,” I tell them, “See where Kafka writes, ‘It was no dream.’” That finishes our happy solution of waking-up-from-a-dream. It was no dream.
“I hated how his family turned against him,” one student says. “Me, too,” answers another. “My family did that to me,” offers a third. “My family did that when my grandma was sick.” We move from angry and annoyed to thoughtful. We ponder fear and love, racial profiling and sacrifice. We look at how we feel about money and family. We hurt for Gregor Samsa and we pity his sister Greta. We wonder how Gregor’s society came to the point it did. We look at our own. The comments are longer and the silences more thoughtful than when we began talking about the story.
We read and write from our hearts, because the story is true.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Grading Art
This is an excerpt from a forthcoming book on teaching.
Once upon a time, when I taught grade school level students, I also taught art. As anyone who knows me is aware, this was a stretch. However, what I learned is that art if art. Anyone can be artistic, if we only believe in ourselves.
This was not easy to teach students then, and it is not easy to teach students now. We are much too quick to take the commercial, Photo Shop, tinkered with version, and believe it is someone’s art work. We’re too quick to compare our attempts with those of someone who’s been schooled in art from childhood. We’re too quick to slap a negative value on what we’ve produced.
It would be nice if creativity existed for its own end, and if we could appreciate everyone’s creativity. Sometimes we can. Sometimes we need to grade art projects, and use these grades toward a report card “Art” entry. However, there was a report card slot for “art,” and so part of the grade school experience, I needed to grade art (hopefully while still valuing the students).
Grading tactics
Spread out all the corn pictures, and look at them. Some will immediately have you saying, “Yes. Exactly.” Some look good. Some look as appealing as cold oatmeal.
Who learned? Who became artistic? Who had fun – good fun? Who created the spirit of the project, even if the art of the project was not perfect?
No matter what the grade, all art deserves a positive comment. If they have done any art at all, the students have created something with a piece of themselves in it. It’s cruel to write “C” without some mitigating and positive comment. Keep grades on the back of the art, especially if you are hanging this project in the hallway or classroom. No student wants to be ridiculed for “not as good work.” The students who feel they have failed art, will be reluctant to ever again attempt art. When we “do art” we offer the world a part of who we are.
Once upon a time, when I taught grade school level students, I also taught art. As anyone who knows me is aware, this was a stretch. However, what I learned is that art if art. Anyone can be artistic, if we only believe in ourselves.
This was not easy to teach students then, and it is not easy to teach students now. We are much too quick to take the commercial, Photo Shop, tinkered with version, and believe it is someone’s art work. We’re too quick to compare our attempts with those of someone who’s been schooled in art from childhood. We’re too quick to slap a negative value on what we’ve produced.
It would be nice if creativity existed for its own end, and if we could appreciate everyone’s creativity. Sometimes we can. Sometimes we need to grade art projects, and use these grades toward a report card “Art” entry. However, there was a report card slot for “art,” and so part of the grade school experience, I needed to grade art (hopefully while still valuing the students).
Grading tactics
Spread out all the corn pictures, and look at them. Some will immediately have you saying, “Yes. Exactly.” Some look good. Some look as appealing as cold oatmeal.
Who learned? Who became artistic? Who had fun – good fun? Who created the spirit of the project, even if the art of the project was not perfect?
No matter what the grade, all art deserves a positive comment. If they have done any art at all, the students have created something with a piece of themselves in it. It’s cruel to write “C” without some mitigating and positive comment. Keep grades on the back of the art, especially if you are hanging this project in the hallway or classroom. No student wants to be ridiculed for “not as good work.” The students who feel they have failed art, will be reluctant to ever again attempt art. When we “do art” we offer the world a part of who we are.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Teaching Thoughts
The student who expects an immediate reply to his email is often the one explaining why his work will not be submitted on time.
Popup window: The operating system has blocked this file for your safety.
Teacher comment: Since I’m reading essays submitted by online students, through the school system, for a required course, it’s nice to think the system is saving me from yet another poorly written, boring student essay.
Just as there’s a difference between mental illness and insanity – one being a medical diagnosis and the other a legal defense – there’s a gulf between female and male, or student and teacher perspectives – though we do not label any one of them “sick.”
A teacher comments about a student essay.
“It was just like a Western. The boyfriend was in an argument, the argument turned into a fight, he got stabbed and died, bleeding all over his girlfriend. And while I read this, I kept writing on the essay, ‘Run on, run on, run on.’”
Popup window: The operating system has blocked this file for your safety.
Teacher comment: Since I’m reading essays submitted by online students, through the school system, for a required course, it’s nice to think the system is saving me from yet another poorly written, boring student essay.
Just as there’s a difference between mental illness and insanity – one being a medical diagnosis and the other a legal defense – there’s a gulf between female and male, or student and teacher perspectives – though we do not label any one of them “sick.”
A teacher comments about a student essay.
“It was just like a Western. The boyfriend was in an argument, the argument turned into a fight, he got stabbed and died, bleeding all over his girlfriend. And while I read this, I kept writing on the essay, ‘Run on, run on, run on.’”
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Risks
“I’m taking a risk on school.” We were talking about “A Family Supper” and the risks involved in eating fugu, the exciting and sometimes fatal fish that used to be popular amateur cooking in Japan and now is the province of chefs licensed in fugu preparation. Our discussion had moved from the story into story-as-it-relates-to-our-lives: family, cultural influences, honor, risk.
The student developed his theme. He is studying for a profession with strong career possibilities, but there is no guarantee he will be able to find a job after graduation, three months away. Other decisions in his life have decreased or increased his attractiveness to the companies where he might want to work. He is older than the typical college graduate. He has a family.
School is a risk. Students wager time, money, energy, and brain power for learning, and eventually a certificate or a degree. Learning is a risk. We take our bodies and our brains, our emotions and our pasts into a situation where all of them will be challenged. We open our boundaries. We don’t always come into the classroom wanting to be changed, but we sometimes leave the classroom having been – perhaps against our better judgment.
Our better judgment sits on the sidelines, wishing it could go back to bed, back to childhood, back to the assembly line where we were told what to do and timed on how we did it, back to wherever there were no risks, just guarantees. Our better judgment doesn’t exist. The only way we can avoid risks is by refusing to take action: but refusing to act is also a risk. We’ve made a non-decision of paralysis. Is it a wave or is it a particle or is it both, depending, is one example of our fallacy when we think we can preserve what was. We arrange events to suit beliefs that don’t exist.
We can fight the current and decide we are going to stay the same, in a constantly changing universe, but eventually we’re going to get swept along with the current. Instead of risk, we could call education growth. Leo the Late Bloomer in Robert Krause’s wonderful story of the same name, finally blooms. Leo’s dad is relieved. What Dad didn’t think about is that in our own way, whether we are noticed or not, we all take risks; watched or not watched, eventually we all bloom.
The student developed his theme. He is studying for a profession with strong career possibilities, but there is no guarantee he will be able to find a job after graduation, three months away. Other decisions in his life have decreased or increased his attractiveness to the companies where he might want to work. He is older than the typical college graduate. He has a family.
School is a risk. Students wager time, money, energy, and brain power for learning, and eventually a certificate or a degree. Learning is a risk. We take our bodies and our brains, our emotions and our pasts into a situation where all of them will be challenged. We open our boundaries. We don’t always come into the classroom wanting to be changed, but we sometimes leave the classroom having been – perhaps against our better judgment.
Our better judgment sits on the sidelines, wishing it could go back to bed, back to childhood, back to the assembly line where we were told what to do and timed on how we did it, back to wherever there were no risks, just guarantees. Our better judgment doesn’t exist. The only way we can avoid risks is by refusing to take action: but refusing to act is also a risk. We’ve made a non-decision of paralysis. Is it a wave or is it a particle or is it both, depending, is one example of our fallacy when we think we can preserve what was. We arrange events to suit beliefs that don’t exist.
We can fight the current and decide we are going to stay the same, in a constantly changing universe, but eventually we’re going to get swept along with the current. Instead of risk, we could call education growth. Leo the Late Bloomer in Robert Krause’s wonderful story of the same name, finally blooms. Leo’s dad is relieved. What Dad didn’t think about is that in our own way, whether we are noticed or not, we all take risks; watched or not watched, eventually we all bloom.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Observations on life and literature from students
Be mindful of what you read – what goes in will come out, and you cannot avoid your exposure to it.
Do you believe in the right to bare arms?
There is always a two sided sword for many rolls.
Her child is surly going to follow.
I even tried to keep up with the resent trends so people would like me.
Children have curios minds with ten million questions to ask.
The personal living habits questions are designed to find small quarks.
Do you believe in the right to bare arms?
There is always a two sided sword for many rolls.
Her child is surly going to follow.
I even tried to keep up with the resent trends so people would like me.
Children have curios minds with ten million questions to ask.
The personal living habits questions are designed to find small quarks.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
What stays the same
The fashions and length of skirts, pants, hats, coats with which we clothe our bodies change: decollates are in; decollates are sinful. Bustles are in (to be sat almost upon); bustles are ridiculous. Behavior remains. Elizabeth Barrett took to her sick bed to avoid Papa Barrett’s oppression, as did Florence Nightingale when faced with the endless calling and calling cards that made up a proper Victorian woman’s social life. From their sick couches, they birthed health reform, poetry, and eventually Penini Browning. Sickness can be fruitful.
This is a lesson that our students learn by osmosis, since they haven’t cracked open the textbooks. Gregor has “flu like symptoms,” which is why he was not able to attend class, though he has not yet morphed into a dung beetle. Sally’s grandfather died last week, which was why she couldn’t read the 4-page story (a cliff hanger which evoked intense class discussion) that we are covering today.
Sickness can have positive benefits and it is part of being human. We harbor our sick days, and exult in mental health holidays. We pay health premiums so we can be sick without becoming bankrupt. Through those illnesses, though, we need to work at learning, to work at our chosen work. We need to bring forth something besides excuses: perhaps assistance to those Crimean sufferers, perhaps exquisite joy in Italy that gave Mr. B and us the Sonnets. Between the feigned or real sickness and their results, we need something or someone to evoke what we could be. Perhaps the joy of health and learning isn’t enough; perhaps, if he does not come to the sick bed, we need to go in search of being well and Robert Browning.
This is a lesson that our students learn by osmosis, since they haven’t cracked open the textbooks. Gregor has “flu like symptoms,” which is why he was not able to attend class, though he has not yet morphed into a dung beetle. Sally’s grandfather died last week, which was why she couldn’t read the 4-page story (a cliff hanger which evoked intense class discussion) that we are covering today.
Sickness can have positive benefits and it is part of being human. We harbor our sick days, and exult in mental health holidays. We pay health premiums so we can be sick without becoming bankrupt. Through those illnesses, though, we need to work at learning, to work at our chosen work. We need to bring forth something besides excuses: perhaps assistance to those Crimean sufferers, perhaps exquisite joy in Italy that gave Mr. B and us the Sonnets. Between the feigned or real sickness and their results, we need something or someone to evoke what we could be. Perhaps the joy of health and learning isn’t enough; perhaps, if he does not come to the sick bed, we need to go in search of being well and Robert Browning.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Sending a get well card
Some semesters it’s startling how many grandmothers endure illness and even death, so their student relatives have an excuse for missed classes and late homework. Seldom grandfathers, almost always grandmothers. There are days I wonder why.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Heroes
Why does the story teller need to take the hero into dark ways alone? When we get to the final gunfight, how come it’s the hero standing there: in outer space, in a dusty Western street, at one end of a shotgun, or one end of a classroom, a board room, a computer terminal, while the flickering numbers count down toward an explosion? Why are the townspeople watching from inside the saloon, the crew waiting back at the spaceship? Why did everyone else go home?
When his one-on-one encounter arrives, whether it’s with the villain, technology, Nature, or himself, the hero’s complete character, his history, his ethics, and his future are all being called into account. If there were others involved in this ultimate confrontation, we would not see the hero’s character revealed (not meant to be a pun). The fame or blame would be diluted. So would the weight and consequences of his choices.
When our character stands alone, he becomes universal, and archetypal. He drops societal labels to step outside time. A man who follows his truth is as valid in ancient Greece as he is in 1938 Poland or 2008 America. His neighbors may have judged him: simple, rigid, nerd, but in those accountable moments, he is beyond judgment. It’s his ethics and morals that drive his actions, not what his neighbors thought of his clothing style. Once he has completed his journey, faced the test, then the townspeople crowd around to congratulate (and temporarily suspend fashion judgment). During the test, they are absent.
Why does the hero in just about every story need to face an ultimate danger alone? So we can recognize the hero qualities. So we have a proven hero. What makes a hero? In a perfectly circular reasoning: Someone willing to go out alone. Whatever other characteristics the writer has needed for this particular story and this particular hero - honestly, bravery, strength, intelligence – we need the hero to be distinguished even from the rest of the characters who work alongside him, on his team. Heroes are ultimately solitary.
That solitary aspect includes more than facing the climactic test alone. In order to reach that point in his life and the story we are reading or watching, the hero must have found himself, and the way we find ourselves is to move out of the crowd, at whatever the cost and consequences. The hero needs to be burned by his solitary time. During it, he has no guarantees that he will emerge a hero. What he does have is the testing time, where he will find himself and re-find characteristics that will serve him, should he choose to accept the hero’s calling. But he must spend his preparation alone: in the desert, lost at sea, shunned by the playground clique, or sitting in his room. Those who stay within the comfort of the crowd are comfortable. They are forgettable. If our character were standing amid a crowd, we would not know him for the hero.
The effect holds true for every one, to a larger or lesser extent. In order to find ourselves and to be a hero to the extent we wish to, in our lives: we need to have passed through that self-examination time, whether physically or intellectually or emotionally, before we can come back to help others. Before we can help others, we need to have passed through our own time alone. There are many more heroes than appear on tv and movies screens, the final pages of stories, or standing in the dust of a Western town.
When his one-on-one encounter arrives, whether it’s with the villain, technology, Nature, or himself, the hero’s complete character, his history, his ethics, and his future are all being called into account. If there were others involved in this ultimate confrontation, we would not see the hero’s character revealed (not meant to be a pun). The fame or blame would be diluted. So would the weight and consequences of his choices.
When our character stands alone, he becomes universal, and archetypal. He drops societal labels to step outside time. A man who follows his truth is as valid in ancient Greece as he is in 1938 Poland or 2008 America. His neighbors may have judged him: simple, rigid, nerd, but in those accountable moments, he is beyond judgment. It’s his ethics and morals that drive his actions, not what his neighbors thought of his clothing style. Once he has completed his journey, faced the test, then the townspeople crowd around to congratulate (and temporarily suspend fashion judgment). During the test, they are absent.
Why does the hero in just about every story need to face an ultimate danger alone? So we can recognize the hero qualities. So we have a proven hero. What makes a hero? In a perfectly circular reasoning: Someone willing to go out alone. Whatever other characteristics the writer has needed for this particular story and this particular hero - honestly, bravery, strength, intelligence – we need the hero to be distinguished even from the rest of the characters who work alongside him, on his team. Heroes are ultimately solitary.
That solitary aspect includes more than facing the climactic test alone. In order to reach that point in his life and the story we are reading or watching, the hero must have found himself, and the way we find ourselves is to move out of the crowd, at whatever the cost and consequences. The hero needs to be burned by his solitary time. During it, he has no guarantees that he will emerge a hero. What he does have is the testing time, where he will find himself and re-find characteristics that will serve him, should he choose to accept the hero’s calling. But he must spend his preparation alone: in the desert, lost at sea, shunned by the playground clique, or sitting in his room. Those who stay within the comfort of the crowd are comfortable. They are forgettable. If our character were standing amid a crowd, we would not know him for the hero.
The effect holds true for every one, to a larger or lesser extent. In order to find ourselves and to be a hero to the extent we wish to, in our lives: we need to have passed through that self-examination time, whether physically or intellectually or emotionally, before we can come back to help others. Before we can help others, we need to have passed through our own time alone. There are many more heroes than appear on tv and movies screens, the final pages of stories, or standing in the dust of a Western town.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
You're Setting my Teeth on Edge: Cliches
While we smile politely in response to clichéd communication, what’s in our mind?
You rock.
[Throw rocks? Sit in a rocker? Dance to 60s music?]
Thinking outside the box
[If you were in the box, would you be in the cemetery?]
Nowadays
“Now” is quite sufficient, thank you. On your way to your next class, please check Strunk and White’s classic out of the library and see what Mr. White has to say about superfluous words.
My bad
[In addition to making fun of a mistake which may have hurt or inconvenienced others, you are proud of not being able to use grammar correctly?]
Television commercial: “If you or a loved one has died from taking product XYZ,
contact our law office so we can represent you in our suit. You can receive money.”
[Long distance from the grave…]
You rock.
[Throw rocks? Sit in a rocker? Dance to 60s music?]
Thinking outside the box
[If you were in the box, would you be in the cemetery?]
Nowadays
“Now” is quite sufficient, thank you. On your way to your next class, please check Strunk and White’s classic out of the library and see what Mr. White has to say about superfluous words.
My bad
[In addition to making fun of a mistake which may have hurt or inconvenienced others, you are proud of not being able to use grammar correctly?]
Television commercial: “If you or a loved one has died from taking product XYZ,
contact our law office so we can represent you in our suit. You can receive money.”
[Long distance from the grave…]
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Conformity
We recently watched the movie School of Rock, in which a self-absorbed guitarist is ejected from his band, impersonates his nerdy roommate as a substitute teacher; and teaches fourth graders about individuality, rock music, and life skills such as lying to parents, clandestine surveillance, soundproofing ones room, and stereotyping. As the mother of sons who used to be fourth graders, and as a former elementary teacher, I could choose to deplore the introduction of adolescent values into the lower elementary classroom. Like the rest of us, though, I realize those values have already percolated to kindergarten: one movie makes no difference.
What I ponder is conformity. Denny teaches his temporary charges about rebelling from “the man” (anyone in authority), and forming their own culture. Do they? They mime traditional rocker hairstyles and clothing. They mimic the postures and stage routines of the greats of rock…who became notable because they were unique. Individual. Original.
Of course the movie features the obligatory revelations, enlightenments, and acceptance of the artist persona (within the bounds of upper class conventional behavior). Everyone learns something, most characters release their inhibitions, there’s parity and ultimately transcendence of racial, professional, and generational boundaries.
But in his own adolescent-type rebellion, Denny demonstrates the most stringent kind of conformity. This is how a music star stands. This is my conception of your role, from lead guitarist to backup singers, to security. Yes, Denny adapts their jobs to their talents (for the classroom stars; the 10 leftover students, are given remainder positions). In his single-minded determination for force his own goals, Denny becomes the basest kind of stereotyped rocker and rebel. He’s a conforming user.
School is not kind to the nonconformists. Exceptionally smart or not ready to learn, they are ridiculed, isolated, patronized, or ignored. None of us want this path for our children or our students. Even when we hold up to them the example of the greats like Einstein who did not fit into their childhood classrooms, we send a double message: be smart and successful; be accepted by your peers and lead the clique. By molding students to fit established roles, we and Denny do those students a disservice. We lessen their potential and our selves. There’s a place for nonconformists. We need their insight and their vision. They set fire to our discussion groups and amaze us with themselves.
We need to appreciate them for who they are. By telling them how to not-conform, we do just the opposite.
What I ponder is conformity. Denny teaches his temporary charges about rebelling from “the man” (anyone in authority), and forming their own culture. Do they? They mime traditional rocker hairstyles and clothing. They mimic the postures and stage routines of the greats of rock…who became notable because they were unique. Individual. Original.
Of course the movie features the obligatory revelations, enlightenments, and acceptance of the artist persona (within the bounds of upper class conventional behavior). Everyone learns something, most characters release their inhibitions, there’s parity and ultimately transcendence of racial, professional, and generational boundaries.
But in his own adolescent-type rebellion, Denny demonstrates the most stringent kind of conformity. This is how a music star stands. This is my conception of your role, from lead guitarist to backup singers, to security. Yes, Denny adapts their jobs to their talents (for the classroom stars; the 10 leftover students, are given remainder positions). In his single-minded determination for force his own goals, Denny becomes the basest kind of stereotyped rocker and rebel. He’s a conforming user.
School is not kind to the nonconformists. Exceptionally smart or not ready to learn, they are ridiculed, isolated, patronized, or ignored. None of us want this path for our children or our students. Even when we hold up to them the example of the greats like Einstein who did not fit into their childhood classrooms, we send a double message: be smart and successful; be accepted by your peers and lead the clique. By molding students to fit established roles, we and Denny do those students a disservice. We lessen their potential and our selves. There’s a place for nonconformists. We need their insight and their vision. They set fire to our discussion groups and amaze us with themselves.
We need to appreciate them for who they are. By telling them how to not-conform, we do just the opposite.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
I used to; but now
One of the exercises that we’ve used in writing classes as a comparison-contrast is “I used to; but now.”
Our directions are: Consider where you used to be, what life used to be like, then look at life now. What images and ideas will help your readers to visualize and understand your points?
Sometimes the assignment is an essay; usually it is a poem so the writer focuses most on the comparison-contrast images.
It’s also a good writing exercise to begin a new year or a new semester.
This is a sample I wrote, to demonstrate the format for my writing classes.
I refused to look at the frog in biology;
But now I study Netter’s Atlas of Human Anatomy because people I love are in Gross Anatomy and because I need accurate anatomical detail when I kill people in the stories I am writing.
My fingers used to shy from the roots, from tulip bulbs with their snout poking toward the sky and their furze of root ends;
But now I shift bulbs from my warm palm to the cool October soil, sending them into darkness with a call to come back to light, bringing their color.
I used to say, “Ick,” to moldy leftovers, refuse to search inside the garbage disposal for that dropped fork, the ring, the dishcloth;
But now I think on it and do it anyway, because someone needs to.
I used to cringe at the thought of dirty diapers;
But now I routinely clean the anus of dogs and babies alike:
A natural exit hole, how much cleaner than the shreds of a bullet’s passing or the residue of someone’s hate.
I used to look at brown and see dirty: wash your hands, scrub the floor: clean your room;
Now I see the world: brown rice, sepia shadows, mocha skin tones, latte coffee, chocolate in twenty shades of glory.
I used to shudder at potatoes’ spindly sprouts, pushing into the air;
Now I muse that there’s something left to grow on:
Iris tubers, bleeding heart divisions, peony eyes, Idaho’s best in utero:
Rudely growing, aggressively colonizing where they will not, should not, must not.
They will not yield.
Maybe my eyes are less lid and more eyeball to see the unity of us all
Maybe, but I do not think so.
Each experience leaves its mark:
Discarded gum freckles the sidewalks; Scars slide across skin; Memories color the mind;
Emotions imprint our cells.
I think Life happens and Grace arrives.
Our directions are: Consider where you used to be, what life used to be like, then look at life now. What images and ideas will help your readers to visualize and understand your points?
Sometimes the assignment is an essay; usually it is a poem so the writer focuses most on the comparison-contrast images.
It’s also a good writing exercise to begin a new year or a new semester.
This is a sample I wrote, to demonstrate the format for my writing classes.
I refused to look at the frog in biology;
But now I study Netter’s Atlas of Human Anatomy because people I love are in Gross Anatomy and because I need accurate anatomical detail when I kill people in the stories I am writing.
My fingers used to shy from the roots, from tulip bulbs with their snout poking toward the sky and their furze of root ends;
But now I shift bulbs from my warm palm to the cool October soil, sending them into darkness with a call to come back to light, bringing their color.
I used to say, “Ick,” to moldy leftovers, refuse to search inside the garbage disposal for that dropped fork, the ring, the dishcloth;
But now I think on it and do it anyway, because someone needs to.
I used to cringe at the thought of dirty diapers;
But now I routinely clean the anus of dogs and babies alike:
A natural exit hole, how much cleaner than the shreds of a bullet’s passing or the residue of someone’s hate.
I used to look at brown and see dirty: wash your hands, scrub the floor: clean your room;
Now I see the world: brown rice, sepia shadows, mocha skin tones, latte coffee, chocolate in twenty shades of glory.
I used to shudder at potatoes’ spindly sprouts, pushing into the air;
Now I muse that there’s something left to grow on:
Iris tubers, bleeding heart divisions, peony eyes, Idaho’s best in utero:
Rudely growing, aggressively colonizing where they will not, should not, must not.
They will not yield.
Maybe my eyes are less lid and more eyeball to see the unity of us all
Maybe, but I do not think so.
Each experience leaves its mark:
Discarded gum freckles the sidewalks; Scars slide across skin; Memories color the mind;
Emotions imprint our cells.
I think Life happens and Grace arrives.
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