Hoppity

I always seem to have the most interesting and realistic dreams after I've woken up in the wee hours of the morning.  This morning I scooted Amy back to her side of the bed and fell back asleep to the following dream:

My friend and fellow teacher at On Track Academy, Jeff the Chef, was wielding a large axe.  For some reason he either felt I needed to be punished for something or thought he was saving me from some flesh-eating virus; I don't remember which.  Regardless, nobody disputed his rationale and before I knew it I was laying on a chopping block and with the strength and precision of the finest Italian chefs, Jeff thwacked through my right leg and it fell away from me like so many hopes and aspirations stuffed into a lower leg shaped vessel.  

Naturally I thought I was going to bleed out; that losing my leg would be the end of me.  Also, naturally (to the dream world), my right knee area had already turned into a skin-covered nub.  The next few minutes/hours/days found me hopping around on one leg feeling very depressed.  I imagine I felt a little like the wrestler from Arizona State who was told by a lot of people he would never wrestle.  

I looked around for anybody to console me.  It didn't appear anybody was up for the task.  Who is anybody?  I was very legitimately feeling like I would go through the rest of my life with only one limb.  I had thoughts, that felt quite conscious mind you, telling me I would never be able to ride my bike again, play basketball, etc.  Imagine the despair going blind would bring a person who was more passionate about playing video games than anything else in this life; or the hopelessness going deaf would cause a musician.  Those were the feelings I now felt, friends.

Yet, finally I found anybody.  It was not Amy, nor Tyson; my dear friend Kyle appeared in my dreamscape and the last memory I have of the dream is hopping over to him, embracing him, and bawling like a child who just lost a parent.  And I didn't just see his face, I heard his voice, even smelt the familiar Kyle musk.  

I remember my first reactions upon waking were an unreasonable fear of a blood clot in my right leg, a vision of an axe and an angry Jeff the Chef, and a strong desire to call Kyle.

I want to be a writer.

There is so much I want to write, especially about this year.  But I just can't.  I'm not sure if there is not enough distance yet to accurately reflect, or if I am simply anemic when it comes to turning meaningful life experiences into anything meaningful on paper.  

My job is a veritable gold mine.  I have a trove of stories and personalities that anyone in their right mind would want to read about.  But how to present them?  Do I go memoir style?  That could be dangerous because of what I have to say about some people.  Do I fictionalize?  As it stands right now I think I would need training in how to turn real people into fictional characters, real events into fictionally stretched events, and remove part of the reality from the story to insert a slightly different reality.  Of course, Flannery O'Connor says writing fiction "is a plunge into reality and it's very shocking to the system."  I'm not sure if my system is ready for such a shock.  

I'm kicking myself for not keeping a journal all year; something I will "definitely" do when we move to Chicago.  Of course the last time I said I would definitely keep a journal I got three days out of forty.  

***

And then it strikes me.  The great works of art--the stories we praise or keep coming back to--those works are labored over.  Thousands of hours are spent generating, manipulating, fine tuning.  Good writers practice.  Good writers go to good schools, good workshops, and get really good mentors.  I remember many of my favorite writers--Fitzgerald, Bukowski, Poe, Joyce, Hrabal--were alcoholics, went crazy, or were intesely difficult personalities.  Their biographies are worth reading.  Maybe that's not me though.  Are there other options?

I've been so neutral for so long.  I've modeled so much of my life on being in the middle; a peacemaker.  I've developed into someone boring.  Do the dishes, laundry, more dishes, go to work, watch sports.  Nothing too out of the ordinary.  Nothing that will ruffle feathers.  Can a boring person write good literature?  Well, the answer is probably that only real people write good literature.  I'm a real person.  But then I ask, "Does my reality have a market?  Could my reality ever be interesting enough to read?  To matter?  To make a difference in a person's life?"

O'Connor, in her infinite wisdom, also wrote once, "I write to discover what I know."  I know the train is going by right now.  I hear a coffee grinder drowning out James Blake's bass piano keys.  I know my beer tastes rich and sweet and that my computer has 68% battery life remaining.  Amy is sick.  TJ is spending the night.  Austin, Anthony, Aaron, Brad, Corbin, and Junior just graduated from high school.  The train just stopped.  The guy on my left has an iPad.  Jon Fox is counting money.  I am squinting.  

 

 

Abide

The ball spinning on my finger wants to remain spinning; gravity wants it to drop to the ground.  The flowers in my garden wither and die; they did everything they could to stay alive.  The car Amy and I share wants to keep running and running; and to break down, dissemble.  The students at my school want to do well and graduate and prepare for what's next; the students want to sabotage themselves and implode.  

My relationships want to hold together, to remain steadfast; they want to pull away, to invite distance, to put up fences.  

Good fences make good neighbors.

I want to love and serve God because I am grateful and overwhelmed; I want to turn from God and cut that part of my life away to avoid guilt.  I want to exercise my body, treat it well; I want to sit my lazy self down on the couch and fall into an entertainment coma.  I want to go into the world, to love people, serve, learn new things, stretch myself; I want to stay where things are easy, recongnizable, comfortable--to crawl back into the womb.

We want to kill. We want to destroy.  The Thief comes for those.  We want to save.  We want to create.  Jesus Christ comes for those.

The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity.  

Throw me into space.  Let nothing act upon me.

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.

At the end of things yesterday Amy came back to me, climbed in bed, and we were together.

 

Swim for Shore

The dream is this: the alternative education model will become the norm and the standard public education model will become the alternative.  At least in the U.S.  I heard a Chinese guy speak at a conference.  He informed the crowd that the Chinese system of education had been putting too much impetus on test scores and knowledge transmission; schools were not unlocking the individual potential of students, rather they were fabricating cogs for a machine, and a machine that looks pretty damn good to a world that lauds high test scores.

Unfortunately, every teacher in the crowd could reflect with me on the drive for higher standardized test scores and the No Child Left Behind bullshit the federal government pushes for.  Looks like the pendulum is swinging.  A well-educated, high profile Chinese presenter admits that the strength of the American system of education is that it produces independent thinkers, innovators, and dreamers; theindividual is valued beyond the system and beyond results on a piece of paper, which generates confidence and the freedom of ambition.  So which way is our education system going?  Knowledge transmission?  Standardized test scores determining graduation outcomes?  Rigidity?
Sound good to anyone?

One reasonably effective alternative model in the U.S. is largely like swimming lessons at the YMCA.  Kids that are the same age are usually around the same level, but they don’t have to be.  Depending on ability level I can be a guppy if I’m still not comfortable adding and subtracting fractions or if my idea of a research paper is to plagiarize directly from Wikipedia.  But if my skill set is more advanced I can move right on up to the next level.  Also, swimming instructors teach the waterlings general techniques and can try to work the kinks out of a stroke, but ultimately a kid’s success maneuvering about in water is self-determined; and it may not always be Australian in its beauty, but as long we’re talking about staying alive, moving around, and even getting creative in the water, whatever the kid has learned from the Y instructors and taught himself is probably effective.

Listen up American education system.  I heard Jay tell me that he wants to be an engineer.  What are you doing to help him?  Are you assigning hands on, kinesthetic tasks that interest him and could sharpen his skill?  Are you requiring him to research different subfields under the umbrella of engineering and asking that he analyze the pros and cons of several and then evaluate which subfield he thinks he is most suited for and which he might be best at?  Jay does not need to be able to draw the shape of a mitochondrion.  Why the hell are you making him do that?  Jay does not need to know the precise date on which the Treaty of Versaille was signed.  Sure that would be nice to know to make all those historians and social studies teachers feel good about themselves, and to coddle baby boomers so they think this younger crop of Americans will naturally assume the same levels of civic duty they assumed.  But guess what, Jay doesn’t give a shit about the Treaty of Versailles.  Jay wants to build and repair choppers for a living.  What are you doing to help him with that?

A thousand questions branch off from this topic, just like the thousand gypsy dragons most high school students watched fly out to bring justice to the dwarf kingdom last night in their marijuana-saturated dreams.  How can we get enough instructional support?  Will this form of education only cause the foundations of our society to crumble?  Is it even the right decision to allow students the kind of freedom where they can choose the path that interests them most?  Do we need to corral them more? Are we doing them a disservice?  

These are mine...or...under the bridge downtown

It was Bobby's dad beating King Koopa.  How could he do that?  We couldn't get past the third world!  It was pretending to be X-Men in the backyard.  Gambit, mostly.  Eating my first chocolate bar doughnut.  We called them chocolate long johns.  It was sleepovers, and Looney Tunes on TV in the morning.  It was watching dad play basketball in the driveway with the other grown-ups; it was playing in the Jordan YMCA's kindergarten league.  It was gray sweatpants.

Moved.  Better basketball hoop in the driveway.  Around the world against dad.  I occasionally won.  Not sure if it was legitimate or an attempt to build my confidence.  Really big, massive, gigantic yard.  It was homerun derby; or my team of made up all starts dominating the White Sox or Indians.  It was staring up at clear blue skies with the feeling of floating away like a dandelion seed.  It was making rabbit traps with Levi; catching frogs at the creek; rollerblading on the tennis courts.  Allie and I piled up blankets and bean bags and slumber partied in the basement, then woke up to steamrollers in sleeping bags, and Pee Wee, and Bill Nye.  It was Thundercats and A Pup Named Scooby-Doo and The Banana Splits while playing 5-on-5 against myself on the Little Tikes hoop.  Sometimes I tore my "handstring."  I played through it.  

Moved again.  It was Illinois.  Chicago.  The Bulls.  Michael Jordan.  Scottie Pippen.  Horace Grant.  BJ Armstrong.  John Paxson.  Bill Cartwright.  Stacey King.  Super Nintendo.  Johnny Quest.  More basement basketball.  I developed my preference for mood lighting.  It was Goosebumps books and writing Goosebumps knock-offs on the old PC.  It was the Internet and MTV music videos; Dan Fogelberg, Michael W. Smith, Amy Grant, Gloria Estefan, Smashing Pumpkins, Alannis Morissette, Green Day, The Bloodhound Gang, Red Hot Chili Peppers.  Music.  It was the Addams Family movies, Stargate, Labyrinth, Happy Days, I Love Lucy, the Munsters, Bewitched...Sportscenter...everyday...twice.  

It was going to Nick's.  Late nights.  Nick liked Shaq.  I liked Penny Hardaway.  We liked watching Michael Keaton play as Batman.  We also liked Val Kilmer as Batman, but mostly watched Batman Forever because of Jim Carrey.  It was realizing that a person can smoke cigarrettes and still be a good person.  Nick's mom was a good person.  She smoked cigarrettes.  She also heated up mini hot dogs for us to eat and set up the sprinkler so we could run through it.  It was school.  First kiss; the bell rings, time to go in from recess.  My gang of friends and Rachel's gang of friends surround us.  Her lips were dry as brown grass in the summer.  It was Mrs. Ferry.  She taught me to love writing.  She used to be a nun.  I learned how to spell medieval from her, and she once made me call my mom from school when I was being bad.  Best teacher I ever had.  It was the morning mile.  It was climbing the rope in gym and feeling like I had to pee the whole time.

It was sitting on the floor of the kitchen while mom and dad told us we were moving to Seattle.  It was hard to not be excited.  I loved Griffey.  It was sitting on the floor of the kitchen while mom and dad asked me if I would like to repeat 5th grade.  No.  Emphatically.  It was moving to Gig Harbor then changing my mind.  It was Mr. Carbone, frisbee golf, extra recesses, field trips--he was retiring.  It was basketball at recess; sitting on the couch in the library with girls.  It was reading fantasy books: Lord of the Rings, Lloyd Alexander books, The Chronicles of Narnia.  It was reading every Newberry Medal winner I could get my hands on.  It was reading and writing in my room.  It was basketball on the driveway, in the garage, on the back porch of the rental house, in the backyard eventually.  

It was AAU basketball in Tacoma.  Getting beat by black kids, weekly.  It was the People's Center.  New culture.  I was nervous.  I realized they sometimes went to Arby's or McDonald's after the games too, and their moms gave them napkins to use and they ate fries just like I did.  It was making a three-quarter court shot to lead 16-15 at the end of the first quarter, then losing 80-25.  Those kids were good.  Fast.  It was realizing that sometimes you have on games and sometimes you have off games.  

It's nostalgia.  I am trying, trying, really trying not to live in the past.  I don't want to be like the city of Seattle with it's sports teams.  I don't want to be like Michael J. Fox.  I want to have a steady hand.  Too soon?  I want to live now.  I want to create new memories so that I can cycle through living in the past and being nostalgic again, then have another realization that I've been living in the past too much and try to alter that course again.  People deserve to be invested in for what they are doing now, not just what they've done for me.  

Maybe the next blog will avoid "I" and "me" a bit more.  My resolve is thin.  I am in a narcissistic place right now.  Today I went down under the Maple Street bridge and shot by myself for about an hour.  It was not feeling so free since playing 5-on-5 against myself in the basement with Johnny Quest on in the background.    

 

 

Family

Brian found his dad this week.  Turns out Terry lives in Florida.  He left Brian and his mom almost 18 years ago and now as his son nears high school graduation, the two talk for the first time.  

Brian had a cheshire grin on his face when he came in and told me.  He was never very good at hiding his emotion anyway.  Brian also discovered he has two half siblings in the Spokane area.  Tomorrow he will meet them for the first time.  

***

This week at school my coteacher and I had to talk to some of the girls in our class.  Maybe it's the crib, stroller or baby walker; maybe it really is the safest environment.  Whatever it is, there are anywhere from three to five children in our classroom on a daily basis.  I enjoy making a baby smile as much as the next guy, but when school becomes daycare, productivity goes through the floor.  And when other students start getting pregnant (which has happened twice in the past couple months), I have to think we're not doing a good enough job of discouraging becoming a teen parent.  

***

Brad and I were talking about his post-graduation plans.  He lived with mom and dad the first seven years of his life, then it got too dangerous (drugs, crime, etc.) so he moved in with grandma.  Grandma moved to Spokane, which meant he left all family and friend connections to live here.  I asked him about who he wanted to come to graduation.  He said, "Nobody, really."  I said, "But your Grandma asked for eight extra tickets or something crazy like that."  "Yeah, well, whatever."  

I went on to ask, "Do you feel like you have any family in Spokane, Brad?"  He said, "No, not really."  He told me his grandma was planning to move to Texas, or somewhere like that, pretty soon.  He said he was worried about getting a job and having enough money to live on while he went to community college.  Brad floats in the amniotic fluid of a world that will, statistically, birth him into adulthood with all manner of inhibiting conditions.  Every day Brad comes to class, though, he is good to people, works hard, never hesitates to ask questions.  

I don't get it.  I don't understand how he's such a good kid.  He's an inspiration to so many of his classmates, most of whom come from equal or better situations than his.   

***

Brian's mom called today; tears of joy were evident over the phone.  She was so proud of her son for everything he had done in the past year; so thankful.  She was at least part of the source of a great deal of pain, imbalance, and immaturity in Brian's life; contributing in some way to a tumultuous upbringing for Brian.  

I remember when Brian game to class a few months back with a colossal shiner under his right eye.  Mom's boyfriend had hit him.  Brian was confused, furious, whimpering.  Where would strength come from in this situation with a family too broken to support him in the necessary ways.   

Mom might not have been the strength he needed, but she did not stop loving; did not even think about abandoning him.  

***

One of the girls who needs to bring her son to school everyday has been in a consistent cycle of breaking up and getting back together with the baby daddy.  He cheats on her often enough and has a fairly impressive criminal record for such a young kid.  Another girl who needs to bring her baby girl is a remarkable student.  Driven, focused, and will achieve great things.  She is still with her baby daddy.  He is a meth head, and though he wants to stop, he's not willing to get help.  He still seems to love his baby girl. 

***

Both John's and Christa's families are coming into town this weekend for Bloomsday.  Healthy families.  Solid morals; loving, supportive.  Very similar to Amy's family and my family.  So many of my friends, my support group, are the results of reasonably healthy marriages and intentional parenting.  I can't decide if I want that for Brian, Brad, the teen moms, and all the other kids at school.  Our families are all wonderful.  Who I am is largely because of my family.  

But there's the rub.  Who they are is largely because of their family experiences.  The broken, abusive, absent, selfish, impoverished families that sometimes remember how much they love you, or at least have come to realize their lives are richer because of you.  And in the teeming pile of shit that is these students' lives, who they are is that much more inspiring, interesting, and hopeful.

 

 

Gaps and Giraffes and GATC

I'm no science teacher. Zippers on my jackets often get stuck, so why on earth should I be able to teach the zipping and unzipping of DNA or RNA or mRNA or NBA or NCLU? In spite of that I am still required to be a science teacher on occasion. Today I sat down to interview a student on the extent of his knowledge of Biology.

We started with the big questions. What is life? What distinguishes a living thing from a nonliving thing? You are alive student. Why?

The first answer was marvelous. "Cells," said the student.

"Awesome!" said the teacher. "Keep going, what else?"

"Something about cells and membranes," said the student.

"Yes, you said cells already and membranes have very much to do with those, but what else?" asked the teacher.

Suffice it to say hooking correct answers during this interview was like bass fishing in the Gobi. I wanted to blame it on drugs, alcohol, a premature birth. Anything that could possibly explain the reason for a student to be as slow and...unavailable as this student. Perhaps the worst part is that if this student were to read this post he would likely say, "Yeah, I know. I'm so dumb."

That's not the point student. It's really not.

I remember in math class throughout high school, the curriculum always seemed to move a little faster than my brain. In other classes I could make up for missing concepts by writing papers free of grammar and syntax errors that wouldn't make my teachers bang their heads up against the wall. Math, however, really FOILed my method (pun intended).

Sweet! I totally understand how to solve inequalities for a variable. Oh, oops. I divided by a negative two and didn't flip the alligator mouth? When did we learn that?

Or,

Solving a problem using a system of equations?!? Crap! I'm still trying to find the point at which these two phone plans will cost the same.

My student and I share this problem. We were both left behind. He perhaps more than I, but the concept is the same. Without going too philosophical I think this points to not simply how flawed our education system is in the United States; it points to how flawed each of us is. It points to the gaps we all have: gaps in our knowledge platforms, our physical abilities, our ethics.

This student's gaps could be caused by inattentiveness, goofing off, or even skipping class. But it's more likely they were caused by not feeling safe enough or encouraged to ask questions; living in a distracting or tension-filled environment; having low or no expectations from adults in his life; never having to think critically or analyze situations; this is starting to sound like a list on one of those really corny commercials for LifeAlert or the Law Offices of Dr. Malokovowitz or something.

As we talked about natural selection, he legitimately could not communicate why giraffes with longer necks have survived, while giraffes with shorter necks have not. He might not have known the answer. What's more likely is that he had absolutely no reason to be confident in any answer, because most everything he has ever verbally communicated in school has been thrown back in his face.

One characteristic of living things that has always amazed me--in humans in particular--is the ability to adapt to nearly anything. Humans have adapted to things like overbearing heat, low oxygen levels, and the insufficient beer lists of the Bible Belt. We also adapt to stupidity, to not seeking knowledge, and to admitting we will never be more than a general laborer.

I think DNA will remain enigmatic to me. If only there was something in the way G, A, T, and C fit together that could explain why we let people slip and fall without helping them up, or why we only half pretend to expect greatness from those we care about.

I gave up on the student today. Handed him some packets and said figure out the rest. I don't expect much when he hands them back in.