By Morning This Will Seem Like A Dream ...

turn the page ...

2008-02-18T17:48:00.001-05:00

check out the new blog - decided to get back into it. haven't been writing/reflecting/recording enough.

"Freedom's just another word ..."

2007-08-18T12:52:00.000-04:00

Not even sure if I am still required to blog, but what the hell ... I feel like procrastinating and old habits die slowly.

Friday I had about 5-10 minutes at the end of class, after textbooks were distributed, so I wrote the following quotes on the board and asked my students to respond however they wish ...

"Responsibility is the price of freedom" ~ Elbert Hubbard

"Liberty means responsibility, that is why most men dread it" ~ George Bernard Shaw

"Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet deprecate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing the earth" ~ Frederick Douglass

I got a lot of responses that weren't much more than a rewording of the quotes themselves, but a few had a little more insight.

I think Frederick Douglass is talking about those men who are sitting back and waiting for freedom to come to them without wanting to go out and work for it. They don't realize that laying down doing nothing can only hurt them in the long run. If you go out and work for what you want, good things will eventually come your way. Claiming what isn't rightfully yours will not get you to the end of the struggle, and will hold others back also. Putting forth the effort and doing whatever it takes the right way will. - JJ
Elbert Hubbard was trying to say that without responsibility how can there ever be true freedom? Freedoms like those we have in the United States are there because of many responsible and hard working men. Without these men taking the initiative to make sure our country is free, where would society be? Decisions made have to be thought out in a mature and responsible way. For example, if our country was run by an irresponsible person who made bad decisions and didn't protect our country then we would lose our freedom. Freedom is very precious and something that doesn't need to be taken lightly. It give us the choice to decide right from wrong. - SC
Most men would like to see changes made but don't want to put in the work to see it done right. They would rather tell someone about what needs to be done and then wait to see what they plan to do about it. They are not being responsible for their world. They don't want to put in the work to actually make a change. - JL

Blackwell Blog #3

2007-07-10T08:43:00.000-04:00

One of our greatest methods of assessment has been something that is unique to our summer school structure, having multiple instructors in one classroom enabling us to pull a student out of class if they need individualized instruction or extra help. We did this for all of our kids, and no more than once or twice a week for a period of no longer than 5-10 minutes. So they didn’t miss much of what was being covered in class, while we could directly see where they are each at and how far they have each come. Furthermore, having so many of teachers allowed us to get to know each of our students very well, very quickly while still being able to plan and teach effectively.

The official ‘assessment’ came in the form of a pre and post-test that mirrored one another. Our students did better than we anticipated on the pre-test, but still missed a lot of what they should know by eleventh of twelfth grade. There were a few students' that considerably underperformed, on both exams, and I feel that we failed them just as much as they failed, or almost failed, the class themselves.

In addition to these more formal assessments, we were fairly consistent at assigning homework each night – sometimes from multiple instructors. I gave little to no homework during the past year, and hope that I can next year but am not keeping my hopes up. Again, the nature of the beast has changed due to the dynamics we have here at Holly Springs, but nevertheless we have been able to see how much more material can be covered and much deeper the students’ level of cognition runs when they are responsible for work both inside and outside of the classroom. In addition, we are teaching them just that – responsibility; how to be accountable for their own education and make it a priority. What we could have done better would have been to improve our own accountability and resposibility by keeping better track of homework assignments for absent or tardy students.

A failure could be our lack of parent-contact and absence of an official progress report. While we could easily blame this on the short duration of our Holly Springs tenure, it still should have been done. Because of this, we had several students very close to not passing our class in the final days of summer school, all of which claimed to have thought they “were doing fine”, and a few others who did, in fact, fail. This, to me, is almost unacceptable in a summer program such as ours and shows that somewhere along the line, somehow we as teachers didn't give these couple of kids what they needed, and what we had the ability to give.

As for individual students, the first is easy. We had one particular girl who came in the first week of school and did nothing but put her head in her hands and scowl the entire morning. She was not rude at all, but never participated in class voluntarily and rarely provided anything when called upon. We kept on her, involving her in a non-intrusive way, and by the middle of the second week she had started to open up, raise her hand occasionally and participate in class. She told us she is shy, and doesn’t know anyone here, and agreed that her reluctance to take chances on answers or jump into the mix may have contributed to her having ended up in summer school at all. By the end of the month, she was laughing and joking along with us. I think this month helped her out quite a bit, with confidence in the classroom and socially as well. The other individual who made great strides was a young man that we paid special attention to during our out-of-class individualized sessions. I spoke with him more than any other student, and our other instructors all pulled him aside often as well, as he needed the most help. He was eager to learn, and willing to try. However, his basic skills were so low it was difficult for him to keep up with the rest of the class. By pulling him out occasionally, giving him multiple opportunities to get something right or done, and working with him one-on-one, we could directly see the “light go on”, and were ecstatic to see him begin to answer questions correctly on quizzes, in class, and eventually on our post-test. These were objectives that he did not know at all prior to this month, and he at least has a basic understanding of now.

Overall, as was the case last summer, both us and the students got a tremendous amount out of our experience at Holly Springs. The students get instruction more intense (especially for the 1-2 person classes) than they may have ever received in their lives, more attention than they are used to for sure. A lot of material is crammed in, but because of this they are able to experience the entire spectrum of a course in one McSchoolYear. As for us, I enjoy getting to know the kids, and getting to know myself as a teacher better - still fixing some things, changing some others. Because we are around so many other great instructors, I’ve picked up many tips that I will hope to implement come August in my own classroom and was given feedback as to how I can improve what I already am doing. If only every school was run like this school, then students would actually start learning.

Success Story

2007-07-10T08:40:00.000-04:00

SUCCESS STORY:

My success story, like my failure story, has a name. We’ll call this one “Ryan. It’s nice to spend some time thinking of successes from this past year, especially since there are so many negative problems to dwell on. While my successes may seem minor in comparison to my lengthy litany of failures, this one in particular I would say is rather large.

I knew of Ryan before I ever was introduced formally. Ryan has a commanding presence, a large guy with his mini-dreads sticking out like a tamer version of Coolio. He always seems to be in the middle of things, good things, and is involved in nearly every aspect of out school extra-curriculars (except for sports). Most of all, however, I knew Ryan as the kid who took the trash out at lunch. In a chaotic cafeteria where most students leave their trays behind, throw them in the trash with their garbage, or stack them in precarious towers, it is rare to see someone going out of their way to help the lunch workers. Every day, I would see Ryan dragging full garbage bins out the back door and emptying them into the large dumpsters found there, before dragging and bagging the empty trash cans back inside. Nobody really thanked him, in fact, a lot of the kids would make condescending comments to him because of his good will. So you can see why I was glad to see him come walking into my room late in the fall one afternoon.

It started off as curiosity, I think. He said hello to other students in the room, then eventually introduced himself to me. Somewhere in the midst of the pleasantries, he mentioned that he was really interested in acting but that there wasn’t really any opportunity for it around here that he knew of. Without thinking, I offered to talk to him more about his options and he agreed to come after school (his mother was a health teacher, so he was after every day anyway). That afternoon, I learned that while not a great student academically (B’s, some C’s), he has a ton of talent theatrically. He told me stories with flamboyant gestures and laughed with me through impersonations of students and staff at our school. He has a ton of charisma and great energy. I encouraged him to pursue acting in college, being a senior and starting that whole process, and he said he planned on it. So we sat down at the computer and started researching schools with good theater programs.

Over the next week or two, Ryan and I put together quite a list, contacted schools and began filling out applications. There was one in particular that he really got a good feeling about; AMDA (American Music and Dramatic Arts Academy) in New York City. We spent a lot of time on his essays, probably a week of after school sessions and more time than he claims to have ever worked on one thing at a time before, then began looking for short monologues to perform for his live audition component of the application which would take place a few months later in Nashville, TN. While I was struggling to get any of my students in class to come after school for help with work that would decide whether they passed or failed my class, Ryan came willingly every day to rehearse. I felt like a teacher for the first time, he ate up my feedback and advice to eagerly. He listened, and applied. In class, I may get students to sit and stare quietly, but it’s rare that I see anything retained. Ryan let nothing go and, while he was already a great actor, I saw his mastery of the selected monologues grow and grow. When it came time for the audition, I took him around town and made him perform impromptu at local businesses for patrons and workers alike to get a feel for acting in front of strangers.

And he nailed it; for them, and for the school audition. A few weeks later, he was accepted and elated to be heading to New York City next year. Since then, I have seen Ryan get all kinds of attention from the school and community. He instantly became popular when people learned of his post-grad plans, largely due to a wonderfully written newspaper article on him that ran multiple pages and was posted in the library and the front hall by the main office. He deserved it also, more than most. I began helping him research and apply for scholarships, several of which he received. It was incredible to see his excitement, and sometimes apprehension of course, to do what very few, if any, from his community had done before. In addition, this spring Ryan has helped backstage at a local community theater which is running a play soon that I’ll be performing in. He has not only learned very much from an incredibly knowledgeable and experienced cast and crew, but broken racial barriers by becoming involved in what is traditionally referred to as “the white theater”. I have watched his confidence blossom, and cannot wait to hear how he fares in the Northeast this fall.

So, while there were more than a few students that I allowed to slip through the cracks, I believe I was largely responsible for helping at least one student up through the rafters. If he succeeds in this pursuit, which I strongly believe he will, he can do so much for his community and those that will follow behind. It does make me feel good to know that he may not have had the courage, the vision or the motivation to reach this dream of his if I hadn’t helped him. Though I am always quick to point out that he found me, and I just answered his questions. He is a perfect example of what can be accomplished with hard work, belief in yourself and someone else to believe in you as well.

Failure Story

2007-06-27T06:04:00.002-04:00

FAILURE STORY:

Anyone that has been reading my blog might recall a post titled Breakfast Club, which started off with the question, “What can I do for BG?” – well, more than two months later and with sufficient time for reflection that answer is a resounding, “not enough”. For the sake of this assignment, I’ll call him “Billy”.
I’ve had countless failures this past year, some minor and others I would consider major. I failed myself, my students, my school and the corps on more than one occasion. There were days I didn’t lesson plan, days that I found time-fillers to help the periods pass more quickly, times when I didn’t help a student because I was too busy, or too tired. Every one of my dropouts I consider a failure – no, not them; me. A few I was able to keep from dropping out by becoming more involved in their lives, going to their homes and calling them on a regular basis. And there were a few I managed to convince to come back after they had already dropped out. Those aren’t my failures. My failures are the ones that I let go. The ones that I didn’t have the motivation, the energy or, I guess, the compassion to care enough to do everything in my power to convince them that what they’re doing is not a good idea. Some were behavior problems, and I allowed myself to feel relief at their permanent absence. Then there was the guilt – all that extra work involved with getting a student who is so far behind in school that their own child is close to the same reading level as they are can become overwhelming, like the behavior problems, and you are almost glad to see them leave. Until you let yourself remember that the price for their academic apathy is far more costly than a little larger dose of stress in your life.
I can rattle of a number of my dropouts, but Billy is the one that hits closest to home and what I would consider my greatest failure this past year. And he hasn’t even dropped out – yet. I met Billy the first period of the first day of school. He seemed shy, had a nervous laugh and he veiled the transition between assumed nonchalance and humbled obedience when it came to class-work less noticeably than most. Coaching football, I quickly found out who my players were, and was surprised to find out this tough, athletic-looking kid wasn’t on the team. It didn’t take much convincing, just a five minute conversation after class one day, to get him out there in pads. Apparently he had played up until this year, but wasn’t sure if he wanted to or not. Much later in the year, I found out it was because he had to “work” most nights, the non-legitimate kind of work, and that kind of work conflicted with football in several ways. He was talented, but arriving late he naturally had to prove himself to earn a position. In addition, he played safety behind arguably the two best athletes on the team. Slowly, I saw the other side to this shy guy. Bobby would sulk at practice, often scowling at anyone who caught his eye, openly ridiculing and questioning coaches and other players on the team, taking his pads off and refusing to practice at times or simply sitting on the sidelines and refusing to talk or move at all other times. This all stemmed from his perception that he should be starting. One day he even threw a trash can and his helmet onto the field. In his defense, the head coach put up with this act – from Billy and others. Needless to say, the season didn’t go very well, and eventually Billy quit (as did many others) – despite my protestations.
With more time after football season, I began offering myself before and after school for extra help. By then I had noticed Billy was far behind academically. He could barely read, and his writing was what I would guess a first grader could produce. He was relatively polite in class most of the time, aside from the occasionally storm-out-of-the-room temper tantrum when he would quickly get discouraged or frustrated due to something in class or in his life that was on his mind. Some days, many days, I think he got very little out of class because he couldn’t understand what we were doing and I was busy helping out the rest of the students. I think I considered it a minor victory that he even came to my class, seeing as how he skipped most of his others. After Christmas, Billy started coming to school less frequently and often late. Soon he was skipping first period completely so I would only see him in the halls. I would constantly corner him and explain how important it is he, of all people, should be in class every day … and he would nod, and agree, and promise to start coming. He didn’t. So I made another offer, to pick Billy up every morning before school (along with another studentwho was also on the football team and a terrible reader) and have them read for a while, out loud to me and to themselves, before school starts. This is where I failed Billy.
He was immediately interested, even enthusiastic, and I could tell he really did want to learn how to read better. More importantly, I had shown an interest in his well-being that he may not have seen from anyone else - certainly not from a teacher. For the first week I was at his apartment every morning and we would get to school with plenty of time to read children’s books, so much more on his level but wounding to his pride to read in front of his classmates. Then I had him for class, so he was there, and making up his missed work while staying on top of new work. It also helped me to get to know him much better, to learn things like his mother’s encouragement of selling drugs to pay bills, his two kids (he’s only 17), his father (whom he has never met) in prison, and the fact that he has nobody in his life who expresses what I would call warmth or love. From what I’ve seen of his mother, she is abusive, neglectful, disinterested and on drugs herself. There were many days that I wanted to adopt Billy, picking him up in the morning and hearing his mother's berating first hand, thinking that getting him out of this environment as his only viable way of “succeeding”. Getting so involved, waiting in his living room in the morning and driving around with him before school started, helped me to put in such incredible context why, or how, he has gotten to where he is now ... or perhaps more clearly, not gotten.
Then things started to fall apart. I missed a lot of days of school, so he had nobody to pick him up and would be late for school if he even went. There were other days that I myself was running late, squeezing in those last few moments of sleep or preparation, and didn’t have time to pick up Billy if I didn’t want to be late myself. I started getting no rely at times when I would show up at his apartment and nobody would answer the door. His phone numbers changed often that I could never get a hold of him. I tried to engage him in the classroom, when he was there which was less and less frequently, but it seemed he had given up. Whatever spark he had when I first agreed to pick him up because I cared that much that he have time to focus on reading was now slowly fading away. He started getting into fights, getting suspended, and developing a very negative reputation around the school. This hurt me, because I knew what Billy was capable of and what he wanted to do. But I wasn't helping him any longer, at least not as much as I could have been. I had let the window of opportunity to pass. My own school work, lesson planning, personal life and other students had taken my attention away from him. Instead of bailing water out and trying to keep his boat afloat, I let Billy sink. I would always have good intentions of doing more for Billy but never quite getting around to it. And so, in the end, I was doing to Billy what so many others have done to him, what life itself has done to him; shown him that nobody cares about him, that he is a lost cause. I had, in his eyes at least, given up on him. We had talked about working with Habitat for Humanity together when I discovered he was interested in carpentry – Habitat has a worn place on my to-do lists, permanently putting it off every weekend. Its gotten to the point where we both became uncomfortable with each other, perhaps for different reasons, and almost had an unwritten agreement not too look into the others’ eyes, to keep conversation impersonal and only offer the standard words of encouragement or guidance. He stopped coming to class completely the last month of school, and I stopped chasing him to keep on track. I let him go.
It kills me now to know with pretty good certainty that he won’t be back to school next year. He had spoken of Job Corps, which may be a decent option if he does pursue it. He won’t go to summer school, even if he could afford it, and he already is old for his grade. Like so many others, his potential is staggering. The question is, am I going to do what it takes to get them to see this potential without allowing his world consume mine and burning myself out? II've often thought that if I had hoards of money, I might have adopted Billy, and a few others, and some more next year, too. They need so much, and I can give them so much. Opportunity. Attention. I just get tired, and overwhelmed. There are so many Billys. And now, this Billy is out in the streets and finding the support there that cut him loose from the classroom.

Feels Good

2007-06-27T06:01:00.000-04:00

Here are a few letters that I was given by students at the end of the year which I've been meaning to post;

Thank you Mr. D,
Thank you for taking out time when no one else would. Thank you for believing in my vision with me. Thank you for pushing me to the limit. Always stay in touch. I will never forget what you have done. Thanks again and May God bless you. See you at the Grammies.
-B.H.

What's up Mr. D.,
I am writing you to let you know that I appreciate you for motivating us in everything we do. You are a good teacher adn we are thankful to have you. Your willingness and hope that you have instilled in us will last forever. I want to leave you with the fact that I will give back to the community and will do my best to be the best I can be.

Once again, THANKS! THANKS!!! THANKS!!!

- JW

Dear Mr. D,
I just wanted to thank you for one of the greatest English classes in my life. It was very simple and you knew how to put it for to make it easy. I want to thank you for some priviledges you gave us that no other teacher gave us. I loved the way you made jokes and the way you taught us. We had a good time coming to your classes and we didn't have to skip. Thank you for a good class period.
Sincerely, DL

Blackwell Blog #2

2007-06-22T17:35:00.001-04:00

Blackwell Blog Dos

As always, with teaching comes a considerable amount of learning. This was especially true during the past few weeks of summer school, as I began to see all of my flaws (and some of my strengths) exhibited by the first years I had been observing in our classroom. It was not without a dose of hypocrisy that I would sit down after a lesson they taught on Subject-Verb Agreement or Figurative Language and go over what I feel they should do differently; much of it is the very same critiques that I’ve received from others and am constantly giving to myself. Speak clearly and be consistent. Slow down, check for understanding, keep everyone involved and relax. Vary the presentation of material, be energized if you want your students to be as well, always have something for them to be doing and not just listening. So, in their mistakes – natural being the first time some of them have ever gotten in front of a classroom – I see my own tendencies and in my efforts to correct their delivery I am also reminding myself that these are all things I should be working on as well.

As far as my own performance is concerned (and it is a performance, isn’t it – I always have felt like I was impersonating a teacher as much as any other role I’ve ever assumed), I feel stronger, more confident and much better adapted to the climate of your average classroom than I was at this time last year. Running the gauntlet this past year has bruised my body some, but I’ve come out a much better teacher and I believe a better person. Where it took my months to break through to my students last fall, it only took days this summer. Where it would take hours upon hours to lesson plan last summer, it rarely takes more than an hour now. Now, this will be different come next fall when I am lesson planning for an entirely new curriculum, but I am sure the skills and techniques I’ve acquired will translate quite a bit.

Most of my lessons, and our lessons as a group, have been successful this summer largely due to the supportive environment of our summer school program but also because of the energy and enthusiasm of our students. They want to learn, listen and participate. Granted, we lead and they follow, but they are heading in the right direction all the same. More so than usual, I’ve found discussion and group interactivity more successful than anything else this summer – perhaps the nature of the beast of forcing children to attend school during what is traditionally their months off from school. Least successful is easy, independent work. That is why most of them are here to begin with. Whether it’s due to low reading comprehension skills or lack of background knowledge, they lose focus, motivation and understanding when they are left to figure something out entirely on their own. This, however, is getting better.

To go along with learning goals, our instructional procedures and policies have worked very well also. Again, the credit for this cannot be taken entirely, if at all, by us – but instead must be attributed to the supportive and well-oiled summer school administration. It is so great to feel respected, and again, supported. To have school policies that make sense, are explained, and are backed up. With a year under my belt, I have a much better idea of what works and what doesn’t, without having to take someone else’s word for it. This eliminates so many problems and issues that I had to deal with last year daily.

Finally, differentiation is one of my biggest foci, but also my greatest challenges, in the classroom. How do you teach to twenty children all on extremely different levels of learning. How do you keep this one from getting bored, or this one from getting lost? It’s much easier with four teachers, and we’ve started to pull students out of the room one at a time to give them individualized instruction on what they are not grasping or need the most work on. This is based on test scores, writing samples, and their ability to read aloud and comprehend. For some of our kids, this is a brief check on how they are doing and review of their weaknesses. For others, we take almost ten minutes to slowly review what it is they are not clear on, or to have them read aloud to us. This is about as individualized as you can get, and as far as pure differentiation, both myself and the other three teachers in our classroom continue to strive to bring in varied styles and activities to engage as many of our students as we can as often as possible.

Reflection Blog

2007-06-18T18:02:00.000-04:00

In the parking lot of Wal-Mart last night I bumped into a former tenth grade student of mine, a girl who dropped out back in October just three months into the school year. She had gotten into several fistfights during those three months, one in my room, and was failing all of her classes, including mine. She could barely read, was late to class every day, and had at least one child to my knowledge. We didn’t have any problems, but neither did we have any sort of relationship besides the typical student-teacher. Basically, I never got to know her and I feel that she never got to know me.I said hello with a little apprehension, as she was with what appeared to be her friends and wasn’t sure if she would even recognize me. She did. She ran over with a huge smile and gave me a hug. We talked about the class a little, she repeated again and again that she plans on going back to school next year and eventually graduate and then she went back to the her cereal aisle and I went to look for orange juice.

That brief interaction is a good point to begin a reflection. Seeing her, I thought of my classroom back in October and how much it had changed since then; how much I, too, had changed. I wished silently she could have been there through the year, to benefit from this change, as I was overwhelmed and burnt out every day from August 1 practically through ‘til December break. Those days, I woke up with ‘the dreads’ every morning, mechanically throwing on wrinkled clothes and rushing out the door. Some days I had a lesson plan, some days I had something resembling a lesson plan, some days I had nothing at all but a few ideas. Every day I was still exhausted, out of breath and barely awake by the time the bell for first period rang. I would barely survive period by period, routinely coming face to face with situations that I hadn’t anticipated and having to improvise on the spot. It was exhausting, and I would check my watch in a frenzy every five minutes. When the final bell rang, I would try to run around to the different offices in our school to try and turn in all the paperwork I needed or ask all the questions I had before they started locking the school – which happened pretty much right away. I’d go to football practice, which would be frustrating at times but definitely a reprieve from the day, and get out with just enough time to eat, shower and attempt to grade/plan for the next day … which often resulted in me falling asleep on some floor or couch with unfinished work to do. I had no social life, and I was always stressed out.

As the year progressed, I stopped worrying about all of the ridiculous things I was asked to do by my school and became more efficient in my lesson planning. Football ended, so I was granted more time to work with students after school. Because of this, and a conscious effort on my part, I got to know all of my students better through the winter months. I gave them rides home, visited with their families, called often and did as much in the community as I could. I invested myself more in them, and as a result a lot of my problems in class eroded. I relaxed, and so did they in response. I was still very busy, but not overwhelmingly so – at least not all of the time. By the time spring rolled around, I had built a strong relationship with most of my students, some more so than others, and several school and community members. I smiled more, ate breakfast more, slept in my bed more and was even able to exercise from time to time. I still never ironed. I realized how much of the kids behavior is a reaction to my own vibes, or emotions, or level of preparedness. I lightened up considerably, and stopped taking everything so personally. By the time the end of the year came, I was actually very sorry to see them go. I had made the difficult decision to leave several months ago, and was excited about next year, but nevertheless it was heart-breaking to think how far I had come with them, the school and with myself … only to leave. I’ll miss sitting with CW at lunch every day, asking me “Where da guac at?” or “Am I on mute still?” and then pulling 4-5 hamburgers he had stolen out of his pants pockets. I’ll miss QR sucking her teeth and rolling her eyes at me one minute, then laughing and telling me she loves me the next. I’ll miss making fun of the kids, and them making fun of me. That right there might be the biggest difference between the beginning of the year and the end, we started laughing more. I hated to tell them I was leaving. I felt like I had betrayed them, that I was going to be seen as a phony and all I accomplished over the year would be wasted. But I’ve seen students around town since then, have talked on the phone to others, and feel like they understand, somewhat.

There were a few specific things that I wanted to touch on in this blog, prompts from Ben.

How do you prevent first-year burnout? Nothing new; prioritize, manage your time, and be flexible. Relax, learn to laugh at yourself and not take things so personally or seriously, and find small ways to make every period of every day enjoyable. Getting to know your kids really well will help tremendously in that regard. There are the usual tips; try to sleep at least 5-6 hours per night, eat three meals a day, and have some outlet (television, books, exercise, music) that is not school or MTC related. You can’t do it all, but by caring and being there to simply talk and listen to your students you will be helping them in significant ways.

How to deal with difficult administrators...This is a tough one. I had a very, very difficult administration. I didn’t deal with them well. I have never been great with authority figures, particularly when I don’t respect them or what they do. Repeatedly throughout the year, our admins made decisions that I saw as either completely arbitrary or directly harmful to the students and the school as a whole. Rather than listing all the reasons they were miserable, I’ll just say I can’t come up with anything good they did. I was confrontational at times; that didn’t work. It only made my life more difficult. Sometimes, I guess, you have to smile and nod or just keep your mouth shut.

Some things I learned this year … I would say to live in the community that you teach at, and in the neighborhood if possible. This goes along with getting to know your kids as much as you can, and them trusting you and feeling that you genuinely care about them and are not only trying to help them but will help them – sometimes despite of them. And get to know your problem kids first. However you do it, by getting them to come after school or pulling them out into the hall during class or grabbing them quickly before or after class – just build that rapport as quickly as you can. Be genuine. You should care about these kids the most, because if they are acting out then in some manner they need more than most of the other kids. Call home, often. Get to know parents as well as kids. Get involved in the school and community. Go to parades, eat and shop where your students’ families do, get gas near their homes, go to their games and shows – I loved seeing my kids outside of school, and they love seeing you too. And finally, no matter how hard it is, it always gets easier. You will want to quit almost definitely at some point. Well, you knew it would be hard. Just keep on getting out of bed, keep on smiling and before you know it the year will be over and you’ll have learned much about yourself, probably much more than you were able to teach.

the june bug

2007-06-18T14:25:00.000-04:00

Didn’t I learn anything at all from this past year? Well, yes, but apparently not time management. Once again, I’ve managed to over-commit myself, a cardinal sin in the teaching profession – particularly when you are just starting out – and am feeling overwhelmed, exhausted and behind in my work. This is the summer – I’m supposed to be sitting by Sardis and relaxing! Fortunately, the first week of summer school at Holly Springs has passed, and with it the bulk of my teaching responsibilities. However, there are still a number of assignments, tests and commitments that must be done or met in the coming weeks. Nothing in and of itself too intimidating, but factor in a daily two-hour commute back to the Delta and nightly three-hour long play rehearsals and you’re looking at a recipe for burnout. I think I’ve pulled more all-nighters this month than I did all spring. And I’m making it, somehow, but my car isn’t. After a weekend of abuse at Bonnaroo, it’s telling me to give it a break. Last night, post-rehearsal, my car wouldn’t start, again. I jumped it, again, and this time decided on bucking for a new battery. So under a midnight moon and swarmed by blood-horny mosquitos I put in a fancy new battery and breathed a sigh of relief when the ignition kicked in smoothly moments later. I had been panicking about making it to Oxford to class the next day, having already missed my allotted one in order to sleep in a field with 100,000 other sweaty, happy people with Sting, Ben Harper and Widespread Panic serenading us in Tennessee. After a brief nap, I was awake again and packing the car to make the drive north up Route 61. Never happened. Within a few miles of Leland, my car (which started just fine) began to lurch and I watched while the RPMs raced and my speedometer slugged. Having been witness to the death of one vehicle in similar fashion already this week, I turned around and went back to Leland. Guess I’ll be losing some more points off my grade.

So now I’m sitting here lesson planning, exhausted and sweaty, and waiting to hear how much damage was done from the shop downtown. I’ve got to somehow get to Oxford tonight, or at least by tomorrow morning, as well as make it back and forth three more times until show-time this weekend. My account is looking like a fourth graders piggy bank penny savings, and I have some rather hefty expenses taunting me on the horizon. On that note, how about some advice for the first years; Don’t over-commit yourself. Obviously, do as I say not as I do. This is a lesson I’m still trying to learn myself. You can’t save every child, you can’t start or join every club/team, you can’t make every lesson plan revolutionary or grade everything you collect, you can’t have much of a social life (or at least one similar to what you are used to most likely), you can’t read all of those books you’ve been meaning to read, or watch those movies you’ve been meaning to watch, you can’t talk to friends or family for hours on the phone making it tough to keep up with them all, and you can’t get out and enjoy the Delta as much as you’d like. Now, you can do a portion of all of those things; all in moderation. And that’s just what you have to do. Learn how to say no, prioritize and be organized. I felt I needed the occasional jog, several hour long phone call, good book and time-consuming extra-curricular in order to stay sane. But it’s difficult to find the balance.

And while we’re on the topic of busy summer’s, how about a few things I would do if I were a first year – which, actually, are things that I will be doing since I am, for all intents and purposes, a first year due to school switching. Get housing early, as soon as possible, and make as many trips to your new house/apt as you need to in order to get as much of the furniture, appliances and utilities as you can before the school year begins. You will be busy this summer – good. Get used to it. The busier your summer is, the more prepared you will be for the fall and the more you’ll have gotten done now that you won’t have to do later. Per housing, I would recommend living in your school community if possible. I would have preferred this. Also, get your syllabus written, at least a basic version, and plan your first couple weeks of lessons. Not the Monroe lesson plan – just basically what objectives you plan on covering and what exactly you’ll be doing to fill the period. Also, have a BUNCH of filler exercises/activities in a folder and ready if you need them. This can range from ‘get to know you’ games to mini-lessons (such as a short story to read and respond to for English), sudoku’s, word games, trivia, etc. To go along with that, plan out your whole year as much as you can (again, just what you want to be covering each term so you have a general outline). And an MTC tip, get your teacher corps work done ahead of time if possible. You don’t need to turn in stellar work, but do make sure you turn all of the assignments in. They are easy to lose track of, or ignore, and that will catch up with you.

I’ll be moving to Moss Point in July, after I get back from Costa Rica, and starting over new as well. I’m teaching a new grade, so new content, and have a new set of rules and policies to familiarize myself with. I’m nervous, and excited. I’m heading into my second, first year.

Blackwell Blog #1

2007-06-14T17:40:00.000-04:00

The goals that I approach each new lesson with are various, but all grow in the direction of the objectives I’ve established for that particular class period. These objectives themselves take some consideration, as they must be both attainable and challenging - as well as interesting and relevant - for the grade level that is being taught. For our summer school students at Holly Springs, we’ve decided to focus primarily on the English II objectives (as we have a mixture of II-IV). This ensures that those still in that critical year of state testing will receive all of the instruction they need to succeed in that venue. In addition, I’ve found that many of the basic benchmarks provided for English II by the state of Mississippi are quite analogous to those you would find in English III & IV. We will bring a little bit of the other into the classroom, when we do lessons on American Literary Periods (III) and an overview of British Literature (IV). The idea with this is to target those in III and IV specifically, while introducing concepts to the English II students that they will see sooner or later, anyway.

Practically, one or two objectives/goals are the rule. These are clear, concise, and limited to the ‘mastery’ of one specific benchmark or an isolated (if that’s even possible) element of the standard high school English course. My lesson plans tend to follow similar patterns; an inductive set that engages the students with the material to be covered later in the period in a creative or abstract way. A particalur inductive set that I have already used was to pose a question on what the class feels the definition of ‘romantic’ is. They shared their responses, and then we went into a discussion on the Romantic Period of American Literature. I told them to keep in the back of their mind what they felt ‘romantic’ meant, and that we would come back to it at the end of the period. They, thus, came up with a new definition on their own based on the characteristics of the period. In addition, we discussed logic and creativity by using Starbursts – such that each student was asked to provide a logical use and some creative uses for it, then connect these to what we have learned about the Romantic Period and draw their own conclusions.

This leads into the procedures, which can be broken up into; presentation/identification, discussion/engagement, and finally practice/use. One of the more difficult aspects of lesson planning is meeting these goals for the varied needs of your students. In a classroom of 20+, which we are fortunate enough to have, there are 20+ different levels of prior knowledge – much of which we are just now beginning to see. Thus, I always try to present my material both in a very clear, logical and common sense fashion while inserting ‘interesting’ tangents or more critical analysis for the students that may be a bit more advanced in the classroom. To go along with this, students should always be doing something. Note taking is good, but graphic organizers are better. Worksheets are ok, but activities really get them involved with the material. And always, or almost always, I incorporate some sort of reading comprehension into the period if I can (and if I can’t, then for homework). Reading is essential for all of our students, and most of them I’ve found need attention paid to this more than anything else.

Thus, by keeping appropriate goals, we should see our students develop throughout the course of the next month. The pre and post tests should evaluate this. In addition, we’ve decided to spend some time every day with a couple of students (so that they are all met with at least once per week) in individual instruction /tutoring. We have writing samples that we will be looking at closely with them and isolating their specific problems or academic issues. I’ve seen students in the past really take to this method and their progress sky-rocket.

China King

2007-06-03T08:08:00.000-04:00

I'm going to save most of my end of the year reflection for my next post, because I would like to piggy-back onto my last post before I follow the crumbs I dropped all the way back to August 1.

But first, the school year has ended; it feels so good to say that. It's been a long year, but it's gone by quickly. The year has been filled with apparent paradoxes, so what better way to describe it than one giant mix of uncomfortable juxtapositions. There were times I wanted to quit. Never seriously, but I had my moments of sitting alone in my room with all the lights off in the early hours of a weekday morning with work still hounding me and my sense of self-satisfaction buried under caffeine, deadlines and failed commitments. I didn't feel like I was accomplishing anything, aside from allowing myself to get consistently overwhelmed, behind in work and frustrated. But I loved my kids; I hated the way they acted sometimes, or didn't act - "real talk, Mr. Doyle", but I never stopped loving them. That love grew deeper and took root as the year progressed, which made it all the more frustrating and the guilt that much sharper when I felt like I was failing them or at a loss for ways to help them succeed. Despite all of that, I was able to make connections and encourage relationships that went beyond the blackboard with a good number of my students.

So, to continue the ramble in my previous blog, I met up with a few students yesterday afternoon at China King. School has been out for a week now, and I've bumped into some of them at Sunflower getting groceries or in WalMart and brought up the lunch idea. I called about 10-12, but was only able to reach half that many due to disconnections and terminated phone plans. It sunk in just how difficult it'd be to keep in touch with some of my students, with numbers and residences changing so often. I had my phone number on the board all week, so hopefully a few take me up on keeping in touch. There ended up being six of us present to suck down all the egg-drop soup and chicken fingers you can eat. Once the discussion moved past whether or not some asians eat animals that are commonly pets or pests domestically, we began in on their plans, and goals and paths to reaching them. We talked about the emphasis on race and existence of racism in their lives, and throughout the country/world, and why things might be the way they are. At times we shouted trying to make a point, drawing attention from white and black diners around us, not caring who heard what we had to say aside from each other. These were some of my favorite kids - QR, BW, LT, DF and AA - and it was incredible to see them think these problems through, to really not just look at me, but into me, both when I spoke and when they spoke to one another. If only I could do this with all the kids, and more often. If only their classes were smaller. It seems so obvious, that if we ever expect to reach true equality, in public educational offerings at least, there needs to be inequal funding - with those in need getting MORE aid and not less than schools in more supportive communities that have other means of providing for their children's "education", in all its meanings. I teared up more than once during lunch, especially when we started to talk about how I was not coming back next year. And I pulled a few tears from their stoic grins, too.

I could have sat there all afternoon, as it was we were there for two hours, but I started to sense that they all had other things to do when the cell phones came out and texting commenced. DF and AA asked if I could drop off some books at their homes some time this summer, BW's big barrel-chested father asked if I could help him learn how to read, between swigs of Budweiser, while I was dropping her off (he drives trucks and never graduated from high school) and LT will definitely hear from me before his trip to Canada with his Earthwatch research team in two weeks. There are so many others I wish I could have talked to, saw at least once more, and its finally settling in that there are so many I won't be seeing again no matter how much I'd like to. I'm excited about next year, but these kids have a way of affecting you. I guess, its not just that they are kids and dependent on us all for so much, but I've never been in a situation where I was around so many of the same individuals consistently for so much time ... well, at least not since I was in high school myself. In college you have your core friends, while everything else is in semi-constant flux, and they are people who obviously affect you. College was longer for my than most, and towards the end, more reclusive. There is no place to hide in the classroom, sans not going - a choice I made too often this past year - and you are completely exposed to the critical eyes of so many judgmental little Caeser's, much more likely to condemn you than to spare you from the lions. It's so much more fun to watch the lame teacher squirm in the powerful grips of a wild animal.

I guess this did become a bit of a reflection, but I do have a lot more to say and am without the motivation at the moment to do justice to the emotions I've felt, and still feel, throughout all the cumulative experiences of the past year. I fell asleep on the couch in our sunroom again, and am starting to enjoy waking up with the sun and the birds. First day of MTC in Oxford is tomorrow, which will be a nice change - I'm looking forward to being more of a supervisor this summer and having time to prepare for twelth grade English and Drama next year in Moss Point, as well as help the new class of teachers as much as I can ... and, as well as falling asleep to the fireflies, waking up to the pink reflection in Sardis Lake and bathing with the dawn. Will be a busy month, with the play scheduled for the third week in June necessitating commutes back to Indianola nearly every other day for rehearsal.

caste in the classroom

2007-06-03T07:54:00.000-04:00

A few Fridays ago, the junior girls were on a field trip to the levee so rather than continue reading “A Raisin in the Sun” with no more than five students remaining in either of my eleventh grade classes, I let them work on make-up assignments, extra credit and we had those kind of conversations that crop up at the end of the school year.

At one point, I asked a question that I had been curious about for a while but never had explicitly addressed to any of my students before. I had a feeling I knew the answer, but wanted to know what they felt. I asked whether or not they ever hang out or interact with any white teens, or white individuals at any rate, aside from their teachers at school and as their paths cross in common spaces such as Wal-Mart. A couple had co-workers at places like Sunflower or Sonic, but in both cases this was their store manager. Aside from that, their answer was a resounding no. I asked again in my next period, and got the same response. How is this possible? Granted, white is the minority at approximately 30% of the town’s 12,000 residents, and the dual school system, private ‘segregation academies’ and public schools, as is the case in most Delta towns, remains almost entirely segregated by race … in 2007. Over, and yet apparently only, fifty years since the White Citizens Council, a ‘white-collar Klan’, was ominously founded in Indianola at the same time Brown v. Board of Education was passed. Still so separate. There are both nice and run-down white neighborhoods and nice and run-down black neighborhoods, each with their own gas station/general stores, their own playgrounds, their own community centers … there are white bars and black bars, black churches and white churches and, as already stated, white schools and black schools. None would be so crass as to publicly limit the crossing of such visible racial lines/barriers, lines visible only in the color of the skin on those that hide behind them, but their open declaration is in the quite obvious sweeping lack of exceptions.

For some reason, I imagined kids being a little bit beyond this historical sense of opposition, and maybe they are. Yet my students and those at Indianola Academy, 15-18 year-olds, live in the same town yet never interact with one another - follow suit from the wonderful example set forth by the adults in the town. Their sports teams don’t play one another, ever. Very few community events are publicized in both communities. I've recently been cast in a production of Agatha Christie's 'The Mousetrap' which is generally referred to as "the white theater" in town. That very visible, unacknowledged line. Is this the fear I talked about last week with one class? I asked the guys I was sitting with in the classroom what they think would happen if I attempted to organize an after-school group or program open to both schools, the natural first reaction;

“Where would it be? They wouldn’t let us over at their school and they’d be afraid to come to our school.”

The guys all expressed interest in ‘talking to a white girl’ their own age, many never have, and eagerly echoed one another’s enthusiasm for such an endeavor. I wondered silently if guys from IA would feel the same way towards black girls, or if black girls would feel the same way towards white guys and vice versa … and why. They joked, but eventually they began to say things like “For real though, I think one school for everyone would be better. Them white kids studyin’ all the time and stuff would make us all work harder or we’d look bad.” This was obvious, their sense that all, or at least the majority, of the white kids were smarter than all, or at least the majority of the black kids. If you ask them why, the answer always comes back to money and opportunity. I mentioned how much more money one school system would have at its disposal, for better facilities, better books, etc. but then asked them how the kids in honors classes here would feel if suddenly they were displaced by mostly white kids, or how the white kids on IA’s basketball team might feel if most of them didn’t make the team here when put altogether. I was careful to note my gross generalizations.

“That’s life," DR replied, "I guess they’d have to work harder if they wanted to prove theyselves.”

Lassos & Tasers

2007-05-04T17:40:00.000-04:00

Been a busy month, and a quick one. The first few weeks was a flurry of state test preparation; instructors trying to cram every last bit of knowledge into the brains of our kids before offering them up to a higher power. I hated administering the test more than I hated preparing for it. It seems such a damned waste, to spend so much time drilling and training our children rather then helping them really have a valuable and valued education. Pass the test, pass the test, pass the test. My students, for the most part, cannot comprehend what they read. They can read, but they don’t understand. This is true for so many aspects of their education; they can do, but there is no deeper cognizance of what they are doing or why they are doing it.

While not testing, we festered in the loud, hot and musty gymnasium for the rest of the day. I don’t even want to attempt to estimate the amount of time wasted in the gym throughout the course of this school year, educational time most of these kids can’t afford to waste. At one point, we spent a whole afternoon in the dry spring heat practicing a welcoming outside in the school’s front parking lot for the “pioneers of integration” in Indianola, who were to come the following morning. I might have been one of the few people there glad I was getting a tan, and I couldn’t help but wonder at the irony of celebrating the anniversary of integration at a public school that is nearly 100% segregated; no longer legal, but definitely social. The only white I saw in the sea of students was their white uniforms and the few interspersed TFA or MTC instructors probably all wondering at the same things. Is this what those pioneers expected years ago when they first walked into the front doors, in those moments before all the scared white students walked out the back doors to start their own schools or moved to other communities that are more homogenous? Recently I had one of the best conversations of the year in one class. We talked about fear being the opposite of love, and the greatest impediment towards social progress. I didn’t let them answer without thinking, asking why, why, why until they got frustrated with me … but also got to the heart of the matter. People don’t just hate, they fear. And the only way to overcome that fear, is to love. Or something like that. Before the bell rang, one girl raised her hand and asked innocently, “Mr. Doyle, why ain’t white people in Mississippi as cool as you is?”

I told her I’m not cool; I’m a teacher.

Post-test has been a struggle, too. I’ve lost another 2-3 kids per class who have essentially stopped coming to school. I started the year with over 30 students in all but one of my classes. These days, my classes usually have fewer than 15. That’s half that have dropped out, or are consistently absent or skipping (and naturally, failing; the passive drop-outs). The students that are present, “aren’t fi’n to do no work anymore”. They do end up working, but I spend at least 5-10 minutes at the beginning every period lecturing and getting them on task. I had, for the most part, succeeded in getting my classes focused in the past couple of months. I’m trying out a short journalism unit in one class, with the end result a class generated newspaper (our school does not have one). Articles are to be written outside of class. I hate to have low expectations, but I don’t think I’ll get more than a couple turned in.

Off to New Orleans for the weekend to groove to Damian Marley, John Mayer, John Legend, the Allman Bros. and others at Jazzfest. Just a couple of weeks left of school. Life goes by too damn quickly. I’m not ready to say goodbye to these kids, but I sure am looking forward to this summer, and all that goes after.

Raisin in the Rain

2007-05-04T17:39:00.000-04:00

“Wake up in the morning and I ask myself …”

Last night I chaperoned my first field trip, aside from away games in the fall, and will admit I was more than a little apprehensive of being responsible for a group of students after school hours. My costume is half-way off then, and so is theirs. We had sixteen in all, pants sagging or skin tight, caps and pumps on, busing them all over to Greenville for a nighttime performance of ‘A Raisin in the Sun’ put on by the Delta Center Stage.

It started with a deluge and a detour. The sky opened up just as students started to arrive in front of the school to meet the bus. Girls screamed and ran for cover with permission slips held over their heads. Everyone was wet and out of breathe when we pulled out of the parking lot after waiting for a few stragglers. Two of the girls brought their babies with them. Both children were at least three, while the mothers couldn’t have been more than 17. Then, our driver remembered he left a crock-pot of potpourri on his oven with the burner on low and had to “stop by quickly to make sure the house don’t crsip” – ten minutes later, far more time than I’ve ever spent turning off a burner, we were back on the road.

The kids were fine, and I was glad RJ came. RJ had a stroke a few years ago and is now confined to a wheelchair. It’s his senior year, and he only comes to school for half a day at a time because he needs to rest in the afternoons. His body is frail, and one side is almost completely limp. When he is in school, he is often stuck in the office with his aunt who works as a secretary. This means he sits in the side room where angry parents who have come in to meet with our principal must wait, or where students who were tossed out of class stagnate. Not a great place to spend your days to say the least. Around December I started meeting him during my prep period and wheeling him down to my room to hang out for a while and get away from all the negativity. He’s a great kid who never complains, but you can tell his condition wears on him.

We got there just in time to find our balcony seats in the old high school auditorium. The first half was alright, dragging in places but I was impressed by more than one of the actors/actresses. The kids were more impressed with the bathrooms, which had couches in them. They were pretty respectful, keeping the talking to a minimum, but we had the whole balcony to ourselves so it didn’t really matter. Just before intermission, I heard some chatter and hushed them a couple of times. When the lights came up, I walked up to the back row where most of our students had lined themselves against the far wall. Both babies were sound asleep. Then I saw a couple of the girls were crying and on their cell phones. While I worked my way between wooden seats, one cried out and collapsed to her knees sobbing hysterically. The others rushed in, forming a circle of hugs and questions. The most I could make out of it all was that someone had been shot that a few of the girls new, one intimately. We worked our way outside to get some fresh air in the hopes of calming them all down and figuring out what was going on.

Outside, the hysteria rose as the reality of the situation sank in. A girl’s boyfriend had committed suicide; shot himself through the heart. Her sister had called to inform her. Girls sobbed in each others arms while the guys stood by in silence or held onto them and attempted to offer words of consolation. Other families attending the performance who had also stepped outside for some air stared out our group, huddled in the rain that had turned soft and gentle and was now more of a mist than anything. I did what I always do when I’m nervous; act busy. I bought them some bottles of water, since one girl had started hyperventilating and I knew she had asthma. The police officer/coach who had driven the bus confirmed her sister’s phone call. I made a few phone calls and offered some words of my own. Eventually, another teacher in attendance offered to drive the girl back home, along with two of her friends. We all eventually filed back inside and up the dark stairs to our seats, the show well into the second half post-intermission, and sat in the dark each thinking our own thoughts but none really paying attention any longer. Aside from a few sniffles and whispers they were silent. A few fell asleep. My head started to nod as the play dragged on. It wasn’t until after 10:30 that we piled back onto the bus and headed home, while the rain picked up outside and whistled with the wind against the thin glass windows, and it wasn’t until after 11:30 that I dropped off the last of the students at their homes and headed back home myself.

Mike was passed out on the couch and rose to talk some nonsense before dropping back down to spoon the cushions. I didn’t make it much farther, collapsing on my bed fully dressed only to wake up the next morning with just enough time to throw on some clean clothes and run out the door.

Breakfast Club

2007-04-01T15:18:00.000-04:00

What can I do for BG?

Last Tuesday we had the first half of the English II state test, the written portion, so the days leading up to it were fairly filled with informative essay prompts and writing practice. On Monday, BG's seat was vacant during first period. This is not a surprise. I have his section for back-to-back periods, and he is rarely there for the first one and maybe 50% of the time present for the second period. At the sound of the bell between periods, the kids get a break to stretch their legs and their lungs so I open the door and let them out - only to see BG leaning up against the outside wall beside my door, ballcap on and shirt untucked (and even worse, unironed), trying to casually avoid eye contact.

"How long have you been standing out here?"
"I just got to school."
"How do you expect to pass if you always miss first period?"

He shrugs. Months ago I had attempted to find ways to get him to school. I felt bad for him. I knew him as a teacher and a coach, in fact, he was one of my Killer DBs. So I learned quickly that he has a terrible temper and was apt to lash out at teacher's or students at the slightest provocation, is extremely insecure (though not at all conscious of this), and way behind where he should be academically. If you're talking national standards, he reads and writes around a second/third grade level ... and he's being asked to do tenth grade work. We've had many talks throughout the year - on the football field during practices, on the bus to or from games, during class or in the hall after an outburst - and I see that he really is just a scared, confused and sometimes angry kid who has no positive role models in his life at all. I've dropped him off at his apartment, met his mom and for a while had her permission to pick him up at their apartment on my way to school so I could make sure he got there on time as well as help him with his reading in the morning before other kids showed up. That didn't last long. Some days nobody would answer the phone (which is usually disconnected) or the door when I got there, some days they would let me in and I would end up waiting forever for him to get ready making us both nearly late for school and at one point he got kicked out of his house by his mother for throwing a television at her, apparently, so he was bouncing around between friends' houses.
Needless to say, he came to school very infrequently during those few weeks. I shouldn't talk. I was also missing too many days or running late too often, so it wasn't always his fault.

I still try to get him in early at least a few days every week. Just last week, I picked up another one of my breakfast club students and left him in the car while I went to knock on BG's door. His mother let me in, then began to scream into his room (where he was 'asleep' while his television blared sportscenter highlights loud enough to make most people deaf) to get up. She cursed at him, called him all sorts of shit, and even threw a shoe at him. I sat in the living room waiting, about 30 minutes, looking at a few family photos and mostly just staring at the wall. While I was waiting, I could hear his mother berating his younger sister in the other room - at one point coming into the living room to get a belt and then returning to the back room where I could hear the whacks and the crying. She demanded angrily that the girl spell out words like 'shell' or 'she' (evidently she had a spelling test that day - she couldnt have been more than ten years old) and would hit her or yell even louder everytime she got a word wrong ... which was everytime.

"How the hell you gonna keep sayin' c when I just told you it were s! Shut up with that crying an' get it right 'fore I tear yo' butt up, girl!"

Eventually, BG emerged with his head down apparently ready to go. No wonder he reads at a such a low level - no wonder he has such a temper, so many insecurities and is so fragile. I did get him to go to school, which he wouldnt have done if i didnt pick him up, although, since I had to wait so long, we didnt have any time to practice his reading - or the other students'. He told me he was fittin' to leave early anyway - and he did. I waited for close to an hour in his house for him to come to just one period then walk home. The mountain this kid has to climb to even get close to where he can pass or graduate is so high, and the hill so steep - nobody would be surprised to see him give up and fall. Especially when he won't even look up himself.

On Monday before the state test, though, I pulled him into the room before the bell for second period rang so that I could get him up to speed with what the class had been doing first period; informative essay practice, same thing we've done all year long so that by test time tomorrow it should be second nature. He sat down quietly, still avoiding eye contact, while I explained the prompt, gave him a pencil and let him get to work.

Informative Essay Prompt: You're teacher has given you an assignment to write an informative essay. Think about people you consider to be interesting. Write about why you consider these people to be interesting. Be sure to explain your reasons with details.

I let him be and circulate around the room, coming back from time to time to make sure he's on task. After about 15 minutes, I ask to read what he's written so far. He slouches down in his chair, and looks down and away without saying a word. He has a paragraph written, if you can call it that - about six-seven written lines entirely without punctuation save for two lonely apostrophes - but it's what he's written that gets my attention.

one Person that interest me is my mother why cause she always hard on me cause she want better for me she want me to pass high school but that not going to happin cause I am all ready know I didn't pass and thats going to hurt her second Person that interest me is my teacher Mrs. Doyle why cause he's the type of teacher that care and want you to do better for yourself and make the right choice in life and school

I take a deep breath and am about to tell him how good this is, then show him where he can make his run-on into shorter complete sentences and form paragraphs, when I see that he has tears falling down his face. He isn't making any noise, just sitting quietly and still looking down at the dusty tiled floor. And in a matter of seconds, while I am trying to find the words to comfort him, he gets up quickly and pushes his desk hard to the side so that it slides into the person next to him and then falls to the floor loudly. His desk is right beside the door, so before I can react he's outside and rounded the corner of the English wing. I left the class, ran around the corner and called to him but he ignored me and kept on walking away. I didn't write a referral, and have spoken to him since. He told me how he is up late most nights til 2-3 AM selling marijuana, he swore he wasn't smoking it or selling coke or anything harder than pot, so that he can buy his food and clothes - his mom hasn't worked for years (he laughed and shook his head as he said it), so he has to buy anything he needs/wants himself. He doesn't see his dad much, even though he lives in the same town - he's been in and out of jail, mostly for drug related offenses. We talk about the importance of finishing off the year, even though he will not be able to do anything to pass a single one of his classes (aside from getting straight 100s this nine weeks) and he agrees to write letters to his teachers apologizing for his poor work this year and promising to do better next year - "Oh, I'm coming back Mr. Doyle, don't worry. I know I can do it." He's already a year or two older than most tenth graders.

He also tells me that what he really wants is to get away and live someplace else; "I don't like it here. Everyone be all up in your business" What he means is he wants a chance to start off fresh. I ask where and he tells me Virginia. Why? "I don't know," he says. "It look real nice on TV, like, their school is clean and stuff and its mixed."

Later that day much of the school is stuck in the gym for another senseless mock-test, and he comes over and sits by me where I'm reading alone on the bleachers. He's all smiles, just off a defeat on the court and joking with a girl sitting beside us. A few minutes later, he's got his arm around another teacher and they are both laughing - the same teacher who earlier in the year told me she was afraid of being in the same room with BG.

I almost wish I could adopt him; mentor a 17 year-old ward when I can hardly take care of myself. He really does want to do well, to work harder and make better choices ... but its just so damn hard.

On another note, CW surprised me with his response to the same informative essay writing prompt mentioned above. CW is a big, hulking, 260 lb. mean-looking linebacker originally from New Orleans who manages to even display a grimace when he smiles. After Katrina, neither his mother or father, who were never married and whom he bounced between for the first 15 years of his life, were able to support him so he was sent to live with his grandmother, a stooped woman he had only met once before, in the Delta. He's been here since the storm, and hasn't had any contact at all from either of his parents - needless to say he isn't happy about the situation. He spent the first two months of school in Alternative because of a pretty serious fight, and has been suspended 3-4 more times since then. I like him, most of the time, and he is one of my smarter students when he isn't asleep in class. Anyway, earlier this year when I had them researching for a response on the artists of the Harlem Renaissance - he called me over to his computer to spit out in adolescent disgust, "Nah man, I don't want to write about this shit." He had discovered Langston Hughes was gay. I told him to focus on the poetry and the artist's work, and keep his comments to himself. More recently than that, you may recall a blog titled 'Onions', in which a quiet student in my class was reciting a Hughes poem and, after declaring "A May song should be gay", was rudely interrupted by several students laughing and making homophobic comments. The most vocal of the hecklers was CW. I laid into them all for a while on their intolerant attitudes and base insensitivity - and at least got them quiet and got their attention. Fast-forward to the Monday before the writing portion of the state exam when we are practicing informative essays. Here is an excerpt from CW's; he chose Martin Luther King Jr., Michael Jackson and, you got it, Langston Hughes as his three 'interesting people'.

James Langston Hughes was one of the world's most notorious poets. He had the language of poetry down to a science. He had a rough childhood because his father and him were not on the same page. He wrote children's books, novels and newspaper articles. He also wrote books of poetry and he recieved an award from the NAACP for his writings. I think he is interesting because he is a great leader, and he wasn't afraid to be different.

I wanted to hug him. Also, you might find it interesting that he had originally selected Reggie Bush as his third 'interesting person' and crossed the footballer out to be replaced by the King of Pop. Wheels are turning, however slowly, and by-Zeus something is being learned. They may not all pass the state test and they may not all graduate, but the wheels are turning and something is being learned.

“Do they have malls in Canada?”

2007-03-31T17:51:00.000-04:00

Walking from my car to my classroom yesterday morning before school, halfway between my disparate worlds - still wearing flip-flops and a backwards baseball hat while straightening my tie and tucking in my shirt - I heard someone call my name and turned to see LT grill-grinning and running towards me as he pulled out a packet of papers from his bag;

“I got accepted Mr. Doyle!”

Months ago, I got a letter in my box asking me to nominate a few students for an Earthwatch Fellowship. EarthWatch provides scholarships for high school students to participate in 2-3 week long summer research expeditions in North America, Hawaii, Costa Rica and the Caribbean. I spent some time thinking about who might be a plausible candidate (not many) and who would actually take the time to apply (even fewer). I nominated a couple, and out of those I nominated only one actually opted to fill out an application and spend some time after school working on his essays. His transcript wasn’t stellar, barely passing several of the key subject areas, so we spent a lot of time editing and re-writing his essays (like most of my students, he’s way behind where he should be in reading and writing) and to be honest, I didn’t think he had much a chance. Last month, I received an email telling me LT was one of 300 Earthwatch fellow finalists – he had no idea, not having received the notification that had been sent to him in the mail. The letter he showed to me yesterday, beaming with pride, said he was one of 82 high school fellows selected out of all the applicants nationwide for an all-expense paid research expedition. Never having been out of Mississippi or on a plane before, LT will be flying to Churchill, Manitoba in central Canada this summer to study the wetlands between boreal forests and arctic tundra. Later, during my prep period, I could feel the fear and excitement from LT as I showed him where he would be (right on the Hudson Bay! Strangely, I have a map of Canada on my classroom wall - as part of the Ramp-Up curriculum I received this summer but haven’t been able to use) and read out loud the waiver warning of “the highest concentration of polar bears in North America”.

As thrilled as I was for LT (and slightly envious – I want to go to Canada, too!), the elation paled in comparison to what another student accomplished earlier this month (and which I’ve been meaning to blog about). You might recall in past blogs the mention of a BH, who was preparing for an audition with AMDA (The American Music and Dramatic Arts Academy) in New York City … BH used to stop into my classroom earlier in the year from time to time to chat after school, being a senior and thus not one of my students, and we soon got around to talking about his interest in theater. There is hardly any opportunity for him to explore this interest in our community, but he has done what he can and from what I’ve seen he has a lot of talent. We spent some time researching a few schools and programs, and put together a few applications. The focus of his attention was on AMDA, and these essays we spent the most time on. Once sent in, the next step was to select and rehearse two short contrasting monologues (approx. three minutes long), which he would have to perform at a regional audition in Nashville, TN. We eventually settled on a passionate soliloquay on racial inequality from ‘Statements’ by Athol Fugard and a comedic one-act by David Ives. For several weeks, nearly every day after school in my classroom we practiced these monologues, eventually bringing in other teachers or driving around to local businesses for ‘mock-auditions’. We had a lot of fun, and it was amazing to see his improvement. I pushed him, but this kid has a ton of natural talent. He headed up to Nashville with his mother on a Sunday for the audition, and called immediately after to let me know how it went. He told me about all the other applicants he met in his typical upbeat manner, but I could tell he was a little distressed about something. When he got to telling me about the audition, he paused … “He cut me off Mr. Doyle!” Halfway through his second monologue, the Fugard piece, the far better one that we saved for last to really give them something to remember, the judged looked up and cut in with a “Thank you, that’s enough”. It didn’t necessarily mean anything, but it didn’t seem like a good thing. They said they would call him within a couple of weeks.

Over spring break, while I was in the car driving back from several days that took my mind nearly entirely away from school, I got another call from BH; “I just wanted to thank you for all your help Mr. Doyle, you know, even though it didn’t work out – got a letter today saying I didn’t get in.” I paused, crushed, then recovered enough to go on and on about how much he must have learned from the whole experience and to not give up on what he wants to do just because this door may have been closed. He let me talk for a few minutes before interrupting with, “I’m playing Mr. Doyle; I got accepted!”

In a town where very few students go on to college, very, very few go on to four-year institutions, very, very, very few go out of state for school and probably none before have pursued a degree in the theater arts at such a reputable school – this is huge. Perhaps for the first time this year, I truly felt like I had actually made a considerable difference in at least one kid’s life.

I haven’t been the best teacher in the world this year. In fact, I haven’t even really been close to the best teacher that I know I can be. I do get excited and passionate in the classroom. I’ve gotten through to a lot of my kids that need a lot of direction in their lives and made some pretty great connections. I know they know I care about them very much, and we have a lot of fun – even when we’re reading or writing essays. But, I’ve missed a lot of classroom instruction when I’m not prepared or when I feel as if I am letting go of aspects of my personal life that are too important for me to entirely abandon all at once. So there is the guilt, battling dissatisfaction. Maybe it’s a selfish tendency. In addition, I’ve never been the “yes sir/ma’am” type, and have found it very difficult to acquiesce to ‘authority’ when I don’t approve or believe in what I’m being asked to do – which has made for some rocky professional relationships and not a very warm work environment outside of my classroom. I’ve learned a lot about myself this past year, some positive and some negative, and am looking forward to the end of May and a chance to put this chapter behind me so I can start focusing my attention on getting it slightly more right the next time around.

Big positives, like helping LT or BH, plus all the little acknowledgements doled out in smiles, laughs or nervous thanks do give the year some sense of accomplishment despite all the daily frustrations. Still, I’ve got a lot more to learn and, hopefully, a lot more to teach.

For the moment, I’m going to go see if I can find the snapper I picked up on my way back from Jackson this morning. The jay-walker was in the middle of Highway 49 and running the risk of getting squashed under 80 mph tires when I swerved to miss him, pulled over, and ran barefoot back along the gravel to rescue the ungrateful, hissing reptile. While I’ve been typing, there have been periodic thumps from the living room that I’m guessing are his attempts at escape. The rain has stopped so I’ll drop him off along the creek before going for a run and burning off some of this apprehension I’ve accumulated so far today. Next half-marathon is less than a month away.

onions

2007-03-02T01:11:00.000-05:00

Spring break cannot come soon enough.

First, this article is ... um ... funny?

This week has been hectic, in part due to taking the whole weekend off from work and driving to New Orleans with Mike. Was a nice reprieve/distraction, and after waking up beside the sunrise at 9 am and arriving almost two hours late to the marathon, I jumped right into the flow of feet on mile 13 and finished the race without too much pain. Then back to reality. Final exams, poetry slam, consecutive nights with no sleep, unnecessary MTC work (I'm making a powerpoint on 'le petit prince' - wtf?!), BH's last week of rehearsal before his audition this Sunday and a mountain of ungraded assignments. This is the farthest I've let myself slide in my grading, and is terribly unfair to my kids. Then again, I bend over backwards to help them pass in any and every way that I can - maybe sooner or later they need to learn to do the work the right way the first time around and not always depending on being bailed out come crunch time. Regardless, I have been and will continue to, hear their gripes this week and next.

I cried for the first time in my classroom this morning.

Already an emotional land mine after not sleeping since, hmm, Tuesday ... I think ... I was in rare form today. If any class was going to make me cry, which isn't something I do too often (although it doesn't take much to make me well up), it would probably be my fourth & fifth period class. The cane to my other tenth grade class of abels. Overfilled with the disinterested, angry, academically challenged or just plain goofy, I've given out more detentions in this class alone than there are catfish in the delta. Detentions that mean nothing, but thats another story. Between farting, cursing, flirting (hitting/poking/grabbing) and sleeping - it amazes me I get anything accomplished at all with this crew. Only yesterday I went off on them while a shy, self-conscious kid who's mother recently died was practicing the poem he would be reading at the slam after school. It had been very difficult to convince him to give it a try, but he was excellent once he gave himself up to the reading. I could tell he was nervous, but he was picking up the pace just fine when he read the line, "A May song should be gay". This erupted laughter and comments of disgust from the rest of the class, shouts of "faggot" and "man, i don't want to hear this shit". The student reading couldn't finish, and I was pissed. I went off, swore about as much as I could, and talked a whole lot of shit to 'my kids'. I had had enough of the immaturity act, and told them exactly what I thought of their behaviors. It kinda worked, they all participated in the rest of the post-poem review, but I'm still half expecting a phone call from a parent. Anyway, today, in front of this same class, exhausted, I attempted to explain why one of our group is no longer with us. DW moved to our school this year from another Delta town, after going through a very difficult spell with chemo. She had been mocked and ostracized at her old school when she returned hairless. Clean for over a year, I would have never known she had even had anything more than the flu if she hadn't told me early on. She became involved in our school, made a lot of friends, joined the cheerleading team ... and then this week, found out it was back. A lump in her chest. She had been losing weight, and her demeanor seemed to change overnight. After speaking with her and her mother (about 45 minutes of worried tears and earnest smiles), we thought it might be a good idea for her to tell the class, since many didn't know her history. She didn't want to, but wanted me to once she left. She left last night. So today, I gave it a shot.

They were silent. For almost fifteen minutes straight, I rambled about cancer, strength, friendship, taking advantage of today, living your life how you want to be remembered. I spoke about my sister who has brain cancer, about responsibility and courage, and how childish their attitudes are for the most part. I wasn't interrupted once. I was sure I would get comments when the tears started dropping, I even laughed at myself in surprise - not having expected this to happen at all - but even then they just sat and, really for the first time in that class, I had their undivided attention. It wasn't about me, it was about one of them - whose empty seat seemed filled in that moment with her absence. The bell cut me off. Tomorrow we're going to make her a card, and I hope to drop it off on Monday in Jackson.

And only last week a student in another class, angry after I told him to stop talking and get to work or leave the room for the fifth or sixth time, had told me that "the problem with all you new, white teachers is ya'll care too much". According to him, we should just let them fail if they don't care, and not try to get them to work if they don't want to. I wish I cared more, and I think I care more than most.

I can't think straight. I've been cooking all night (crabcakes and fruit salad) for some riduculous senior-class birthday celebration. I'm tired, getting sick and have made the hefty move towards establishing some sort of personal life, perhaps, recently and thus am miles behind my work.

I'm done for the night - I need a good dream right about now.

Below are two poems written by eleventh grade students of my mine. We are reading 'Fallen Angels', by Walter Dean Myers and I did about a week of Vietnam War prep leading up to it. One activity had them each reading short pieces of non-fiction written by war veterans and then, coinciding with a lesson on mood/tone, writing original poems based on their reactions to the prose. I had done a short unit on different forms of poetry not too long ago, which didn't go over as well as I had hoped. These two seem to have gotten something out of it at least.

Heaven’s Door
by LT

I couldn’t believe it
we were fighting to repel attackers
. . . scared?
in a desperate fight for our lives
total darkness
. . . really scared
who’s “us”?
KIA, MIA
Tet raged on for days
close to death
shadows heading straight towards my bunker
K-9, 50 cals, M-16s
LOADED!
they were depending on me
knocking on Heaven’s Door

Forgiveness
by OR

hasten the rescue …
reinforced by rituals …
the most nightmarish sights I had ever seen …
rage, crying, yelling and moving …
shot through the back of the head …
getting caught up in the emotions …
my mind had finished processing the horror …
powerful feelings of God’s wrath …
blood soaked dressing …
it was kill or be killed …
I was so full of rage …
forgiveness is a powerful grace …

... my middle name

2007-02-14T12:18:00.000-05:00

she bring me love love love love, crazy love.
—Van Morrison

To Be Read In 500 Years
by Albert Goldbarth
If they're right, the whizkid physicist-theorist thinktank guys,
suggesting that every acted-on decision of ours produces a brachiation
in the timestream (therefore, two simultaneous independent futures:
for example, one extending from my use of "brachiation,"
one extending from my almost-use of "fork," so that
tomorrow-"b" and tomorrow-"f" are equally real in parallel
and coexistent tracks), there may be, secretly among us,
a few—or even entire populations—of backward travelers
in time from not just one, but many, "alternamorrows,"
so different from ourselves, it's like the thought that bitch-ho' rap
and the sublimities of, say, Chopin are kin enough to both be
reproduced by variant patterns within the same 88 keys:
in one
of these futures, everything essential, every attribute of humanness
even minimally desirable, is relegated to mind alone
—we look like cumulonimboid dendrite-structures
that have flowered out of small deflated flesh-pods—
and the reproductive function of the species now
is entirely exocorporal, a matter of frozen protein combinations
and gestation-sacs of complex bioplastic;
in another
of these futures—it's an after-we-squander-the-oil-deposits world
of post-apocalyptic, bare-subsistence living—a day
is a matter of thinning, granular soil: leached,
defiant of yielding to our human need and its desperate threshing
—that, and a rumor from over up north that dog troops
of marauding goons are on the march with pillage and worse
asquirm in their eyes—and there, and then, all softness,
all of anything without "survival value," has been bred out
of the race, so "interpersonal relationship" is no more
than a reflex of the genes;
or, au contraire,
another future makes an ornate, public fetish of the wooing game
—a codified fantasia of modes of address and rank and dowry
and clan and feather-on-cloak-by-depth-of-genealogy, etc.—
to a social architecture of such overmuch extent that, while it's all
intensely focused on the establishing of a betrothal-pair, it's
all at the same time so bound up in duty and cultural sanction
as to be even more devoid of anything personal—anything soulful
and open to flutter—than the future I've described
of petro-aftershock ...
and therefore none of these baffled representatives
encamped in our twenty-first century can understand,
can "get," the thump, the cupid-zing, the woe and the wow,
in our songs and poems, especially the songs, especially the glowing
uranium dump that malingers all night at the bottom of the blues,
oh especially the blues, especially let her light shine down
on me, especially by the waters of Misery Avenue, let's not forget
Heartbreak Hotel, let's not eschew its transient cast
of cinders-and-ashes clientele, but also the songs of tra-la-la
and marital abidingness, of how sometimes a body fits a body
as indivisibly as waves (or it could be particles) fit light, the poems
address this too of course, the let me count the ways, the roses
in their fragrant and meaty botanical abundance, and the doves,
let's not forget the doves, the old thou art a summer's day
and thy breasts are of wheaten beauty, let's not dillydally
in recognizing
the wedding under the laws of God, let's not exempt the quickie
under the snooker table, the flame in the bones, the one name
drummed
in a bruising tattoo on the heartskin, they don't comprehend this
sugartit thing,
this sonnet thing, this sky held in the mirror pools
of the Taj Mahal on a day of slowly promenading couples
thing, these people of the future as I've imagined them don't have
the apparatus of leisure we've had, in a special lotus of time
that's been vouchsafed to us, a mythos, a sequestering in which
this serotonin and this opium are grown to a lyric degree, they
wouldn't
understand me sneaking out at 5 AM to pat that ten-dollar valentine
tenderly into place beneath the wiper-blade of Phyllis's swayback
Dodge
(with the fishtaily brakes and the fanlight crack in the windshield),
they
don't know the drive-in, the down at the corner, the boardwalk,
the bridge,
the places where it happens and where we commemorate it,
also a night
of blind and driven howling I pulled like an hours-long ebony scarf
from the deeps of my brainstem once on Morgan's lawn, so sweet
it is, this ineluctable thing, this please let one of the harder sciences
objectify
the biochemical basis of our here-do-that-to-my-earlobe-another-time
thing, down by the riverside, at the gates, behind the stadium,
and Skyler my wife with the basement tiles and cowboy pajamas,
she lift me up, she bring me the dominions of the morning
and the thrones of the moon, they've never once experienced this
impossible night of her wanting him down to the vitamins
and the pepsin and the aura and the spit, and how she bring him
the molasses and the escrow and the skidmarks and the holy church,
the rock and the water, the star and the stain, together we heard
the otherworld hosannas of wind in the alders, not to mention
karaoke screech, the Gregorian chant and the triple-x rebel yowl,
it requires a certain coddled recipe of history and maybe economics
for this psychic condition, this giddiyap of the hormones
and the industry they generate, the castles and the sly decolletage,
I wanted to read her the works of Montaigne and Cervantes
and Emerson
and I wanted to slip her some tongue, I was enrolled, I stayed
the course from my first day in Agony 101 to my post-doc,
they will never
be burned by this ice, they will die without knowing the thirst
in this river, she bring me the spackle, she give me the flying tackle,
he build her up, he tug her plug and she drains, she becomes
a puddle of ouch, she hit me with the hoodoo, with the magic spell
and the candle, they will never know this candle, yeah
she lead me up the towpath got a diamond in my nose, she dress
in ermine and sable, she barefoot in the grass, I tossed,
I thought of words like chivalrous and serenity, I spied on her,
I wanted to kill for her, she bring me the cherry wine, the toxic waste,
the whole wheat and the half-shell, they will never eat of this fruit
and suffer its consequences, never beg for its juice, its family root,
she be my guide, she interlocutor, my Beatrice-and-Virgil
(and me behind
in my Dante sandals following her shake-that-thing on the stony path),
my rash, my silty unguent, she rob him, she rock and throb him,
she greet him in his guise as the charioteer of the sun in its vast
celestial passage, in the centuries forthcoming they will never know
this honeycomb of confusion and its confected delight, it happens
in the jazz bar, at the casbah, in the synagogue, under the sheets,
she lift me higher, she be my desire, she build me, she give me,
in the sand dunes, hot hot summer, on the roof, yes here, now here,
a little lower, she feed me, she give me, she lift me, she need me,
the sound of the continents as they first tore apart and the surge of
the oceans,
the music of that, the songs especially but also the poems, she take me,
the rosins of craving, the tables of lust in its periodicity, they cannot
and cannot and cannot partake of this feast and the terrible emptiness
that follows, she make me, she lift me, I freely give her one grand
opera rose
and hiphop dove, she under my skin, she knife in my mind,
this thing,
oh this millennial and hallucinatory and radiant thing, she bring me,
she lift me, she take me, she bring me love
love love love crazy love.

A friend of mine said it best in an email I received this morning ....
"Happy Wednesday! For me, every day is an opportunity to express love and be loved"

"Santa Claus Van Damme"

2007-02-13T15:53:00.000-05:00

Early today, a former classmate of mine sent this to me. Kids can really be both mirrors and sponges at the same time, reflecting all the beauty and all the ugliness in the world with a clarity too honest for adults. On Super Bowl Sunday I called my parents and, after assuring them I was eating healthy and getting enough sleep, was passed around to the rest of the crew assembled to watch the game. My niece (who recently sent me a colored drawing of hearts and rainbows, inscribed “You are the coolest! Go D!”) excitedly told me that they were learning about the different states in school and that all of her friends thought Mississippi had the coolest flag.

. . .

No, her teacher didn’t explain what the flag represented. She had no idea; most fourth graders probably don’t. I tried my best to give a brief synopsis of slavery, the civil war and the current state of affairs while a rain-soaked Peyton scored another TD in the background and her little sister whined to have her turn on the phone.

At what point does this innocence become ignorance, and intolerable? I recently heard a story from a friend who was sorting laundry with her young son a few days after he learned all about MLK in preparation for the holiday and, you know, the inequality he’s sure to encounter first or second hand as he grows older. The conversation went something like this;

Mother: “Put the whites in one pile and all the darks or coloreds in the other.”
Son: “I know Mom, we learned about that in school today with Martin Luther King Jr.”
Mother (taken aback): “What do you mean? This is just what we have to do with laundry, not people.”
Son: “Why?”
Mother (assuming he meant, ‘Why separate the laundry?’): “When you wash clothes, if you mix colors in with whites you will ruin the whites.”

. . . she immediately realized what she had just said, and put down the laundry to clarify for him.

Hopefully he understood.

Night School

2007-02-13T14:42:00.000-05:00

When it becomes difficult to face the day to day, I plan for tomorrow ... been doing a lot of that lately.

... and thinking, not much doing but a lot of thinking. Some resolving, perhaps.

Just got back from a late-night run and not quite ready for more schoolwork ... nor for the half-marathon I'm going to try for in just over a week. The candle-lit, open-book bath (more so as not to see the light brown colored water I lay in than for ambiance) I just arose from has me feeling kinda contemplative, so rather than curl up in front of the fire with more failing papers to grade, I'll blog a bit. I passed Kermit twice tonight, going and coming, which made the circuit close to a five mile loop along the creek. A soft shower was falling, almost looking like snow in the glow of the street-lights, raindrops trailing down my cheeks like warm, spring tears. Running works out my muscles and my mind, burning off calories and anxiety equally.

Leland was asleep for the most part, the streets quiet save for my heavy breathing and the rhythm of my sneakers on the pavement, only a few lights still on in the homes that I passed by. I jogged passed a group of ducks on the shore of the creek beside Leland High School, wide awake and quacking away in a loud chorus. Along one dark and open stretch of road cutting through an expanse of fallow fields, beyond the creek, the houses and the street-lights, I felt my pace and pulse quicken. Alone, between the distant lights of Greenville dotting the horizon and the pockets of stars blinking between clouds, my steps grew lighter and quicker ... apparently at my best when I'm certain that nobody is watching. Or just more afraid. I laughed at the 'Slow Children At Play' sign (never gets old ... Darwin would have ran them over), and was startled, again, by the unexpected presence of the three wise men, life size mannequins still lingering from Christmas, standing amongst the shadows at a particularly dark bend in the road.

Had a really good weekend past. After an easy Friday at school and orange juice with oatmeal cookies at the home of my mentor teacher, Mike and I sped up Route 7 to Oxford just in time to meet Grace and Lily for the Angela Davis lecture. From the Ford Center we made our way over to the Oxford Film Festival for 10 mph. After a midnight snack at Huddle House, I kept awake to talk the hours away in our hotel room before passing out not long before it was time to get up again for class. Saturday, after class, a few of us drove over to Lake Patsy where we ran around as the sun set, kicking the soccer ball or each other then collapsing by the water's edge. From Patsy to pizza, then another movie and more late night Days Inn conversations. Exhausted, Mike and I drove back refreshed, somewhat, after sleeping in on our first Sunday morning in Oxford. Not in any hurry to get back to the scattered paper piles and unfinished lesson plans, we pulled off the highway once into the Delta and got ourselves lost and got the truck covered in mud along a few unmarked dirt roads. Back in Indianola, Mike left me at school where I had left my car on Friday. Intending to get some work done in my classroom before catching our senior class play in the gymnasium that evening, I was easily convinced instead to hop into a pick-up game out on the field with some of the guys I coached in the fall. The sun was out, it was another beautiful day in what had been a gorgeous weekend and I was feeling fairly young and free. After trying my best to not show my age on the football field, goddamn that sounds strange, and making it to the gym for the second half of the play, I promptly went home and fell asleep ... and didnt get up until today ... Tuesday.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep – Robert Frost

El Sur

2007-02-05T17:03:00.000-05:00

That little furball in Gobbler’s Knobb didn’t see his shadow, so spring must be on its way ...

BH and I have picked up the pace, rehearsing in my cluttered classroom most days after school and on the weekends, with his Nashville audition for AMDA coming in less than a month. It’s enough to make your heart shake, to see this young kid pacing in front of the chalkboard, brow furrowed in concentration, on a Sunday afternoon, just off of work and still wearing his McDonald’s uniform, grease-stained but ironed with care as if he was clocking in somewhere on Wall Street; shouting with the clenched-fist rage of a repressed South African during Apartheid or two-stepping and cracking jokes with a sideways glance. We’ve chosen a monologue from Athol Fugard’s Statements and the other from the hilarious collection of David Ives’ one-acts. He’s good, and learns incredibly quickly, but I don’t know if he’s good enough. His essays could have used a lot more work, and he’s going to need a lot of financial aid. I’ve heard too many stories of Delta students getting accepted into some good schools - Ole Miss, Mississippi State or even Xavier, Cornell, MIT - but enrolling instead at local community colleges for fear of failure, their own or their parents’, financial and familial commitments that hold back far more than urge forward; or, perhaps worse, students making that leap, only to come back home shortly after with their tails tucked between their legs, wading back into those shallow, familiar waters where they feel more comfortable and safe. I hope he gets it, probably even more than he does.

See, I’d stay as late as BH needed me to, because I feel like I’m making a difference and that we, together, are accomplishing something … working towards an attainable, albeit ambitious, goal. So then, why is it so hard to drag myself into the classroom every day, when I honestly feel that I do enjoy teaching and love every one of those little fockers (no pun intended … well, maybe) - the roses, the thorns and even the weeds. Perhaps it’s because I’m not allowed to really teach. I’m taught instead (told, rather) to train; to not ask questions, to not doubt authority but rather to humbly fear and blindly follow it, to follow and not to lead, that appearance and end results are everything without attention to independent motivation or critical reason. In essence, to program ‘my kids’ in a way I am not only fundamentally opposed to, but feel is directly crippling any realistic chance they may have of personal/social progress.

Herded this way and that like sheep by inattentive shepherds, these sacrificial lambs are becoming Orwell’s incarnate ignorant masses. I, for one, am not a huge fan of our present situation, and am growing increasingly cynical toward the prospect of our collective future. Educators and parents (at what point did educators start replacing parents?) must focus on and emphasize more positive, empowering and liberating messages for the youth we interact with each day over these negative, controlling messages they are getting instead. The purpose of education should be to help students develop independent capacities for creative and critical thinking. It seems that in our public schools and other educational environments these ideas are at-best paid lip service, and at-worst ignored in a high-stakes testing arena which places the upmost value on forcing stagnant curriculum content into the brains of learners so they can score well on bastardized, I’m sorry, standardized tests.

Throw 'em in the trash, they're not even worth composting!

“Of all the calamities to which the condition of mortality exposes mankind, the loss of reason appears, to those who have the least spark of humanity, by far the most dreadful, and they behold that last stage of human wretchedness with deeper commiseration than any other.” - Adam Smith

Politics, that hulking elephant in the classroom, has sat its mammoth ego on top of our most valuable resource; our children. If it doesn't make dollars, it doesn't make sense. But dollars don't always make a damn difference. If I were to raise a family in the Delta, the question would not be public or private, it would be whether or not to send them to school at all. I’m constantly bewildered at the choices made “in their best interest”. Let’s get rid of extracurricular activities – well, everything except football and basketball. I mean, we're taking away their school we've got to give them something. Art, music, health … what good will any of those do them?? Be careful with history. There are no facts in our libraries (and there are hardly any adequate libraries), only opinions; for instance, that this nation’s own (recent?) history is imperialist and morally corrupt. Absolutely no worthwhile experiments in the labs, if you’re school is lucky enough to have one, because of the liability lawsuits can bring, and absolutely no dissecting Piglet … animal rights, of course. Nevermind the rows of pig-appendages decorating the aisles of every market south of the Mason-Dixon. Let India and China continue their heathen, communist practices; our doctor’s will at least be good democratic christians and not push the envelope enough to make the simple folk raise an eyebrow towards tradition. While you’re at it, just go ahead and cut the number of subjects a child can take to the state exam requirements … we must teach them to work, and that work is not fun. Let them be inspired on Sundays. Let’s beat the curiosity and problem solving out of them with a wooden paddle, dead lessons, worksheets and multiple-choice assessments. Band-aids don’t heal infected sores.

Where is their freedom they were promised? What about the skills necessary to equip oneself in order to be able to a) make the world a better place and b) help your fellow human beings – including your own children (for some sooner than others)? If it was just about putting food on the table, everyone would be flocking to Cuba or Venezuela and not Ellis Island. Any child who endures twelve years of ‘state education’ without gaining a decent level of literacy, math fluency, verbal fluency and a basic general knowledge of the world they’ve inherited (all of which I’ve found rare among my sixteen year-olds) should have a legitimate case in law against their school district, their State Dept. of Education and the U.S. Dept. of Education. It’s malignant child abuse to neglect their basic needs to such an extent.

Am I helping? Not really. I get frustrated, angry, and depressed (in cycles). I get by. I get overwhelmed. I withdraw from the commitment I’ve made to them, and try to embrace more selfish desires. But it’s hard to look away from a train wreck, especially once you’ve gotten to know and care for the passengers. All day long, over and over, I can forgive my kids. I can’t forgive the adults … and I’m having a hard time forgiving myself.

I'm going to make a milkshake.

Every now and then you get lucky ...

2007-01-13T00:57:00.000-05:00

... and catch a rainbow"

Decided I won’t comment on this article, at least not on a blog, but wanted to share it nonetheless.

I got up this morning. That was good. My $20 resolution is in the bag … perhaps we should up the ante.

It’s just after noon, now, Zay Rudd’s got me feeling some solace, my muscles are tender to touch having worked out last night before falling asleep in front of the fire with a book on my chest and a half-eaten bowl of butter-pecan sitting beside me, shit, I even ate breakfast this morning and after being relatively productive since I arrived I think I can let myself indulge, myself, by doing a little blogging before walking across campus to the JROTC catfish-fry. Today is an off-day, where parents come to the school if they want their child’s report card. Our sole responsibility is to be available in our room to discuss student performance if anyone wants clarification on a grade. I’ve had a few ‘actually-caring’ care-givers stop by, mostly those I’ve already met with, and have been energized each time I’ve been given the opportunity to tell someone how much I love their son or daughter, but just wish he would see the importance of coming to class on time, consistently, or she would realize she’s way behind the curve with her reading level and needs to be catching up by practicing at home for some time every evening, or that they would all focus less on the moment and more on their future. And I’ve added one more soldier to the breakfast club … a couple students that I pick up in the morning before school so they can a) make it to school on time and b) have thirty quiet, solitary minutes to read.

More than parents, I’ve had a steady stream of students themselves here, bubbling over with the electric charge that comes with a day off from school … groups of guys with their pants at their ankles, their guard let down, and starched caps cocked, not currently confined to their uniforms, lounging on desks and window-sills trying to convince me Lil Boosie is the best rapper alive … girls in pairs, bouncing by on cell phones in pants as tight as the boys’ are loose, who stick their heads in for a, ‘Heyyyy, Mr. D’, some even stepping inside to write their names in cursive on my dry erase boards and promise that they’ll do better next term. Of course, I’m perched way the hell up on my soap-box, and flowing from “read, read, read” to “stop blaming other people and giving me excuses” or “words mean nothing, do something” and “you can do anything if you’re willing to work for it” … they nod and look at the ground, or smile and laugh, and I tell myself they’re listening. A teacher may give lessons in clichés, but what is novel to ears as fresh with dew as a cool spring morning cannot be disregarded for moth-eaten sheets but must, rather, be displayed in the breeze so wide-eyed children can run among their wild billowing walls and wonder at the tiny moon-lit mouths that have left behind perfect holes through which to discover the trees, the stream, or one another … and I’m eating it up like Cheerios.

Croons from Akon to Common, Matisyahu to Trevor Hall, Lupe, Damian Marley and Xavier Rudd are alternating their digital serenades while heavy, gray late afternoon clouds threaten rain. I feel like napping, and tea … with honey.

“You listen to John Legend, Mr. D?”

As one shining star walks out the door to watch an adaptation of Macbeth down the hall in ES’s room - a senior who I’ve convinced to apply to several post-secondary theater programs in New York and LA, who comes to my room after school several times a week to practice his selected monologues, and who I’ll be driving to Nashville with on two occasions in the upcoming months for his auditions – his departure leaving me to glow momentarily at my desk alone with Talib twisting words out of my laptop and a tattered photo-copy of Fugard (So. African playwright we’ve selected), another student, probably my favorite, sweeps in before the door completely closes with his mother in tow. It really felt great to say so many good things about him, someone who is not only gifted but motivated as well, instead of once again seeing the worried or angry looks that come from habitually disappointed parents. I think I’m going to bring in Shantaram for him on Tuesday. He’s going to be helping with the film club I’ve tried to start up, and hopefully soon we can get working on some of the projects we’ve discussed once the equipment arrives.

The sky finally has opened up, draining those gray clouds peacefully outside my window. I think I’ll set my plants out in the grass for a while for a few drinks of rain and some fresh air. I’d like to join them, but I don’t have a change of clothes and plan on catching the Lanier game later on to see what the hype is all about; then, a short sleep to make sure I can get us to Oxford whenever MG gets back from his soccer game. I don’t think we’ll get to Ole Miss before the sun starts waking up, so it might be breakfast instead of the hotel bed.

I feel good about today, seeing the kids at school but not in school, and Thursday’s lessons. Yesterday, reading some short stories and poems on Vietnam in preparation for either Fallen Angels or The Things They Carried (recommendations?), one of my dozing fireflies lit up the room for just a minute … but it was brilliant. I’m really looking forward to the next nine weeks … one day at a time. I need to change a lot of things I’m doing, or not doing, try some new things and continue to keep it all in an even perspective; all that, somehow, when I already have no time and am starting a new semester of classes at Ole Miss. I should probably teach-by-the-book a little more now … but it’s hard for me, to do what I’m told when I firmly believe it’s not what is best. Coming back from winter break was a bit jarring, and it took me longer than I expected to accept, once again, the lifestyle I’ve currently chosen.

This is an adventure, isn’t it? Every day …

(will be adding pictures soon)

I believe

2006-12-24T22:13:00.000-05:00

Tonight, after opening presents and sitting by the tree, two of my neices swore they saw Rudolph's nose blinking in the night sky over Mt. Greylock . . . I think I might have, too.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

"... the most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world ..."

Pissing into the wind

2006-12-08T00:13:00.000-05:00

I should have used this title for my 'smoke' blog ...

I’m eating some steaming ravioli (Chef Boyardee) for dinner with a little cilantro and a glass of cold milk ...

I just got tore up at the Y by two men, doctors actually, over forty, with a less than 2 inch vertical (between the two of ‘em) but deadly accurate hook shots ...

People amuse me, when I’m through getting frustrated. I hope that I amuse them, too.

I’ve decided I’m not sleeping tonight, because I’d rather decorate/clean our house and put up the tree I bought earlier at Lowes. Also, I think I have some sort of test to do for class and a reflection blog to write. I’d rather get it all done and go watch the Hornets tomorrow night get their first victory since Clinton was getting polished in the White House, then lay in bed alone and cold anyway.

Time flies. That’s my reflection. I’ve been so occupied, mentally and physically, for the last four months that each week seems like a day in retrospect. Since there is always more to do than I have the time for, and I’m always looking ahead to what’s next on the list (or writing, and re-writing … the list, to keep from actually attacking … the list) I haven’t done very little of this at all … reflecting. There simply is so much that needs to be done.

I already spend most days in my classroom until at least five or six at night with students getting extra help, making up work or simply providing a safe, encouraging place for them to work, when I only get paid until 3:30. We joke, we laugh, we talk … but, most importantly, we work. And every day, there is at least one student who stays that isn’t even in my class, but has work to do and needs a place to do it. Then I give them rides home, which usually takes at least another hour to get to those neighboring towns where some live. If I didn’t offer to give them a ride, they wouldn’t stay. Sometimes I go inside to talk to their families, which means a lot to me and to them. At least 2-3 days a week I try to come in early for those that can’t stay after school. That’s harder for me … I don’t move so quickly in the morning.

… and if I didn’t do all this, I would have anywhere from 5-10 kids in each class failing, who will now pass. Not because I passed them, but because they put in the time and hard work, after school, to pass. I’m sorry, but after being here for four months – that’s a goddamn accomplishment. In addition, this has cut down tremendously on many behavior problems in the classroom – since most of the kids that created issues during the day are the same ones who have to stay after school to make up work or get caught up. I haven’t gotten to all of them, and still have a few that haven’t quite come around, who continue to waste both their time and mine – but I really believe this is the major difference between the first nine weeks and the second. Aside from the normal ‘testing period’ any new teacher goes through, and me getting my shit together little by little (still not quite there yet). It’s more important for me to get across the importance of learning, to better one-self, and the reasons why one might desire to do this … before books can even be cracked. I couldn’t do all of this as a coach in the fall, but while coaching I was able to reach students in other ways.

Then, when I finally get home, around seven or eight on a good night, usually exhausted, I have to plan something for the next day … or grade … or call parents … never mind all the other task trolls that torment my nights – bills, dinner, maintaining relationships with family/friends, grad work, hygiene, etc. (don’t get me wrong, I still somehow find time to procrastinate) … No wonder most nights you can find bodies strewn around the house on floors, couches or across beds the wrong way, often in the midst of some work or ‘taking a break’ from it, only to wake up groggy at the sound of an alarm in the other room the next morning or the sun peaking it’s way through the blinds.

I’m not complaining, just explaining. I only wish that I could do more, for myself and for them. I wish I could coach – anything to spend more time outside of class with the kids. I wish I could invest myself in after-school programs several times a week – a film club, school newspaper, drama. I wish I could research scholarships and contests and grants – golden, untapped opportunities out there. I try, but it’s never enough. I also wish I could get my sorry ass into shape, exercise a little. Read more books for pleasure. Take a walk, look at the stars, try my hand at cooking, call or write an old friend …

Is this a reflection?

Kinda.

I’ve realized some of my strengths and some of my weaknesses and been challenged in many new ways. Something I’ve discovered as of late (and had been told prior, but only recently tried out myself) … my students love to act. I’ve found I can get almost every kid in my classes to read and follow along, or fight over who gets speaking parts, when I tell them we’re going to do a short one-act play today, or a longer one over several days. They laugh, they joke, they do the voices, but they’re all engaged and reading for a full fifty minutes.

Content is everything.

The pen pals are a hit, here and abroad.

My writing workshops are working very well with my English II classes (once a week they write a practice informative essay, which I grade and pick apart very closely for every mistake I can find, then later in the week I meet with each one of them one-on-one to discuss their writing, common patterns of mistakes, and how they can fix them).

Over fifty kids in my English III classes can now say they've had sushi (c/o Southern Nights' Wednesday special in Greenville), and plenty of wasabi ... and read Hemingway.

I've started work with our art teacher on a literary magazine (poems, short stories, and artwork from our students), as well as collaborating on children's books that my kids will write, hers will illustrate and then will be taken to our local elementary school.

Finally, institutional barriers need to be removed for any progress to be made. It kills me to see these kids being unnecessarily handicapped more than they already have been by birth. Right now - equal opportunity, in theory alone.

My ravioli is cold, and my milk is warm.

Come to our Christmas party on the 16th – lovers and haters alike … we’ll have mistletoe, and I’m sick of only puckering up to kiss ass.

... so broken in

2006-11-17T08:50:00.000-05:00

I've been having a reoccuring, and relatively scary, thought fairly often for a little over the past month ...

No, not 'How the hell am I going to make it another year and a half?' or 'I can't wait to get out of Mississippi!'

Time and again, moments have made me stop and think to myself, 'I don't know how, or if, I'm going to be able to leave after my two years are up.'

When the smoke clears

2006-11-10T18:51:00.000-05:00

So, I just killed about an hour getting caught up on my world news and book-marking articles and photo-essays on Uganda and China that I hope my students who are writing to pen pals in those countries will find interesting, and now … I blog.

Where to start ... The last time I wrote, I was pretty frustrated about a lot of things, both school and life-related, some within my control and some external to anything I should be worrying over … from breaking up bloody lunchroom brawls to, well, breaking up, from ridiculous recommendations that I be suspended without pay for insubordination to students who seem to not care about themselves nor anyone else and from our house being foreclosed, forcing us to move everything almost overnight, to pervasive prejudice and incompetance.

It’s gotten better. Like the dry dust billowing out, for weeks on end, from under the wheels of all the heavy machinery eating up the fields yield during the previous months’ cotton harvesting, I’ve since settled. My classroom management in all but one class has been fairly smooth as of late, and that one class is definitely manageable.

What’s been the difference? I didn’t give up, and I didn’t give in. I’ve gotten better and adapted to the situation rather than trying to fight it. I’ve found out what works, and what doesn’t … for me. It’s different for everyone. Football has ended and "Richard" has moved to Indiana, so I no longer have more hours to spend at the school, after school, nor an extra hour tacked onto my commute every day. More significant, though, are the relationships I’ve manage to forge and how they’ve drastically changed the dynamics of my class. Students that were initially problems bigger than I thought I could handle, will now do just about anything I ask. Kids know they can joke around with me and confide in me, are willing to be themselves, but realize also that I mean business when I ask them to get something done. If you know me at all, you know I’m a sap … but I fill up every time one of those students I formerly cursed the hell out of, both silently under my breath and in the confidential company of friends, comes into class with a smile asking, “Can I read first today Mr. D?” … I remember, weeks or months ago, when I was glad if that same student simply slept all period. At least that way they weren’t bothering anyone else. In addition, I’m more prepared. Due to having more time, but, more than that, again, figuring out what works and what doesn’t work … while realizing what work I need to do, and what work I don’t. Some individuals still make our lives harder than they need to be, via prejudice, ignorance or incompetance (or a medley of the three) - to say it nicely since I’m in a good mood … and it is Friday … while others follow suit. But, just as I ask my students to ignore negativity, deal with it maturely, and focus on themselves and their task at hand … I’ve got to take the discrimination in stride and work around it. Mind over matter, lol ...

In the post office the other day, I bumped into one of my favorite students with his mother. I recommended "Barry" be taken out of my class early in the year after he scored off the charts on some pre-assessment reading exams. Naturally, he loves to read. He’s amazingly gifted, but incredibly apathetic. Probably my brightest student, "Barry" was failing my class and most of his others. He skipped often, was suspended often, hated any sort of authority figure who told him what to do, even if he knew it was in his best interest, and rarely applied himself. I thought maybe getting into the honors course, since he had never been in one before (most of his previous teachers have given up on him because of his behavior, despite his talents), would be an impetus for him to start taking school a little more seriously – and he was, at first. All I know of his family is that his stepfather routinely beats him and that "Barry" was arrested early first semester for taken a gun to this man after one such beating. Not using it, but threatening to until pulled off by others. I don’t know if I should feel this way, but hearing that almost made me proud. He at least stood up for himself, and was smart enough to not make a mistake he can’t take back. On two occasions, I skipped football practice to stay after school and talk to "Barry" and his cousin, "Marshall" (a relatively smart kid as well, but complete wild card), about life, theirs and mine, and dispense some advice … I know, who the hell am I to give advice to this kid? I often have that very thought, but I haven’t yet pulled back once when given the opportunity to try and reason with a kid struggling one way or the other. But "Barry" scares me, not only with what he might do … but more so, what he probably won’t do. He dropped out of school about a week ago, and tells me he’ll be back but I doubt it. I laid into him in the post office, it being the first time I had seen him since he dropped out even though he had told me prior that he was planning on it, not in a condescending or negative way … but I cared about him goddamn it and it pissed me off to see him throwing away so much, so easily. He laughed a little, gave me a hug when I gave him my number, and said he was going to join Job Corps (I’m not even sure what that is, but I told him that’d probably be a good idea) … afterwards, a small old woman who was standing near us in line came over to me and told me that what I had just said “to that young man”, all my loud cursing and ranting in public, was the nicest thing she has ever heard someone say. She was a retired teacher at my school.

I need to stop. I’m sitting in a dark classroom, the sun having set in the time it took me to finish this blog and ‘Meet the Rams’ for basketball season is set to kick off in about 15 minutes in the gym. Then it’s the long, dark drive to Oxford.

But, it’s basketball season, I recently spent an entire night on the phone and then, inspired, with a pen and some paper, our new house is beautiful and we have internet. And I’ve just started sentences with but and and, and I don’t give a ….

To other English teachers in the Delta, don’t teach Old Man in the Sea. The only thing that keeps my kids awake, save from my stunning renditions of oral Hemingway, is the fact that I promised to bring in sushi (‘cause Santiago eats raw fish, which led to one of my numerous daily in class transgressions) when he finally catches the damn marlin.

Peanut Butter Cups for dinner, and I’m off to catch the fever.

* Had to add a little on ...

first - this last week before Thanksgiving has been insane! Tornado warnings leading to well over half the school being absent (lost day), a series of large fights broke out one day causing the school to be locked down until 3:30 (lost day), the police department searching every student and locker the day after the 'riots' so we all pretty much just chilled in the gym (lost day), and i got socked by a fifteen year-old girl ... aaaaand she was back in school the next day. Yes, I still love the kids ... and teaching, for the most part.

second - the assignment. How has my classroom management plan changed from prior to the school year? Completely, but in small ways. The basic premise of my plan is the same, but every aspect of it has had to be altered in some fasion as I realized what was working, and what wasn't. There simply is no way to plan ahead - you just need to do it and find out as you go. What works for one person, may not for another ... and what works in one school, may not in another. No amount of well-intentioned advice in advance can prepare you for the curveballs, fastballs, and change-ups you'll get on a daily basis in the classroom ... Having second-years in the school system is a tremendous help, since they've done it before and have figured out a lot of the minutiae ... and tend to be very helpful with advice rather than condescending, uninterested or overly critical. Some veteran teachers tend not to be much help at all - either being terrible teachers themselves (so you don't want to model their management), using unorthodox methods that don't appeal or aren't even available to you (paddle, for one), don't understand your questions or you can't understand their answer, they haven't got an answer and just make something up, or will do all they can to avoid interacting with you at all in the first place as if communication equals contagion.

[Ok, ok .... so that ruffles some feathers. Good. A former employer of mine used to always say,"if it doesn't apply, let it fly" .... if your ears are getting warm, and you're getting defensive, I guess it's for a reason. What I'm trying to say is we can ALL become better teachers with one another's help - myself definitely included. And I'm trying, no thanks to many others. I ask questions, and the faces or responses I often get are toxic (far from helpful). I say hello in the halls and often I'm not even acknowledged. And not just by other teachers. In fact, mostly not. If you don't agree, please, prove me wrong - I would like nothing better (but save the patronization). This has happened since August ... since August we get ignored, ridiculed, and looked down upon by supposed "professionals". If you're so great and you love the kids, you should be dying to help us be the best we can be - to make OUR school the best that it can be! I am in no way rescinding what I said above (it isn't even all bad - half of those scenarios are negative towards me) ... there is a distinctive rift between most "veteran" staff and newbies. In my opinion. Those here for an extended period of time tend to look at us as haughty know-it-alls from day one, down here for our two years and off without a second thought. We're labeled, as a group, before anyone takes the time to get to know us, as individuals. And take a look around - do you have a better alternative? I'm not saying the lack of stability is a good thing - it's terrible, but we do our best and I think that's a pretty good job for the most part. With patience and support we could do even better. At my school, there is a pervasive "us" vs "them" mentality, and sure, it goes both ways to some degree. But what do you expect when from day one we come in feeling unwelcomed, undermined and unappreciated - placed at a level barely above the kids, or below by some, and not as equals. Shit, it's our first goddamn year doing this - why hate and belittle?! We're trying dammit ... we wouldn't be here if we didn't care. If you have a gripe with the education system, or you yourself feel undervalued and overwhelmed then don't take it out on us, Napolean. We can all give each other plenty of constructive cricism. We're all working toward the same goal, aren't we? I commend you all for doing what you're doing. Maybe that's my problem, I didn't give enough props. Well ... high five. I mean it. It's not easy and you've stuck it out probably longer than most of us will. Kudos to you. But do you really need, or care about, my approval? Is that why you're doing this, to be congratulated and commended? I hope not. And if you are going to read my blog - one, realize it's my perspective only that I'm presenting. Any reader with a brain larger than a peanut should realize that and not get their panties in a bunch. I am in no way an authority on anything but my own opinions, which, heavan forbid, might be different than your own. That's why they're opinions. If you disagree with them, talk to me about it. That's one thing I sure love doing, talking. In person. Two, read the whole thing. Or, shit, like I said, discuss away. Then maybe you'll realize where I'm coming from a helluva lot better than I can explain on here, and vice versa. I do this, blog, because I have to, for class, and so my mother and a few friends can get a feel for how I'm doing. That's all. Start your own blog if you'd like - it can be very therapeutic. And finally, there has in fact been a very minimal number of consistently helpful staff, and I'm sure there are some great teachers at our school that I haven't had the opportunity of crossing paths with much yet ... again, what I write is from my experience only - which is, naturally, limited. So chill the hell out, smile a little more often, and have a Merry Christmas.]

And I'm sure next year I'll change up quite a bit as well ... actually, one good thing our methods prof has said - be fluid and flexible from year to year and do not allow yourself to become stagnant. I hope I can keep an open mind my entire life, be that teaching or whatever endeavor I pursue. I like the challenge - keeps me on my toes.

Ok, nuff said. Think I might take a shower ... its been a while.

Hypocritical I ... and Good Luck Crickets

2006-09-23T19:08:00.000-04:00

I feel I might owe it to anyone who actually reads this to blog once again, almost as a self-response, to what I had written previously. It was an incredibly rough week and, debatably, even rougher weekend. Instead of hitting my head against the wall, I blogged. Less painful, but I don’t hate *#&$!@% Mississippi or *#&$!@% kids … I just find frequent occasion as of late to hate how it is here, and how they act ... and how, at times, I respond. Right - the behaviors, not the individuals.

I feel as if I am more than partly to blame. I expected this endeavor to be far easier than it has been. I expected to be welcomed by a community starving for outside assitance ... instead, I am looked at as an uninvited outsider, not to be trusted, by many and still others act as if they are offended by my mere presence before ever having taken the time to get to know me. And I was also naively confident in my teaching abilities/general social skills. I had a significant amount of previous teaching experience, and had worked for years at an intensive treatment facility with some of the more difficult children in the northeast – and loved both employments. Almost. See, I have a terrible memory, and the memories I do choose to retain are terribly selective. I didn’t love both of those jobs all of the time, and only now, removed and in a different, difficult (to say the least) situation, can reflect and say that they were positive experiences overall. Relativity, of course, can fool us all when our eyes are only pointed in one direction or focused on one problem. Now, that pseudo-confidence seems to have been replaced with ever-present disappointment and frustration.

So … the good, the bad, and the ugly. It can’t really get worse. It can’t. If I write it and say it enough, maybe I’ll begin to believe it. As I previously wrote, it isn’t the children at all. They’re kids. They’re human. I was a punk too, more often than not, and miserable to some of my teachers. I remember one, in particular. A first-year teacher handed over to us our sophomore year, I believe, to teach the honors English class – and we tormented the poor guy, day in and day out. Why? Because we could.

We are all learning as we go, us and them, and have to make mistakes in order to do that. The expectations we sometimes place upon teachers, parents and students - or ourselves - are extraordinary and often unrealistic. I do it myself, to myself and to others. Everyday I screw up in some way, small or large, in front of a very critical audience. When I am angry, disappointed and frustrated, it’s generally at myself … that I’m failing over and over again. But I can’t be hypocritical, because in the face of constant failure – a life many of my kids are more than accustomed to, for many in this demographic are perpetually suffering from the mistakes of others and from no direct result of their own actions – I’m always encouraging them to keep their heads up and do their best, even if their best never seems to be good enough, and am perpetually espousing the power of positive thinking … then turning around to self-indulgently bitch in private about my 'problems'.

So, it’s simple, just as I spend half of my day tugging chins upward and attempting to pull a smile out of the girl who just realized the fifteen year-old father of her child is sleeping with someone else and could care less about her, trying to get a grin from the kid who’s father beat him this morning or mother left them last night, encouraging the guy who is failing my class because he can hardly read while I’m asking him to do so for 50 minutes everyday, or spending my entire planning period with the child that is pissed off at the world for being born into such a seemingly hopeless predicament yet cannot verbalize this frustration and instead lashes out at the very people he needs for support and guidance and is about to throw it all away … In the same way I ask them to, for their own good, I need to keep my eyes ahead of me, not at an unrealistically, or even hopelessly, distant horizon and not down at the dirty, cockroach and cricket strewn halls of my daily existence, and must force myself to wake up every morning with the firm conviction that nothing is impossible if I have faith. Call it what you want … faith in myself and in others, faith in reaping the benefits of hard work, or faith in the distant, intangible force that miraculously put life upon this planet and keeps it going despite our disrespect.

I can’t change others, I can only change myself. If I lead by example, maybe they will desire to change themselves as well. Right now, I am not doing that. For a while, I stopped caring – it was a battle for my survival (in my mind) and all I could concentrate on was making it through another day in one piece. Release some pressure, let off some steam. Last time I blogged, I didn’t want a pep talk – this time, I’m giving myself one. This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever attempted, teaching in the Delta, and only because it is so worthwhile am I being so hard on myself. I need to shave. I need to shower. I need a mantra.

Our school cannot be conquered in one day, nor the Delta in two years.

Thunder is currently shaking our house and a brilliant lightening storm is threatening to cut off electricity as heavy southern raindrops pound down upon the hard-earth outside. I needed this more than the crops, and am about to join my three house-mates in the front lawn to hoot and holler out this past week, this past month, and let the warm rain wash away any negativity I've allowed to accumulate. It might be ingrained in some who you would expect more from, or those that have been here for any prolonged period of time, and, even if they inadvertently lash out and blame me, I can’t blame them for it. It's the bitterness one gets when they've become jaded with their situation. It sucks, but it isn’t my fault and to some degree, neither is it theirs.

I'm playing pick-up tomorrow with a few guys I teach, and hope I can back up the trash I've been talking.

It can only get better ....

I haven’t gone for a run in a while. Think now is as good a time as any.

Teaching In the Dark

2006-09-16T14:36:00.000-04:00

It’s so hard not to be entirely negative right now. Very rarely am I a negative person, generally being the one to try and lighten the mood or to put things in perspective for others. Yet, more often than not as of late, I am finding my sunny-side-up has turned cynically scrambled and all attempts at grounding myself have buried me instead.

I don’t want a pep talk, so I won’t say much. I just need to make some tough choices.

Ruby K. Payne’s framework for Understanding Poverty assignment: like everything these days, done last minute and not well. I’m used to having hard-work pay dividends, and when screws are loose you simply find a screwdriver and push those suckers back in. I’m realizing, again, it’s not always that simple. I had a whole lot more than this written, but I just went back and deleted it all. I also have notebook paper and post-its covered with bits and pieces of unwritten blogs that I neither have the time nor motivation to put together.

Ok, poverty, get it done. “… the extent to which an individual goes without resources” – I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about this book, mainly because I still haven’t read it entirely and my mind is elsewhere ... always. Sure, poor is relative, this I have seen first hand. The less you have, the smaller your world becomes. We have a nine year-old waterboy on the football team, cute kid who works hard, is always smiling and cannot say more than a sentance without lying about something ... the motorcycle he drove to practice today, the beer he bought at Double-Quick last night, the five times he went to Disney already. He calls me Coach White, because he doesn't know my name. One day he asked me to buy more cups for the team, and when I told him I was just about broke he replied innocently, with not one ounce of intent to joke, "I thought all white people were rich." Perspective and exposure factor in of course, but there is always someone with more and someone with less, of everything. Change is also relative, and the ability or desire to do so. One of my biggest frustrations is pushing that wagon downhill so that it will pick up momentum and eventually begin to run on its own accord. I can’t change anyone, only they can change themselves. To do this, they have to want to. Why would they want to?

Hence relationships, the one part of the book I will embrace wholeheartedly; hard to make and difficult to sustain, and once established and nourished, even harder to sever … don’t I know that.

I come back to the beginning. I don’t think that the best I can do for these children or the best manner of solving their problems would come from me being a teacher. The vacations would be nice, and the experience has already opened my eyes and I’m sure will continue to do so, but so much more is needed. Perhaps education is the golden ticket, but they are not getting it, at least not in my district and not in my classroom. Because education is not received from 8-4 on a blackboard with paddles beside the desk and insight is not gained by constant emphasis on testing, results and relative “achievement”. If I did my job well, by the standards placed upon me from the powes that be and not by my own standards (which are strongly discouraged, if not strictly prohibited), my students would leave me at the end of the year knowing little more than they did when they came in. What is the point of teaching figurative language or connotation and denotation to students that cannot even read without basic comprehension? I don’t have an easy answer, and neither does Payne, unfortunately.

Sorry, I had to bitch a little. I love my kids, I do, and the small, silent flames that I can ignite once in a while in their minds. I just wish I could do more to help them, and that I didn’t have so many limitations keeping me from doing so.

“Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

Your Mom

2006-07-17T00:18:00.000-04:00

Once again, it’s late Sunday night and I’ve got a plate of procrastination piled high with more homework than I can possibly fit into my face like its some sort of all-you-can-eat assignment buffet for only $5 at Guyton Hall and I haven’t eaten in days … which is almost true. And am I doing it? Of course not; I’m fasting. Why work when you can blog?

Though I'd much rather be laying on a blanket beside Lake Patsy, feeling the minutes pass but not the moment, as the sun dips slowly below the tree-line ...

Video blog dos. My tie was not that short! According to Mrs. Cornelius, it was hobbit-sized. It was choking me though, and I’m pretty sure I can see my face getting several shades darker, from casper to barney, by the end of the period – that shirt is too damn small. I’m still wavering between some of those crucial classroom management questions, such as “to tie or not to tie”. Not quite comfortable in my costume yet.

You can watch me now … but I won’t stop now … ‘cause I cant stop now …

What else? … my mother (who, along with other mothers, was the topic of classroom humor all week) would love to hear me say this … “don’t mumble, marbles”. I tend to forget what I was saying mid-sentence sometimes, and then find myself not exactly talking but instead following my words through a forest of blank stares wherever they want to take me without any significant thought attached to them. Then I walk into a tree, or trip over the overhead cord, and wake up long enough to field a question on comprehension, generally mine. Maybe I should sleep at night, rather than run wind-sprints in the Ole Miss football stadium. Also con mumbles, slow down speed-talker. And I think that I do need to start off the year practicing some of my lesson plans before taking my place on stage, a dry run in the morning before my vanity mirror at home wearing nothing but boxers and sunglasses while munching on Berry Kix and chocolate milk. This will make my lesson plans run more smoothly, with a little flow, if I was . . . organized. Kix essential, of course.

Most important of all, get rid of the Lloyd Christmas and paint one of my classroom walls fuscia – it compliments my post-embarrassing moment blush perfectly.

Reminder: Kidnap RB and bring him up to Williams as the Black History Month keynote speaker, in conjunction with a blues circuit of local southern musicians who would play at Amherst and Williams, etc., as well as venues like the Ironhorse or other smaller bar’s in Western Mass. The first idea followed from Mr. B’s moving lecture and a showing of Lalee’s Kin, the second precipitated out of a night on the town where I bumped into the same guitarist that I had taken a cell-phone snapshot of playing his six-string on a dimly lit side street off of Bourbon a few months ago while Spring Break. Crazy, I’m thinking . . .

Spent an electic first night in Leland, sans water or power, with dancing candles replacing light bulbs and iced red wine filling the china. While shadows flickered on the wall behind us, AJ and I dined on a Sonic buffet, siped on the wine and smiled at one another in the dim candlelight. Despite all the discomforts of an evening without utilities, it was one of the best nights I've had in a while. I'm looking forward to Biloxi more than ever before ...

Stop looking at me swan.

Bombs Over Baghdad

2006-07-04T16:05:00.000-04:00

First and foremost, the saga continues ....
http://sports.espn.go.com/sports/news/story?id=2509226

About to head over to the Grove to wave the flag a little, but first, read what Frederick Douglass (http://www.thepoorman.net/) had to say about the 4th of July ....

.... then ask the thousands living in poverty and 'working' in third world countries for the foreign corporations which fill the shelves of WalMart and the refrigerators of McDonalds if slavery still exists in this commercial world without borders ....

Fireworks and bbq buffets at home, air strikes and hunger abroad.

Be proud, but don't be blind. Below are some other takes to ponder on Independence Day:

"You can be certain that on this, as on every July 4th, patriotic oratory will flow as well from liberals declaring their love of flag, country and the Declaration of Independence. Many will speak of how our constitutional republic is to be revered especially for its guarantees of liberty and justice for all and — hint, hint — limits on the powers of overreaching monarchs.

But the progressive and the reformer have a problem with what passes for unadulterated patriotism. By nature, the reformer is bound to insist that the country, however glorious, is not a perfect place, that it is capable of doing wrong as well as right. The nation that declared 'all men are created equal' was, at the time those words were written, the home of an extensive system of slavery.

Most reformers guard their patriotic credentials by moving quickly to the next logical step: that the true genius of America has always been its capacity for self-correction. I’d assert that this is a better argument for patriotism than any effort to pretend that the Almighty has marked us as the world’s first flawless nation."
- E.J. Dionne JR

"I think patriotism starts with telling the truth. Truth is the American bottom line. I don’t think it’s an accident that among the first words of the first declaration of our national existence it is proclaimed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident…'.

Patriotism also means dissent — when it’s hardest. The bedrock of America’s greatest advances–the foundation of what we know today are defining values–was formed not by cheering on things as they were, but by taking them on and demanding change. […]

So, on this Fourth of July, the bottom line is that we will only be stronger if we reclaim America’s true character and strength — if we declare our independence from a politics that lets America down –if we truly commit ourselves to the big hearted patriotism determined to ‘make it right’ and 'keep it right' once again."
- John Kerry

Haha, Viva la Revolution! Loosen your blue and red tie Mason, I'm not trying to pick a fight - just end one ;-)

No Black. No White. Just Blues.

2006-07-04T01:15:00.000-04:00

It seems like a lot has happened since my last blog, but it’s all become a blur of sleepless nights and excessively industrious days. Snapshots of last weekend: windows-down, volume-up drives in the minivan along Delta drags, including Highway 61, the ‘Blues Highway’ (the very same that Dylan commemorated in ‘Highway 61 Revisited’); a wine blurry and booze-buzzed late night/early morning walk along the creek and through the streets of Indianola with Bunny and our new friend TKO; one part fried oysters, two parts cold Coronas, on a evening of fireflies blinking to the beat of the Beatles, Harrison’s chords and Lennon’s call barely audible once outdoors and overwhelmed by a million competing male crickets, beneath a blanket of brilliant stars in a hunting lodge alongside the mighty Mississippi River; pool at Po’ Monkeys (see picture), the dimly-lit, low-roofed, sporadically opened, raised shack in Merigold, just outside Cleveland, that lays claim to being ‘the last, authentic juke joint in the delta’ (a juke joint is a BYOB social gathering place, not far from a bar in derivation, where blues music and dirty dancing reign supreme - the original term ‘jook’ comes from a Nigerian tribal word for ‘wicked’); arriving back on campus at one am on the Sabbath, after some drinks and dancing complimented by AH’s wailing harmonica in Indianola’s Club Ebony, just in time to start my focus paper ....

And school on Monday. This was the last week of summer classes for us in Holly Springs, meaning hectic administering of final exams, grade compilations, and goodbye’s to both our students and our second years. As busy as this past month has been, I’ve grown as an ‘educator’ ten-fold, thanks to the experience I’ve gotten, and freedom I’ve been allowed, in front of a classroom, as well as the tutelage from our one-year vets (big thanks to BH and AT) and professors/administrators. Given the keys without a license and barely a manual let me learn on the fly, the way I would prefer. As far as the kids are concerned, hopefully they’ve gotten something, either academic or life lessons, out of my daily soap-box ramblings.

Friday, our final day, began with a sunrise drive with Bunny, MG and RK in the Pontiac back to the Sardis Lake beach where we had thrown a bbq for our second years and administrators the evening before. As the sun climbed the sky behind us, we scoured the sand and pine needles for a few pairs of glasses and a set of keys left behind – nearly all lost items were found before we had to hop back in the car and groggily speed up Hwy. 7, caramel latte in hand, in order get to the school, button up in the parking lot, and make it inside before first period. The day flew by, most of it test-taking, culminating in a project our students had been working on. Our class compiled a booklet of autobiographies and we invited parents in for a chip & soda party to hear them read their work aloud (as AM noted in class, the autobios revealed, among other things, that all three of our boys have either been shot or stabbed already). I will definitely be doing a similar exercise at the beginning of the school year coming up, in order to get to know my students more intimately and personally. After the ‘party’, we got our principal to open up the gym so we could show these punk eighth-graders what a couple of has-been ballers can do on the court. On the way home, RK convinced us to swing by ‘the pink house’, which turned out to be the infamous Graceland II, one (deranged?) man’s tribute to the late-Elvis Pressley. Opened 24/7, ‘just knock’, it houses a floor-to-ceiling collection of Elvis memorabilia/junk, including a ‘$10 million’ record, stored behind a thin glass door and your average Master-Lock. I’m pretty sure I heard, more than once, the soft and deep questioning croon coming from behind one of the many sparkling mannequins, of ‘Are you lonesome tonight?’

Saturday and Sunday were spent crammed in the back of MG’s bright yellow pickup for some fruitless furniture-shopping on the way to and from our new house. After a meal of Kool-Aid pickles, fried tamales, hog maws and dirty south burgers at Big Jim’s in Clarksdale (note: apparently Tuesday nights at Po’ Monkeys are for the ‘bad folk’ while Thursdays are for the ‘good folk’) and a drive past Morgan Freeman’s famous club, Ground Zero, we shared ice cream and cake with the mosquitoes in the country for RK’s birthday, then spent our first night in our Leland estate (myself on an air mattress in the front living room by our wall of windows). Will put pictures of the place up on smugmug soon.

And last night, back on campus after another 24 of no repose, sat under the sleepless stars until the sun came up and finally got to see Rowan Oak, Faulkner’s spot, in the light of dawn after a wooded hike with Bunny through spider webs and dried up sandy steams behind the Ole Miss baseball field. Somtimes staying up all night can leave you more refreshed than all the sleep in the world. The sun is out, the sky is breathing - I'm wide awake and dreaming.

And tonight, Chevron for dinner ....

“freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose …”

Happy 4th of July! Are you feeling your freedom?

You’re so vain, I bet you think this blog is about you

2006-07-04T01:10:00.000-04:00

Reminiscent of a radio-editing exercise I had to do at Williams in which I spent 45 unbroken minutes talking steadily into a recorder about whatever it was that came to mind, the first reaction I had to seeing/hearing myself in the video taken while teaching a lesson plan earlier this week was that I really cannot stand the sound of my own voice. I sound like I picked a handful of soy beans from the side of the road on my way to work and shoved them all straight up my nostrils. Talk less, listen more. Some people talk too fast, I talk too much.

In general, I’ve got a lot that I need to work on and a long way to go. It’s easy to be critical of others until it’s you under the microscope (judge not, less ye shall be judged). The same criticisms I had for my peers, I could just as easily flip around onto myself – be louder, clearer, more energetic and enthusiastic when in front of the classroom. Instead of singing the songs of pedagogy with a smile and a clever hook, my passion was passive and harmonized by the lethargic hum of the overhead projector. I could see the two hours of sleep I got the night prior in my slug-like reflexes and shadowy raccoon-esque eyes, the double espresso with whip cream in my nervous twitch, and the last minute lesson plan screaming smoke and mirrors from every corner of the room .... standing up there with my monotone delivery and paisley tie, I was exposed for the perceptive Lilliputians to read like a simple Dr. Seuss story book. It’s Halloween every day and I’m dressing up like a teacher (only for this perverted holiday I have to be the one always shelling out the candy), or I’m back up on stage and auditioning for the lead role of idealistic educator .... how does my hair look? And I thought I was slick.

Other, more concrete notes: Probably shouldn’t have drawn on that sleeping student's head with a dry-erase pen; or spent five minutes of my class shooting notebook paper balls into the trash basket; I need to get some new ties; I tend to laugh a lot – sometimes at the students, mostly at myself; I need to tuck my shirt in and shave (I can hear my mother now, ‘Daniel Joseph, you need to be more professional. You look like a street person!’); zip fly.

Also, I recently read something about the Rosenwald Schools in Mississippi and thought I’d post a little reference link about them (Rosenwald Schools). The schools take their name from Julius Rosenwald, early chairman and partner in Sears, Roebuck & Co. and a prominent philanthropist. The Rosenwald rural school building program was a major effort to improve the quality of public education for African-Americans in the South in the early 1900s.

I'm focused man ....

2006-06-26T21:30:00.000-04:00

I don't even know where to start to e-ruminate on this past weekend staying with AH, ES and crossing trails with a cast of characters I don't think I could have possibly imagined before meeting. I need some time to recover before I decide what I want to write .... maybe I'll sleep. Haven't done that in a while.

Take a moment to read this NPR article (http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5495373), written by the aforementioned AH; living in Indianola, where I'll be teaching, and teaching himself not too far away. Good guy, plays a mean harmonica.

Below is my focus paper - very open ended, our choice of topic as long as it's thesis is a relatively close cousin to the subject of education. I remembered talking about Highlander (http://www.highlandercenter.org/) withProf. Willingham last year, and seriously considering making the trek to Tennessee to enroll in one of their workshops after undergrad, so I started out laaaaate last night with that in mind. That gradually evolved, as the hours ticked towards dawn, into a more broad look at teaching for social change, or popular education, in the Highlander model; specifically, a closer look at several of the key players in its inception. I had some books on Myles Horton and, in a dorm filled with liberal-minded wannabe teachers from up north who are fixin' to "enlighten" the dirty south (count me in), it wasn't hard to find plenty of material on Freire. Alinsky is the anvil of the three, a Chicago gangster with an impeccable conscience - and was more focused with self-education rather than buying into the ideological, and fundamentally politically driven, system of education in the United States at all. Kareem you'd be proud.

Popular education is an educational technique designed to raise the consciousness of its participants and allow them to become more aware of how an individual's personal experiences are connected to larger societal problems. Participants are empowered to act to effect change on the problems that affect them (gotta love wikipedia).

Conscientizacao

The Awakening of Critical Consciousness
In Educational Forums

~ Horton, Alinksy & Freire ~

EDSE 500: Principles of Secondary Classroom Instruction

6.26.06

Historically there has been a direct relationship between social class and knowledge or opportunity, both in this country and even more apparently on an international scale, which continues to exist today in multiple manifestations. The work of leading educational activists for social justice such as Saul Alinsky, Myles Horton and Paulo Freire has shown just how implicitly “people’s knowledge and understanding of the world is the consequence of their education, regardless of its source”.[i] However, the distribution and direction of this knowledge, or lack thereof, is severely disproportional and most often dogmatic. That being said, the burden of breaching this gap between ignorance and enlightenment falls squarely on the shoulders of the educators who either work to promote existing institutional ideologies or provoke original thought and critical observation. Alinksy, Horton and Freire each have dedicated their life to the latter. Yet there also exists an “impulse for people to invent their own identities and realities”[ii] and a drive towards “personal and social liberation”[iii] which, when coupled with liberating pedagogy, can “give community people sufficient sense of their own dignity and power so that they can argue on their behalf”[iv] and truly bring about changes that will directly answer to their specific, individual needs. If education plays such a central role in shaping the society we share, then it is important to ask the same questions that those three prominent figures have asked themselves; “what kind of education, to what end, and in whose interest?”[v]

Educating for social change in America saw its beginnings in the labor college movement following World War I, when soldiers returned from Europe with worker’s educational program models in mind. The majority of the working class, primarily immigrants, found the public school system inadequately provided opportunities for the upward social mobility that our democratic structure promised and thus created American Labor Colleges “to facilitate fundamental social change on behalf of ordinary citizens.”[vi] Similarly, Alinsky organized lower-income working-class Americans around unions in urban centers throughout the country in order to gain and maintain leverage in political forums. With the prevalence of racism and sexism in this country, many other disadvantaged and discriminated against communities, generally poor and minority, likewise sought to provide educational opportunities with a social center of interest. The Highlander Center in Tennessee, “a school meant to prepare potential activists to bring about radical social change”[vii] which was founded by Horton during the civil rights movement, pioneered this growing movement of “popular education and participatory research” through experimental education for social transformation in both practice and theory. By providing the tools and capacity for underprivileged communities in the South to organize around this central ideology of progressive thinking, Highlander educators facilitated radical democratic shifts in awareness, comprehension and ultimately action. In Brazil, Freire was following a path akin to his contemporaries in the North, establishing educational practices for poor rural families and laborers that beseeched its students to think critically of their social situation and embrace democratic reform.

As organization proves necessary, then so to is an ongoing critique of the players involved and their motivations for organizing. This movement sees the community organizer as a natural instructor, or educator, whose role is not just teaching but meaningful teaching through critical questioning. The direct role of the organizer, or educator in this sense of the word, is stressed by Freire and Horton, while Alinsky veered more towards self-education and a separation from the derived and popular ideological tactics. His belief was that free from outside influence, the indelible sense of right and wrong would lead individuals towards seeking the truth out themselves. Perhaps he was expressing the short-sighted organizer that Horton feared, who organizes with a specific limited goal in mind, rather than solving the deeper problem of education first. This role of the liberating educator, or at least the existence of education, then is fundamental in this process of change and the creation of a liberated, aware social class. Freire delves into this substantially, outlining the delicate nature of ideological transformation in competition with prevailing attitudes towards education. He encourages the educator to be invested in making choices, as they ask the students to be, without compulsion or manipulation and exemplifying the power to perceive, formulate and react; to take the lessons from the classroom and apply them to a political venue. Freire explains through an example of Spanish farm workers in Germany this idea of the educator “doing with the students instead of doing for.”[viii] Then, once the people are sufficiently prepared to act, they will be equipped with the knowledge and confidence necessary to be successful.

In Leading the People, Robert Fisher and Joseph M. King examine this complex issue of ideology, or the body of ideas, doctrines and beliefs which reflect the social needs and aspirations of an individual or larger group. Rather than echoing the status quo or “inherited ideology”, they assert that progressive organizing must be centered on the notion of formulating and evaluating ideologies “which challenge existing arrangements of political and economic domination” and “mobilize oppressed groups towards fundamental change.” [ix] Whether those ideas arise from within or without the communities and individuals they come to represent is qualified through two general types; derived and inherent, popular ideology. Based on direct experience, inherent ideology reflects most accurately what the constituents themselves saw as existing problems and potential solutions while derived ideology is best articulated by outside representatives who are able to introduce radical alternatives to tradition while keeping these new concepts accessible and recognizable. In conclusion, Fisher and King seem to promote the notion that successful attempts at grassroots social education within American populism must rely on a combination of inherent and derived ideology, a mixture of community traditions and values with an informed progressive vision.

Yet even if organized and ideologically driven by inspired educators, many roadblocks have been set up to keep radical change from moving along any further than the local level. Always under attack from conservatives, the left must be willing to suffer defeats and stay on its feet. The labor colleges were closed due to their proximity with socialist and communist parties, the original Highlander campus was forced to operate illegally and eventually shut down, and Freire was labeled a traitor and imprisoned. Today, aptitude tests continue to cloak discrimination in public education. Perhaps one of the greatest threats toward educating for radical social change is the fear of cooption with the status quo, often in the form of government (or the holders of any institutional power, such as corporate heads) absorption of any opposition, where an organization finds itself defending the very institutions that it hopes to alter. If recognized, novel movements might be pressured to negotiate or compromise. With the funding necessary to actually promote change, governments can often lure independent democratically constituted organizations into cooption in this way, assure slow progress by making grass-roots movements compete for resources and/or continuously undermine their original assertions through negligent, irresponsible or discriminatory policies – all far from the participatory democratic ideal that is at the core of community organizing.

Freire, Alinsky and Horton force critical analysis of how free our speech and thought actually is, or if it is determined by greater forces that seek to influence the minds of the majority. This being the case, they rely upon their vision of a participatory progressive educational system that teaches for radical change and encourages novel ideas through empowerment and involvement. This movement often must exist on the margins of what is accepted or conventional, with a cultivation of conflict at the heart of their empirical model. Theirs is a dynamic system, as Horton articulates; “The best education is action … and the best action is the struggle for social change.”[x] To survive, these practices must continue “to be reinvented and re-clarified according to changing political and intellectual thought and social movements.”[xi] Not only is true democracy strengthened by education and learning, it is then able to meet the demands of this continued re-evaluation and constant change. However important it is to act, it is more important to first understand. This is the difference between superficial learning and tangible knowledge, between actual education and visionless training. It is not necessarily these educators’ goal to change the consciousness of each one of their students, but only to encourage them all to be conscious in their education and lives, and to take it from the dialogic to the free spaces within communities, to an organizing infrastructure, and eventually to an overwhelming social movement.

ENDNOTES:
[i] John Hurst, “Popular Education, Labor and Social Change.” In Teaching for Change: Popular Education and the Labor Movement, edited by Linda Delp, Miranda Outman-Kramer, Susan Schurman and Kent Wong. Los Angeles and Silver Spring: UCLA Center for Labor Research and Education, & George Meany Center for Labor Studies, The Labor College, 2002, p. 9
[ii] Leslie Bentley. Paulo Freire, Pedagogy and Theater of the Oppressed, 1999 [cited 2004]. p.3
[iii] Ibid.
[iv] Robert Fisher and Joseph Kling. “Leading the People: Two Approaches to the Role of Ideology in Community Organizing.” Radical America 21 (1987), p. 41
[v] John Hurst, “Popular Education, Labor and Social Change.” In Teaching for Change: Popular Education and the Labor Movement, edited by Linda Delp, Miranda Outman-Kramer, Susan Schurman and Kent Wong. Los Angelese and Silver Spring: UCLA Center for Labor Research and Education, & George Meany Center for Labor Studies, The Labor College, 2002, p. 9
[vi] Ibid, p. 15
[vii] “Myles Horton.” In The Citizen Action Encyclopedia: Groups and Movements that have Changed America, edited by Richard S. Halsey. Westport, CT: Oryx Press, 2002, p. 1
[viii] Ira Shore and Paulo Freire. A Pedagogy for Liberation: Dialogues on Transforming Education. South Hadley, MA: Bergen and Garvey Publishers, 1987, p. 177
[ix] Robert Fisher and Joseph Kling. “Leading the People: Two Approaches to the Role of Ideology in Community Organizing.” Radical America 21 (1987), p. 32
[x] John Hurst, “Popular Education, Labor and Social Change.” In Teaching for Change: Popular Education and the Labor Movement, edited by Linda Delp, Miranda Outman-Kramer, Susan Schurman and Kent Wong. Los Angelese and Silver Spring: UCLA Center for Labor Research and Education, & George Meany Center for Labor Studies, The Labor College, 2002, p.13
[xi] Leslie Bentley. Paulo Freire, Pedagogy and Theater of the Oppressed, 1999 [cited 2004], p.3

Cheers

2006-06-25T15:59:00.000-04:00

“Jehovah Witness knock on my door to spill the word,
Seven minutes later we drunk off of that Steel Reserve.”

This blog is brought to you by 40 oz. of 211 (cheaper than bottled water); getting tilted in the back seat of my own car with AJ, RC chilling with Marley in the front, while headed southwest towards the delta netherlands and a rained-out Friday night bonfire. It also wouldn’t be possible without this red-pen I sacked from the Guyton supply closet … a poor teacher’s sticky-finger frugality. Only regret was that I didn’t inform my compatriots in paucity of the all-off special just next door.

After tonight, the weekend will be spent in the delta, for my first extended visit, with our second year hosts AH & ES and a billion hungry ‘skeeters’. I’ve been told huge amounts of spray is rained down over the area several times every year to keep them at bay (the mosquitoes, not AH or ES). In addition, the crop dusting prevalent in any large-agricultural region gets right into our water and food supply, if not taking a straight shot through our lungs. Ahhh, clean country air. Perhaps if we didn’t kill off all of their predators we wouldn’t have this problem in the first place.

Right, the assignment: inductive, collaborative paper-folding. I joke. I guess I attempted group work this week in class, but because of absences and time constraints my troupes quickly became tandems. We only have six aspiring scholars anyway, so every class is essentially an exercise in group work, as it’s generally assumed in 20-30 person classes. Our students were working on autobiographies, and had been taken through the entire process from thesis formulation to final revision. Before turning in a completed copy, I wanted them to do a little peer reviewing. Or a lot, preferably. Armed with multi-colored pens, my mercenaries were loosed onto one another’s hand-written memoirs. I guess our summer school approach to grammar has been somewhat inductive, conducting several self-guided lessons where the student’s assess the formal integrity of their own sentences on the dry erase board by what sounds/looks right vs. what sounds/looks wrong. There simply isn’t enough time under a month to build a solid foundation, but there is always time for a little interior decorating. While peer editing (after self-editing) their autobiographies, they were not asked to provide explanations as to why or how they know it is incorrect but to simply make suggestions for improvement. Then we discussed a few examples of problem sentences and elaborated on the reasons for specific, oft-repeated mistakes. It went well, and I think they get a lot more out of analyzing their own writing rather than sentences that a generic textbook or my own bland imagination can come up with. Again, this worked so well because of the small number of students we have in our class, which has enabled us to form a quick, strong rapport amongst one another. But I do see the translation into a larger classroom environment – divide and conquer. Disappointingly I opted for no paper burritos or parchment chilli-pups - but two out of three isn’t bad.

Time to stop at another gas station.

.... ain't no place i'd rather be

2006-06-25T15:56:00.000-04:00

“Do you believe in love and
that we were meant to be?
Two words can free us,
so repeat them after me
‘I do’ from a boy in love
to a girl called Tennessee”

Bonnaroo was .... more than good. It was a nice kick, and a soft rub.But gone by too soon. I think I may have achieved short bursts of egotistical enlightenment between cheese-filled Venezuelan arepas and sun-soaked puddle naps. Or maybe I was writing someone else’s words down altogether… most likely I was just dreaming out loud.

eternity, you mean the world to me
close your eyes while I unbutton my flow
hold onto my words love, don’t say no
swallow me with these tears you cry
im falling so high, but it feels so right
im in love with my life
though she keeps letting me down

Laugh, I am. And Matisyahu blew me away: divinely. People, self included, are so easily impressionable, and that’s both terrifying and gratifying. Reminder that on a regular basis I eat, sleep, and talk too much – waste less, share more.

After allowing reality to pull me away from the tranquility of doing nothing at all but looking and listening, I followed the sunset away from Manchester and towards Nashville to pick up the beautiful AJ, who was kind enough to help keep me awake (she's got game too). With the moon came a much welcomed heavy, warm rain, providing the opportunity for me to pull off on the
hub of Hwy. 24, hit the hazards, then disappear over a brambled ridge to shower and brush in the sudden deluge amongst tall, blossoming bull thistles, the armored knights of the vegetable kingdom. I remember as a kid I used to chew on their purple flower heads, then spit purple plant juice. I only got one honk when I returned to the car in wet boxers, ducking down to change behind the passenger side door while head-strong mac trucks sped by. It felt good, refreshing, and now I’d be slightly less ‘natural’ for the ride home. Home, ha.

On Monday, after a quick nap between 4-6 AM (the most sleep I had gotten since last Thursday) RC and I made a second pilgrimage to Sunflower County. We are officially hired teachers, I think, ushered into the brotherhood by a panel of five mad hatters, and one step closer to securing an abode for the school year. Leaning towards Leland, down to two houses that were both decent – one smaller, older and cheaper than the larger, nicer and more expensive alternative. Both by the creek that dissects the town in two. Looking forward to long late night walks along the shore, past rows of wraithlike Cypress trees rising out of the water. Apparently the creek is a center of celebration on many holidays, when floats are sent downstream or displays erected halfway out and people come from all over the south to enjoy. We also hit up the library for a book sale – at ten cents a pop, $20 got me more than a few boxes that should sufficiently fill my classroom bookshelves come fall. Hopefully after this coming weekend we’ll have a house to call home.

Going to start posting all of my pictures on http://www.ddadams.smugmug.com/ that will correlate somewhat with what’s being written on here. Swing on by.

To Shanghai with Love

2006-06-15T22:40:00.000-04:00

Ok, what’s the assignment? Questioning Techniques. Sexy.

It’s not that difficult with only six students, but I use cold-calling often and plan on continuing to do so come fall – emphasizing the importance of knowing names – and eventually really getting to know the personalities that go with those smiling mugs. Mike G. mentioned he was going to take pictures of all the kids on the first day and then study them that first night, through the first week, to learn all of the names as soon as possible. I think I’m going to be having somewhere in the vicinity of 90 young Einsteins – cake compared to the meaninglessness of art history memorization. Cold-calling (not asking for hands, but just randomly hitting bewildered gophers on the head with the precision of Payton – am I allowed to say that in Oxford? He is better.) gives the teacher the liberty of picking off easy prey: the head-nodders, day-dreamers, jokers and the miiiiidnight tokers. Sorry, couldn’t resist. Leave the mad-doggers alone, they bite. It also keeps me on my toes and being attentive to the subtle fluctuations in vibe from the pack.

Just you wait and see how stealthy I can be.

I’m also down with experimenting a little. I liked the crumbled balls of frustration technique – tossing scrap paper questions around the room, which students pick up to answer for points. Maybe an alternative to a quiz if everyone had an equal opportunity. I also remember a certain teacher of mine with a side-arm like Eckersley and a tangled mess of red hair engulfing a pair of neon green eye-glasses that never made it down to her eyes, who would hurl her smiling, yellow ‘Happy Ball’ at unsuspecting seventh-graders if she wanted an answer. I think the only person happy was her, and that usually came at the expense of those hormonal teenagers too busy staring at Suzy or checking out Joe to notice her airborne inquiry, and that usually was me.

Had my first visit to Indianola yesterday con RC. Kinda stoked. After two hours of corn, cotton and catfish farms we rolled down B.B. King Drive and into our new home. Most of the school has no indoor halls. Instead, classrooms open up to roofed walk-ways surrounding central quadrangles. Each subject has a wing. Apparently I’ll have my own classroom, vacated by a teacher who had a serious car-accident last year. Definitely going to have to call the karma police to bust out the sage in that sh*t. I’ll be coaching defensive backs, supposedly (sweet to know now that I have five offensive-line instructional videos), and met a bunch of the players and coaches stoking their pigskin passion under the brutal delta sun. They have spring ball that starts in March and runs straight through the summer until football season in August. No balls or pads can be used, but otherwise full practices are held daily with coaches. I’m no expert, but I’m certain those oblong, brown things were balls. I was told, in this context and others, that “there are rules and laws in the delta, but nobody really pays and mind to ‘em”. Same goes for basketball practice, through the summer and fall, into the winter season. In hoops they were runner-up in the state last year. Girls finished in the top four. I was told the “Ram’s Den” gets hoppin’, and cannot wait. Very jealous of RC if he gets an assistant coaching position. I might be doing golf as well, and definitely pissed the Asst. Principal off when I said incredulously, “You have a gooolf team!?” while chuckling. Actually, it was more of a guffaw (vocab word from today). The only house we looked at had fleas, but will have time to survey some others on Monday when we go back down for our district interviews.

“You’re name?” Doober Dudley

“Can you read, write and cipher some?” Yes ma’am. ‘Cept for the cipherin’.

“Are you crazy, boy?” A little bit ma’am.

“Do you go to church?” I … sometimes.

Bonnaroooo this weekend. Four hours and a full head to Manchester. Going to be a mess of, um, musically-induced exhaustion come Monday morning. Don’t worry, teacher man, I’ll be lesson planning in the midst of all those mud-lovin’ children of the moonflower, creative juices flowing fast. Will leave my clothes, and come back with a little hope.

Mea Culpa

2006-06-12T03:02:00.000-04:00

"See where your own energy wants to go, not where you think it should go. Do something because it feels right, not because it makes sense. Follow the spiritual impulse."
~ The Kitchen Mystic

It’s 3 am and rather than writing this focus paper response which was actually due last night, if one was to be fastidious about the whole thing, I’ve been diligently trolling through other MTC blogs, leap-frogging from cynic to optimist in one graceful but lethargic click of the index. Took about a half-hour break somewhere between civil rights steam-of-consciousness, poetry slams and sage words of wisdom from second years in order to pull something sharp out of my bare sole, swat a few small, black bugs to the side, and catch up on the world news for the first time in weeks. It appears we still have a planet, it’s still ruled (poorly) by ponderous primates, and I can bet my bottom dollar that the sun will come out tomorrow, again. Persistent, that sun is.

Probably not going to sleep tonight and probably shouldn’t be admitting to such since administrators with a head-shaking power of influence over me are watching from above with their green highlighters poised and ready to swipe. I stopped to smell the magnolias, jiminy! Don’t worry, tomorrow in class we’re on the letter Zzzzzz …

Did I really just write jiminy? Yea, you did.

I’ll let my inner dialogue segue into what I think I’ve indecisively decided that I may, or may not, want to write my focus paper on: the 21st-Century sedatives, soma (in pink, baby blue or mauve capsules), tranquilizing and stifling the spirit of a million children every day. Cigarettes and booze? That’s so 1900’s. We want their minds, not only their bodies, in this brave new world. Or should I say novel?

For the past several years, while irresponsibly and ungratefully sleep-walking my way through Williams, I’ve worked in a variety of capacities, switching caps from blue to red and back again, at a residential home for at-risk adolescents in Hancock, MA. Hillcrest Educational Center has several campuses in the Berkshires, housing 30-60 children, ranging from age 7-17, at each. I chose to work at the Intensive Treatment Unit, which never had more than 11 children at one time, and “specializes in the treatment of boys and girls with extreme psychiatric/psychotic, emotional and behavior disorders. Most ITU students have experienced physical, emotional and/or sexual abuse and have become severely aggressive, sexually reactive and self injurious. Most have been in psychiatric hospitals and/or have not succeeded in other residential settings due to the severity of their needs and behaviors. Many Center students have moderate to serious learning disabilities.”

But they were good, smart kids! Without giving a dissertation, because a lesson still needs to be planned before the sun comes up and I may even iron some spiffy new clothes for tomorrow, I found that these hopeless children trapped in the system were no different than myself, aside from circumstance. Could I do the things I was asking these distraught, scared, lost little boys and girls to do on a daily basis if I were in their shoes? I really don’t think so. Especially if I was being force-fed a cocktail of personality suppressing skittles three times a day like they are; drugs of names I can’t pronounce, origins I don’t want to know, and side-effects that nobody accurately understands. Their spark is all but burnt out, their innocence left in the womb, their faith in such an unfair world justifiably shattered. The cracks are growing wider and swallowing more than society can afford to lose. If you ask me, one is too much. But I’m sure by now you’ve clearly recognized the established idealistic motif of a naïve crusader (don’t worry, I’m still plenty selfish).

Yes, this is my response to a focus paper … ready? Now!

These pills we pop into the mouths of developing children, experimenting with their lives for profit, are a means of control. Society, the government, the maniacal minority; choose your semantic. Someone or something very large is responsible for this quieting of wills, assumedly free, slaying dragons and dreams to the applause of the paying public. It’s not just in residential care facilities across the country, but in public schools, in private schools, in kitchens and bathroom cupboards hiding behind white-picket fantasies and in the pockets of every demographic from you to me. Why are we afraid of ourselves? Take off the tethers, return to the pastures with the flock and wander from field to field at your own discretion.

I spent some time teaching and tutoring at the Montessori in Santa Cruz, CA, and this is what I like the most about their system: the implied freedom of academic pursuit, initiated by the individuals. The opposite of control. This arena of mutual respect empowers the child and instills priceless self-confidence. This puts the responsibility on the student for their own education. You can lead a horse to the edge of the fountain of knowledge, but that horse needs to read the words written in the water if he wants his thirst quenched. Teachers cannot drink for their students, but can hold the cup and refill it when empty. This “self-creating” process that JW discusses in her focus paper is a paradigm I’d like to attempt in my classroom. Education should not only be valued and desired, but fun. I’ll be there, choking myself with a tie, eagerly waiting to provide the resources and help when needed, and gently pushing that stubborn horse down the stairs. Investment comes quicker when it’s voluntary, providing a stimulating and encouraging environment exists. Practice patience as an administrator of education above all. By dragging reluctant or ‘slow’ students along with the strong majority current, you are turning them off from the passion of discovery and learning. By pushing them off the dock into the deep end, rather than letting them jump in themselves, or locking them in a unlit room to overcome their fear of the dark, you are not showing them that they are safe and that there is no reason to be afraid.

Montessori espoused her idea that “backwards children needed special education rather than medical treatment” Pills are a crutch - a cheap, Wal-Mart Sponge Bob band-aid covering a gaping psychological wound so that nobody happening by would get queasy at the sight of pain or discomfort. I am also in general agreement with her basic tenet that the best way to learn is to teach, hence the mentorship aspect of mixing grades/ages together. However, today the Montessori system has gotten far, far away from those in need. As always, those that can afford a private school tend to be those that need it the least.

All education is special, and most doesn’t happen inside of the classroom.

Forgive me if my tenses don’t match, my verbs don’t agree or my thoughts don’t sing hallelujah on your screen. My eyes are taking micro-naps in between thoughts, and at this point there is plenty of vacant space. Also, sorry if I became disjointed at the end, or started that way. The buzz of my fluorescent desk lamp is sounding a little bit like ‘Light My Fire’ and I think I dozed off after .... right, tomorrow’s lesson, the letter Zzzzzz ....

Bible Beltin'

2006-06-12T02:31:00.000-04:00

"Well, I don't go to church on Sunday
Don't get on my knees to pray
Don't memorize the books of the bible
I got my own special way"

Just wanted to briefly salute my first blog, a recap of week one in Miss'ippi - initial impressions and all that jazz. Or blues, maybe. The people in the MTC program are .... interesting. An extremely intelligent and eclectic mix. I'm definitely looking forward to getting to know them all better in the coming days, months and years. The weather is hot and wet, the campus is very pretty and pretty large, covered in magnolia trees (particularly in 'the grove') and red-brick buildings. The downtown square, surrounding the old oxford court house, has some great bookstores, restaurants and a classic, southern ambiance.

... my eyelids are heavy, morning birds are chirping and I still have work to do. Buzzing from my opening week in the MTC, several days spent playing catch-up that I'm still a few steps behind of, naturally. Can see all sorts of MTC info at our site (http://www.olemiss.edu/programs/mtc/) - including participant bios, videos, pictures, links to other blogs, etc. Couzapalooza put me to bed last night with a full stomach and stories to tell (including a pajama'ed trip to grab some great mexican food), and a baptist pastor with a steely stare and a thunderously accusing delivery woke me right up in the morning. A sunset over Sardis Lake and some friends from Williams sealed the weekend, before I could settle down for some silence under a full moon and .... write.

Still the same old song, just a different verse.