'07 Summer Wrap-Up, Part I (The Reading)

We are back from the beach, with minimal sunburn, and now I go into the frying pan tomorrow, so I have little time for - well - anything. But, in the fine tradition of this one year old blog (see here and here), I must review the summer what was, and putting it into some kind of context.

First to the reading. I rarely go into the summer with some kind of theme that my reading will fall under, but instead have a few books in mind, and let the reading gods guide me in whatever whimsical direction they will. And yet, a certain theme, or commonality, always seems to emerge. Last year much of my reading was Italian-flavored, especially from reading Dante and Mark Helprin's A Soldier of the Great War.

This summer brought me back home, which was appropriate considering that I am leaving behind one era of my working life, and entering a new one. Most of my reading was of southern fiction, and most of that was re-reading. At the beginning of the summer I re-read Fred Chappell's magnificent four novels about the Kirkman family of the North Carolina mountains (I Am One of You Forever, Brighten the Corner Where You Are, Farewell I'm Bound To Leave You, Look Back All the Green Valley). Loosely (sometimes very loosely) autobiographical, these novels work much the way the mountain musicians in them work - by weaving in and out of each other's music effortlessly, each performing its own virtuosic solo, and yet able to fall back into the warm harmonies and rhythms of the same song. These novels are by turns hilarious, strange, other-worldly, philosophical, devastatingly sad, metaphysical, and genuinely good-humored. Pretty swell for a poet. Then again, his poetry is pretty swell for a novelist.

Next, I returned, after a number of years, to two of the very best by the Dixie Limited himself, Faulkner. I read both Absalom, Absalom! and Go Down, Moses for the third time each, and never more enjoyably. When I was a very young man, reading Faulkner was a gateway into a world I didn't know was so vast and accomplished: the literary South, in particular that neck of the woods known as the Southern Renaissance. This was an occasion for both a sense of great pride and of belonging - and it also led to two other things: a lifelong devotion to literature, and a lifelong lack of high-paying jobs (Thanks, Faulkner - sincerely, the Wyfe).

In reading Faulkner over the summer, I was reawakened to how relevant and universal he remains, and also to his ability to simultaneously love and criticize southerners and Americans as a whole. We have plenty of criticism still around in contemporary writing, but where is that love which best validates the criticism to begin with?

Briefly, here are the other reading highlights of the summer: two classics that I had somehow missed up to this time - Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man and Remarque's All Quiet on the Western Front; a handful of Flannery O'Connor's essays; Peter Taylor's wonderful short story "A Spinster's Tale"; two from my self-declared British mentor Roger Scruton, An Intelligent Person's Guide to Modern Culture and Culture Counts (more about this one soon); and Frank McCourt's melancholic, sobering, and ultimately affirming ode to his career as a teacher, Teacher Man.

Part II coming soon.

Whistling Past the Graveyard

At least that is what it feels like I'm doing, going to the beach for a full week of fun and frolic while assiduously ignoring the fact that I START MY BRAND NEW FREAKING JOB a day and a half after I return. But what, me worry?

Well, the end of the week did bring lots of new school info. to digest, which is what I get for going over there early to get yearbook computers set up. For one thing, I know what I'm teaching: all 10th grade, but unfortunately no honors classes this year. Also, the a/c in my room does not yet appear to be working (I'm cold-natured, but even I would struggle with that for a full day). And best of all, because of overcrowding issues in the town, it seems there aren't enough buses available to handle the high school, two middle schools, and three elementary schools (and the county's other schools are too far away to provide much cover). So, it appears a staggered schedule between the schools will be in effect, and my school draws first blood by starting each morning at - ta da! - 7:05! Which means I will have to be there by 6:50! Which means I'll have to wake up before 6:00! There are plenty of cows hanging out about a mile from my home, so maybe I'll stop and milk them, in addition, while I'm on my way to work.

School will get out at 2:00, however, which might be nice.

I lied earlier in the week - the promised summer review post won't be ready until next weekend (hopefully). No idea if we will have internet connection at the place we are staying in North Myrtle, but if so it may come a little earlier. Then again, I may be too busy all week lapping kids at the NASCAR go-kart center.

See y'all next week!

Henryk Fantazos (Wow!)

Other than the rotting-corpse stench coming off Hal Crowther's opinion piece in the back, the latest issue of Oxford American (which I'm only now getting to) looks quite promising indeed. The issue is already worth it for me because of the profile done on Henryk Fantazos, a Polish painter who settled here in North Carolina a couple of decades ago and decided to use the region as his medium. His comments about the South are wonderful- he speaks of his motive "to honor the proud individuation of all objects in view" - and place him squarely in the same camp as Faulkner and O'Connor. And these paintings? Wow! Like Flannery's stories put to canvas! Please watch the short slide show on his southern work at the bottom of this post.

Also wonderful are the comments of Jack Gilbert, who wrote the profile. I especially love this section:

But he does not paint ideas or propaganda. His works are free of defeat and guilt, of the knots and gnawings of poverty and status and family and wealth. Free also of progressive dreams and nightmares, free of any New South programs (which remind him of bureaucratic octopuses in the Poland of 1970).

In the “Face of the South” cycle, Henryk affirms such Southern legends as “fragrant overabundance,” courtesy, and friendliness.

But he eschewed the progressive ideology that, from the 1950s, I witnessed and, mea culpa, took part in; it was an intellectual program for a new Reconstruction that was implicit in jokes at the faculty club, in lectures, novels, movies, and newscasts. What were we pushing? Great educational leaders, sociologists, journalists? Having made a beginning of the end of racial discrimination, what next?

A funny bunch of notions: to remove the restraints on lovemaking, now called “sex,” pregnant with meaning (why all the energy spent for an activity well able to mind its own occasions?); to undermine devotion to concepts of honor or personal integrity (antisocial they are); to do the same to love of country or region or tribe; to correct (with the confident help of a humane intelligentsia) the erratic distribution of wealth; and, less honestly than Mao, to embrace quietly the prejudice that religion is poison, especially if it makes any difference.

http://www.brightcove.com/title.jsp?title=1115019203

A Happy Confluence

So here's my question: If a play like "Lear" lends itself to such diverse and contemporary approaches, why is its author so widely derided in certain progressive-minded circles as a Dead White European Male who has nothing of interest to say about the way we live now?

This from a short piece by Terry Teachout , in which he references two who belong to my personal Pantheon: Shakespeare (natch), and Roger Scruton (from whom I've been drinking deeply the last several months). The occasion? Scruton's new book, Culture Counts, which just arrived at my home a few days ago, and is set aside for beach reading next week.

Looking Ahead

We just returned from an out of town family birthday celebration over the weekend, and as Wyfe has pointed out , August is probably our busiest month on the calendar. Next week we go to the beach (prices drop after this week!), but in some ways that will be inconvenient, since I could use that week to get some of my classroom ready, prior to my start date on the 20th. I'll be over there a couple of times this week for yearbook purposes, so I will do what I can.

In the meantime, this week I will get my act together and start giving my parting thoughts about the summer break that was (including the summer reading that was), and the most interesting fall that is to come.

By the way, my seasonal terminology is skewed by the school calendar. Try telling anyone here in the Old North State that summer is approaching its end, and you'll get some strange looks. Nothin' but hot, humidity-fueled air hanging around this place.

A Well-Placed Shot

Whatever the quality of my humor, the form of it that the Good Lord gave me is generally deadpan (works well with teenagers, by the way, but only after they've gotten to know you a bit - otherwise it messes with their minds). So, I appreciate a good stab of dry humor, even when I'm the butt of the joke. To wit, here is an example from today:

(The scene: check-out counter at Lowe's Home Improvement[again], with me purchasing six cans of spray paint and four large bags of pine bark mulch):

Girl Cashier: Would you like a bag, by the way?

Me: Uh... yeah, I guess so. For the paint.

Girl Cashier: Yeah... I'm not sure the mulch would fit in these bags anyway.


I had to congratulate her on that one, especially for her swiftness. Then, of course, I figured out where her car was in the parking lot and used the spray paint on it.

No hard feelings.

Baseball And The Surreal

That is what being a baseball fan is like these days - surreal. The all-time homerun record is about to be broken, and yet many of us are anticipating Barry Bonds' pending achievement like we would a colon exam, because we know that a certain percentage (maybe 1/7 or 1/8?) of his homers were steroid-facilitated. Even though the guy is a jerk, I would still be excited to see this historical moment (I was too young to remember Hank Aaron breaking the mark in 1974) if his attitude was the only problem, because I might never get the chance to witness such a thing again. As it is, I change the channel every time the man comes to bat. I don't want to see it, and that is depressing. (One ray of hope: I heard a scouting-expert say that the prototype player coming through the minors these days looks more like a player from 1980 than from 2000, meaning much skinnier.)

From an early age, baseball has been in my veins. It was the first sport I ever played, the first sport I was ever consumed with, the first I collected cards for and memorized stats for. Other than Mid-Atlantic Wrestling, the highlights of Saturday summer t.v. for me were the syndicated This Week In Baseball (hosted by the great Mel Allen), and the saturday afternoon Game of the Week on NBC. My brother and I got some kind of super baseball card/memento set for Christmas one year, and included was a record album that narrated the great moments in baseball history, played snippets of some of the great calls. We listened to it over and over and over, and Bobby Thompson's homerun, DiMaggio's hit streak, Willie Mays' catch, and Hank Aaron's 715th were forever seared into our brains. When I started fifth grade, George Brett (still my favorite all-time player) was going for .400, and every morning my first question to my Dad was, "What did Brett do last night?"

So baseball is forever with me, and I can't give up my love for it. I object to those pundits who say, "Obviously baseball fans don't care about steroids. Attendance is at record highs. They just want to see home runs and drink their beer." Perhaps so (though I find this reeking of elitist holier-than-thou-ism), but there are plenty of us who love the game and don't want to leave it. We just want it cleaned up.

Couple 'o Quotes

Lots of good stuff in the August/September First Things, but here are a couple of passages that stand out:

Harvey Mansfield, of Manliness fame, on the failure of modern-day political science to concentrate on anything but that second word, science:

Ambition embarrasses our political science because ambition smacks of greatness; it is not average enough to be the object of a science that knows nothing of individuality, hence nothing of greatness. Even the word great is unscientific because it is pretentious. But we human beings are animals with pretensions.

My profession needs to open its eyes and admit to its curriculum the help of literature and history. It should be unafraid to risk considering what is ignored by science and may lack the approval of science. The humanities too, whose professors often suffer from a faint heart, need to recover their faith in what is individual and their courage to defend it. Thumos (the part of the soul that makes us want to insist on our importance) is not merely theoretical. To learn of it will improve your life as well as your thinking.

And then this from Richard Neuhaus on the latest boom of bestselling books that attack religion, and how they should be categorized:

Hitchens, Harris, et al. are not really making the case for atheism. They are attacking the grab bag of evils and absurdities associated with that amorphous reality called religion, which is an easy thing to do. "Religion" has to do with human beliefs and behaviors that are as riddled with nonsense as any other human enterprise. Christians qua Christians, have no stake in defending "religion." Much of what is called religion is false and meretricious. The Book Expo had it right: The "atheist" books in question are a subcategory in religion. Now, if Hitchens and company want to talk about God, i.e., Reality, that would be a most welcome discussion.

Celebrity Status

I remember one of the best discussions from the fast-forward certification program I attended five years ago centered on why teachers have to watch their behavior even outside of school. The main point of the discussion was that you could be seen by a student, student's family member, colleague, or county office worker at any time. Some in the program (these were all second or third career-switchers) balked at this: "Why should it matter how many beers I had at the bar on Saturday?", or "What difference does it make who I was seen with during the summer?", or "Who cares what I wear when I'm not teaching?" After a few minutes of griping, by one man in particular, the experienced teacher who was in charge of the discussion finally lowered the glasses on her face and said something to the effect of, "Sir, you are not living in Southern California."

I can vouch for the soundness of all this advice. On the few occasions I go to one of the major malls in Raleigh, it seems I inexplicably see someone from my former little-tiny school there (including my principal last December), even though it is 50 miles away. And now that I'll be teaching at a bigger school near my local community, this is bound to happen more. In fact, it has.

Six girls from my new school attended the June yearbook workshop with me. Two days later, I ran into the mother of one of them at a Chick-fil-A. I've seen another twice, as a waitress, at a local restaurant. Then, this morning I saw a former School #1 student at Lowe's Home Improvement, and this afternoon another of the six new girls comes walking into the same public swimming pool, 25 miles away, that I've been taking my son to occasionally this summer. I might as well just start expecting this every time out.

Of course, I behave myself in public, and mostly in private (wink, wink to Wyfe). But I have this irrational fear that one day a student is going to catch me lingering in front of the magazine section at the grocery store, gawking at a oh, let's say a cover featuring a scantily clad Jessica Biel (um... just to offer a completely random, hypothetical example, of course).

Watch your back, teachers.

One Month And Counting

Until teachers report to duty, and five weeks until school really starts. Since I've been teaching, the second half of summers have always taken on a different hue for me (poor guy, with his summers off). No different now - already there is a slight sense of melancholy over the time that has passed (or has been squandered), and nervous apprehension about what is on the horizon. Even going in to my fifth year at my old school, where the routines were familiar and the kids were mostly known quantities, I got nervous - in fact, I was much more nervous last summer than I am this summer, though I have more reason for it in the present case. What is that all about?

Well, for one thing, moving to a better school with better students has motivated me to reevaluate myself a little more, as a person and a teacher. This is my vocation, paradoxically both chosen and, I believe, chosen for me. All my life I have been a shy, understated person, and while I'm comfortable with this (and don't wish to change my basic personality), I do think it is time for me to step forward with a little more bravado and confidence. Nervousness needs to recede in the face of more important priorities. I've been a good teacher, and think I was one of the best at my old school, but there were many areas where I was ineffective or clueless. To be a master teacher, I must continue to improve. In addition, experience convinces me that most teenagers are dying to have strong adult leaders who can be trusted. It sounds corny, but that is my charge - to be one of those leaders.

Suddenly reads like I'm quite the Calvinist here, with all my struggling and striving , huh? But look, even if I'm lucky and have a long time remaining in this profession, there is another sense in which three decades (more or less) is a short time. With whatever time I'm given, I don't want to feel like I was just cruising along.

Nailing It

There are so many other ways to lead a successful and meaningful life that are not denominated by money or fame. Adult life begins in a child's imagination, and we've relinquished that imagination to the marketplace...

Art is an irreplaceable way of understanding and expressing the world--equal to but distinct from scientific and conceptual methods. Art addresses us in the fullness of our being--simultaneously speaking to our intellect, emotions, intuition, imagination, memory and physical senses. There are some truths about life that can be expressed only as stories or songs or images.

Art delights, instructs, consoles. It educates our emotions. And it remembers. As Robert Frost once said about poetry, "It is a way of remembering that which it would impoverish us to forget." Art awakens, enlarges, refines and restores our humanity.

If it is necessary to have a National Endowment for the Arts, then it should be necessary to have it headed up by the Dana Gioia's of the world. Take a couple of minutes to read this.

Life As The Novel Of Manners

On his blog Monday Tony Woodlief sparked a lively discussion about manners and parenting by commenting about a girl whose rear end was showing in church. Tony's further points in the comment thread that ensued are tremendous, btw. And all this got me thinking about the boys in my second period class last semester at my old school.

First, this class, to be blunt, was heavily populated with redneck boys, all of whom were friends, except when they were mad at each other (a frequent occurence). One of their favorite out of class activities, judging from their conversational topics, was "rolling up" in parking lots, intersections, etc. and demanding attention by blasting bass-heavy music and revving engines. There is nothing new here, except that when I was their age such boys would have been blasting Iron Maiden instead of aggressive rap.

Well, one thing these boys definitely love doing is entering and exiting school premises in such a manner - and at this school it is easy for them to "buzz" the front office and front hall. So, the principal told them to stop, and one of the teachers on parking lot duty told them to stop, and they were threatened with having their parking privileges revoked. This had them in high dudgeon at various times during the semester, and they would ask me (an obvious authority on the proper bounds of redneck activity) if I thought this was fair. What I would usually ask them is if they thought it was fine to irritate and disturb others who might not share their enthusiasm for high-volume habits. The answer was always the same: "Well, I paid for my stuff (speakers, car), so I should be able to do what I want to with it." There's little need to further comment on such reasoning - obviously my opinion of it is low.

Some time after the first of these conversations, I had my own opportunity to be "buzzed" by one of these same students. He, in particular, loved to brag about rolling up on teachers and revving his engine loudly. One morning after arriving at school, as I exited my car and started pulling my stuff out of the trunk, I saw him coming in his blue Mustang GT, about 100 yards away. One of my special talents is being able to spot someone I don't want to deal with from afar, before they spot me, and adjusting my position to avoid them (works great in shopping centers, especially). So, acting like I never saw him in the first place, I walked toward the doors and pretended to be really focused on something in front of the main school entrance as he slowly revved himself right by me.

In class that day, the first thing I heard, in the same tone of anticipatory excitement I associate with five year-olds, was, "Mr. P., did you hear me this morning? I went right by you!" Clearly, he couldn't wait to be acknowledged for his accomplishment. And, as unflappable as a cold, pitiless assassin, I replied, "No, Joe. Really? Well, I never pay attention to what's going on first thing in the morning."

So I lied and possibly crushed his psyche - for which, come to think of it, I need to ask forgiveness. But at least I was lying in the service of promoting good manners.

Yearbook 24/7

I have officially concluded business on my last yearbook for my old school, and actually finished it in a faster manner than I did the previous three. I had more incentive this time, obviously. Because who wants to be still worrying about the old job when the new job needs attending to? Hey, how did I get into this racket again?

Well, when I found out I was to be the advisor for the yearbook at my new school, I was not enthused, because by this time of year I have had it with the whole enterprise. You would think yearbook would be all peachy-keen. After all, you get to hold watch over mostly high caliber kids, and they do most of the work, correct? That is what I thought when I first became an advisor four years ago. What I quickly learned was this: you are running a small business with workers who by definition are transitory, and among whom only a small percentage will care about quality, responsibility, or deadlines. And let's face it people - on the list of all-time great picks to run any kind of business enterprise, the English Teacher is of a genus and species near the bottom. Want to guess who handles the bills at my home?

There are considerable consolations, however. For one, those few good kids who will work hard and conscientiously are worth their weight in gold, and getting to work with them year-round is a joy. Also, there is no lecture time, homework, or essays, and the atmosphere of the class is laid back. And finally, yearbook is generally considered an important enough duty in and of itself that no one will come hunting the advisor because they are looking to fill a coaching slot (cross my fingers). I love sports, but I both a)have a child and wife at home that I enjoy seeing, and b)am an inveterate and notorious homebody as it is.

The yearbook kids I've met from my new school seem quite promising and ambitious, so I am actually excited about seeing what we are able to do this year. Sure, I'll lose three or four nights' sleep over the school months, but add that up over the course of a career and it will only take a few months off my life, right?

We're Off To The Blue Ridge

Mountains, that is.

It is time for our annual long summer weekend at the site of my illustrious upbring, Asheville. Only Thomas Wolfe can rival me in fame there - and when you think about it, what does Look Homeward, Angel offer that this blog doesn't?

In any case, Wyfe and I will spend the next couple of days foisting the child off on grandparenats as much as allowed; meanwhile, we may prowl the downtown area trying to look as square as possible in the sea of Bohemians.

Hey, we're nothing if not counter-cultural; we just pick our own circumstances for it. Be back Sunday.

Movie Limbo

Over the past few years, two things have conspired against my formerly eager appetite for watching movies or their more ambitious cousins, films. One has been parenthood, and the other has been Hollywood. The former involves the practical matter of time, and the latter involves the 9/1 ratio of movies that make me groan or yawn to movies that were actually worthwhile. Much to Wyfe's dismay, I tend to only enjoy movies/films that aim for at least a minimum of artistic merit (this includes comedies), which leaves out the usual mindless summer fare. For instance, I absolutely refuse to see another super hero flick except maybe the follow-up to Batman Begins, which I enjoyed. Wyfe still pays in grief for dragging me to both the Superman and Pirates of the Carribean disasters last summer (to be fair, we would not have tried Superman if Pirates had not been sold out the first time). But then the trouble with so-called artistic, more serious, films is that they are usually neither, but instead are either morally-bankrupt and lifeless, or bloated vehicles that further promote already trite and boring modern-day political/social orthodoxies. So, I don't see many movies, and frankly find myself not missing them, something I never would have believed ten years ago.

And, as Wyfe pointed out last year, Netflix-type services paradoxically encourage us to be less interested in watching movies, even while we are paying to rent them.

However, I still tilt at the Netflix windmills in hopes of finding the good stuff from time to time, especially during the summer. The other night I watched The Squid and the Whale after reading about it quite by accident a few weeks ago.

Overall, I'm going to give it a B+, which is encouraging, though I have a few reservations, in particular about a couple of "ick" scenes that seemed to me unnecessary distractions (we could find out about the sexually-related cries for help of the twelve year-old without seeing actual body fluids smeared on lockers or library books). But I don't think the film was trying to glory in the dissolution of the American family the way I thought, for instance, American Beauty did. There was no sense of preachiness from the director (apparently this was at least semi-biographical), but instead just a sense of what it is like for an adolescent to slowly, painfully put together what his parents have visited upon him, and what he has in turn, already, been visiting upon himself and others.

I already know, by the way, I will enjoy the next thing in the queue . It is a true rarity - something I not only went to the theatre to see, but also loved.

4th of July Musings

(Granted, a few days late).

Since I'm already off, the 4th of July week (yes, week - because unless you are a blue collar worker, I defy you to tell me you worked hard last week, if you were working at all) doesn't have the same vacation feel for me as it does for most. We don't generally go anywhere or do anything special, but we do always attend our local-yokel parade/community gathering and corresponding fireworks event.

The parade is always worth it, especially if you are the kind of person who enjoys observing the local color such events bring out. Of course, these days not even the smallest communities totally avoid the kitsch of universal media culture. Hence, at our little parade, we witnessed a little old man and woman driving a classic old tractor with a stuffed chicken attached to the front of it, followed soon by a pick-up full of poor souls stuffed into Sponge-Bob, Cinderella, and Super Mario costumes. My personal favorite was the "Buckle Up With Jesus" license plate on one of the old Chevy's that crawled by. Oh, and the Wyfe also got hit on by a WWII Marine veteran signing her up for a raffle ("Just write your name and phone number here, and I'll give you a call sometime when your husband's not home.") And truly, there is comfort (and a smug sense of "Hey ACLU-types, here's mud in your eye!") to be had in the public prayer offered up, followed by a rousing rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner. In any case, have a look:



The grand marshal carriage - that horse can't be enjoying itself on the hot asphalt, I imagine.




Our congressman, Bob Etheridge. One of our friends said, "How 'bout I run out there and ask him for his take on amnesty?"



I'll admit it - the local high school band (which really is renowned throughout the state) always gives me goosebumps when they play the usual 4th of July repertoire.



Which makes this parade more certifiably rural and Southern? The cavalcade of tractors, or...



...the requisite Junior Miss? You make the call.



This speaks for itself. Can you say 92 degrees, anyone?

Oh, if only my beloved muse was around to put such a gathering to use. It would have been right up her alley.

Hanging On

My bete noir, as I've mentioned before, is that nagging question the kids ask when we study literature: "How is this stuff possibly going to help me in life?"

In An Intelligent Person's Guide to Modern Culture, Roger Scruton gives English teachers (or at least those of a certain bent) and their ilk this nugget to ponder in an age of both disappearing high culture and common culture:

...there arises what has become, for teachers of the humanities, the most pressing of moral dilemmas. Do we attempt to impart our culture to the young, knowing that we can only do so by requiring efforts which they themselves may see as wasted? Or do we leave them to their own devices, and allow the culture which shaped us, and which provides our lasting images of value, to die?

Well, I plan to hang on to option A until they pry my cold, dead fingers from it. However, it continues to be hard out here for a believer in the value of ye olde arts and literature. Case in point comes from Anthony Daniels' recent essay in New Criterion entitled "Diagnosing Lear" (registration reqd.), in which Daniels, a doctor himself, points out the periodic need that certain well-read physicians and psychoanalysts have had to figure out what illness plagued Shakespeare's famous character. After all, there would have been no need for all this family trauma to be wrought upon the stage if only Lear had been alive in a more reasoned, scientific age, right? To wit:

If only Lear had taken the right pills, everything would have been all right, and Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia would have been like the Andrews Sisters. The only question Lear raises for the modern mind is how to get him, or anyone like him, to the right doctor on time, before it is too late; presumably absolute monarchs carry adequate health insurance.

Daniels' chief objection is "that the medicalization of Lear’s behavior deprives it of moral significance."

Indeed. But then, "How is this moral significance stuff possibly going to help me in life?"

Travels with Non-Earthlings

Oh. My. God. I just, like, totally got back from Atlantic Beach, where, like, I was at a totally spankin' yearbook workshop with six of my new students that I, like, so just met the same day we drove down there. So, like, I drove three fifteen year olds in my car, and then one of the girl's, like, mom was another chaperone and she totally drove the other kids. Then we had to sit through these classes that lasted, like, FOREVER, for two half-days and one full day, and then we, like, went out to eat at a fish place that was totally the bomb because they sold these t-shirts that were, like, only ten dollars, so the girls, like, all bought shirts and totally couldn't wait to wear them the next day. And two of the girls apparently, like, were talking to these guys by the pool on Tuesday night, and this guy kept telling them his dad, like, was an NFL star who totally owned the hotel and then he texted them later, like, on our ride home, and they called him and said they decided that he, like, was totally lying, and he sooo admitted it. Oh. My. God. So, they're never talking to him again, and one girl had already asked her dad, like, who that football player was and it really was a player, but she said now her dad, like, completely won't believe it when she tells him the guy was lying (and I said, like, "Trust me, he'll believe it.").

So, we're, like, totally back now, and really I'm pretty impressed with, like, these kids even though they were a little whiny at moments about having to, like, do work at a workshop. But really, they were, like, totally respectful of their new teacher who they had, like, never met before, and never caused me, like, any concerns. The only thing is that I have this, like, vague sense that they have, like, rubbed off on me is some way that I totally can't put my finger on, you know? Kluvubye!

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Check out the new look! I figured with all the other changes taking place in my life, I might as well drag the blog along; although the blog, like me, is fundamentally opposed to change. Too bad for the both of us. I think I like the new template, however, but I'll let it settle in a bit and see if I want to make tweaks.

I'm also working on updating my blogroll. I've added some sites, including those of loyal Whining Schoolboy readers, which I've neglected to promote for far too long.

More content coming soon!

Digging Out, Digging In.

We have successfully returned from our mini-vacation to DC and surrounding parts, and it was a wonderful time. One day I will post about my love for all things George Washington and Mount Vernon (what an outstanding new museum they have just opened there, btw!). But now we are back to normalcy, which is not such a bad thing when my normalcy means back to summer vacation.

However, it is not going to be all play for a while. First, I have to dig out of the crap I've brought home from my school room; this will include sifting through a couple of boxes to determine what I will need for the future, what definitely needs to be thrown out, and what I might squirrel away even though Beloved Wyfe commands me to get rid of it in her all-out assault on house clutter. Plus, I have some unfinished yearbook business (because it is a Fall release book) that I obligated myself to finish, which includes helping the new advisor in the transition process.

I also learned, a couple of weeks ago, that I have other yearbook business to dig into at the same time. Yes, no doubt because of previous experience and being low man on the totem pole, I've been tapped to take over from the retiring yearbook advisor at my new school. In fact, I'm meeting with him for the first time this afternoon, and apparently attending a workshop with him next week.

Yikes. This yearbook is much bigger, and probably a much bigger deal. How intimidated should I be? We'll see. After the workshop next week, I'll further expound on the fascinating (wink, wink) topic of yearbooks, something I know I have heretofore ignored on the blog.

Strike The Tent

"I think of all the places I have known and that I like to think, perhaps irrationally, have known me. Creatures of time and space that we are, the spaces of our lives are as much a part of who we are as the times of our lives. It is an old Russian custom for one going on a journey to sit quietly for at least five minutes, saying good-bye to the space one is leaving."
-R.J. Neuhaus, As I Lay Dying

A couple of weeks ago I was in a colleague's room and I noticed, on the floor beside his stacks of textbooks, a yellow post-it note with my name on it. It was covered in dust or dirt, and the red ink had already faded a bit. Evidently it was a note to class I had written for someone, and it had found its way to the floor. I was tempted to pick it up and see exactly what I had written, but then thought better of it. Let it stay there, I thought; it will be swept away soon enough as it is.

When you spend five years in any one place, with roughly the same groups of people, your signature - literal and figurative - is bound to be all over the place. You will probably be aware of many of the marks you have made in a certain place, and with certain people; but you can never be sure about others you tried to make, and can be flat out disappointed by your numerous unsuccessful attempts. In any case, you can be sure life will continue, and with time your presence there will be remembered in fewer ways, and by fewer people. You just hope you did the best you could with the time and space you were given, and that somewhere beyond us this is never forgotten.

Today was my last official day at my maddening, loveable little backwoods school. There were no dramatic goodbyes today, no long drawn out remembrances. Everyone was in a hurry to finish their official tasks, have their final meeting with the principal, and clean out their rooms. I went to lunch with my buddies, and though our conversations did touch on changes to come, for me and for them, our talk was mostly the same as usual. In fact, over some outstanding Mexican food, we mostly spent time trading snake stories - something men in the South will always get to if they hang out with each other long enough.

All this is as it should be. My time at the school has been essential to the story of my life, and I hope I have been essential to the stories of my students and friends there. But there are other great teachers for the kids to learn from, and other challenges for us all.

I still have a few yearbook duties to wrap up, so I will have to visit my room a couple more times next week. But before I leave it for good as an employee, I plan, like the proverbial Russian, to sit for a few moments, offer a short prayer, and say goodbye for the last time.

So long, HHS. I love you.

Devils or Angels?

You know, nothing says graduation night like the smell from a nearby hog plant hanging in the humid June air, while all around joyous graduates celebrate with their families.

Well, that was the scene (and smell) I was greeted with as I emerged from the Agri-Expo. center, located in the seat of my rural school's county. And in a way, this was all so appropriate.

Commencement ceremonies bring a range of emotions and thoughts, but one thing I'm always struck with is the feeling, for once, that all the ugliness, bitter feuds, petty jealousies, and backstabbings have evaporated, and that all the graduates finally, in their moment of glory, get it. As with the past commencements I've witnessed, I had this sense again Friday.

This particular commencement also had a rather dramatic and poignant moment. Probably because the principal begged and pleaded with family members to withhold catcalls, gestures, and cheering until after all the diplomas were handed out (this has been a constant problem in past years), the audience behaved well (with two minor exceptions). Once the diplomas were handed out, the hootin' and hollerin' took place, as usual. But in this venue the graduates' families were all seated behind the student body, staring at their backs. So when it came time to move their tassels, the principal told the graduates to stand, turn around and face their families, and then do the tassel thing. When they faced their families the place erupted, and it was truly moving.

But then there was the other side - the hog stench side. Two of the speeches given by the "top four" contained inappropriate comments that took shots at the school or certain teachers, or mentioned wild parties and trying to leave a toilet in front of the school during spirit week (who checked off on these speeches?). We found out just before the ceremony that one girl had bootlegged copies of a slide show DVD that our sweet secretary makes for the seniors and sells to them for a reasonable cost. And there was the special privilege of watching six unwed mothers cross the stage in one night (I know - at least they graduated).

In the end, frankly, this was a sorry senior class - the sorriest I can remember since I have been at the school. These things fluctuate(next year's class is terrific by comparison), but I hate to say we are foisting this particular group on the world.

On a more positive, and unrelated note, a former student dropped by to say goodbye today and brought me some of her mom's multi-layered chocolate cake. Gotta love southern folk.

Stolen Moments

Don't you know we're living in stolen moments?
You steal enough it feels like we're stopping time.
These days are gold, we're living in stolen moments.
Just grab a hold...
-John Hiatt, "Stolen Moments"

A friend of mine has a cousin who has been teaching high school English for quite a few years now. I actually observed this teacher as part of a project I had to complete when I was working on my certification. He was fun to watch in action, and his kids obviously loved him. Well, a couple of weeks ago my friend told me that this cousin was considering moving up to a big time position at the state board of education, but that it would kill his kids if he did. "Those kids absolutely worship him! They hang on his every word," my friend said.

That's a slight exaggeration, of course, but I understand what he was saying because I've experienced similar relationships. No more did this hit home than on Thursday, when some of my past and present students threw me a goodbye party right after school. Leaving aside the comical fact that I'm in the red after ordering pizzas for them and not getting completely reimbursed (a teacher's martyrdom is never done), this was a tremendous honor, particularly because it was their idea. Among the things I received was this signed, framed, and matted portrait from some of my sophomores:



Some of the statements read as follows:

"P., I'm going to miss you so much! I love you with all my heart!"

"I will miss you P. You are my favorite teacher!"

"Mr. P., I will most deff. always love our stupid English teacher! Thank you for all you've done for all of us, and for teaching us more than just English. Love always and good luck."

"P., You are the man. Gonna (improper grammar) miss you!"

Of course, the overly emotional girls were crying. One in particular was inconsolable - not the one I would have guessed either (side thought: oh, to have had so many girls crying over me when I was actually in high school! I could have died happy at 18.) The boys were their usual awkward, but funny selves. I was doing my best to bring good cheer to the occasion, and not lose it too much myself.

Frankly, I mostly believe it shouldn't be any other way - if I'm fulfilling my calling correctly, that is. To me, this "student worship" falls in the category of the miraculous, and, on the one hand, it never fails to humble me. But I'll admit, on the other hand, that I crave it. Partially this is a function of the male ego, something we men need to have stroked from time to time. And partially the craving is a function of needing to know that what I believe about teaching - about the nobility of the task - is borne out in reality, making it true.

It has never felt more like the truth than over these last few weeks - weeks full of stolen moments as savory, yet as sad, as any I've lived through.

Sophisticated Humor

While I was serving as a test proctor during an end-of-course civics exam today, my gaze happened upon the side edge of the teacher's desk, which I was sitting beside. There, I noticed, someone had delicately drawn a small, green penis and scrotum (unattached to a body, so I assume it was a floating green penis/scrotum combo).

You'd think I would take such a thing in stride by now, and I usually do. But for some reason, maybe because everyone was absolutely silent and working hard, I really labored to suppress the giggles that reside in the "still-15 years old" part of my brain.

Not that I'm condoning such drawings...

Plus, it wasn't on my desk.

MySpace Wars

As the school year winds down, allow me to return to my favorite topic of the destructive capacity MySpace, Facebook, et. al. have when it comes to teens (who already have enough such capacity simply by existing). But let me first introduce our MySpace warriors, to help you keep things straight:

Girl A
Boy A

Girl B

Boy C

Friend D

Miscellaneous Friends Of Whatever Leftover Variables You Choose

O.k., got it? Then here goes.

Once upon a time, Boy A and Girl A dated seriously - far too seriously - for two years. But over the past year, Boy A had an "on the side" hankering for Girl B, who did not discourage the hankering, and in fact made out with Boy A at least once at a party last fall that Girl A did not attend . Well, recently Girl B came back from a senior lake outing with several pictures of herself and Boy A cozying up at the lake, while wearing their bathing suits (bikini in her case). The pictures were posted to her MySpace page. This led to a break-up between Boy A and Girl A, until Boy A, as usual, extricated himself from trouble by begging for forgiveness and blaming the whole matter on Girl B.

So, Girl A took him back, and Girl B did him the favor of taking down the pictures. But for several days, Girl A loudly declared to everyone that Girl B was a slut, slut, slut. She said this so often that Girl B, tired of hearing her name sullied, had a little talk with Boy A. She told him he better shut his little girlfriend up, or she would spill the beans about his pursuit of her over the past year. After a couple more days, Boy A read the writing on the wall, and confessed all to Girl A. This led to another, and final break up with a devastated Girl A.

Enter Friend D, who proceeded to take Girl A under her wing a little and befriend her. Friend D's boyfriend, it turns out, has a good buddy (Boy C) who is currently available, and kind of has the hots for Girl A. Girl A and this Boy C do not start dating yet, but do start talking often and hanging out. Problem is, this is a boy that Girl B has wanted for her own for a couple of years, but has had no success with. Girl A knows this, and even though there is no dating situation yet, on her MySpace page, she puts up a couple of pictures of herself hanging out with him (feel the salt in the wound?).

So, on Girl B's MySpace page, the original bombshell pictures reappeared overnight. Friend D has basically been declared persona non grata by Girl B and her posse, though they have all been friends with Friend D since grade school. Among the Miscellaneous Friends who have chosen not to abandon Friend D and are caught in the middle, there has been a noticeable drop in their poll numbers: Girl B has demoted them to further down on her "MyFriends" list on her MySpace page. This is apparently as noticeable a slight as Mr. Darcy's aloofness was early on in Pride and Prejudice.

My Male Bonding Buddy tells me next year he's going to walk around with a large hour glass so he can be ready on cue to declare, "Like sands through the hour glass, so are the days of our lives!"

Notes On The Week That Was, Part II (Why I Teach)

Thursday

* Well, this is why I teach. Take all your classroom idiocy, your crypto-thugdom, and your senior apathy. It can't ever match the power of the really fine moments, the really fine kids.

Though I was running on fumes by this evening, the Underclassmen Awards ceremony was truly one of the best events I've been a part of as a teacher - top 5, easy.

To begin with, the format is wonderful, because only students who are going to win something get invited, along with their families. Some say the other students should see these awards during school hours, so they might take away some motivation from it. But this way of doing things allows for an efficient program, and also allows for relaxation: you know you only have good kids in the auditorium, kids who want to be there (and their parents, natch).

For me, the real thrill of the evening came in watching so many of the kids who have meant so much to me in the last couple of years walk across the stage and receive numerous rewards. And it was my privilege to hand them the awards and shake their hands. What an honor - what an absolute honor.

Seated to my left was a girl who has been in my classes, either English or yearbook, for parts of three years (I'll call her Lizzy). It was her job, as student government vice-president, to introduce the speakers, and I was proud to watch how poised and professional she was. Lizzy wouldn't look my in the eye for a while the day I announced I was leaving. She waited until she'd finished crying.

And maybe the best moment was when the girl I had quietly lobbied for as Best All-Around Sophomore - I'll call her Jess - actually won the award (I didn't know who had won until I turned the plaques over just before presenting them - when I saw she had won that award, and the award for highest sophomore grade-point average, I wanted to pump my fist). Jess is everything you could ask for in a student - bright, inquisitive, cheerful, polite, popular among her peers and yet an individual who always does the right thing. She's a pretty girl who refuses to get hung up on boyfriend dramas, and she's humble and considerate of even the unpopular kids in class. I told her Mama that I don't believe in cloning, but I would make an exception for her daughter. Way to go Jess.

Another of my students who I've had for parts of three years also won several awards, but most impressively it was announced he had a painting that won a Congressional contest award, and the painting is currently hanging in the nation's Capitol building. In June he gets to go to a reception in D.C., and he has also earned a $10,000 art scholarship. And knowing this boy, I can promise you he will one day do the humanities proud, in a way that will cut against the grain of the reigning elitist, po-mo schools of thought.

Not bad for a little ole' school. Not bad at all.


Friday

*I had my last observation today, and it went well, especially since my worst second-period headache was suspended for the day (I'll thank myself for that one). I'm beat, though. Happy, but thoroughly beat.

There are two more weeks of school left, plus three workdays. Of course, when you are in charge of a fall yearbook, the summer is never truly your own until the book is finally put to rest. I don't have to finish it off this summer, since I'm leaving and all, but I will (cue martyr's music now).

For now, though, with so many thoughts and emotions and responsibilities flying at me, I'm content to be content for a few days.

Notes On The Week That Was - Part I

Let's have an interlude from my lengthy soul-searching regarding The Big Move, so that I can share a little of the past, crazy week with you - a week that I've just barely recovered from. I'll use my previous method of writing notes as if the events just happened, which offers endless revisionist history opportunities. Enjoy!

Monday

* There should be some fun in the week ahead, but at the expense of my sleep and sanity, no doubt. We have three huge events, three nights in a row: Senior Awards Night, Senior/Faculty Softball Night, and Underclassmen Awards Night. Because I'm the reigning Teacher of the Year, I'm supposed to be on stage for the awards nights to help hand out items of distinction (plaques, certificates, stoles, etc.). And while I'm not as obligated to play softball, you wouldn't expect me to miss that, would you?

* Perhaps so God could make sure I stayed grounded in the face of so much feel-goodism and celebration this week, He offered the following scene to my Male Bonding Buddy and I as we were walking down the hall at lunch: two big athletic types on the outside sidewalk, one a freshman and one an already once-arrested sophomore, bouncing off of each other at full force while loudly repeating some kind of rap chant. These two were caught earlier this semester stealing Cokes out of my buddy's little refrigerator in his room.

Says Male Bonding Buddy, "A couple of future sperm donors right there." Just warms the heart to think of it, doesn't it?

Tuesday

* My classes were awful today, and they've pissed me off enough that, even at this late date, I've resolved to crack some heads tomorrow. Think it's too late for a referral, my little chickadees? Think again.

* I'm going to declare this year's Senior Awards Night an almost-unmitigated disaster. To start with, it lasted three freaking hours, and we only had one stretch break in that time. I say stretch break, but despite the directions given to the audience, it became a full-fledged, don't-bar-the-door bathroom sprint. Since I was on stage, of course, I could do nothing so kind for myself, though I had to pee like a race horse (love that cliche).

Secondly, unlike last year, this year's senior class showed that it couldn't even muster one evening of full-class character. Sure, last year's class had plenty of losers, but only two didn't show for senior awards. After all, most of them get some kind of recognition, and the rest can at least give their friends some atta'boys or girls. But at least 20% of the class of '07 was absent tonight - there were gaps of three and four in their reserved rows of seats. Of the ones who were present, several crossed the stage with cell phones clipped to hips, or while smacking gum. There were also sidebar conversations galore, and snarky comments about middle names. The principal was so perturbed he chastised them, in as constructive a way as possible, at the end.

Plus, my butt hurts, and I've gotten home at 10:30. Any chance school starts late tomorrow?

Wednesday

* I found one of my senior kids this morning - the previously written about preacher's kid, in fact - and asked why she didn't attend the awards program from last night, even though she and many of her friends were getting major recognition. Was there a church emergency, or something? "Nah. I decided I'd rather stay home and watch American Idol."

Thank God. That little box, right beside the item "faith in humanity restored"? Yeah - feel free to check it off now.

* I didn't have to wait long to issue referrals. We had a hispanic girl fight this morning (a regular occurence), and when my class went out for its usual mid-class bathroom break, two of the girls bolted down the hall to congratulate one of the culprits, who was waiting outside the principal's office.

* At third lunch today, I heard a loud pop sound coming from one of the side halls. The fleeting thought that it was a gun shot crossed my mind, and just in case I poked my head out of my door. I could see people looking down the hall, but there appeared to be no huge problem. Later, I found out what it was:

My Male Bonding Buddy, while walking his class to lunch, picked up some trash in the middle of the hall. It was a scrunched up plastic water container, and it felt a little weird when he handled it, like it was moving. He figured it still had water in it, and just threw it in the nearest trash can. Moments later, the thing blew up. It contained some foil and some sort of cleaning solution in it, and apparently shaking it a little caused a reaction that made it blow. When my buddy told me about it later, I could tell he was on edge, though he did his best to remain unflappable.

They caught the punk who put it there on video camera. He tried to resist arrest - showing great wisdom to the end, since he came up to the belly button of one officer, and was about as thick as the bicep of the other officer.

The kid was 15, so what are the odds he one day darkens the doorsteps of the school again? Sadly, I would caution you not to laugh.

* Our softball game is less serious than the annual basketball game, mainly because we play co-ed, and we play with what is called a Chicago softball, which is largerand softer than the usual softball. All this lessens the chances that big dumb men (ahem), or big dumb boys on the other side, will take someone out with a slide or get in an argument over balls and strikes. Still, there is no bigger motivation to play hard, and play well, than knowing snarky 17 and 18 year olds are just waiting to laugh at you.

And I did play well, but unfortunately hit the ball hard, twice, right to a properly positioned outfielder. And, unfortunately, we lost 4-3 in nine innings.

While on second, one of the girls (a real softball player) for the seniors simply turned to me at shortstop and said, "Ya'll suck." To which I charitably responded, "No, you suck." "You suck!" "You do!"

Well, you get the picture. A good-natured - if not very eloquent - insult match with a student is one of the true pleasures in life.


Coming Tomorrow: Part II, which I promise will be a much more uplifting experience.

Reason #2: The Mansion on the Hill

(With apologies to Hank and Bruce)
I had an English professor in undergrad who loved - LOVED - to reference the moment Clyde Griffiths, from the torturous An American Tragedy, walks into the lobby of a high class Kansas City Hotel and forever falls in love with all that money can buy.

Well, I hope I come to a better end than Clyde, but after working for five years in a cramped fifty-year old building that is replete with immortal ant colonies, equipped with one computer lab that is impossible to schedule much time in, serviced by a severely undermanned janitorial staff, and air-controlled by boiler heat and window unit a/c, it was impossible for me not to feel the allure of a clean, equipped, orderly, and comfortable school house. Who wouldn't feel it?

There is a measure of guilt here. Don't the poorer kids where I've been teaching deserve the same facilities and opportunities? Without question they do, and in a transcendentally just world they would get it. But we don't live in that world, and I can't resist getting excited about the more spacious rooms, the plentiful LCD projectors, and just the relative sheen of it all. (And this isn't even the spankiest school building in the county).

I appreciate you (we) taxpayers, I promise.

Reason #1: It's The Behavior, Stupid.

Teacher turnover is certainly not unusual, and I don't want to give the impression that my move is some earth-shattering event. The education system is set up for the free-flow of teachers and administrators, and each year brings more change than any company, big or small, would want to deal with at once. In one way this speaks ill of the profession; to all-emcompassing bureaucracies, after all, the individual matters little, and is easily replaced by other "professionals" who also matter little. I'll save further commentary on this quandary for another day, but will point out that as an English teacher I relish the unique opportunity I get to strike at the bureaucratic mindset that created the system I work for (Hector and Achilles were both irreplaceable, and how could anyone but Lizzy have been right for Darcy, or anyone but Darcy have been right for Lizzy?).

To return to the stated topic, though, I want to explore some of my reasons for switching schools, aside from the obvious ones of proximity and pay increase. The first, maybe most alluring one for me, involves student behavior.

If you were to stand in the hallways of my school between classes, and were not used to being around hundreds of teenagers at once, my guess is that you would quickly display symptoms of a panic attack. The noise is deafening, the laughter is out of control, the language crude, and the attitude extremely nonchalant. It's a "I might make it to class on time, or I might not, but I will be loud regardless" kind of approach. This extends into the classroom, where it takes many kids ten minutes to calm down and get their things out, and there will be at least five in even a small class without proper materials. Yes, we could write all this up every day, but both we and the kids know we won't. It would take a good fifteen minutes to do five, or ten, write-ups, and time is a precious commodity. Plus the principals would literally not have time to do anything but handle discipline, and would probably start to give us cross stares. Most of us, for better or worse, save our referrals for the big-time stuff, and try to handle the rest ourselves. On top of all this, we have a consistently high minority of students whose personal dramas, and the special accompaniments of said dramas (notes read and written in class, constant harping to "go to the bathroom" or "get water", crying or heads down in depression, lack of sleep), completely affect everyone and everything around them.

Now, when I spoke with one of the assistant principals at my new school who used to work at my current school, and was an assistant principal at another school in the same county, one of the first things she told me was that she no longer spends much time at all on discipline. At the previous school she worked at, though, all she did all day was deal with discipline problems. She told me it was night and day. On the day of my interview I was at the school for over two hours, which was enough time for me to notice the lack of noise or chaos I am so used to, and I popped my head in to a couple of classes where I saw nothing resembling out of control behavior.

To be sure, there will be disciplinary challenges for me in the new position; I know these kids will be nowhere near perfect. But relatively speaking, based on what I saw and have heard from others, life will be much easier on that front. Still, what accounts for the apparent disparity?

I don't pretend to an expert, so I will lean on two recent opinions I heard that I think partially explain why the behavior at my current school is so bad. First, as one of my colleagues pointed out, a sizeable number of our students come from homes with single parents who are still in their thirties, or they live with grandma and (maybe) grandpa, or there is no parent present at all (I know of a few cases where the kid lives alone or only with older siblings). What you get from such a toxic social mix is poison, my friends, pure and simple. Try hiring one of these kids some day and you'll see.

A thoughtful senior student of mine pointed something else out to me the other day, though, that should also be factored in. Because our school serves a small town/community, and so many of the kids and teachers know each other so well already, she believes the kids feel no sense of discomfort when they enter the school building. It is no different than home for them, and they hold it in contempt because of that. This is an excellent point, and I can refer to the number of kids who love to kick their feet up on desks and chairs while I'm trying to instruct them as anecdotal evidence as such.

One question, though. The school served a small, probably tighter community fifty years ago, and for succeeding decades we all know the discipline was not a major issue. Why not, when the same level of familiarity existed then? Without writing for days on this question, I would sum up my answer by saying welcome to the world of Informalmania, where we question authority and raise consciousness and watch aging baby boomers pretend they are still 16. However, those of us who are more ambitious and on surer footing will make sure our kids don't take this to an extreme so that it detracts from their ability to make good grades and excel in other ways. We understand that formality at times is essential. It's the rest of those kids, the ones with the aformentioned home lives, that don't understand we are all just playing around. Unlucky chumps.

There are more of those kids at my current school, it is fair to say, than will be at my new school. That is the crux of the behavioral difference. And that leads me, logically, to reason #2 in the next installment.

It's Official!

As of yesterday afternoon, in fact.

I have been offered the position that I interviewed for last month, and have accepted. This is very exciting for a variety of reasons, including the following: school with a great reputation, 1/3 the commute, working in my home school system and on the same calendar my son is on, a little bump in pay, and a signing bonus I wasn't even aware of.

While I am elated (perhaps mostly because the trauma of waiting to hear is behind me), I have a host of mixed thoughts and emotions about all of this. I've had kids cry about it already, or just look at me doe-eyed, like if they do that long enough I might change my mind. And you know, if anything could, it would be those kids - the ones I love beyond anyone outside of my family members. But, as I told them, they always end up leaving me in the end. In an occupation full of impermanence, I can't forever pass up opportunities to improve my lot - my family's lot.

In the coming days, I want to use the blog to reflect on all this - what I think is in store for me, and what my experience at my current school has meant. Please indulge me, gentle reader.

PK's

One of my yearbook editors is a Preacher's Kid (PK), and she fits the stereotype quite well. She is spoiled, mostly unsoiled by the milk of human compassion, and though not a delinquent, certainly a bit on the wild side. In addition, she lacks a filter between her brain and her mouth. Yet, in some way she maintains a certain loveable quality - perhaps because she buys us off by saying outrageous, but amusing things. In any case, here is a snatch of conversation with her from Thursday:

Me: (entering room and seeing her on my computer) Oh, hey. What are you doing?

PK: I'm downloading my Beta Club field trip pictures from yesterday. But I've got to get back to class. So I'll clean off the other stuff that is downloading when I come back 4th period.

Me: (sporting worried brow) Other stuff?

PK: Just some videos on my camera.

Me: (sporting spiked worried brow) Videos?

PK: Don't worry - it's not like it's porn. Just some videos of us drinking.

Me: Oh, well thank God that's all.

Steady Descent to Hell

Incidentally, my comments are now back on unmoderated. Should have handled that a while ago, but have been too lazy. I have other changes I need to make to the site, but they may wait until summer. As for school:

It feels that we are on that aforementioned descent lately at my little folksy rural school. Last week brought rumors of a "Bloods-Wannabees" vs. "Crips-Wannabees" fight pending at any time. The only solace is that the kids rumored to be involved have all shown themselves to be wimps in the past (thankfully). My uncharitable side says,"Hey fellas, I'm all for you taking each other out. Just have the decency to have the rumble in one of your own backyards, and not in public where you endanger what passes for our remnants of civilization."

And then this morning I had to write up five students who disrupted class with a screaming fit, all brought on because a boy of Mexican descent wrote "Mexico" on the back of a paper he was grading. The paper belonged to a girl of Honduran descent who gets unreasonably angry whenever others poke fun of her accent or nation of heritage. The next thing you know, the boy's pregnant sister, who happens to be my teacher's aide that period, is yelling in an attempt to defend her brother's honor, and the whole class seems about to blow. How much learning did we get accomplished today, boys and girls?

You know what would really be entertaining? To tell that little story over dinner with Pat Buchanon, Tom Tancredo, and most of my family members. Would be a laugh riot, let me tell you.

The overwhelming majority of teachers I know will teach and love most anyone you put before them in class. But if you took a private opinion poll on immigration matters, no matter their general political leanings, you would find a great majority lining up right of center. To paraphrase Irving Kristol, reality can be a hell of a mugger.

Big 'uns and Little 'uns

School systems, that is. It has always amazed me how my school system, a mere 50 miles from gigantic (relatively speaking) Wake County/Raleigh, is SO on the opposite end of the spectrum, in its problems and day-to-day issues, from the Wake County district. And yet, as in much of the country, both areas share this: constant anxiety and trauma revolving around school issues. Let's look at the last couple of weeks, starting with the Big Guys in Wake.

1. Yesterday a judge ruled that the Wake school board cannot make a year-round school schedule mandatory for thousands of students next year. The board has argued that this move was necessary to best accomodate a student population that, thanks to a constant uber-population boom in the county, continues to expand in huge numbers. The board is now meeting to determine how to proceed. One option that some of them swear is inevitable is to put some elementary kids on "shift schedules", whereby some would go to school from 7:00 to 1:30, and others from 2:00 to 8:00. Since I have no dog (well, actually no child) in this fight, it is easy for me to boldy predict that such schedules will never happen. Truthfully, I doubt they will (you want to talk about PISSING PEOPLE OFF!), but if I lived, or taught, in Wake County I would be darned nervous.

Soon we may have to add "schools" to the infamous list of taboo dinner-table topics previously restricted (in general) to "religion" and "politics".

2. And now for something completely different, let's check out things in Ruralville. You know, I wouldn't trade my Southern heritage with anyone's, but that doesn't mean the old "local yokels" way of doing things in small Southern communities can't be severely embarrassing. Before I give you a story excerpt, from which you can draw your own conclusions (and especially if you are a Southerner, I expect you will at least chuckle), let me just point out that my school is filthy. FILTHY! We have two janitors who are sweet but past their primes, and who manage to only empty the trash and do a quick sweep through our rooms each day. The sweeping does not include getting in corners, or under teachers' desks, so dust bunnies abound. We get one mop and wax over the summer, and no dusting. Teachers routinely clean their own rooms to make up the deficit (well, some teachers do - ahem). So, the principals of the county decided to push the issue with the superintendent, who in turn was asked by the school board to look into contracting out our janitorial services. Now, read with delight (slightly altered by moi):

It was a night filled with emotion, confusion, confrontation and, in the end, victory for the more than 40 _______ County Schools custodians, as the ________ County Board of Education voted to reject privatization of custodial services Monday night.

After it asked superintendent Dr. ________to provide a cost comparison a few months back, he recommended the board approve SCC Service Solutions Monday night because of the companies “willingness” to work with and employ all the current ________County custodial employees.

With a standing-room only crowd in the central office auditorium, over 30 custodians, their fate, they said, hanging in the balance, listened as the school board prepared to vote .

“This is not just saving money,” Superintendent ________ assured the audience. “Because if it were, we would contract the services out; this was about the principals and the board asking me to check into this, and that is what I did ... SCC Service Solutions offered the best product and offered all of our current employees jobs.”

Custodians began the meeting by delivering impassioned pleas to the board for their livelihood.

“I love my job here,” said custodian ______________. “We are the eyes and ears of the school system, and a lot of times we are first responders to your children’s needs.”

Custodian G____________ followed. “I don’t want to lose my job,” she told the board. “I don’t understand how going to privatization will change things for the better. I hope and pray that the board considers what you are doing very carefully and look at this a little deeper.”

Perhaps the most thought-provoking commentary came from custodian E______.

“There is more involved than just a decision,” he said. “There is so much at stake here tonight. The decision you will make will be a decision that will effect so many lives, so many homes ... What will we do? Privatization is not going to save _______ County anything. People that are not working will have to get aid and funding from the county; it just doesn’t make any sense whatsoever”

Although Superintendent ___________ explained that he was sympathetic to the custodians and their plight, he still had to present his findings to the board.

“A lot of the things that were said here tonight, I agree with,” he said. “But the fact is that our custodial staff is still severely undermanned. If someone is out, we cannot fill that position, and the work does not get done. You know, these are hard decisions to make, but they have to be made in the best interest of the school system. We have to look at this and keep moving forward. The principals were unanimous in their decision (for privatization), and the board asked me to look at it, so I did. Some bids were lower, but SCC Service Solutions offered the best for our current employees.”

With that said, he recommended the board approve the proposal from SCC Service Solutions for the 2007-08 school year.

Not one board member made the motion to accept.

“In light of what we have heard tonight, I think that we really need to sit down and take a closer look at what this will do to our workers — I want to make a motion that we table this issue until the next meeting,” board member T__________said.

The crowd erupted with “no’s.”

With no one seconding S_______’s motion, board member R________ unexpectedly asked that the board approve the recommendation, to a stunned audience. One custodian in the crowd cried, “No, No ... Oh no.”

As chairman N___________ asked for the motion to be seconded, board member D____ W_____ lashed out at the board.

“I would like to say, I think that we are being asked to take a philosophical position on this. In that sense, if we approve this, what would happen if you are gone next year and we have a new superintendent who decides to cancel the contract? We never know what is going to happen next — the cafeteria people are low paid too. We have got to understand the views and fears that our custodians face with this decision. How would we feel if it was done to us ... I was always taught from the Bible, do unto others as you would have done onto you — I just cannot support this.”

The crowd erupted in applause.

A visibly stunned superintendent quickly countered. “Ms. W_____, this is not about me. If the board doesn’t want to support this, that is fine. We need to take a look at what is best for our school system ...”

W_______ shot back. “Our seven board members are evaluated every four years by _________ County voters, no matter what. The custodians should each be evaluated too. If they are not doing their job, they need to be terminated.”

Again, W__________’s comments were greeted with rousing applause.

“Ms. W_______,” said the superintendent, “I am not saying that they are not doing a good job — it is not about that. It still doesn’t hide the fact that we are severely undermanned. If this board is willing to take local money, then we can do that too.”

W_____ shot back again at him. “Five thousand dollars in our budget for school equipment doesn’t pay for a lot of buffers,” she said sarcastically. “I look at it like my house — if I don’t have tools to work with, it won’t be clean. All I am saying is give them a chance to do a good job.”

The superintendent reiterated that it wasn’t about the performance of the current custodial staff, it was about getting more man hours to help the school look cleaner.

“I would like to say that this was never about the performance of the workers,” said board member M________. “There was a lot of miscommunication about that. The board was looking out for getting more man hours in the schools. We appreciate the hard work and the commitment that you have; you are doing a great job. It was about getting the help. We were concerned about you being overworked.”

At that point, W______ made a motion to have Hobb’s recommendation rejected, again to rousing applause.

Inexplicably, R______, who previously asked to have Hobb’s recommendation approved, seconded her motion.

It was unanimous.

After the decision, the custodians gathered outside to celebrate in prayer.

“Lord, thank you Jesus,” said longtime custodial employee A__________. “I just want to thank the board and Mrs. W________ for thinking about us, and thank the Lord for being with us tonight. From the beginning, we prayed on this. He has been with us all the way and He showed us tonight that our family will stay together.”

Custodian W_________. “This is truly a family,” she said. “We came together and got through it together. God led us.”

There you have it. Emotionalism? Check. Feckless board members swayed this way and that? Check. Dubious Bible-thumping from a politician? Check. Racial/virtue pandering from a board member famous for being foul-mouthed, rude, and ruthless? Check. Continuation of dirty schools? Check.

And don't think that the kids don't notice.

Quick Update

I was prepared to write a bitch-and-moaner about how completely overburdened I am (we all are) at school right now, but when I got home today I received a phone call from a VIP telling me, in essence, that once I file the correct paperwork I will be recommended for that little job thingy I've been MINORLY stressing about.

Nothing is official yet, and I don't want to bite the hand of the Big Guy who giveth by complaining about anything right now.

Got my drift?

I do have many interesting goings-on to relate, but not today. Stay tuned.

Because Life Is Worthwhile

That is the best answer I've ever come up with (shamelessly lifted from an essay by Roger Scruton)to the question, "Why are we even reading this crap anyway?", which is usually followed by "How is this going to help me in life? This won't help me get a job."

Sometimes I'm spared having to point out why we read and study literature. With my absolute WORST COLLECTION OF STUDENTS EVER!!! in second period today we finished Of Mice and Men. For once all the wiseacre and immature boys were quiet, and the couple of complainer girls were as well. They wanted me to read the last chapter to them, and of course it is quite a doozy. Without overdoing it, I tried to read Lenny and George "in character", though in the spirit of muted suspense with which the chapter is written. And in the middle of it, to my surprise, I almost got choked up right there in front of everyone - I had to strain to keep reading with composure, something that has maybe only happened to me once or twice before.

When we finished discussing the last lines of the book, we took a water/bathroom break. And afterwards, there in the hallway, lingered a group of my girls, actually talking - spontaneously! - about the book, and about how they were fighting back tears at the end of it. I could tell that they were excited about the book, and they didn't, just yet, want to leave the fictional world they had allowed themselves to enter. I said very little, because what, after all, could I possibly add to that?

Yeah, The Wai-yayyy-ting Is The Hardest Part.

Knicks and knacks from the past week:

1. Last Thursday was the most fun I've ever had at an interview of any kind. I spent over an hour speaking with a principal, an assistant principal, and two English teachers, and then almost another hour being taken on a school tour. I'm pretty convinced this would be a wonderful fit, and that they liked me a lot. But I've had that feeling before in life (girls, jobs, etc.), only to have hopes dashed. So, should I be excited? Should I be patient? Should I stop annoying my wife with incessant fretting over when, or if, the offer might come?

Uh, definite "no" on that last one.

2. During yearbook class on Friday, we discovered that a nice Mac computer mouse was missing. Upon searching, we discovered that it had been severed and then squirreled away behind a hard drive unit. I knew the probable candidate for this vandalism, and informed the principal. About thirty minutes later I was called to his office, where I saw Suspect #1, surrounded by two administrators and our school's sheriff's deputy. They asked me a simple question, and my answer apparently contradicted that of our little convict. As I left the office, and turned left down the hall, I heard a ruckus and looked behind me. The kid was rushing out of the school building, with Principal Goldberg in close pursuit. I heard him scream, "You better just leave me alone!" in an almost girly high-pitched voice, and then he apparently got in his car and just left. Gee, think he was guilty?

Incidentally, he is now suspended, and will be made to pay for the damages. But frankly, should I have to even see this kid the rest of the semester? It will be hard to stomach having him in my classroom anymore.

3. After school Friday, I sat patiently with the mother of the senior who was killed in the gunfire incident on Labor Day weekend. She was giving me cherished photos to scan and put on a dedication page in the yearbook. I can only report my admiration for her composure and dignity. Lord knows such an occasion had to hurt like hell, but she was so easy to deal with, and seemed serene, really. How many of us would fall off in the other direction?

4. Just a reminder that I really want the job at this other school, which is not only closer to home, BUT SEEMS LIKE SUCH A COOL PLACE. COOL, I SAY! COOOOOOL!

Not that I'm obsessing.

5. We are two games down in my son's first year of tee-ball, and in four at bats he has hit the ball fair, off the coach's pitch, all four times (after three unsuccessful swings the batting tee comes out). He also fielded a ground ball that came to him in left field and proceeded to run it all the way in to home plate just in time to tag out the base runner; their collision, while not violent, did knock the runner down.

O.k., in most levels of baseball, that is not the most efficient way to get an out. Fortunately, in tee-ball, it probably is. But as I was getting excited and trying to figure out if he would beat the runner home or not, I realized that he was chasing down the only girl on the field - a little girl that a couple of plays earlier was so excited to make contact with her bat she turned to her parents in gleeful surprise, rather than running to first base.

So there you have it - my son knocked down the girl and prevented her from doing the one thing all tee-ballers want to do the most: cross home plate. The little misogynist.

Awkward Moment #273

You may remember that a couple of weeks ago I attended my home county's job fair, and spoke at length with representatives from a couple of schools about openings. One of these representatives, an assistant principal, used to teach at my school and administrate in my school system. We talked about several common acquaintances we had - sort of like catching up on old times, except with a complete stranger.

Well, turns out I have an interview with said school on Thursday. Today at about 2:55, the former baseball coach/gym teacher/current driving instructor/local legend (and father of our current basketball coach/gym teacher), ambles into my room and, in the presence of two students (luckily the rest were out on yearbook errands!), the following proceeds:

"Hey there young fella!"

"Oh, hey Coach! How are you, sir?"
"Good. Good. So I hear you spoke to someone about a position at _____________ High School. Don't you live near there."

(I'm turning red and trying to figure out how to send these two students out of the room-but-dammit-it's-too-late-and-now-the-whole-world-might-find-out!)

"Uh... uh... yeah I sure do."

"You spoke with my cousin up there - she's an assistant principal."

"Oh... yeah. You must mean Mrs. ________. I knew she was from down here. So she's your cousin, huh? I do remember her asking if I knew you."

"Yep. She was asking me about you, and I put the good word in for you. That's a good high school - a big high school - but a good one. You'd like it."

"Well thanks Coach. I certainly appreciate that."

He left, and I returned to the awkward position of waiting for the bell to ring and pretending, while the students were still there, that the past two minutes never happened.

The world, it be small.

Life is a Beach

A couple of weeks ago, our health occupations teacher, a portly, somewhat gruff woman in her forties who is a registered nurse, plopped down in the teacher's lounge at lunch and declared her frustration with hearing her junior and senior girls talk about nothing but where they were staying with their boyfriends when they went to the beach over spring break, or how skimpy their bikinis were going to be, or how many times they needed to get to the tanning booth before then. "You know what I want to say to them?" she asked. "I want to say, 'I hope you screw so much that it tears your asses up! Then maybe you'll come to your senses!'"

Well. I can honestly say that livened up our lunch, but aside from that her point was noted as one of the main reasons why the time approaching spring break is such a difficult one to work in. You see, because our part of the state is only a couple of hours from the beach (at the most), it is easy for the kids to get down to the coast for part, or all of their break. What appalled me when I first started teaching, and still does, is that so many parents let their kids go down there without any supervision. Sometimes the kids stay for a few days, but some stay all week, and they borrow or rent out beach houses, apartments, or hotel rooms. I wasn't allowed to go on an out-of-town trip with friends anywhere until I graduated. But not only do many seniors from my school go, many juniors, sophomores, and freshmen- for God's sake -are right with them.

Just listen in on a conversation or two in the weeks leading to break, and you will hear kids speaking of who they will procure alcohol from, which girls (if boys are talking) they will try to "get with", or where their set-up will be in relation to their friends'.

Where do they get the money for these bacchanal's? What the hell are their parents doing? Why the hell do those in authority at these beach communities allow this to happen (guess I know the answer to that: cha-ching!)

Three years ago, the talk of the school after break was over was the homemade porn one of the senior girls and junior boys made together. I'm not sure she knew a camera was rolling, but lots of kids saw it, and from what I gathered she wore her notoriety as a badge of honor the rest of the semester. Nice, huh?

What I really love is when, periodically, a kid will ask me, "Hey Mr. P? Do you want to go down to the beach with us?"

You know kid, if it were legal for me to force your parents, perhaps at gunpoint, to follow me down there, I might take you up on it.

Food for Thought

I would just like to point out that there are only five - count 'em, five! - more days until the first annual Food Network Awards show airs. Alas, it has already been filmed, so my idea of taking a road trip to Miami to crash the party (a proposal that landed D.O.A. on the wyfe's ears, btw) won't work this year. But a guy can dream.

And yes, I refuse to hand over my mantle of manliness just because the Food Network has become my "go to channel" when an important football/basketball/baseball game isn't on. This is a recent discovery, brought on by the evolution of our household responsibilities list that has led to my doing about 90% of the evening cooking. For about five months now, I've been taking my cue from the likes of Emeril, Paula Dean, and that freaky spaz Tyler Florence. Of course, my wyfe chalks up the change in viewing habits to the fact that the network features a few babe chefs - particularly a certain chef of Italian heritage. I resent that accusation, of course.

One show I will draw the line at is Iron Chef America, which is way over the top. But it is still better than anything dear wyfe likes to watch on her new preferred channel, the Chiller Network.

Sad Day

This wasn't the way I wanted to begin my week of blogging, but I have to report the sad news that we put our dog to sleep this afternoon. If you have been following my wife's blog for the last couple of weeks, you are aware that the dog has been doing poorly. Over the last week she just simply wouldn't eat, and unfortunately she never got the chance to return home after going to the vet's hospital last Tuesday. This morning she had a bad seizure and spit up blood, and so we knew this had to be it.

The experience was difficult, as anyone knows who has had to do the same. There are conflicting emotions, and the irrepressible thought that our lives will now be easier in many ways. Gertie was not an easy pet to deal with, or have patience with, but after seeing her for the last time today and saying goodbye, it strikes me how all the things that were so irritating about her were really just trifles - at least compared to the simple, humbling fact that she shared 13 1/2 years of our lives with us. (Ever thought about what a miracle it is that certain animals can live with you, in your house? Or how odd that is?)

My wife is much more qualified to write a post adequately paying tribute to Gertie, taking into account the dog's virtues and foibles. I'm sure she will write such a post in the next day or two. In the meantime, I will only offer up thanks to God for Gertie's life. Rest in peace, little dog.

Happy Easter!

In terms of day-to-day operations, my Easter hain't been so hot. It appears that I lost my cell phone somewhere in Winston-Salem over the weekend, and a little while ago I had one of those conversations with my parents that was destined from the start to hit guilt buttons and piss me off. Nice.

Now I find myself pissed that on the most important day of my religion's calendar, a day intended for the highest level of celebration, I've let myself get down in the dumps over such petty matters. But perhaps, in a metaphysically twisted way, this is most appropriate for Easter Day.

I am also, thank God, on spring break, and hopefully my blogging mojo will return this coming week as a result. I've been tired, I've been unmotivated, I've been busy. But this week, dear reader, I intend to bring something to the table daily, whether it be well-executed or not. Please do tune in.

Are The Times A-Changin'?

Saturday was an absolute whirlwind of activity, which wasn't exactly as it was planned. But oh well. We had a veterinian visit, grocery shopping, the elementary school's Spring Carnival, yard work, some moral support to provide for a friend, cooking, cleaning, and of course, the Final Four to watch. On top of this, I ended up making a late decision to attend the school system job fair in my home county, and spent an hour talking to representatives from three high schools.

Over the last five years, I've done this a couple of times, and I've also resisted doing it a couple of times. As previously noted, I am one of those guys who likes to stay put when I get comfortable, and (partially due to this, I'm sure) also a person who remains loyal beyond what many people would consider their obligations. But, these bigger schools didn't take a chance on me when I was coming in through the alternate licensure route, while my current school did. And, things have worked out very well, for the most part. The last time I attended the local job fair I can truly say my heart was not in it, and this probably showed. No one even called for a follow-up interview.

But Saturday felt different. I have five years of experience in the bag, and I think my interviewers took notice of this, and seemed much more interested in me. Plus, they all knew people that I know in my current school community, so there was the advantage 0f name-dropping without intentionally meaning to. Who knows what will happen, but I felt positive about the whole experience, and...

I didn't feel guilty about it, like I did a couple of years ago. This, in spite of the fact that if were to be offered a better position, and I left my school now, I would be piling on to the giant load of crap that my bosses already have to deal with this spring and summer: we have five teachers retiring, they want to hire an additional English teacher, and I'm convinced Principal Goldberg will fire another one if at all possible (and if he is willing to take a little heat). My leaving would only add to his woes, and I would hate that because I really like him, and like working for him.

Ultimately, though, working closer to home at a better school with better-achieving students (and with a little salary upgrade) would be too much to turn down - unless they tried to make being a coach part of the deal. In any case, I can be happy where I am, so I'm trying to stay as level-headed about all of this as possible. But I'm a little excited about the possibilities between now and next fall.