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.