Last night, my high school held its graduation ceremony. As a teacher, I've always considered graduation the best night of the whole year, that one night when hundreds of people in a community come together to celebrate its young people-- a group that, let's face it, doesn't often get celebrated.
With that in mind, I thought I'd reprint an article that I wrote-- whoa!-- two years ago. The specific students mentioned herein have now finished their sophomore years of college (man, who feels ancient now?), but I still feel the sentiments in this piece remain timeless. The article originally appeared in the Hartford Courant's Northeast Magazine, on June 18, 2006, under the headline, "Adolescent Defiance... of Stereotypes". Here it is...
"What is happening to our young people? They disrespect their elders, they disobey their parents. They ignore the law. They riot in the streets inflamed with wild notions. Their morals are decaying. What is to become of them?"—commonly attributed to Plato (427-347 B.C.)
Glastonbury High School senior Nancy Tong had a problem: “How,” she asked herself, “could I make a person into a chair?”
But, as the Costume Designer for Glastonbury High’s “Beauty and the Beast,” that was her charge: to transform ordinary high schoolers into not only chairs but anthropomorphized napkins and plates and clocks and candles. When she agreed to be the show’s Costume Designer (a job that usually went to an adult), Nancy knew it would be a lot of work—but she couldn’t have anticipated just how much work. This particular production boasted a cast of eighty-six people, all of whom needed at least two costumes (some even had three).
Such a massive undertaking meant spending countless hours online researching 18th century attire. It meant driving around to different rental places in search of Gaston and Cogsworth costumes; when she couldn’t find them anywhere else, it meant making them herself. It meant devoting six to seven hours every day (more on the weekends) to measuring and snipping and sewing and adhering. And just how much of a toll did this take on her? “Sometimes,” Nancy admits, “I looked forward to doing homework.”
Nancy didn’t get paid for her troubles. She didn’t get college credit. And as someone who toiled behind the scenes, she didn’t even get a curtain call. But she did get something: “The first dress rehearsal, I remember standing in front of the whole cast after their vocal warm-up, and when I began to talk to them, I started crying,” she remembers. “It was an uncontrolled kind of happiness and I don’t think I’ll ever forget that moment.”
“I see no hope for the future of our people if they are dependent on the frivolous youth of today, for certainly all youth are reckless beyond words. When I was a boy, we were taught to be discrete and respectful of elders, but the present youth are exceedingly wise and impatient of restraint.”-- Hesiod, 8th Century B.C.
“I often ask groups of adults or students what inherent traits or characteristics the expression ("boys will be boys") implies. The answers typically are astonishingly negative: Boys are messy, immature and selfish; hormone-driven and insensitive; irresponsible and trouble-making; rebellious, rude, aggressive and disrespectful - - even violent, predatory and animal-like.”-- Deborah Roffman, “What Does 'Boys Will Be Boys' Really Mean?,” Washington Post (February 5, 2006)
“I like helping in the community,” says Greg Fisher, a member of the South Windsor High School Class of 2006. And as the Bobcats’ goalkeeper, he also enjoys soccer. So it made sense that he decided to combine these two interests by creating Preschool Soccer Fun, a month-long instructional program for three- and four-year-olds.
Since 2003, Greg and his teammates have been teaching children fundamentals of the game—all for the low, low price of a can of corn or a bar of soap. Instead of money, Greg only asks parents for donations to the South Windsor Food Bank.
The first year, when he was only a sophomore, Greg threw himself into setting up the program—everything from researching age-appropriate activities to handing out flyers at the town pool fell on his shoulders. His hard work paid off, with fifty preschoolers signing up in 2003, and it continues to pay off: seventy-five players registered in 2005. (Greg even needed to put some kids on a waiting list.) Of course, he couldn’t coach so many kids on his own; he needed help—and he got it. Last fall, about twenty to twenty-five South Windsor students agreed to assist with the Preschool Soccer Fun program. “I was overwhelmed with the response,” Greg says of his classmates. “All the high school players I asked enthusiastically agreed to help.”
"A generation, numbering in the millions, has gone so far in decay that it acts without thought of social responsibility... The Lost Generation is even now rotting before our eyes." – a 1936 Harper’s Monthly article by George Leighton and Richard Hellman (as quoted by Mike Males in “Generation Gap: For Adults, ‘Today’s Youth’ Is Always the Worst,” Los Angeles Times, November 21, 1999)
As a member of the Connecticut Youth Forum and the Family, Career, and Community Leaders of America, Bulkeley High's Jasmine Levy knows the importance of keeping busy—and she wants to pass on that lesson to her peers. Since 2004, Jasmine and about forty other Greater Hartford teens have been working with Hartford's Institute for Community Research (ICR) to stamp out "teen hustling" in the city. The project has been completely student-initiated and student-led: the teens themselves identified the problem of "hustling" (which they define as the illegal selling of anything, from bootleg CDs to drugs) and then researched ways to combat it.
Over the past two years, the ICR youth researchers have conducted workshops for elementary and middle schools students on the dangers of hustling, and in 2005, they organized a youth rally on the topic at the State Capitol. Most recently, in March 2006, they unveiled their most ambitious endeavor yet: a pilot youth employment center, located at Weaver High School, called Project OBJECT (Our Business is Jobs Employing Connecticut Teens). Proceeding from the idea that students who have jobs won’t need to hustle to make money, the ICR teens have equipped the Weaver center with an employee database and a website listing job openings (www.freewebs.com/projectobject), to help students find employment opportunities in their communities.
And yet, this service hopes to do more than give a few kids some short-term bucks: as Jasmine Levy puts it, “people who work when they’re younger are more likely to have jobs when they’re older.” With that idea in mind, Jasmine, who will go to the University of Hartford in the fall on a full scholarship, has taken the initiative to bring Project OBJECT to Bulkeley; her coworkers also hope to start a job service at Hartford High.
“Teenage rebellion is nothing new… But it is the degree of their outspokenness, their refusal to play by the rules, their utter disrespect for authority that prompts you to shake your head and think, ‘I could never have gotten away with that when I was their age’… Sadly, the virtues of courtesy, tact, and diplomacy are on the endangered species list.” – Eric Chester, author of Getting Them to Give a Damn: Getting Your Front Line to Care about Your Bottom Line (2005)
Every generation believes the next one will hasten in Armageddon. Generation Y, Generation Me, Generation Whatever, the Entitlement Generation—no mater how you label the current crop of teenagers, the descriptors remain constant: lazy, disrespectful, uninspired, lacking direction and motivation. (And don’t forget the piercings. Oh, the piercings!)
This graduation season, as you enjoy your finger rolls and melon cubes, remember kids like Nancy, Greg, Jasmine, and all of the IRC’s youth researchers . And then consider another quotation, this one from The Who, a group of blokes who liked to talk about their generation: “The kids,” they famously said, “they’re alright. The kids are alright.”
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Fantabulous Fathers
I would “do” baths.
When my twin boys were infants, baths were my thing. Sure, Mommy dressed, fed, entertained, educated, enlightened, distracted, protected, and potty-trained, but when it came to shampoo—Daddy was all over that.
Unfortunately, the boys didn’t seem to get this. More often than not, after the bathing process, my attempts to towel them off were met with “I want Mommy to do it!” I just couldn’t close the deal.
Still feeling a lingering tinge of “unsung hero” after experiences like that, I thought I’d use this space to commemorate great dads from television, movies, music, and literature:
*The Dad in Dan Fogelberg’s “Leader of the Band”: As my wife says, “That guy is the antithesis of the father in (Harry Chapin’s) ‘Cats in the Cradle.’”
*Tom Bradford (Eight is Enough): I can actually picture the script: Tom sits in den, reading newspaper. Child comes to door: “Hey, dad. Got a minute?” Tom, putting down paper: “Sure, (child’s name). Have a seat.” How many times per episode do you think an exchange like that happened? Ten, twenty times? Writing for that show must have been the easiest gig in town.
* Ned Flanders (The Simpsons): Sure, he’s played for an chump, and the show satirizes his uber-Christian values, but honestly, is there a better dad in Springfield than Ned Flanders? No wonder Bart chose Flanders in The Simpsons Movie. Howdy-diddily-doo, neighbor!
*Mr. Drummond (Diff’rent Strokes): Obviously, he was a nice guy: a “man of means,” he adopted two boyz from the ‘hood who had “nothing but the jeans.” But any dad who didn’t spank Arnold, even after the 8,000th time he used that annoying “Whachoo talkin’ ‘bout?” line, must be a bona fide saint.
* Odysseus (The Odyssey): Try, for a moment, to overlook the fact that Odysseus was away on business a lot (i.e. for nineteen years) and that he shacked up with different ladies during his absence, while his wife Penelope dutifully and steadfastly spurned the advances of the suitors. Forget that for a moment, and focus on how, at the end of the epic, Odysseus and his son Telemachus not only team up to slaughter all the suitors but also force the girlfriends of the suitors to clean all the blood and guts off the furniture, before they execute them too. That’s some nice father-son bonding right there.
*Jor-El (from Superman): He put his son in a spaceship and sent him to Earth, where he had powers he never could have had on his own home planet. Really, at its core, Jor-El’s story is a metaphor for all parents who want to see their kids have a better life than they had. Of course, Jor-El’s planet of Krypton eventually exploded. That’s where the metaphor breaks down a little.
*George Jetson (The Jetsons): Jane swiped his wallet, Rosie the robot-maid gave him sass, and Astro the dog entangled him on that weird treadmill-thing—and he still got up everyday to sell Spacely Sprockets!
* Edward Bloom (Big Fish): I almost didn’t want to include this example, because Ed and his son Will had a strained relationship throughout most of the movie. But by the end, Will realizes what a great man his father is and passes on his father’s stories to his own son. The movie truly celebrates fathers and sons—and the late Matthew McGrory (the big giant guy). Matt, we hardly knew ya!
*Atticus Finch (To Kill a Mockingbird): There are good fathers. There are great fathers. Then there’s Atticus Finch. Yeah, he lets his kids call him by his first name, which is kinda weird. And yeah, he gets his son a bee-bee gun. But he teaches his kids such important life lessons about equality and courage and humility. A few years ago, the American Film Institute named Atticus Finch the Number One Movie Hero of all time. To me, his heroics as a lawyer are secondary to his heroics as a father.
Happy Father’s Day, everyone. And to all the dads out there, take heart: I bet even Superman’s dad had trouble with baths some days.
When my twin boys were infants, baths were my thing. Sure, Mommy dressed, fed, entertained, educated, enlightened, distracted, protected, and potty-trained, but when it came to shampoo—Daddy was all over that.
Unfortunately, the boys didn’t seem to get this. More often than not, after the bathing process, my attempts to towel them off were met with “I want Mommy to do it!” I just couldn’t close the deal.
Still feeling a lingering tinge of “unsung hero” after experiences like that, I thought I’d use this space to commemorate great dads from television, movies, music, and literature:
*The Dad in Dan Fogelberg’s “Leader of the Band”: As my wife says, “That guy is the antithesis of the father in (Harry Chapin’s) ‘Cats in the Cradle.’”
*Tom Bradford (Eight is Enough): I can actually picture the script: Tom sits in den, reading newspaper. Child comes to door: “Hey, dad. Got a minute?” Tom, putting down paper: “Sure, (child’s name). Have a seat.” How many times per episode do you think an exchange like that happened? Ten, twenty times? Writing for that show must have been the easiest gig in town.
* Ned Flanders (The Simpsons): Sure, he’s played for an chump, and the show satirizes his uber-Christian values, but honestly, is there a better dad in Springfield than Ned Flanders? No wonder Bart chose Flanders in The Simpsons Movie. Howdy-diddily-doo, neighbor!
*Mr. Drummond (Diff’rent Strokes): Obviously, he was a nice guy: a “man of means,” he adopted two boyz from the ‘hood who had “nothing but the jeans.” But any dad who didn’t spank Arnold, even after the 8,000th time he used that annoying “Whachoo talkin’ ‘bout?” line, must be a bona fide saint.
* Odysseus (The Odyssey): Try, for a moment, to overlook the fact that Odysseus was away on business a lot (i.e. for nineteen years) and that he shacked up with different ladies during his absence, while his wife Penelope dutifully and steadfastly spurned the advances of the suitors. Forget that for a moment, and focus on how, at the end of the epic, Odysseus and his son Telemachus not only team up to slaughter all the suitors but also force the girlfriends of the suitors to clean all the blood and guts off the furniture, before they execute them too. That’s some nice father-son bonding right there.
*Jor-El (from Superman): He put his son in a spaceship and sent him to Earth, where he had powers he never could have had on his own home planet. Really, at its core, Jor-El’s story is a metaphor for all parents who want to see their kids have a better life than they had. Of course, Jor-El’s planet of Krypton eventually exploded. That’s where the metaphor breaks down a little.
*George Jetson (The Jetsons): Jane swiped his wallet, Rosie the robot-maid gave him sass, and Astro the dog entangled him on that weird treadmill-thing—and he still got up everyday to sell Spacely Sprockets!
* Edward Bloom (Big Fish): I almost didn’t want to include this example, because Ed and his son Will had a strained relationship throughout most of the movie. But by the end, Will realizes what a great man his father is and passes on his father’s stories to his own son. The movie truly celebrates fathers and sons—and the late Matthew McGrory (the big giant guy). Matt, we hardly knew ya!
*Atticus Finch (To Kill a Mockingbird): There are good fathers. There are great fathers. Then there’s Atticus Finch. Yeah, he lets his kids call him by his first name, which is kinda weird. And yeah, he gets his son a bee-bee gun. But he teaches his kids such important life lessons about equality and courage and humility. A few years ago, the American Film Institute named Atticus Finch the Number One Movie Hero of all time. To me, his heroics as a lawyer are secondary to his heroics as a father.
Happy Father’s Day, everyone. And to all the dads out there, take heart: I bet even Superman’s dad had trouble with baths some days.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Thorny Rhymes
They're called slant rhymes, or half rhymes, or near rhymes, or maybe even just crappy rhymes. Whatever you call them, they're rhymes that are almost there, but not quite. Or, to put it in verse: "a slant rhyme is one that you just about had,/ but when you threw the ball to home, you somehow missed the tag." (See, ""had" and "tag" don't quite rhyme. Get it?)
Many great poets have employed the slant rhyme technique, from William Butler Yeats to Emily Dickinson to the inimitable Bret Michaels of the 80s hair-band Poison-- whose ballad "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" has one of the most egregious... er, notable examples:
Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song
Every rose has its thorn
Those madcap creative geniuses behind Poison might be able to dupe the casual listener into believing that the words "thorn," "dawn," and "song" rhyme, but we know better. In fact, none of them rhyme. As in not a one.
(Note: Earlier in the 80s, The Thompson Twins tried to pull a similar sleight of hand in their song "Hold Me Now," which contains these lyrics: "Look at our life now, we're tattered and torn/ We fuss and we'll fight and delight in the tears that we cry until dawn." No, "torn" and "dawn" don't rhyme, but as my wife said, "They're British, so they can get away with it." Ah, those wacky Brits.)
The following are other pop-culture examples of what I'm christening "thorny rhymes" (after our sponsors at Poison):
(1) Semisonic, "Closing Time":
Gather all your jackets
Move it to the exits
Great tune, and a valiant attempt at rhyming, but only a guy closing out a bar and slurring his words could make "jackets" and "exits" rhyme. (Maybe that's what they were going for?)
(2) Men at Work, "Down Under"
I met a strange lady, she made me nervous
She took me in and gave me breakfast
AND
I said, "Do you speak my language?"
She just smiled and gave me a Vegemite sandwich.
Sorry, mates, but "nervous" and "breakfast" don't rhyme, nor do "language" and "sandwich." But I'll forgive them because (1) they're Australian, which makes them even cooler than the British; (2) their album Business as Usual was the first record I ever bought; and (3) they introduced "Vegemite" into the pop-culture lexicon.
(3) Bon Jovi, "Wanted Dead or Alive"
Hey, I love JBJ, and this is arguably their best tune, but in this case, I think the Cowboys from New Jersey were on the run from the Rhyming Posse. First, consider the anthemic, but nonetheless unrhyming, chorus:
I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride
I'm wanted dead or alive
And let's not overlook the first verse, which also gives rhyming a bad name:
It's all the same, only the names have changed
Every day, it seems we're wasting away
A lonely place, where the faces are so cold
You drive all night just to get back home
Obviously, "cold" and "home" aren't even in the same arena. But what about "changed"? Is it supposed to rhyme with "same" or with "away"?
While we're on the subject, here's another Bon Jovi mis-rhyme that is actually quite clever, from the song "Always":
I'll be there till the stars don't shine,
Till the heavens burst, and the words don't rhyme
See, in this case, the words don't rhyme... and, as he promised, he's still with the girl! A brilliant marriage of form and content! Jovi rules!!
(4) INXS, "Devil Inside"
I can't even give sample lyrics, because that would mean quoting the whole song. Honestly, except for "bells" and "hell," there's not one actual rhyme in the whole tune. Part of me even wonders if the lyrics are supposed to rhyme. And yet, they're so close ("Here come the man, look in his eye/ Fed on nothing, but full of pride/ Look at them go, look at them kick,/ Makes you wonder how the other half lives") that I think they were legitimately trying to rhyme, but it didn't quite pan out for them.
Possibly, they were suffering from rhyme fatigue after writing the song "Mediate." (Remember that one? Every word in the song ends with the "ate" sound? "Hallucinate, desegregate, mediate, alleviate, try not to hate"...)
(5) Steve Miller Band, "Take the Money and Run"
Billy Mack is a detective down in Texas
You know he knows just exactly what the facts is
He ain't gonna let those two escape justice
He makes his livin' off other people's taxes
This stretch might even be better than "Every Rose has Its Thorn," because the rhymes here are so absurdly beyond slanted: "Texas," "justice," and "taxes"? And while you could that "facts is" does rhyme with "taxes," it's grammatically incorrect: in the context of the sentence, shouldn't it be "facts are"?
Personally, I think Stevie knows the rhymes are ridiculous and that he's wink-winking his way through the lyrics. After all, he's a joker, a smoker, a midnight-toker.
And there you have it: an initial smattering of thorny rhymes. If you have any additional examples, please let me know.
Many great poets have employed the slant rhyme technique, from William Butler Yeats to Emily Dickinson to the inimitable Bret Michaels of the 80s hair-band Poison-- whose ballad "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" has one of the most egregious... er, notable examples:
Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song
Every rose has its thorn
Those madcap creative geniuses behind Poison might be able to dupe the casual listener into believing that the words "thorn," "dawn," and "song" rhyme, but we know better. In fact, none of them rhyme. As in not a one.
(Note: Earlier in the 80s, The Thompson Twins tried to pull a similar sleight of hand in their song "Hold Me Now," which contains these lyrics: "Look at our life now, we're tattered and torn/ We fuss and we'll fight and delight in the tears that we cry until dawn." No, "torn" and "dawn" don't rhyme, but as my wife said, "They're British, so they can get away with it." Ah, those wacky Brits.)
The following are other pop-culture examples of what I'm christening "thorny rhymes" (after our sponsors at Poison):
(1) Semisonic, "Closing Time":
Gather all your jackets
Move it to the exits
Great tune, and a valiant attempt at rhyming, but only a guy closing out a bar and slurring his words could make "jackets" and "exits" rhyme. (Maybe that's what they were going for?)
(2) Men at Work, "Down Under"
I met a strange lady, she made me nervous
She took me in and gave me breakfast
AND
I said, "Do you speak my language?"
She just smiled and gave me a Vegemite sandwich.
Sorry, mates, but "nervous" and "breakfast" don't rhyme, nor do "language" and "sandwich." But I'll forgive them because (1) they're Australian, which makes them even cooler than the British; (2) their album Business as Usual was the first record I ever bought; and (3) they introduced "Vegemite" into the pop-culture lexicon.
(3) Bon Jovi, "Wanted Dead or Alive"
Hey, I love JBJ, and this is arguably their best tune, but in this case, I think the Cowboys from New Jersey were on the run from the Rhyming Posse. First, consider the anthemic, but nonetheless unrhyming, chorus:
I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride
I'm wanted dead or alive
And let's not overlook the first verse, which also gives rhyming a bad name:
It's all the same, only the names have changed
Every day, it seems we're wasting away
A lonely place, where the faces are so cold
You drive all night just to get back home
Obviously, "cold" and "home" aren't even in the same arena. But what about "changed"? Is it supposed to rhyme with "same" or with "away"?
While we're on the subject, here's another Bon Jovi mis-rhyme that is actually quite clever, from the song "Always":
I'll be there till the stars don't shine,
Till the heavens burst, and the words don't rhyme
See, in this case, the words don't rhyme... and, as he promised, he's still with the girl! A brilliant marriage of form and content! Jovi rules!!
(4) INXS, "Devil Inside"
I can't even give sample lyrics, because that would mean quoting the whole song. Honestly, except for "bells" and "hell," there's not one actual rhyme in the whole tune. Part of me even wonders if the lyrics are supposed to rhyme. And yet, they're so close ("Here come the man, look in his eye/ Fed on nothing, but full of pride/ Look at them go, look at them kick,/ Makes you wonder how the other half lives") that I think they were legitimately trying to rhyme, but it didn't quite pan out for them.
Possibly, they were suffering from rhyme fatigue after writing the song "Mediate." (Remember that one? Every word in the song ends with the "ate" sound? "Hallucinate, desegregate, mediate, alleviate, try not to hate"...)
(5) Steve Miller Band, "Take the Money and Run"
Billy Mack is a detective down in Texas
You know he knows just exactly what the facts is
He ain't gonna let those two escape justice
He makes his livin' off other people's taxes
This stretch might even be better than "Every Rose has Its Thorn," because the rhymes here are so absurdly beyond slanted: "Texas," "justice," and "taxes"? And while you could that "facts is" does rhyme with "taxes," it's grammatically incorrect: in the context of the sentence, shouldn't it be "facts are"?
Personally, I think Stevie knows the rhymes are ridiculous and that he's wink-winking his way through the lyrics. After all, he's a joker, a smoker, a midnight-toker.
And there you have it: an initial smattering of thorny rhymes. If you have any additional examples, please let me know.
Friday, June 6, 2008
The Social Life of a Teacher
For teachers, summer promises many things: beach and bocce and barbecues and just plain barbs-- cracks, that is, from people who complain about how "easy" teachers have it.
Yes, summer vacation is a nice perk, but take it from me: we earn it. We absolutely do. Especially the younger teachers, who can't enjoy a normal social life for ten months out of the year.
Don't think so? Well, consider Exhibit A.
The following are a series of telephone conversations between two men in their early twenties: Jenkins, who is a first-year teacher, and his friend, who has a normal job. Watch as the friend gets more and more exasperated with Jenkins’ increasing lameness.
Monday Night
Friend: “Hey, a bunch of us are going to Harry’s Place tonight, watch some of the game. You in?"
Jenkins: “Oh, sounds great, but I can’t. I’m beat..”
Friend (good-naturedly): “Are you kidding me? You’ll sleep when you’re dead. Come on out, just for an hour or two. There’s this girl from my office I want you to meet.”
Jenkins: “It’s tempting… but really, I got so much to do. The quarter’s almost over, and I still got these essays I have to correct and get back to juniors, because I want to give them an opportunity to re-write them.”
Friend: “OK, man. Maybe some other time? All right, talk to you later.”
Tuesday Night
Friend: “Catch up on your beauty sleep last night? Good, because tonight I got something right up your alley. There’s this great 80s cover band that’s playing downtown tonight— everything from Big Country to Kajagoogoo to Men Without Hats. They start at 10:00. What do you say?”
Jenkins: “10:00? Are you kidding me? There’s no way. You know how early I get up in the morning?”
Friend: “Hey, you think I don’t work? I have to get up early too, you know.”
Jenkins: “I get up at about 5:30 to get to school at 7:10.”
Friend (after a long pause): “Yeah, you’re right. That’s freakin’ early, dude.”
Wednesday Night
Friend: “I’m going to tell you what’s going to happen tonight, and you will say, ‘That sounds great,’ or else the friendship is over. Got it?”
Jenkins (unenthused): “Got it…”
Friend: “A bunch of us are going out to Stoney O’s in an hour to shoot some stick. You are going to join us. You will have a good time. You will rejoin the human race. And tomorrow morning, you will call in sick.”
Jenkins: “Call in sick? Do you have any idea how much work is involved in that?”
Friend: “What’s the big deal? You get up, you call in sick… that’s all you have to do.”
Jenkins: “No, that’s all you have to do. With Mr. Jenkins, it’s a little different. See, Mr. Jenkins can’t just be sick; he has to prepare to be sick. He has to write up lesson plans for the sub, which probably takes about an hour. And the whole time he’s doing it, he’s realizing that it’s probably easier just to drag his sorry butt into school.”
Friend: “Fine, so come out tonight, and drag yourself into school tomorrow!”
Jenkins: “You don’t get it: I can’t go out tonight. I have all these papers I need to—”
Friend: “Papers! I’m sick of papers! You know what? I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but the truth is, we’re not going to play pool tonight. We’re having an intervention for you, because you’re, like, addicted to work.”
Jenkins: “Look, I’d love to go out, but I have to get these essays back to them by Friday, so they can re-write them over the weekend, so I’ll be able to re-read them again on Monday, before the grades are due on Tuesday.”
Friend: “Just listen to yourself for a minute. You don’t ‘have’ to get them back. They don’t ‘have’ to re-write them. You’re heaping all this work on yourself.”
Jenkins (realizing his friend has a good point): “Look, what do you want me to do?”
Friend: “What do I want you to do? Two words: teach gym.”
Thursday Night
Friend: “Hey, I created a little dialogue. Want to hear it.”
Jenkins: “Sure.”
Friend: “So, it’s a conversation between Faithful Sidekick and someone called Shell.”
Jenkins: “Shell?”
Friend: “Yeah, as in Shell-of-His-Former-Self. So Faithful Sidekick says, ‘Hey, man. You want to go out tonight. We haven’t seen you in a bit.’ And Shell, naturally, says, ‘Boy-oh-boy, that sounds swell, but you know I need to finish reading Romeo and Juliet tonight because I want to give them a quiz on it tomorrow. And it’s really important that we finish the play tomorrow, so I can squeeze in a test on Monday, before the grades close on Tuesday. Of course, I can’t give them tomorrow’s quiz without handing back the quiz we took last Friday, so that means I have to correct last week’s quiz before I create this week’s quiz. And this is on top of all the other essays I have to correct for the fifth time, because, after all, I have to let the kids walk all over me, even at the expense of my personal health and social life.’ (pause) How’d I do?”
Jenkins: “Well, it’s Macbeth, not Romeo and Juliet… but other than that…”
(Friend hangs up without saying goodbye.)
Friday Night
Jenkins: “All right, I am ready!”
Friend: “You’re ready, huh?”
Jenkins: “Oh, I’m ready, Freddy! I admit, when I got home, I was dead tired, but I realized I can’t let this job take over my life. So I took a power nap. And now I am refreshed and ready and willing to rock this town, baby!”
Friend: “Uh, yeah… I don’t know what to say, man… I’m actually kind of beat myself…I’m thinking about staying in tonight-- you know, chill”
Jenkins: “You’re… beat? On a Friday night?”
Friend: “Hey, I went out every night this week. I need to crash.”
Jenkins: “Well, what about everyone else? What about Joey? Dave? Wheels? How about Eddie?”
Friend: “Well, let’s see… Joey is going out tonight with the girl I wanted to set you up with on Monday. Dave's going away for the weekend. Wheels is working at the restaurant tonight. And Eddie? Dude, Eddie went away to law school, like, four months ago!”
Jenkins: “He did? Man, I really have been out of the loop…”
Friend: “Sorry, buddy, but I’m going to take a raincheck tonight. Maybe tomorrow?”
Jenkins: “Oh, yeah, sure. Talk to you tomorrow…”
(Jenkins hangs up the phone and looks around his empty apartment. Next to him on the couch is his unzipped, overflowing book bag; he can see the Macbeth quizzes sticking out, beckoning him. He resists. It’s Friday night; he can’t correct quizzes on a Friday night. He just can’t.
Jenkins picks up the phone again… but who is there to call? He glances once more at the book bag. Angry at first the world and then himself, Jenkins yanks the quizzes out of the bag. He picks up a pen and takes the first paper off the pile. Slowly, dejectedly, he starts reading.)
The End
Yes, summer vacation is a nice perk, but take it from me: we earn it. We absolutely do. Especially the younger teachers, who can't enjoy a normal social life for ten months out of the year.
Don't think so? Well, consider Exhibit A.
The following are a series of telephone conversations between two men in their early twenties: Jenkins, who is a first-year teacher, and his friend, who has a normal job. Watch as the friend gets more and more exasperated with Jenkins’ increasing lameness.
Monday Night
Friend: “Hey, a bunch of us are going to Harry’s Place tonight, watch some of the game. You in?"
Jenkins: “Oh, sounds great, but I can’t. I’m beat..”
Friend (good-naturedly): “Are you kidding me? You’ll sleep when you’re dead. Come on out, just for an hour or two. There’s this girl from my office I want you to meet.”
Jenkins: “It’s tempting… but really, I got so much to do. The quarter’s almost over, and I still got these essays I have to correct and get back to juniors, because I want to give them an opportunity to re-write them.”
Friend: “OK, man. Maybe some other time? All right, talk to you later.”
Tuesday Night
Friend: “Catch up on your beauty sleep last night? Good, because tonight I got something right up your alley. There’s this great 80s cover band that’s playing downtown tonight— everything from Big Country to Kajagoogoo to Men Without Hats. They start at 10:00. What do you say?”
Jenkins: “10:00? Are you kidding me? There’s no way. You know how early I get up in the morning?”
Friend: “Hey, you think I don’t work? I have to get up early too, you know.”
Jenkins: “I get up at about 5:30 to get to school at 7:10.”
Friend (after a long pause): “Yeah, you’re right. That’s freakin’ early, dude.”
Wednesday Night
Friend: “I’m going to tell you what’s going to happen tonight, and you will say, ‘That sounds great,’ or else the friendship is over. Got it?”
Jenkins (unenthused): “Got it…”
Friend: “A bunch of us are going out to Stoney O’s in an hour to shoot some stick. You are going to join us. You will have a good time. You will rejoin the human race. And tomorrow morning, you will call in sick.”
Jenkins: “Call in sick? Do you have any idea how much work is involved in that?”
Friend: “What’s the big deal? You get up, you call in sick… that’s all you have to do.”
Jenkins: “No, that’s all you have to do. With Mr. Jenkins, it’s a little different. See, Mr. Jenkins can’t just be sick; he has to prepare to be sick. He has to write up lesson plans for the sub, which probably takes about an hour. And the whole time he’s doing it, he’s realizing that it’s probably easier just to drag his sorry butt into school.”
Friend: “Fine, so come out tonight, and drag yourself into school tomorrow!”
Jenkins: “You don’t get it: I can’t go out tonight. I have all these papers I need to—”
Friend: “Papers! I’m sick of papers! You know what? I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but the truth is, we’re not going to play pool tonight. We’re having an intervention for you, because you’re, like, addicted to work.”
Jenkins: “Look, I’d love to go out, but I have to get these essays back to them by Friday, so they can re-write them over the weekend, so I’ll be able to re-read them again on Monday, before the grades are due on Tuesday.”
Friend: “Just listen to yourself for a minute. You don’t ‘have’ to get them back. They don’t ‘have’ to re-write them. You’re heaping all this work on yourself.”
Jenkins (realizing his friend has a good point): “Look, what do you want me to do?”
Friend: “What do I want you to do? Two words: teach gym.”
Thursday Night
Friend: “Hey, I created a little dialogue. Want to hear it.”
Jenkins: “Sure.”
Friend: “So, it’s a conversation between Faithful Sidekick and someone called Shell.”
Jenkins: “Shell?”
Friend: “Yeah, as in Shell-of-His-Former-Self. So Faithful Sidekick says, ‘Hey, man. You want to go out tonight. We haven’t seen you in a bit.’ And Shell, naturally, says, ‘Boy-oh-boy, that sounds swell, but you know I need to finish reading Romeo and Juliet tonight because I want to give them a quiz on it tomorrow. And it’s really important that we finish the play tomorrow, so I can squeeze in a test on Monday, before the grades close on Tuesday. Of course, I can’t give them tomorrow’s quiz without handing back the quiz we took last Friday, so that means I have to correct last week’s quiz before I create this week’s quiz. And this is on top of all the other essays I have to correct for the fifth time, because, after all, I have to let the kids walk all over me, even at the expense of my personal health and social life.’ (pause) How’d I do?”
Jenkins: “Well, it’s Macbeth, not Romeo and Juliet… but other than that…”
(Friend hangs up without saying goodbye.)
Friday Night
Jenkins: “All right, I am ready!”
Friend: “You’re ready, huh?”
Jenkins: “Oh, I’m ready, Freddy! I admit, when I got home, I was dead tired, but I realized I can’t let this job take over my life. So I took a power nap. And now I am refreshed and ready and willing to rock this town, baby!”
Friend: “Uh, yeah… I don’t know what to say, man… I’m actually kind of beat myself…I’m thinking about staying in tonight-- you know, chill”
Jenkins: “You’re… beat? On a Friday night?”
Friend: “Hey, I went out every night this week. I need to crash.”
Jenkins: “Well, what about everyone else? What about Joey? Dave? Wheels? How about Eddie?”
Friend: “Well, let’s see… Joey is going out tonight with the girl I wanted to set you up with on Monday. Dave's going away for the weekend. Wheels is working at the restaurant tonight. And Eddie? Dude, Eddie went away to law school, like, four months ago!”
Jenkins: “He did? Man, I really have been out of the loop…”
Friend: “Sorry, buddy, but I’m going to take a raincheck tonight. Maybe tomorrow?”
Jenkins: “Oh, yeah, sure. Talk to you tomorrow…”
(Jenkins hangs up the phone and looks around his empty apartment. Next to him on the couch is his unzipped, overflowing book bag; he can see the Macbeth quizzes sticking out, beckoning him. He resists. It’s Friday night; he can’t correct quizzes on a Friday night. He just can’t.
Jenkins picks up the phone again… but who is there to call? He glances once more at the book bag. Angry at first the world and then himself, Jenkins yanks the quizzes out of the bag. He picks up a pen and takes the first paper off the pile. Slowly, dejectedly, he starts reading.)
The End
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Reviewing a Review
Over a month ago, a short story I wrote called “My Brother Picks Cans” was published in an online literary journal called JMWW. I’ve been working on this story for a while now—and by “a while,” I mean seventeen years (no kidding: the initial idea for the story started sprouting in Summer 1991)—so, yeah, I was kind of excited that someone finally decided to publish the darn thing.
Funny thing about getting things published: someone else might actually read it. Last week, I found a review of my story, on a blog called, conveniently enough, “Short Story Reader” (which you can find at http://shortstoryreader.blogspot.com/.) I thought I would do a review of the review.
Incidentally, if you would like to read the story—which is about brothers, nickel deposits, and Roger Maris--you can check it out at http://jmww.150m.com/Dursin.html. (Yes! Score with the brilliantly subtle plug!)
Before I review the review, I should mention that the writer behind “Short Story Reader” (who lists his occupation as “editor” in his profile) describes his blog as one “about good stories on the Web,” which I took as a good sign. (Not such a good sign if his blog was for “the most crap-tastic fiction on the Web.") On an unrelated but nevertheless fascinating note: Short Story Reader Man seems to maintain another blog called “My Week in Hair,” which he apparently writes under the pseudonym “Big Hair.” (“Each week,” promises the blogger, “Big Hair answers your hair questions and shares an incident involving his hair, your hair, or the hair of the person next to you.”)
In any case, Short Story Reader Man starts off the review with the following:
“Okay, so let's talk about story subgenres. You know, like stories about marriages going bad, stories about moms dying, stories about first times. This is a brother story. And I think I'm probably a sucker for such pieces. I'm remembering a story in Marshall Boswell's The Trouble with Girls and another story in Ryan Harty's Tell Me Your Saddest Arizona. Brother stories, and I liked both--in fact, thought that in each case the story was one of the best in the collection. And here's another good brother story. This doesn't quite match the level of Boswell or Harty, but it's well done.”
OK, so I’m not Boswell or Harty, whoever they are. But at least I can be mentioned in the same paragraph as them, right? And, hey, he still described the story as “good” and “well done.” I’ll take it. Let’s move on.
“Maybe I just wish I had a brother or wish I had a sibling who was closer to me. Or maybe such stories remind me of being young. I don't know. What I do know is how Dursin managed to get me interested in his story before any of the other stories in the latest JMWW.”
This section kind of bummed me out, to be honest-- not personally, but for Short Story Reader Man. What happened between him and his sibling? (And did their falling out in any way involve hair?) Come on, guys—work it out!
I guess the “Dursin managed to get me interested in his story before any of the other stories in the latest JMWW” is a compliment…. Unless, of course, he hated everything else in the issue. Then it’s like Simon Cowell saying to Amanda Overmeyer, “Well, that performance was certainly better than last week’s… which was absolutely horrific!” (Master of “damning with faint praise,” that bloke.)
Moving on with the review...
“It was a series of declarative sentences, fairly simple. No sparks, no odd phrases that made me think, what's up? Or maybe the opening did make me think, what's up. What's up with picking cans and why is that so important that people would notice? The story goes from there, giving readers a pretty good entry into the life of these two brothers.”
I get what he’s saying here. It’s true: I do write fairly simple sentences. Personally, I think unless you’re F. Scott Fitzgerald or Toni Morrison, you should avoid the needlessly long, expansive sentences that roll out before the reader like a vast and embattled ocean, racing in reverse past the very brink of eternity. But that’s just me.
“This isn't a story that's going to knock your socks off or anything, but it is nice, and it sounds, for the most part, 'real'-- you know, genuine. And sometimes, that's better than all the pyrotechnics a writer might be able to muster. You can read the story for yourself here.”
Well, sort of a Cowell-esque way to end it there, with the one-two punch of "not going to knock your socks off" followed by the crushing “nice” comment. I mean, "nice"? Who wants anything you wrote to be caleld "nice"? Can we go back to the beginning, when you called it “good” and “well done”?
On the plus side, he did say it was “real” and “genuine,” which is something all writers (who aren’t going for fantasy) want to achieve.
In the end, I thought my first review was a positive one. Short Story Reader obviously thought the story was worthy enough to include on his blog, and in the end, he gave “My Brother Picks Cans” three stars (hopefully out of four and not four hundred). I think I’ll give the same to his review. (He was this close to getting four stars… but then the “nice” comment…)
Funny thing about getting things published: someone else might actually read it. Last week, I found a review of my story, on a blog called, conveniently enough, “Short Story Reader” (which you can find at http://shortstoryreader.blogspot.com/.) I thought I would do a review of the review.
Incidentally, if you would like to read the story—which is about brothers, nickel deposits, and Roger Maris--you can check it out at http://jmww.150m.com/Dursin.html. (Yes! Score with the brilliantly subtle plug!)
Before I review the review, I should mention that the writer behind “Short Story Reader” (who lists his occupation as “editor” in his profile) describes his blog as one “about good stories on the Web,” which I took as a good sign. (Not such a good sign if his blog was for “the most crap-tastic fiction on the Web.") On an unrelated but nevertheless fascinating note: Short Story Reader Man seems to maintain another blog called “My Week in Hair,” which he apparently writes under the pseudonym “Big Hair.” (“Each week,” promises the blogger, “Big Hair answers your hair questions and shares an incident involving his hair, your hair, or the hair of the person next to you.”)
In any case, Short Story Reader Man starts off the review with the following:
“Okay, so let's talk about story subgenres. You know, like stories about marriages going bad, stories about moms dying, stories about first times. This is a brother story. And I think I'm probably a sucker for such pieces. I'm remembering a story in Marshall Boswell's The Trouble with Girls and another story in Ryan Harty's Tell Me Your Saddest Arizona. Brother stories, and I liked both--in fact, thought that in each case the story was one of the best in the collection. And here's another good brother story. This doesn't quite match the level of Boswell or Harty, but it's well done.”
OK, so I’m not Boswell or Harty, whoever they are. But at least I can be mentioned in the same paragraph as them, right? And, hey, he still described the story as “good” and “well done.” I’ll take it. Let’s move on.
“Maybe I just wish I had a brother or wish I had a sibling who was closer to me. Or maybe such stories remind me of being young. I don't know. What I do know is how Dursin managed to get me interested in his story before any of the other stories in the latest JMWW.”
This section kind of bummed me out, to be honest-- not personally, but for Short Story Reader Man. What happened between him and his sibling? (And did their falling out in any way involve hair?) Come on, guys—work it out!
I guess the “Dursin managed to get me interested in his story before any of the other stories in the latest JMWW” is a compliment…. Unless, of course, he hated everything else in the issue. Then it’s like Simon Cowell saying to Amanda Overmeyer, “Well, that performance was certainly better than last week’s… which was absolutely horrific!” (Master of “damning with faint praise,” that bloke.)
Moving on with the review...
“It was a series of declarative sentences, fairly simple. No sparks, no odd phrases that made me think, what's up? Or maybe the opening did make me think, what's up. What's up with picking cans and why is that so important that people would notice? The story goes from there, giving readers a pretty good entry into the life of these two brothers.”
I get what he’s saying here. It’s true: I do write fairly simple sentences. Personally, I think unless you’re F. Scott Fitzgerald or Toni Morrison, you should avoid the needlessly long, expansive sentences that roll out before the reader like a vast and embattled ocean, racing in reverse past the very brink of eternity. But that’s just me.
“This isn't a story that's going to knock your socks off or anything, but it is nice, and it sounds, for the most part, 'real'-- you know, genuine. And sometimes, that's better than all the pyrotechnics a writer might be able to muster. You can read the story for yourself here.”
Well, sort of a Cowell-esque way to end it there, with the one-two punch of "not going to knock your socks off" followed by the crushing “nice” comment. I mean, "nice"? Who wants anything you wrote to be caleld "nice"? Can we go back to the beginning, when you called it “good” and “well done”?
On the plus side, he did say it was “real” and “genuine,” which is something all writers (who aren’t going for fantasy) want to achieve.
In the end, I thought my first review was a positive one. Short Story Reader obviously thought the story was worthy enough to include on his blog, and in the end, he gave “My Brother Picks Cans” three stars (hopefully out of four and not four hundred). I think I’ll give the same to his review. (He was this close to getting four stars… but then the “nice” comment…)
Monday, June 2, 2008
Honestly... "Trenches"? Come on!
So yesterday I was talking about how entitling this blog "Teacher Trenches" is an ironic nod (to whom, I'm not sure... do I even have any readers yet?), since I think teaching high school is actually pretty gratifying and not at all what I assume life in a trench would be like. But since I don't really know for sure, I decided to do some preliminary research about the Allied forces who gutted it out in trenches during World War I. Here's what I found...
As I suspected, the whole "in the trenches" metaphor is not only rather extreme but also unfair to those who, you know, fought in actual trenches. For one thing, in addition to fighting the enemy, soldiers also had to fight the animals, the ones that made their homes in the trenches—frogs and beetles and, especially, rats, millions of them, some the size of small dogs, that would spread infection and contaminate food and eat out the soldiers’ eyes as they slept.
Next, walking around in cold and muddy water all the time often led to “trenchfoot,” a fungal infection that sometimes required amputation—a frightening possibility, but I bet most soldiers were sufficiently distracted by the lice that caused their whole body to itch to concentrate just on their feet.
Finally, soldiers in the trenches had to contend with the disgusting, overwhelming smell, of poisonous gas and overflowing latrines and body odor and cigarette smoke and rotting corpses of fallen comrades barely buried in makeshift graves. And did I mention, on top of all this, they're also getting shot at?
Man, cafeteria duty doesn't look so bad now, does it?
So, yeah... when you compare the metaphorical trenches of education with the actual trenches of war, the metaphorical ones end up looking rather swell. At the very least, a high school teacher's risk of trenchfoot, statistically speaking, is probably pretty low.
As I suspected, the whole "in the trenches" metaphor is not only rather extreme but also unfair to those who, you know, fought in actual trenches. For one thing, in addition to fighting the enemy, soldiers also had to fight the animals, the ones that made their homes in the trenches—frogs and beetles and, especially, rats, millions of them, some the size of small dogs, that would spread infection and contaminate food and eat out the soldiers’ eyes as they slept.
Next, walking around in cold and muddy water all the time often led to “trenchfoot,” a fungal infection that sometimes required amputation—a frightening possibility, but I bet most soldiers were sufficiently distracted by the lice that caused their whole body to itch to concentrate just on their feet.
Finally, soldiers in the trenches had to contend with the disgusting, overwhelming smell, of poisonous gas and overflowing latrines and body odor and cigarette smoke and rotting corpses of fallen comrades barely buried in makeshift graves. And did I mention, on top of all this, they're also getting shot at?
Man, cafeteria duty doesn't look so bad now, does it?
So, yeah... when you compare the metaphorical trenches of education with the actual trenches of war, the metaphorical ones end up looking rather swell. At the very least, a high school teacher's risk of trenchfoot, statistically speaking, is probably pretty low.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
So, what's all this "trenches" stuff about?
The "Teacher Trenches" title is a reference to a conversation I had with another teacher during my first week on the job.
I don't know her name, not even sure I remember what she looks like. In fact, all I remember from our one conversation, as we walked into the parking lot (well, she's walking, I'm trudging forlornly) were six words: "So you’re in the trenches now."
It was my third day on the job as a high school teacher when I heard the "in the trenches" metaphor for the first time. I pretty much haven't stopped hearing it since.
From journalists to pundits to bloggers to teachers themselves-- everyone seemingly wants to equate education with life "in the trenches." Listening to these folks, you'd think I was grading essays on the Western Front.
I'm definitely wink-winking when I called this blog/shameless act of self-promotion “Teacher Trenches.” Personally, I don't equate teaching with life in the trenches. In fact, when I actually have time to step back from it all, I think teaching is one of the most noble, most gratifying jobs out there. I've inspired people, and they've inspired me right back. And that's what this site is, mainly: products of all the times that teaching has somehow fired my muse. A lot of stuff on this site has to do with teaching and the students I teach. Other pieces have nothing to do with teaching or teens, but I've included here because... well, who's going to stop me? (Hey, I think I'm liking this blog stuff!)
Incidentally, I do have the mandatory heart-warming postscript to my “you’re in the trenches now” story: A few months after my parking-lot conversation with Mystery Woman, I was talking on the phone to my friend Annie about my struggles with high school teaching. At some point, I told her about the “trenches” line. “I don’t want to be in the trenches!” I whimpered. “People get killed in the trenches!”
Then she said something that turned the whole metaphor around for me: “Yeah, but the trenches are where the war is won.”
Now, literally, I don’t know if that statement is at all true. Maybe real wars aren’t won in the trenches. But figuratively, metaphorically, I'm going with it.
I don't know her name, not even sure I remember what she looks like. In fact, all I remember from our one conversation, as we walked into the parking lot (well, she's walking, I'm trudging forlornly) were six words: "So you’re in the trenches now."
It was my third day on the job as a high school teacher when I heard the "in the trenches" metaphor for the first time. I pretty much haven't stopped hearing it since.
From journalists to pundits to bloggers to teachers themselves-- everyone seemingly wants to equate education with life "in the trenches." Listening to these folks, you'd think I was grading essays on the Western Front.
I'm definitely wink-winking when I called this blog/shameless act of self-promotion “Teacher Trenches.” Personally, I don't equate teaching with life in the trenches. In fact, when I actually have time to step back from it all, I think teaching is one of the most noble, most gratifying jobs out there. I've inspired people, and they've inspired me right back. And that's what this site is, mainly: products of all the times that teaching has somehow fired my muse. A lot of stuff on this site has to do with teaching and the students I teach. Other pieces have nothing to do with teaching or teens, but I've included here because... well, who's going to stop me? (Hey, I think I'm liking this blog stuff!)
Incidentally, I do have the mandatory heart-warming postscript to my “you’re in the trenches now” story: A few months after my parking-lot conversation with Mystery Woman, I was talking on the phone to my friend Annie about my struggles with high school teaching. At some point, I told her about the “trenches” line. “I don’t want to be in the trenches!” I whimpered. “People get killed in the trenches!”
Then she said something that turned the whole metaphor around for me: “Yeah, but the trenches are where the war is won.”
Now, literally, I don’t know if that statement is at all true. Maybe real wars aren’t won in the trenches. But figuratively, metaphorically, I'm going with it.
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