Saturday, March 28, 2009

What will you do when the zombies come?

Hang a banker? I think that's the right response. It is according to these folks:


And the follow up newscast:


*Thanks to Mark for the links.
For more visit
http://www.g-20meltdown.org
http://newsov.org

I don't know why the comments don't work when I post videos.. If you want to comment on this one and don't have the option, leave it on the previous post. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Monday, March 23, 2009

List five things to do before you die.

Every time I see a prompt like this I start with, "Does someone know something I don't know about my death?" which then leads to, "How much time do I have left, because if it's a lot I might list more grandiose things. If not, I'll be sure to list relatively attainable things so that I can check them off the list and then feel fulfilled."

And therein lies the problem. Shouldn't dreams be attainable ones, or should we say (and lie to ourselves a little) that we can do anything - that all things, big and small are within reach?

My students were taught "You can do anything you set your mind to." And then rainbows and kittens shoot out of their asses. When I hear them say this, I usually cough "bullshit" under my breath. Today it came out as "That's a bunch of crap. You can't do anything you set your mind to!"

They countered with (and I'm not kidding with this), "Ms. Haag! Why do you have to be such a Negative Nancy!"

"OK, first of all, where did you find the time machine that took you back to the time period when people (moms) said 'Negative Nancy?," I rhetorically asked, "and secondly, I'm not being negative. I'm being truthful. You cannot be or do anything you want. It's called the real world, gang. Welcome to it."

They acted like I had just told them the truth about the Tooth Fairy - that their parents were not the Tooth Fairy's 'helpers' at all, that they had been tricked into believing something completely and utterly bogus - like believing that one can be anything he or she wants, for example.

They mumbled that no matter what I said, they actually could do anything. I think they were kicking rocks down the street in their imaginations. I mean, how dare someone - a teacher, no less - tell them that they can't be whatever they want!

I said, "Look. I would love to be a professional musician. But it's not going to happen. I don't have the talent."

"Well, get to practicing, Mrs. Haag, and you can be," one said. "Plus, you're Ms. Haag!" said another bright-eyed boy, as if I really were the beloved, magical Tooth Fairy in a shabby teacher disguise.

May I remind you that I teach seniors? These "kids" are 17 and 18 years old - eligible to vote and to carry a weapon for the US military.

I suppose there is still some illusion about what they can and can't do. For example, they believe they are invincible and can race a car at 100 mph in traffic and not hurt anyone. They believe that they don't have to do any classwork and still graduate (they aren't too far off on this one, thanks to our lovely education system). So maybe it isn't such a leap to think that they can one day snap their fingers and be superheros and rock stars and professional athletes.

But I think it is irrational and counterproductive, even, to tell them they can do or be anything, because doesn't that immediately set them up for certain failure? I might be more amendable to using the word "try" instead of "do" or "be." Maybe.

The conversation pretty much ended with me saying, "Um OK," seeing as I was obviously going nowhere fast.

All of this occurred to me as I was thinking of my list of 5 things just now.

So here they are, grain of salt included:

1. Climb Maccu Piccu
2. Live in a different country for a while
3. Learn how to play the guitar
4. Raise a kind, mindful son
5. Become as magical and inspirational as the Tooth Fairy

Now that I have sufficiently stomped your dreams and aspirations into the ground, what are your five things?

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Midnight in the Garden, cont.

So, to continue the story, Baby Jack woke up screaming bloody murder at 3:00 am. This time, I didn't hurdle over Rich (using his face as a springboard, in order to not have to walk around the bed, to get to Jack's room - obviously saving precious milliseconds) like I usually do. I simply opened my eyes. Wide.

I listened.

Obviously, the wayward spirits had returned.

I thought, "Damn spirits! I'm sick of being afraid of you! Why can't you stay out of a baby's room! I mean, come on! That is SO. FREAKING. INCONSIDERATE." I slammed my fist down in anger, whispered, "How dare they!?", and then turned over to calculate exactly what I was going to say to the spirits during our imminent confrontation. I needed a plan that required minimal exertion, one that involved me not having to get out of bed.


By this time, Rich was up, stumbling around in the dark trying to find a t-shirt so that he could do the parental thing (um, the right thing) and actually go check on the screaming baby.

He left just as I remembered that I could perform an exorcism by just invoking Jesus' name. "Perfect!" I thought.

Ok. You are thinking one of two things:

1. What a psychopathic, religious nutter!!
Or
2. This isn't funny, Ginger. Exorcisms are ne-ver funny, and you are teetering on the edge of heresy.

Yes. On both counts. But it was 3:00 in the morning; I was groggy, pissed off, and enduring a screaming baby.

So, I started casting out demons in the same way that one might cast aside mismatched socks from the dryer. I imagined myself patronizing the spirits as I told them to "get the hell out, in the name of Jesus" and pitched my thumb towards the window to show them the fastest exit route. I imagined all of the spirits who were related to me who might want to stop by and see Jack. Couldn't they come during the daytime, or at least gaze at him quietly? I angrily ousted them, too.

And lo and behold, it worked! The baby stopped screaming! I had won!

That is, until the neighbor's new pit bull started barking, LOUDLY. The irony of this wasn't lost on me. And probably it was penance for "casting" out spirits. Any rational person might have berated herself for being so smug. Any rational person might have gone next door to calmly explain that she had just gotten her baby to sleep and that the barking would wake him up and could they please escort their dog to an area where we couldn't hear him bark.. Any rational person might have done these things.

But the irrational?

Yeah. We start casting spirits out of our neighbor's backyard, too.

Me too, Maggie


Friday, March 20, 2009

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Silly

When she said it, I imagined that I was sitting in that midnight Savannah garden, eerie moss draped over everything, shrouding unrecognizable images, blurring my perception of security. I had just gazed into the eyes of that mischievously knowing voodoo woman who had looked across the veil and seen a warning, one that made my skin crawl. A feeling of uneasiness enveloped my heart.

But that was my imagination.

In reality I was sitting in Nanny Delaney's living room in broad daylight. I was picking up Baby Jack B'Hat after a challenging day at work, and all I wanted was to get home, kick off my heels, enjoy a cup of something nice, and play with the baby. I had made the mistake of mentioning to Nanny Delaney that last night - the past three nights, actually - Jack had woken up screaming, that it wasn't crying, even. It was like something was hurting him, badly. It was a blood curdling scream that had me flying from my bed to him before my brain had fully recognized that it was 3:00 am, that there might be some sort of danger, or that I was awake at all. But I didn't say all of that. All I said was, "Jack's been waking up screaming in the night. I don't think he's sick. Do you think it could be teething?"

That's when she said what she said. Before I tell you what it is, I have to say that I had heard it before. Because of that, I was able to both give some credence to her statement, as much as repetition allows, and also I could be dismissive of it because I had already thought about it through a lens of rationality. The idea was bogus, I decided.

So, here's what she said.

"No, I don't think Jack is sick or teething. He's seeing spirits. Babies are more connected with the spiritual world, so probably there was some soul passing through his room, and it woke him up and frightened him."


When I was a kid, I was terrified of seeing anything supernatural. In my defense, I had a huge imagination. As I've mentioned before, I thought my parents were robots like in Superman III, and there were times I was terrified that they might malfunction someday, that their skin would melt off and I would be staring at their silvery, wiry, singed innards.

Also, I had been taught that the spiritual world was very much tangible, that the angels and demons were literally waging war in my backyard - fighting for the mortal souls of this earth (read 'fighting for my mortal soul that happened to be steeped in sinful thoughts and actions'; read 'it's all your fault, Ginger.' That was my perception, anyway). I knew that in the Bible there were many folks who were visited by angels, and that sometimes in the modern world angels might drop by on occasion to warn you about impending doom, to go over battle plans, or just to play Q-Bert or something, though obviously "hang out" angels were usually sent to people who were dying or to those in the Big Brother/Big Sister program (poor, angel-needing souls).

I knew of stories where some one's recently deceased grandfather came and sat on his granddaughters bed to read her one last story and to give her some sort of comfort, the proof being that the the next morning the bedspread was still wrinkled where he had sat.

All of this was supposed to be comforting - to help us understand that there is life after death, and that if I loved God enough and in the right way (i.e. Jesus is the son of God, baptism by dunking NOT sprinkling, etc.), it would be paradise.

Despite all of these "comforting" ideas, I was TERRIFIED. I actively prayed every night that God would NOT send me an angel or a dead grandparent. I didn't think I could handle it, and God wouldn't send me anything I couldn't handle, right? It was the deal*. "Please, please, please, please - nothing supernatural tonight- please!"

This is why what Nanny Delaney said was a bit unsettling. I obviously didn't want some errant spirit passing through the baby's room. It's also why every time he screams, that thought lingers in my brain, which leads me to the occurrences of Wednesday night.

To be continued..

* A professor at my recent trek to Rice said, "By the way, God not giving you stuff you can't handle.. (laughing) Bull shit. Things people can't handle is why they go crazy." I agree.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Plink Post - A Feature!

Congratulations! You're going to be featured in the next issue of Sports Illustrated. How does your bio read?

Name: Gingerly Tiptoeing-Through (but also of the Stumble persuasion)

Sex: More often in the summertime

Date of Birth: It happened one Fall morning, and each day she's trying to be worthy of it.

Of Note:
* Writing: Won a writing contest - Barbara Bush's Just Say No To Drugs Essay Contest - in 7th grade. She made up her sob story and was rewarded for it. This was the start of many embellishments.

* Sports: See above and below

* Fitness: Was a badass once upon a time, but has gone the au-naturale route since baby B'Hat was born nine months ago. (Au-naturale meaning mostly sitting somewhere nice, sipping coffee and/or Merlot, and on the best days, both at the same time.)

* Glamor: Buying too much racy-lacy lingerie and too many pairs of red shoes. This might be considered a new glorious breed of Sass-itude or it is a completely mad insecurity. Either way, each day she can die comfortably knowing that the ME will most certainly be impressed, no matter what happens.

* Occupation: All consuming health hazard, yet sometimes lovely, especially in June.

*Personality: Only from 8:00 am-2:00 pm and then not again until 6:30 pm.

*Other: Glad to have had butt grabbed by a perfect stranger in an Amsterdam bar (story for another day); Is growing a vegetable garden.. in her dreams; Is terrible at walking on the beach (reminder of the horrible hammock incident of 2003 - again, story for another day); Birds sing specifically to her, when she is still enough.. which is rarely.

***Happy St. Patrick's Day! I hope you all have good craic today!!

Thursday, March 12, 2009

A Consummation

A man, a recent retiree, stood in front of his class, his tweed coat more constrictive than he remembered, sweat beading on his furrowed brow. "Right," he thought, "These people expect me to entertain, too. Forget the fact that I have an illustrious reputation here, or that I was the Dean of the College of Very Important Things. They have no idea that my mostly grown kids attend the best private schools in town and that my sunglasses are worth more than the cars they drive. They want me to entertain them." Time was still. This wasn't going well.

The stagnant air stifled every idea and fidgety impatience lorded over the classroom.

The class which consisted of many of the brightest public high school teachers in the nation and beyond weren't buying what this self-aggrandizing man had to sell. His Jack Nicholson-like flair gave them all that they needed to know. There was no need for him to utter even one syllable, though when he did, they felt like they should have been standing on a veranda in a starry eve of an LA soiree, martini glasses empty of substance and conversation that was restricted, mainly, to name-dropping and bullshit flattery. Yeah. He thought he was someone, didn't he. And there was still an hour and a half to go. They would have to sit there looking interested. They knew the drill - to nod and smile politely - though they understood that he was feeding them his ego; they would have to consume it with false enthusiasm, ingratiating themselves for whatever connections he might be willing enough to bestow upon them.

He stood there for a moment, lost within his own sentence, the words turning themselves through an endless maze of important sounding rhetoric. He had lost them. And there was still an hour and a half to go. They certainly didn't know about him, did they, but he still had that nagging desire to be liked. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he needed them to want to listen to him, whatever it was he was saying. His credibility was slipping through the cracks and he was watching it leave just as he watched his career come to a close. It was like what they say about the instant you die, that you have a vivid, clear flashback of your life that sums up everything in that final millisecond. The difference was that the end of his career, projected through his mind, was cast in black and white and was inexplicably fuzzy. It was something that felt nostalgic, that was great at one point, but that was too quickly becoming the stuff of memorabilia. He had to say something entertaining. Soon. To save himself from them and from his own thoughts.

It was then that he cleared his throat and ran through the headlines he had read on the Internet that morning. He thought of something that might do the trick.

He blotted his forehead with his crumpled pocket handkerchief and tried, "Hey, you know Brad Pitt?"

The class perked up a bit. Maybe he was more of a person than they thought.

"That guy, " the man said, "is a lot older than he looks."

He paused at their recognition.

"I'm so fucking glad."

An intake of air and then laughter rang out.

Whatever he said for the last hour and a half was overshadowed by the new camaraderie in the room. Time ran smoothly. Egos and attitudes had one more time been saved, the marriage of the important and the jaded consummated.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

The Prodigal Returns

I just returned from a three day International Baccalaureate teacher conference in Houston. It was a jumble of all sorts of positive reinforcements - hanging out and acting ridiculously silly with good friends and sitting among brilliant academics, sipping coffee and saying nonsense phrases that sound important, like "transatlantic metonymous paradox." I was at Rice.

As usual, I left that place feeling all starry-eyed and inspired about IB but this time with caveats: What time is worth giving to teach 10 of 150 students v. what do I owe them since they are among the few who actually care? When will I find the time to implement the necessary changes I hope to see - as in reading, selecting, and preparing a new curriculum for the course - that will in the long run make my job easier, but that will in the short term increase my work load at a time when I am stretched so thin? What would make me more credible and therefore respected as an educator? Age? A second degree? A change in locality? Etc. and so on.

I savor going to these conferences because I have the opportunity to imagine what the ideal classroom looks like. I enjoy hobnobbing with people from all over the nation and beyond, in part because I find them all so familiar, but also because I romanticize their situations. I don't have to see them in the trenches of reality; at conferences we are all academics, inspirations, of value. For three short days we get to experience those platitudes that people are so willing to dole out to teachers: that we are needed, that our job makes a difference, that we are worthy of all the lovely things in the world (such as hot breakfast, a fluffy, down duvet, and genuine conversation).

But I'm back, now, counting down the days until my next escape. The baby was up all night. The neighbor dog barked in between baby shrieks. The kitchen needs a good scrubbing, and research papers are due on Tuesday.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Missed Salon Topics

Discussion topics for March 6:
1. Does Capitalism promise luxury?
2. You are what you read.
3. Will Localism replace Globalism?

Sunday, March 1, 2009

A Note on the Sacred

For the last time, school is NOT about the kids. I realize that that sounds like an inflammatory remark. What I mean is school is a community of teaching, learning, and relationships, one that involves kids, their parents, the teachers and administrators, and the community.

If we are going to treat school like a business (because our culture cannot break away from this), as in a customer service industry, then the closest we can get is NOT administrators as employers, teachers as employees, and kids, their parents and community as customers. If anything, it would have to be teachers, administrators, parents, and community as employers and kids as employees. And even that is a flawed analogy because since all business involves capital, we then have to place a value on people and call them assets and commodities. When it becomes about numbers and trends, we've lost the community aspect of the (sacred) learning environment.

Because we are not respectful of the sacred, what teaching and learning should be, we can't expect for many things to run smoothly.

At the very least, principals - your job is to take care of the teachers so that they can take care of the students. The students will graduate or not, but they'll leave. The teachers remain.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

What will you do when the zombies come?

Hang a banker? I think that's the right response. It is according to these folks:


And the follow up newscast:


*Thanks to Mark for the links.
For more visit
http://www.g-20meltdown.org
http://newsov.org

I don't know why the comments don't work when I post videos.. If you want to comment on this one and don't have the option, leave it on the previous post. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Monday, March 23, 2009

List five things to do before you die.

Every time I see a prompt like this I start with, "Does someone know something I don't know about my death?" which then leads to, "How much time do I have left, because if it's a lot I might list more grandiose things. If not, I'll be sure to list relatively attainable things so that I can check them off the list and then feel fulfilled."

And therein lies the problem. Shouldn't dreams be attainable ones, or should we say (and lie to ourselves a little) that we can do anything - that all things, big and small are within reach?

My students were taught "You can do anything you set your mind to." And then rainbows and kittens shoot out of their asses. When I hear them say this, I usually cough "bullshit" under my breath. Today it came out as "That's a bunch of crap. You can't do anything you set your mind to!"

They countered with (and I'm not kidding with this), "Ms. Haag! Why do you have to be such a Negative Nancy!"

"OK, first of all, where did you find the time machine that took you back to the time period when people (moms) said 'Negative Nancy?," I rhetorically asked, "and secondly, I'm not being negative. I'm being truthful. You cannot be or do anything you want. It's called the real world, gang. Welcome to it."

They acted like I had just told them the truth about the Tooth Fairy - that their parents were not the Tooth Fairy's 'helpers' at all, that they had been tricked into believing something completely and utterly bogus - like believing that one can be anything he or she wants, for example.

They mumbled that no matter what I said, they actually could do anything. I think they were kicking rocks down the street in their imaginations. I mean, how dare someone - a teacher, no less - tell them that they can't be whatever they want!

I said, "Look. I would love to be a professional musician. But it's not going to happen. I don't have the talent."

"Well, get to practicing, Mrs. Haag, and you can be," one said. "Plus, you're Ms. Haag!" said another bright-eyed boy, as if I really were the beloved, magical Tooth Fairy in a shabby teacher disguise.

May I remind you that I teach seniors? These "kids" are 17 and 18 years old - eligible to vote and to carry a weapon for the US military.

I suppose there is still some illusion about what they can and can't do. For example, they believe they are invincible and can race a car at 100 mph in traffic and not hurt anyone. They believe that they don't have to do any classwork and still graduate (they aren't too far off on this one, thanks to our lovely education system). So maybe it isn't such a leap to think that they can one day snap their fingers and be superheros and rock stars and professional athletes.

But I think it is irrational and counterproductive, even, to tell them they can do or be anything, because doesn't that immediately set them up for certain failure? I might be more amendable to using the word "try" instead of "do" or "be." Maybe.

The conversation pretty much ended with me saying, "Um OK," seeing as I was obviously going nowhere fast.

All of this occurred to me as I was thinking of my list of 5 things just now.

So here they are, grain of salt included:

1. Climb Maccu Piccu
2. Live in a different country for a while
3. Learn how to play the guitar
4. Raise a kind, mindful son
5. Become as magical and inspirational as the Tooth Fairy

Now that I have sufficiently stomped your dreams and aspirations into the ground, what are your five things?

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Midnight in the Garden, cont.

So, to continue the story, Baby Jack woke up screaming bloody murder at 3:00 am. This time, I didn't hurdle over Rich (using his face as a springboard, in order to not have to walk around the bed, to get to Jack's room - obviously saving precious milliseconds) like I usually do. I simply opened my eyes. Wide.

I listened.

Obviously, the wayward spirits had returned.

I thought, "Damn spirits! I'm sick of being afraid of you! Why can't you stay out of a baby's room! I mean, come on! That is SO. FREAKING. INCONSIDERATE." I slammed my fist down in anger, whispered, "How dare they!?", and then turned over to calculate exactly what I was going to say to the spirits during our imminent confrontation. I needed a plan that required minimal exertion, one that involved me not having to get out of bed.


By this time, Rich was up, stumbling around in the dark trying to find a t-shirt so that he could do the parental thing (um, the right thing) and actually go check on the screaming baby.

He left just as I remembered that I could perform an exorcism by just invoking Jesus' name. "Perfect!" I thought.

Ok. You are thinking one of two things:

1. What a psychopathic, religious nutter!!
Or
2. This isn't funny, Ginger. Exorcisms are ne-ver funny, and you are teetering on the edge of heresy.

Yes. On both counts. But it was 3:00 in the morning; I was groggy, pissed off, and enduring a screaming baby.

So, I started casting out demons in the same way that one might cast aside mismatched socks from the dryer. I imagined myself patronizing the spirits as I told them to "get the hell out, in the name of Jesus" and pitched my thumb towards the window to show them the fastest exit route. I imagined all of the spirits who were related to me who might want to stop by and see Jack. Couldn't they come during the daytime, or at least gaze at him quietly? I angrily ousted them, too.

And lo and behold, it worked! The baby stopped screaming! I had won!

That is, until the neighbor's new pit bull started barking, LOUDLY. The irony of this wasn't lost on me. And probably it was penance for "casting" out spirits. Any rational person might have berated herself for being so smug. Any rational person might have gone next door to calmly explain that she had just gotten her baby to sleep and that the barking would wake him up and could they please escort their dog to an area where we couldn't hear him bark.. Any rational person might have done these things.

But the irrational?

Yeah. We start casting spirits out of our neighbor's backyard, too.

Me too, Maggie


Friday, March 20, 2009

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Silly

When she said it, I imagined that I was sitting in that midnight Savannah garden, eerie moss draped over everything, shrouding unrecognizable images, blurring my perception of security. I had just gazed into the eyes of that mischievously knowing voodoo woman who had looked across the veil and seen a warning, one that made my skin crawl. A feeling of uneasiness enveloped my heart.

But that was my imagination.

In reality I was sitting in Nanny Delaney's living room in broad daylight. I was picking up Baby Jack B'Hat after a challenging day at work, and all I wanted was to get home, kick off my heels, enjoy a cup of something nice, and play with the baby. I had made the mistake of mentioning to Nanny Delaney that last night - the past three nights, actually - Jack had woken up screaming, that it wasn't crying, even. It was like something was hurting him, badly. It was a blood curdling scream that had me flying from my bed to him before my brain had fully recognized that it was 3:00 am, that there might be some sort of danger, or that I was awake at all. But I didn't say all of that. All I said was, "Jack's been waking up screaming in the night. I don't think he's sick. Do you think it could be teething?"

That's when she said what she said. Before I tell you what it is, I have to say that I had heard it before. Because of that, I was able to both give some credence to her statement, as much as repetition allows, and also I could be dismissive of it because I had already thought about it through a lens of rationality. The idea was bogus, I decided.

So, here's what she said.

"No, I don't think Jack is sick or teething. He's seeing spirits. Babies are more connected with the spiritual world, so probably there was some soul passing through his room, and it woke him up and frightened him."


When I was a kid, I was terrified of seeing anything supernatural. In my defense, I had a huge imagination. As I've mentioned before, I thought my parents were robots like in Superman III, and there were times I was terrified that they might malfunction someday, that their skin would melt off and I would be staring at their silvery, wiry, singed innards.

Also, I had been taught that the spiritual world was very much tangible, that the angels and demons were literally waging war in my backyard - fighting for the mortal souls of this earth (read 'fighting for my mortal soul that happened to be steeped in sinful thoughts and actions'; read 'it's all your fault, Ginger.' That was my perception, anyway). I knew that in the Bible there were many folks who were visited by angels, and that sometimes in the modern world angels might drop by on occasion to warn you about impending doom, to go over battle plans, or just to play Q-Bert or something, though obviously "hang out" angels were usually sent to people who were dying or to those in the Big Brother/Big Sister program (poor, angel-needing souls).

I knew of stories where some one's recently deceased grandfather came and sat on his granddaughters bed to read her one last story and to give her some sort of comfort, the proof being that the the next morning the bedspread was still wrinkled where he had sat.

All of this was supposed to be comforting - to help us understand that there is life after death, and that if I loved God enough and in the right way (i.e. Jesus is the son of God, baptism by dunking NOT sprinkling, etc.), it would be paradise.

Despite all of these "comforting" ideas, I was TERRIFIED. I actively prayed every night that God would NOT send me an angel or a dead grandparent. I didn't think I could handle it, and God wouldn't send me anything I couldn't handle, right? It was the deal*. "Please, please, please, please - nothing supernatural tonight- please!"

This is why what Nanny Delaney said was a bit unsettling. I obviously didn't want some errant spirit passing through the baby's room. It's also why every time he screams, that thought lingers in my brain, which leads me to the occurrences of Wednesday night.

To be continued..

* A professor at my recent trek to Rice said, "By the way, God not giving you stuff you can't handle.. (laughing) Bull shit. Things people can't handle is why they go crazy." I agree.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Plink Post - A Feature!

Congratulations! You're going to be featured in the next issue of Sports Illustrated. How does your bio read?

Name: Gingerly Tiptoeing-Through (but also of the Stumble persuasion)

Sex: More often in the summertime

Date of Birth: It happened one Fall morning, and each day she's trying to be worthy of it.

Of Note:
* Writing: Won a writing contest - Barbara Bush's Just Say No To Drugs Essay Contest - in 7th grade. She made up her sob story and was rewarded for it. This was the start of many embellishments.

* Sports: See above and below

* Fitness: Was a badass once upon a time, but has gone the au-naturale route since baby B'Hat was born nine months ago. (Au-naturale meaning mostly sitting somewhere nice, sipping coffee and/or Merlot, and on the best days, both at the same time.)

* Glamor: Buying too much racy-lacy lingerie and too many pairs of red shoes. This might be considered a new glorious breed of Sass-itude or it is a completely mad insecurity. Either way, each day she can die comfortably knowing that the ME will most certainly be impressed, no matter what happens.

* Occupation: All consuming health hazard, yet sometimes lovely, especially in June.

*Personality: Only from 8:00 am-2:00 pm and then not again until 6:30 pm.

*Other: Glad to have had butt grabbed by a perfect stranger in an Amsterdam bar (story for another day); Is growing a vegetable garden.. in her dreams; Is terrible at walking on the beach (reminder of the horrible hammock incident of 2003 - again, story for another day); Birds sing specifically to her, when she is still enough.. which is rarely.

***Happy St. Patrick's Day! I hope you all have good craic today!!

Thursday, March 12, 2009

A Consummation

A man, a recent retiree, stood in front of his class, his tweed coat more constrictive than he remembered, sweat beading on his furrowed brow. "Right," he thought, "These people expect me to entertain, too. Forget the fact that I have an illustrious reputation here, or that I was the Dean of the College of Very Important Things. They have no idea that my mostly grown kids attend the best private schools in town and that my sunglasses are worth more than the cars they drive. They want me to entertain them." Time was still. This wasn't going well.

The stagnant air stifled every idea and fidgety impatience lorded over the classroom.

The class which consisted of many of the brightest public high school teachers in the nation and beyond weren't buying what this self-aggrandizing man had to sell. His Jack Nicholson-like flair gave them all that they needed to know. There was no need for him to utter even one syllable, though when he did, they felt like they should have been standing on a veranda in a starry eve of an LA soiree, martini glasses empty of substance and conversation that was restricted, mainly, to name-dropping and bullshit flattery. Yeah. He thought he was someone, didn't he. And there was still an hour and a half to go. They would have to sit there looking interested. They knew the drill - to nod and smile politely - though they understood that he was feeding them his ego; they would have to consume it with false enthusiasm, ingratiating themselves for whatever connections he might be willing enough to bestow upon them.

He stood there for a moment, lost within his own sentence, the words turning themselves through an endless maze of important sounding rhetoric. He had lost them. And there was still an hour and a half to go. They certainly didn't know about him, did they, but he still had that nagging desire to be liked. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he needed them to want to listen to him, whatever it was he was saying. His credibility was slipping through the cracks and he was watching it leave just as he watched his career come to a close. It was like what they say about the instant you die, that you have a vivid, clear flashback of your life that sums up everything in that final millisecond. The difference was that the end of his career, projected through his mind, was cast in black and white and was inexplicably fuzzy. It was something that felt nostalgic, that was great at one point, but that was too quickly becoming the stuff of memorabilia. He had to say something entertaining. Soon. To save himself from them and from his own thoughts.

It was then that he cleared his throat and ran through the headlines he had read on the Internet that morning. He thought of something that might do the trick.

He blotted his forehead with his crumpled pocket handkerchief and tried, "Hey, you know Brad Pitt?"

The class perked up a bit. Maybe he was more of a person than they thought.

"That guy, " the man said, "is a lot older than he looks."

He paused at their recognition.

"I'm so fucking glad."

An intake of air and then laughter rang out.

Whatever he said for the last hour and a half was overshadowed by the new camaraderie in the room. Time ran smoothly. Egos and attitudes had one more time been saved, the marriage of the important and the jaded consummated.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

The Prodigal Returns

I just returned from a three day International Baccalaureate teacher conference in Houston. It was a jumble of all sorts of positive reinforcements - hanging out and acting ridiculously silly with good friends and sitting among brilliant academics, sipping coffee and saying nonsense phrases that sound important, like "transatlantic metonymous paradox." I was at Rice.

As usual, I left that place feeling all starry-eyed and inspired about IB but this time with caveats: What time is worth giving to teach 10 of 150 students v. what do I owe them since they are among the few who actually care? When will I find the time to implement the necessary changes I hope to see - as in reading, selecting, and preparing a new curriculum for the course - that will in the long run make my job easier, but that will in the short term increase my work load at a time when I am stretched so thin? What would make me more credible and therefore respected as an educator? Age? A second degree? A change in locality? Etc. and so on.

I savor going to these conferences because I have the opportunity to imagine what the ideal classroom looks like. I enjoy hobnobbing with people from all over the nation and beyond, in part because I find them all so familiar, but also because I romanticize their situations. I don't have to see them in the trenches of reality; at conferences we are all academics, inspirations, of value. For three short days we get to experience those platitudes that people are so willing to dole out to teachers: that we are needed, that our job makes a difference, that we are worthy of all the lovely things in the world (such as hot breakfast, a fluffy, down duvet, and genuine conversation).

But I'm back, now, counting down the days until my next escape. The baby was up all night. The neighbor dog barked in between baby shrieks. The kitchen needs a good scrubbing, and research papers are due on Tuesday.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Missed Salon Topics

Discussion topics for March 6:
1. Does Capitalism promise luxury?
2. You are what you read.
3. Will Localism replace Globalism?

Sunday, March 1, 2009

A Note on the Sacred

For the last time, school is NOT about the kids. I realize that that sounds like an inflammatory remark. What I mean is school is a community of teaching, learning, and relationships, one that involves kids, their parents, the teachers and administrators, and the community.

If we are going to treat school like a business (because our culture cannot break away from this), as in a customer service industry, then the closest we can get is NOT administrators as employers, teachers as employees, and kids, their parents and community as customers. If anything, it would have to be teachers, administrators, parents, and community as employers and kids as employees. And even that is a flawed analogy because since all business involves capital, we then have to place a value on people and call them assets and commodities. When it becomes about numbers and trends, we've lost the community aspect of the (sacred) learning environment.

Because we are not respectful of the sacred, what teaching and learning should be, we can't expect for many things to run smoothly.

At the very least, principals - your job is to take care of the teachers so that they can take care of the students. The students will graduate or not, but they'll leave. The teachers remain.