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Magnanimity

BalanceI try hard in my class to keep my political and religious opinions hidden. When students asked me, “Who’d you vote for,” I simply replied, “That’s not a topic I feel is appropriate for the classroom.” Some students asked why; most seemed satisfied.

In today’s political climate, though, I’m not so much worried about students determining my political beliefs as much as I am concerned at the prospect of them thinking they have sorted out my political views — and then discussing that with their parents

We were working on Greek and Latin roots and affixes today in class, and we came to the word “magnanimous.” We went over the meaning, and as an example of magnanimity, the name “Obama” floated into the room.

To say I equivocated (another of today’s vocab words) would be an understatement. I was, for at least three to four seconds, speechless. Running through my head were concerns with how to avoid even an appearance of bias and a bit of paranoia about what might happen if I couldn’t succeed in the attempt.

“Sure,” I said haltingly. “Especially when he speaks. Most presidents seem magnanimous when they’re addressing large groups.”

Why couldn’t it have simply been “Sure?” Even if there weren’t all the political frothing at the mouth about Obama’s recent address to students, I would have been uncomfortable leaving it politically unbalanced. But I wouldn’t have briefly panicked about it.

Later in the day, in going over a new selection, we were discussing when it was morally permissible to defy a law, and the general conclusion hovered around the idea of unjust laws. We made a list of people in history and literature who’d done this: Rosa Parks, Gandhi, Thoreau. Someone mentioned Robin Hood, and I replied, “True — robbing the rich to give to the poor.”

From the back row comes a distinct, unsolicited comment: “Just like Obama.”

I let it slide, choosing not even to acknowledge it, which I think was the right decision. Still, that panic returned. “If I let it stand, will I look like I agree and that my class has a political bias? If I mention it’s inappropriateness, even if I say that the real problem was not the content but the method of delivery, will I look like an Obama defender?”

And then I thought, “I’m worried about appearing to defend the President of the United States?”

It’s not that I’m concerned about some McCarthy-ian consequences. I couldn’t lose my job about something so trivial. But in this time of heightened sensitivity toward anything connected to Obama, particularly here in South Carolina, where many folks view Representative Wilson as a hero, I find myself thinking, “You can never be too careful.”

Constantly thinking about the political implications of student and teacher remarks makes for particularly effect pedagogy.

Minimalism

A Mongolian throat singer performing one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard.

Simultaneously foreign and comforting, it somehow captures the Mongolia that exists in our imagination: harsh yet beautiful.

Similar to this is Tuvan throat singing — creating whistling harmonics while singing.

I could listen to this music endlessly, I think.

Pole Party

When you get a large group of Poles together (especially expats), there are two things that are certain to happen:

  1. At some point, all participants will be herded into one room for a speech. The topic is variable, but it will happen. And it will at some point seem like something out of the film Rejs.
  2. There will be singing. Masses of people will join together, singing songs from childhood, songs of national significance, songs that seem to sound best when sung at the top of one’s voice.

That predictability is somehow comforting.

Daily

Pens on Flickr

I began keeping a journal my freshman year in college. I wrote almost every single day. When I arrived in Poland in 1996, I kept the journal daily for two straight years.

One night — though “early morning” might be a better description — I realized, as I lay me down to sleep, that I hadn’t written anything that day. I picked up my pen, scribbled the date, and quickly wrote, “I’m writing this to keep my streak going.” I’m not sure if that really counted, but it did give me a sense of closure as I drifted off to sleep.

I don’t write in my journal as much these days: much of what I would write, I write in here. I try to write dream of writing daily, but sometimes, I just have difficulty motivating myself.

Like this evening.

Pushing Buttons

"Buttons, Arduino & unsped shield" by musicalgeometry on Flickr

Many of my students expose their emotional buttons and switches freely and openly. Within a few minutes of meeting some of them, I can tell what their sensitivities are.

“How many administrative referrals did you get last year?” I ask some of them, with a smile that I hope says, “I’m not trying to size you up — I’m just curious.”

“A lot,” a girl — call her Ann — responds.

“Did you notice my question?” I query. “I didn’t ask, ‘Did you receive any referrals?’ but rather ‘How many did you get?’ I’ll bet you got several of those referrals because you simply walked away from a teacher who was saying something you didn’t want to hear.”

I have her attention: she’s curious, and that’s always a good thing.

“How could you tell?” Ann asks.

With their posture, gait, tone and volume of voice, many of these kids speak loads without saying a word. Yet they’re totally unaware of it. Of more concern is that they’re unaware that others are aware of it and can use it against them.

“When you advertise what ‘makes’ you lose control,” I explain, “You provide others with ammunition. The teacher who doesn’t like you at that moment knows: ‘All I have to do is push a little harder and she’ll definitely give me something to write up.’ You let others know your weakness and they might use them against you.” I pause for a moment, deciding to use a bit of vernacular: “Then who got played? Who got owned?”

“Me,” she says meekly.

I have these little conversations after class with the kids that would be labeled “at risk” because they are at risk: they’re in danger of becoming slaves to their own impulses and the people who can pick up on those signals and use them.

Occasionally, there are moments that illustrate that they are indeed beginning to pick up on the signals they give off. They are aware that others can only “make them” mad if they allow it by advertising their sensitivities and reacting predictably.

This afternoon, while students were waiting for their buses, I was joking with a young man that I could probably get him in a state that would end in a disciplinary referral for him. We’d been joking with each other all class about such things, and he stridently denied that I could “push his buttons.”

“How about you,” I ask the boy’s neighbor. “Do you think you have advertised what gets you hot? Do you think I could push your buttons and get you furious in just a few moments in class” He shrugs his shoulders.

I turn to Ann, always one of the last students waiting for her bus. “I’ll bet I could get you.” I know I can: I already have, inadvertently. The question — the hope — appears in my mind: “Will she own up to it?”

“You already have, Mr. S.” Her grin is an odd combination of devilish delight and sheepish vulnerability.

I smile. “Do you think I could do it again if I tried? I won’t ever try, but if I were to try, what do you think?”

She shrugs her shoulders and looks away. For just a moment, though, her eyes say, “I don’t think so. At least I hope not.” A first step — an admission of ownership and of personal responsibility.

“One small step for man…” I think, as the students leave for the bus. I glance down at the roll book and see four more names that need to have such a brief moment of self-confidence in their ability to control their lives.

“I’ll start on him next week,” I mumble.

It’s all part of the growing realization I’m having about working with these “tough” kids. The cliche is spot on: they don’t care what I know until they know that I care. And they’re beginning to know that I care because with me, it’s not business as usual in the discipline department. The etymology of “discipline” includes notions of teaching, not notions of punishing, and I try to put that into practice in the classroom.

Intellectual Walls

Mis (Teddy Bear)
Mis (Teddy Bear)

Many people were concerned about Obama’s speech, and some conservatives were voicing fears that Obama would try to indoctrinate the youth. Concerned conservative groups urged parents to keep their children at home, to shield them from the insidious message of socialism. “Parents have a right to decide what their children hear!” they protested, “And we’re only trying to protect our children.”

The irony is, in trying to shield their children from a perceived socialist threat, they were engaging in behavior that historically has been most commonly exhibited by — surprise! — socialist regimes.

One of the most frightening features of the Soviet Union and its satellite states was the complete control they had over information. Orwell’s 1984 had the Records Department of the Ministry of Truth, which altered historical documents to create the appearance of Big Brother’s omniscience. The Soviet Union, in many ways, did the same thing.

More importantly, though, anything and everything from the corrupt West was censored. The capitalist message was so insidious that it might indoctrinate the happy citizens of the Soviet Union and lead to the downfall of the the most perfect civilization on Earth. Capitalism was bad, so bad that even to think about it was deadly.

The Polish cult classic Mis (“Teddy Bear”) has a scene dramatizing what surely happened each and every time a sports team from a communist country traveled West for a competition. The director of the sports club gives the standard speech before getting on the bus:

You’re going to a capitalist country, which might have it’s own, well, advantages. Take care that those advantages don’t overshadow the disadvantages.

The advantages could be so seductive that they could cast their spell even in the midst of post-war destruction: Stalin imprisoned many of the Soviet soldiers who’d been on the far Western front. They’d seen too much; they’d been contaminated. Indoctrinated.

The Soviets didn’t want informed citizens who could weigh the advantages and disadvantages of socialism and capitalism and choose wisely. Big Brother knew very well how seductive the dark side could be, and he took great pains to shield his younger siblings’ eyes and plug their ears.

“We’re Sleeping in a Forest”

When there’s a toddler in the family, life is a series of firsts: first time swimming; first time on an airplane; first time at the ocean.

This weekend, we added another one: first time camping, at Oconee State Park.

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Oconee State Park was one of the many parks created during the thirties by the Civilian Conservation Corps. Given all the “socialism!” and “socialist!” and “socializing!” noise of the last days, it seemed oddly appropriate that we cut ourselves off from the civilized world by going to a New Deal project. I felt brainwashed when we left, but not indoctrinated.

Our “rustic site,” deep in the woods and far away from the hordes of RV-ers, was just that: very spartan. A semi-flat spot for a tent, a picnic table, and a fire circle were the only things non-native.

L was immediately thrilled, particularly with the prospect of roasting marshmallows on the fire.

“And now we can,” began K, and L finished, “Marshmallows?”

“I’m going to bring that from the car, then we can,” I said, and L finished, “Marshmallows?”

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When the time finally came, though, it turned out that marshmallow preference might be genetic: like me, she didn’t really care for the marshmallow but greatly enjoyed setting them on fire. K and I ate one each; L burned most of the remainder.

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It being L’s first time out, we decided to make every effort to maintain our daily routine. L was more than happy to watch the fire rather than read a book as she readied herself for bed.

The next morning, another first: mini golf. L quickly developed her own style, and her own rules.

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“I hear they’re going to count that as a legitimate stroke,” I said to a father of two one hole ahead of us as we both watched, laughing, L gently push her ball to the hole. “If the ball remains in contact with the club’s face, it’s one stroke.” Our neighboring golfer liked the rule.

She seemed to enjoy putting it into her pocket after every hole more than the actual game itself.

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For others, it was all about the game.

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In the afternoon, we did the logical thing: go swimming. The man-made lake was shallow but cold. L didn’t notice, though.

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The water’s coolness was quite possibly a relief to some, considering their trajectories toward the water and the smack! of impact.

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It was an afternoon of “again.”

“I want to jump!” cried L. “Again, and again, and again!”

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No mini-vacation afternoon would be complete without ice cream. As a younger toddler, L took a while to appreciate the sweet chill of good ice cream. These days, there’s no question, no hesitation, and no doubt.

“Want some ice cream?” we asked, though only rhetorically.

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And the question had to be well-timed. The swim in the lake would have lasted all but five minutes had she known we were planning on having ice cream afterward.

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We headed to a playground, where we were surprised once again at how quickly L can pick up a new skill. All it took was seeing one little girl slide down the pole at the corner of the playground and L was begging to try.

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The paddle boat was a slightly different story, though. It’s odd: L loves water, but she’s always very nervous doing something new around the water. The ocean terrified her, and the lake at the park initially didn’t calm her anxieties much.

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Still, she was willing to try, provided we took a blue boat.

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A walk around the park brought the weekend to a close, and the water fountain at the end of the trail was a thrilling surprise for L.

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As always, the best part, though, was the return. Lumpy, slanted nights’ sleep left all of us feeling we hadn’t actually slept at all. “I woke up every single time I turned over,” K admitted as I mumbled about how badly I slept.

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It left us all jealous of creatures who can curl up comfortably wherever they are, and happy at the thought of our own beds.

“Just think: it will be soft, even, and flat.”

Confusion

Some weeks seem intent on confusing the sense out me. Students say things that literally leave me speechless, wondering whether or not the kid is joking. Parents and pundits around the land fall into spasms of paranoia about a presidential speech intended to encourage students to take their studies seriously. An odd, high-pitched whistle begins drifting into the house through the back windows at various times during the week leaving everyone wondering what the devil that sound could be.

A long weekend away from all the confusion and nonsense hopefully will help. At the very least, L will experience and hopefully enjoy her first camping trip.

Journals

How does one keep a journal? It’s something I’ve done for so long that I no longer even think about it. And yet when you’re starting out, doing it on command–and for a grade, no less–then it might seem a little intimidating.

“Three hundred words, three times a week,” I said. “About anything.”

“Anything?” the students ask incredulously.

“Yes, anything.”

“Anything” is an awfully big topic. So big it could be overwhelming. I understand their concerns.

One thing I mentioned was writing about school work and projects. I need to tell them, “You should think of a journal as a place where you simply think aloud.” Perhaps that will help. “It’s a place where you can think through the Lord of the Flies project or tease out all the reasons you don’t really like So-and-so, or where you can simply play with language.

“Here language, fetch.”

Students tend to question the value of it, especially when I tell them that I won’t be reading each journal in its entirety. “Then why write it?”

“Writing is just like any other activity: the more you do it, the better you get.”
Some buy it, some don’t.

Face to Face

What is it about the great apes that simply draws us to them? Undoubtedly, it’s the similarity (both anatomic and genetic) that we share with them. The temptation is to point to our common ancestor, somewhere in the depths of prehistory, and suggest that we somehow know, on an instinctive level, that we’re related.

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