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Back to the Dream

Tuesday 11 August 2009 | 0 Comments

I end the year dusting and I start it with a rag in my hand as well. Before we can check out for the summer, we teachers have a myriad of duties and responsibilities, not the least of which is preparing our room for the summer cleaning. This involves taking everything not attached to the floor out into the hall way, refinishing the floor, then putting everything back. At both ends of the summer, then, there is a thin layer of dust on many things.

There is usually something similar clouding students' minds in the early weeks. They act as if we've awakened them from a deep sleep and not given them the time to clear the haze from their thinking. In short, they forget some of what they learned the year before.

It's to be expected. After all, who wants to rehearse subject/verb agreement and the quadratic equation when everyone else is at the pool or on a trip?

So I spent the day dusting and arranging, preparing to dust and arrange.

Edisto Beach in Motion

Monday 10 August 2009 | 0 Comments

Books in the Basement

Sunday 09 August 2009 | 0 Comments

In the process of reorganizing the basement storage/work room, K and I have been tearing open boxes that have sat virtually untouched for years. Most of it consists of my own belongings, packed up while I lived in Poland in the late 1990s (eventually repacked into sturdy Rubber Maid storage bins). My parents moved, and instead of making the decisions for me, they left it to me, ten years later, to go through the stuff and toss out that which was once treasure but now trash. Granted, I could have done it earlier, but I lacked the serious motivation. Who wants to root around through old boxes of memories?

I had cracked the box that I knew contained my photographs. Eventually, when I moved back to Poland in the early 2000s and dumped on them all my earthly possessions collected in Boston and Polska, the box grew to contain pictures from close to thirty years of my life. It was a strong incentive, and I'd gone through that box several times.

The rest of the boxes remained packed, essentially for close to fifteen years. This was the week that I opened them.

The vast majority were books and toys from my own childhood that my mother had saved. Most of them were in remarkably good shape, especially the books. Not a spot of mold; not a hint of mildewy age.

I found a Harriet the Spy tour location tour on Flickr while writing this -- well worth the time of any fans.

And so I took some time to go through books from my childhood, most of which I hadn't held in my hands for at least twenty-five years. A look at the title and I remember almost everything: plot, illustration style with specific illustrations, and even my favorite parts. Petunia, the Sweet Pickles series, Benjamin Dilley's Lavender Lion, stacks of Tell-A-Tale books–and so many other books I didn't even remember having until I pulled them from the box. Near the bottom, late-childhood favorites hid: Harriet the Spy, a book on real, scary sea monsters, a book on tornadoes.

There were few specific memories about the books. Instead, it was general feelings, peaceful feelings. Calm.

I pulled several out to give to L.

Her collection grows, and her eyes always light up when she gets a new book.

She takes books everywhere: she wants them by her as she plays; she wants them in the car with her; she wants one when on the potty. All of these are negotiable. The non-negotiable is the bedtime book. Usually her pick. That night, though, I chose: Petunia.

“Poor Petunia. Poor animals.” L mutters sympathetically when the firecrackers go off, scattering and injuring the animals.

I'm doing more than passing down books; I'm sharing memories in the most direct way, by recreating them.

Lie

Saturday 08 August 2009 | 1 Comment

The evidence was everywhere: an empty wrapper; brown stains around the mouth; dark smears down the front of the dress; cocoa breath; the knick-knack box that stored chocolates sent from Babcia in Poland on the floor open.

"L, did you eat chocolate?" I ask.

She put her head down in shame -- a new trick -- and the looked up and said calmly, "No."

I look at her quizzically and ask again. I get the same answers.

And suddenly, everything I'd learned about parenting during the last thirty-one months goes out the window. "How do you deal with someone lying who isn't old enough to know what truth is?"

Some quick research shows that my assumption was right:

Your toddler lies because at this age he's not yet able to differentiate between reality and fantasy. Until he's 3 or 4, your toddler won't fully grasp the concept of lying, because he doesn't yet understand the idea of an objective truth based in fact. (S.Denham)

And yet, it didn't seem like the the best idea simply to ignore it. Denham goes on to provide suggestions in her article, but standing there, looking at a chocolate smeared little girl who'd just told me ever so sweetly, "No, I didn't eat chocolate," I experienced something I hadn't experienced at home for quite some time. At school, this happens quite frequently, but at home -- not so much. In short, I stood there dumbfounded, wondering what in the world is the "right" way to handle the situation.

I told her that she'd lied, and I explained what that mean in concrete terms: "You told me you didn't eat the chocolate, but you did eat it."

And from there? Everything that came to mind just seemed so pedantic and ineffectual.

"Teach about the truth" is now on the parenting to-do-when-she's-old-enough list.

On Fire, In More Ways Than Intended

Wednesday 05 August 2009 | 0 Comments

I've been buying and reading books on pedagogy this summer, and one I bought was Rafe Esquith's Teach Like Your Hair's on Fire: The Methods and Madness Inside Room 56. Esquith is all the rage: after all, how many fifth grade teachers do Shakespeare with students after class?

There are some good ideas in there, and initially I was hopeful that it would be a useful book. His discussion of the importance of trust in the classroom and some ideas of how to integrate that into a classroom management plan excited me, as this was something I was hoping to focus on this year.

Soon, though, some things started to feel off. Discussing the fact that educators are role models, Esquith writes,

Some of my students laugh bitterly at a teacher they once had. They discuss her in the most unflattering of terms. She often comes to school late. [... She] talks on her cell phone constantly. Even when the kids are being taken somewhere, their fearless leader walks in front of them gabbing on the phone. [...] The same teacher thinks she is "secretly" shopping online while the kids do their science assignments. She believes the kids do not know what she is doing. She is very much mistaken. (10)

My initial reaction: what an awful teacher. My second, more thoughtful reaction: how in the world does Esquith know this? Certainly, a teacher can overhear students talking in class about a teacher they had, but if the conversation continues long enough for the teacher to garner this much information, one of two things is happening:

  1. These kids aren't working but sitting in class having free time, which they're using to gossip about another teacher; or,
  2. Esquith discusses other teachers with his classes.

Neither one of these is terribly flattering. The passage in the book is terribly unprofessional.

One passages deserves to be quoted at length:

You see, the children at our school do not read well. They do not like to read. As of this writing, 78 percent of the Latino children on our campus are not proficient in reading, according to our state's standardized tests. This means one of two things: Either we have the stupidest kids on the planet , or we are failing these children. Please believe me when I tell you that the vast majority of our students are perfectly capable of learning to read. No one wants to admit it, but a systemic conspiracy of mediocrity keeps these children on the treadmill of illiteracy.

To fight the problem, we now have "literacy coaches" at schools. Most of these "experts" are former classroom teachers who never accomplished much with their own students. [...]

Teaching our children to read well and helping them develop a love of reading should be our top priorities. People seem to understand this. Millions are spent on books and other reading material, celebrities make public service announcements, and thousands of hours are spent training teachers. The spin doctors at various publish companies tell us that our students are doing better, but honest people know this is simply not the case. Concerned teachers have learned not to bother raising their voices, because powerful textbook companies have carefully prepared answers to anyone who points out that the emperor has no clothes. Young teachers are afraid of being crushed by bureaucrats whose only real mission is to keep selling their product. As testing services compete to rake in millions of dollars, nervous school districts anxiously await the latest test results. And year after year, most children do not become passionate lifelong readers.

It's complicated. There is a lot of finger-pointing. But to borrow a phrase from another big, fat book that won a Pulitzer Prize, our children are victims of a sort of “confederacy of dunces.” Powerful forces of mediocrity have combined to prevent perfectly competent children from learning to love reading. These forces include television, video games, poor teaching, poverty, the breakup of the family, and a general lack of adult guidance. (29-31)

There is a lot of truth in the statement, Testing services do make a lot of money from the increasing number of standardized tests students have to take. There can be pressure to use state-funded textbooks regardless of a teacher's preference. But the bottom line is this passage is highly insulting by presumptively marginalizing literacy coaches.

This book has some good ideas, but most of the time, I found myself thinking, "I'm glad I'm not this guy's colleague!"

Still, listening to him on NPR, I sense a humility that just doesn't come across in his writing, which is too bad.

Returning

Monday 03 August 2009 | 1 Comment

The Girl entertained herself with a box of bandages...

Botany Bay

Sunday 02 August 2009 | 0 Comments

It's probably one of the most famous roads on Edisto Island: a sand lane that runs under a canopy of Live Oaks, looking positively like something out of Gone With the Wind.

Botany Bay Wildlife Management area is actually made up of three plantations: Bleak Hall, Botany Bay, and Sea Cloud. All three grew sea island cotton, which has particularly long fibers and was used in France for high quality lace.

This morning, we're going on a botany tour -- appropriate, given the name of the site. One other family is joining us.

We walk among the marshes, stopping every few moments to learn a bit more about the island.

Along the way, one young lady catches a fiddler crab.

L gets her own:

We learn about the importance of the marshes as a protective barrier for hurricanes: they act as sponges and thus do much to minimize the effect of higher tides from hurricanes.

We find out that the English came to Edisto in search of riches and found a treasure in the huge Live Oaks on the island.

We learn that the use of palms in South Carolina naval fortifications were literally so effective at dissipating energy that canon balls essentially bounced off them.

We arrive at the beach, where our guide, Meg, gave us more information on loggerhead turtles and residents' effort to help them.

It's about the third time we've heard about loggerheads and the nest relocation activities of the Edistoians. They're obviously proud of it, and rightly so: it takes a great deal of dedication among many people to keep the program going.

Meg shows us a loggerhead skull, and it's immediately obvious how huge the turtles are. The females drag their bodies out of the water to dig a nest, and often enough, they don't get beyond the high tide line.

The incoming tide destroys the nests; volunteers on the island, though, head out nightly and relocate the nests. Then the hatchlings only have to worry about birds and raccoons as they make their way to the surf.

After Meg leaves, we explore the beach a bit on our own, and what a beach it is -- like something from a tourist brochure. In fact, it is.

The ocean is slowly reclaiming this portion of the shore. It creeps inward at a relatively steady pace, turning everything into beach, and hence killing all the flora that cannot handle an intensely salty environment.

K takes the camera and goes for a picture walk;

I stay with the Girl, hoping to talk her into the ocean,

unsuccessfully.

Ping Spong

Saturday 01 August 2009 | 1 Comment

The Sins of Scripture: Exposing the Bible's Texts of Hate to Reveal the God of Love is Shelby Spong's 2005 effort to deal with several problematic themes in the Bible. Divided into sections, each section contains several chapters dealing with:

  • The Bible and the Environment (Overpopulation and the Catholic imperative to procreate)
  • The Bible and Women (Misogyny in the Bible)
  • The Bible and Homosexuality
  • The Bible and Children
  • The Bible and Anti-Semitism
  • The Bible and Certainty
  • Reading Scripture as Epic History

Spong flip-flops on how to explain these problematic passages. Sometimes, he seems to say "We've been misinterpreting this all along"; with other passages, he seems to say, "Well, primitive times, backwards thinking." But with certain core items, he simply disregards them as being unscientific and unable to teach us anything.

He deals with the major passages about homosexuality in the first manner. The command in Leviticus not to lie with another man as one would a woman has been misinterpreted throughout the millenia. What it means, Spong explains, is not to treat men in a subservient manner, not to treat a man like a woman. In explaining it this way, Spong is essentially saying, "This is not a homophobic text; it's a misogynistic text!" Whew -- what a relief. Apparently, the writer of Leviticus just meant "Don't treat your lover as if he's lower than you" or "Don't treat him like a woman."

The other method of dealing with troubling texts is to employ the "they didn't know better; they were primitive people back then" argument. He does this with the misogynistic passages. He gives great detail about all the double standards in the Old and New Testament for women (women are ceremonially unclean longer when giving birth to girls; woman are not to hold positions of authority or even ask questions in church; when are to be sequestered when menstruating), and he seems simply to brush it aside by saying, "Well, we know God couldn't be misogynistic, so these texts represent the times and culture they're written in."

Yet Spong occasionally dismisses whole episodes in the Bible because they simply can't be true. For instance, the core of traditional Christianity is wrong:

Let me state this boldly and succinctly: Jesus did not die for your sins or my sins. That proclamation is theological nonsense. It only breeds more violence as we seek to justify the negativity that religious people dump on others because we can no longer carry its load. […]

We are not fallen, sinful people who deserve to be punished. We are frightened, insecure people who have achieved the enormous breakthrough into self-consciousness that marks no other creature that has yet emerged from the evolutionary cycle. (173, 4)

One reads this and thinks, "Well, what's the point then." The logical guess is that Spong will explain, "It's not Jesus; it's what he taught." Yet many of the says of Jesus -- particularly the "I am" statements in John -- didn't happen:

Of course, Jesus never literally said any of these things. For someone to wander around the Jewish state in the first century, announcing himself to be the bread of life, the resurrection or the light of the world would have brought out people in white coats with butterfly nets to take him away. (234)

There are so many problems with that that it's difficult to know where to start. At the most basic level, this shows a profound ignorance of the nature of first century notions of mental health. We only have to look at other passages in the Bible to realize there were none. It was all attributable to demons and mystery. And there certainly wasn't anything resembling a “funny farm,” even if we strip away the nineteenth century cliches of Spong's metaphor. Unless Spong has some archeological evidence he's keeping hidden, it just doesn't have any credibility whatsoever.

If it almost seems like Spong rejects the existence of a personal God, it's because he does.

Whoa! Spong doesn't believe in a personal God, the kind of God that the monotheistic religions have been preaching for millenia? That's fine -- I don't particularly believe in that God either, but what's the point of rooting around in scripture to explain this or that when Spong doesn't even believe in the God most theists hold to be, in one way or another, the author of that scripture?

That's why reading this causes a certain sense of cognitive whiplash -- and I'd assume it's an experience common to most of his books. "We don't have to throw out the Bible because of the homophobia that drips from its pages because those passages have been misunderstood for so long; but we do need to throw out the God who supposedly wrote the Bible because no one ever comes back from the dead." Isn't faith in that very thing the heart of Christianity?

Spong isn't trying to revise Christianity as much as he's attempting to create an entirely new religious system, one that puts all holy books on the same level as the Iliad or the Odyssey. I'm fine what that; that's the level I put most holy books: instructive, but in no way more authoritative than any other book. But then to insist on calling oneself a Christian seems ridiculous.

And what's the point of it all? No Christian who believes in the bodily resurrection of Jesus, the actual existence of Adam and Eve, and the need to be saved from Original Sin is going to say, "Hey, Shelby -- good point. I'm convinced." The only people who will be convinced are fence-riders like Spong himself, people who want the cultural comforts of belonging to a religion without any of the bothersome necessities of believing in God, Jesus, etc.

Additionally, no atheist is going to be convinced. To non-theists, Shelby seems to be taking a Trans-Am, gutting it, moving the engine to the back, and turning it into a boat and yet insisting on calling it a Trans-Am. It's not a Trans-Am, and Spong's creation is not Christianity.

Spong hints at what he's after:

Creation must now be seen as an unfinished process. God cannot accurately be portrayed as resting from divine labors which are unending. There was no original perfection from which human life could fall into sin. Life has always been evolving. The Psalmist was wrong: we were not created “a little lower than the angels” (Ps. 8:5, KJV). Rather, we have evolved into a status that we judge to be only a little higher than the ape's.

This is a very different perspective. There is a vast contrast between the definition of being fallen creatures and that of being incomplete creatures. […] We do not need some divine rescue accomplished by an invasive deity to lift us from a fall that never happened and to restore us to a status we never possessed. The idea that Jesus had to pay the price of our sinfulness is an idea that is bankrupt. When that idea collapses, so do all of those violent, controlling and guilt-producing tactics that are so deeply part of traditional Christianity.

It is like an unstoppable waterfall. Baptism, understood as the sacramental act designed to wash from the newborn baby the stain of that original fall into sin, becomes inoperative. The Eucharist, developed as a liturgical attempt to reenact the sacrifice that Jesus made on the cross that paid the price of our sinfulness, becomes empty of meaning. [...]

The first step is found, I believe, in acknowledging our evolutionary origins and dispensing with any suggestion that sin, inadequacy and guilt are the definitions into which we are born. […] We might be a dead end in the evolutionary process, a creature like the dinosaur, destined for extinction. We might instead be the bridge to a brilliant future that none of us can yet imagine. (177-9)

Basically, Spong is talking more Arthur C. Clarke/2001: A Space Odyssey than anything else. Yet recall that the sequel, 2010, ends with a very Garden of Eden-esque situation:

"ALL THESE WORLDS
ARE YOURS EXCEPT
EUROPA
ATTEMPT NO
LANDING THERE
USE THEM TOGETHER
USE THEM IN PEACE"

Or maybe Spong has something else in mind. Maybe Spong doesn't really know what he has in mind. Except that he's a Christian, but only insofar as he reads the Bible and thinks Jesus was damn fine man (in as much as we can tell from his sayings, after we scrape away everything he obviously never said).

Spong calls himself a Christian, but it leaves me wondering what kind? It's seems that, having been an Episcopal priest and bishop for so long, he simply can't let go.

Emtpy Handed

Friday 31 July 2009 | 0 Comments

The first camera I remember owning was one our family bought at Sears just before a trip to California in 1984. I believe it was even a Sears brand; it seemed terribly fancy for a twelve-year-old, though it was just a point and shoot.

The next camera I remember was an SLR manual focus that I borrowed from a friend. I took some pictures of birds, but I don't think I ever developed those shots.

It wasn't until I went to Poland in 1996 that I became seriously interested in photography. I took a Canon point and shoot with me, but I quickly discovered its limitations. I headed to the market and bought a Zenit -- a Russian made SLR that could drive nails. Literally.

K's first camera was a Russian view finder that I can't even recall the name of. She moved to Zenit and Nikon; I replaced my Zenit with a succession of Nikon and Canon manual and auto focus cameras.

Finally, K and I ended up with our current primary: a Nikon D70s, which was fairly cutting edge when we bought it. Since then, we've added a couple of lenses to our collection and have a whole bag of glass to carry around.

Friday, we pack our things and head to Charleston for a day of wandering about the city, stopping at cafes for coffee, taking pictures, and simply experiencing one of America's most historic cities. We arrive and I glance in the back.

"Where'd you put the camera?" I'd been packing our bikes and related materials. I assumed...

"I didn't get it. I thought you..."

We look at each other for a moment.

What to do?

Simple: enjoy Charleston without a camera. Life without a camera is possible.

In the meantime, Nana and Papa took the Girl to the serpentarium. Nana and Papa remembered their camera...

IMG_0336

On the Ground

Friday 31 July 2009 | 0 Comments

I’m left wondering how much the average German soldier knew about the plans for the inhabitants of the land they were invading. Did they realize that, ultimately, all Poles were to be made slaves or exterminated? That all Jews were considered subhuman, and the “logical” consequences of that?

I’m reading Blitzkrieg in their Own Words: First-Hand Accounts from German Soldiers 1939-1940.

The jacket description explains that the book was written during World War II.

Written in the naive, fresh style of young men new to combat, the texts recounts the ruthless destruction of the Polish and French armies in language that shocks in its brutal enthusiasm.

One writes about the “criminal insanity of the Poles.”

Also striking is the awful irony of some of the descriptions. One soldier writes about being ambushed in a Polish village. “Civilians and soldiers out of uniform are engaging in nasty, criminal warfare.” It doesn’t require perfect hindsight shows us the hypocritical irony of the soldier’s statement: it was true even as he wrote the words.