Classroom Clean
Pots and Kettles and Dark Hues
The recent brouhaha over the war in Iraq has drawn Bush and his gang out of its shell of silence. Cheney has recently stepped into the fight:
Vice President Dick Cheney on Wednesday lashed out at Democrats who accused the Bush administration of manipulating intelligence in the run-up to the Iraq war, saying such critics were spreading "one of the most dishonest and reprehensible charges ever aired" in Washington.
Cheney also suggested that the Democratic attacks could undermine troop morale.
"The saddest part is that our people in uniform have been subjected to these cynical and pernicious falsehoods day in and day out," Cheney said in a speech in Washington to a conservative think tank.
"American soldiers and Marines are out there every day in dangerous conditions and desert temperatures . . . and back home a few opportunists are suggesting they were sent into battle for a lie," Cheney said. (L.A. Times)
In a sense, he has a point. If the administration did indeed admit to “selectively choosing” intelligence so as to make the war a little more attractive, would the average soldier be inclined to go back out, day after day risking his/her life? Probably not. In other words, troop morale would be affected were the charges admitted (and I’m not even saying here they’re true).
But Cheney’s claim that merely suggesting it, his claim that asking tough questions about the origins of the war affects troop morale, is absurd. It amounts to using the soldiers’ daily risks for political gain – a way of stifling the critics. Not the race card, but the soldier card.
And then he calls Democrats "opportunists."
But what choice do they have?
After all, a little honesty can go a long way. So it’s better, in the end, I suppose, to shut up and die for a lie, knowing that its for the greater good, because now that we’re involved we can’t withdraw, even though our involvement was finagled by intelligence massaging…
It’s all more convoluted than that attempt at a grammatically based illustration.
If the Bush administration has nothing to hide in this matter, why is it historically tight-lipped about everything? Why is it swinging away with such panic blows?
Stack
Recently, I went through old things my parents had been storing for ages, and threw out most of what I found. Last night, it was time to tackle the big sorting/trashing issue: pictures.
Nine and a half years ago (almost) when I heading off to Poland for the very first time, I knew I’d be seeing things so novel that a strange urge to photograph said things would arise in my otherwise photographically indifferent soul. “I’ll buy a decent camera before I go,” I reasoned, plunking down probably about $200 for a point and shoot. I’ve since lost that camera, but my interest in photography has only grown.
As has my collection of pictures. Until last night, it took up a significant portion 15x21x15 tub. Stack upon stack of pictures: Lipnica, Gdansk, Prague, Vienna, Strasbourg, Boston, and points in between.
I went through them with a merciless eye, and ended up throwing out at least half of them — probably more. A twelve-inch stack of pictures, all told.
It wasn’t gut-wrenchingly hard, but there was a moment, just before tossing it all in the trash, than I thought, “Maybe I should go through these one more time.” After all, what if I’d thrown away the only pictures I’d had of some part of my life?
Some insignificant part of my life, for I realized that in ten short years I’d gone from photographic indifference to photographic hoarding.
Why would throwing away. Several times I thought I had at least two dozen of the same picture, taken at different times during my initial three years in Poland. I took pictures of everything and then did it again. In the tub I found pictures so almost-ineffably useless (badly conceptualized, badly printed) that it was depressing.
On the other hand, I found it reassuring. At least now these images are clearly bad. There’s no debating it. Which means, in theory, my eye has sharpened and perhaps I’ve become a better photographer.
Random Memory
Seven years ago almost to the day, I took the GRE. Living in rural Poland, I had to get up at five in the morning to take a bus to Krakow in order to take the blasted test. Arriving, I had to wait about two hours to take the test.
Not the best start.
I scored decently -- over 1800 -- but found my analytical score to be about 100 points below what I’d been making in practice tests at home.
One of those silly dress rehearsals I had a perfect score in the analytical section. With a catch: I ignored the time limit and simply worked the problem.
I’ve never understood the point of putting a time limit on a test like the GRE. It means that the exam measures how well you do on silly riddles, geometry problems, and the like under severe time pressure.
And given all the courses and books designed to “help performance,” the whole test is a ridiculous joke.
Not So Hallow…
I’ve never gone trick-or-treating in my entire life. Never once. I grew up in a church that declared it pagan, satanic, and completely off-limits for any “true Christian.” As a result of living most of my adult life in Poland, I’ve never been at home when trick-or-treaters came round. I lived in Boston for two years, but I think I was out with friends when the kids were making their rounds. And so last night was to be the first night I handed out candy.
Kinga and I weren’t terribly thrilled about it, but it was a novelty for both of us, and we both like novelty. We went to Sam’s Club and bought three bags of candy, sure that we’d be mobbed. There are quite a few kids that live in our apartment complex, and it seemed to be prime hunting ground for kids of parents who prefer a somewhat controlled environment for their wee ones.
Not a single knock. Nothing.
Kinga mocked sadness, but I think it was more the realization that we’d already opened one of the bags of candy and would not be able to return it for a refund.
And we never did carve the pumpkin my parents brought the last time the came for a visit.
The Question
Recently, at an interview for a teaching position, I had the most curious feeling that I was missing the completely obvious. The principal asked, as the interview was winding down, if I had any questions.
I didn’t have any questions, and said as much.
I was asked again, a few moments later, if I was sure I didn’t have any questions.
At this point, I started thinking, “Should I be asking something? What could I possibly ask about? Is this a way of seeing how interested I am in the job?”
It’s a teaching position: the salary, working hours, curriculum — already set. I’d already asked about enrollment, student demographics, various policy issues, etc.
“What can I ask about?” I think. Finally I answered, “No — I’m sure once I leave here, as always happens, I’ll think of some question about minutiae, but for now…”
And it came again…
The interviewer had that expression that says, “I know you know how to respond!” I’ve used the expression countless times in the classroom.
What was going on? What didn’t I ask about?
Incomplete thoughts about Autism and Society
Homosexuality used to be considered a mental illness. The placing of heated glass bulbs on a bare back and the resulting bruises were once considered treatment for all kinds of ills. Medical science has shown both these medical assumptions to be false. Despite that, many still claim that homosexuality is an illness of some sort, and cupping is still performed in many places in the world.
Such interpretations of autism are possible as well.
“Autism is not a disease but social construct.” Such is one position on the causes of autism. Wikipedia explains it thusly:
This is the belief that autism is not really a disorder, but instead is a social construct. That is, supporters of this theory do not believe autism exists at all; they believe (partly supported by recent reference to the rising cases of diagnosed autism) that autism is just the way some people are–that is, a part of the person’s personality, which might explain the apparent difficulty in finding a model and a cure. This is further supported by the fact that autistic people have normal lifespans and their condition often comes with advantages, not just disadvantages.
I can imagine another, even more radical explanation for the tantrums and screaming of autism: “overly-permissive parenting.” When working with autistic children, I see from time to time a glint in their eyes that make such a thought pass through my mind. “They’re faking it, just throwing a tantrum to get their way, and taking it to a higher level than most children.” That’s the easy answer, and I realize that that “glint” I think I see is simply my interpretation plastered over the incident.
The most radical explanation would probably come from the church I grew up in: they’re demon possessed. What person in their right mind would suggest such a thing is beyond me, but I can think of groups whose members would probably easily jump to that conclusion.
But all three explanations (though quote-unquote is probably needed there) deal with our perception of the condition and our notion of what is acceptable in society. Our society considers, in most cases, kicking and screaming as an inadequate adult response to disappointment or coercion. Yet if that _were_ the appropriate reaction, autism would not suddenly disappear. Linguistic difficulties, lagging social skills, an inability to see things from another’s perspective, repetitive behavior, and exaggerated or depressed sensory systems would all remain.
The Scream
If you’ve never heard the scream of an autistic child, count your blessings. It’s inconceivable how a single, shrill sound could convey so much pain, confusion, and anger. The scream comes from so deep inside them it sounds more animal than human. And yet, it’s so shrill and hollow that it’s ethereal.
Often words are woven into the scream -- “I hate you!” or “Get away from me!” -- to produce a genderless voice. Add the repetitive nature of what they’re screaming and it’s not difficult to see how this could have once been labeled “demon possession.”
Autism, in the time of a rage, wipes away all differences between afflicted children -- gender, intelligence, everything -- and replaces it with a screech. The rage contorts the face, flails the limbs, and lashes out at anything in the vicinity. The scream fills whatever space you’re in, seeming at times almost like another entity, hovering around the child as you try to isolate her so that so can calm herself.
If it happens around children who are not accustomed to it, the bewilderment and pity in their eyes is striking. And it’s impossible to deny the spark of fear as well.
Often the screaming subsides as quickly as it comes on. A raging child might notice there’s an echo in the room where he is, and that will be enough to derail the rage and pacify the child.
Along the Blue Ridge Parkway
On Working with Autistic Children
Working with these kids takes so much out of you. It’s a constant struggle — physical but espcially mental — to keep the kids on-task, to keep them calm, to maintain a semblance of order and progress in the room. One day they can be going off like popcorn. The slightest thing can set them off.
This one runs around the room, evading all efforts to stop her, gradually getting more and more angry until the rage hits, and the screaming, kicking, biting. That one sits at his seat, sarcastically chanting his mantra of defiance. Leave him alone and he’ll continue ad infinitum; try verbally or even physically to get him back on task and he’ll be running around the room too. Another sits, watching, cheering the eruption on. “Kick him! Kick him!” is the cry. I’m trying to calm one and the other’s cat-calling us both.
Sometimes you feel as if you’ve been thrown into a lake with bound hands and wearing jeans–it’s a struggle just to survive.
Take nothing personally. That’s critical in all teaching, but especially when working with children cursed with autism. The biter might be a hugger in fifteen minutes. No, scratch that. In fifteen seconds. “I hate you! Get away from me, stupid teacher,” from the mouth of a nine-year-old who later says, “I really love you. You’re awesome.”
All your angry adult reactions sometimes build up, though, and in a flash, you see yourself screaming back at the child yelling at you, giving them exactly, word for word, what they give you. But not only does the cruel unreasonableness of this idea force the image out of your mind, but you also really don’t have time to indulge in such perverse pressure-releasing fantasies, for you see that as soon as you get this situation under control, there’s bound to be another explosion. You see it coming. He’s reaching for her pencil. She’s forcing an apology on an irritated student. They’re arguing over the finer details of an episode of _Star Wars_. And even if all’s calm except for the child you’re struggling with, you know that in a flash it can all disappear.
And yet. And yet there’s the hope that you can make the cliché difference. “If I’m just this much more patient, this much more ingenious, this much more educated about the condition,” you think.
The trick is to see the child and not the condition. The autism perverts the child’s real personality, adding hatred where there is none, confusion where clarity is simple, and fear where there should be none. When you see the real child, not the child whose face is smeared into a scream by a condition he has no control over, all the frustration and anger disappear and your heart is both soothed and broken.
Bad Moon Rising
It's a full moon, and I'm starting to wonder just what effects that can have on a person's psyche.
For the past week, I've been working elementary school children, the majority of whom have various degrees of high-functioning autism. Today was an especially difficult day, with rages set off every few minutes. Almost to a child they had a breakdown of some sort or another.
"It's a full moon," one of the assistants said.
There was a time I would have been skeptical of such a claim. However, with a week of experience under my built, I know how these children usually behave. I saw today that there were quantifiably more eruptions than usual.
While I'm more than a little skeptical about the effects of stars on humans, moon and wind can certainly have demonstrable effects on people. In southern Poland, there's a warm wind that blows during autumn and spring that brings with it sleeplessness (Once, during one of these periods, I couldn't sleep for four nights) and an increase in irritability with everyone from students to office workers. Could I have been seeing the effects of the moon today?
It seems so medieval. "Beware the full moon!" Our issues today are attributable to most everything but phases of the moon, but perhaps the ancients got it right.
Yet, it's not the cause. This article discusses the impact of environmental issues on autistic children.
Substandards
Yesterday evening Kinga and I watched Człowiek z Marmuru ("Man of Marble"), something of a 70’s Polish Citizen Kane, directed by Andrzej Wajda. I decided to watch it with the subtitles on, with the thought of possibly reviewing it for Anvil and Sprocket, a friend's film review site.
I was horrified, though, at the pathetic translation for the subtitles. I would say no more than sixty-five to seventy percent of what was said was actually translated. The subtitles were more a summary of the dialogue than the dialogue itself. So many subtleties were completely dropped as a result that some of the more interesting characters in the film were simply flat, boring characters. If I didn’t know Polish, I would have said, “Oh, it’s okay.” But it’s not just “okay.” It’s a brilliant film, which does lose a bit of momentum at the end and Krystyna Janda does over-act a bit here and there. Still, the idea is solid – a Polish Citizen Kane that tracks the rise and fall of master mason Mateusz Birkut, a humble man who becomes a symbol of Polish Communist labor through propaganda films. It is one of the most accessible films for non-Poles, for there is a lot that depends on an intimate knowledge of Polish culture. But if you don’t know the language and rely on the subtitles, it is significantly diminished.
It got me to thinking about the art of subtitles. You certainly can’t write everything the characters say, for no one could read that fast and keep up with what the visual aspect of the film – which is, after all, somewhat important in film! And yet, you have to leave enough in to round out characters, else you get a film with flat characters.
Good reading
Want to read an account of the coronation of Jan III Sobieski, King of Poland, published in London in 1676?
I didn’t think so. Those f-y looking seventeenth-century s’s get on my nerves, too.
(From Textism)
Golden Slippers
Not quite as distant as it sounds, Mars Hill is a small community about fifteen miles north of Asheville. Last weekend, Kinga and I went up for a country fair. Bluegrass music, quilting stalls, homemade cheese -- the whole deal.
We bought some great goat cheese, and of course, there was a bit of live music everywhere.
That's one of the greatest things about bluegrass: it's community music. The more, the merrier. In that sense, it's very similar to Polish Goralski (Highlander) music. Songs that everyone knows, half the people wandering around have instruments themselves -- it always becomes a big sing-along.
More than that, though, bluegrass and Goralski both run the cliche gamut as far as talent goes. In a group of players, there'll be one or two who just astound, and one or two who clearly have just begun playing.
Another critical similarity: both sound much better live, and too much recorded music of either can be tiresome.
Good morning
I’m shocked at how many times I’ve said “Good morning” to students coming into class where I’m subbing, and been ignored.
Completely ignored.
What happened to politeness? What happened to basic social skills?