Not Your Typical Day

There’s something about reflecting on a solitary day in our lives and observing how it has affected those that come after it. Billy Collins describes in his poem “Days” (Sailing Alone Around the Room, 57) how one day balances precariously on the preceding one. I like the visual metaphor of the “impossible tower of dishes entertainers used to build on stage” used to illustrate the dependence of one day on the previous.  So I asked my students to think about one particular day in their lives, one that stands out to them—either because it was amazing and they’d like to relive it exactly the way it was, or perhaps one that they’d like to do over like a judgment call of playground four-square—and to see analyze how that solitary day affect those that followed.

                I remember in high school or up at Ricks College when I would attempt to construct perfect day scenarios depending on what I was going to do, or the company I would spend the day with. However, more often than not, those days never really turned out. Sometimes they were better than expected, but usually none ever lived up to its expectation. These fabricated days, I realize, were the product of my imagination, a construct, if you will, of my subconscious, of what I thought I wanted; and I think that they didn’t materialize due to unrealistic expectations. These dreams were just the “children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy” (Romeo andJuliet, I, iv, 106-107). I spent too much time procrastinating my homework or trying to wax poetic in the frigid Idaho air to really think straight about my life’s direction. I don’t think I knew what I wanted or who I was really; hence the ineptness on my part to solidify a perfect day. And–perhaps, just maybe, my definition of perfect didn’t really exist. I’m sure if I gave it much thought now, it would be much different than it was over twenty years ago.

                One particular day has wandered in and out of my thoughts this morning. It followed me into the shower, rode in the passenger seat on the drive to work, and it keeps poking me in the eye as I thrum the keyboard, hitting the backspace key more often than any other as I try to capture the entire essence of this piece of my history.

                The date was January 2, 1998, the day before I was scheduled to leave southern Spain after twenty-two months and head back to the United States. I was headed back to my country, but not to the home I knew in Illinois. While I was in Andalucía, my dad changed occupations and moved to Utah. But because Dad had been in the military, I was used to moving to different places, and Utah wasn’t going to be too much different; we had vacationed there many times; Mom’s family lived in and around the Ogden area.

                That morning after a quick breakfast of a pastry and a Coke, I boarded a chartered bus and rode the winding carretera for two and a half hours between Granada and Málaga, seeing parts of the country I hadn’t yet experienced. With most of the towns we passed through still hung over from New Year celebrations, I was able to ponder the natural world that swelled around the silent concrete cities and even more motionless remote pueblos without much human interruption.

The grandeur of the countryside overwhelmed me. I knew the mountains that would greet me the next day dwarfed these rolling hills, but the ruggedness and majesty of Sierra Nevada still gave me reason to ponder the universe, the power of their Creator, and my small significance in the grand scheme of life. I passed Roman aqueducts, forgotten to time and progress, and I thought of all the evidences of civilization’s march I had personally seen in my lifetime: Stonehenge, Native American burial mounds, coliseums, medieval European castles and cathedrals, Japanese warlord treasures and temples, to name a few. History unfolded some of its secrets in my silent reverie on the mostly empty bus, head leaning against the hard, cold glass.

                Alone, I was able to ponder the last two years of my own personal history and the effects my existence might mean to Sevilla and its surrounding pueblos, Andújar and Jaén, Jerez de la Frontera, and Granada. The people and the land had changed me—of that I was sure—but had I made a difference? A myriad of faces and places passed through my subconscious until we pulled into the central bus terminal in Málaga.

                From there, I met up with six other missionaries who were headed home. We bought a few last-minute souvenirs, grabbed lunch, and caught the train to Fuéngirola, where the mission office was, and where Presidente López awaited our arrival for a final interview. The train brought us to the station earlier than we had anticipated, and left us with time to kill. Some sat and waited. I was restless and wandered the nearby streets, switching companions every so often—Bremner, McClaws, Tito, Moulton. No matter who I meandered with, though, the conversation was the same: what the future might hold.

                I had been accepted to Brigham Young University for the spring term, so I had a few months to kill before school. Other than that, I had no clue what my future held. And I think that scared me most of all. My whole life to that point had a direction and a plan, more or less: graduate from high school, earn an two-year degree, go on a mission, go back to school. After that remained a mystery. Trudging the semi-deserted streets of the older, non-beach neighborhoods of Fuéngirola during mediodía gave ample opportunity to ponder countless possibilities for my imminent life.

Everything went well during the interview—received some great advice from a great man, some of which I might divulge at a later time. If I concentrate hard enough, I can still retrieve from memory the amazing dinner of arroz con pollo, bread, salad, and olives and cheese. The after-dinner devotional was overshadowed by the arrival of Bremner’s parents. They were there to pick him up and tour the mission while the rest of us were headed out via plane at 5:00 the next morning. I was happy for him, but felt a little out of place. My reunion with family would have to wait.

Perhaps the most vivid memory I have of that reflective day, though, occurred after the events of the day had calmed down, and we were close to turning in for the night. The Hermanas had already gone to bed, Bremner had left with his family, and it was just the four of us—Tito, McClaws, Moulton, and me, chilling on the edge of the Lopez’s pool on that warmer than normal January night. The lights of the house and most of the surrounding neighborhood were extinguished, and the stars showed off their brilliance across the heavens. The Milky Way drew a little closer if only to enhance the ethereal atmosphere. And honestly, my thoughts were not of this earth. I silently pondered the eternities as the other three discussed their future yet again: girls, school, work, but mostly girls they hoped were still around and available when they got home. I didn’t point out the fact that those girls would need to be interested in them, too; I left them to discover that important detail.

I remember in the quiet of that night, looking up, and knowing, without doubt, that a chapter of my life was coming to a close. A grander design was in motion, and God needed me to move on. Many struggle after returning from proselytizing for two years, but I knew that I would make the adjustment smoothly. I was comforted. I felt love—a pure love—for the people I was with, the people whom I served, the people waiting for me a hemisphere away. I smiled despite myself and my uncertainty regarding the future. I knew that I was going to be okay.

Sooner than I wished, the other poolside conversation came over to stand next to me at the edge of the patio, which overlooked an extensive olive grove. “How ‘bout you, Anson?” someone asked. “What do you think? How long ‘til you get married?”

“Wha…?” That caught me off guard.

They all started yammering at once, totally throwing off the groove of my introspective solace. I think there was a little bragging, a little teasing, almost like normal guy stuff. I don’t know who said what, but bets were placed for each of us settling down within one year, two years, never. I remember saying out loud that I would just work until I started school, maybe see about a girlfriend after fall semester started. I figured that at the earliest I would be married in about two and a half years, about the time I wanted to graduate. After I chimed in with my half-hearted comments, the conversation droned on without me, mostly regarding Tito and his self-proclaimed lady-killing skills. (You should have seen him trying to flirt with Hermana Young the next day in the airport. Yeah, not so smooth. I guess he was out of practice.)

The crazy part is that I recall immediately after those words escaped my lips, I had an overwhelming sensation that I knew I was lying. Marriage wasn’t several years down the road; I was going to start my own family within the year. I just knew it. That was what He had in mind for me. I knew it, and God knew it, and I knew that He knew I had come to that understanding right there at the edge of the patio, covered swimming pool behind me, the universe as a witness above me. And maybe the craziest part of the whole deal was that I was perfectly okay with that. I felt a peace knowing that whatever lay ahead, part of the plan was set in motion.

I lay awake the rest of the night, the thought of who my wife would be haunting me. Did I already know her? Would we meet after I got home? It chased me the next day as we ran through the airports of Málaga, Madrid, JFK in New York, Detroit, St. Louis, and finally Salt Lake City (the closest major airport to where my family resided).

The reflections of that day definitely affected the rest of my life. To unfold the rest of the story briefly, I had already met Amy back in January of 1996. I ran into her again only a week after I got home. I was down on campus gathering registration information and happened to run into her in the library (where I had no business being yet). I invited her to hear my homecoming address the next Sunday. We went out for the first time a week later on a double date with my friends Eric and Marisa, who both served with me in Spain. Amy and I became engaged a couple months later and were married on July 14, 1998—only six months after my poolside revelation. Over seventeen years and five kids later, things are only getting better.

So, do our days stack precariously atop one another, Mr. Collins? Absolutely. I just keep stacking and keep balancing, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Yet Another Reason Why We're Here

I found this draft while digging through a pile of notebooks as I cleaned up my classroom. It came from a Central Utah Writing Project One-Week Institute that I helped to facilitate four or five months ago.

(from 23 June 2015)

I just read “Funny You Should Ask” by Rick Reilly as our scribble prompt this morning, and I asked the participants to write literally or figuratively why we are here. I’ve personally written to this prompt many times—some of the better ones made it to the blog—and I’m not too sure I want to go down the same road.

This time, as I read the passage aloud, I made a different connection. Even though it’s a funny piece, I became emotional three times from the underlying subtle truths about existence and what really matters in finding happiness.

After the third emotional pause, I thought of the last time I did a scribble for a CUWP group—one where I laughed so hard that I cried as I read. And it hit me that students need to see teachers as real people, with real lives and real emotions. If we want them to open up and find connections with this life, with the literature, with each other, we need to be there on all levels. My classroom needs to run the gamut of human experience. Tears of all varieties should be shed. Laughter should permeate the atmosphere. Life, literature, and even 6^th period English on a Wednesday afternoon are meant to be enjoyed. Sorrows should be shared, excitement accepted, frustration understood. We are human beings having human experiences. 

Once, when reading from Choosing Up Sidesby John H. Ritter, I had a class become so emotionally invested that even the too-tough-for life jocks wept openly. After I finished reading the selection for the day, they just shared a few more moments of silence (see also The Chosen by Chaim Potok). No one said a word about the experience, and no one needed to. Afterward, in the hallways, on the streets, in the supermarkets, they (and I) would just look at each other and bob their heads and half-smile in acknowledgement that they shared something special.

Nothing says that once you are an adult, you can’t show your emotions. Nothing says that schools need to be filled with automatons plowing through curricular drudgery.

Reading and writing are about shared experiences. They are about life (see also Dead Poets Society), and the teacher needs to lead by example. I need not be afraid to show and be who I am. Most of us as teachers have passion for our content area and passion for learning. That passion needs to be shared. It’s one of the reasons why we’re here.

And you don’t have to be a teacher to share it.

This Year's Batch

I guess I suppose I should post the latest zombie haiku to ooze forth from my pen, although it wasn't the best year for these. Even worse than last year.  Oh, well. I actually finished these up at a CUWP retreat at Daniel's Summit. Despite the poor haiku, I love CUWP activities like this retreat, the Walk and Writes (like the one earlier this month at beautiful Bridal Veil Falls). They actually "fill my cup," to borrow from Dewitt Jones, and they drive me to finish my dissertation so I can spend more time writing about things I enjoy. Yes, I know that my dissertation is about the writing project, but that's another story. It's what I'll be doing instead of NaNoWriMo this year. Boo! Hiss! So, with that, here are three times seventeen syllables of undead poetry:

seventh period
need not fear the zombie attack
due to brain shortage

(It really was sad to try helping them write zombie haiku.)

unhealthy zombies
don't watch their cholesterol;
they feed with eyes closed

off-key zombies help
eliminate that crazy
song stuck in your head

(See, I told you it was a poor crop.)

...and one more from this weekend:

even zombies have
blood-sucking competition:
el chupacabras!

Driving through Life

The other day I was discussing metaphors for life with my students and assigned them to write a poem using either a metaphor or a simile for life, or an aspect of life. This was the overly cheesy didactic mess that spilled out of my pen:

“Driving through Life”

Wasn’t Driver’s Ed enough?

I read the instruction manual…

once.

Okay, so I perused

the pictures,

maybe skimmed the text

an hour before I scribbled

the written portion of the test

at that cramped DMV building

reeking of overused coffee filters,

unwashed government employees,

and Fritos.

Scraping by

the driving test

makes me

an expert doesn’t it?

Scraping the side view mirror

Doesn’t count too harshly

against my record.

I still passed, so now

I don’t need to remember

all the rules

or follow them,

really.

Who parallel parks any more,

or uses

their blinkers? They’re old-

fashioned.

That’s what insurance is for.

That pesky highway patrol

and those commercials about texting

and distractions

and drowsiness

cramp my style and don’t

allow me to drive

the way I want.

Can’t I just make it up

as I drive through life?

As long as I stay

between the lines,

don’t wreck,

or kill

anybody,

I’m good—

No one reads

The Book,

any more,

really,

and I won’t either…

until

I find myself

in trouble or

in traffic court or

breathing shallowly

in a ditch,

wishing I had remembered

10 and 2.

Just Be Yourself

Growing up I would often receive advice from various sources, mostly adults who had crossed their own bridges and trodden their own paths. They thought that because I was younger and less experienced, they were authorized to tell me how to live my life. Granted, I knew they were, for the most part, wiser and more knowledgeable about the ways of the world, but I was still a stubborn teenager.

As I matured, and accepted (or blatantly ignored) the advice given, I frequently found myself in situations and circumstances—some academic, others social—outside my comfort zone, and I found myself insecure and nervous. And looking back, I believe the most frequent advice I was given in these situations was probably, “Be yourself.” Everything works out fine if you just act like yourself, right? We’ve all heard it. Sometimes it works out well, but what if you have a problem like I did? I didn’t know who I was; my “self” was impossible to define.

Despite arguments regarding the different psychological identities/selves that human beings portray in different situations(especially teenagers), despite the masks that I still hide behind or wear to rise to an occasion, I can’t just be myself. Why? Because, as AWOL Nation sings, “All of ‘these things’ make me who I am.” I am a little bit of each and every individual I have come to know. Every single soul that has weaved itself into and out of my life has had some type of impact, given me something to hold onto. Even ex-girlfriends and ugly break-ups, bullies, bad bosses, and Class A jerks are a part of me, no matter how hard I repress the memories. Then again, friends, colleagues, teachers, family—their influences fashion a greater, more positive portion of my existence.

Where I come from also determines part of my identity. As a military brat, I often felt I was a mutt, growing up all over the world, without a place to truly call home. “Where are you from?” was the worst question in the world to ask me because it didn’t have a definitively simple answer. However, in retrospect, the multicultural influences I accumulated—tattered scraps of custom and habit and knowledge—comprise the quilted patchwork of who I am, regardless of how poorly the knots are tied together. My eating mannerisms supply one example: when I use a bowl, I hold it up to my mouth like the Japanese instead of risking backsplash; I use a fork and knife like a European; and when I eat and drive, I do it like the most competent multi-tasking American teenager. When I cook for others, my Southern redneck prepares to feed a battalion even if it’s just my brother coming over. It’s all part of who I am.

To be myself is to be everything that I am, a composite of everyone and everything that comprises my being. So I think that to truly be myself means to simply be true. To merge my experiences, my travels, my relationships, my accumulated wisdom (however little that may be) and just be. Yes, I guess you could call this synthesis of my experiences my “self,” but it is nothing without everything else. True self is found in perception and action based upon that perception. We can all try to emulate others that we may perceive, but only when we have confidence in our own lives and souls that we can be who we choose and not merely a cheap knock-off of another human being made in Taiwan (no offense to the Taiwanese).

Being myself means being the best of everything, or at least the selected parts of everything else.

Villainous Comparisons

For part of a unit on identity, I have my 9th graders write a plethora of short writing assignments about themselves; hence some of the recent pieces I have shared recently. For this, which I call "Views of You," each student comes up with a metaphor and follows this pattern:

If (insert your name) were a (insert a metaphor/topic), he/she would be a/an (insert the completed metaphor) because (explain the metaphor).

Example:    If Helga were a car, she’d be a red Porsche because she’s sleek and gorgeous.

They then go survey a few dozen people, decide which are their four favorite and write them up neatly. The next step is for each student to use the same metaphor about herself. This exercise, although initially appearing to the students to be arbitrary and unrelated, causes a majority of them to earnestly think about how others view them (via the data they gather) and how they view themselves using a seemingly simple metaphor.

This year I had my 2nd period assign me a topic. Here is what I came up with:

If Mr. Anson were a Disney villain, he would be Jafar from Aladdin because he has an extensive vocabulary, along with the ability to scheme and hatch evil plots. (Travis Peterson)

If Mr. Anson were a Disney villain, he would be Sykes from Oliver and Company because he's crafty, has skills, and makes sure things go his way...or else. (Kris Holley)

If Mr. Anson were a Disney villain, he would be Ursula from The Little Mermaid because he’s larger than life, a little round, and offers a great deal. (Mark Davis)

If Mr. Anson were a Disney villain, he would be Scar from The Lion King because just like Scar came up with an evil plan to take over the kingdom, Mr. Anson tends to come up with his own evil plans to get students to become better writers. Oh, and Mr. Anson doesn't do cute, so he would not like the cute, cuddly lion cub, nor all the fun singing he does. (Katrina Davenport)

If I were a Disney villain, I would be Hades from Hercules because I am literary, somewhat subtly witty, and tolerant of morons even though they bug the crap out of me and ruin the best of days.

Another Biopoem

A fairly common exercise in language arts classrooms is the biopoem. It allows the reader to see a little of the self-image of the writer, and it comes in many forms. Here is one that I did alongside my students this week. Thanks to all those who helped me with my adjectival troubles.

Joseph

sagacious, calm, steady, bibliophilic

father of five incredible circus monkeys; husband to my perfect compliment

lover of words, grilled mammal flesh, and sports

who feels hungry, exhausted, and overwhelmed

who needs fries with that, extra napkins, and to go beyond the recipe

who fears apathy, complacency, and failure

who gives hope, feedback, and opportunity

who would like to see the rethinking of education, the demise of cheaters, and the end of the designated hitter

resident of Earth

Anson

A Little of What's Been on My Mind Lately

Don’t worry, I’m not going to preach to you today, but this post is somewhat philosophical. But it does have videos and links, so get your finger off that back button. Be ye warned, however, that I ramble.

In honor of one of the biggest flops on my blog—I point you to my endeavor of imparting vocabulary knowledge in December of December 2014—I’d like to start by defining a word:

ekphrasis: (noun) a literary commentary or description or reaction to a visual work of art

Mrs. Nielsen loves to have her students write ekphrastic poems after they have meandered through the art museum.

Despite purists who might debate my laxness in my expansion of this definition, I say that an ekphrastic work merely uses another’s medium as an influence, or a starting point, if you will. It can be the same medium, or it can be derived from a different type of art. And I am going to do just that. I’ve had bits and pieces of a few thoughts percolating in my head since April when I was reading Jennifer A. Nielsen’s concluding volume of her Ascendance Trilogy: The Shadow Throne.

See, Mumford and Sons had released a new single from their latest album Wilder Mind: “Believe” (March 2015), and it had started gaining airplay on Pandora and local radio stations quite rapidly. Its catchy, repetitive chorus hooked me, but as I soaked in the lyrics, I saw how they permeated everything I was reading with Jaron in The Shadow Throne. Not to divulge many spoilers, but the events of his young, tortured life—lost love, lost country, betrayal, broken promises—came to life for me as the lyrics cracked through my car speakers:

“I had the strangest feeling

Your world's not all it seems.

So tired of misconceiving,

What else this could've been?

“I don't even know if I believe [x3]

Everything you're trying to say to me.

“So open up my eyes.

Tell me I'm alive.

This is never gonna go our way

If I'm gonna have to guess what's on your mind.”

These lyrics and Jaron’s thoughts (and actions) became one resounding message about life: intentional and unintentional misdirection and deception may create many marvelous plot twists in this story, as they do throughout the series (See also Megan Whalen Turner’s Attolia [The Queen's Thief] series), but they really screw up real life. Miscommunication creates questions of loyalty, love, life, self-doubt, self-awareness, and the (un)fairness of life. So much turmoil and strife and uncertainty could be simplified with veritable communication. Why is it so hard to be honest? To speak truth? I wish I had tangible answers to share.

The music video for this song actually reminds me of a time when I was 15 and wandered aimlessly around London with some friends. Looking back, I wasn’t really sure where I fit into the grand scheme of life, or what I even stood for. It brought me back to that confusing, crazy, introspective time in my life—my own Bildungsroman, if you will. I was looking for truth. 

I could go on about the changes in tempo and volume and other symbolism about driving and maturing and such, but I’ll refrain from geeking out too much here.

After I finished that book, I picked up Walter Dean Myers’s Invasion, a story of a U.S. soldier about to land on Omaha Beach on D-Day. If you’ve read some of Myers’s other war stories, i.e., Fallen Angels or Sunrise over Fallujah, etc., you see similar coming-of-age themes. Josiah starts to question basic tenets of his life: his relationship with his family, a girl back home, and his platoon. The value of life and death, racism, and even the purpose behind the war itself begin to blur as the troops storm the beaches, cross mine fields, and encounter enemy resistance. Just like Mumford (and Sons), he doesn’t know if he believes everything people have tried to say to him in the past, in the present. The book weighs heavy with some of the aforementioned themes and places them on the same playing field as the inner turmoil Josiah has about the need to swear and act “like a man.”

Internal conflict, the essence of good, relatable characters (at least, for me) in fiction and in real life, helps define who we are. One of my all-time favorite novels, ChoosingUp Sides by John H. Ritter pits a preacher’s son against the beliefs his father preaches, his uncle’s life philosophies, what the star athlete and the cutest girl in school have said, and what he feels in his heart about good and evil, right and wrong, baseball, and life. This conflict is good, if we can deal with it, move on, and grow from the struggle as we redefine ourselves and our beliefs.

Sometime in May, the song came on the radio—it had hit the airplay saturation point by this time—and my innocent eight-year-old growled out loud (and punched the car door, much to her chagrin). “Rrrrrrrrrrggggh! I hate this song! I mean, how can you not know what you believe?”

Her frustrations have a point…if you have never stopped to question what you believe. I assert that each soul that dwells on this earth needs to come to know what he or she believes, and then live it. However, there comes a point when too much questioning hinders instead of refines one’s thoughts. Not to share any sensitive details, lets just say that I’ve seen too many associates (close and otherwise) lose their faith, their jobs, their families over vacillating too long over minutia attached to philosophies, practices, or doctrines. Dieter F. Uchtdorf, a wise ecclesiastical leader, recently pleaded, borrowing from F.F. Bosworth’s Christ the Healer, “Please, first doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith.”

To missionaries who are about to leave their families for two years to proselytize and share the gospel of Jesus Christ, I advise them to lose themselves in the work but to never lose themselves. Sometimes, though, we need to stop and step outside ourselves in order to find who we really are. Questioning what we really believe, or have been brought up to believe, helps to understand if we really believe and have the faith enough to do something about it.

Introspection and self-analysis are good common practice, as long as you wind up in a better place in the end. Recently, I attended an educational conference with a team from my school. The first keynote speaker was Diane Ravitch, an educator who had worked in Washington and promoted standardized testing and the like, but realized that what she believed about educational practices and what was working for students wasn’t true; she immediately went to work on the other side of the issue, saying that the evidence didn’t really turn out how she and several other experts predicted. Yong Zhao, another presenter, also presented the need for a major change in the way we look at education and the needs of students and society need to be reexamined. After listening to these two, I spent the next breakout session in a semi-comfortable overstuffed lobby chair making lists of my educational beliefs and what I needed to do to change my practice to fit my philosophies.

Needless to say, I also bought both their books. No, I haven’t finished them or become zealous disciples of their ways—I’m not ready to join the commune—but I found what they have to say intriguing. A big push in schools is for students to engage in critical thinking. I also deem it necessary for society to do the same when it comes to educational reform. There are many opinions and ideas floating out there—some more solidly grounded than others. And the more informed you are, the better decision you can make. Sometimes, it’s not a bad idea for teachers and administrators (and everyone) to reexamine their professional practices. I come back to the adage that you can teach for twenty-five years, or you can teach one year twenty-five times. Blech! I can’t do that. I get bored teaching the same thing a handful of times the same day. I change what I teach and how I teach depending on the needs of my current students.

I have always had different philosophies about testing and standards and what is best for students than what seems to be trending in the district or the nation. People who will remain nameless stopped inviting me to certain meetings after they found out where I stood and how I run my classroom. I also never drink the Kool-Aid. I don’t think that what I am doing is rebellious, impetuous, or crooked in any way. I just haven’t followed the sheep; I have stayed my own course—true to what I believe.

Even though our personalities and mannerisms are fairly different, I find myself in the same thought camp as Kelly Gallagher, who said (paraphrased, with my added slant) at a presentation he made a few years ago at BYU, that if you can take a student, and accept her with her abilities wherever they are when she walks in your classroom, and you give her the strategies and opportunities to read well, think well, and write well, she will do fine on standardized tests, or anything else that may arise from the legislature. Where some of my colleagues across the country bang their heads on black, metal filing cabinets or artificial wooden teacher desktops about testing scores, I do absolutely zero direct test prep and consistently have students who score at or above the average scores of the school, the district, and the state.

And so what started as an ekphrastic commentary about how Mumford and Sons connected with what I had been reading led me to question my own teaching philosophies and practices. As I stand on a precipice between two educational worlds: the public schools and upper academia, I also question what I believe. My doctoral work has forced me to look at myself through different theoretical frameworks as I approach my own research. Maybe I’ll share some of those findings one day (if anyone cares).

If you want a fun exercise for thought clarification, try NPR’s “This I Believe” segment. It can work with any age group and helps to clarify your beliefs about a particular subject. Maybe I’ll give it a try in the near future. But knowing me, I’ll probably write about my beliefs regarding bacon, haiku, or something obnoxious that nobody else cares about.

I don’t do things quite like I’m supposed to. That’s why I’ve moved on to X Ambassadors’ “Renegades.” 

Yeah, right.

Elevator Greetings

As many of you know, I was born in Japan. We live off-base for a while, but when I was not quite a year old we moved into a tower apartment on Yokota AFB. We lived on the sixth floor. I have no real recollection of this, but my mom likes to tell a story about me when we lived in the tower when I was not quite two.

Apparently I was not a shy toddler. Any time we ascended or descended in the elevator, no matter how many floors we traveled between stops, I would greet the other riders. However, I differentiated depending on who rode with us. Any American that rode with us got a “hi, there” or a hearty “hello.” However, if a person of Japanese descent got on the lift, I would bow deeply and say “konnichiwa.”

As part of a writing assignment I am doing along with my 9th graders, I asked my mom to share a story that I had no recollection of. This was it. In the past I've pushed memory and mining for them. Sometimes there is nothing you can do but ask for help.

By Request...

Grilled. Stuffed. Zucchini.

Even though my kids fear it, and Amy is extremely picky about her zucchini recipes, this is one of my favorites. It originated from one of Wells and Jones's Best Bites cookbooks (I don't remember which one), but like I usually do, I have embellished it.

1. Take a zucchini--I prefer monster-sized vegetables--the kind that give most kids nightmares. Slice it lengthwise.

2. Scoop out the insides, leaving about 1/4" around the edge. Take the non-seed parts and dice them; set them to the side for later. Pitch the seeds. Really. Get rid of them.

3. Coat the inside of the zucchini canoes with olive oil, salt, and black pepper. Try some cayenne for a little kick!

4. Brown a pound of Italian sausage. The original recipe only calls for 4 oz., but...um...well...you know.

5. Add diced red onion (I usually add 1/2 a cup.) and 2 diced cloves of garlic.

6. Place the zucchini (hollow-side down) on a medium flame on your grill.

7. While the zucchini is on, add the diced zucchini innards and 1-2 fresh diced tomatoes to your meat and onion mix. Dash it with additional salt and/or black pepper.

8. Add 1 cup of shredded cheese and 1/2 a cup of seasoned bread crumbs. Regular bread crumbs will suffice, but add more Italian seasonings (your preference) if you go that route. Mix nicely.

8a. Other toppings such as mushrooms, shredded carrots, bacon bits, olives, spicy peppery goodness, etc. can also get tossed in.

9. After about 5-10 minutes on the grill (depending on the size of the green boat-like veggie thing and how soft you want it), remove the zucchini and stuff with the mix.

10. Top with additional bread crumbs and cheese. Throw it back on the grill for another few minutes until the extra cheese melts.

11. Enjoy!

12. Look for an occasion to make again.

My Name

I used the vignette "My Name" from Sandra Cisneros's The House on Mango Street as a writing prompt to start my students thinking about their names and a little of where they come from. This is what came from my name exploration (along with a lot of other pre-writing material that may spin off into something else later).

As I grew up, my mom (and dad) insisted on everyone calling me Joseph, not shortening it to Joe, or Jo-Jo, or definitely not Joey. Never Joey. In Kindergarten, there happened to be another Joseph in my class who became my good friend, and whose mother had the same intentions for her child’s name. So when the teacher asked if she could call one of us Joe or Joey, both of us insisted on being called by our full first name. We became known to the rest of Ms. Cogwell’s classroom as Joseph A. and Joseph V.

And with Mom’s insistence on using my full given first name, I was sometimes teased about leading donkeys and pregnant women to stables around Christmastime—even more so when a little girl named Mary moved into the neighborhood and started going to the same church. On other occasions I was asked where I left my coat of many colors or if I had interpreted Pharaoh’s dreams lately. And when that blasted technicolor musical came out, I loathed it. Still, anytime someone starts singing “Go, go, Joseph!” I want to rip out their vocal chords with my teeth.

As I grew lankier and my voice started cracking, my self-confidence dropped. Around the time my family moved to England when I was in 7^th grade, I stopped sticking up for my name. On my first day at Feltwell American Middle, this kid named Patrick also moved in; our schedules were identical six out of seven classes. In fourth period, band, we introduced ourselves quietly to the teacher, and he promptly addressed the class: “Everybody, this is Pat and Joe, our new trumpeters.” The abbreviated names stuck. It took some getting used to, but they stuck. That summer my baseball coach started calling me Joe, as in DiMaggio, and I decided that I kind of liked it. It fit in with all the other one-syllable names: Sam, Matt, Jon, Rob. And I decided that when roll was called in my school that upcoming fall that I would become Joe. Simple. To the point. Just Joe. Forgettable, yet unforgettable.

As far as Joey goes, only two people ever called me that (and lived to tell, that is). The first was a girl—I think her name was Amanda—a roommate of a girl I dated in college. I didn’t even know her that well; she was fairly annoying, too, if I remember correctly. Why she could get away with it and no one else could, I have no idea, but she did. The second person who still gets away with this heinous sin against my name is my niece Lily. For some reason she could never say Uncle Joe without adding extra vowels to the end, even though it’s easier than Joey. And although she’s about to grow out if it, I might just miss that for some strange reason—but just from her.

                Since that turning point in 7^th grade, I’ve mostly stuck with Joe, but with variations such as Jose, or Pepe, as some in Spain dubbed me, but more often than not now I am just your average Joe. A few have tried other things, but they have failed to stick. One exception would be an uncle who calls me “Goph,” which is how my sister said my name before she could really talk. Others attempted to use it as well, but it just came out weird for them to use it.

                But Joe stuck; it’s how I introduce myself; it’s how everyone knows me. Except with my family, that is. My parents and sister always call me Joseph. Every once in a while my brothers will Joe me, but not very often. I guess it’s like an inner circle that I’ve created. My wife knew she had really come into the family when she felt comfortable calling me by my complete first name instead of the shortened version I used to introduce myself to everyone else.

                To wrap up this name exploration, I’m actually going to include part of a blog post from October 2012, “Introducing Average Joe (of Joe Average Writer),” where I answered where the name of my blog came from. It’s a derivation of my name (duh) worth telling again.

Several people have asked where the name Joe Average Writer came from.  I think I can pinpoint a specific job interview as the conception of my moniker.  The final question, as asked by the assistant manager Charlie (who, as I came to find out was a wonder doofus and breaker of pretty girls' hearts), went something along the lines of "So...what makes you stand out from the average Joe?"  He then proceeded to toss his black wavy hair and laugh at his own joke.

Apparently, the applicant after me, Shannon (who was also hired), overheard that last part and spread it around school.  Fast-forward to...um...yesterday.  I was writing an introduction about myself for an online independent study class that I am rewriting, and I decided to play off my name and who I am.
               I have always suffered from an identity crisis.  From the time I was old enough to think for myself, I wanted to be everything: a policeman, an explorer, a baseball player, a zoo keeper, a restaurant owner, even a lyricist.  I wanted to be the best.  And so I dabbled…in just about everything (and that’s almost not a hyperbole).  I ran from one activity to the next, always wanting to play a part, always wanting to be included, like that little puppy that just wants to sniff every hand swinging down the sidewalk.     

                So it seems only natural to dub myself a Renaissance Man—adept at anything I attempt. Right?  I do it all: language, math, science, arts, philosophy, even video games.  Well, there’s  kind of a problem.  My lack of focus contributed to my lack of mastery of any one particular field.  And so, I am the understudy, the runner –up, the honorable mention.   I don’t excel in anything—sports, cooking, writing, music, intelligence, crocheting (not that I’ve ever really wanted to), or anything that I can think of.  I’m not a mechanic or a computer tech geek.  My wit isn’t the sharpest, and neither is the #2 pencil I sketch with from time to time.  I’m your average Joe.

                Instead of a Renaissance Man, I guess I am the Joe-of-all-trades, master of none.  With my lack of ability to be the lead, the starter, the headliner, there is no way I could ever hold court with the likes of Leonardo or Michelangelo, unless we’re talking about ninja turtles, and even then only if we’re talking pizza consumption. 

                I never became everything I dreamed of as a kid.  I became more: a teacher, a coach, a father, a cook, a writer, a well-rounded human being, and I’m not just talking about my waistline. I still don’t steal the show, but I don’t have to.  Even though I’m not the best at everything, I still make a difference.

                Sort of fitting, don'tcha think?  Since the inception of being an Average Joe (or 'better than the average...' or 'rougher than the average...' or 'smarter than the average...'--you get the idea) it's floated along with me.  When I worked at The Brick Oven in Provo, there was a kid named Chris whose greatest delight was hearing himself talk.  And he loved more than anything to make up "Yo Mama" jokes.  Those of you with good inferencing and predicting skills already see that this led to "Joe Mama" jokes (none of which ever made any sense, by the way).  This inadvertently led to servers asking for "Joe Mama's Special of the Day" and would actually introduce it to a select group of customers that way.  It stuck.

                The wordplay part of me loves the play on "Joe" and the colloquial "Yo'" part, not to mention the obvious pronoun reference in español.  And so, when creating this blog three years ago for the National Day on Writing, I incorporated it with my love for writing.  But like my short introductory snapshot states, I'm not the best.  I never will be.  And I'm okay with that...as long as I can make some kind of a difference.  The microscopic few who are still reading at this point are some evidence of that.  So thank you for validating who I am, especially those whom I torment on a regular basis.

                In the end, you can call me either Joseph or Joe, or just about anything, just don’t call me late for dinner, to borrow one of my dad’s favorite bad jokes. I answer to just about anything…unless you are one of my students. Then “Mr. Anson,” “Your Excellency,” or “Master” will suffice.

Biting Off More Than I Can Chew

 

Taken from https://krmusicians.wordpress.com

Most people use the phrase “biting more than you can chew” figuratively. For me, it has always been literal habit, having been born with a cavern instead of a jaw. My dad often wondered if I were part snake and could unhinge my mandible at will. When other people had their wisdom teeth yanked, my dentist just said he hoped mine would grow in straight with all the space around them. When I was sixteen, I found that I could fit my whole fist in my mouth. (Don’t ask.) Hostess Snowballs, those pink or white coconut covered marshmallow globs of grossness, are bite-sized snacks. Neighborhood kids quit bobbing for apples when I came to the party. Nobody wanted to play Chubby Bunny with me by the time I was twelve.

I won my first pizza-eating contest in fifth grade, taking out Jason the class bully without breaking a sweat, downing two large slices in less than 20 seconds. When I was older, I food-raced against others using entire pizzas, Big Macs, steaks, ice cream sundaes--and anything else we could get our grubby hands on. Whoever finished first got to eat what was left of the other’s hoagie or bag of cookies. Three-foot subs naturally go with an entire bag of chips and two liters of Coke.

Not to completely gross you out, but the one time I remember throwing up as a kid resulted in hot dog chunks. Well, actually hot dog halves. That time I literally bit off more than I could chew. I just swallowed.

            Now, because we have finicky kids at my house, we measure things at the dinner table by bites: teeny bites, kid bites, normal bites, big bites, monster bites, and Dad bites. If you tell Dad (me) he can have a bite of your ice cream cone, you must be prepared to go hungry yourself unless you planned ahead and asked for a double scoop.

Many people learned the hard way not to give me a bite. My brother still steams over the time he left half a Wendy’s chicken club on the table. As he left the room to answer the phone, over his shoulder he said I could have a bite. I swear I only had one bite.

Unfortunately, gobbling like this has led to many unwanted pounds. People say that to control your weight, take fewer bites. There's just one problem: when I just take one more bite, it’s the equivalent of six or seven for a mere mortal. And now, if that isn't enough, I have an even bigger problem: my sons (ages 12 and 5) copy me. On more than one occasion I’ve had to rip multiple entire slices of bacon from their mouths to prevent asphyxiation by breakfast.

“But Dad ate three slices at one time!” was Zac’s defense when interrogated by his mother. I just smirked and avoided eye contact. Do not try this at home kids...or anywhere else for that matter. I’m a trained professional. Biting off more than I can chew? It's what I do...literally.

Photo by Heidi Bauer