Another Writing Lesson from the Undead

Teaching at the Young Authors Academy this week provided interesting (a purposefully vague word open to interpretation) experiences. Along with a supervisory role for parts of the camp, I taught two classes: “Building Better Stories” and “Tales and Villains.” Yes, teenagers do sign up to go to summer writing camp, and no, I did not come up with the titles of the classes. Each morning we started in true Writing Project format with a scribble where I was able to begin flexing my writing muscles again. It’s been a refreshing change from writing a dissertation. (Still recovering.) Several authors came to present and talk to the students about writing. We had a great lineup: J. Scott Savage, Chris Crowe, Tess Hilmo, Ann Dee Ellis, and Hannah L. Clark. Matthew Kirby also came for an evening chat with the campers. Each brought their expertise and among other things, validated my own writing practices as well as writing strategies I promote in my regular classroom. 

One of my many takeaways is a revision tool—one that Chris Crowe shared during his presentation about micro-revision, a topic I spend quite a bit of time on with my own students. I had seen most of his presentation before at various workshops, but this one was new.

He had the students first write a word-ku, a deviation of a haiku. It is still a three line poem, but instead of counting syllables, you write five words on the first line, seven on the second, and five on the third. Words instead of syllables. He instructed them about the traditional content of haiku: nature. However, when I wrote my example, I couldn’t shake my previous experience writing haiku with Chris and the rest of my Writing Project fellows, and I composed a word-ku of a decomposing nature: zombies. What else when working with Dr. Crowe?

(taken from https://authorselectric.blogspot.com/2016/03/
the-book-that-wasnt-written-by-zombies.html)

none escape this rotting curse,

this infestation that enslaves my mind when

I write haiku—the undead

The next step, a revision strategy, was to take the word-ku, and without changing the content, turning it into a traditional haiku. Syllables instead of words.

the infestation

enslaves my mind, zombifies

my thoughts, my haiku

By forcing one format into another, you really have to think about what it is you want to say. Rules are there to help. It helped me look to tighten up this scrap of writing as well as a few other pieces I worked on during the week. I could go on about different ways to implement this small exercise, its benefits, the buy-in from the students, but I fear the brain activity might attract the undead hordes roaming the campus. I’ll leave it to you to figure it out how to make word-ku work for you.

Do You Know Who You Look Like?

As I worked in the kitchen, cleaning up after a Christmas dinner at the church last year, I noticed a fourteen-year-old girl whom I did not know staring at me. Weird. Every time I glanced over at her, though, she ducked her head and scurried away. I wrote it off as unimportant, but she began cycling back into the kitchen every four or five minutes with the same routine: stare at me for a moment, run away, repeat. Weirder. I prayed I didn’t have a teenage stalker. That would be creepy on many levels.

Toward the end of the night, and to my relief, my friend John tapped me on the shoulder. Hiding behind him was the serial starer. He proceeded to introduce me to his granddaughter Hallie, and we exchanged brief pleasantries. As I turned back to the mountain of plates and gravy boats, she hissed and pulled on her grandpa's arm like a preschooler.

“You promised you would tell him.”

John exhaled and shook his head. “Hallie wants to me tell you that she thinks you look like someone on a show she’s been watching on Netflix. I have no idea who she’s talking about, though. Never seen it myself.”

“Ah. Bob.” A smirk crept across my face. This wasn’t the first time the comparison had been made since Season 2 of Stranger Things was released.

Hallie jumped out from behind him. “But you do. You do. You look just like him.”

“So I’ve been told,” I said and went back to the dishes. The staring ended. She was merely the latest in a slew of doppelgänger connections between me and Bob.

Earlier that week, my fifth period class debated the similarities between me and Sean Astin when I stepped into the hallway to chat with an administrator for a minute. The next day, they told me that they continued the debate over social media late into the night, debating which of Astin’s characters I most resembled in looks and personality. The top vote getters were Bob Newby (from Stranger Things), Samwise Gamgee (The Lord of the Rings), Marcus Tate (Forever Strong), Dave (Encino Man), Daniel E. “Rudy” Ruettiger (Rudy), and Mikey Walsh (The Goonies). A consensus was never reached.

Since I really don’t fixate on celebrities or much of anything in pop culture, this slipped away from my thoughts until yesterday as I started teaching my part of a seminar for young authors. As I introduced myself, the kids whispered up and down the rows of the auditorium.

During the break, three brave souls, who I assume to have been nominated by their peers, approached me.

“So, uh, have you ever seen Stranger Things?”

“Yeah, that was me…Bob,” I replied.

The kid with blue hair exclaimed, “I knew you weren’t dead! I knew it.”

“Not yet,” I said. “Not yet.”

This connection to Bob, or Sean, is not a new phenomenon. It happened with just about every movie or TV show Astin ever released. Growing up, I was frequently asked if I was still digging the pool in my back yard, applying to Notre Dame, or if I knew when the Fratellis were getting out of prison. My wife’s uncle sometimes chants “Rudy! Rudy!” when I walk into a room. It even started with The Goonies, which didn’t make too much sense because Sean is almost six years older than I am. I turned nine in 1985; he was 14 or 15. Despite the obnoxiousness, in most cases, I feel the connections are still pretty funny. I usually reply with a quip about needing to find Mr. Frodo and head into Mordor.

But as this debate has arisen again, I want some feedback. Which Sean Astin character most closely mirrors me? One mentioned above, or a lesser-known entity? Those who know me fairly well might have a different perspective than those who have only seen me. I am curious.

P.S. Don’t worry. You won’t hurt my feelings no matter your answer. Remember, I work in junior high.

P.P.S. It would also be cool for you to share your celebrity doppelgänger.

P.P.P.S. Only one of these pictures belongs to me. The others were found in various places on the Internet.

Excuse Me, Do You Speak Baseball?

No matter the subject, there is always someone who knows more than you. Experts navigate the ins and outs of car engines or quantum physics or water reclamation or Minecraft with ease, while the rest of us struggle to keep up with the conversation. Just ask your seven-year-old about her Shopkins collection and be amazed at how much more than you she knows about this world of miniature painted plastic resin figures with faces. Her knowledge of their names and relationships and the whole Shoppie world leaves you in the dust. Not that you admit it out loud, but you find yourself an outsider. Those possessing such specialized knowledge and shared values or goals pertaining to a particular subject form a specific discourse community.

Discourse communities maintain their identity with an understanding of a particular literacy, a literary cohesiveness unique to that particular group. And although it may seem junior high cliquish, most people belong to multiple communities without much hassle. We are born into many discourse communities, while we acquire other discourse community affiliations when we get that first job as a Wendy’s fry cook, participate in a Boy Scout troop, join the jazz band in junior high, or get dragged to Comic-Con without consent. 

            Regardless of how you gain membership into a discourse community, or how deeply you become entrenched in that culture, the fact remains that upon joining you obtain a new level of literacy, a specialized literacy that outsiders to the community are shut out of until they receive the knowledge necessary to navigate the community, or at least the linguistic side of it. And I have to remind myself frequently that not everyone belongs to the same discourse communities I do. My non-teacher friends don’t really appreciate the jargon I spew during a social media rant about educational policy. Those of a different faith may have a hard time understanding some of my philosophical viewpoints. And sadly, not everyone knows their cuts of meat either.

            It is also important to realize that within any given discourse community, there are levels of understanding and inner circles of acceptance and inclusion—casual observers or participants, if you will, as opposed to hardball fanatics.

            My father-in-law describes his involvement with his colleagues in higher education with a simple academic bifurcation: “There are two types of post-grad professors—those who will do anything in their power to helpyou reach where they are; the others do everything in their power to preventyou from reaching where they are.” This perception illustrates a common, dangerous attitude that some members of specialized discourse communities hold: you are either in the club or out. Unfortunately, no matter how hard we try to avoid them, prejudices regarding whether you are part of the group or not exist regardless of whether we’re talking about academia, anime, or aerospace engineering.

I was personally reminded of the disparity involved with discourse communities when I attended an Orem Owlz baseball game last year. Side note: it happened to be Star Warsnight, a completely separate community. Regardless, that particular night I happened to be wearing one of my favorite T-shirts: a simple black shirt with a math equation on it: 

As I headed back to my seat after pillaging the concession stand—or rather they pillaged my wallet—during a pitching change, one of the ushers stopped me and pointed at my shirt. She said, “The first time I saw that shirt I thought it was just some bad math…maybe that ‘new’ math stuff. Then someone explained it to me, and now it’s one of my favorite shirts. Gonna get me one.” I simply thanked her, told her where she could order one online, and returned to my seat.

Twice more I had to maneuver by her, and each time I overheard her explain her updated baseball literacy to others, beaming with pride. Despite her involvement in the baseball community, she still lacked some fundamental vocabulary skills. I’m glad I helped initiate this rite of passage into a deeper sanctum in the circles of baseball discourse.

Before leaving the ballpark that night I posted about it on social media. As an afterthought I added a snarky hashtag: #itsasmartpersonsgame, flaunting my mastery of the baseball community discourse. The only people who “liked” it already had a passion for the game. 

Driving home I realized my remark might be misconstrued as being elitist, kind of like those uppity professors my father-in-law warned me about, definitely not the signal I wanted to transmit to the world.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t edit my post just then, but when I did find a minute to retract my unintentional snobbery, I found that my cousin Tina had been brave enough to post her baseball ignorance:

            T: Ok. Someone explain it to me! I imagine it’s related to baseball?

Within minutes of her plea, my friend Richard responded with a simple explanation, giving her (and the rest of cyberspace not included in the discourse community) the knowledge to be part of the in-crowd.

R: Each position in baseball is assigned a number. In this case 6 for shortstop, 4 for 2^ndbase, and 3 for 1^stbase. In scorekeeping, 6-4-3 is the most common notation to indicate the batter has grounded into a double play. So 6 to 4 to 3 equals 2 (outs).

            Tina’s replied, voicing the thoughts of all who come to be included in a new discourse.

T: Richard, thank you. That makes perfect sense, and not being a baseball fan, I feel less stupid since that’s some pretty specific notation going on there!!

            Other friends and family then proceeded to admit their own lack of baseball expertise. Richard, only too happy to help, then went on to include a link to a video clip of the 6-4-3 in action, adding to Tina’s newfound discourse knowledge. What a guy!

            While this small piece of baseball literacy might not be pertinent to anyone’s salvation, or even semi-important to the general public’s pursuit of trivia, a division still exists between people who know why the infield fly rule is important and those who couldn’t care less about the designated hitter debate. However, the social boundaries that discourse communities create shouldn’t erect fences similar to Boston’s Green Monster. I shouldn’t be a snob about what I know and others don’t. Even if I had a degree in baseball, I shouldn’t wave it in others’ faces.

Yesterday, I wore the double play shirt again, and I observed occasional head bobs, nods, and knowing smiles—all signs of discourse inclusion, of shared knowledge, of understanding. However, more obvious were those people furrowing their brows, awkwardly doing the math, counting in their minds—a few on their fingers. This at bat, though, encouraged me to be more empathetic toward those not included in the discourse communities where I have membership. I even stopped and explained in to one young man and two grandmotherly women on my way back from lunch. Helping outsiders find a way into the ballpark, even if it means sneaking them through the turnstile after the game has already started, brings more joy than an autographed ball. To those rookies, I can be the veteran on the bench, sharing the discourse instead of withholding it.

             

2018's Version of Poem in My Pocket Day

I can't believe I almost forgot Poem in My Pocket Day! I put it on my calendar and in my planning book, but until I looked at the date ten minutes before school started, it slipped my mind. And then, I thought to compose a draft of an email reminder to my faculty early, but I ended up sending it two days early instead of saving it for today. Needless to say--but you notice I'm saying it anyway--this year has been a little crazy.

So, for a recap for those who may not be familiar with Poem in My Pocket Day, here are the rules:

1. Find a copy of your favorite poem...or at least one that you like...or has touched you recently...or whatever. Digital is fine, but it's more human if you print a copy or transcribe it by hand.

2. Carry it around in your pocket (at the ready) all day. You shouldn't have to search for it on your phone every time you pull it out.

3. Share your chosen poem with people throughout the day.

4. Relish the poetry of this world!

(Taken from http://irelandinruins.blogspot.com/2016/08/)

For those whom I won't run into today, here is my poem this year. Recently, I picked up a copy of Seamus Heaney's Selected Poems 1988-2013 and have been marveling at his craft, even when I have to look up older Irish farm words. This one stuck out to me as I was reading during class last week, and I knew it would find its way into my pocket this year.

Field of Vision
Seamus Heaney

I remember this woman who sat for years
In a wheelchair, looking straight ahead
Out the window at sycamore trees unleafing
And leafing at the far end of the lane.

Straight out past the TV in the corner,
The stunted, agitated hawthorn bush,
The same small calves with their backs to wind and rain,
The same acre of ragwort, the same mountain.

She was steadfast as the big window itself.
Her brow was clear as the chrome bits of the chair.
She never lamented once and she never
Carried a spare ounce of emotional weight.

Face to face with her was an education
Of the sort you got across a well-braced gate —

One of those lean, clean, iron, roadside ones
Between two whitewashed pillars, where you could see

Deeper into the country than you expected

And discovered that the field behind the hedge
Grew more distinctly strange as you kept standing
Focused and drawn in by what barred the way.

Do me a favor: take time for poetry today and share with me as well. Post your poem in the comments here or via social media somewhere (#pocketpoem), or send me a message if I won't see you face to face. Happy Poem in My Pocket day!

Death Drives a Lambo

                “C’mon, Dad.” I impatiently tapped my foot. We had been “discussing” my plans for celebrating the coming new year for the past fifteen minutes, and I wasn’t making any headway. Josh and some other friends waited, crammed into the small entryway of the house. I was the last to be picked up that night.

                Dad shook his head, frustrated. “It’s not a good idea.”

                I argued back. “Why not? It’s not like we’re going to drink and drive. We’re not going to do drugs or anything.” I felt low playing a line like that, but I desperately want to go.

                My father sighed deeply. Silence passed.

                After what seemed like eternity, he finally spoke again, and when he did, he looked directly into my eyes. “It’s other people’s choices that worry me. The roads are going to be dangerous tonight.” His voice trailed off but then came back more purposefully. “I’ll let you make your own choice, son. Just know that I’ll be disappointed if you choose to go. I just have a feeling that you shouldn’t.”

                A knot in my stomach started to form but not from any hunger pains. Deep within I knew he was right, but how could I explain that to the posse waiting for me?

                I swallowed down the guilty feelings. “Fine,” I blurted and resolutely, stubbornly, stormed out the door, homies in tow.

                “Be safe.” I heard him call over my shoulder.

                “Whatever,” I thought.

                Sliding into shotgun in Josh’s full-size van, I heard someone from the back whisper, “Dude, his dad’s pissed.”

                I turned around and glared into the dark; the back of the vehicle went silent.

                Josh turned the key, and the engine revved to life. I cranked the music to push the disagreement with my dad out of my head, and we pulled out of the driveway.

                We hit Rally’s for a cheap burger and fries before crossing west over the Mississippi, and soon we were cruising the winding spaghetti-like highways and byways of the greater St. Louis area. On and off freeways, we twisted and weaved our way to a plethora of party stops, only staying long enough at each one to see and be seen. It was, after all, New Year’s Eve, 1993, the last one before I graduated from high school, and I intended to celebrate in style, or at least in quantity.

                My buddies and I, floating natural highs, cranked the speakers beyond their capacity until they cracked and surrendered to our demands. Even when shouting in the close proximity of the van, it was impossible to understand what anyone else said. Greasy wrappers cluttered at our feet, near-empty drinks rattled in the molded vinyl cup holders, the piles growing higher as the night waxed on. We dropped in at various bashes and dances; from churches to community centers to private homes, we came, we partied, and we left in search of more.

                Midnight came and went, I recall, and we were hunting for more food before we moved on to the next stop on our list. We were driving west on Highway 40, I believe, away from downtown, and I’d guess we were cruising around 70 or 75 miles per hour—fast for that area, but not fast enough to be pulled over. When out of nowhere, we heard a raucous clamor over the thumping bass of Cypress Hill. I was sitting in the passenger seat. A little perplexed, I silenced the pounding tunes. The noise grew louder—the thrum of an engine. I looked out my window scarcely in time to see a yellow Lamborghini streak by, almost clipping the front bumper of the van. Neon purple emanated from underneath, underlining the blur. With an apparent kick of nitrous oxide, the car hit another gear and rocketed away from us, a fluorescent streak darting through traffic, disappearing into the darkness, like the Millennium Falcon making the jump to light speed.

                “Did you see that?” came a reverent whisper from the back. See it? We felt it as it whipped through the river or cars and trucks. The van now slowed involuntarily. I glanced up and down the freeway; we weren’t the only vehicles pausing to soak in the dangerous beauty of that car.

                “Dude!” Josh exclaimed. “He must have been going at least ninety!”

                “That guy’s gonna kill somebody,” I muttered under my breath. My stomach tightened. “Could’ve been us.”

http://gtaforums.com/topic/618309-vehicle-screenshots-custom-rides-garages/page-502

                Nanoseconds passed before the entire van buzzed with excitement about the Lambo. Tales of exotic sports cars we had seen or sat in or even driven filled the space—typical testosterone-fueled boasting. Even though the run-in with yellow Lamborghini only lasted a couple seconds, THAT was pretty cool.

                Soon we pulled off into some suburb to refuel both our van and our bellies; the entourage needed more sustenance to keep going. The goal to literally party until the break of dawn needed some assistance: caffeine and fast food.

                It wasn’t long after we had returned from our pit stop to the freeway that the world, or at least the traffic, slowed to a crawl, almost like a slow-motion scene out of a bad action movie.  A collective groan from the seven of us rose above the bass groove. Bumper to bumper the cars inched forward, stuck like concert-goers going through a turnstile, bunching, maneuvering to get ahead but going nowhere. Josh pounded the steering wheel in frustration. Horns blared around us, dissonant and piercing; they cut through the slow jams fuzzing through the cracked speakers, putting a damper on the night’s revelries. I lowered the window to catch a better sense of what was happening up ahead. A wicked sharp wind caught my breath and carried it away in the night, leaving my throat frozen. Lights flashed—red, blue, and the amber of emergency vehicles.

                “Wreck ahead,” I announced and silenced the music again. Impatience stirred.

                Incident management trucks, police cars, and fire engines blocked most of the view. Forty-five minutes and half a mile later, we reached the bottleneck. A lone officer directed the clogged artery of traffic. Emergency personnel moved back and forth. Glass littered the freeway. Some of it, we noticed, was tinged red. Several inspector-looking people flashed cameras. On the shoulder sat three or four cars, twisted and bent, forming a heap of metal usually only seen in a junkyard. As we soberly rolled by, we noticed along the cement barrier was a streak of yellow paint about the length of a school bus. And then we saw it. A heap of metal and glass and purple neon sitting by itself: the Lambo…or at least what was left of it. The only recognizable semblance that this mound had once been a car was a solitary yellow door, sticking straight into the air, a monument to this symbol of extravagance that not even an hour earlier had whipped past us without a care. The twisted scrap pile looked like the Terminator and Wolverine got into a wrestling match inside the Lamborghini and decided to rip it open like a giant aluminum soda can and spill its guts onto the pavement. Spots on the concrete were dark and wet.

                We watched in a horrified silence as an EMT slammed the back doors of an ambulance, pounded twice, and walked away. The ambulance drove off: lights on but no siren. I noticed that it fell in line with two others, who also flashed lights but no sound—a signal that there was no rush to get where they were headed. A nagging thought filled my conscience. A couple of inches, and that could have been us. Dad had been right—someone else’s choices ruined more than the night.

                All of us sat stupefied by what we had just seen. Josh kept driving west. The only conversation the rest of that night was when I suggested we turn around and go home. Josh only nodded. I think some of the others fell asleep.

                A contemplative mood fell over the van as we returned to the Illinois side of the river. Scenes flashed before me as the streetlights drifted past, shedding their own blurred orange-white light on the night’s events. All I could do was shake my head and try and shake the image from my mind.

                When we pulled up to my house, I noticed that Dad’s car was gone—already off to work, so my admission and apology would have to wait. “Dad, you were right,” I said remorsefully to myself as I stumbled through the front door. It could have been me. The slick red spots twisted into the silver and yellow could have been me. I might have wiped out my future without even having one. Splat. Over. Not my choices.

This is the last of the four personal narratives I wrote with my students this year. Somehow it got shuffled under a pile and forgotten until a few days ago. Some of this piece has been fictionalized for the sake of continuity and artistic license...and the fact that I don't exactly remember who was with me on this adventure. I can say that even though at times I was a butt-headed teenager and didn't listen to my dad all the time, I can say that now he is one of my best friends, and I always seek out his counsel. I'm not sure who coined the adage, and I'm too lazy to look it up right now, but I agree that the older I get, the smarter my dad gets.

A Little Rambling and a Little Waiting

This post is mostly for me to reflect upon what I have written recently.

So what have I written over the past month? Obviously nothing on my blog. That's pretty noticeable, but I have been busy. Mostly, I've been writing letters of application, philosophy statements, and scholarly writing samples. Well, I've been tweaking them. For those who don't know, I am looking to break into the ranks of academia on a full-time scale. It's somewhat similar to what I did five years ago when I was asked to apply for a university position and did better than I thought I would not having the PhD yet. However, as of this moment in time, since last March when I began this crazy go-round, I have applied to sixteen different positions across the country, received three online interviews, four rejection emails, one rejection letter, and a whole lot of nothing from everywhere else. Makes a guy wonder what's wrong. Now, I know there are many factors involved, so this isn't a pity party, and to be fair, it hasn't been very long since I've applied to some of them, but in the words of one of my favorite Spanish sword-fighters, "I hate waiting."

This past August, though, I was hired locally as an adjunct professor to teach Intro to Writing, a required freshman level class, two evenings each week. It's been fun, but it has taken up a lot of my time. I've written a few sample papers for that, but nothing of any consequence.

I've started tightening up my to-write lists as well. My list of narratives that need to be told is getting longer, although the production rate has slowed.

My plans to write a teacher education book are starting to poke through the soil as well. Maybe within a few months blossoms will form--or at least some greenery. I also need to go back and break down and put back together some professional articles from my dissertation. I know I need to do it, but other parts of me just want to seal that monster in the dungeon and throw away the key--the only access being a trap door that hapless scholars might succumb to. Who knows?

I did find another draft of a narrative I started a few months ago that might make an appearance soon. I guess we'll (you and I) will have to wait and see.