"Flirting with Death"

Being the Grim Reaper, I have next to no friends, and I certainly don’t go on many dates. So, after all these millenia, I signed up for online dating. It was a risky plan; I didn’t even have a decent picture of myself. But miraculously, I found a match and I found myself speeding down the road, late for my first date with Alina Tyson.

According to her profile, she had just finished college and was teaching kindergarten at a local elementary school. Her profile also told me that she had a passion for cooking, which was something I also thoroughly enjoyed. After all, I have had more than a few years of practice. Alina apparently enjoyed being outdoors in the summer, which was something I didn’t agree with. It just got too hot in the summer, especially in my cloak. Oh well. The only real problem was that she was mortal, but I’d cross that bridge later.

I coasted into the parking lot of Aurea Lux, the only Greek restaurant in town. It was decent, as far as American-Greek food goes. There was no time to fix my hair or bowtie in the rearview mirror. I was already late enough. That last reaping had taken longer than expected. Stupid defibrillator.

When I entered the lobby I got a strange look from a couple exiting the restaurant, and realized that I was still wearing my cloak. I quickly slipped it off and hung it on the coat rack, hoping no one else had noticed. I smoothed out my blazer as best I could and looked around for my date.

I recognized Alina as soon as I saw her, and my breath caught in my throat. She looked exactly like her picture: Long, honey blonde hair framing a slightly oval shaped face, and eyes that sparkled like moonlight on a scythe. She was absolutely stunning.

Alina spotted me and smiled, waving. I returned her gestures and walked over to our table. There were already two waters on the table, a courtesy I appreciated about this restaurant.

“Sorry I’m late,” I apologized, “I had a… meeting that took a little longer than usual.”

“That’s okay. I wasn’t waiting long anyways.”

Suddenly my mind was blank. I had no idea what to say. What could I say? We hadn’t even ordered, and the awkward silence had already come. Alina twisted her hair around her finger. I looked down at my lap, hoping by some miracle I would be able to find the right words--any words.

“So, Mortimer,” Alina broke the silence. “It is Mortimer, right?”

              I looked back up at her. “Yes, but my friends call me Morty.” At least, they would if I had any.

“Morty. Got it.” I took a drink of water as she continued. “Your profile didn’t mention a profession. What do you do for a living?”

I nearly choked. “I… um, collect… things.”

It was a vague answer, but Alina seemed genuinely intrigued. “What sort of things?”

“Uh, old things,” I brushed a hand through my hair, hoping to appear calm. “Though sometimes I dabble in modern stuff.”

Before Alina could ask any other questions, I cleared my throat and picked up the menu sitting in front of me.

“Shall we order?”

She nodded, picking up her menu as well.

When Alina had made her decision, I signaled to a waiter.

“What can I get for you two tonight?”

Alina responded first. “I’ll have the stuffed grape leaves, please.”

The waiter scribbled something on a pad, then turned to me. “And for you, sir?”

“I will have the dolmadakia as well.”

The waiter made another note before taking our menus and scurrying back to the kitchen.

“How did you know what it was called?” Alina inquired.

“What what was called?”

“The dolmadakia. Their real name wasn’t on the menu.”

I smiled. “I’ve had them before, in Greece.”

Alina looked impressed. “Do you travel often, then?”

“My career takes me all over the world,” I responded. “What about you? I saw on your profile that you like to spend time outside.”

She smiled. “I do. It’s always been a dream of mine to travel the world.”

Suddenly there was nothing else to say, and we lapsed into another silence. I fiddled with my red bowtie, still not exactly sure how dates worked. But I was pretty sure that two awkward silences was bad.

“I… um, think that you look very beautiful, Alina.”

She blushed, and returned the compliment without hesitation.

I didn’t have a mirror, but I knew that my face was as red as my hair. I looked down, a shy smile on my lips.

At that moment, the waiter returned, saving us from a third silence.

“Your dolmadakia, sir and ma’am. Enjoy your meal.”

We both thanked him, and he left. I waited for Alina to begin eating before digging in as well.

After a few bites I made a comment about how I enjoyed cooking Greek food. Alina agreed, and we launched into a conversation about cooking. I was surprised at how easily the conversation flowed, especially compared to our previous attempts.

When Alina laughed, it filled me with an unfamiliar sense of happiness. I hadn’t felt this way in a long time, and I realized that I had missed feeling it. The more I thought about it as we talked, the more I understood something.

I really liked Alina. And I wanted to always be the one to make her laugh.

So I made up my mind right there to ask her out again.

When there was a break in the conversation, I was ready to seize the moment. I realized that if I was going to ask Alina on a second date, now was the time. I took a deep breath. “Alina?”

“Yes?”

I straightened my bowtie. “I’ve had a really great time tonight, and I think that you are an amazing woman. Would you like to go on another date?”

“Yes,” She smiled. “I would like that very much. When were you thinking?”

“Well,” I pulled out my phone to check my schedule, grinning. “I think I’m free next Friday. Maybe we could--”

I stopped mid-sentence, staring at my phone.

“Morty? Is something wrong?”

Something was very wrong. A notification had appeared on my screen, reading, Reap Appointment in 20 minutes! Olivia Tyson: 1094 North Pine Rd.

“Um, Alina?”

“Yes, Morty?”

“Your mother wouldn’t happen to be named Olivia, would she?”

“Yes, that’s her name. Why do you ask?” Alina seemed extremely confused.

I swallowed, ignoring her question. “And does she live at 1094 North Pine Road?”

“Morty, how do you know this?”

I stood up so fast that I bumped the table, spilling both glasses of water. “I have to go.”

“Morty,” Alina stood as well. “what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry.” I apologized.

I turned and made a beeline for the coat rack. I grabbed my cloak and slipped into it, not caring if my blazer got wrinkled or creased. I walked up to the door and was about to leave, but instead looked back.

Alina was still standing at our table, watching me with a sad, confused expression. I swallowed the lump of emotion in my throat as I raised my hood, eyes still on Alina. Suddenly her face paled, and realization flashed in her eyes as she saw me for who I was. Her mouth hung open. I tore away my gaze, shoved open the door, and stepped into the night.

 

This story was written by guest blogger, my daughter, Ally. It was a work for her creative writing class. It reminded me of a story I wrote as a high school junior. Ally is currently a sophomore. I'm sure she would like some constructive criticism. (Maybe.)

Celebrating That Which Has Lost Its Meaning (or Why I Like Phil Kaye's Poems)

 

Watch the video first.

 I first discovered Phil Kaye when I saw a video of him performing “An Origin Story” with Sarah Kay (no relation) back in 2012. I immediately started bingeing other videos he produced, my favorite being “Repetition”—simple enough for junior high geeks to understand, deep enough for them to ponder and connect with. Every so often, I recycle it as a scribble prompt. Earlier this week, I used it again for my Comp II class at BU. For those of you who don’t know, students are allowed to write anything they want after the prompt is shared. This time, every single student who shared his or her writing discussed the ideas of the poem (and none of them are English majors!) and how they interpreted the poetic device of repetition and the word choice. It was a beautiful moment. Here are my thoughts from those few minutes of writing, only edited for punctuation and spelling. The rest still hovers in a first-draft state. Keep in mind I wrote this before the students shared their writing and their thoughts:

 Using Phil Kaye’s “Repetition” was definitely the right choice. It created, as far as I can observe, a pensive mood in the classroom. Maybe it struck a chord or two today.

 I think that it’s poignant that the overuse of an action or a word or phrase can take away its importance or significance if you let it. However, human beings tend to take for granted the small, repeated instances of our lives. And that’s one of the reasons my poetic heroes include Phil Kaye, Sarah Kay, Ted Kooser (recently read in more depth), and Billy Collins. Each one of them takes something mundane—a setting or a situation--and makes the moment extraordinary, something worth celebrating.

 Each time I read one of their poems, my mind recalls when I taught Ben Mikaelsen’s Touching Spirit Bear to seventh graders. The hardest concept to help my students connect with was Garvey’s advice about the hot dog. (If you haven’t read it, take an hour to devour it. Reading it aloud with a reluctant teenage boy is even better.) In short, life is not a meal, its only purpose to refuel your body. It is something to relish (pun intended), something to celebrate, to enjoy, savor, and appreciate. Most importantly, it is something to share. (Draw your own connections here.)

I suppose that’s another reason why I write—to share the celebrations and the setbacks of life—the small repeated moments that most might overlook. I love to others (and myself) find meaning in the mundane.

Maybe I can turn this into a 2021 resolution of sorts.

 

Hope

        A week ago my thirteen-year-old daughter was looking for a new book to read. I recommended (mostly because it was recommended to me by my cousin Michelle and several others) that she should find Other Words for Home by Jasmine Warga. I didn’t know too much about it other than it addressed refugees from Syria and that it had won a Newbery Honor award for 2020. (I personally usually prefer the honor winners over the actual winner.) For my pre-service teacher book group, I was starting Alan Gratz’s Refugee, which also featured a Syrian refugee. My personal interest was piqued, so I reserved it at the local library. Brooklyn, however, got to it first. 

        Just recently, I was able to pick it up and devour its contents within a 24-hour period. I loved it. Written in verse, it is both poignant and poetic, simple enough for younger readers to understand yet deep enough to drown in issues and passages to ponder. I wrote a similar book review on Goodreads, but I kept feeling like I was missing what really connected me to this book.

        Knowing that she also inhaled the contents, I asked Brooklyn what she thought of Other Words for Home. She paused for a second in thought before she replied, “It’s sad…but it’s a good sad.” Then she bounced away, on to another activity. That made me think about “good sad” for a while, and it reminded me of a session I attended at the International Reading Association (now International Literacy Association) convention in Atlanta in 2007. In said session, Carolyn Coman and Joan Bauer addressed the topic of writing tough issues in young adult and middle grade literature. I’ve written a little about this before, but the essence I want to share here is that despite tough issues, despite the trouble that readers and characters encounter, there must always be hope.

        Hope is what carries us through our own trials, and it is what carries Jude and her mother through their journey from a war-torn land, away from their family, to a strange new country where they don’t know the language, the customs, the culture. It’s what carries us through the difficulties of virtual learning, divisive elections, anti-maskers, and even my newly-acquired loss of smell. (I might write about this later.) Hope is something we all need more of, and when a book can deliver the hope in large doses, it succeeds!

        To distort a famous poem from one of my least favorite poets, “Hope is a thing with pages” …or at least it should be. Keep reading, my friends. Find more hope. Then go and be the hope for someone else.

 

Kindergarten Trouble

               I have written about being a follower multiple times in my life. See, Jack Gantos’s “The Follower” in Guys Write for Guys Read (ed. Jon Scieszka) is one of my favorite literary prompts for students. I usually write with my students. Now, I am running out of stories. Either that or I’m subconsciously blocking memories, for I’m pretty sure that I didn’t learn to be a leader for quite a while. And some would still debate whether I ever stopped being a follower. Regardless, these stories are a little rarer now. Here’s a little twist about being a follower and not able to speak up for myself. 

              In Arkansas, you can’t start public school until you are five years old. I had been reading more or less since I was two, but the school system still didn’t want to take me. Perhaps in part because I wore a little on my mother’s patience, and part because I needed something to stimulate my mind other than cartoons, game shows, and torturing my little brothers, she wanted me in school. My precociousness, however, was only accepted at a private school, though, so that’s where I started: at Wilkes’ Academy Lil People School. (I recently returned to the area; the school doesn’t exist anymore. The buildings currently house a dance studio.) I was only four years old.

              Despite my youth, in Kindergarten I prided myself on being the top student in Ms. Cogwell’s class: model citizen, top reader, the only kid who only had to go half day instead of staying the full time and forced to take a nap after lunch. A few incidents, however, showed me a little humility.

              My very first experience having a substitute teacher was a scary if not traumatic one. I had never experienced anything like it. In addition to this chaos, our school, because of its small enrollment, as I soon found out, would sometimes do activities with another small private school or two. The first day with a sub happened to be one of those days. We were going to do some project with planets and Styrofoam balls—I had just learned what Styrofoam was called—and I was excited. However, I was shocked when I arrived at school to find my classroom overcrowded with strange kids and someone sitting at my desk. 

              “Who was this kid, and why was he at my desk?” I wondered. Whoever he was, he was loud and had a lot of friends. While I stood in the doorway, the adult in the room called his name twice to put all four legs of the chair on the floor. I decided to keep my eye on him. I took a seat on the floor close by.

              Before long, I was told to get back in my chair by this unfamiliar adult and to follow the class rules. I was surprised. Someone else was in my desk! However, shy, little me didn’t say anything; I just slumped into an empty chair somewhat close to my desk. I didn’t have the guts to say anything back to this interloper.

              Not even five minutes later, as I was still trying to get my bearings on who all these extra kids were, this old woman with stringy, gray hair was in my face, her glasses slipping from her nose, her finger wagging. “You,” she said. I froze. “And you, and you, and you, and you.” Five of us in all—two other kids from my class, Robert and Shane, two outsiders including the dork at my desk, and me. “I’ve had enough of your misbehavior (another new word for this Kindergarten kid). You will sit out during the planet activity. You are very much in trouble!”

              Gulp.

              I tried to protest her sentence passed for the crime I didn’t commit, but the words stuck in my throat, choked on nervousness and naiveté. I could not summon the courage or the sense to speak up and protest my innocence. She turned away. I was lost. I so sunk into my anxious self that I didn’t even know what the others had done to anger the substitute. Oblivious would probably be the best word to describe the moment.

              The other boys shrugged off the reprimand and continued being obnoxious, ignoring this lady. I, however, had never been in trouble before in school. I didn’t know how to handle it. It wasn’t fair. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I just wanted my desk. I wanted my teacher. I clearly remember shaking and sobbing—quietly, of course--especially after the others had filed out of the room and the lights were clicked off. She left the five of us to our own devices—not a slick move on the sub’s part I soon registered. While the rest of the kids went downstairs to take part in the fun of paint and wires and Styrofoam and who knows what else, I remained stationary in the seat, sniffling. The other four hooligans sneaked out the classroom door, ignoring me completely, leaving me alone in the dark, disheveled classroom. After the group returned, nobody talked to me, nor did I move from my chair until it was time to go home. I never told anybody. I didn’t know how.

              The next morning, not many hours passed before I learned that my bewildering isolation the previous day actually saved me. Ms. Cogwell was back, which lowered my anxieties, but more importantly, Robert and Shane were also conspicuously missing from the morning activities, although I had seen them on the blacktop before the bell rang. Relieved to see some sense of normalcy, I finished my work early (as I usually did), and my teacher granted me time to browse in the small school library—one of my favorite activities at Lil People School.

To reach the library, I had to walk past the principal’s office. As I scurried by, Shane, straight-backed and pale, sat outside the open door on a rickety, wooden folding chair. I slowed. He didn’t say anything, just stared at the wall opposite, his lips quivering. Through the open office door, I spied Robert bent over, receiving the unfriendly end of a paddle. (Yes, it was still legal back then.) Perhaps the most distinct memory of this incident was the crack of wood on backside resonating in the corridor as I scampered a little quicker in hopes of reaching the stacks and disassociating myself from criminal mischief. If I had been associated with the guilty, that could have been my butt being blistered! 

In that collision of space and time, my tiny mind swore not to get in trouble at school. Ever. That paddle put the fear in me. I also knew that if I got into trouble at school, it would be worse at home…and I did not want to find out what that meant.

Since then I knew that because I had no spine, I had to be careful whom I followed. At times, I failed my own advice, but I would like to think that for the most part, this lesson was a fairly easy one for me to learn.

Photo Credits:

https://www.amazon.com/Yonor-Lacquer-Painted-Wooden-Airflow/dp/B07T54TM6K/ref=pd_lpo_201_img_0/131-6054741-4403501?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=B07T54TM6K&pd_rd_r=699908d6-cc30-4b06-9dce-dcf1cef6c0c8&pd_rd_w=x5z9Y&pd_rd_wg=C0M96&pf_rd_p=7b36d496-f366-4631-94d3-61b87b52511b&pf_rd_r=Z8PM0K5REV2FGHENPWW0&psc=1&refRID=Z8PM0K5REV2FGHENPWW0

https://boyslife.org/hobbies-projects/projects/164781/how-to-make-a-model-of-the-solar-system/

https://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-04-13/flock-of-sheep/7322538?nw=0

This Is What Happens When Your Daughter Takes a Creative Writing Class or Goldfish Poems Written with Ally

It goes without saying that when Ally asks me to help her brainstorm for poetry ideas for her creative writing class, I am compelled to complete the assignments myself (not for her)...and I complete a poem for the first time in a long time. I do not write them for her. She is talented enough to hold her own. I just get in the way. However, last night, we sat down and wrote together. We collaborated and wrote individually. The following are three poems that emerged from an assignment originally asked for thoughts or perspective from an animal. The one she wrote by herself will be turned in as her assignment. The others are just for our personal writing satisfaction (and hopefully for your reading pleasure).

"The Goldfish I Won at the School Carnival--A Haiku"

swishy-swish, swish, glub

glub glub glub glub glub glub-glub

oh, no! belly up

"Goldfish Wisdom"

One thing you should always remember

is to just keep swimming

because you never--

Look, it's Percy.

Food flakes already?

What was I saying?

Oh, yes...

One thing you should always remember

is to--

Oooh! Shiny pebble!

"Purpose"

Bobbing in my bubble, endlessly

swirling in circles

discombobulates my brain,

but I turn and twirl and twist my tail

for you.

Somehow my food flake frenzy

and spinning stills your sorrow.

When you start to speak

to me,

the sound of your soul flowing through the air

dispels my despondency,

saves me from swimming in circles.

And I think,

even if memory fails after five seconds,

that the intricate wash of my current

and your ritualistic chatter

keep you alive, which keeps me afloat

another day

to help us

forget a seemingly

meaningless, monotonous existence.

Photo Credits (where I borrowed them):

https://pixar.fandom.com/wiki/Chuckles_(Finding_Nemo)

https://yourteenmag.com/teenager-school/teens-high-school/teenage-attention-span

When I Found Out That Not All Adults Are Good People

              From Kindergarten through second grade, I attended Wilkes’ Academy in Little Rock, Arkansas. Most days, transportation came via carpool. However, on occasion, I rode the bus. To be fair, the bus was really a powder blue (with white lettering and logo) 15-passenger van, but for all intents and purposes, it was the bus. In fact, Mitch, the driver, got a touch upset if you called it a van. And although I don’t recall many of our daily trips aboard the fun bus—most days were nondescript—for some reason, I do remember you didn’t want to make Mitch mad. He was, though, the adult, the one in charge, and therefore, the ultimate word in what we were supposed to do...right?

He wore ratty t-shirts and jeans every day, perhaps a jacket in the winter. An old-school green mesh ball cap with a foam front with a faded logo, like one of those generic pieces of hud they give you in little league molded his hair to his head, only a curly mullet strung out the back. Mitch had absolute control over the radio (loud), too, and he made sure everyone know it. And I remember that he was loud—louder than Van Halen or the Oak Ridge Boys. His ultra-loud nature disquieted my shy, quiet nature on a daily basis. 

Two other kids in my class rode the bus—Shawnna and Kira. The only other kid I remember by name was Stephanie, who was a third grader, who coincidentally looked like my wife did when she was in third grade. Somehow, Stephanie always got Mitch to crank up the volume when “Abracadabra” by the Steve Miller Band came on. No one else could get him to relent his music dominance. The rest of the bus riders were older. Due to my timidity and my unfounded fear of big kids, I usually hunkered down in the back until my stop came.

The mighty Mitch didn’t talk to me much. He had too much fun yelling at (and with) the older kids. I do remember, though, that every once in a while that he and/or one of the older boys would say something that I wasn’t allowed to say. I remember being perplexed about why an adult would let other kids use words like that or even use words like that himself. Adults were supposed to correct inappropriate behavior, not encourage it, right?

Another time Mitch had a shouting debate with one of the older girls about whether taking the Lord’s name in vain was really breaking a commandment. For a kid who was trying to learn to do what was right, the time on the bus really confused me.

              I don’t remember much of the route, or how many stops we made, but I do remember one distinct spot along a woodsy bend. This was where Mitch pulled over, leaving the motor running. He scurried across the busy, two-lane road, almost becoming a stain on the wood paneling of a white station wagon. Those of us in the bus who hadn’t been paying attention were alerted by the blaring horns and the one-fingered salute Mitch waved back with. He continued and ducked under a no trespassing sign into a yard surrounded by barbed wire with no trespassing signs. He came back with an armload of political campaign signs. He opened the back door of the bus, directly behind me and shoved them in, muttering to no one in particular about how the no good *expletive phrase* wasn’t going to win anyway. A pit opened in my stomach. We stopped a few minutes later where Mitch stuffed them into a dumpster. I about swallowed myself. Was this an adult I was supposed to trust?

              However, the event that completely messed over my malleable mind was one time when Mitch had had an extremely hard day, I suppose, because the yelling started before we had left the parking lot to go home. He quickly detoured to a 7-11, one of his usual stops, and came back with two brown paper bags. The first, he shoved under his seat. The second he held up as he pronounced, “Listen up. I’m going to try something different today. If you are good, I’ll give you a piece of this candy. If not, you get nothing.”

              My young brain kicked into gear. I was always good. I never caused any trouble. I was going to score a Now-and-Later or a Tootsie Pop!

              It was one of the quietest bus rides I ever experienced. Even the normally rowdy crowd settled down for the afternoon. I distinctly recall cute Kira getting dropped off in front of her house, Mitch turning around, and giving her a treat as she exited. Shawnna got one, too. And Stephanie. And a few others. When my stop came, I reached for the door and paused, waiting for my candy. But when he didn’t even acknowledge me (not that it was anything new), my candy-loving, adult-trusting soul got crushed. Whether there was any blatant favoritism or not is up for debate. Wasn’t the promise that if I were good, I would receive candy? In my little mind, I didn’t get a piece of candy, so therefore….well, you figure it out.

              Why am I sharing this story? That is a good question. It has been on my mind for a while, but I don't know where to take it from here. I have literally typed and deleted eight different conclusions to this tale. Some were more didactic than others. All just felt wrong, though. That said, I will leave you with your own reader response. Whatever you get out of it is fine with me. I’ll just say this, though:

              Think about the messages you send to others, especially the direct statements or promises you make.

Only Writing Produces Text: A Call to Repentance

This morning a local church leader challenged those listening to reflect on their strengths, the things that they did well. He went on to ask everyone to reflect on the things that bring us closer to God. However, my ears tuned out at that point, and I listened more to what my heart was saying. The parable of the talents came to mind, especially the poignant conclusion: “For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance; but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath” (Matthew 25:29). 

(taken from https://thescribblingssite.wordpress.com)

As I have noted on prior occasions, I do not feel like I have many strengths. I am just the Joe-of-all-trades, master of none—the quintessential Average Joe. Perhaps, instead of five talents, or two, or even one, I was given a couple of farthings or pennies, to carry on the Biblical metaphor. Regardless, I do not want to be the unprofitable servant. I have been given a few gifts, and I need to do better at improving those talents. I can’t squander what I have been given, or else it will be taken away.

I feel a little like the saints under more modern day condemnation—“But with some I am not well pleased, for they will not open their mouths, but they hide the talent which I have given unto them, because of the fear of man. Wo unto such for mine anger is kindled against them….Thou shalt not idle away thy time, neither shalt thou bury thy talent that it may not be known” (Doctrine & Covenants 60: 2, 13). My "talent" has been hidden for a while.

Now, I am not saying that I am going to be struck by lightning (I hope) any time soon, but consider this my call to repentance. “Why?” you ask.

Lately I have not been writing.

(taken from https://www.raindance.org)

And as my good friend Melissa pointed out to me again the other day, if you teach writing, you should write also. A sermon I have not been practicing lately. (Gulp.)

I teach writing (Composition I and II at BU), but I have not been writing. You may have noticed this, as I have not been posting anything. 

So I’m calling myself on the proverbial carpet. Forgive me. I need to write more. As I am well aware, only writing produces text. My doctoral chair pointed out that simple truth as I began my dissertation, and I often impart its wisdom to my students, but every once in a while, like right now, I need to apply it myself.

It’s not that I haven’t thought about writing—I have. A lot. I just haven’t done much about it. And I'm not going to pass off my laziness or fear or whatever my problem is on simple writer's block.

Here and now, I declare that I will no longer squander my talents, as meager as they are. I am going to write more. I am going to share more. I am going to bother you more with my writing, about my writing, and perhaps even in my writing.

With some luck and determination I might actually turn my penny into a talent.

(borrowed from Bill Watterson)

Poem in Your Pocket 2020-Quarantine Edition

Hey. Can I share a poem with you? It's Poem in Your Pocket Day. 
#pocketpoem
#shelterinpoems

First, if you are not 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!

My selection this year came as I was contemplating my career move. I left the public school classroom to teach at the university level. Since then I have had several former students reconnect with me via social media. And so...this:

"Teacher Dreams"

Some nights
students return to me
like salmon to their spawning bed.
They shake my hand
and sit across from me
and tell me what they have done
what they will soon be doing.
I remember all their names
and just where each one sat
in my classroom.
Still, when they tell me
what they learned,
it's not what I remember teaching.

--Cecil W. Morris

(https://www.britannica.com/biography/Joe-DiMaggio)

This "teacher dream" conversation, as Mr. Morris phrases it, in my experience, is more of a reality than a dream. I have taught countless lessons to thousands of students over my twenty years in education, and I firmly believe that what I put into my lessons and what students receive is different. If I am prepared, each one of them will take what he or she needs as an individual for that day. That is why, as the great Joe DiMaggio said, "There is always some kid who maybe seeing me for the first [and I'll add last] time. I owe him my best."

(Oversimplified) Constructivist theory dictates that students will construct their own meaning from their personal experiences and social interactions. They will connect the new material presented to them to their own life experiences and learn and grow.

Sometimes, a student might be presented with adverbial clause exercises, reflective journal prompts, or even Shakespearean sonnets. And although she may not understand iambic pentameter or scratch out more than two lines about what she did over summer vacation, she still learns that she matters, she is safe, and she has ideas worth sharing. That is what teaching is all about--making a difference, building relationships, helping students learn for themselves.

I have had this conversation with many students at many levels. It is all worth it.

Check my Instagram @joeaveragewriter and Facebook pages soon for the video version of today's poem! 

Stolen Life Lesson: (1) Be There!

I was told at the beginning of my teaching career that an educator is only as good as he or she steals. I like to think of it now as community collaboration. Feel free to collaborate with me any time you want. Just remember to give credit where credit is due. As our class mantra went for my final year in the public classroom, “Own it.” If it’s not yours, cite it. 

Today I am stealing a list from Roxanna Elden’s book See Me After Class: Advice for Teachers by Teachers. It is entitled “Ten Principles of Successful Living We All Hope Students Learn from Us.” A long title but worth the read. Last term I shared it with a few sections of composition students as a writing prompt, and the ensuing discussion (not necessarily about composing) was somewhat enlightening for all parties involved. So…I am going to share them here and probably discuss one or two of them over the next little while, adding my own two or three cents worth of insight or hindsight or sight beyond sight for whatever it is worth. 

First, here is the list:

Ten Principles of Successful Living We All Hope Students Learn from Us

1.       Be where you’re supposed to be, on time and prepared.

2.       Follow all steps of directions.

3.       Think for yourself, and do the right thing even when no one is watching.

4.       Think about the future and how your present actions affect it.

5.       Take responsibility for your decisions.

6.       Search for solutions instead of complaining about problems.

7.       Show respect and expect respect back.

8.       Present yourself as an intelligent person.

9.       Produce a finished product that won’t need any explaining.

10.   Put more into the world than you take out.

Now that you have the entire list, I think I am going to break these down one point at a time with examples and non-examples of students, colleagues, friends, and many people generally winning (or not) at life.

                Warning: most of this will probably have an educational slant to it, but I guess that’s what I do, right?

                Let’s begin. Somewhat disjointed rant numero uno:

1.       Be where you’re supposed to be, on time and prepared.

Students need to be in class—on time and on task. Attendance breeds opportunities to learn. If not present, the same opportunities are not available. Yes, you can gain information and knowledge through self-study or observation or reading; however, an absent student misses discussions and social connections—critical elements of constructing meaning and learning. (See Dewey, Vygotsky, Bruner, Piaget, etc.) The interaction and application of said acquired knowledge cannot be replicated in the same way when a student is absent either physically or mentally.

                I have a student (at the university) who never attends class. He submits work online, but he is prone to all the pitfalls students who attend class avoid because we work together to succeed at the assignments and the learning. He, unfortunately, has chosen to shun the class and attempt everything on his own. Now, he is smart, but he does not know everything. Besides missing the attendance/participation part of his grade, me misses what we struggle through collectively as a class. He misses the comradery and collaborative community that we construct. He is not present to receive advice or encouragement from me or from his classmates, and it takes longer for him to catch up to where we are.

                Granted, the Fitness for Life class I took my sophomore year at Ricks College was different. The academic environment geared itself toward individual learning and testing. It was not a collaborative environment at all. To earn my grade, I just had to read the textbook and show up at the track when we ran the mile and at the testing center on occasion. The lecture had nothing to do with the grade or the learning. It was simply a lecture. (I got a B+ and only went to class three times that semester.) However, I believe this type of education is on its way out the door, especially in public schools. This is now the exception and not the rule.

Online education has its place, but it is an alternative to meet the needs of self-motivated learners. I have taught online courses both at the high school and the university level, and I will only say that these deliveries are not for everyone. If a student cannot motivate himself in an isolated setting, it will not go well for him. Even in these digital environments, interaction with an instructor and classmates increases and augments the learning. I will say it once more: you can only get so far in educating yourself.

                Showing up physically can only get you so far, though. You must be mentally present as well. Teachers know all too well that a student will never learn how to implement the quadratic equation or correct grammar in her writing if she is thinking about the cure boy sitting in front of her, or the drama call-backs after school, or the zit on her chin, or whether or not her dad will ever come back.

                There are so many possible distractions these days, especially with smartphones in almost every pocket. And I could rant on, but I digress for sake of your time and sanity. I also do not need to air all my laundry regarding student attendance. Regardless of the delivery method, the course, or the peers involved, attendance is mandatory for maximum learning.

Stay tuned for the next installment. It may come sooner than you think.

I Love Technology?

I always find “Touchscreen” by Marshall Davis (Soulful) Jones to be timely, even though technology keeps changing at a rate that leaves me standing on the curb thumbing for a ride. I willingly acknowledge that I am a digital immigrant. Despite my nerdy desire to program computers back in sixth grade, not much tech comes naturally to me. Just ask my own children or my students. However, lately, I am not quite sure if I want anyone speeding down the digital freeway to stop and give me a lift into the future.

(Taken from redbubble.com)

This is not a tech-bashing post. I readily acknowledge the plethora of benefits that come from advancing technology. I enjoy the advances I have seen in my lifetime, but I’m no Kip Dynamite, either.

Over the past few terms, I have noticed more and more how isolated my students have become. Not that they travel as lone wolves or anything; they are just distant—from each other and from the world around them. Before and after class they sit zombified, staring at the small screens in their hands—most of them absent-mindedly scrolling through unfiltered garbage—instead of talking to each other.

On occasion they break out of their self-induced comas when I ask a direct question. But as soon as my initial engagement (be it joke, sports commentary, food experience, or homework reminder) draws to a natural pause, they disengage from me and flee from the faces in front of them, retreating back to their notifications and memes. They snap senseless ceiling shots simply to maintain a streak with someone they haven’t actually spoken to face to face in months or even years.

It reminds me of the mentality of the monster Cy-Bug things from the movie Wreck It Ralph:

(Taken from disney.fandom.com)

when prompted or focused they are almost unstoppable, but when the beacon of brainless light switches on, they relapse into a drone-like state, oblivious to their environment and even to themselves sometimes. These generic, mindless entities all cry out silently, together, “Look at me! I’m part of the crowd.” And the sheep wander down the hall as a pack, bumping and touching one another but not in touch with each other. I’m not even going to get into how many things Ralph’s sequel accurately depicts about our cyber society.

Recently I came across an article called “A Silent Tragedy” written by Dr. Luis Rojas Marcos, which The Educator’s Room posted to their Facebook page on November 11, 2019. I have read several similar studies regarding the effects of a screen-focused culture. You can check it out for yourself.

When I liked their page, I found another piece entitled “The Death of Reflection in English/Language Arts Classrooms,” and I almost cried. It voiced a few of the exact thoughts I had been having as of late, looking at some of the assignments my own children bring home. It also made me reflect on a previous observation of mine during a filed trip I chaperoned many years ago. Happily, the school situation is not as dire as some people think. Creativity has not completely keeled over in schools. I was a personal witness for two decades. We still have great teachers out there who engage students, who actually want them to think for themselves. The trick now seems to be getting them to surrender their portable think-for-me machines for a long enough  period of time to make a difference.

“But that’s what our society is like now” some might argue. “We could never give up our phones or tablets or computers.” And some might agree with that. I fought how to ban or manage or integrate smart phones and other tech in the classroom regularly.

A comment from my cousin Michelle, who teaches middle school in Salt Lake City, gives me some hope:

“This year at our school we have enforced an absolute ban on phones during school hours. The first two weeks were rough. Now, we have zero phones to deal with and the behavior is markedly different. I don't think it's the ONLY factor in the improved behavior at our school, but certainly it's a factor. Bullying is down, fights are down, friendships and positive relationships are up. Kids are having face to face, real time interactions.”

              And I think that’s what I am really concerned about—relationships, real time interaction. As members of the human race, we are not meant to live in isolation; we are here on this planet to be social beings (Yes, even we introverts!), to interact with each other, to teach and learn and experience life. It’s not how many likes to get; rather how many lives you touch.

I’d like to rant a little longer, but I should take my own advice and go do something with real people instead of sitting behind the computer in my office.

I'll check back in a while to see some of your thoughts about technology and learning and relationships or anything else I rambled about in this hurried post.