Like Transmuting 'Duh' to 'Oh!'

Often, part of teaching is finding a way to explain a concept to a student who simply does not get it.  This may require an unorthodox analogy or comparison.  And that may require YOU to think of something in a totally new way.  This can alter your perceptions, and make you all the better for it.

It's rather like alchemy in that regard.  Alchemists were not merely trying to transmute base metals; it was a spiritual quest, wherein the process also transformed the alchemist as well.  Teaching can offer you those moments, and it is beautiful when they occur.

For example, I have always strived to run my World Literature (Mythology) class like an honors course, even if I am not allowed to give honors credit for it.  I usually mostly have the kids who I've recruited, and nearly everyone wants to be there.  We tackle some heavy concepts, and I really enjoy the open discussions we have in that class.

But this year, due to schedule problems, a large group of athletes who had wanted weight training got dumped in my class instead.  This was not the kind of class they wanted, and most tried to get out but could not do so (there's nowhere else to put them.)

I like most of them, but they really do not have the background knowledge to be able to keep up with the pace I normally prefer to move at in class.  So I have to slow down and simplify things at times.  When this becomes an issue is in the delightful side tracks and teachable moments that pop up, as these involve an open exchange of ideas and discussion on current events and general facts about the world around us.

Many of these kids end up completely out of their depth.

But God bless 'em, they ask questions.  One kid, we'll call him Jason because that's his name, is always asking basic questions.  The honors level kids snigger about his ignorance, and get annoyed that I have to slow down and explain stuff, but not only do I want to give Jason the chance to learn, I figure I can model some good behavior for the honors kids by remaining patient.  Hey, it might work.

We were having a discussion about the economy (it started as a discussion about the Aztec god Quetzalcoatl, but you know how theses things go,) when he asked, "Why doesn't the government just print more money?"

Honors kids rolled their eyes at his ignorance, but I explained that doing so would devalue the currency.  He still didn't get it.  So I talked about Germany after WWI (everyone does that, I think it's mandatory or something.)  He still did not see the problem.

So I made it all about hats (I almost did shoes, but that would have set the lower level kids off on a vigorous discussion about shoes, because they are obsessed with shoes.)

I said, "Imagine you pay fifty dollars for a really awesome hat.  This hat is so cool and unique that you are the envy of all who see it.  Now imagine you come to school and see that I also have the same hat.  We acknowledge each other, because we are still both pretty unique and special, even if neither of us is the only one to own the hat.

Then we see two more people who have the hat.  We feel like we are in some kind of elite club, the Awesome Hat Club (meetings are every other Tuesday.)  Still pretty cool.

Then eight more people get the hat.  A dozen hats in the school make it far less rare, but now we are still at least in the top ten percent of the school.

Then twenty more people start wearing the hat.  Then twenty more.  Soon it seems like everyone has the hat.

How much is the hat worth now?"

Jason thought about it and said "it's worth less because it's too common.  If anyone could get it, it's not as special.  So if they print too much money, anyone can get it, and it won't be worth as much."

And like that, a young man learned the principal of scarcity.

A small lump of gold appeared in the crucible into which I had put some lead.

And now I can use the hat metaphor to teach that lesson the next time I'm asked.

Thanks, Jason

iPrejudice

I have prejudices.  Everyone does, but I feel it's important to face our own biases and see if they are justified, and if they are holding us back.  For me, I have a Fox News/MSNBC level slant towards books.

This evening, we splurged and went our for dinner, a rare treat these days (yay gift cards!)  We had to sit and wait for a table, and Grace immediately asked to play on our phones.  Kim has downloaded some kid games apps, like puzzles, all for free (we don't really use our phones for much other than kid entertaining, shopping lists, and occasionally making phone calls.)  This was a bit annoying, because she had been happily working on a dinosaur workbook on the drive, and then suddenly didn't want to do it anymore; she wanted to play on the phone.

I told her no, because she was being rather petulant about the whole thing.  She pouted and said that she had nothing to do.  I pointed out that she had two parents who would love to talk to her about her day, or she could read one of the books we always keep in the diaper bag.

Of course she opted for a book (who wants to talk to parents?) and chose her Tiny Titans trade paperback, which had been a gift to me, and which she adores.  All was well, until they called us to our table.  Grace walked with the book in front of her, unable to tear herself from reading the story.  I helped guide her, since she could not see in front of her.

I found this adorable because I used to do the same thing, and I love the idea of her getting really into what she reads.

Once at the table, we practically had to pull the book out of her hands to ask her what she wanted, and again to divest her of it once the food arrived.

And I was fine with this for the most part (the not listening part is a behavior we are correcting, but we're getting there.)

But at the next table was a family celebrating grandpa's birthday (wait staff sang and everything, I hate that.)  And the adults (grandparents, parents, aunts & uncles) sat at one end, with four or five kids at the other.

Every kid was on a device, either an iPad or a smartphone.  They were not interacting with each other, not interacting with their parents, and pretty much uninvolved with the world around them.  It was disgusting.

But it occurred to me, that my kid was doing the same thing (not Arthur, he was stuffing bread into his face.)  If I saw a kid Grace's age (or any age, really,) walking with their smartphone, too engrossed with whatever it is they were doing to look up, I would have called that obnoxious, not adorable.

And Grace was oblivious to the world around her while she was reading her book, just like the kids on their iPads.  So was it any better because it was a book?

Yes.

I don't care if it IS a prejudice, I still think books are better.  When those iKids turn off their games, they are no more the richer for having played them (they could theoretically be educational games, but I'm playing the averages here, and it was probably Temple Run or some such.)

First off, reading for fun is how one develops the fluency necessary to do well in reading things that are not fun, but are important, like standardized tests (yuck,) college texts, and loan agreements.  I already know Grace is going to pass the FCAT, because she likes Fancy Nancy and her Classics Illustrated version of the Wizard of Oz.

But when you read a story, it stays with you.  You grow as a person, I believe, every time you interact with fictional people and develop connections by sharing experiences, vicarious though they may be.  It gives us perspective on life, both ours and others, real and imagined.

So yes, if you see my kid not on task because she is reading, feel free to remind her what she needs to be doing, but don't expect me to tell her she reads too much, because if you have the time for it, there's no such thing.

Or you could let your kid throw birds at pigs all day and claim they are learning physics.

It's your choice.

Days of Futures Past, (Which are RUINED FOREVER!)

No matter what histrionic posts you read about on nerd sites, no one has the power to retroactively ruin your childhood.

Allow me to explain.  Every time a beloved franchise, such as a cartoon, toy line, or TV series gets remade, there's always a contingent of long-time fans who must shout about the grand injustice of it all at the top of their caps lock keys.

"THERE (sic) RUINING IT!"

"THE ORIGINAL VERSION WITH CRAPPY ACTING, MISERABLE SPECIAL EFFECTS AND GAPING PLOT HOLES IS A CLASSIC!  WHY WOULD YOU CHANGE THAT?!?!"

"THEIR (sic again) RAPING MY CHILDHOOD!!!!!!"

Now first of all, could we all stop using rape so glibly?  That's a topic big enough for its own post, but for now, if you equate the idea of someone altering a cartoon you watched as a kid with rape, you may have some severe mental disconnects and might not be qualified to operate a motor vehicle or any sharp objects.

Secondly, yes, they are remaking/rebooting/updating your beloved property (usually cartoons, those seem to get the most vehement opposition,) and yes, it will probably be radically different, and yes, you will probably hate it.

Guess what?  It's not being made for you.  People make movies and shows to make money.  That means appealing to a large audience, especially when they are aiming their shows at kids.  They want the show to appeal to that demographic, not older fans who aren't going to be buying the toys anyways.   They can't cater to you.

And you know why the new version of this kid's show doesn't appeal to you?  Because you are not a kid anymore.  You have nostalgia about a show you liked as a kind because you were a kid.  Now they are aiming it at kids who have different tastes and sensibilities from you, and even if they made the show the same, much of it would probably seem silly to you now.

But most importantly, you will still have the original version.  You can watch it on video, or just remember it fondly.  It won't matter what new versions they come out with, you can still have yours.  Just ignore the new version and wait until these kids start complaining about the next new version that ruins their version.

Take the X-Men.   When the movies came out, I heard students talk about how they had changed too much from the original.  Now, for them the 'original' was the execrable '90's cartoon (seriously, that was shit,) which I found ironic, since I had complained about that shitty cartoon (really, really bad,) when it came out.

You see I was a fan of the actual comic, the place where new ideas came from.  But even then, I was a fan of the Claremont/Simonson era (still my favorite, even after reading all others.)  That is MY version of the X-Men.  This is also why I laugh whenever they put Jubilee in a yellow coat, because I actually remember the original, throw-away joke that spawned it.

But I'm a Johnny-come-lately to the people who remember the launch of the "all-new, all-different X-Men" from the Claremont/Byrne era.  And those fans are poseurs to the fans of the Stan Lee/Jack Kirby days.

And none of them have been ruined for anyone.  You can still go back and enjoy them whenever you wish.

And that's why I'm excited about a new Star Wars, even if it's being done by J.J. Abrams.  Because it could be great, but if it's not, I still have four and a half great movies, some awesome animated shows, a plethora of great video games, at least a half a dozen novels that aren't total shit, and a roleplaying game that lets me take that universe in any direction I please.

No one can ruin my Star Wars experience.

Not even George Lucas.

So lighten up about what Aang looks like now, okay?

Buffalo Springfield Armory Paint by Numbers of the Beast

I'm sick.

My world is made of pain, mucus, and another type of mucus.  It's only a simple cold, but it is making my brain lawnmower violin cheeses.

I try to focus on one thought at a time but Mr. Worthing asked me to pay special attention to your German grammar today, Cecily.  It makes it hard to concentrate.

I didn't used to get sick, in the long long ago in a galaxy far over misty mountains old.  I had a robust immune system of a down comforter.  I rarely got sickness, or down with it.  But then I had kidneys.  And a kid transplant.

My two children are in daycare, and are constantly surrounded by by their fellow plague-bearing mites spreading the pestilential blessings of Grandfather Nurgle to their unsuspecting parents like...404 error:  no simile found.  Please play again.

Four years ago I had a kidney transplant (I've mentioned that, haven't I?  It seems like something I would have talked about.   Oh well.)  And now I'm on immunosuppressive drugs.  They suppressive my immuno system, so I have to get careful not to be sick.  That means I have to stay away from things that might make me sick.

Like my kids.

See my problematic, rhythmatic, world control?  Magnetic, genetic, commands your soul.

So now my thoughts are squozen between massive blocks of sinus pressure, pressing with pressural pressure on my sinus cavities, and they squish out the other side like spaghetti western union telegram, telephone, tell a girl.

My head hurts.

It's a good thing I'm at school with the teenage wastelanders.

They understand me here.

Someone come take me home.

Home.

Home alone, home on the range, lone ranger, Walker, Texas Ranger, Ranger Rick, Rick Flair, Flaring nostrils, the Cosa Nostra, Nostradamus, hippopotamus, hipocampus, part of the brain, brain in your head, head case.

My head hurts.

How's yours?

It's the Only Reasonable Explanation

J.J. walked faster.  He told himself it was because he had a lot of homework to do, and he didn't want to miss the new episode of the A-Team, but in truth, he was just hoping to avoid them.

He crossed 8th and hurried past the McDonald's, just in case they were eating there.  J.J. hadn't eaten there in over a year simply because he knew they occasionally ate there.  At this time of day on a Friday, the whole gang should be down at the arcade, so he didn't really need to be so cautious.

But J.J. didn't think he could handle another encounter.

He slowed somewhat as he passed by the Galleria, where there were plenty of people.  They wouldn't start anything in front of too many onlookers.  But all too soon he had to leave the safe zone and take his chances again on the side streets that led to home.

He always tried to plan his route with as many safe areas along the way; grocery stores, sporting venues, gyms, and police stations, but there always seemed to be plenty of blind spots where a lone boy could be cornered.

J.J. had just begun to feel safe when it happened.  Later, he would realize that that was how it always was; when a person feels safe, they become weak, vulnerable.  That was when bad things happened.  He would remember this, years later, and it would serve him well.

Today that sense of security had led him to lose focus. He turned left down Culpepper.

But they had just opened a comic book store on Culpepper.

"Hey Gay Gay!"

It was them.  It was always them, his nemeses, the haunting presence that perpetually dogged his steps and hounded him until he could never feel safe.  The pack of leering ghouls that made his life hell, left him feeling always afraid, always alone, always lost.

It was the Star Trek fans.

They gathered around him, their red, blue and gold shirts forming a velour wall surrounding him, the gold embroidered arrowhead emblems  gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.

"You been writing anymore of your stupid stories again, Gay Gay?"

This was Kirk Feinstein, their leader.  He was a Senior, and had towered over J.J. since they were both in Hebrew School.  He had never liked J.J., but then in creative writing class, J.J. had written a compare/contrast essay on why Star Wars was a better movie than Star Trek: the Motion Picture, which J.J. had found dull and badly paced.

This was not well received by Kirk's gang of militant Trekkies.

Since then, he had been bullied, both verbally and physically.  Today seemed like it would not be an exception.  He tried the only tactic that occasionally worked, play dumb and wait for them to get bored.

"So how about it Gay Gay?  Any more stories that you just make up as you go along?"  Kirk was in rare form.  "Gonna have your dad produce a show for you?  Will it have monsters and bears and pretty girls who won't kiss you?  You really want to scare people, you could make a movie about your life!  Shatner could play me in it, if he wasn't doing TJ Hooker."

His witty suggestion was met with howls of laughter from the rest of his gang.  J.J. remained silent.  His tendency to chime in on conversations had gotten him in trouble before, and he had learned the lesson that sometimes it was best not to share too much information.

But he didn't always remember that lesson.

"My dad says ABC is canceling TJ Hooker."

In the silence that fell, J.J. Looked around to see who had just said that, and was horrified to learn it was him.

"What did you just say?"  Kirk took a faltering step towards J.J., as if if fury had rendered him incapable of walking straight.  "You just said that TJ Hooker, starring WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER is being CANCELLED!"

"Maybe another network will pick it up.  It got so-so ratings but maybe someone will give it a shot."  J.J. was terrified, and as the circle of livid Trekkies closed in around him, his mouth began to act on its own.  "Maybe they'll make changes, shake up the format somehow, you know; add new conflict, change the setting, replace the main actor..."

J.J. knew he had gone too far before the first punch landed.  He had been beaten in the past, but normally the others stood back and watched as one of their number, usually Kirk, had applied the hurt.  Today he had brought forth the collective rage of the group, and he felt their fury as they rained kicks punches and plastic tricorders down upon him.

He did not know how long the beating took, time had lost meaning for him.  But when he woke up, it was evening, and he had been strung up to a chain link fence, wearing only his underwear, a Federation arrowhead symbol, and the words "know-it-all" spray painted on his chest.

And it was then that J.J. decided.  It was too much to hope for an end to the beatings, and he was right, for it would be years before those torments ceased.  But he could plan.  And he could wait.

He could not get justice.  But he could have revenge.

Hanging there from that fence he made a vow.  He made with himself a dark pact, overseen by the ancient spirit of the downtrodden and oppressed.  He swore a vengeance so horrible, and so complete, that no one would ever dare to strike against him again.

"I will destroy you!" He screamed to the unanswering heavens.

"I will strike at you through what you love most!  I will destroy your show!  I will destroy your show with writing!  I will make it so that everything you ever loved about Star Trek WILL HAVE NEVER HAPPENED!"

And he smiled.

Beaten and humiliated, J.J. Abrams smiled, and planned his revenge.

But I Digress...Get Well Soon.

April 11th, 2008-

My wife is giving birth to our first child, the amazing creature that will change my life forever.  It is a Caesarian section, and kim is lying on a table with a curtain concealing everything from mid-chest down.

This is for our protection.  I do not look behind the curtain, because I am not an idiot.

When the child is extracted, the doctors hold it up over the curtain so we can see it.  It is beautiful, emotionally speaking.  In actuality, it is a mewling, slimy little gecko with only a passing resemblance to a human being.

The doctors bring the baby over to the corner to wash off its shame, and ask if I would like to come over and take a picture, which I do, because if you say, no, you look like a jerk.  I walk over there and snap a few pictures of the de-goring and make sure to act like human beings are supposed to.  Beneath their blood-spattered plastic face shields, everyone is smiling.

That's because it is a trap.  The goo-scraping corner is behind the Curtain of Horror, and as I turn to go back to my wife, confident I have gained a few early points in the great "okay dad" game, I happen to see the abattoir scene that lurks behind this joyous event like the torture rooms we all know they secretly have beneath Disney World for dealing with litterers.

The police report will later say that what I saw was merely the doctor removing the placenta from my wife's abdominal cavity, but I know what I saw, and that was evidence of alien infestation.  That was clearly a life-or-death struggle with an extraterrestrial parasite, and I'm not entirely sure the doctor was winning.  My repeated request for a flamethrower were foolishly dismissed.

I accept their official explanation and return to the safe side of the curtain, but vow to watch the first child...carefully.

May 16th, 1990-

It is my 18th birthday, and coincidentally the night of the performance of Alice in Wonderland, the one-act play adaptation I wrote and directed for my school drama club.  The show is (mostly) a rousing success, and I am feeling pretty damn good about myself.  I put my face in the cake before the night is out, but it was on purpose, so I guess that makes it okay.

June 4th, 1999-

It is the last day of school after my first year as a teacher.  I feel an odd sense of accomplishment and pride, which I have to look up in the dictionary to define.  I feel like I've made a difference and am appreciated.

Then I remember that this is an interim position and the bitch principal is not asking me back next year, leaving me functionally unemployed.  This dulls the feelings somewhat.

May 28th, 1977-

I am five years old, at the Thunderbird drive-in movie theater watching Star Wars: A New Hope, as my whole world changes forever.  This is the best thing that happens that year.

My brother is born four months later.

That fact does not alter the previous statement in any way.

September 11th, 2001-

I am assuring the kids who come into the yearbook room that the rumors they have heard about attacks in New York are exaggerated, and that they should learn not to believe everything they hear on the internet.  Even though I am (tragically) wrong, I continue to maintain that same skepticism.

February 2nd, 1997-

I am lying to the woman I will spend the rest of my life with, telling her I like her a lot.  She is not ready to hear that I already know I am going to marry her, because she's a skittish one, and you have to approach them carefully so they do not bolt.

June 7th, 1982-

What am I, like ten here?  Yeah, ten years old.  I would have been in like...fourth grade I guess?  That would have been in summer though, so I'm about to go into fifth.  I really can't remember any specific details from back then.  Was that the summer we went to Mexico?

I probably shouldn't have picked this one.

December 29th, 2012-

My wife is on the computer, and tells me that Peter David, one of my favorite writers ever, has suffered a stroke.  I am greatly saddened by this news, and I hope that he will get well soon, and return to writing.

It makes me think about how much I loved the book "But I Digress," a collection of articles he wrote in Comic Buyer's Guide (print articles are what they used to have before blogs became a thing.)

I remember that he wrote this one article in memory of a cherished colleague.  In it, he kind of bounced around in time, remembering key points in his life, and how his friend's death made him think of his own mortality.

I think of how that would be a cool thing to try and write, and I start to think it might be nice to have a forum to share such thoughts.

My wife suggests a blog.

A Rebuttal to My High School Students' Arguments Against the Dress Code

My Theatre I class, like pretty much all electives at my school, is a dumping ground.   There are many reasons for this, which will have to wait for a later rant, but because I have so many kids with no interest in acting or drama, I tend to run the acting portions more like a public speaking course, thinking that there are some basic skills that help on stage and also in daily life.

So I have them do speeches on various topics, and for each speech I grade by a different criterion.  For the gesture speech, the students have to write a five paragraph essay (blech,) on the topic of “persuade the principal to make a change to the school, and give three reasons why that would that would be beneficial.”  They then deliver their essay as a speech in front of the class, making sure to use gestures as we discussed in class.

Of course, upwards of 80% of them say the dress code needs to be altered or abolished, and the reasons they provide are delightfully ridiculous.  Bear in mind, they are merely high school students, so a certain amount of ignorance is to be expected and forgiven, but it is so hard not to refute their ludicrous claims.  But being their teacher, and a professional, I can’t comment on their writing in class.

Which is why I’m doing it here.

First off, you must understand that our school’s dress code is not that strict.  They have to wear jeans or slacks, in a small palette of colors, and a polo shirt without logo, which must be orange, black (our school colors,) navy, white, or grey.   Girls may wear skirts that are below the knee (which is usually only for girls with religious requirements, who tend to wear long skirts anyways.)

Of course the kids are able to skirt the system by finding skin-tight, low cut, midriff-bearing shirts, low-rise jeans, and other such hootchification, and administration is notably lax on enforcing the “pull up your damn pants” clause, so there really isn’t much to their complaints.

But to hear them tell it, they are being oppressed like…I don’t know, those people that the history teacher is always talking about, the sad people in all those black & white pictures.

So here are the most popular points they make every year (and there is very little deviation from these points, they all pretty much come up with the same argument,) with my responses.  Enjoy.

Point 1:  “The dress code is a waste of money.  We spend too much on going out and buying clothes for school instead of simply using the clothes we already have.  The clothes they make us buy are too expensive!”

Response:  This one is patently ridiculous, and many kids can’t do this one with a straight face.  School polos, with the school’s logo on them, are available for very cheap from the school itself, and all the area stores know to stock the colors for all area high schools.  You could go to Wal-Mart or any other store and score jeans, slacks, and polos for much cheaper than the clothes they would wear if there was no dress code, and indeed, that is one of the prime reasons for adopting dress codes at any school, an attempt to curb social stratification between the rich and the poor (not that it stops them, see below.)  As for making you buy new clothes, any kid who is not getting new clothes for starting high school probably has bigger problems than fashion choices, so the majority of them were going to buy clothes anyways.  If your extracurricular fashion needs are greatly different, that is simply not the school’s problem, kid.

School is about getting an education, and the dress code is meant to assist with that goal, period.  If you are crying to me that after buying the clothes you need for school (and they all state that they only have five polos in their closets,) than I can’t raise any sympathy for you.  Maybe you should change your fashion sense, or else get a job.  Either way, the idea that we are imposing an unfair economical demand upon them carries no weight.

Point 2:  “The clothes they make us wear are not comfortable, and we can’t focus in class because of how uncomfortable they are.”

Response:  Balderdash.  If you can’t find jeans and polos that are comfortable, you are shopping wrong.  Now many of the kids who say this have no trouble sleeping in those uncomfortable clothes, and have to be repeatedly awoken to keep them from drifting off to sleep, and that does not support a lack of comfort.

Point 3:  “It’s too hot to wear jeans all year in this heat!”

Response:  This is actually a fair point.  Many of our kids walk to school (we have one of the emptiest parking lots in the county, because so few kids can afford cars.)  Walking home in this heat wearing jeans would be extremely unpleasant for me at least, so I can sympathize.

Allowing girls (or those brave few guys) to wear capris (clam diggers for you eldsters,) seems reasonable to me, as long as they are within the normal pants standards (color, pattern, etc.)  Many of the kids suggest shorts, but that is a non-starter.

Allowing kids to wear shorts opens the field up to a myriad of abuses, and telling a girl she can only wear shorts of a certain length tends to punish tall girls, as how long your legs are can affect how short your shorts are.  So shorts, unfortunately, are casualties of those who force us to have a dress code in the first place.

The school could adopt a uniform set of shorts, which would help solve the comfort issue, but would open us up to other difficulties, and makes it an impractical solution.

Of course, you could wear skirts (girls only, they wisely specified that,) or pack a pair of shorts and change into them before walking home.

Point 4:  “The clothes they make us wear are ugly!”

Response:  There is no point in refuting this one.  Tastes vary, and chances are, what a teenager finds appealing (pants down to mid thigh for boys, shirts above the pierced navel for girls,) will not be what is considered attractive for the adults running the school.  So there’s little point trying to change any minds in either direction.

Suffice it to say, the clothes in the dress code are meant to convey a level of decorum and professionalism consistent with long held values and standards in America and to reinforce the message of learning and respectability.  If you don’t like it, congratulations- you’re a teenager.

Point 5:  “If we were allowed to wear what we wanted to, more kids would come to school and we would be better able to focus on our school work and there would be less fights, better grades, and more paying attention in class.”

Response:  Do I really need to respond to this one?  This one is so clearly full of crap you can probably smell it through your monitor.  Are you seriously trying to convince me that poor attendance, lousy attitudes and violence are the result of polo shirts?

I remember this school before we adopted the current dress code, and I can assure you, the problems you mention existed prior to its adoption.  I likewise can assure you that other schools that do not have such a rigorous dress code still experience these problems.

My favorite implication of this one is that it is depression over fashion that causes students not to show up to school.  I realize this makes me a terrible teacher (I’ve come to terms with it,) but if you are the type of person who only wants to come to school if you can dress in a particular way, I’m pretty sure we are better off without you there.

Point 6: “We should be allowed to wear what we want, we need to express ourselves.”

Response:  Oh my God, how I hate this one.  This one is so egregious, it requires three sub responses:

1.     I have no trouble whatsoever seeing the differences between you.  Each student finds ways to accessorize and modify their look to express their own unique fashion sense.  The students do not meld together to become a static block of identical drones.  We can look at you and see your individualism immediately.  If you can’t figure out how to stand out from your peers within the dress code, then I guess you are doomed to four or more years of forcing people to get to know you as a person before they assess you.  You poor thing.

2.     The whole point of a dress code is to foster a sense of unity.  It is harder (but not impossible, see above,) to single people out as an outsider because they do not have on the right clothes, the ‘uniform’ of a particular class, group or clique.  In essence, we are taking away the various (extremely close and clannish) uniforms and replacing them with one more unified one, that of the student.

3.     YOU WANT TO EXPRESS YOURSELF?  GRAB A FUCKING PEN, PRINCESS!  I AM SO SICK OF TRYING TO GET KIDS TO EXPRESS A SINGLE ORIGINAL THOUGHT, ONLY TO HAVE YOU COMPLAIN THAT YOU ‘CAN’T EXPRESS YOURELF’ WITH CLOTHES!  IT WAS LIKE PULLING FUCKING TEETH JUST TO GET YOU TO WRITE THIS DAMN SPEECH, AND YOU HAVE THE STONES TO SAY THAT?  IF THE ONLY WAY YOU CAN EXPRESS YOURSELF IS TO DRESS LIKE A SLUT, MAYBE WE DON’T NEED TO HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS!

Sorry.  I just get so frustrated with students’ refusal to participate in writing assignments, because they have nothing to say, and then have them pull out a statement like this.

I mean, it would be one thing if it was a kid in our fashion design program, who wanted to wear the clothes that he or she designed, but these kids just want to spend money to buy clothes that other people have convinced them are cool.   Identifying yourself with a perceived image isn’t expressing yourself, it’s labeling yourself, and the only way you should be labeled is by your words and actions.

But that’s just my take on the whole thing.

Thank you all for listening, this has been very cathartic for me.  Join me tomorrow when I consult these teenagers on how to solve the energy crisis, gun control, and what constitutes good music.

Lost Time, Man

Logical reasoning is the ability to follow an idea along its path, pursuing it through potential twists and turns and into theoretical rabbit holes.

It lets you know when you are being insulted, in other words.

For example, as I write this, I am sitting in an LTM, or Learning Team Meeting.  These are meetings we have about twice a month on Thursdays.  The students love these days, because they get to sleep in late and come to school by 10:30.  Many of them skip on these days, because they feel they don’t count, and when they do show, up, they resent us giving work on a ‘half day.’

Mean while, we teachers come to school at the normal time, and spend three hours in one big meeting, ostensibly to better educate us about how to teach our kids more effectively.

There are about a dozen LTMs in an average year, and each of those days takes away about two hours of instruction time, while teachers are in the meetings.

These meetings are usually run by county employees or outside consultants, and are universally reviled as repetitive, redundant, pedantic and useless.  And repetitive.

When I first heard the rumor about LTMs I laughed at the person who told me, because the idea was too ridiculous to be true.

I was wrong.

It’s about FCAT, pure and simple.  For those who do not know, FCAT is the standardized test that all Florida students must pass before graduation.   They take the test at multiple grade levels, and it dominates the public school system.

LTM’s started several years after FCAT came along, after it became apparent that students were consistently failing.  Since schools are rated by the A+ plan, which influences funding to schools, and since FCAT scores were the biggest factor in those grades, the Palm Beach County School Board decided they needed to take drastic action.

Thus, they came up with LTM’s, additional training for teachers to better equip them to reach students and help them to pass the FCAT.

See the insult?

Let’s analyze the facts of the case and present a basic if/then/therefore argument, shall we?

Fact 1: the students in the county are not performing to an acceptable level.

Fact 2: The proposed solution to this problem removes class time from the students themselves.

Fact  3:  That missing instructional time was replaced with meetings designed to educate the teachers (whether or not those meetings actually work is not germane to this discussion right now.)

So, the county’s argument goes like this:

IF we spend less time on teaching kids and more on teaching teachers,

THEN we expect to see an improvement in FCAT scores

THEREFORE teachers are the entire problem.

Simple logic.

We are so bad at our jobs, that you can have students spend less time in class and still expect an improvement.  The idea that students have little to no impact on their own learning, that it is the teacher alone who creates learning, is inherently corrosive, not only to teacher (and student) morale, but to the overall culture of education.

The message?  Teach harder.

And as to how fascinating and enriching these meetings are?  I direct you back to the beginning of the third paragraph.

My Son: Almost Certainly Not A Dummy

I have a little boy, Arthur, who is two and a half years old.  He is a fine boy, just as adorable as the dickens and full of energy.  He is also extremely sweet, and loves hugs.  Sometimes he just comes over and says, "I would like a hug, Daddy."

No.   That's not true.  I'm lying to salve my pride, and I can't keep this up.

What he says is, "Need hug."  My shame burns within me like an unquenchable fire.  Six months ago, he wouldn't have even been able to say that much.  He would have just pointed and grunted as he normally did.  At least now he is using words, and we gush when he uses a simple sentence.

Two and a half years old.  Sigh.

And don't give me that "That's a perfectly normal level of development for a boy his age," or, "his teachers say he is actually one of the brighter boys in his class," or, "what the hell is wrong with you, you monster!"  I've heard all those platitudes and reassurances.

But they can never truly assuage my fears.  The bar is just set too high for the lad, I can't help it.

The cause of all this trouble is his big sister, Grace.  Grace is almost five, and will be starting Kindergarten next year (side note: holy shit!)

You see, Grace is a certified genius.  I don't mean that in the standard "my kid is so smart!" way that every parent is obligated to say.  I mean that the child in question is of exceptional intelligence.  At Arthur's age, she was reading and carrying on conversations about science and literature.  Her vocabulary and diction have always been well above the average for her age. and she picked up words at an alarming rate.  Arthur couldn't even say his own name until earlier this year.

And yes, I hear you shouting, "you can't compare children, they all progress at different rates," or "everyone knows that second kids start talking later," or "how can you say that about your own child? Have you no soul?"

As much as I appreciate what you are trying to do for me, it's so hard not to compare them.  Grace's reading is just so remarkable.  She learned some sight words, sure, like shouting out street signs while we drove, but we worked with her on phonics, and soon she was telling us what signs and posters meant, and reading text that flashed up on the TV screen.  We showed her some Naruto and she was keeping up with the subtitles! (no child of ours is watching dub, thank you.)

Arthur knows his letters, but just giggles and wants to run around when we try to quiz him on the letter sounds, and thinks books are a sometimes food.

I know! I know!  You don't have to inform me that "boys and girls tend develop different skills at different times, and his differences are perfectly in keeping with that!" and, "he will certainly pick up his pace when he gets to school" or "I am calling Child Services, and you can expect a visit soon."

And as comforting as that all is, it's just hard to look at her brilliance and his... Arthur-ness and not be somewhat disappointed.

However, it is worth noting that Grace was a total spaz for the first three years, whereas Arthur can run, jump and climb like a champ.  So maybe there's hope for him.

Perhaps he will blossom in school, but if not, at least he can be one of those kids I hated who were really good at sports and stuff.

I think I can be proud of that.  I think.

But seriously, if he doesn't have shelves of trophies by age 10, I may disown him.

On the Tyranny of Adjectives

This one is petty and whiny and I don't care.  Some of you may have never felt the sting of this particular phenomenon, but you will.  Some day, somehow, it will happen to you.  Just you watch.

The thing I speak of is adjectivization, which has never been a word BUT NOW IS.  I have a goddamned English degree and that has to count for something.

Adjectivization (with a Z, not an S; I thought long and hard about that one,) is when general society starts adding an adjective to differentiate something that never needed an adjective in its description before, but the march of time has relegated it to the fringe of usage.

I'm not talking about terms that are invented to help differentiate different versions of a product (electric & manual typewriters,) I mean when a new version becomes so dominant, that it usurps the general term, and the original is relegated to having an ignominious adjective slapped in front of it to differentiate it from the new (now normal) version.

How will that affect you?  Consider; there is something, right now, in your life, be it a hobby, or a loved activity, or even simply a facet of daily life with which you are intimately familiar.  You do this thing all of the time, and refer ti it by its simple, unmodified noun descriptor.

One day, probably soon, there will be a new way to do this thing.  And that new way will increasingly become the norm, until your version of this concept is described with a belittling adjective.

And it will rankle.  Oh how it will rankle.

For me, it was roleplaying games (yes, it's another post about roleplaying games, just shut up and read.)  For those not familiar with this concept, why are you reading my blog?

But to answer that, a roleplaying game involves players creating characters and controlling their actions.  Another individual (the title varies by game; Dungeon Master, keeper, Game Master, Storyteller, Kevin, etc.) creates the story, narrates the action, and adjudicates the other players actions.  This can be a very involved process, and everyone contributes to the shared story that is created.

Dungeons & Dragons was the first big RPG, but there have been hundreds of successful and unsuccessful variations over the years, all falling under the heading roleplaying game.

And we never needed another descriptor.

But then came that bastard Link.

Legend of Zelda, for the Nintendo Entertainment System, that 8 bit pioneer, was probably the first widely-known video game that attempted to replicate the experience of an RPG, in this case D&D.

There had been other games of course, mostly on the PC, that tried to relicate the experience of D&D.  Games like Temple of Apshai, Adventure, Castle (an awesome ASCII only game,) and series like Ultima and The Bard's Tale were beloved CRPG's, and everyone acknowledged the difference.

But Zelda was a huge hit.  That gold cartridge, with its promise of being able to travel in more than one direction, and the ability to upgrade your character over time, and return to an ongoing story in between sessions, was a watershed event.  Its success led to sequels, but also opened the door to imitators, as well as imports.  Final Fantasy, Dragon Quest, and a ton of other games I never played because I preferred people to pixels back then helped usher in a new genre of video game, the RPG.

And that's when my beloved hobby got adjectivized.

Suddenly, I was playing "pen & paper" roleplaying games.

Excuse me?  Where the hell do your video games get off using the name of a style of game THEY CAN NEVER BE?!

It's time to face an ugly truth:  NO video game will ever actually be a roleplaying game.  The modern ones like Mass Effect and Skyrim come close, with so many choices for a character, but without a human mind and imagination to guide them, you can never really play a role.  Your 14th level Tauren Druid is just a more customizable version of Mario, one step up from selecting Ken or Ryu.

Sorry.

Mind you, I love playing "RPG" video games, they are probably my favorite video game genre.  But the only reason they are called RPG's is because the first ones were all explicitly trying to rip off D&D.

But I've come to terms with it, I really have.  I play pen & paper RPG's, and that's okay, because language changes.

It's happened for generations.  As far back as "collared shirts," "ready to eat breakfast cereal," and "manual" anything (until you make an automated version, everything is manual.)

I mean think about the term acoustic guitar.  Before they invented the electric guitar, they didn't need a name for guitar other than 'guitar.'  And do you think people in the fifties went around talking about 'analog clocks?'  No, those terms came about to distinguish the different kinds of products.  And those terms lived happily, side by side in harmony.

But you wait.  You think adjectivization can only affect weirdos with oddball hobbies?  No man, they're coming for every concept you hold dear.

Here's some words that have crept into out daily lexicon through adjectivization:

• desktop computer
• landline
• print edition (also called the 'dead trees' edition)
• SLR camera
• brick-and-mortar store
• snail mail

Fucking snail mail!  The basic concept of sending letters or packages that has worked for generations is now slapped with a derogotory nickname and we all just adopted without thinking.

Think they're done?  Thin again!  Be on the look out for the following terms, coming soon to a teenager near you:

• 2D TV
• gas car
• nonline shopping
• non-autotuned singing (not-o-tune?)
• Cohort diploma  (you know, the weird ones you get in only four years of high school?  I wish to God I was kidding about that one)
• paper book
• meat- anything (this term will denote when you do something in person, with your actual, physical body, such as going on a meat-date, or having meat-sex, or even meat-meeting for the first time (if you're an old fashioned romantic type.)

Because society changes over time, and you can chart those changes with a dictionary.  And while it may seem innocuous at first, in this brave new world of double speak, it will be the players who don't use steroids who have asterisks next to their names.

But then maybe it's just me.

Do Not Open Until 2016

Dear Next President,

Today we had the second term inauguration of your predecessor, Barack Obama.  That means that four years form now, we will have a new president, and I am writing this missive to you, whomever we have selected for that role.

To begin, congratulations.  Whoever you are, you were elected fair and square, no matter what the opposition or crazy conspiracy nuts say.  On a related note, I would like to apologize on behalf of my state, Florida, because we probably fucked up the process more than a little.

Now, I don't need to tell you that you've got a hard job in front of you.  The economy will in no way be fixed by then, and the depressing unemployment numbers will continue to be the biggest headache you face.  But it won't be the only one.

Whatever your party affiliation, either Republican or Democrat (or God-Shouting Gun Guys and Gay-Marrying Pot Persons, if the new naming conventions are followed,) you will face a weary, cynical world where every little flaw and difference is thrown into sharp relief by the Klieg lamp of partisan politics and a parasitic fifth estate that feeds on misery and strife.

The opposition party, and the media outlets that support it, will do all they can to paint you as a baby-eating, drug-peddling, France-loving, freedom-hating, hate-mongering, fat cat-coddling monster with bad breath, hidden agendas, and poor taste in music.  You will be lambasted, vilified, and excoriated by people with masters degrees who will pretend to not even know such words in order to sway voters.  You will be called an elitist by the elite, and indifferent to the poor by the wealthy.  It's gonna suck.

I'd like to tell you that it won't be that bad, that there are some depths to which these jackals will not stoop, but there really is not.  Anything they don't have the balls to accuse you of themselves, they will simply report about, telling the world that someone, somewhere thinks this, and merely imply that there could be truth to it.  You just can't avoid this I'm afraid.

And your own supporters won't be saints either.  People who voted for you will do some terrible things, and you will be held accountable.  No matter how much you denounce their actions, be they bombings, shootings or simply unfortunate speech, their actions will be tied to you, and used against every good thing you've tried to do.

But I can do this much; I can support you.  I may not agree with you, I may not have voted for you, and indeed, I may despise many of your opinions and actions.  But you will be the president, and more importantly, you will be a human being.

So here is my promise to you, no matter what party you are in:

1)  I will not say a thing about your family.  That should be hallowed territory for anyone, whether public official or not.  Speculating about your wife's possible criminal acts or making fun of her pet projects is fodder for the desperate and the douchey.

2)  I will not question your heritage, parentage, or birth status.  This is not the school yard, such name-calling does not belong in the political arena.

3)  Unless you choose to identify yourself as such, I will NOT call you a Nazi or associate you with Hitler.  I have read history, and I acknowledge that no matter how much I disagree with you, that does not make you a Nazi, and implying such pretty much eliminates any credibility I might have in future discussions.

4)  When I hear about some horrible thing you have said, done, or have considered making into law, I will check with credible sources to verify it before I go spreading it around on Facebook or anywhere else, because loose lips may sink ships, but uninformed fingers should stay the hell off of keyboards.

5)  No matter how much I despise your policies, I will not feel the need to denounce you to anyone I meet who supports you.  Who they support is their own business, and friends, coworkers or parking attendants shouldn't have to defend their decisions to me.

I will do my best to uphold these principals, and try to set an example for others to do the same.  If we reasonable folk can abide by these guidelines, we can leave the vitriol and hysteria to the crazies, and leave them to warn us all about who is and is not a puppet of the lizard people, as the internet was originally meant for.

I may not have voted for you, but I can certainly afford you the basic human dignities due to all Americans.

Good luck Mr. Future President.

P.S. Notice I said Mr. President.  If you're a cootie-laden girl, I take back all that stuff about playing nice and will besmirch, slander and unleash the foulest of invective upon you.  Because eww, girls.  (

Nobody's perfect.

Secret Origins

When I was nine years old, my parents purchased a game to enjoy with friends.  The game was called Dungeons & Dragons, and because of this purchase, I am a teacher today.

My parents are not 'normal people' as such.  My father is an old school nerd, one of the pioneers who helped create the image.  He was a radio man in the Navy, and after getting out went straight to work for IBM.  He wore polyester slacks, short sleeve button-up shirts and a pocket protector, which he wore without a trace of irony, for the purpose of protecting his pocket.  He worked on computers before people had computers.  This was before they were personal, and were still massive slabs of metal and moving parts.  I have always suspected that the reason computers lack emotions is not a limitation of the hardware, but is instead due to the fact that my father helped build them.

My mother on the other hand was an artist.  That is all I have to say on the subject.

Oh, and they both read.  A lot.  Like, a lot, a lot.  Mostly science fiction and fantasy, respectively.

As a result, my siblings and I were exposed to a broad spectrum of ideas and attitudes, and an eclectic array of interests.  They were the kind of people who were always looking to try new intellectual pursuits.

So when my dad heard about a new game that was based on discussion and ideas (and math,) rather than moving pieces around a board based on random chance, they both jumped at it.

They purchased the game (the 1981 Basic Set in the purple box with the sweet Erol Otus cover,) and brought it home to play a game with my aunt & uncle.

They did not enjoy it.  It was boring, and too nerdy for most of them.  My mother hated all the math and statistics, my father thought the fantasy aspect was too silly, and my aunt and uncle (who were total straights,) found the whole thing way too geeky for them.

But that box.

They left that box lying on the dining room table.  I found it the next morning as fate had ordained.  The box called to me, with its tantalizing image of the sorceress and warrior locked in mortal combat with a fearsome dragon.

I asked my mom what it was and she explained, "It's a game for grownups.  It's got a lot of reading and imagining things in your head.  It's kind of boring.  Oh, and there's all these funny-looking dice you have to use.  You wouldn't like it."

And that was it.  I don't need to continue the story do I?  I absorbed it like Crusher Creel and it consumed my life.  I found other kids to play with and my life as a Dungeon Master began.

I played whenever I could, and designing dungeons on graph paper replaced such mundane pastimes as  homework and studying (to be fair, there is no alternate timeline where I wasn't a poor student in school, I was that sad combination of smart and stubborn that guarantees F's.)

But it also made me read voraciously.  Not just rulebooks (which I could only rarely afford to add to my collection,) but any fantasy fiction I could get my hands on.  Tolkien, Howard, Anthony, King, Eddings, anyone I could find I consumed.

As a DM, you don't just play the game, you create new realities to share with others.  This, more than anything, is what got me interested in writing.  And to make my stories ring true, I learned how to research my subjects.

D&D was a gateway to other role playing games, which followed in the mother game's wake, and those new games led to new genres of fiction.  Call of Cthulhu (the game,) led me to H.P. Lovecraft, and through the gentleman of Providence I was introduced to the whole circle of mythos writers.

It was in no small part a desire to share ideas that got me interested in teaching.  I figured out in high school I was good at communicating ideas to others, and I didn't spend any time wondering what I would do with my life.

And now I teach high school, and that is because of D&D.  I may not roll D20's when I'm in front of the class, but I learned how to communicate to a group by running bands of adventurers in quests to slay dragons.  At home, I use those skills to teach my own children, showing them all about the world around them with a sense of wonder and revelation I developed describing ten-foot-wide corridors winding through sinister dungeons.  All because my parents forgot to put away the box of D&D some thirty years ago.

And that, dear wife of mine, is why I didn't clean up from the D&D game last night.