Words For 2020: #3 Write

When I was in college about a hundred years ago (actually, I graduated from undergrad in 1981), my professor in Classroom Methods was like so many back then--hopelessly out of touch. The guy hadn't been in a highschool classroom in decades. He didn't teach us much of anything at all that was of Value. It was a lot of Sixties stuff, like Rap Sessions and Creative Listening and junk that bordered on Being A Mime. He drove us all nuts because we knew it was crazy, this hippie crap, and that if we even attempted it, those teenagers would tear us apart.

Little did I know that school systems everywhere were already wrenching their English programs into the far less demanding-sounding course called Language Arts, and embracing things called Whole Language, Sight Reading, and for the upper grades, Journal Writing. By the time I was in an English classroom teaching five classes of sophomores, Journal Writing was a Thing, and we had to make them do it at least once a week. We had to come up with a topic, give them classroom time, and give them credit. At our department meeting we all griped about the prospect of grading these journals. Merely lugging them around was bad enough, but do the math: the sheer volume of grading was staggering and downright punitive. All of us lamented our college majors; why hadn't we chosen phys ed or art? Or music?

Several veteran teachers shrugged and admitted they didn't read them at all. They marked them with a check and gave a grade for completion. Others said they read only a select few and graded those. Others said they told the students to choose their best three for grading and if they didn't complete all the entries, oh well, they simply had fewer to choose from. A few rebels admitted to me that they refused to give journal work to their kids; they thought it was stupid and a time-waster for everyone involved.

I have to admit--I eventually became one of those rebels. And it didn't take too long, either.

Let me explain why.

I value Writing. I value it highly. Good Writing or Writing with purpose means a great deal to me. No one should disrespect someone's Writing. If a student is going to be asked to Write, then that Writing should be read. At the very least, it should be read and reacted to. The idea of someone sitting there, flipping pages of student Writing, making checkmarks on it, bothered me. That Writing represented that student's thoughts. It's like ignoring that student and saying his time or her thoughts were inconsequential.

(It also bothers me when kids are punished by Writing sentences. All that does is teach kids to hate Writing. Please don't make learning or self-expression a vehicle for punishment.)

Writing is my preferred method of communication almost always. Even though I was a verbal communicator/teacher (and a good one) for thirty years, I still prefer Writing. It gives me time to think, to unwind my thoughts, to pick the best words, to organize my ideas, and to refine everything I want to say.

I don't hate Journals, either. I keep one semi-daily. I Write in it at about the same time, a time set aside specifically for Writing. (And I use a certain kind of pen because I need a gliding pen, not one that blots or scratches.) I pick it up, Write the date, and just start in. It is private, very personal, and in it I can sort out all kinds of thoughts and ideas I want to untangle. I can celebrate in it; I can bitch in it; I can mourn in it. In short, I can be myself in it, unedited. I keep the previous pages of the Journal under a rubber band so that I don't go back and read them, and I never go back to previous Journals, either. Why go back to the Past? If I'm near a dollar store, I grab a few cheap little Journals in there, and that's what I use. Nothing fancy. And, believe it or not, I don't worry about my punctuation as I'm Writing in my Journal. It looks a lot like Emily Dickinson in there with all the dashes. It's very liberating.

Back in January I decided to try harder to Write here more often. That is still my intention. So, for 2020 and beyond, Write is one of my Words.

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And The Greatest Of These Is Love...Of Learning

One of the objectives that was a Big Deal when I was still formally In Education was helping our students to become Lifelong Learners. At first glance, that looks sort of at odds with a more tangible goal, which is always to get them to graduate in four years. Becoming a Lifelong Learner, however, means to instill into each thriving mind that Love Of Learning--so much so that said mind wants to go on learning new things forever and forever.

I am a Lifelong Learner, but my education didn't make me that way. It's not that I didn't have excellent teachers all along the way; I did. Part of my quest for learning has to do with reading, and the other part has to do with an all-consuming Need To Know that completely commandeers my conscious mind and compels me to find out every single detail, fact, and available piece of information about whatever it is that currently interests me.

My lifelong learning has led me to, at various stages of my life, read deeply in, research the hell out of, and generally beat up the following topics, in no especial order:



1.  Jack the Ripper
2.  Cows
3.  R.M.S. Titanic
4.  Birds of North America
5.  Redwoods
6.  Oscar Wilde
7.  The Battle of Gettysburg
8.  Mary Lincoln
9.  Abraham Lincoln (1840-1865)
10. Human anatomy
11. John Keats
12. Emily Dickinson
13. The Black Donnellys
14. Daniel Day-Lewis

There are others, but I don't want to start freaking people out unnecessarily. I'm not counting the stuff I started to research because I had to teach it, either, like Walt Whitman. I was already deep into Miss Emily before she became part of my regular curriculum.

The Interwebs make this so very, very easy. If I hear about something on NPR, I can research it immediately on the Interwebs. I can then go on Amazon.com (my boyfriend!) and select books which my boyfriend will then send directly to my front porch in a few days or so. I can even get on Netflix and search for any documentaries on the topic. The amount of information available to me at my fingertips is almost overwhelming. There is so much that I can wallow in information: facts, details, witness accounts, photographs, recordings, testimony, you name it. For information addicts like me, it is heaven.

The problem with making Lifelong Learning an educational goal or objective is that it's impossible to achieve if you have a student with absolutely no natural curiosity. Or a student who doesn't/won't read. Or someone who doesn't care about anything but himself and his (insert trivial object here: cellphone, motorcycle, designer something).

I just this minute learned that someone from Maryland discovered what he thinks might be pictures of President Lincoln's funeral procession passing by on a New York City street. The photo, published on a Flickr site, is from the National Archives. Here's a link.  I'll be looking closely at it as soon as I hit "Publish" on this post.  Then, I'll probably click another link, then another, then another.  And pretty soon, I'll be looking at all kinds of other things and learning about them, too.

Being a Lifelong Learner is a gift.  Did you receive it?  What wonderful, interesting things have you learned about?

You Can Dress Me Up & Take Me Out, But That Doesn't Mean I'll Be Happy About It (With A Random Emily Dickinson Reference To Class It Up)

A few days ago, one of my students told me that I was turning into a modern-day Emily Dickinson, and I fear that he was right. I have developed such an aversion to The Public that I cannot go Out There without being cataclysmically...affected.

Let's just say that, shall we?

Rick and I went to The Great Big Home & Garden Expo! (formerly known as The Home and Garden Show but so much more of a bigass deal now that it deserves more adjectives and an ampersand), primarily because we had free tickets, but also because we were lured by the prospect of escaping the eleventy inches of snow on the ground and the idea of seeing actual flowers and trees in bloom. Sadly, all of NE Ohio had the exact same idea, and we were shocked to see people actually standing in long snaky lines of more than a hundred just to walk through a pretend house.

I was similarly stunned to see that "Great Big Home and Garden" also meant several identical booths of meat jerky, fake pashminas, and powdered dip mixes. As we wandered through this incredible bazaar of the bizarre, I started to feel more and more as if I were on some alien planet. Come with me:

It started on our way in. I saw a woman in a bouffant hairdo clutching a sign of plasticized cardboard. It was about 18"X18" and had metal prongs on it so that it could stick in her yard. She looked positively enraptured. It was clear that this sign was a Major Score for her. On it, in bold, black capital letters were two words, one atop the other: KING JESUS.I was immediately befuddled. What would be the purpose of this sign? If it were in the imperative, a command, how could someone do that? That would take a mighty big checker, number one, and number two, with Jesus being the Almighty and all, isn't He pretty darn capable of kinging Himself? If it were merely declarative, well, then, okay... Now what? If she puts it in her yard, then is she saying that He lives at her house, or what? It's not very interactive like, say, "HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS." And the odds of her having a Jesus statue with Him wearing a crown and her saying, "Damn, I really need a sign that indicates who the hell this is" just seem remote, don't they? I just don't get it. I mean, kudos for minimalism and all, but really, what's the deal? And honestly, let's say you're driving down the highway and see a house with that sign in the yard; what's your reaction? See what I mean? Later, Rick and I saw the booth in the Expo where the sign was being sold. It was a tiny booth with a bunch of "inspirational" signs, all on the same material, all black letters, all meant to be used outside. I still don't get it.

One booth made me do a double-take and made my stomach do a backflip. I have no idea what the guy was selling, but in front of him on a counter were feet, human feet--all cross-sectioned to look like they had been dissected. Suddenly, the man took a huge forkful from behind them and put it into his mouth and started chewing. My eyes flew open wider and I almost gagged. As we hurried past, I had to turn around and look more closely. The feet were plastic models, thank goodness, and he was eating a taco salad that he had placed behind the row of them. But still, it wasn't until we reached the Patio Enclosures booth that I realized that I had been holding my breath for more than a minute.

Almost equally disturbing were the Booths Of Vibrating Devices. It is important to note that both times I passed these booths, the Devices were being...sampled by men. One of the Devices was a sort of vibrating balancing board. The men on them were standing wide-legged and simply vibrating. A LOT. With an intense look on their faces that could best be described as...(send the children away) pre-orgasmic. The same could be said for the men on the chairlike Device which actually had a sort of...codpiece thingy that, well, let me just say that it looked like a carseat for grownups but it vibrated. A LOT. Again, the expression on the faces of the men was...heavily engaged. Rick offered to take photos/video with his cellphone for this post, but my gentle breeding (and my concern that there was no sign forbidding firearms in the Expo) forbid it.

Sometimes, the names of businesses are worthy of discussion. Rick pointed out Chip Painters. My favorite was Master Deck Builders, but they are not capitalizing on their name. I wanted desperately to give them a makeover. I envisioned them all wearing black, for starters. Then, I wanted them all to wear menacing black hobnail boots like these. Better yet, how about the boots that Gene Simmons from Kiss wears? Okay, maybe too much. Anyway, then, I think they should have a whip coiled up and hanging from a big, studded, black leather belt. Now those would be some Master Deck Builders!

When we had walked the entire Expo and had seen quite enough--of everything--Rick and I decided to go. I had worked titanically hard at behaving myself and it had taken a toll: I was exhausted. Not once had I remarked (loudly enough to be heard) regarding awful/clever spelling (Custom Decks by Klassic--Proffesional Builders!), nor had I said Word One about the number of people who behaved as if pushing a stroller made them immune to the Rules Of Common Courtesy.

That's what I have the Dept. for.

Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Sagging Pants, Republicans, and Brad Pitt: Go On, I Dare You

These past two weeks, my students in American Lit have been studying the work of Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson, two nineteenth century poets whose work we have analyzed, discussed, and related to modern figures in American life. Feeling moved by the Muse one day--as well as having had my fill of a neverending vista of boxer shorts--I posted this sign on my door and in my classroom:

I'd rather see London--

I'd rather see France--

I'd rather not see your underpants!

No sagging in room 245.

Can someone please explain to me how this is attractive or fashionable or even remotely acceptable in any society? Why are these 15, 16, 17, and 18-year old young men not embarrassed that I can SEE THEIR UNDERWEAR? I routinely call out, "Red and blue plaid!" or "Yellow with blue sailboats!" or "Green with white martini glasses!" as soon as I can see a flash of cotton-polyester blend in front of me. They usually hitch up their jeans and growl goodnaturedly, "Awww, Mrs. D!" and saunter off to their desks. And, get this: most of them are wearing belts! FOR WHAT?!

At least they have learned to spare themselves the sad indignity of sparring with me as they used to. This is how it used to transpire:

Male student enters room sagging, boxers flaunted before me.

Me: Joe Boxers waistband and yellow stripes!
Male: Huh? (looks down) Why you gotta call out my underwear like that?

Me: I thought you were showing it off! It's just hanging out there. I wanted to make sure you knew I noticed it. Your plan is working!

Male: My plan? Maaaaan! Ms. D., that's my underwear. You don't gotta go and put my business all out there and junk.

Me: I don't understand. You put it out there. Your pants are halfway down to your crotch. Your business is waaaay out there. Seems to me that if--

Male: Okay, okay! I'll pull them up. Geeze!

I find this so-called fashion trend nothing short of horrific. Where are "pants," period? Just pants? Just jeans that aren't the pencil-legged spray-painted sort worn by the "emo-boys", nor the oversized trashcan-legged kind in which one can hide an SUV or get holes in the crotch from its being dragged on the ground. I miss plain old boys' pants. I'll tell you when all this sagging bullshit will stop. WHEN GIRLS START DOING IT. There, I said it. And don't give me that crapola about girls showing a peek of a thong out of hi-rise jeans. It's just not the same, and we both know it. I am certainly not advocating either of these hideous anti-fashions; all I'm saying is that if girls start adopting the sag, probably several Agencies and Hearings would be set up to Look Into It. Immediately. Ahem.

And while I'm on the subject of male fashion, here's another thing that has been bothering me. What the heck has happened to men with hair? I have no idea when the idea of men shaving their hair down to the height of toothbrush bristles started, but let me just say here and now that I am dismayed, distraught, and pretty much devastated by this continuing trend. You know me, whenever something like this occurs on a large scale, I get suspicious, and my first, immediate inclination is...Blame The Republicans, a la Hillary (The Vast Right-Wing Conspiracy), but it does seem to me that in the 90s, men had longer hairstyles. I know my husband did! We hit the new millenium and men started shaving their heads (or practically!) and now the majority of men have little or no hair. It's awful. A man with luxurious hair will catch my glance ten times more quickly than a man with a pate like a shoebrush. I love to run my fingers through my husband's hair. It's not anywhere near as long as it once was, but it's at least long enough to comb and enjoy. I long for the days when it was really long, and sun-streaked like Brad Pitt's in Legends of the Fall. What's romantic and alluring and inviting about short hair? Ouch.

Here, see for yourself:

If you're being honest, you know you want the Brad With Hair. And you want him Bad. And you'd prefer him NOW. Sigh. And my husband had that hair. Honesttogod and now it is in a ziploc in my drawer!

But I digress.

My point--and I think I do/did have one--is this: men, of all ages, are perpetrating a high degree of bad fashion. And I am sick of it. And it must stop. Please help.

Oh, and it probably would be nice if you read a little Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman, too. Especially Walt. He's kind of a 19th century Dr. Phil: he wants you to get excited about your life. To "celebrate yourself and sing yourself." What's wrong with that? Just don't do it in bad fashion.