This Train's Year in Books 2011

Welcome to the 2011 edition of This Train's year in books, otherwise known as the Year of Nonfiction and other cool events that are as exciting as fiction but really happened.  This year, in reading and in life, has been full of unexpected surprises and adventure mixed in with the familiar--a winning combination that has left me feeling thankful and blessed, not to mention much more informed on topics ranging from particle physics to rubber duckies and quite a bit in between.  

January: The Disappearing Spoon: And Other True Tales of Madness, Love and the History of the Periodic Table of Elements by Sam Kean

Technically I bought this book last December, but it was the title that opened 2011.  I read it once, then promptly read it again, this time out loud to my mother over the new year while in Belfast, Ireland visiting my sister Sarah and her family.  It is brilliantly written, laugh-out-loud funny and, really, who knew what dastardly lengths scientists will go to in search of new elements? Or what wacky tricks elements can do under various circumstances, some thrillingly technical, some totally mundane. (The disappearing spoon mentioned in the title, for example, is made from gallium, an element that melts at temperatures found in an ordinary cup of tea.  Those wild-and-crazy chemists love to haze the new guy by busting out the gallium spoons at teatime.)

At its core, this book is about the drama, passion and hilarity that often result when people try to bring order to chaos and find answers to life's most fundamental questions. It is therefore appropriate that is represents January 2011, the month I entered into a Pact with four of my closest teaching friends of all time.  Three of us were single, and this Pact was meant to bring order, possibly passion, though hopefully not drama, to our personal lives.  It was not about creating instant chemistry, but about taking the risk of putting ourselves out there--a key component in any scientific experiment as well as in life. 

February: The Hidden Reality: Parallel Universes and the Deep Laws of the Cosmos by Brian Greene

The science theme continued with Columbia University professor and lucid writer Brian Greene's book on the physics of the universe.  I wrote a blog about this book while reading it (see "Flights of Reality" from February 2011), so won't repeat myself here.  This book, however, perfectly represents February, in which I threw myself into fulfilling my end of the Pact with a brief and memorably hilarious (though not at all passionate) experiment in online dating.  Particle physics and string theory have nothing on the hidden realities of meeting up with perfect strangers in coffee shops and restaurants and attempting to make conversation based on a brief blurb on a dating website.  Though I paid for a month of this service, I was done after two weeks and perfectly content to put the Pact to rest.  Or so I thought.

March: A Red Herring Without Mustard and I Am Half Sick of Shadows by Alan Bradley, The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party by Alexander McCall Smith, A Trick of the Light by Louise Penny, The Eloquence of Blood by Judith Rock and V is for Vengeance by Sue Grafton

I didn't read all of these mysteries in March, but I put them here together because they represent the latest installments of several favorite mystery series as well as almost all of the fiction I read this year.  Reading a good mystery, especially those with familiar characters, is like hanging out with an old friend for days at a time.  But familiarity hardly equals boredom since these "old friends" are always knee-deep in intrigue and adventure.  I especially recommend, as always, Judith Rock, novelist and godmother extraordinaire.  Though I'm not the most unbiased source, I will say that her second installment starring Charles du Luc as an intrepid Jesuit rhetorician/dance instructor/detective in the wilds of 17th century Paris, is impeccably plotted and researched--and, dare I say, even more exciting than her debut last year.

I spent time with a lot of old friends in March, reconnecting on a week-long spring break trip to San Francisco.  I blogged about this, too (see "Sitting Still" from March 2011).  What wasn't mentioned in the demure March post was the intriguing and definitely not-dull moment of meeting Anna amidst a whirlwind of familiar faces, including MW, who introduced us.  The moment I'd given up on the Pact, certain that my personal-life plotline would continue on its nonexistent trajectory, the scene shifted, in the style of the very best mystery novels.  I suddenly found myself not in the drawing room with Colonel Mustard, or in a random cafe with a perfect stranger, but in a San Francisco restaurant with Anna at the start of something incredible.

April: You Are What You Speak: Grammar Grouches, Language Laws and the Politics of Identity by Robert Lane Greene

OK, I realize this whole entry is beginning to resemble one of those cheesy episodes from an 80s TV show made up of "flashback" clips from previous episodes.  I promise this is the last time I will shout out a book I have already written an entire post about (see "Speaking Truth to Grammar Grouches, April 2011), but I can't help it.  This was one of the best books I read in 2011, and one of the best in its genre.  Once again, don't let the lengthy academic title throw you off--this book is as delightful and necessary as it is readable.  And I'm not throwing around the word "necessary" lightly.  The way we speak as well as perceive (and judge) the way others speak is one of the most fundamental ways we decide who to trust, respect and take seriously.  Greene utterly demolishes the notion that there was ever a "golden age" of any language when all people spoke the "correct" way.  In so doing, he intellectually legitimizes the way all languages (including English) evolve and change.

May: In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror and an American Family in Hitler's Berlin by Erik Larson

Those of you who enjoyed Larson's Devil in the White City and Thunderstruck won't be disappointed by this departure from his technology-meets-modern-crime theme.  Or perhaps his research into the rise of Hitler bears witness to the most horrific crime in history.  In this riveting book, Larson tells the story of the Dodd family's years in 1930s Berlin.  He focuses mainly on the professorial William Dodd, American ambassador to Germany, and Dodd's fun-loving, sexually liberated daughter Martha, who immerses herself in the Third Reich party scene and discovers much more than she bargained for.  As a reader, it is alternately agonizing and fascinating to watch Hitler's rise to power through the eyes of two Americans who have no idea what is coming.  Larson's excellent writing and detailed historical context keep the suspense high, even when the tragic outcome is a foregone conclusion from the start.

June: The Passage by Justin Cronin

I couldn't put down Cronin's skillfully written thriller about an America devastated by a biological weapon gone awry that turns every tenth infected person into a scary, vampyric superhuman.  Good times, if you are (as I am) a sucker for post-apocalyptic tales involving a few remaining humans battling the evil result of militaristic hubris against all odds.  I read this while in Costa Rica learning Spanish, and it was perhaps not the best choice for bedtime in the sleepy town of Turrialba, nestled in the rainforest and full of insects, small creatures and various other things that go bump in the night.  Though not for the faint of heart, I highly recommend The Passage not only as a page turner but as a glimpse into the hearts and minds of some wonderfully rendered characters that will be returning in the much-anticipated sequel due out in March 2012.

July: The Ascent of Money--Niall Ferguson

Understanding the economy with or without a MBA takes close reading as well as courage these days.  The decisions made on Wall Street (whether by the fabled 1% or not) often seem based solely on myopic greed and the herd mentality.  Turns out it's always been this way.  Ferguson's clearly written account traces money, markets and investing back to its origins and contextualizes a lot of the historical currents that have been battering us lately.  I wasn't exactly reassured, especially given how deeply these currents are affected by psychology rather than the "rational" rules we learn in Econ 101, but I did feel a lot more informed. 

August: One of a Kind: the Rise and Fall of Stuey "The Kid" Ungar, the World's Greatest Poker Player by Mike Sexton and Nolan Dalla

As a teacher, I often plug reading by telling students how it will open up worlds they've never dreamed of before.  I felt this way while reading about Stuey Ungar, a career gambler, drug addict and poker genius who won the World Series of Poker not once but three different times, and then died, virtually penniless in a Vegas hotel room at age 45. As single-minded a gambler as any dedicated artist, musician or executive, Ungar probably won about $30 million over the course of his short life, yet never had a bank account or home address.  His story is a intriguing peek into the world of professional gambling, bookies and bets, and is ably told by Sexton and Dalla based on hours of taped interviews with Stuey before his death.

September: How to Live, Or a Life of Montaigne in One Question and 20 Attempts at an Answer by Sarah Bakewell

I dipped into this book throughout 2011, but finished it in September.  Montaigne was essentially the first blogger 500 years before the Internet existed.  A Renaissance man (literally and figuratively), he pioneered the personal essay, writing about life, love, land, family, politics, plague and anything else that came into his head from his "writing tower" on his estate near Bordeaux.  Just like the bloggers of today, Montaigne had avid fans who felt he was speaking to them alone--as well as vehement detractors who disliked his chatty style and secular, self-referential world view.   Each chapter in the book attempts to answer the question "How to live?" with an essay by Bakewell that puts Montaigne's life and thoughts into context. My favorite chapters were "Question Everything" and "Philosophize but Only by Accident." Though marketed as a biography, this book is much more.  It was also an excellent book to finish as I was starting my second year teaching in Austin, getting ready to through myself into the daily routine of 70-hour work weeks while keeping that question "How to live?" always at the back of my mind.

October: The Psychopath Test: A Journey Through the Madness Industry by Jon Ronson

Ronson starts this book attempting to solve an intriguing hoax.  Someone was sending select neurologists a cryptic, expensively produced book, but no one knew who, or why s/he had been chosen.  On his way to uncovering the (crazy?) book sender, Ronson stumbled upon the study of psychopaths and the test mentioned in the title, a roster of 40 questions designed to uncover the psychopaths among us.  Turns out a surprising number of people "qualify" as psychopaths, some proven violent offenders and others successful in business, politics and even law enforcement.  Ronson's thoughtful (and at times unsettling) book casts a critical eye on the test, its profound affect on the mental health professionals who are taught to use it, and a handful people who find themselves labeled.  No one questions that psychopaths exist, but Ronson makes sure his readers get a complete picture of the industry of mental health diagnosis and treatment.

November: Moby Duck: The True Story of 28,000 Bath Toys Lost at Sea and of Beach Combers, Oceanographers, Environmentalists and Fools,  Including the Author, Who Went in Search of Them by Donovan Hohn

Chart the currents of the ocean and the currents of global trade in this wonderful book about a container of plastic bath toys that fell off a cargo ship in 1992 and captured the imagination of every single person mentioned in Hohn's lengthy title. And Hohn interviews all of them, from the quirky beachcombers of Alaska's Inner Passage to environmentalists studying the infamous Pacific Garbage Patch to a blind oceanographer to the whole crew of a Canadian ice breaker plowing through the Arctic Circle.  I cannot recommend this book highly enough.  When he's not roaming the oceans on a quest for knowledge, Hohn teaches high school English, and it shows (in a good way). His writing is clear and grounded in his knowledge of American lit as well as his own musings.  I especially loved the quotations from Moby Dick at the beginning of each section.

December: State of Wonder by Ann Patchett

Anything by Ann Patchett is worth reading, and her latest novel is no exception.  It has made the Best Of lists of many reviewers and with good cause.  Like all masters, Patchett communicates perfectly with words.  She has an amazing ability to move her characters through time and space without bogging down her descriptions or rushing her expositions. She sets this latest book in the Amazon jungle among a tribe whose women continue to have babies well into their 70s.  An American pharmaceutical company smells a profit, but the scientist in charge of uncovering the secret of this medical marvel has gone native in more ways than one.  Enter our heroine, sent by the CEO of the company (who also happens to be her lover) to find out what's going on after his first emissary dies of a mysterious fever.  Patchett's stories are never simple morality tales of good vs. evil, yet there is never any doubt what is at stake ethically for all involved.  Her 2001 book Bel Canto was my all-time favorite before Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell took its place.  (If you haven't read either of those books, go out and get them immediately!) State of Wonder has an equally compelling cast of characters, though its premise is much more global in scope. 

It was also an excellent book to wrap up 2011 and start 2012, a year that I hope will include much more fiction in my reading life, but no less startling, wonder-inspiring reality.  As always, please write or post recommendations of your own here.  I would love to hear what you have loved reading this year...

Keep Austin Rolling

Anyone who was anyone was at the Austin Convention Center Saturday night for the finals of the Texas Roller Derby Lonestar Rollergirls season.  'Anyone' in this case being tattoo-ed and leather-clad 20-somethings, preppy couples on dates, senior citizens, mid-sized kids with brightly colored signs, babies, toddlers, their parents and at least one brown-cloaked Jedi complete with glowing blue light saber.  We all gathered to see the Rhinestone Cowgirls face off against the reigning champion Cherry Bombs on a banked track.  The girls on wheels came ready to go, sporting grungy green  tank tops, ripped fishnet stockings and black spandex (Cherry Bombs) or Texas-flag-inspired short-shorts and red spangled work shirts (Rhinestone Cowgirls).  Everyone had a nickname, of course, from the skaters to the refs to the announcers.  More on that later...

The rules of roller derby, for those not already in the know, are fairly simple.  The four quarters of a bout (yes, it's called a bout!) are divided into two-minute "jams." During a jam,  two skaters from each team face off as "jammers."  Skating ahead of them is "the pack," a group of 10, five from each team.  The pack takes off and three seconds later the jammers start, skating like crazy women toward the pack.  The goal of the jammer is to make her way through the pack (aided by her teammates, blocked energetically by her opponents). The first jammer to make it through is called the "lead jammer." Once through, the jammers try to lap the pack.  For each opposing player they pass on the second time around, they earn one point for their team.  The jam ends when the two-minute clock runs out or the lead jammer calls an end by putting her hands (as sassily as possible) on her hips. The latter is much more common because it's good strategy to end the jam once your team has collected points but before the other team's jammer can make much headway through the pack.

What this looks like in practice is a bunch of scantily clad women in knee pads and helmets, jockeying for position while roller skating at top speed.  This alone explains much of the appeal of the sport.   It turns out, however, that there are other aspects to a roller derby that add even more verve to the proceedings. 

Now would be a good time to talk about the noms de derby, which are clearly a huge part of the identity of each skater and no doubt carefully and lovingly chosen.  These nicknames tend to include, according to the Wikipedia article on the subject, "elements of punk, camp and third-wave feminist aesthetics." In other words, they are intentionally provocative, ironically trashy and totally hilarious.  (And isn't Wikipedia adorable when it gets all intellectual?)

Last night the Cherry Bombs were led by super-jammer Rocky Casbah, backed up vigorously by teammates Sacra Licious, Roller Gazm and Veruca Assault.  On the Rhinestone Cowgirls, Katagory 5 (a Norwegian transplant, former speed skater and true hurricane indeed) dominated the track, supported by the likes of Dusty Double Wide, Abbey Roadkill and Allie Bamazon.  The head ref, Dee Toxin, kept it real by calling penalties on both sides in equal measure.  She was supported by line refs Chicken Dinner and Major Problem.  You get the idea.

Speaking of penalties, there do seem to be no-nos during a jam, but the consequences simply add to the show.  Major penalties result in the offending player being placed in a penalty box (a la hockey) and the jam is done over.  Minor penalties, however, are another thing entirely.  In Austin, the emcee (aka Mighty Aphrodite), spun the "penalty wheel" after each minor penalty.   On the wheel were challenges such as tug-of-war, pillow fight and long jump, that are just that much more interesting when performed on roller skates.  The skater who got the penalty faced off against someone from the opposing side.  If she lost the face-off, her team lost a point.  If she won, nothing was lost.

As you've probably gathered by now, a big percentage of roller derby, while legitimately athletic in nature, is a lot about show.  In Austin, everyone from the announcers (Wesley Page and Wundamike) to the officials, coaches and skaters contribute to the entertaining campiness of the bout, where a spirit of "all in good fun" prevailed, even during the finals. (And despite the bad-ass reputations promoted by reality shows like A&E's Rollergirls and Drew Barrymore's movie Whip It!, both set in Austin.) At the convention center on Saturday there was no blood, a minimum of trash talking and very little you wouldn't want the posses of seven year olds snacking on Dippin' Dots to witness.  The nicknames, after all, are over their heads, and every time a player flipped off the announcers, the response was always, "Oh look, they're saying we're #1."  The biggest hazard probably came from the noise level of the heavy metal half-time bands.  Most of the senior citizens sitting near me put Kleenex in their ears and kept on smiling.

Which brings us back to the bout.  This year, the Rhinestone Cowgirls walked away with the championship, thanks mostly to the Scandinavian-ice-inspired maneuvers of Katagory 5, who may as well have been wearing one of those sleek body suits for all the Cherry Bombs were able to get an elbow on her.  Next year, though, it could be anyone's season.  Rumor has it that Rocky Casbah might be retiring and Katagory 5 returning to Norway, leaving the track clear for a new crop of ironically campy, fish-net-wearing, kick-ass skaters.  Stay tuned, sports fans...

Extras: peewee football, singing and the universal Coke

This weekend I spent a chunk of time attending the extracurricular events of several students.  This time-honored tradition is always a good idea at the beginning of the school year, especially when it is prompted by cute invitations whispered at the end of class or hand-written notes.  Believe me, it's almost impossible to say no, regardless of the request--which is why some former colleagues have still not forgiven me for dragging us all, en masse, to a three-hour performance of Il Trovatore to see one of our students play Child #11.

This Saturday evening I found myself about as far away from "The Anvil Chorus" as you can get.  Instead of listening to Italian lyrics, I sat on the bleachers of a local sports park with the math teacher ES and her fiance watching a peewee football game.  I had not previous attended a peewee football event (an actual term, along the same lines as 'little league', for under-14 tackle football) and I'm so glad my first experience occurred in Texas.  Because I suspect--and I don't think I'm going out on a limb here--that Texas does peewee football unlike any other state. 

The first thing that struck me was the sheer amount of equipment and infrastructure involved. Of course, the boys all had full uniforms and gear.  But then the coaches had those head-set things.  The bleachers were packed with parents and families, and the scoreboard rivaled any high school field in the country (though perhaps not in Texas).  There were cheerleaders, too (naturally?), with matching uniforms and pom-poms. (Another student of ours was on the cheer-leading squad, which we didn't know until we showed up.) At halftime, they did a little show on the 50-yard line.  The only thing, frankly, that didn't look right out of Friday Night Lights was the level of skill on the field, which was age appropriate, shall we say.  Though I was impressed with the variety and level of plays, as narrated to ES and me by the fiance.  (He was relieved to at least be at a sporting event, having been pressed into watching three students at a ballet folklorico performance the weekend before.) 

It was at this event that I was pleased to witness another time-honored Texas tradition: the asking for a "Coke" and the receiving of a completely different soda because it is understood that "Coke" really means any carbonated beverage from a can.  As a college graduate, I'm aware of the wide variety of synonyms for soda used throughout the country.  But I had never suspected that when ES asked her fiance to bring her back "a Coke" from the snack bar that he would somehow know to return with Dr. Pepper. (Much to my chagrin, after I asked for a sip).

Me:  OMG!  This isn't Coke!

ES: Umm, no, it's Dr. Pepper.

Me:  But, but...I distinctly heard you ask for a Coke!

ES: I didn't ask for "Coke."  I asked for "a Coke." A Coke means anything.

Me:  But how did he know it meant Dr. Pepper in this particular case?

ES: He just did.

I'm sure they will have a long and happy marriage. 

Our student's team ended up being victorious, despite the fact that their opponents ran through a Go Spartans sign as their contribution to the halftime festivities and had a player called Blaze Murphy (for real!)  Most of the touchdowns were scored by Number 8, who couldn't have been more than 4-feet tall, but must have run at least 120 yards during the game.  In the end, our student smiled shyly, then remembered he was cool and ignored us as he and his teammates whooped up their victory.  Again, very age appropriate. 

The second student was singing in the youth choir at church.  I have never before attended the same church as one of my students, but it makes for a nice connection, and we rarely attend the same service. But I made it to the 9 a.m. to hear the choir.  After the service, she not only smiled, but acknowledged my presence and, in a rare middle school move, even introduced me to her friends.  

Attending events after hours can get overwhelming as the word gets out among the kids and even more invitations flow in.  I don't want to pretend I go to everything because I don't.  But like anything that takes extra time and seems like a dubious idea when it's 6 p.m. on a Saturday night and you have groceries in the car and have been out all day--it's always worth it in the end. 

A tale of two Stevens

I'd like to introduce you to Steven Brill and Dr. Steven Paine, my two new buddies. Brill is a journalist and publisher (media hounds might remember Brill's Content magazine, which went bust with the dot coms in 2001) who has written a book about education reform called Class Warfare. Paine is the schools superintendent of the entire state of West Virginia. Both are gaining widespread attention for speaking truths about what it takes to improve public education that run counter to the conventional wisdom about school reform. Brill is an astute observer. Paine is a straight-up visionary.

Brill first. He recently published a piece in the Wall Street Journal (of all places) that is (finally!) the article I've been waiting for...

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424053111903918104576500531066414112.html

Hey look! It quotes real classroom teachers! It features comments by education reform leaders that make crystal clear the pressure charter school teachers are under. It lauds the skill of one teacher even as she makes the decision to quit (mid-year no less, a particularly devastating choice), choosing her health and marriage over the job.

But most of all it stands up in a national newspaper in front of millions of readers and waves the red flag of reality for all the world to see. On this flag is emblazoned: Three million teachers. It is a reminder--evidence flapping madly in the winds of finger-pointing and union-bashing--that true change to public education needs to include everyone. No one else is really saying that. Unions are in full defensive mode. Reformers are in attack formation. Enter Steven Brill, wily pundit, with the suggestion that Mayor Bloomberg name Randi Weingarten, teachers union chief and arch villain of Waiting for Superman, as school chancellor. Brill's being a gadfly, but his point is plain to see. He says it better than I ever could:

"If they are pushed the right way, the unions can help to create educational systems that can enable and encourage ordinary teachers to work harder and more effectively—and still allow them to sit down once in a while so that they don't burn out."

This should not be the radical statement it is in the eyes of many reformers, people whom I agree with on almost every other educational issue. Helping teachers get better without frying them to a crisp can only help the kids. Harnessing a union's organizational power (not to mention influencing its membership) to support teachers as they improve is just logical. Then why can't we say it out loud? Refusing to acknowledge the reality of the public education system and the people involved is something that makes me question the integrity of the reform movement in my darker moments (when chipper I think only of the dedicated, passionate people giving 110% every single day in classrooms all over the country). If it's really about all kids, and not just the ones that win the charter school lottery, then how can it make sense not to use (or, heck, co-opt) anything you can find?

It's a bird! It's a plane! It actually IS Superman!

Dr. Steven Paine is co-opting in a different way. He's standing up and declaring that against all odds West Virginia is going to reform the heck out of their public education system and just you try and stop them. Impossible is nothing! It's a move out of the education reform playbook where hard-core "no excuses" sloganeering is the name of the game. But instead of promoting higher test scores and picking apart the unions, he's blazing a trail from Charleston to...Helsinki.

The man has clearly seen Waiting for Superman, but he's drawn different conclusions than most of its fans. If Finland (much lauded in the movie) has the best public education system in the world, then, by golly, we should make our schools more like Finland's. Thing is...hmmm...Finland has strong teachers unions. Finland doesn't use standardized test to evaluate their students or teachers, instead promoting rigorous curriculum standards. Finland schools rely on project-based learning, which focuses on critical thinking and real-world problem-solving. Okey-dokey, said Paine. Sounds great. Let's do it.

How much do you love this man?

http://www.cnn.com/2011/US/08/29/education.wv.finland/index.html

The critics started in on him right away, of course. Finland is homogeneous (code for mostly white). Finland is smaller (code for we could never scale this). Finland has a tradition of social welfare programs (code for they believe government is not actually Satan on a stick). Paine said, whatevs. If it's good enough for those pale-faced, reindeer-loving socialists, it's good enough for the children of the diverse, economically depressed, traditionally conservative state of West Virginia. And, oh btw and brace yourself--our test scores really aren't that important to us under this particular model, but teachers and students getting excited about critical thinking, solving community problems and becoming better learners, rather than burning out in ridiculously high numbers and getting embroiled in cheating scandals? Yeah, we're all for that.

So am I. So should you be.

At this point it might be legitimate to ask why I remain non-unionized teacher at a high-performing charter school. If I love unions and superintendents so much, why don't I just get a job at a regular public school and see how I like it? But for me, it's not about one type of school vs. another. It's about all types of schools getting better and better at serving all types of kids, particularly those who have not been served in the past. The education reform movement has shown us what's possible in terms of low-income, under-served students. It's no longer OK (as if it ever was) to write off those students as too "disadvantaged" learn. Because they're not.

But I'm seeing with my own eyes charter systems (a centerpiece of the reform movement) so tied (by necessity) to private funding and so wedded to test scores as the only means to win that funding (ie: beat out other schools--in many cases other charters) that they are not serving kids as well as they could. Yet the intention is there. The brains, talent, passion and drive are there. Just imagine what a high-performing charter system could do with a vision like Dr. Paine's. Now that is worth waiting for...

Enter one teacher...

I read this in July and haven't stopped thinking about it since:

http://nymag.com/news/features/michelle-rhee-2011-3/

Ideally, you've clicked over and read at least part of the article because I'm now going to talk, at length, about what it feels like to be a teacher in the current climate, which reporter Andrew Rice analyzes so well. Because this is now the millionth article I've read (not to mention the whole movie Waiting for Superman) that talks about how the teaching profession needs to be swept out like the basement of a scary Victorian asylum without once quoting an actual living, breathing classroom teacher. Not even one.

What is up with that?

Enter one teacher, one that Michelle Rhee et al would likely approve. I've never been a member of a union and teach at a high-performing charter school. By rights, I should be rallying to Rhee's cause, nodding my head vigorously as she calls for more money for charters and more attention to our model of educating low-income, under-served kids.

Instead, reading about the leaders of the eduction reform movement always makes me a little queasy. Which is weird, given that I have dedicated my career to helping fulfill their overarching goal of helping low-income, under-served students succeed in college and beyond. But witnessing this movement from the classroom, as opposed to the set of Good Morning America or a fund-raising mixer, offers a different perspective. Things come to mind. Things that our leaders seem to be missing or ignoring. Things that will affect our low-income, under-served students (the living, breathing ones we see every day). Things that tend to complicate the issue and get lost in the shuffle, but are glaringly obvious when seen from the ground. At least in this teacher's opinion. I'm sure there are countless other teacher opinions out there. Not that I (or you) would know them, given the recent media coverage.

Public education, private money

The main issue I have with the education reform movement is how it reflects a trend throughout American politics to dismantle or limit public institutions and replace them with privately run alternatives. I say "privately run" because high-performing charter schools, like the one I work for, depend on private donations to fund their programs as well as public money. Without these donations, the programs we offer would suffer tremendously. What has already started to happen is that high-performing charters are competing with each other (sometimes within the same charter network) for these limited funds. Many donors, quite naturally, want a say in how their money is spent. So far, this has not directly affected curriculum/instruction (that I know of), but it certainly has an impact on other aspects of running a school. It makes me nervous that the promises we make to children and their families are, in part, dependent on the generosity of private individuals. Many of these donors are genuinely dedicated to the cause of educational equity--and yet, unlike the government, are under no obligation to continue funding if the their circumstances or interests change.

Teachers+

This dismantling of public institutions connects to another worrisome trend Rice brought up in the article: the laser focus of the education reform movement on improving teacher quality to the exclusion of all other factors. This is a tricky one to talk about without sounding like I don't care about teacher quality (which is ridiculous) or am making excuses for bad teachers (which I'm not), so I'm going to tread lightly. This line from the article is a good place to start:

Until fairly recently, everyone took it for granted that parents, educators, and communities shared the responsibility for schooling children, and presumed that outcomes were the product of a complex web of circumstances. Now the calculus has been narrowed to a single variable, the instructors, who are offered all the credit and shoulder all the blame.

Allow me to state without reservation: excellent teachers matter. Bad teachers cause no end of harm and should be fired. No one who serves the public should be able to keep their job just because they've had it longer than someone else. All children should have the very best teachers. End of story.

AND...by directing all attention, along with a schizophrenic jumble of vilification and praise, on teachers (and teachers alone), the education reform movement allows politicians on both sides of the aisle to ignore the expensive and politically volatile "web of circumstances" that continues to affect the life outcomes of low-income students, even as their test scores rise. This mindset does not serve kids. In fact, it hurts them. I have taught students who have made tremendous gains in my classroom and others--and have still gotten pregnant, joined gangs, fallen into drugs and/or crime, left the prestigious high schools where they'd been accepted, dropped out altogether or turned down acceptances to four-year universities for community college because it was all they could afford. These students' academic lives improved enormously, but the "calculus" of success is more complicated than that. Factors like race, class, parents' education level and a host of other inequalities continue to affect the outcomes of all children in America.

It's not about making excuses for kids. It's about keeping on the radar the other factors that can limit their success and working to fix them, along with tirelessly instilling a love of learning and the skills students need to graduate from college. The strongest legacy of the education reform movement in my opinion is the fundamental belief that low-income students can perform as well as their more privileged peers. It does my students no good if I set my expectations low simply because they live in a trailer park or a housing project, as some teachers have done for years. The kids are doing that homework, writing that essay, reading that book. I look out on my classes of 6th graders and believe with all my heart that every single one of them is going to college. Yet all the beautiful paragraphs and math projects in the world will not help my students succeed in life if the larger community doesn't support them in other ways. The courage to cross race, class and language barriers and be the first in one's family to graduate from college is something that must be encouraged, even taught. Schools are doing their best, but it should also come from the community, from families, churches and other organizations. All these programs need support and funding (along with, perhaps more dauntingly, honest conversation about race and class in this country). To put it all on teachers is damaging to everyone: kids, families, teachers and even the teaching profession itself.

If I go crazy, then will you still call me Superman?

Which leads me to my last point. I talked about this a little when I wrote about the movie Waiting For Superman and a possible sequel called We Are Still Standing (or, better, If I Go Crazy Then Will You Still Call Me Superman?) The push for all schools to adopt the high-performing charter model (upheld, rightly, as something that works for a higher percentage of low-income students) and corresponding finger-pointing when unions push back fails to acknowledge the lifestyle choice working for one of these schools entails. A cornerstone of all of these networks is a "whatever it takes" attitude, which translates into 60-80/hour work weeks for teachers, significantly curtailed evening and weekend time and shorter breaks with minimal added compensation. I choose to do this, but I understand that many teachers are not in a position to do the same. This doesn't make them "welfare queens" (Have you ever heard anything more ludicrous in your entire life? I'm talking to you, Gov. Chris Christie of New Jersey). What it makes them is equally dedicated parents or caregivers or volunteers or whatever else they like to do besides work all the time. So, maybe these people shouldn't be teachers if they have other things to do. OK. Then the teaching corps of the United States would mirror the demographics of high-performing charter teachers whose average age is probably around 26, if not lower. The problem is by age 30, many of these teachers are gone (burned out or simply ready to do other things), replaced by another crop of young, energetic bodies. All perfectly fine, if you can find them. Which even the highest-performing systems are having a hard time doing. To their credit, these networks are working hard to retain teachers--but the issue still needs to be part of the public discussion. All this talk about merit pay and handing out six-figure salaries also needs a little scrutiny turned its way. It sounds great on a talk show, but somehow these perks always fail to materialize in the funding realities mentioned above.

If I ruled the world...

This is what I wish would happen. The leaders of the education reform movement have all eyes on them at this moment in history, thanks to the genuine success of high-performing charters, programs like Teach for America and education research that prove beyond a question of a doubt that low-income students can make dramatic, life-changing academic gains with the support of passionately dedicated teachers. Now, I wish they'd seize this historic moment and instead of sharing the stage with the most virulently anti-union Republican governors, join forces with organizations that support students, challenge funding decisions at all levels that gut public education or harm low-income families in any way (or stop talking about not "throwing kids under the bus." Vulnerable kids and families are unfortunately in the direct path of many buses and teachers unions are frankly the least of them), and demand that teacher quality improve without demonizing teachers themselves. Surely this is possible. If even Michelle Rhee says 5-10% of public school teachers are dragging down the system that means 90-95% of us are doing our jobs well and/or are willing to improve. This is not a crisis; this is an amazing opportunity.

Where is the headline about that?

A perspective on gay history in a park with a view

I spent the afternoon of July 3 in Dolores Park, two city blocks of sloping green grass dotted with palm trees and blessed with a stunning view of downtown San Francisco. My girlfriend Anna and I, along with a large chunk of the population of the Mission and Castro neighborhoods, were soaking up the summer sunshine on one of those all-too-rare city days when it's possible to leave the house in just shorts and a tank top. (True!)

As we contemplated the Berkeley Hills and perfect triangle of Mt. Diablo's distant summit (beautifully visible on such a clear day), I overheard a guy making a call on the next blanket over. He was directing his friends to the location of his picnic. "I'm up the hill a little ways, sort of to the right...you know, on the gay side," he said and clicked off the call. (The picture above is from Google; imagine more people--and more skin--to get a sense of the scene last Sunday.)

He was right, of course. The side of Dolores Park where we lounged was absolutely packed with fellow homos, most of them men cavorting (no better verb) in their swim trunks or underwear in the hot sun. (There were, in fact, a startling number of guys in their drawers, along with less startling coolers full of chilled wine, champagne, beer and snacks. We even saw one boy deliver a plate of Jello to the blanket next door). Such a display is nothing unusual for a summer Sunday in San Francisco in 2011. The city is special in this respect, but I have witnessed similar park scenes (albeit without quite so many exposed undies) in other cities from New York to Chicago to Austin. We're here, we're queer, we like hanging around in parks. And everyone, it seems, is more or less used to it.

Such a casual display of freedom made me think of E.M. Forster, who wrote A Room with a View, Howard's End, and other books that were best sellers in his lifetime and classic Merchant Ivory films in ours. I recently finished his latest biography, A Great Unrecorded History: A New Life of E.M. Forster by Wendy Moffat, a professor at Dickinson College and amazingly lucid biographer. In an unusual move, she examines Forster's life and work through the lens of his gayness, specifically the double life he was forced to lead as a British gay man in the 1910s-60s. It's fascinating and compelling choice. Of course, no biographer could ignore Forster's homosexuality, especially in light of the posthumously published Maurice (the first gay-themed novel with a happy ending), but Moffat chooses to make it the centerpiece, drawing explicit connections between the oppressive constraints of middle-class propriety at the heart of Forster's novels and his life in the closet. What emerges from the journal entries and heaps of letters (what will future biographers do now that no one writes actual letters anymore?) is a portrait of a brilliant, successful novelist and academic who, nonetheless, felt utterly hobbled as a writer by the homophobia of the time. Maurice is just the most famous of his gay-themed pieces that he never expected to be able to publish. Though he died at age 91 in 1970, the year after the Stonewall riots in New York sparked the gay rights movement, Forster believed throughout his life that gay men and women would always be reviled and despised by the majority population.

It makes me want to go back in time, grab Forster (tweed suit and all) and show him Dolores Park on a sunny day. Or buy him a rainbow flag and take him to any of the corporate-sponsored gay pride parades that took place nationwide a few weeks ago to widespread and chipper news coverage. He would be more than a little amazed. Even after a lifetime of intricate plots and memorable characters, Forster at his most creative could not fathom the world we take for granted every day.

This is not to say coming out of the closet has become angst-free. We still have a ways to go. But reading about Forster's life has given me a renewed appreciation for the milestones that have occurred and optimism about those still to come. It's easy to throw up one's hands at anti-marriage bills fueled by the religious right's persistent squawking, but Forster's story provides a peek into a truly great (and thankfully now recorded) gay history...and shows how much progress has truly been made.

Thou dost not look thine age

You may not have known this (unless you subscribe to Harper's magazine), but the King James Bible turns 400 this year. This long-standing, beloved-of-many translation has fallen out of usage due to its old-fashioned, Shakespeare-style language (in fact, the translation was started in 1604, the same year Shakespeare was at the height of his career)--but the move to more modern versions is fairly recent as these things go. Your parents and grandparents likely grew up hearing the King James Bible in church, and there are places all over the world where it is still used every Sunday. Whether you're familiar with it or not, you are surely familiar with the way it has enriched modern English with phrases like "a drop in the bucket," "a labor of love," and "bite the dust," (for real!) among many, many others.

I did not grow up hearing the King James Bible in church, but I have profound affection for 17th-century English and for the smart, secular editors of Harper's, who decided to gather seven well-known authors, have them pick their favorite verse, then write about it for the latest issue of the magazine. This intersection of ideas, writing, language and religion always makes me want to throw a party in my brain--and the variation of writing (four short essays and three poems) are all wonderful takes on the chosen verses. There is cranky atheist Benjamin Hale railing against the notion of human exceptionalism in Psalm 8; and Howard Jacobson's brilliant interpretation of the creation story with God as the original autonomous artist. John Banville re-tells the tale of Absalom through the eyes of an Israelite soldier with the personality and language patterns of a Victorian-era enlisted man. I wish you could access the article online, but you have to subscribe. Let me know if you want to read it, and I'll send you my password or a copy.

It has also inspired me to pick a verse from the King James Bibe and write a commentary of my own. This is not to put myself (ridiculously) in the category as John Banville or Marilynne Robinson. Ummmm...no. But it seemed like such a fun way to mark the anniversary of such an influential book. I invite you to do the same, if you feel so moved. I would love to post it here!

And the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not. --John 1:5

For much of the year, I leave the house before the sun comes up and return home long after it sets. I have witnessed countless sunrises from the windows of various classrooms and have watched the light leaking from the sky as I sit in meetings, type away at the computer or stand over a copy machine. That teachers work hard is no secret, and our relationship with light and darkness has closely linked literal and figurative sides. The turning of day into night represents the physical hours it takes to educate children with some measure of effectiveness. The turning of night to day, that switching on of the metaphorical light of knowledge is the reason every teacher puts in those long hours in the first place.

Despite my mixed reviews of the movie Waiting for Superman, I do sometimes think of my job in comic-book terms. There are the villains of institutional racism, poverty, apathy and massive budget shortfalls. Then there are the heroes: the teachers, students and families who work every day to overcome these dastardly roadblocks with a pow! wham! smash! of hard work, tenacity, and maybe even some humor every now and then.

I don't think I could be as chipper a good guy as I often am if I didn't believe in the promise at the heart of this verse: that light shines in the darkness. Always. What I love about the King James version is that the darkness is totally clueless. Most translations I've read cast the darkness in a more proactive role. The same verse in the NRSV Bible reads: The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. In this version, darkness is still losing, but it's trying to do something about it. In the King James Bible, darkness is there, but it's totally uncomprehending, a verb we use as a synonym for understand, but has its roots in Latin for "to grasp."

A light shines in the darkness (pow! bam!), and the darkness just can't get a handle on it. (K.O!)

It's a good reminder at the end of the year--or maybe at any time--that the darkness is ultimately powerless in the face of the light. It might seem like it's evil, like the Joker or the Riddler, twirling its mustache menacingly, coming up with pitfalls and snares. But, let's not forget, darkness is static, clueless, defeat-able. I speak from experience, especially at the end of the year, as former students head to college, and current students turn in final projects full of insight, organization and correct spelling. Chasing away the darkness, being the metaphorical light, is sometimes just about showing up every morning before the literal light. Or doing whatever it is you do with all your heart, day after day, with the wider world in mind. No cape, no special powers, no Batmobile required. This might sound comic-book-ish, simplistic, with no proper shading or depth--but it's also true. And it's not just me. The King James Bible has been saying the same thing for 400 years.

The power of pressing on

Last week, 70 6th graders, four other teachers, the principal and I went to West Texas for our end of year field trip. This four-day-three-night outing was the culminating reward for kids who did the right thing all year, as measured by our weekly paycheck system. It's a long-standing tradition in our charter network. Some schools (like the one next door) take their sixth graders on a week-long backpacking trips through Utah. We at our school boarded a charter bus on Monday and headed a mere seven hours toward the setting sun and the rolling gold hills between Marfa and Fort Davis.

Step behind the scenes of trips like these and what you find are multiple field trips all strung together by the teachers to make what we hope is a thrilling whole--perfect for inspiring good behavior and academic habits in the future. We kept the kids busy horseback riding, ropes-course climbing, orienteering (Yes! Hand out the coordinates! The class of 2017 will now never be lost as long as they live. And have a compass handy...), exploring and, of course, swimming and riding in the bus. Yes. The bus. At my old school in San Francisco, we joked that we could save a ton of money by simply renting a bus, driving the kids around all day, then finding someplace for them to swim for a few hours. They'd be happy as little pre-teen clams. Not surprisingly, this affection for sitting with friends in large, moving vehicles followed by a quick dip in the pool is also embraced by Texas middle schoolers. Yet we insisted on dragging them away from their peers and forcing them to sit through a (thrilling!) talk about the solar system at the famous McDonald Observatory (just down the road from where we were staying) and learn how to ride a zip line and manage their daily routine while staying in a cabin with 10 closest friends. I mean, really!

We also made them climb a mountain. Of course we did. And it was there, at the end of the year at about 5,000 feet above sea level, that I realized that the kids really do listen on a very deep level. A level that transcends physical comfort. A level that promotes determination and grit. For real! Sometimes I feel that my job, stripped down to its most basic level, involves cajoling children to do things they really don't want to do for hours at a time.

Last week on Guadalupe Peak in the heart of West Texas, I was sure of it. And it was a good thing.

I hiked the mountain (beautiful, highly recommended) with four kids who did not want to be there. I ended up with these four after confusion with another teacher left them alone on the trail, group-less. I went back to retrieve them, and we set off together. They were not in the best shape. They had absolutely no experience hiking a trail with any elevation gain, to say nothing of 3,000 feet. We did a few switchbacks, and they would collapse on the nearest boulder to catch their breath. But never once did they suggest, even for one minute that we 1) stop and wait for the groups ahead of us to come down or 2) give up and head back early. Not once. Neither did they whine (at all) nor do much dramatic moaning. Tired, out of breath and (for at least two) very homesick, they kept going up. I wanted to give them all a medal. I wanted to call up some teacher hotline and give a full report. In the minds of these kids, there was no backing down. The thought didn't even occur to them. And, believe me, plenty of other thoughts did.

JS: Ms. R, what if we fall off the mountain?
AC: What if we get lost? Are we lost? I think we're lost...
AA: What does it mean if you are hiking, and see one of those big ugly birds (vultures) are flying over your head? Does that mean you're going to die in two hours?
JG: Do you think when we get to the top, we will be able to see to Mexico? Cause we're close to Mexico, right?
Me: Where do I start?

Walk, sit, walk, sit...we didn't make it to the summit. That wasn't the point. We kept going up. I'm ashamed to admit it now, but I kept bracing myself for the inevitable loss of spirit, and it never came. Every time we turned a corner, I'd pause and exclaim about the view, the flat golden plains stretching out before us, the jagged peaks of this desert range behind us, nothing but a few windmills and the dots of small towns as far as the eye could see. For five hours of almost constant uphill switchbacks. It would have been a tough hike for anyone, to say nothing of four stocky 6th graders in old tennis shoes or (worse) Converse high tops.

Climbing mountains, as regular readers know, is our favorite metaphor at school for the process of being the first in your family to go to college. Because both are hard and require persistent effort over an extended period of time. It was amazing to see this metaphor in action on a literal mountain slope, to see kids pressing on (our class motto) not because they wanted to, not because I was forcing them, but because they had somehow figured out that there was nowhere to go but up--and not one else could do it for them.

Speaking truth to grammar grouches

I'm five chapters into the most recent nerdy nonfiction book about language, and it's already a treat. In You Are What You Speak: Grammar Grouches, Language Laws and the Politics of Identity, Richard Lane Greene sets stage for an accessible, timely look at the subtle (and not-so-subtle) messages behind the rants of language purists the world over (the book doesn't focus only on English) and has already included several impassioned pleas for seeing all language as ever-evolving tools of communication and connection as opposed to gates that keep some on the "inside" and others in the linguistic hinterlands.

Don't let the lengthy title fool you. The writing is general-audience friendly and so far has been full of those amusing language anecdotes books of this type are known for. Greene wastes no time pillorying easy targets like the "no split infinitive" and "don't end a sentence with a preposition" rules, then makes an intriguing case in defense of the double negative. He is critical of two authors on language I enjoy, Bill Bryson and Lynn Truss. But his criticisms are worthy and support his argument that languages change--that's what they do. There was never a "golden age" when English (or French or Arabic or Chinese) was spoken the way some people think it should be, and implying otherwise is often a cover for snobbery at best, downright racism at worst.

Every sentence in a book like this is a delight to me. Because, as Greene also points out, this topic--how people should speak or write and who gets to decide--is much beloved of those who make language their living, as I do. (The rest of the world just uses language as they need and gets on with their lives.) In fact, I'm charged with a sacred task, according to grammar grouches everywhere. It is my job to pass down the language to the next generation, to ensure they know the standard-form-of-the-moment in a way that will open doors, showcase their brilliant young minds and brighten their futures. I take this job seriously, as anyone who's known me for five minutes figures out. However, this book has made me realize why I'm an eager writing teacher rather than an intimidated one. Because our language is evolving at such a brisk clip, my job is to make sure my students become able communicators. This doesn't mean anything goes, but it does mean that I teach them how to write with that goal in mind. I teach them the grammar they need to present themselves as literate and informed. I teach them punctuation in the service helping their reader understand their work. (If you've ever tried to read a student paper without a single period, you know what I mean). It sounds obvious, but you'd be surprised how many people, adults and students, still think writing instruction requires memorizing grammar rules and diagramming sentences before any actual composition should be allowed to take place. When, in reality, composition and communication are the only things that matter.

(Case in point: Technically, that last sentence is a fragment. I chose to put a period after 'place' and write a single dependent clause--starting with 'when'-- in order to emphasize my point at the end of this paragraph. How much does that bother you? Or did you even notice? My point exactly.)

Don't panic! My students know what a dependent clause is and avoid leaving them lonely in paragraphs. But I would throw a party if one of them became a fluid enough writer to use a dependent clause for emphasis. As tools go, languages are very expressive. They wouldn't be the least bit useful if they weren't.

Which brings me to the final point from the book that I want to share: all languages are equal, in that every single language has exactly what it needs to express any idea or thought. Period. And this isn't just me being all hippie-woo-woo. This is a fact agreed upon by linguists, and one that more people need to file it under "things that are just true" like the sun rising in the east. If we all did that, it would save a lot of political and cultural turmoil, not to mention a tiresome dose of backhanded racism. For example, speakers of French (or English or German or Russian or...) wouldn't spend so much time extolling the unique virtues of their language whilst casting aspersions on all the others (and, by implication, their speakers). Languages with clear grammar and usage rules like Black English (aka "Ebonics") and other traditionally lower status, so-called 'dialects' would garner respect, along with their millions of native speakers. (I will go toe-to-toe with anyone who doesn't agree with me about Black English, which I do not speak fluently, but I love what that language has done with the past perfect tense, among other things...) Finally, we would be able to celebrate all of our languages as the miracles they are rather than build walls around them to "protect" them from encroachments from the foreign, the young and the outsider. Now wouldn't that be something...

Austin's 11

Age 11 is a bridge that starts on the chipper, forthright side of childhood and ends on the awkward edge of adolescence. It is also one of the more charming years of middle school. I had occasion today to spend four hours with a group of my 11 year old students, as well as other people's 11 year olds at the annual Junior 'Dillo Run here in Austin. In place of one of our Saturday Schools, my school participates in the run, which groups kids by age rather than grade. When I first discovered I would have to get up at 5 a.m. on a Saturday morning and shepherd a posse of children through a mile run, I was...resigned, to say the least. I shouldn't have worried. A morning (even a very, very early morning) in the company of 11 year olds is pretty much nothing but laughs from start to finish. It's also the reason the beginning of 6th grade is a lot more pleasant for teachers than the end.

While 11 year olds are, of course, old enough to speak fluently in complete sentences and even whole paragraphs, whether they can actually converse is debatable. If a typical adult conversation is an orderly thoroughfare in a small town in Switzerland, 11 year old conversation is a automotive free-for-all in a place where all the stoplights have gone out. I will attempt to recreate it here in the form of an actual exchange I had with five of my group members shortly after the buses dropped them off. At 6:15 a.m.

Me: Hi guys.
KM: Ms. R, guess what?
Me: I couldn't possibly.
DA: Ms. R, Ms R!
GM: Ms. R!
Me: KM first, then you can go DA.
KM: This morning, I saw a baby bird in the tree by my house.
DA: Guess what?
RR: Hold on, KM is talking.
KM:No, I'm done.
DA: Did you see Ms. Stewart's coffee? She's drinking coffee. Why do teachers always drink coffee?
Me: I could use some coffee.
HB: I love coffee. My mom says I'm going to get addicted to coffee and not grow.
DA: Can we go see the other groups or do we have to stay together?
GM: Ms. R!
Me: Yes? I mean no, DA, stay together. Hold on, GM. Why are you drinking coffee, HB?
HB: Why can't we see other groups?
Me: GM, did you want to say something?
GM: I don't think I can run today. I'm too nervous because I don't like people looking at me when I run.
IS: Do I have to run, Ms. R?
Me: You'll do great. Yes, IS.
IS: But I don't want to run.
Me: You have to.
IS: OK.
HB: Ms. R! Ms. R!

And this doesn't even do it justice.

The conversational fun doesn't stop there. As you might have gathered, kids who are 11 say anything that comes into their head. Anything. Before the race, my group combined with other groups, as well as kids from all over the city to wait at the starting line. Two kids from a local elementary were right in front of us and, of course, took the opportunity to share.

Kid #1: When we get tired, we will have to depend on our livers.
Me (cause what else am I going to say?): Well, naturally.
Kid #2: They give us energy. Not many people know that. Did you know that?
Me: I didn't.
Kid #1 (somewhat pityingly): Hmmmm. The thing is, it's true.

And because he was 11 and not, say, an ironic 15, he was totally serious.

That's another refreshing thing about most 11 year olds. You don't have to spend a lot of time digging through layers of adolescent angst or artifice. What you see--and hear--is exactly what you get. They, of course, expect the same from you, so sarcasm is pretty much a waste of time. In fact, the understanding and appreciation of sarcasm is one of middle school's most significant milestones, along with mastering the semi colon and the Pythagorean Theorem. I have witnessed, through the years, the very moment when a kid first realizes that you are...wait a minute...not serious. In fact (whoa!) you mean the opposite of what you just said. And...wow...that's funny! It's a whole new world.

But until that special moment, children are 11: sincere and random, careening through conversations and life in general. I wouldn't have them any other way.

Sitting still

T.S. Eliot's poem "Ash Wednesday" is one of my very favorites because it captures the two sides of the reality coin that Lent reminds us of so well. There are so many excellent lines in the poem, which stretches for 34 stanzas of modern, dream-sequency word rush, all of which seem to capture the feeling of standing on the brink of something not fun but possibly life-changing and true. (It is happily in the public domain and can be found here, among other places: http://www.msgr.ca/msgr-7/ash_wednesday_t_s_eliot.htm)

Despite many favorites, the lines I keep coming back to is one of the absolute best lines of poetry ever written, in my opinion. It is simply this: "Teach us to care and not to care/Teach us to sit still." Some days, I look at it as a recipe for how to live, with an emphasis on the zen implications of just chilling out. Other times I latch onto the paradox of caring and not caring--and someone having to teach us to do both. Those of us in helping professions struggle with this dichotomy all the time. I think the key is the sitting still part. If Eliot had been a life coach instead of a literary genius, he may have written: Teach us to care, sit still, not to care, sit still. Repeat as many times as necessary to stay sane. But thank God he was a poet instead, so we can read "Ash Wednesday" along with his other work and feel what he's talking about until we can figure out a way to do it ourselves.

This life-alteration-through-poetry (or DIY figuring-out) might take longer than a life coach, but it's also a lot more interesting. Whenever I think never in a million years am I ever going to get there, I have a week like this one, where every day has involved at least one conversation about life in all its complexity. It helps to have wonderful, crazy-smart, thinking friends, and a week off from school to go visit them.

On Monday, my mom and I discussed What to Do When Family Members Are Acting Worrisome. On Tuesday afternoon, dear former colleagues from my nonprofit days talked about Dealing with the Sickness of a Close Relative and Putting Minor Annoyances into Perspective. Later that day, my best friend from college and I discussed Buying A House With Panache, Becoming a Member of a Congregation (ditto panache) and Pretty Much Everything About Long-Term Plans, Jobs and Relationships (avec panache). On Wednesday morning, my mom and a friend of ours of some prominence in academia discussed How to Effectively Evaluate Teachers, The Importance of Public Investment in Education and Why the Current Political Climate Bites. It was in this conversation that I called Milton Friedman "the Satan of the 20th century" then had to apologize to our friend, who knew the man.

On Wednesday evening, MW, another friend and I discussed Beliefs about Death and the Afterlife in Religion in General and Judaism and Buddhism in Particular (among other things). On Thursday at lunch, a friend of my mom's and I talked about The Value of Data and the Role of Research in Education. This was followed by some precious time with my goddaughter's mom (a college professor) and another rousing discussion of The Importance of Public Education, the K-16 edition, and What Those of Us Who Care Are Going to Do About It In the Current Sucky Political Climate (reprise).

Did we solve the problems of the world? Only in our own minds. Did it help to talk and talk and talk with incredible, intelligent people? Tremendously. Will I fly back to Austin with a little weight off the metaphorical shoulders, a little more connected at the deep level that keeps us from feeling alone on the hardest days? Why yes, I will.

It is a blessing that "amid these rocks" (as Eliot would say) there are so many fellow travelers learning to care and not to care--and willing to take a moment to sit still and try to figure it out.

On unfortunately small torpedos, electric chivalry and other reasons to love airports

In a consistent and, I guess, reassuring example of anti-profiling, egalitarian security screening, I am pulled aside every single time I go through the line at the airport these days. The fault is entirely my own and caused (in addition, one assumes, to the “blindness” of random checks) by my silver, fully insulated water bottle that looks unfortunately like a very small torpedo. I insist on traveling with this water bottle, purchased in Abu Dhabi and a constant companion ever since. It is sleek, fits in my backpack and keeps water cold for days.

It also means that I’m inevitably shuffled into that space between metal detectors, prevented from touching my belongings (the backpack, a rolling bag and two of those plastic bins), which are then swabbed (along with my hands) to make sure I haven’t nuzzled up to any plastique or dynamite recently. The water bottle is opened, peered into (it’s always empty), hefted (the insulation makes it heavier than it looks), shaken, turned upside-down and swabbed especially. I always want to say, “It’s just a water bottle, not a bomb.” But I know better than to say the word “bomb” within 10 miles of a modern security line. I’m rarely patted down, though sometimes get the wand twittering around the belt loops of my jeans. Often, I don’t stop reading my Oprah magazine or Kindle. One affable Homeland guy in Newark suggested I get a new water bottle. But I don’t want a new water bottle. The security pit stop has become part of my travel routine, like the two plastic bins, a glossy magazine, pre-flight coffee and, depending on turbulence, the only time I ever drink soda anymore (ginger ale, if airsickness strikes).

This might sound surprising (or just weird), but I cannot remember the last time I was annoyed in an airport. I’ve been nervous and uncertain, discouraged and bewildered, but never bothered or bored. To me, airports are among the most delightful of our public spaces. They contain endless possibility (so many destinations, so many people intersecting on their individual trajectories). They are perfect backdrops as opposed to destinations in themselves (which make them different than parks or plazas, also great public spaces but much less neutral and people-centered).

Take, for example, this morning waiting for my flight from Austin to San Francisco. The gate was full of the usual suspects: sleepy kids, business travelers juggling coffee and newspapers, adults of all ages peering at phone screens. The electrical outlets, placed near the floor years ago with only the vacuum cleaners of late-night janitors in mind, are now the most sought-after spots in the lounge. A woman about my age in a long, patterned skirt sat on the carpet syncing her laptop and iPad. In an enchanting demonstration of courtesy, a businessman offered her his place on the chair nearest another outlet where his phone was charging. He made clear with his gestures that he was prepared to relinquish not only his seat but also his source of electricity, so that she wouldn’t have to sit on the floor. This exchanged caused me no end of happiness. Many people in Austin are fantastically nice, and many men in Texas are reliably chivalrous. But this was such a charming display of old-world manners and modern sensibilities. It probably made my week. And it could only have happened at the airport.

I think the nation could use a pro-airport campaign, something to remind us all that it's not just about walking barefoot through metal detectors (or x-ray machines), enduring long waits and paying ridiculous amounts for a snack or 60 minutes of wi-fi. It's time you have to spend anyway, so you might as well catch up on reading, reassure others as to the safety of your possessions (torpedo-shaped or otherwise), people-watch, smile at cute toddlers and lend a helping hand. And at the end of it all, you get to fly off to someplace wonderful or come back home. What's not to love?

See, now is the acceptable time

There is an exercise on the vast menu of self-help techniques that has always appealed to my appreciation of parallel universes (see two blogs back). In it, you tell the story of your life in two ways: once emphasizing all the bad, hurtful, traumatic things that have happened to you; and again focusing on the positive. It's a great exercise in switching lenses--seeing the world accurately, yet in two completely different ways.

It has prompted me to tell you two stories about the world as it exists now. One is about a public event that represents one side of a common narrative. The other is personal and turns this narrative on its head. It also made me hopeful.

The first story is one you are all familiar with. In it, Muslims are religious fanatics with a medieval mindset that is utterly alien to us here in the West (events in the Middle East notwithstanding). Sure, there might be a few "progressive" voices, but those are mere shills for the "true" faith that is just waiting to take over the world. As witnessed in the recent Congressional hearings on Muslim "extremism" in the United States, there is a deep, yawning fear, suspicion and ignorance infecting so many people in this country and driving us-vs-them wedges that will take years, if not generations to overcome. It makes me despair because of what I know (and know I don't know) about the vast reality that is Islam, and the unwillingness to engage any form of self-reflection about the role of Christianity in the lives of those stirring up all this trouble.

The second story turns this first narrative on its head. It is about a Palestinian-American family I got to know slightly while I was in Abu Dhabi. I taught and was the adviser of the youngest son during my first year at the school, and coached the daughter in softball both years. The mom was a frequent substitute in the 6th grade, and we would chat casually whenever she was around. The children were well-adjusted and happy, and the mom was one of those people with peaceful, gentle vibe about her, despite her urbane sophistication. (She was one of the sharpest dressers on campus.) Anyway. Fast-forward to this week. K told me of a conversation our mutual friend Madame L had with the mom, who has been hired as a part-time Arabic teacher. Apparently Mrs. S. told Madame L I was the best teacher her son ever had (Z, the son, is ridiculously adorable in that corny-fool kind of middle school boy way)--then she recounted to Madame L a conversation she had with Z about my martial status sometime last year when I was still on campus. Her goofy, cheesy, 100% Arab-Muslim-Middle-East-expat son said, "Oh, mom, you know Ms. R is gay. Everyone knows that." To which his 100% Arab-Muslim mother shrugged, and one year later was singing my praises to Madame L. The daughter friended me on Facebook months ago.

Now, I did NOT know that "everyone" at my school in Abu Dhabi, including the more clueless (though very sweet) examples of middle-school boyhood, knew I was gay. Sheesh. But after I got over my surprise at that, I was heartened to the core. Because, though I don't believe in Muslim extremism or any such nonsense, I most certainly did not acknowledge the other side of the reality coin. The one that said the kind of love, openness and appreciation I know is possible from liberal Christians is also possible from liberal Muslims. I should not have doubted, yet I did. I stayed in the closet for two years and actively worried about how people would respond if they knew. The most positive--and logical--outcome never crossed my mind. It didn't occur to me that both things could be true.

At times (like now) when the world seems to be going absolutely insane, when leaders gun down their citizens in the desert, even as others destroy the rights of workers to speak for themselves by navigating barren, souless loopholes--and our Earth makes destructive ideology look like the conceit it is with trembling ground and walls of water--that it helps (a little) to think of how big reality really is. That it can contain all the grief, anger, suspicion and still have room for the other side of the story: growth, renewal, acceptance.

And there's no better season to get down into the nitty-gritty of darkness and dawn than Lent. One of the ways we have learned to deal with tsunamis, literal and figurative, through the centuries is by building rituals around the inevitable. Lent is about hunkering down in the last days of winter (when, historically, food was scarcest anyway) and giving some serious thought to suffering, sacrifice, death--right as the world is about to spring to life with all its attendant metaphors (the story of the resurrection being one of the most powerful).

Ash Wednesday was this Wednesday, and I went to get my ashes for the first time in many, many years. I'm also observing Lent intentionally for the first time in a long time (no meat, including seafood until April 24...). There was a time when I found Lent necessary but tiresome (it does make Easter, my favorite liturgical holiday, all the more joyful, but--ugh--not a single hymn in a major key for weeks). Then there came a time when I felt I living in a sort of perpetual Lent, followed, thankfully, by a time almost completely suspended from the rituals of our common life, in the desert (again, both literal and figurative), doing what people do in the desert: taking a deep breath, getting a grip, forming a plan, resting.

Now I'm back and ready to jump into Lent in a way I've never been before. Maybe it's because working in education in these dark budgetary days lends itself to contemplation of scarcity and sacrifice. Maybe because the darkness seems deeper than it has in a long time. Or maybe it's because I'm finally in a place where I know it won't last forever.

Voice in process

I've been thinking all week about time and what it's worth. I've also been thinking about the power of a lone voice, along with the strength of voices raised collectively. The two are related intimately, as you will see. I, it seems, am already by choice living the future of public employment. You see, I'm a public school teacher who is not in a union. I have the same at-will contract that you do at your private sector job. I'm paid a reasonable salary over 12 months. This salary is determined by my employer. I can leave (or be fired) anytime with a few weeks notice. I don't have a pension, but rather a 401-K that I alone contribute to. I willingly work a hefty number of hours a week because I believe in the mission of my organization with everything I am. Nothing has changed that. Yet, an arrangement that seemed reasonable just a few weeks ago now strikes me as precarious, and I'm trying to figure out why.

Let's start with time. Earlier this week, my principal told me that I needed to undergo three hours of training so that I could then participate in a state-required evaluation process that will take another 5-6 hours. No problem. As per usual, schools like ours don't offer any release time or extra money for duties like this, but that's the way it is here. We hang together, get it done--and this makes it OK. No one is lining their pockets with my extra labor. It's only the kids who benefit. We're all on the same train: principals, teachers, families, kids, building a bridge across the achievement gap--what's a few additional hours a week when you're doing work like that? (And as long as there's still time for yoga...)

But then I read this http://voices.washingtonpost.com/answer-sheet/diane-ravitch/ravitch-a-moment-of-national-i.html)

It's by Diane Ravitch, someone I consider the John the Baptist of the education world. In her recent book The Death and Life of the Great American School System, Ravitch was a voice crying in the wilderness advocating for the hard work of thoughtful, rigorous national standards (rather than standardized multiple-choice tests) and a renewed focused on the humanities and science to ground our schools in authentic academic excellence. I didn't agree with her on every point, but I embrace fully anyone who wants to dive into the real and complex work of making our schools better.

In this piece, I can (and do) quibble with her cavalier dismissal of "corporate school reform" across the board, knowing full well that my school and those like it are full of dedicated, passionate educators who care tremendously (and for a huge numbers of hours per week) about children and education. And yet, I agree wholeheartedly that the voices of the "corporate reform" movement my school is a part of should be speaking out against the injustices happening in places like Detroit, Rhode Island, Wisconsin and Idaho to the low-income students of color we are so vocal about serving. And we should stand shoulder to shoulder with the teachers (and, yes, unions) protesting these moves. Otherwise, Ravitch's 'corporate' accusation becomes valid. Even in an environment of increasing scarcity, we shouldn't act like a corporation with our only focus on preserving and perpetuating ourselves. When I think of 60 students to a classroom in Detroit, I want to kick something. No, no, no, no...if I believe in educational equality, those are my kids, too. They are all our kids.

So then I got this sinking feeling in the very pit of my stomach. There was a voice at the bottom of the pit, and it went something like this, "If your leaders aren't speaking out against the gutting of urban schools and the injustices served on kids like ours, what are you really working all these hours for? A mission or an institution like all the rest? We've always said that unions hurt public education, but how are unions hurting our kids now? What happens when there are no more voices raised collectively to say No, or Wait a minute! What happens when there are 60 kids in every classroom? Who will speak for us then?"

OK, that little voice had a lot to say. It also had lots of voices talking back to it. Believe me, my head's been spinning. One of the loudest, talking back voices came from my heart, which said, "OK, stop this philosophizing and think instead of your 102 students, who matter about a million times more than Secretary of Education Arne Duncan's latest press release."

Then my head chimed in and reminded me to take a deep breath, "While trusting your gut is certainly an option, you know full well the issue is more complicated than that. What are your leaders supposed to do in the insane political climate of the moment? Risk what has been built? Who exactly will that serve?"

But it's noticeably disturbing, voices from internal organs notwithstanding, to feel that the train I thought I was on might not be heading exactly where I want to go. Then again, it may still reach the destination--or take a different, but no less valuable route. I'm nowhere near a place to make any sort of pronouncements but writing this has helped. It has also allowed me to raise a voice at a time when speaking out for true equality in urban education matters more than it ever has before.

Flights of reality

"It is at once humbling and stirring to imagine just how expansive reality may be."
--Brian Greene in The Hidden Reality: Parallel Universes and the Deep Laws of the Cosmos

A few things happened in the past week to expand my own personal reality as well as cause me to appreciate the heck out of the reality we all inhabit. The first event was the occasion of my 37th birthday. The second was starting Greene's book, which is a straight-up scientific explanation of the cosmos in general and parallel universes in particular.

Now, Greene is no scientist-come-lately. He is a physicist at Columbia and a leading light of string theory. He is also a ridiculously lucid writer who opens up dense cosmology to even the most math-challenged audience. Not that you can dash through his prose, but his elegant sentences are a pleasure to parse, much like wonderful poetry or literature. I admire the care he takes with each word and analogy, so that there's hardly anything to unravel. General relatively, inflation theory and the concept of the cosmic horizon settle on the brain, then sink in deeper with every paragraph.

The result is startling. It's often hard to know where quantum mechanics leave off and philosophy (or religion) begins, as the above quote shows (though Greene would quibble mightily with the religion part). The nature of reality on a cosmic scale is so awe-inspiring and huge it challenges the very concept of what counts as real. Or, rather, what doesn't count as real. Because, as Greene points out, in an infinite universe, pretty much everything we can possible fathom is, in fact, happening somewhere. Everything is reality if you go out there far enough.

Which brings us to parallel universes, the subject of the book and a very favorite science fiction plot device of mine. There is something so viscerally compelling about reality itself being fluid and infinite. We make so many decisions every moment--most seem ordinary in the extreme, but are they? Books, movies and TV shows have explored the dramatic possibilities of turning left instead of right, saying yes instead of no. The whole plot of the parallel-universe movie Sliding Doors hinges on the merest seconds between Gwyneth Paltrow missing (or catching) a subway train. To think that these realms actually exist, that you are alive in an infinite variety of somewheres is unbearably cool. Greene provides the scientific explanation, starting with the nature of the universe (or multiverse) itself and going from there. Right now, I'm reading about the total insanity of the Big Bang and how the space for everything we know and can see with our eyes and telescopes (a fairly pedestrian definition of reality) came into being in about a millionth of a blink of an eye. Which makes the seconds between one decision and the next seem like a lifetime, to say nothing of all the years of an actual life.

Which brings us to birthdays. Now, the actual day itself was not an occasion for deep contemplation. I went to a nice dinner with colleagues and friends, drank prosecco, ate organic carrot manicotti and laughed a lot. But getting older in general (the days leading up to my birthday, with the number 40 coming up in conversation with noticeable frequency) has made the idea of parallel universes more intriguing, as well as leading to a greater appreciation of this reality. Because, when all is said and done, I would love to meet my other selves, but I wouldn't exchange this reality for a new one. At year 37, this is a good place to be.

When I do think of parallel universes, actually, I think of places where the lucky chances and spirit-filled moments in my life didn't happen--not a place where other, better ones did. This might be my own lack of imagination, but I'd like to think, for all my fangirl tendencies, I actually have a solid relationship with reality. The moment I come to most frequently is meeting my first editor at a church youth event in the summer of 1990. I almost didn't go to that meeting. I was exhausted and nearly slept through it. My life would be utterly different today. Many wonderful things that happened would not have happened. At the same time, several painful events would have been avoided. I wouldn't have it any other way, as interesting as it is to think of what would have come instead. Different joys. Different angst. Although the best of all possible worlds must also exist, the ups and downs of life are surely a universal constant. It's hard to willingly trade one for the other. (I hope I still feel the same way at 47, 57 and 97!)

One aspect of parallel universes that Greene probably won't explore is the concept of internal parallel universes, the ones we carry around in our heads. This is a delightful variation on the theme, as long as these alternative "realities" are celebratory rather than regretful. I'm thinking especially of a friend and former colleague, who once described his favorite parallel universe to me. Well, he didn't quite put it like that. Instead, he talked about the life he would be leading if he hadn't dedicated every molecule of his being to urban education and, instead, moved to New York City and became a designer. Now, there is nothing else this friend could be doing in this reality than urban ed. And at the same time, his other self was alive in a part of his mind. He described in minute detail the color scheme of this other self's Manhattan apartment, the philosophy of his design style, his fabulous social life. It was clear to me (and still brings a smile years later) that this other self was real in a meaningful way. At the same time, my friend was completely at peace with the decisions that relegated this sophisticated trend setter to the alternate reality of his imagination. The universe is full of infinite realities, yet we also keep our own universes with us. They keep us grounded or hopeful or entertained--and they are no less real (no more real?) than the vast expanse of space beyond the cosmic horizon.