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.