What Dreams May Come

I don't usually remember my dreams, so when I do, they're, well, memorable. This sure qualifies.

I'm at the DMV to take my driver's license test. I'm a teenager again, except that I look exactly as I do today. I'm also naked.
Someone tells me I'm naked, and a pair of BVDs appear in my hand. I put them on, and then feel perfectly at ease.

I walk up to a low table with a pile of papers on it and a grandmotherly woman standing on the other side. I hand her some kind of card that I was holding in my teeth while donning the underwear. She seems not to notice my state of undress. She reads my name, and tells me that my friends have already been there. She mentions the name of a friend I had in high school, says his test in in the pile, and begins pushing the pile around in order to see the names in the corners.

But they're not long strip-like DMV tests. It's all lined notebook paper, folded length-wise, with the names showing. I've had my students fold their papers like this when wrapping them around Scan-tron forms. But there are not Scan-trons. I think I recognize my friend's handwriting on one of the papers.

Then I woke up. Very odd.

If anyone can interpret that one, please keep it to yourself: I don't think I want to know.

Cars I've Owned

1. 1972 Chevy LUV pickup (an Isuzu in disguise. Never ran well, but when I was 16 mini-trucks were in)
   
2. 1972 Audi 100 LS (smooth on the freeway, my date crashed it on the way to Knott's Berry Farm)
   
3. 1966 Volkswagen Bug (learned to work on cars keeping this one running)
   
4. 1981 Kawasaki KZ 550 motorcycle (5-year daily commuter)
   
5. 1963 Rambler American 440 (for when it rained)
   
6. 1973 Volkswagen Bus (ten years, three engines, lots of fun)
   
7. 1968 Volvo 144s (never buy a car from your father-in-law)
   
8. 1984(?) Volkswagen Rabbit GTI (totaled on the curb by a drunk driver after 36 days. I was upstairs, asleep)
   
9. 1991 Volkswagen GTI (135,000 original miles and going strong)
   

I wish I had photographs of them all. I'd assemble an album, and include the best stories from each one.

Jobs I've Had

1. 7-Eleven clerk (~ 3 mos.)
   
2. Christmas sales, shopping center (2 weeks)
   
3. Salesman, Leo's Stereo (2 weeks)
   
4. Stockman, National Lumber (4 mos.)
   That gets me out of high school. Then:
   
5. Janitor, apartment complex (6 mos.)
   
6. Quality control inspector, production line (3 mos.)
   
7. Warehouseman (waterbed mattresses) (7 mos.)
   
8. Nighttime office cleaning (3 days)
   
9. Auto parts assembly line worker (1 week)
   
10. Bus boy (8 mos.)
    
11. Document courier (14 mos.)
    
12. Lifeguard (1 yr.)
    
13. Swimming instructor (2 yrs.)
    
14. Pool manager (2 yrs.)
    
15. Warehouseman (medical supplies) (14 mos.)
    
16. Substitute teacher (1 yr.)
    
17. English teacher (14 yrs.)
    

So far, this gig is working out…

A Missed Opportunity

Had to refer a student to the assistant principal today for plagiarizing whole sections of his quarter project. I don't enjoy that, but it had to be done.

Happened to meet the kid and mom in the corridor as they were exiting the office. She asked me if there was any way he could re-submit the work, and declared that the kid's penalty, a two-day suspension from school, was harsh.

So many things about that encounter is causing my head to spin. Let me count the ways:

First, it's PLAGIARISM, not throwing spitballs. You know, academic dishonesty. Intellectual theft. This is a pretty serious offense, and a violation of the state's Educational Code. The point here is that we're trying to hold students to a standard of honesty, integrity and dilligence. It's about the kind of person he will grow up to be. What's that word our culture used to use pretty regularly? Oh, yeah: character.

Second, Mom tries to get me to let him do the project all over again and submit it for credit, to save the kid's grade. Part of the penalty for any cheating is an "F" on the assignment in question. Officially, it's not discretionary. I can't allow him to re-submit work that will nullify that part of the penalty. It would be both illogical and rather dishonest of me. The grade has to take a hit. Turns out even with the "F" he passes the quarter, barely. It could have been worse.

Third, the two-day suspension is at the lower end of the Discipline Matrix (the "sentencing guidlines" the administration uses to, well, administer punishment for naughty boys and girls). Other acceptable consequences in the Matrix for this violation include up to a 5-day suspension, placement in an alternative environment (change of schools) or expulsion from the district. For all I know this was the kid's first offense, but it was the quarter project, not merely a piece of homework, so I think he got off rather lightly. I was thinking he'd get three days. It definitely was not "harsh."

Mom cries in front of me, trying to get me to make this go away. I tell her that considering the nature of the situation, I'm not willing to accept replacement work, both from a standpoint of the intent of the "F" policy for cheating, and my personal policy. Then she tries to get me to lighten the consequence. I explain that I have nothing to do with deciding what happens to him; that's the assistant principal's decision, and they've just come out of his office.

She cries. He cries. I offer my sympathies, wondering to myself how she has the chutzpah to stand there trying to get him off the hook. She repeats her plea, and I, my condolences and explanation of why her request cannot be entertained, and my heartfelt desire that the boy be the kind of person who turns in his own, honest work. Mom is unrelenting, so finally, the assistant principal comes out to pry her loose and shoo her away. She wanted to take it to the principal to try to persuade her, but she (the principal) was off campus today. So they left. Not that Mom would have gotten anywhere with that, anyway.

Later I found out why Mom was so tenacious. Seems the boy is in the marching band, and the two-day suspension, which takes effect immediately, means he won't be wearing his uniform and playiing his instrument for tonight's CIF play-off football game, or tomorrow's field show (battle of the marching bands competition). Two lousy events that will be missed. All the needling, pressuring, tears, for that.

Let me contrast against that what my life would be like if I had been in a similar situation during my high school career:

My parent, likely my Depression generation, Okie, grew up poor-but-proud, stay-at-home mother, would have come into the assistant principal's office, heard about my behavior, viewed the plagiarized project with all the grace and dignity of a queen at a state reception. She would have agreed that this evidence was damning, and told the assistant principal that cheating is certainly not a value with which I was being raised. She would tell him that not only was the academic punishment acceptable, but that my punishment would continue at home. She would give him her word that nothing like this would ever happen again, turn to me and ask, "Will it?," to which I would be expected to agree, with head hung. I woudn't dare look her in the eye. She would then stand, thank the assistant principal for his time, shake his hand, and march me out, with me longing for the protection of the afore-said administrator's office. Head held high, stride dignified, all the way to the car. The ride home would be unbearably quiet.

Later, the lecture from both my parents would communicate how disappointed they were in me, and it would be worse than a restriction, loss of privilege, or any other punishment I could imagine. The knowledge that I'd let them down would burn through my teenage facade of detachment and stir my soul. I would be, in a word, ashamed. And it would cause me to vow to never cheat at my schoolwork again. Altogether a good and proper punishment by itself, but that would only be the half of it. I couldn't spend two days out of school watching television; those hours would be spent doing chores, specially selected for me: pulling weeds, cleaning out the dusty garage, or splitting wood: some physical labor that would engage my body and allow me the opportunity to meditate on my dishonest actions and the unanticipated embarrassment they'd brought upon my family. The calluses would be merely the outward sign of the better person I was becomming.

Maybe that's why I'm so dismayed today. Not a shred of dignity, just tears and pleading for exceptions, reductions in penalty, and the reestablishment of priviledge. Sigh.

Glutton for Punishmet

I took on an extra period, after school, designed to get struggling sophmores to pass the high school exit exam (coming up for them after the new year). Of course the kids don't want to be in an extra class while their friends are happily skipping home, and they're not the most academic kids to begin with: they were chosen for the class based on low state test scores and their grade point average. Yesterday was our first class meeting, and I can tell it's going to be an uphill battle.

The materials (a workbook) were ordered to be the primary resource to use, and of course the books hadn't arrived by yesterday morning. I used the advance copy to make photocopies of the first two lessons, so I'd have something to do with them. The books were tracked down from across town and delivered to me 20 minutes before the class was to begin, but I was in the middle of teaching a class, so had zero opportunity to look at the teacher's copy.

Such is life in a bureaucracy. I'm already regretting agreeing to the whole thing. I'ts going to be a long two months.

Past Burned

I'm here after school, sitting at my desk, just staring into space. I turned in quarter grades today. Over the three day Veteran's Day weekend, I must have read hundreds of thousands of words, scoring book projects, character diaries, and assorted papers, camped out in a coffee shop to get away from the distractions at home.

Now I'm brain-dead. Can't hold a single thought. And tired, because all the caffein I consumed both stole sleep and put a strain on my nervous system. I'm supposed to start a Shakespeare play with my sophomores, but I just don't have the energy, so I'll put it off for a week while I recuperate.

I gave up a three-day weekend on the yacht (with some great wind) to grade papers, so I'm pouting a bit about that, too.

After a weekend like that, I need a break from my work.

Hmmm.

The Insipidness of Halloween

Some people like Halloween, and go all out. Some believe it's demonically inspired, and recoil from it.

I just think it's stupid.

When I celebrate or observe a holiday, I want to know the reason why. If I don't know why I'm celebrating the holiday, it's completely meaningless to me. I put my flag out on Veteran's Day, and I know why I'm doing it. Christmas is not about "family," but about the birth of Jesus Christ in Bethlehem, and I celebrate that, because I'm a Christian.

So when Halloween comes along, I take a look at what it means. And my conclusion is that it certainly did have significant religious meaning, but that meaning has been lost by our culture, and now people just dress up for the sake of dressing up. And I'm just not interested in that. If there's no meaning behind it that I want to participate in or support, it really has no taste for me.

I'm not the Christian who is pointing out all the evil that is associated Halloween; I just don't think that those connections are salient for the vast majority of the culture. Sure, there are a few people who consider this an important religious holiday, but they are a tiny minority, out of the mainstream, and I'm not afraid that little kids are going to be spiritually corrupted by dressing up like Cinderella and begging candy door to door. Or even dressing up like ghosts and vampires, etc. Okay, there is a line somewhere where those concerned about the spiritual darkness will want to draw a line before things get occultic, and I do think that people are unwise for crossing that line, but that's their perogative, and we don't need all the hand-wringing. Do what your conscience allows you to to, then abstain from the rest. But first, think about what you're doing.

But as an adult, all the magic of dressing up in a silly costume and romping around has faded for me. Adults, to a great degree, treat Halloween as sort of a Mardi Gras, a night of reveling; an excuse to behave in ways that would be considered outrageous on Nov. 1st, but are allowed on Oct. 31st under the aegis of the mood of the moment. An evening where chaotic Dionysian excess replaces the restrained Apollonian order of everyday life. An excuse to run, scream, shout, and basically be socially deviant, while enjoying society's approval (which shows about as much true rebellion as a temporary tatoo). And if that's all it means, then No, Thank You to all the brainless Bacchanalian festivity, because it's empty of any real meaning.

I'm I being a humbug? No, more like a Ho-hum, Shrug.

More on Athletics

When I was a student at Mayfair, there was a motto painted high on the wall of the locker room proclaiming "Athletics Teaches a Way of Life." It has long since been painted over, and I think that's a pity.

There is some great character building that happens when athletic programs are run by coaches who understand that the whole purpose of high school intra-mural sports goes way beyond training the body: the characters of young people are refined in the crucible of competiton and the hard work that goes into preparing for the competition: they learn how to win with grace, and how to lose and retain dignity; they learn how to pull together (in many sports) as a team, how to sacrifice for the good of the group, and how to value their individual contribution in the right perspective. These experiences will shape who they will be for the rest of their lives. Many have never worked so hard in their lives as they do during the week at practice, and have never pushed themselves as hard, never tested the mettle of their bodies and spirits, as they do when they're out there sweating and straining during what is thought of as mere training for the competition. And that's true, except that the real competition isn't a game: it's life.

Our coaches are excellent because to a man, they demonstrate that they understand this. They also know that almost to a boy, their players are looking for some adult, any adult who is not their father, to use as a yardstick to measure what a man should be. Boys have to separate from their fathers and find their own autonomy ("teenage rebellion" to the layman, "individuation" to the adolescent psychologist), and other adult male role models, who are metaphorical stars to steer by for these emerging young men, are never more important as they are at this stage.

How many don't have fathers at home, or have dysfunctional relationships with their fathers that complicate or prevent their fathers from guiding them through this transition? In my case, it was my father's alcoholism that prevented me from having a close relationship with him from the time I was about twelve, and the result was a lot of buried anger and (ironically) teenage drinking during my high school years. My coaches served as surrogates who required discipline, hard work and commitment from me, and from whom I received the praise and recognition I felt I never got from my own dad. And that process of making men continues on the fields, tracks, courts and mats of our school.

I love having athletes as students. They are, by and large, more disciplined, show fewer behavior problems, are better and harder workers, tend to mind their own business, don't give up easily, perform well during group assignments, and complete homework and outside projects consistently. In general, they just have higher standards for themselves.

If I had a paintbrush and the right key, I'd sneak in the locker room and do a little painting. But our coaches already know.

Another Championship?

The Monsoons are now 6-0 this season. A surprising trounce of one of our toughest competitors (they lost the majority of their seasoned coaching staff in the last two years) two weeks ago made our varisity a little cocky entering the stadium last week, and they fell behind to a relatively weaker team in the first quarter and remained there until a field goal made the score 15-14 just seconds before the halftime clock ran down (you're having a great season, Chad).

The boys got their heads on straight in the locker room, and came back in the second half to decisively outplay their opponents right down to the final gun.

So the Big Blue Machine rolls on.

P.S.— The current injured list includes a broken ankle, a broken nose/concussion, and various strains and sprains. The starting center sceduled oral surgery to pull four wisdom teeth for last Monday, to take advantage of a "by" week (no scheduled game). By doing this he gets two weeks to heal, so he'll only miss a few days of practice and will suit out next Friday. These athletes wear their game jerseys over street clothes on game nights and stand on the sidelines with their casts, crutches and ice packs, wanting nothing more than to be out on the field with their teammates, like wounded soldiers whose only thought is to be back with their units. When I'm down on the sidelines during the game, I can see the intense concentration, frustration and desire on their faces, and it takes me back (over a quarter of a century! AAGGHH!!)

Out of the Mouths of Seniors

Yesterday we conducted our annual Senior Seminar, not so much seminar as a day laboratory of being put into random, rotating groups in the gym for ice-breaker parlor games that require cooperation and teamwork, interspersed with small group questions that force students to communicate with one another, and overall, break through the multitude of social clique barriers that separate teenagers in the wild. It's a way for them to get to know their fellow classmates and develop social bonds in the last year of high school. One student said, "This morning I had five friends; now I have, like, thirty!" The freedom of a ten-year reunion, before graduation. Overall, a pretty good idea.

Maybe because of the future-focusing and sentiment-stirring nature of the seminar (who knows), a senior who is a two-time former student stopped me in the corridor after school to tell me that I'm one of the most inspirational people in his life, that he's grateful to have been in my class, that he'll never forget me, and that he just thought I should know.

Oh, this student also wants to be an English teacher.

I think I'm good for the rest of the school year.

No, She's Not Mine: all I Have is a Boat

My niece Grace Louise is six months old now, and she can crawl over to the side of the crib and get up on her feet.

She was lifting her head up @ two months, and bearing her own weight on her feet when stood up on my knee @ three months. At this rate, she'll be walking in well under a year, which I gather is the textbook time frame.

And she's really, really cute, too.

Hey, I Remember You!

I haven't so much as seen my yacht since school started. Crikey, that's over a month!

I wanted to join other Catalina owners over at the Catalina Island Isthmus at the Catalina Rendezvous, but I was exhausted after having been sick, I had papers and serious laundry to do, and the forecast was for rain. I'd have had to bring my dirty laundry to the island with me and wash it in the laundromat while I sat on the patio and graded papers, and watched everyone else have fun. Tempting, but not my idea of satisfying multi-tasking. And it was quite possible I'd have had to cross the channel in the rain, as well. It's California, and I don't have any proper foul-weather gear, just an old jacket. So Prudence whispered in my ear, and I stayed home and slept.

A daysail tomorrow, without fail, even if I have to motor around the bay for lack of wind.

Sharing is Caring

It's the occupational hazzard of teachers everywhere.

175 kids come through my room daily. Some of them are sick. The first assault force of thirty-five arrives at seven-thirty AM. They exhale, cough and sniff, then leave. Another wave of virus-infested students come in to exhale, cough and sniff. Naturally, they leave some of their disease behind. Very little covering of mouths. They leave, I stay.

Some of those air-borne germs have found their way into my respiratory system. Woke Saturday with a hoarse throat. By this morning it had campainged strongly and put my immune system on the defensive. I spent most of the day today on the couch, sipping juice, surfing the 'net (gotta love the laptop), and slipping in and out of uncomfortable naps.

Tomorrow, I'll rely on my tried-and-true method getting through the day sick: large doses of Alka-Seltzer Plus and caffein.

Same Song, Same Verse

Every year I always make a resolution to be more orgainzed. Then three weeks into the year, I'm playing catch-up.

It's four weeks into the year.

Homecoming, Spontaneously

I don't know how common it is campus-wide, but I get after-school visits from former students every year.

This year, I've had R, J, N, E, M, and today, K, drop by. Six kids in the first three weeks of school. That's a lot, even for me.

I say kids, but many of them are being graduated from four-year universities this year, have spent semesters overseas, are engaged, etc. And some are last year's Mayfair graduates who barely have the confetti washed out of their hair.

They come in to catch me up on their lives, or to ask for advice. Some of them I haven't had daily contact with since middle school. But we chat, and I get updated. I see how they've changed: sometimes I'm impressed by their growing maturity and first grapplings with the challenges of adulthood in college or the world of work; other times I'm saddened or shocked by the values and attitudes that they have adopted, and pray they will experience a speedy transition to a more mature perspective. I've had both reactions this week.

I know that at least some of them make more than one stop while they're on campus, and my door is open for a couple of hours a day after school, and that makes me a pretty easy choice. But I also know that a few of them come to see me specifically, and I understand the honor they confer on me by taking time away from any of the other things a 20 year-old could be doing to stay and talk to some tired-looking middle-aged guy for a while. Most of the time they will sit across my desk for an hour or more; sometimes two, and three is not unheard of (happened last week).

I'm not talking about the random, one-time visit. I get some of those, too. Mostly because my door is open after school. Those tend to be significantly briefer, and the conversations shallower. But the regulars and semi-regulars: we have friendships that are being maintained, and when you see your friend just once or twice a year, it takes some time to catch up.

Can they sense how much I enjoy their visits? That I'm genuinely interested in their lives, just like I was then they were thirteen, or sixteen? I always make references to ways that I know them as people or show interest in them in our conversations:

"Oh, you were always impatient: it's no wonder waiting for that second interview call drove you nuts."

"I can just see you sitting there, listening to your professor drone on, and looking around the class, wondering why everyone was eating up the garbage he was spewing out."

"What do you think you've learned about yourself, since you broke up with ________ ?"

That may be responsible for much of my return business. One of the things I give in my classroom is myself. I treat them as if they were real people: unique individuals that have value and who matter. Don't get me wrong: I'm so not touchy-feely, or interested in pampering their emotions, and I think the Self-Esteem movement has screwed up more young minds than LSD. I'm more likely to tell a kid that it's not about his feelings, so stop talking back to his parents, and to go out and get a haircut and a job, in that order. But I can get away with that, becaue they know I care about them, always treat them with dignity, and demand that they treat themselves with some. Too many kids come through my classroom every year who have inattentive parents, or who are missing a parent (I know that I have served as a father figure for many students over the last dozen years), or no youth pastor or other trusted adult to confide in. It's tough when you see your dad every other weekend. So I'm willing to stand in that gap, if they'll have me. I take their concerns and worries seriously. I try to understand them, and I think they sense that. I've had a few tell me that I'd make a good father, which is more of a compliment than they know. A few friendships have developed deeply enough that I've been teased with the name "Dad." I burst with secret pride.

Today I was asked which side of the aisle I was going to sit on at her wedding, hers, or her fiancée's? (I taught them both, and am good friends with them both).

I never know who's going to show up, or where it's going to lead. But I'm usually delighted.

Where There's Smoke

Two girls I don't know (they're always in pairs) come into my room at lunch. One asks if she can use my microwave. Another teacher sent her to me. Sure, I don't care.

She pops her Chick-Fil-A bag in, and no one notices or remembers that those bags are lined with aluminum foil.

As soon as the Start button is pushed, the bag begins to spark. I call to her to shut the oven off, and she is trying to push the wrong side of the door release button, and the door won't open. By the time it finally opens up, the tinted glass is lit up from the inside because the bag is on fire.

A tiny puff of smoke curls out the top of the oven. When the bag comes out, my aide blows it out like a birthday cake. We're all laughing hysterically; everyone except the poor girl, who thinks she just fried my microwave. We put the chicken sandwich on a paper plate and finish the job, joking about the "what if"s of fire alarms and thirty-five hundred students out on the field because of a chicken sandwich.

It could happen, but I wouldn't want to explain it to the principal later.

Turn, Turn, Turn

Yesterday I announced that that day (Sept. 20th) was the last day of summer.

Guess how well that went over?

The Word On The Street

Today I learned that I'm considered a "pretty cool" teacher.
Thats, well, pretty cool, I guess.

Oh: no snorts. Just goofiness.

Another Friday Night, and I Ain't Got Game

Dashed home after a teacher, um, 'support group" at BJ's pizzeria to grab my camera before going to the football game. Important game: cross-town rivaly, yada, yada.

Anyway, got there 45 minutes after kickoff, and they were at capacity attendance and had closed the gate, so I didn't get in.

On the way back to my car, I met a group of (mostly) former students of mine walking up the to gate. Seemed to me a couple of them may have had a snort or two earlier in the evening. I'll have to create the opportunity for a discrete talk with them next week.

Never Mind

Friday, and I didn't want to start my juniors on a new multi-day lesson plan on Jonathan Edwards' "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" right before the weekend. And I didn't want to commit the sin of overkill by cooking up a second "after the reading" lesson to the poem we did yesterday just to fill the period. I was just about to give them a grammar review/diagnostic (completely justifiable at the beginning of the year, but less than tasty on a Friday) when my first period informed me that it's picture day today. So off to the gym we went.

It killed the entire period.

What?

No, you can't leave your math book in my room after your morning algebra class, then come back and retreive it after school.

Psst! Hey, look: he's mumbling to himself.

While kids read today, I stood @ my podium and attempted to memorize names using my printed seating chart. In a little over five minutes, I was able to just look around a class of kids and say their names to myself. I did this with about 140 students (didn't start until 2nd period). So now I think I'm really something.

We'll see how many of those names I can recall tomorrow.

Another Year, Another Tear

The first two days of the school year have passed, with less than the usual chaos. Last year, I was overloaded with students for three weeks until an additional English teacher was hired, but this year all my classes are evenly filled, and as of Friday, I'm one student "under contract."

Schedules are still being changed, and the counselors are frazzled, but that's SOP every September. Maybe it will settle down sooner than usual, and I can begin our first novels without having to get new kids up to speed.

As far as classes go, I went from having four sections of sophomores and one of juniors last year, to having three junior sections and only two sophomore sections. I'm just not used to this, having had a preponderance of 10th graders for the last two years, so I'll have to devote more time to getting that 11th grade curriculum up to snuff: they're now 60% of my student load.

I have several returning students who where in my 10th grade classes last year, and some I had in middle school whom I haven't seen (except around campus) for three years, who are now back with me for their junior year of high school. There are even a handful that are three-timers: 8th grade, 10th grade last year, and couldn't escape the gravity of planet Coulter this year either. In almost all of those cases, it is a student I'm quite happy to have back. What they think of being stuck with me a third time, I can only imagine…