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.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Saturday, October 14, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
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.
It's four weeks into the year.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
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.
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.
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