Thoughts on teaching

Teaching is the strangest job I've ever had. I've only been alive for twenty-three years so far, but currently it's in the number one spot. Certainly much stranger than cleaning viruses off computers, punching tickets at an IMAX theater, or organizing chemicals at a science summer camp. Those last three were in reverse chronological order, for the sake of traditional plot development. Of course, I've also had odd jobs and side jobs and I've shoveled a lot of driveways, but it doesn't matter. Nothing comes close. Teaching is the strangest. Moreover, I would reckon that none of the jobs that I have held or work that I have performed has prepared me at all to be a teacher. I'm good with computers, I can keep track of humans exiting into and out of buildings, and I suppose organizing chemicals is probably a useful skill for any science teacher. But certainly nothing I have ever done has ever prepared me to teach.

Probably the least useful thing I ever did was student teach. In terms of preparing me. Absolutely awful. Worst choice ever, although in my defense I didn't really have too much of a say about it. I'll never forget the first time I stepped into a New York City Public School classroom. The school was in Harlem and it was named after some champion of the civil rights movement. I was amazed. The school was incredible. The floors were gleaming, the lockers and doors were brand new, and the paint on the walls was fresh and clean. The whole building seemed a testament to the successful strategy of educational reform. Oh my goodness, I thought. The money works.

The kids were awful, of course, very disrespectful, but I liked them anyway. Of course I liked them. They're entertaining and amusing, and they made me feel like an adult, which means a lot when you're twenty one years old and entering a profession you are convinced that you are unqualified for. But the biggest factor at play in determining how much I enjoyed that experience was the complete lack of responsibility I had for those students and for their learning. Their teacher was awful. Again, easy for me to say, because I had absolutely no stake in how that classroom turned out. I doled out judgement. I will never be like that teacher. Two years later? Yes, she was awful. But I have a better understanding of why she was the way she was.

You see, teaching is an inherently degrading job, and destructive, yes, very destructive. Because you cannot teach and remain unchanged. And most people enter the profession at such a young age that they have not yet established a firm and stable understanding of who they are as well as respect and pride for their own sense of identity. It is easy to change and adapt and give up part of yourself to fit into the role of being a teacher. No two teachers are the same, because no two teaching environments are the same, however, I firmly believe that all educators are linked by the shared experience of having to MODIFY themselves to fit this new and terribly different situation. And sometimes modify themselves to the point of destruction.

You cannot teach and remain unchanged. You simply can't. The best you can hope for is to teach and become a better person. A lot of it is out of your control. Teaching is a gamble. Maybe the students are horrible, maybe your administration is horrible, maybe your building or neighborhood is horrible. Maybe you're overworked or you're teaching the wrong subject or you don't have the right materials or textbooks. It is a hard job. And many teachers fall into the trap of focusing all of their attention on the things they cannot change, yearning for better times or better people, etc. It is all really quite depressing.

I try not to complain about my job, because I really do like it. Will I do it for the rest of my life? I really don't know. What I can say for sure is that my experience as a teacher, and my goals and expectations for the future, are radically different than those of teachers working only ten years ago. They would probably pass as completely alien to the teachers of fifty years ago. Because the children are different. And the world that we are funneling them into is different. There are no easy answers, and certainly no one-size-fits-all solutions. My advice? Don't forget about yourself. I do whatever I can to make my job easier because it is a hard job and I do not want to wake up one day and wonder where my own life went. It disappears when you're not paying attention. And it is easy to forget to pay attention when you are so worried about the lives of fifty or seventy or a hundred teenagers.

The one thing about teaching that I can say with absolute certainty, in terms of advice, etc., is to never call a student out in front of their friends. I fight the urge to humiliate students who I feel are disruptive or disrespectful. I am so fortunate that this happens very rarely in my current job. But when you call someone out in front of their friends, you embarrass them and you burn any bridge that may have existed between the two of you. Turning the other cheek is an essential skill. I am horrified by the teachers who punish students, not to teach a lesson but simply to reward hurt with more hurt. I try not to judge. Teaching has made me a better person. I am grateful for this, but also dreadfully aware of the fragility of this experience.

This post is unusual because it is not creative writing, nor is it particularly funny or even remotely interesting to whoever may be reading my blog. I will follow this up with a copy of a customer review I recently submitted to an online retailer concerning a pair of wonderful winter-time riding gloves. I'm particularly fond of this review, and perhaps I've taken a distasteful amount of pride in sharing it, but I feel like its style hearkens back to the days of my OLD blog, and reminds me of when I was younger. I did write it at 5:30 in the morning. Maybe I'm younger in the mornings.

Here is a photo of the new motorcycle that I purchased back in January. It hasn't been above 40 since I bought it, but I've put over 200 miles on it so far! Hence the gloves.

Rukka Lobster Gore-Tex Glove

Did you know that Native Americans refused to eat lobsters, because they considered them to be vile and distasteful creatures? At first glance a lobster might look pretty alien and hideous, but it only takes a bit of boiling and some butter to appreciate the fact that it is an edible treat that you can only afford once a year when your mother in law comes to visit.

So too with this glove.

At first glance, this glove looks like inedible garbage. But who cares what a glove looks like? Let me tell you (and foregoing all of my customary hyperbole), this baby wraps your hands in a layer of Goretex, Cotton, and other insulating fibers so thick that you could be forgiven for believing that you had momentarily been transported back into the protective, warm, comforting embrace of your mother's uterus.

This glove is basically a one-way air plane ticket for you hands. Destination? Hawaii, probably. St. Thomas, maybe, although I've heard its expensive. Regardless, somewhere warm and tropical, where the idea of sleet, rain, snow, ice, and sub-freezing temperatures is regarded as myth and furtively whispered to truculent children as a warning before bedtime. Your hands will feel transported, and the experience is ethereal.

You know what else is ethereal? Grip feel. This is where the marvelous fairy tale of this story begins to take a dark turn. I won't go so far as to say that this glove interferes with your ability to control the bike in the same sense that miscommunication cost Hitler the Eastern Front. I'm just saying that Stalingrad in winter is never a good idea. Specifically? Turn signals. Your bike may be different than mine, but it's not, all bikes are the same, you know it, I know it, so let's skip the formalities and get to the part where you're freaking out because you can't cancel your left turn signal while pulling your clutch owing to the fact that the entire tip of your left thumb has been turned into an amorphous blob of protoplasmic inarticulation not dissimilar in form and function to our old friend, Vice President Dick Cheney.

But don't worry, you'll get used to it and adapt. Some of your movements will become cartoonish and exaggerated to compensate. For example, instead of casually flicking your indicator switch you will stretch and contort your thumb over and around the top to ensure complete control and tactile response. This glove yields grudgingly to human ingenuity and in the end, like a well-bred mastiff, behaves more docile during your second encounter.

And who has the time or energy to worry about peripheral losses in glove feel when your hands feel so comfortable and warm? If you're thinking about buying this glove, than you MUST have tried riding in cold weather without it. Which means right now your thought processes are evenly split between, "What does WebMD know about frostbite anyway? It's just a website. The internet can't be trusted. I remember Napster..." and "Maybe I'm just a fair weather rider like my father-in-law."

Trust me, anonymous internet stranger. You are not your father-in-law. And with this glove, you shouldn't have to worry about frost bite until the thermometer dips below freezing. At that point, it doesn't matter if your speedometer is in miles-per-hour, or kilometers-per-kumquat, the number "60" on your dash is going to translate to "numb fingertips" in about 30 minutes.

Have I ridden farther with this glove in colder temperature. You're better believe I have. I'm a champion of all-weather motorcycle riding. I'm the guy that you dream about being. I'm the guy who wears GLOVE LINERS underneath his gloves. Because you know what's worse than numb fingertips? "I told you so" conversations with your mother-in-law at Red Lobster.

An Unfinished Season

After a whirlwind weekend in Vermont, and the completion of two short books ("The Old Man and the Sea" and "A Raisin in the Sun") I began to read a book on the recommendation of a close friend: "An Unfinished Season" by Ward Just. On the cover, in small font, it said "Pulitzer Prize nominated". My initial assessment was less than favorable. Really? This book? Pulitzer prize nominated? The book seemed stuffy and overbearing. Stuffy and overbearing are not exactly fatal descriptors when it comes to my reading preferences, see "The Untouchables" and "The Marriage Plot" as recent examples, however this book seemed especially banal and, moreover, meandering.

But it wasn't meandering at all! And once I picked up the path and direction of the book, my pace quickened and tonight, as I sat on the 8:13PM New Haven Express train out of Harlem, I read the last twenty pages both hungrily and regretfully, knowing with each turn that I was closer to the end of an unforgettable journey. Sounds cliche right? Well put your seat belt on, because here comes another: this book had a profound effect on me. It was beautiful, even if, at times, it felt slightly confused and took unnecessary detours. It was a novel about growth, and essentially distilled the "coming of age" of a young man down to a series of connected moments spread out throughout the course of a pre-collegiate summer. This is always the way that I have suspected that people grow up. Not over the course of several years but over the course of several moments.

Here is a photo I took of some of my students on a field trip to the American Museum of Natural History in New York City in November of 2013:

Firewood

I think that you can tell a lot about a person by the way in which they start a fire. There are many different ways to start a fire, but after lengthy observation and careful consideration, I believe that most everyone can be ascribed to one of two groups.

The first group is characterized by their overzealous usage of kindling as well as their poor long-term fire planning. How will your fire survive when you have used up all of the smaller pieces of firewood? This is an example of a question which seldom crosses the mind of a member of the first group. And, if it does, it is always accompanied by a simultaneous feeling of melancholy and quiet disappointment. Like a child that opens its Christmas presents too quickly, these people are often interested more in the short-term satisfaction of a burgeoning fire. The flare and beauty of the blazing kindling captivates and satisfies, although it is inherently ephemeral.

The second group, of course, is more interested in the long term health of the fire. They will use kindling sparingly, not only because they are more chiefly concerned with the arrangement of larger pieces of firewood, but also because they have a desire to use all resources in moderation. These are types of people who print all of their recipes for the week and then go to the grocery store to only buy the ingredients that they need.

No one belongs exclusively to either group, and it is possible to change camps during one's lifetime and even, perhaps, yes almost certainly, to change multiple times.

This is a metaphor.

Look at this Christmas Tree that we set on fire!

Oversea Highway

So this year I have two major resolutions. The first is to read one book every week, for a total of 52 books by the end of the year. I was inspired by a similar, but more challenging resolution made by a close friend of mine: to read 100 books by the end of the year. 52 is not 100, but it is still a respectable number. So far, I have been staying on schedule, and I am currently reading book number #5 (although I have experimented by reading sections of other books). Here's my completed list so far, with accompanying reviews (5 words maximum).

1) Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy: Beautiful but bleak, enjoyable, and troubling.

2) Pastoralia by George Saunders: Poignant, bursting with rhetorical questions.

3) Civilwarland in Bad Decline by George Saunders: Funnier than Pastoralia, strangely sadder.

4) Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger: Insightful, lots of cigarettes.

I feel exceptionally proud that I was able to shave an extra word down on that last review.

Here is a photograph I took of the Flagler Presbyterian Church in St. Augustine, Florida:

Silas watches the Pawnee scouts depart

Silas was angry and he did not know why. The Pawnee scouts had disappeared the night before, and there was much speculation about where they had gone. Elijah thought they were riding hard toward the camps of the enemy. The party knew of these camps, crouching, rimmed with embers, hidden beyond the shadowy veil of the horizon. Others thought they were pushing forward, towards a scrubby line of evergreens in the distance, sandy soil, perhaps clean water. Still others were convinced that they had been swallowed whole by that unfathomable western land, a terrestrial deity greater and more mysterious than any lingering in the skies of the old world. Silas had watched them depart during the night. Tall and lanky, their sheepskin shawls pushed up around their shoulders, the smooth brown skin of their backs twisting in the neurotic light of the moon. Their horses shuffled uncertainly and seemed to topple forward, gaining momentum, unshorn hoofs scraping over the dead Nebraska long grass until they were dots in a darkening expanse. Silas was half-crouched, his body tensed. To do what? He shut his mouth and swallowed, tasting grit. He breathed through his nose, and slipped back under his blanket. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of horse sweat and gunpowder.

Winter in Queens

Winter in Queens. I stand in the underground station, waiting for the F train. The world outside is bright and clear and the people of Queens stand apart, each made slightly larger by several layers of clothing. I used to stand at the edge of the tracks but there have been a number of train-related deaths recently, so I'm cautious. Last week a hispanic woman pushed an Indian man in front of a train. She thought he was a terrorist. I keep my eyes open for unstable women behind me. My mother would be glad to know that I don't stand close to the edge anymore. I should probably call her and tell her about the train-related deaths.

I'm listening to music, my headphones are banded over my winter hat, the wool scrapes against the ear pieces. In front and beneath me scraps of plastic and discarded food loiter next to iron stanchions. From the stair case a fetid wind blows and I breathe through my mouth. The garbage on the tracks begins to slowly move, pushed along by the wind and for a moment imitating the movement of sentient particles anticipating the imminent train. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets, I strain the seams. A blonde presence at my right elbow.

Turning, I look at her face and she is already looking at me and smiling. She smiles wide and her face looked tired and her smile is shaped in such a way that I am convinced it is genuine in this moment but is forced in most other moments. A smile that has been used in jest so many times in the past. That's okay, I have one of my own. I smile my sideways smile. The one where I show only a small sliver of my top teeth. I know all of this about myself. Hey, how are you? My headphones are still on.

We are sitting on the F train together and we are talking about work. She sits with her boots pointed slightly toward each other and her arms crossed and her upper body twisted slightly to face me. Everything we say is sarcastic, and I try to make her laugh. She has a habit of not looking me in the eyes, but looking slightly above. I wonder if I have something on my forehead.

We both stay on the train longer than we need to. I am late to my class in the Bronx. I think she is late to wherever she is going, but I am not sure. The air smells better in the Bronx. Dominican boys walk with Dominican girls, always in pairs. On my way to class, I pass the empanada trailer. This has been an immovable landmark since I moved to New York six months ago. Inside, swarthy faced women with kind eyes cook with their backs to the window. Red tubes of ketchup and hot sauce stand as frozen sentries on either side of the metal window. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets.

Here's a photograph I recently took of a cathedral:

Rory Cheatam Walks a Scrawny Dog

Rory Cheatam took the dog for a walk, on behalf of his mother. She
called up to him from the kitchen where she was reading a newspaper, her voice as high-pitched and straining as it was in his memories of adolescence. Groaning, he shoved himself into a pair of leather boots and lumbered down the stairway. He took mind of the pictures hanging on the walls as he stretched a sweater over his back and lanky arms. He had knocked down so many. Heading into the kitchen, he eyed the target of his disdain. The dog sat under the table, with its tail curled and its head lowered. To one side rose a wall of draping pink fabric, a nightgown, a soaring tower of cotton and polyester which, to the dog, must have seemed like the walls of a cathedral or perhaps the cliffs of Dover. Rory eyed his mother as well. She sat there, with her glasses slipping down her nose, a handsome nose, and her small mouth pursed and moving somewhat, mouthing the words she was reading. A handsome face and a beautiful woman, even in her old age. She didn't look up at him.

He grabbed a leash and a small plastic bag and headed for the door. Opening it, he felt a rush of cold December air. The dog followed, obediently.

Obedience wasn't the problem with the dog, Rory could admit that. The dog was frightfully obedient. Too obedient. Morbidly obedient? It made him uneasy. Living things should have more control over their lives. Or at least more of a free spirit. Rory shook his head. What do I know? He thought to himself, and crossed the street, the dog trotting faithfully beside him.

It took a long time for the dog to relieve itself. So long that it caused a bit of an existential crisis. Why am I walking this dog in the first place? Rory looked down and hated it when the dog looked back at him. How did it know that I was looking at him? He was probably listening to the vertebrae in my neck move. What a little son of a bitch. He probably thinks he's walking me.

"Jokes on you," Rory called out, surprisingly loud. "I'm walking YOU." Ahead of Rory, an old lady paused in her garbage can processional. She stared at him. "Good evening!" Rory exclaimed in a very clear and slow voice, with lots of emphasis on each syllable. He had no clue if she was hard of hearing, but she had the clear and sharp eyes of someone who had developed hawk-eyed vision in compensation for some other sensory deficit. She was probably hard-of-hearing, Rory concluded and it wasn't until he was two blocks away and the dog had carefully selected the rusting yellow carapace of a fire hydrant as the final resting place of its sacred reservoir of urine that a single faint thought echoed through Rory's mind. I should really help that lady with her trash cans. He headed back, but when he got to her house she was gone and the lights were out, and the night sky above the streetlights started to fill with large flakes of snow.



Here's a picture of my car in the snow. I've named this car "Susan B. Anthony, Champion of Women's Suffrage".