Progressive Education has come a very long way since the 1940s--or has it?
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Be Glad For What You Have
Today is my son Eian's 12th birthday. This is also the 12th anniversary of my brother Michael and wife Megan's wedding. Two very important days in our family's life.
When so much of what we do around holidays, birthdays. and anniversaries involve buying things, it's nice to know that just appreciating what we have and who we are is enough.
Today, my wife, daughter, and son went to my in-laws to have brunch. A big meal was cooked--both vegetarian and carnivorous--so that all pallettes were satisfied. Eggs, biscuits, ham, fruit, hot chocolate, and funny presents (I'm not sure if they were meant to be--but thanks for Eian's sweatpants, Grandma) gave way to gales of laughter and time appreciating each other. It wasn't Walton-esque, but we did take a moment to drink it all in.
The most important stuff, of course, is the laughter. Although Eian is geting to the age whre hanging out with mom and dad is no longer all that cool, we do have a very good time together as a family. Whether it's the jokes we tell about each other or the rolling on the floor tickle fests, our family is pretty tight. I would say that we are closer than my family was when I was growing up.
As we enter the holdiay season, especially winding down at schools across the land, think about ways that your family can be even a little closer--without bribing them with gifts. What kinds of neat things can you do that do not cost a lot or anything at all? If you have a classroom, think of ways that this can be replicated for the children and colleagues that you work with.
When so much of what we do around holidays, birthdays. and anniversaries involve buying things, it's nice to know that just appreciating what we have and who we are is enough.
Today, my wife, daughter, and son went to my in-laws to have brunch. A big meal was cooked--both vegetarian and carnivorous--so that all pallettes were satisfied. Eggs, biscuits, ham, fruit, hot chocolate, and funny presents (I'm not sure if they were meant to be--but thanks for Eian's sweatpants, Grandma) gave way to gales of laughter and time appreciating each other. It wasn't Walton-esque, but we did take a moment to drink it all in.
The most important stuff, of course, is the laughter. Although Eian is geting to the age whre hanging out with mom and dad is no longer all that cool, we do have a very good time together as a family. Whether it's the jokes we tell about each other or the rolling on the floor tickle fests, our family is pretty tight. I would say that we are closer than my family was when I was growing up.
As we enter the holdiay season, especially winding down at schools across the land, think about ways that your family can be even a little closer--without bribing them with gifts. What kinds of neat things can you do that do not cost a lot or anything at all? If you have a classroom, think of ways that this can be replicated for the children and colleagues that you work with.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Homage: Anita Diamant
I surf on-line quite a bit. Most of the time I can be found on the CNN.com site, the New York Times site, CBS.Sportsline.com, and ESPN.go.com. I'm a bit of a news junky whenever I'm not banking and trying to manage the little money that I have to manage. I also like to surf the writing sites, looking for good ideas to stir the pot. See, I've been wanting to finish this novel that I started last year, but I can't seem to walk myself back through it. As a Head of a school, some sort of creative outlet, other than watching sports until my eyes bleed, is important to do.
Yesterday, I found myself at Anita Diamant's website. She of the The Red Tent fame. I have not read Ms. Diamant's book, but I am fascinated by the social movements of books like The Red Tent. I particularly like the idea of historical works of fiction, especially those dealing with a biblical theme, like Elizabeth George Speare's The Bronze Bow. My wife read The Red Tent about eight years ago and like many of the women who read Diamant's novel at the time, she was throughly fascinated by the society of women that it essayed. It's what authors so desperately try to do but often fail in the attempt, which is create a community of readers. That's why blogging has caught on in the way that it has. People will follow a blogger who they often agree with, mostly for the world or community they create.
This year celebrates the tenth anniversary of The Red Tent, which means that it is high time that I spent some time seeing what the fuss is about. Barnes and Noble is hyping the release by running book clubs on their site. It's a way to build community, sell some books, and drive people to their site. I actually checked out the first week or so of The Red Tent re-release and Ms. Diamant's interaction with her adoring public.
You can too if you go to:
http://bookclubs.barnesandnoble.com/bn/board/message?board.id=adrt&thread.id=3&jump=true
I found Ms. Diamant to be a quite generous and intriguing celebrity author, encouraging would be writers and thanking people for their time and questions. One such exchange went like this:
------------
nd_plume wrote:
Sorry, but it took me so long to register that I thought I'd never get to the posting (or I would give up.) But here I am...
Anita:
I read your book with my bookclub (one of our all time favorites) when it first came out, then passed it along to my mother who loved it.
1)The time involved in the production of a book amazes me. Tell me about the length of time you worked on TheRedTent, how much time was spent researching verses writing, how many other people helped you with verification, historical accuracy, etc.
and
2) Do you have any advice for upcoming writers who find the sheer amount of time involved per page written, an overwhelming obstacle. How did you balance family, life and writing?
------------
------------
Yes, it takes a while to get the hang of this, I agree.
Thanks for your kind words.
It took me about three years of writing and researching (simultaneously and in sequence so I did the research on Egypt when we "got there.) I had a bit of help from a grad student at RAdcliffe, but the research was basically all mine.
Advice? Well, patience, patience, patience. I wrote while my daughter was in daycare/then school. I wrote for a living for years as a journalist, and turning to fiction, I used the same attitude: this is work time as separate from family time. I think everyone is different but the trick is often taking yourself seriously enough.
I hope that's helpful.
Anita
------------
Ms. Diamant also has a website:
http://www.anitadiamant.com/index.asp?page=home
and blog site:
http://anitadiamant.blogspot.com
I would encourage you to follow an author of your choosing or just have a positive passion, then go to the ends of the earth for that passion. It's pretty clear that Ms. Diamant has inspired a whole generation of women, which I don't think was her intent. That would be shallow and I don't think that she has a shallow bone in her body (witness her Mayyim Hayyim community that she helped to build at http://www.anitadiamant.com/mayyimhayyim.asp?page=mayyimhayyim). As Diamant says, she was writing when her daughter was in daycare and school. Her daughter just turned 22 earlier this month.
What I get from her encouragement is: Have the fortitude to stick something out "even to the edge of doom. " That's what sets Diamant and other passionate people a part from the pack while finding the vein of gold in the side of the mountain, as Bill Cosby used to say about The Cosby Show back in the early to mid-80s.
Yesterday, I found myself at Anita Diamant's website. She of the The Red Tent fame. I have not read Ms. Diamant's book, but I am fascinated by the social movements of books like The Red Tent. I particularly like the idea of historical works of fiction, especially those dealing with a biblical theme, like Elizabeth George Speare's The Bronze Bow. My wife read The Red Tent about eight years ago and like many of the women who read Diamant's novel at the time, she was throughly fascinated by the society of women that it essayed. It's what authors so desperately try to do but often fail in the attempt, which is create a community of readers. That's why blogging has caught on in the way that it has. People will follow a blogger who they often agree with, mostly for the world or community they create.
This year celebrates the tenth anniversary of The Red Tent, which means that it is high time that I spent some time seeing what the fuss is about. Barnes and Noble is hyping the release by running book clubs on their site. It's a way to build community, sell some books, and drive people to their site. I actually checked out the first week or so of The Red Tent re-release and Ms. Diamant's interaction with her adoring public.
You can too if you go to:
http://bookclubs.barnesandnoble.com/bn/board/message?board.id=adrt&thread.id=3&jump=true
I found Ms. Diamant to be a quite generous and intriguing celebrity author, encouraging would be writers and thanking people for their time and questions. One such exchange went like this:
------------
nd_plume wrote:
Sorry, but it took me so long to register that I thought I'd never get to the posting (or I would give up.) But here I am...
Anita:
I read your book with my bookclub (one of our all time favorites) when it first came out, then passed it along to my mother who loved it.
1)The time involved in the production of a book amazes me. Tell me about the length of time you worked on TheRedTent, how much time was spent researching verses writing, how many other people helped you with verification, historical accuracy, etc.
and
2) Do you have any advice for upcoming writers who find the sheer amount of time involved per page written, an overwhelming obstacle. How did you balance family, life and writing?
------------
------------
Yes, it takes a while to get the hang of this, I agree.
Thanks for your kind words.
It took me about three years of writing and researching (simultaneously and in sequence so I did the research on Egypt when we "got there.) I had a bit of help from a grad student at RAdcliffe, but the research was basically all mine.
Advice? Well, patience, patience, patience. I wrote while my daughter was in daycare/then school. I wrote for a living for years as a journalist, and turning to fiction, I used the same attitude: this is work time as separate from family time. I think everyone is different but the trick is often taking yourself seriously enough.
I hope that's helpful.
Anita
------------
Ms. Diamant also has a website:
http://www.anitadiamant.com/index.asp?page=home
and blog site:
http://anitadiamant.blogspot.com
I would encourage you to follow an author of your choosing or just have a positive passion, then go to the ends of the earth for that passion. It's pretty clear that Ms. Diamant has inspired a whole generation of women, which I don't think was her intent. That would be shallow and I don't think that she has a shallow bone in her body (witness her Mayyim Hayyim community that she helped to build at http://www.anitadiamant.com/mayyimhayyim.asp?page=mayyimhayyim). As Diamant says, she was writing when her daughter was in daycare and school. Her daughter just turned 22 earlier this month.
What I get from her encouragement is: Have the fortitude to stick something out "even to the edge of doom. " That's what sets Diamant and other passionate people a part from the pack while finding the vein of gold in the side of the mountain, as Bill Cosby used to say about The Cosby Show back in the early to mid-80s.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Open Space: E-Portfolios
Nearly two weeks ago at the Progressive Educators' Network Conference in San Francisco held the Whitcomb Hotel (October 4 – 6, 2007), a group of educators came together in an “Open Space” dialogue to discuss portfolios in schools. Most of the folks that came to the open space session had some knowledge of portfolio assessment, yet the groups’ familiarity with using portfolios to assess students ran the gamut from “we use portfolios a lot” to “I’ve heard a bit about portfolio as an assessment tool and I’d like to learn more.”
This particular blog entry attempts to start the conversation about portfolios between those people who want to enter the dialogue in this “Open Source” community. By Open Source, we mean anyone is free to join in the conversation (in a respectful way of course). Eventually, we’ll talk about moving traditional class content into portfolios. Later, we’ll talk about e-portfolios (electronic portfolios) and give some ideas about how many of the people within this community can join in the discussion. Finally, we’ll distill some of the thinking that we at Presidio Hill School have been doing in thinking about portfolios, particularly e-Portfolios, with an eye on their further use in our classrooms and beyond.
To start, portfolios and even electronic portfolios are nothing new. Many schools have been using both kinds of portfolios in a way to help “authentically assess” what a particular child does on a specific project or within a given discipline. Some schools even attempt to capture a learner's work and reflection in a wholistic way across disciplines.
Perhaps we should begin by having some common terminology. I don’t mean to offend anyone or even talk down to people, but I want to make sure that I’m not assuming anything by using terms that could mean something very different for someone else. The “comment” section on this blog is a great way to correct or clarify any of the assumptions that I may make.
Let’s start with a definition of “portfolio.” A portfolio is a collection of work by an individual or group. The work can be used for purposes of securing a job (by showing a body of work), as a collection of learning samples, or can be seen as a keepsake for future observers. Oftentimes, portfolios show people’s best work or it shows how work has evolved over time. Portfolios are popular in the creative fields because to show someone work over time in a visual or auditory way (like song clips for a sound artist), is a good way to track progression.
Moving on to discuss the term “authentic assessment." Authentic Assessment is assessing students on what they actually know or want to know rather than on what someone else (a teacher, school, district, test company, state, or nation) wants that student to know. For instance, a student does a report on Caesar Chavez. The student, often in conference with the teacher, comes up with what s/he wants to know about the Chavez, and the student completes the project with the teacher as the guide. Assesment occurs all throughout the process with clear expectations (perhaps a rubric) and at the end with the actual product. Another definition of “authentic assessment” is that the person being assessesed calls in people from outside the school community to provide contextual feedback (i.e., a panel of evaluators, maybe the teacher is involved, maybe not)>
Many of the people at the PEN sessison talked about ways in which portfolios were used to either assess or to have students reflect upon their learning. Students reflecting on their learning is one of the most powerful ways that teachers can take students far beyond the moment in their learning and into the realm of connecting their thinking to some larger purpose. Some questions that students may have are: Why is this particular artifact (in the portfolio) relevant? Does the piece (that I’m reflecting on) show what I want it to show? Does it answer what the teacher/facilitator would like me to answer? Is this my best piece? Is it a piece that I’m proud of? Is it just one piece in the journey of the piece? How did I create the piece?
This last question is one that begins to get into metacognition, which is when students begin to reflect on how they came up with the processes involved in creation. Metacognition are the whys and hows of a particular assignment.
The next blog entry will focus on ways that traditional class content may be archived as well as using portfolios to assess student work and/or have students refelect on their thinking.
This particular blog entry attempts to start the conversation about portfolios between those people who want to enter the dialogue in this “Open Source” community. By Open Source, we mean anyone is free to join in the conversation (in a respectful way of course). Eventually, we’ll talk about moving traditional class content into portfolios. Later, we’ll talk about e-portfolios (electronic portfolios) and give some ideas about how many of the people within this community can join in the discussion. Finally, we’ll distill some of the thinking that we at Presidio Hill School have been doing in thinking about portfolios, particularly e-Portfolios, with an eye on their further use in our classrooms and beyond.
To start, portfolios and even electronic portfolios are nothing new. Many schools have been using both kinds of portfolios in a way to help “authentically assess” what a particular child does on a specific project or within a given discipline. Some schools even attempt to capture a learner's work and reflection in a wholistic way across disciplines.
Perhaps we should begin by having some common terminology. I don’t mean to offend anyone or even talk down to people, but I want to make sure that I’m not assuming anything by using terms that could mean something very different for someone else. The “comment” section on this blog is a great way to correct or clarify any of the assumptions that I may make.
Let’s start with a definition of “portfolio.” A portfolio is a collection of work by an individual or group. The work can be used for purposes of securing a job (by showing a body of work), as a collection of learning samples, or can be seen as a keepsake for future observers. Oftentimes, portfolios show people’s best work or it shows how work has evolved over time. Portfolios are popular in the creative fields because to show someone work over time in a visual or auditory way (like song clips for a sound artist), is a good way to track progression.
Moving on to discuss the term “authentic assessment." Authentic Assessment is assessing students on what they actually know or want to know rather than on what someone else (a teacher, school, district, test company, state, or nation) wants that student to know. For instance, a student does a report on Caesar Chavez. The student, often in conference with the teacher, comes up with what s/he wants to know about the Chavez, and the student completes the project with the teacher as the guide. Assesment occurs all throughout the process with clear expectations (perhaps a rubric) and at the end with the actual product. Another definition of “authentic assessment” is that the person being assessesed calls in people from outside the school community to provide contextual feedback (i.e., a panel of evaluators, maybe the teacher is involved, maybe not)>
Many of the people at the PEN sessison talked about ways in which portfolios were used to either assess or to have students reflect upon their learning. Students reflecting on their learning is one of the most powerful ways that teachers can take students far beyond the moment in their learning and into the realm of connecting their thinking to some larger purpose. Some questions that students may have are: Why is this particular artifact (in the portfolio) relevant? Does the piece (that I’m reflecting on) show what I want it to show? Does it answer what the teacher/facilitator would like me to answer? Is this my best piece? Is it a piece that I’m proud of? Is it just one piece in the journey of the piece? How did I create the piece?
This last question is one that begins to get into metacognition, which is when students begin to reflect on how they came up with the processes involved in creation. Metacognition are the whys and hows of a particular assignment.
The next blog entry will focus on ways that traditional class content may be archived as well as using portfolios to assess student work and/or have students refelect on their thinking.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
R-E-S-P-E-C-T: Reframing the Essential Work of Inclusion
It's been over a month since I last wrote. The discipline of writing every day gets tough when you are leading other efforts, especially a school.
Today was probably one of the best days in the last month or so. Leading the effort of trying to reframe diversity and multiculturalism at the Wesley School in North Hollywood (Los Angeles).
As I prepped for the work on Thursday night (May 10, 2007), I had flashbacks from my very first time in LA as an actor. I was staying at the Beverly Garland Hotel, which was the same place that I stayed when I first auditioned for and was hired to be on "A Different World." This time the news was different. After a little less than a week dealing with a major fire in Griffith Park, the new reports were that a fire was raging out of control on Catalina Island and fire fighters were battling a war on two fronts. People were being evacuated from near the area known as Avalon.
I, on other hand, was going through a bit of a fire storm in my own mind. Embarking on yet another transition in my career, this time as a Respectful Warrior, I began prepping for the day ahead. Surfing on line for what would give me material for the day ahead. While looking for what I could say about being in a respectful culture, I came across the text of Lightfoot's speech that had so transfixed me based on her book, Respect: An Exploration.
This was the agenda for the day:
---
The Wesley School
Brian Thomas
May 11, 2007
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
New lessons of inclusion, diversity, multiculturalism, and privilege:
Objective:
1.) To understand the “Good.”
2.) To get students to examine and reflect on their place at the Wesley School as it relates to who they are and what is respectful.
Materials:
White Board or butcher paper (6 sheets), three different colors of post it notes, computer speakers, three colors of white board markers
Procedure:
1.) As students enter the room, music plays from the computer. [Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds’]
2.) Introductions: BT and students/faculty. Explain the concept of “justice” and “the good.” Also, talk about why I came.
3.) Explain the day and the ground rules. WRITE ON THE BOARD: Respect self, respect others, and respect personal property, one person speaking at a time (even in groups), make “I” statements, give the speaker your whole attention, listen with your whole self, silences are okay.
4.) Students are asked to do an exercise that requires concentration, teamwork, and listening. (Birthday line—no talking, count off by groups of five or six) [Robbins, Illinois]
5.) [Bruce Springsteen’s Thunder Road] In their groups of six, family group, students are asked to think of two truths and a lie. They go around the circle and reveal their truths]
6.) Brian talks about how it’s not what is shown in schools that matters, but what lies hidden.
7.) Dialogue #1: What part of yourself do you never show at school (the real you)? Perhaps it’s because people would laugh at it, or it just isn’t cool, or because you think it would not be accepted at Wesley. On the white board or butcher paper, using the post it notes, students write the parts of themselves that they do not show anyone. Example: When I was in middle school, I never let anyone come to house…vicious dog..smelled like dog…ashamed of my father and mother… [Play John Mayer’s “Daughter’s”]
8.) Dialogue #2: What can the Wesley School do to help you bring more of yourself to school (The real you), especially the part that remains hidden. Also, what can you do to bring more of yourself to Wesley? Example: “I can spend some time listening to others. The school can give us more time for team building. [Play John Mayer’s “Clarity”]
9.) Discussion: How does the person you bring to school everyday influence and effect Wesley being a respectful school? How can we be more respectful to each other? How can Wesley be a more welcoming and respectful school?
10.) Thank people for giving their whole selves to this dialogue. [Play Bill Whithers “Lovely Day”]
---
The students and staff took to the ideas that we were able to generate by seeing that whatever remains hidden can and will come back to bite a school in the butt. Schools are often like family systems, particularly smaller schools, whereas larger schools replicate the feel of a large company or corporation. They often have the expense and revenue lines that look like small companies, too.
Yet, issues of common decency and respect can derail the work that goes on in schools, since people expect a certain thing from a school. Parents expect that their children--and hence they themselves--will be taken care of. If for whatever reason, they aren't taken care of, then a raging storm can and will happen. Oftentimes, these raging firestorms can be accusations of racism, sexism, and other forms of hurt and discrimination. Lawsuits can and do occur when people feel disrespected.
So, how is this a reframing of the work of diversity practitioners?
In diversity, multiculturalism, inclusion, and white privilege work, people begin to unearth pieces of the organizational system that looks at the parts or people who make up those pieces. It's very much like post-modernist literature, where pieces of an entire work are dissected for the cancerous problems. If there are problems, they will be rooted out. If there is racism, homophobia. sexism, ageism, or other -isms, those things will be exposed. The story of the target or dispossessed takes on a meta-narrative of its own (witness Howard Zinn's The People's History of the United States).
However, when respect is the modus operandi, it's not about the greatest pain or the biggest historical losers. People who have been excluded from history must stand for and by the very principals that have excluded them. It's more truth and reconciliation and less about reparations. Let Caesar keep what belongs to Caesar.
So, the day of teaching at the Wesley School was quite wonderful and healing. The highlight of the day was being able to work and teach, as happened ten years ago when I was at Marin Academy. Ten years ago seems like an eternity. Teaching four classes per day for forty-five minutes every day three days a week. Then two ninety-minute classes. The sheer energy of being able to get passionate about not just a text, but also their very own existence. That's the new challenge: To find relevance in the life of the common person. Not everyone will grow up to be Dr. King or David Beckham or Angelina Jolie. That's okay. Perhaps just the quiet of an afternoon walk or the attempt to put out the fires that rage in our minds may give some comfort here. My hope is that the connections are happening all around us and that people are taking the work they do with students, all students, with some degree of seriousness, self-reflection, and humility.
Namaste,
Brian
Today was probably one of the best days in the last month or so. Leading the effort of trying to reframe diversity and multiculturalism at the Wesley School in North Hollywood (Los Angeles).
As I prepped for the work on Thursday night (May 10, 2007), I had flashbacks from my very first time in LA as an actor. I was staying at the Beverly Garland Hotel, which was the same place that I stayed when I first auditioned for and was hired to be on "A Different World." This time the news was different. After a little less than a week dealing with a major fire in Griffith Park, the new reports were that a fire was raging out of control on Catalina Island and fire fighters were battling a war on two fronts. People were being evacuated from near the area known as Avalon.
I, on other hand, was going through a bit of a fire storm in my own mind. Embarking on yet another transition in my career, this time as a Respectful Warrior, I began prepping for the day ahead. Surfing on line for what would give me material for the day ahead. While looking for what I could say about being in a respectful culture, I came across the text of Lightfoot's speech that had so transfixed me based on her book, Respect: An Exploration.
This was the agenda for the day:
---
The Wesley School
Brian Thomas
May 11, 2007
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
New lessons of inclusion, diversity, multiculturalism, and privilege:
Objective:
1.) To understand the “Good.”
2.) To get students to examine and reflect on their place at the Wesley School as it relates to who they are and what is respectful.
Materials:
White Board or butcher paper (6 sheets), three different colors of post it notes, computer speakers, three colors of white board markers
Procedure:
1.) As students enter the room, music plays from the computer. [Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds’]
2.) Introductions: BT and students/faculty. Explain the concept of “justice” and “the good.” Also, talk about why I came.
3.) Explain the day and the ground rules. WRITE ON THE BOARD: Respect self, respect others, and respect personal property, one person speaking at a time (even in groups), make “I” statements, give the speaker your whole attention, listen with your whole self, silences are okay.
4.) Students are asked to do an exercise that requires concentration, teamwork, and listening. (Birthday line—no talking, count off by groups of five or six) [Robbins, Illinois]
5.) [Bruce Springsteen’s Thunder Road] In their groups of six, family group, students are asked to think of two truths and a lie. They go around the circle and reveal their truths]
6.) Brian talks about how it’s not what is shown in schools that matters, but what lies hidden.
7.) Dialogue #1: What part of yourself do you never show at school (the real you)? Perhaps it’s because people would laugh at it, or it just isn’t cool, or because you think it would not be accepted at Wesley. On the white board or butcher paper, using the post it notes, students write the parts of themselves that they do not show anyone. Example: When I was in middle school, I never let anyone come to house…vicious dog..smelled like dog…ashamed of my father and mother… [Play John Mayer’s “Daughter’s”]
8.) Dialogue #2: What can the Wesley School do to help you bring more of yourself to school (The real you), especially the part that remains hidden. Also, what can you do to bring more of yourself to Wesley? Example: “I can spend some time listening to others. The school can give us more time for team building. [Play John Mayer’s “Clarity”]
9.) Discussion: How does the person you bring to school everyday influence and effect Wesley being a respectful school? How can we be more respectful to each other? How can Wesley be a more welcoming and respectful school?
10.) Thank people for giving their whole selves to this dialogue. [Play Bill Whithers “Lovely Day”]
---
The students and staff took to the ideas that we were able to generate by seeing that whatever remains hidden can and will come back to bite a school in the butt. Schools are often like family systems, particularly smaller schools, whereas larger schools replicate the feel of a large company or corporation. They often have the expense and revenue lines that look like small companies, too.
Yet, issues of common decency and respect can derail the work that goes on in schools, since people expect a certain thing from a school. Parents expect that their children--and hence they themselves--will be taken care of. If for whatever reason, they aren't taken care of, then a raging storm can and will happen. Oftentimes, these raging firestorms can be accusations of racism, sexism, and other forms of hurt and discrimination. Lawsuits can and do occur when people feel disrespected.
So, how is this a reframing of the work of diversity practitioners?
In diversity, multiculturalism, inclusion, and white privilege work, people begin to unearth pieces of the organizational system that looks at the parts or people who make up those pieces. It's very much like post-modernist literature, where pieces of an entire work are dissected for the cancerous problems. If there are problems, they will be rooted out. If there is racism, homophobia. sexism, ageism, or other -isms, those things will be exposed. The story of the target or dispossessed takes on a meta-narrative of its own (witness Howard Zinn's The People's History of the United States).
However, when respect is the modus operandi, it's not about the greatest pain or the biggest historical losers. People who have been excluded from history must stand for and by the very principals that have excluded them. It's more truth and reconciliation and less about reparations. Let Caesar keep what belongs to Caesar.
So, the day of teaching at the Wesley School was quite wonderful and healing. The highlight of the day was being able to work and teach, as happened ten years ago when I was at Marin Academy. Ten years ago seems like an eternity. Teaching four classes per day for forty-five minutes every day three days a week. Then two ninety-minute classes. The sheer energy of being able to get passionate about not just a text, but also their very own existence. That's the new challenge: To find relevance in the life of the common person. Not everyone will grow up to be Dr. King or David Beckham or Angelina Jolie. That's okay. Perhaps just the quiet of an afternoon walk or the attempt to put out the fires that rage in our minds may give some comfort here. My hope is that the connections are happening all around us and that people are taking the work they do with students, all students, with some degree of seriousness, self-reflection, and humility.
Namaste,
Brian
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Anniversary--Moral Leadership
Today is the 39th anniversary of Dr. King's death. He would have been twice as old as he was the day he was killed back in Memphis, Tennessee on April 4, 1968. I'm not sure how many people actually mark the anniversary of MLK's death, as they now celebrate his life, but I think about his passing quite a bit.
I had just turned six years old just two weeks before, and I remember the open casket views on television and in the Jet Magazine. What those views taught us, especially in the African American community, was that he was really and truly gone from us.
Dr. King's death took from us the kind of fearless leader that we are just beginning to see again on the American landscape--where someone did not fear death and would put their very life on the line for what they believed in.
Call it moral leadership.
We have been in a vacuum where our most trusted figures are people that populate the television and movie screens. They play doctors and lawyers on TV, but they do not actually live the lives they portray. Even our politicians are manufactured in a way that would give Leni Riefenstahl heart palpitations. Can someone come out of nowhere on the American political landscape and captivate an entire nation into believing what is right and good?
I hate to be a cynic, but I doubt it. I doubt whether Barack Obama, Hilary Clinton, John McCain, John Edwards, and the host of others, will have the answer or antidote that we are looking for in our own hearts.
I used to love American politics as a kid, especially the Chicago variety, because it was so theatrical. I now love thinking about what it takes to create a good and great leader, someone who is just, because that's what will save us all.
In future posts, I'll discuss what makes a modern leader in this new Republic.
I had just turned six years old just two weeks before, and I remember the open casket views on television and in the Jet Magazine. What those views taught us, especially in the African American community, was that he was really and truly gone from us.
Dr. King's death took from us the kind of fearless leader that we are just beginning to see again on the American landscape--where someone did not fear death and would put their very life on the line for what they believed in.
Call it moral leadership.
We have been in a vacuum where our most trusted figures are people that populate the television and movie screens. They play doctors and lawyers on TV, but they do not actually live the lives they portray. Even our politicians are manufactured in a way that would give Leni Riefenstahl heart palpitations. Can someone come out of nowhere on the American political landscape and captivate an entire nation into believing what is right and good?
I hate to be a cynic, but I doubt it. I doubt whether Barack Obama, Hilary Clinton, John McCain, John Edwards, and the host of others, will have the answer or antidote that we are looking for in our own hearts.
I used to love American politics as a kid, especially the Chicago variety, because it was so theatrical. I now love thinking about what it takes to create a good and great leader, someone who is just, because that's what will save us all.
In future posts, I'll discuss what makes a modern leader in this new Republic.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Renew--Quick Write
Next week is spring break, a right of passage not just for people who are headed down to Ft. Lauderdale, but for those people who need to recharge after a long stretch of time in the saddle.
I'm curious to see what other people do to recharge, especially after a grueling time working or thinking at a pretty high level.
Many people don't believe that thinking can be just as taxing as doing. Think about what your mind actually does.
In this last week, we had our major fundraiser at the school, my wife's best friend is getting married and I'm the officiant, and my big brother is coming to town. With this said, it's time to look at recharging my brain from all of the intensity of the past few months.
What will I do?
Take a hike on Mt. Tam (Tamalpais), go bowling, read two books, do service in the community, and just hang out. I'll even go into the office once or twice, but it will be a clean office ready for the paint to be laid on the canvas.
What do you do to recharge? I wonder...
I'm curious to see what other people do to recharge, especially after a grueling time working or thinking at a pretty high level.
Many people don't believe that thinking can be just as taxing as doing. Think about what your mind actually does.
In this last week, we had our major fundraiser at the school, my wife's best friend is getting married and I'm the officiant, and my big brother is coming to town. With this said, it's time to look at recharging my brain from all of the intensity of the past few months.
What will I do?
Take a hike on Mt. Tam (Tamalpais), go bowling, read two books, do service in the community, and just hang out. I'll even go into the office once or twice, but it will be a clean office ready for the paint to be laid on the canvas.
What do you do to recharge? I wonder...
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Passion
When is it okay to be passionate about the things you do and give yourself over to the things that you believe in?
When I was a young actor coming up in New York and LA, all I wanted was "do" my craft. I didn't even care if it was a craft or an art or something that was just plain fun, all I knew is that I wanted to be a part of something that was bigger than me.
During the rehearsal process of the last plays that the Negro Ensemble Company did at the 52nd Street Theater in New York back in 1986 (called The War Party), I was confronted by two of my colleagues for "duffing it." Duffing it in Southern African American vernacular means that you are not taking things seriously. I was horrified that anybody would think that I wasn't taking my work seriously. After all, the play was one of the the first truly paying gigs that I ever had. I was excited (inside), but looking back twenty years later I believe that my fear had gotten the best of me. I couldn't show the fear that I felt, which had to do with being a part of a theater company that had produced A Soldier's Play and the likes of Denzel Washington and Samuel L. Jackson.
What my two fellow actors were trying to say is, 'You [Brian] should be appreciative to have been given the opportunity to work because these moments are fleeting.'
They were right. Now, I corrected course after their "intervention." I began to take notes when the director gave them, and I looked more attentive, even though my process back then was to close my eyes half-lidded and drink in the notes that the director gave after each rehearsal. The director was an icon and one was one of those grand old men of the American Theater. I just didn't seem like I cared. By not showing "filial piety" to my theater forebears, I was thumbing my nose at the work that they had given to us, the younger generation, over the years.
That director of The War Party and the artistic director of the Negro Ensemble Company was Douglass Turner Ward, who I regard as one of the greatest and under appreciated figures of the American stage. His play, Day of Absence, was one of those pieces that mostly African American theater companies and kids in high school did as a contest play or reader's theater. Doug Ward's play turned us on to acting and being and seeing ourselves in the theater mirror.
I miss the process that is acting. It truly is a progressive practice--both in design and execution. There is so much discovery and innovation in the theater, but the play itself does not change. What you bring to it makes meaning.
I guess when I look back on it I can say that I had a very progressive upbringing as a student because I was often in the theater. That's all I really wanted to live for back then: the theater and the good friends that I found in it.
So, when you are looking around for what you are passionate about in your life, remember the things that you are being led to and that you gave yourself over to with abandon. Perhaps it's painting, kicking a soccer ball, understanding philosophy, or just hanging out on stage; whatever is your passion, be compelled to follow it wherever it might lead you.
I highly recommend Douglass Turner Ward's play!
Find your passion with Julia Cameron's road map to artistic recovery.
When I was a young actor coming up in New York and LA, all I wanted was "do" my craft. I didn't even care if it was a craft or an art or something that was just plain fun, all I knew is that I wanted to be a part of something that was bigger than me.
During the rehearsal process of the last plays that the Negro Ensemble Company did at the 52nd Street Theater in New York back in 1986 (called The War Party), I was confronted by two of my colleagues for "duffing it." Duffing it in Southern African American vernacular means that you are not taking things seriously. I was horrified that anybody would think that I wasn't taking my work seriously. After all, the play was one of the the first truly paying gigs that I ever had. I was excited (inside), but looking back twenty years later I believe that my fear had gotten the best of me. I couldn't show the fear that I felt, which had to do with being a part of a theater company that had produced A Soldier's Play and the likes of Denzel Washington and Samuel L. Jackson.
What my two fellow actors were trying to say is, 'You [Brian] should be appreciative to have been given the opportunity to work because these moments are fleeting.'
They were right. Now, I corrected course after their "intervention." I began to take notes when the director gave them, and I looked more attentive, even though my process back then was to close my eyes half-lidded and drink in the notes that the director gave after each rehearsal. The director was an icon and one was one of those grand old men of the American Theater. I just didn't seem like I cared. By not showing "filial piety" to my theater forebears, I was thumbing my nose at the work that they had given to us, the younger generation, over the years.
That director of The War Party and the artistic director of the Negro Ensemble Company was Douglass Turner Ward, who I regard as one of the greatest and under appreciated figures of the American stage. His play, Day of Absence, was one of those pieces that mostly African American theater companies and kids in high school did as a contest play or reader's theater. Doug Ward's play turned us on to acting and being and seeing ourselves in the theater mirror.
I miss the process that is acting. It truly is a progressive practice--both in design and execution. There is so much discovery and innovation in the theater, but the play itself does not change. What you bring to it makes meaning.
I guess when I look back on it I can say that I had a very progressive upbringing as a student because I was often in the theater. That's all I really wanted to live for back then: the theater and the good friends that I found in it.
So, when you are looking around for what you are passionate about in your life, remember the things that you are being led to and that you gave yourself over to with abandon. Perhaps it's painting, kicking a soccer ball, understanding philosophy, or just hanging out on stage; whatever is your passion, be compelled to follow it wherever it might lead you.
I highly recommend Douglass Turner Ward's play!
Find your passion with Julia Cameron's road map to artistic recovery.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Behavior Modification: Take Two, Consistency
Last time I discussed the cons of behavior modification. This time I am approaching it from the other side. When are behavior modification techniques worth it?
The first thing to keep in mind is that you must be consistent. If you waver at all, you're toast. Children are like lawyers in training. They look for the one loophole or chink in the armor, and they then try to exploit it for what it's worth. Exploiting usually means giving them something they want (even though you know better) or trying to catch you during a vulnerable moment. Just remember, you know what's best. I always urge parents to cultivate and listen to that little voice inside of them that tells you what is and is not appropriate, or a kind of parents' version of Jiminy Cricket. It's your conscience, of course.
If your conscience says, "No matter how much they beg to stay up a little later to finish that television program, you know that they will be absolute monsters without a full ten hours of sleep." Encouraging and hearing that parental voice will be important in making behavior modification work for you.
Take my son for instance: He has a very litigious mind, for a seven year old. Although he's only in the first grade, he knows that he can wear his Mom down if he keeps asking the question over and over again, rephrasing every so often to get the most out of his query. He's Perry Mason and Matlock all rolled into one.
"Can I please? Can I, huh? Yesterday, you told me I could. But you said…"
The latest battle is about being rough with the dog. We have a ten-month old labradoodle (yep, that's a breed) named Hershey who is taking all sorts of loving punishment from this very sweet and well meaning tyrant known as my son. I just don't want the dog to be loved to death.
A typical conversation between he and his mother might be:
"I am being gentle!"
"Pulling the dog's tail to get his attention is not being gentle. If you do it again, you're getting a timeout."
Even after the fifth or twentieth timeout, reason or punishment doesn't seem to make the situation any better. Behavior modification to the rescue. My wife rolls out the arts and crafts paper to draw up the obligatory signage for what can and can't be done and what will and won't be taken away.
"Four checks mean you have been caught being gentle with the dog and you get to play a computer game. Four zeros means just the opposite; no computer games and a loss of television privileges, which amounts to two hours on the weekend."
From my office I hear all of this go down and I just know that I'll get dragged in the middle somehow.
The initial novelty of the behavior mod game works. Immediately, for a day or so, loving strokes on the brown fuzzy back abounds. No more yelling, no more tears. Mom is happy. I, remembering what I wrote in my previous column, am ready to get out the salt, pepper, and ketchup to eat a little crow. Behavior modification seems to work.
Well, hold on. Now I get initiated into this endeavor, which means the entire thing goes to Hades in a hand basket because I never signed up to be a UN Peace Keeper between the nations of dog, Mom, and boy. Granted, I don't like the loving torment aimed at our new pouch, but Hershey's young and quick with very sharp teeth, I figure he can take care of himself.
Well, there I go again, as Ronnie might say. I am dragged back into the fray with awful results. When my wife is at work on the weekends and I am Mr. Mom, I don't know where the behavior mod sheet is kept and my son conveniently forgets. One day gets completely subverted because her system is either lost, stolen, or just plain incomprehensible to me.
My bad, I say when she comes home, which means that I could not keep the reward and punishment plates spinning long enough to keep it all going. I either have no nerve or am a closet anarchist. The system fails because we are not consistent.
In some ways, behavior modification programs are like a New Year's diet and exercise regime. It may work for a little bit, but come Valentine's Day, you're staring at that box of chocolates like they were your last, best friend.
Make reason the partner in disciplining your children. We should no more treat our children the same than we would eat that last piece of chocolate at the very bottom of the double-decker, heart-shaped box. Yes, you might end up doing it anyway, but you know it's not going to be all that appealing.
Indeed, I would urge everyone to enter into a conversation with your children about everything, not just discipline. It certainly does not have to be some democracy. No, no, no, no, and no. But your children are pretty savvy folks. Remember, they came from you. Go ahead, talk to them about anything, even their punishments and rewards.
You never know what you're gonna get-in the end.
© 2002 by Brian W. Thomas (reprinted from A Child's Book.com--www.achildsbook.com)
The first thing to keep in mind is that you must be consistent. If you waver at all, you're toast. Children are like lawyers in training. They look for the one loophole or chink in the armor, and they then try to exploit it for what it's worth. Exploiting usually means giving them something they want (even though you know better) or trying to catch you during a vulnerable moment. Just remember, you know what's best. I always urge parents to cultivate and listen to that little voice inside of them that tells you what is and is not appropriate, or a kind of parents' version of Jiminy Cricket. It's your conscience, of course.
If your conscience says, "No matter how much they beg to stay up a little later to finish that television program, you know that they will be absolute monsters without a full ten hours of sleep." Encouraging and hearing that parental voice will be important in making behavior modification work for you.
Take my son for instance: He has a very litigious mind, for a seven year old. Although he's only in the first grade, he knows that he can wear his Mom down if he keeps asking the question over and over again, rephrasing every so often to get the most out of his query. He's Perry Mason and Matlock all rolled into one.
"Can I please? Can I, huh? Yesterday, you told me I could. But you said…"
The latest battle is about being rough with the dog. We have a ten-month old labradoodle (yep, that's a breed) named Hershey who is taking all sorts of loving punishment from this very sweet and well meaning tyrant known as my son. I just don't want the dog to be loved to death.
A typical conversation between he and his mother might be:
"I am being gentle!"
"Pulling the dog's tail to get his attention is not being gentle. If you do it again, you're getting a timeout."
Even after the fifth or twentieth timeout, reason or punishment doesn't seem to make the situation any better. Behavior modification to the rescue. My wife rolls out the arts and crafts paper to draw up the obligatory signage for what can and can't be done and what will and won't be taken away.
"Four checks mean you have been caught being gentle with the dog and you get to play a computer game. Four zeros means just the opposite; no computer games and a loss of television privileges, which amounts to two hours on the weekend."
From my office I hear all of this go down and I just know that I'll get dragged in the middle somehow.
The initial novelty of the behavior mod game works. Immediately, for a day or so, loving strokes on the brown fuzzy back abounds. No more yelling, no more tears. Mom is happy. I, remembering what I wrote in my previous column, am ready to get out the salt, pepper, and ketchup to eat a little crow. Behavior modification seems to work.
Well, hold on. Now I get initiated into this endeavor, which means the entire thing goes to Hades in a hand basket because I never signed up to be a UN Peace Keeper between the nations of dog, Mom, and boy. Granted, I don't like the loving torment aimed at our new pouch, but Hershey's young and quick with very sharp teeth, I figure he can take care of himself.
Well, there I go again, as Ronnie might say. I am dragged back into the fray with awful results. When my wife is at work on the weekends and I am Mr. Mom, I don't know where the behavior mod sheet is kept and my son conveniently forgets. One day gets completely subverted because her system is either lost, stolen, or just plain incomprehensible to me.
My bad, I say when she comes home, which means that I could not keep the reward and punishment plates spinning long enough to keep it all going. I either have no nerve or am a closet anarchist. The system fails because we are not consistent.
In some ways, behavior modification programs are like a New Year's diet and exercise regime. It may work for a little bit, but come Valentine's Day, you're staring at that box of chocolates like they were your last, best friend.
Make reason the partner in disciplining your children. We should no more treat our children the same than we would eat that last piece of chocolate at the very bottom of the double-decker, heart-shaped box. Yes, you might end up doing it anyway, but you know it's not going to be all that appealing.
Indeed, I would urge everyone to enter into a conversation with your children about everything, not just discipline. It certainly does not have to be some democracy. No, no, no, no, and no. But your children are pretty savvy folks. Remember, they came from you. Go ahead, talk to them about anything, even their punishments and rewards.
You never know what you're gonna get-in the end.
© 2002 by Brian W. Thomas (reprinted from A Child's Book.com--www.achildsbook.com)
Monday, March 26, 2007
Behavior Modification: Does It Work?
You hear often that there is a time and place for everything.
I see it at my local warehouse-type grocery store all the time. Some child behaving badly and a parent promising to buy the little darling a treat if they "can just keep it together until we get to the car." Many parents even have the system worked out ahead of time with poker chips, check marks, or even money as the prize for good behavior. Of course, bad behavior means the loss of the same "dear": item and the bountiful harvest that waits.
Some parents are on to the faulty logic, realizing that some of the techniques they use to manage their children's lives no longer work anymore after some unseen milestone or over time.
Yet, can behavior modification work at all when trying to instill good habits or attempting to break bad ones?
In my humble estimation, "No!" I have certainly used behavior modification with my own children and even in some schools that I have worked at as their standard policy. I have seen great gains with behavior modification with small children to get them to read, practice piano, or take out the garbage. However, behavior modification fails as a standalone training method with children because of what it suggests.
Before we get to the suggestion part, let's look at the places in which I have seen behavior modification work. A friend of mine gives his six-year old son a quarter every time he looks a new friendly acquaintance in the eye, usually someone from his church, shakes hands, and says hello. So, the drill might look like this: Little Tommy comes over to a visiting Pastor McCready, staring right into the old reverends peepers, and bellows, "Fine sermon Reverend. Thank you for coming."
Now, don't misunderstand, it's important for children to be "raised right." Eye contact and a proper greeting may be one of the more important things that you can teach a child. It may even dramatically improve civility in Western Civilization. However, what I am suggesting here is that the good reverend just became a quarter on its way to a nice model train engine from the local hobby shop. Now, it doesn't mean that Tommy will always see his new friends as dollar signs, but the odds aren't so good. It's like having a stereotypical stage mother (or parent, to be politically correct) as your guide where almost everything is done to please someone else and where people are seen as a means to an end rather than an end in itself.
There may be people who would argue differently with me, and I'm willing to take them on. Behavior modification (checklists, marbles, money, chips, etc.) offers a temporary stopgap to reasoning. As training it is least effective for teaching the true value of people and things because children do, because they know they will "get" something in return rather than for the intrinsic value of a thing. That's why good grades and test scores may get you into college, but it will not make you a true learner or a person who is naturally curious.
Like my good friend, you may very well get respectful kids, but it's always done at a price.
If a child is rude, they need to know that being rude is not cool. Should they lose things for bad behavior? You betcha!! A child should not be rewarded for awfulness. However, should the technique of gaining and losing things become ingrained by bribes and punishments? Probably not.
Making your child see the importance of what's valuable to you, rather than getting him or her to win or lose at things, is they key ingredient in this recipe.
© 2002 by Brian W. Thomas (reprinted from A Child's Book.com--www.achildsbook.com)
I see it at my local warehouse-type grocery store all the time. Some child behaving badly and a parent promising to buy the little darling a treat if they "can just keep it together until we get to the car." Many parents even have the system worked out ahead of time with poker chips, check marks, or even money as the prize for good behavior. Of course, bad behavior means the loss of the same "dear": item and the bountiful harvest that waits.
Some parents are on to the faulty logic, realizing that some of the techniques they use to manage their children's lives no longer work anymore after some unseen milestone or over time.
Yet, can behavior modification work at all when trying to instill good habits or attempting to break bad ones?
In my humble estimation, "No!" I have certainly used behavior modification with my own children and even in some schools that I have worked at as their standard policy. I have seen great gains with behavior modification with small children to get them to read, practice piano, or take out the garbage. However, behavior modification fails as a standalone training method with children because of what it suggests.
Before we get to the suggestion part, let's look at the places in which I have seen behavior modification work. A friend of mine gives his six-year old son a quarter every time he looks a new friendly acquaintance in the eye, usually someone from his church, shakes hands, and says hello. So, the drill might look like this: Little Tommy comes over to a visiting Pastor McCready, staring right into the old reverends peepers, and bellows, "Fine sermon Reverend. Thank you for coming."
Now, don't misunderstand, it's important for children to be "raised right." Eye contact and a proper greeting may be one of the more important things that you can teach a child. It may even dramatically improve civility in Western Civilization. However, what I am suggesting here is that the good reverend just became a quarter on its way to a nice model train engine from the local hobby shop. Now, it doesn't mean that Tommy will always see his new friends as dollar signs, but the odds aren't so good. It's like having a stereotypical stage mother (or parent, to be politically correct) as your guide where almost everything is done to please someone else and where people are seen as a means to an end rather than an end in itself.
There may be people who would argue differently with me, and I'm willing to take them on. Behavior modification (checklists, marbles, money, chips, etc.) offers a temporary stopgap to reasoning. As training it is least effective for teaching the true value of people and things because children do, because they know they will "get" something in return rather than for the intrinsic value of a thing. That's why good grades and test scores may get you into college, but it will not make you a true learner or a person who is naturally curious.
Like my good friend, you may very well get respectful kids, but it's always done at a price.
If a child is rude, they need to know that being rude is not cool. Should they lose things for bad behavior? You betcha!! A child should not be rewarded for awfulness. However, should the technique of gaining and losing things become ingrained by bribes and punishments? Probably not.
Making your child see the importance of what's valuable to you, rather than getting him or her to win or lose at things, is they key ingredient in this recipe.
© 2002 by Brian W. Thomas (reprinted from A Child's Book.com--www.achildsbook.com)
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Right Decisions
How does a person know that he or she has made a good decision? Bad decisions seem to abound not only in our lives, but also in the lives of the children that we love. Mark Twain is credited with saying, "Good decisions come from bad decisions, which lead to good decisions."
For those of you who know me know that I turned 40 about three weeks ago. I have been trying to stay as active as I can, especially given the breakneck pace that I keep-coaching varsity baseball, being an assistant school head, a Master's Degree class every Monday night, father and husband, as well as trying to get at least some sleep occasionally to offset that loopy stare one gets during sleep deprivation.
Yet, I wouldn't have it any other way. I noticed that I didn't have enough to do, so I began playing men's baseball after a season's hiatus. A friend of mine in the Bay Area calls it Men's Little League. Today was the first game. I do the things that everyone should before beginning any rigorous activity; I eat a burrito and haul around 45 pounds of gear, which is the equivalent of a five-year old strapped to my back. Carrying around a little extra weight shouldn't be that big of an issue, right? I have seen women in the mall lugging around toddlers the size of Barry Bonds on their hips. I certainly can clean and jerk a little old bag of catcher's equipment and a stash of two-year old Milky Way Bars about 200 feet to the dugout.
Well, I arrive before the pitcher starts his warm-up tosses, and I feel my left side ache like I have just been kicked in the ribs by Frances the Talking Mule. You guessed it, I ripped some muscle before "play ball" was even barked out by the ump. Great decision!
What does any of this have to do with books? Very little to be honest. It's all about aging, if anything. Aging is one of the few things that we all do regardless of what tends to divide us as people. We see or saw our parents as their body change (thank you, Bonnie Raitt) and we feel our own lives alter and even fade a bit every time a milestone is passed.
Should I take more precautions to prevent the onset of the inevitable? Maybe. Is there a magic pill that can bring back old hair or lost virility? Yes, but why? All I know is that the decisions that give me the most pleasure are simple. They have to do with seeing the smile on my wife's face when I do some incredible deed that I didn't know would bring happiness (like folding the laundry) or the laughter of my children when I read a book where they actually get the jokes. Good decisions; it's in the way that you use them, I guess."
© 2002 by Brian W. Thomas (reprinted from A Child's Book.com--www.achildsbook.com)
For those of you who know me know that I turned 40 about three weeks ago. I have been trying to stay as active as I can, especially given the breakneck pace that I keep-coaching varsity baseball, being an assistant school head, a Master's Degree class every Monday night, father and husband, as well as trying to get at least some sleep occasionally to offset that loopy stare one gets during sleep deprivation.
Yet, I wouldn't have it any other way. I noticed that I didn't have enough to do, so I began playing men's baseball after a season's hiatus. A friend of mine in the Bay Area calls it Men's Little League. Today was the first game. I do the things that everyone should before beginning any rigorous activity; I eat a burrito and haul around 45 pounds of gear, which is the equivalent of a five-year old strapped to my back. Carrying around a little extra weight shouldn't be that big of an issue, right? I have seen women in the mall lugging around toddlers the size of Barry Bonds on their hips. I certainly can clean and jerk a little old bag of catcher's equipment and a stash of two-year old Milky Way Bars about 200 feet to the dugout.
Well, I arrive before the pitcher starts his warm-up tosses, and I feel my left side ache like I have just been kicked in the ribs by Frances the Talking Mule. You guessed it, I ripped some muscle before "play ball" was even barked out by the ump. Great decision!
What does any of this have to do with books? Very little to be honest. It's all about aging, if anything. Aging is one of the few things that we all do regardless of what tends to divide us as people. We see or saw our parents as their body change (thank you, Bonnie Raitt) and we feel our own lives alter and even fade a bit every time a milestone is passed.
Should I take more precautions to prevent the onset of the inevitable? Maybe. Is there a magic pill that can bring back old hair or lost virility? Yes, but why? All I know is that the decisions that give me the most pleasure are simple. They have to do with seeing the smile on my wife's face when I do some incredible deed that I didn't know would bring happiness (like folding the laundry) or the laughter of my children when I read a book where they actually get the jokes. Good decisions; it's in the way that you use them, I guess."
© 2002 by Brian W. Thomas (reprinted from A Child's Book.com--www.achildsbook.com)
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Hands On Education
Remember when school was good?
Of course, you do. Perhaps it was a favorite teacher that inspired you to great heights. Maybe it was a coach or even a parent that made a difference in your life.
For many of us, those people who made us roll up our sleeves get tremendous kudos as heroes.
I loved the diaramas and stuff that made you get your hands dirty with education. Mostly what we did in school was work in workbooks, though. Yet, those times when you could research all you want--in books--and take away some knowledge that seemed rare, but worth sharing. Esoterica.
I remember making a diarama of the North Pole. Matthew Henson making his way across the frozen tundra of my mother's boot box. I had to find a whole bunch of cotton balls to make the clumpy snow just right. Then, of course, there was the igloo made out of real sugar cubes. None of those fake packets that you get from the diner, but real sugar that Mr. Ed would eat. Finally, the little green army men from some other campaign made their way in as our explorers. Ahhhhh!
Learning should really be about play. It should be about exploring and imagining other worlds that are outside of our own world. We are so very happy when we can get outside of ourselves and into our own mind. When was the last time that you allowed your mind to wander in creative play? Huh?
One of the serious problems with today's children is that their learning has been pre-packaged for them already. They have no imaginations (or peripheral vision) because all of the work they do makes them stare straight ahead into one long line to adulthood. A parent at my school gave me that image this past weekend as we watched our sons playing soccer on opposing teams. They were going up and down the soccer pitch in a game that neither of them looked like they were enjoying very much--ahead and behind in one long programmed whirl.
Even as I type this particular blog, I am reminded how my own vision and creativity has been circumvented by the linear looking ahead and behind. What about being blown sideways by an idea that completely takes you by surprise? What about hearing a poem or a piece of music that allows the mind to expand into a Coltranian reverie, "Dear Lord!"
I love the imagination and imagining. Yet, why is it so hard for us and our children to understand and to see what's just on the opposite ends of their reach, maybe even a bit beyond.
It's been nearly a week since I blogged last and my mind wants to remember what invention is like, what creation is about. God reminds us all, every day.
Namaste,
Brian
Of course, you do. Perhaps it was a favorite teacher that inspired you to great heights. Maybe it was a coach or even a parent that made a difference in your life.
For many of us, those people who made us roll up our sleeves get tremendous kudos as heroes.
I loved the diaramas and stuff that made you get your hands dirty with education. Mostly what we did in school was work in workbooks, though. Yet, those times when you could research all you want--in books--and take away some knowledge that seemed rare, but worth sharing. Esoterica.
I remember making a diarama of the North Pole. Matthew Henson making his way across the frozen tundra of my mother's boot box. I had to find a whole bunch of cotton balls to make the clumpy snow just right. Then, of course, there was the igloo made out of real sugar cubes. None of those fake packets that you get from the diner, but real sugar that Mr. Ed would eat. Finally, the little green army men from some other campaign made their way in as our explorers. Ahhhhh!
Learning should really be about play. It should be about exploring and imagining other worlds that are outside of our own world. We are so very happy when we can get outside of ourselves and into our own mind. When was the last time that you allowed your mind to wander in creative play? Huh?
One of the serious problems with today's children is that their learning has been pre-packaged for them already. They have no imaginations (or peripheral vision) because all of the work they do makes them stare straight ahead into one long line to adulthood. A parent at my school gave me that image this past weekend as we watched our sons playing soccer on opposing teams. They were going up and down the soccer pitch in a game that neither of them looked like they were enjoying very much--ahead and behind in one long programmed whirl.
Even as I type this particular blog, I am reminded how my own vision and creativity has been circumvented by the linear looking ahead and behind. What about being blown sideways by an idea that completely takes you by surprise? What about hearing a poem or a piece of music that allows the mind to expand into a Coltranian reverie, "Dear Lord!"
I love the imagination and imagining. Yet, why is it so hard for us and our children to understand and to see what's just on the opposite ends of their reach, maybe even a bit beyond.
It's been nearly a week since I blogged last and my mind wants to remember what invention is like, what creation is about. God reminds us all, every day.
Namaste,
Brian
Friday, March 23, 2007
Connecting the Dots
The last few blogs may seem like whiplash (to the reader) in trying to tell the story of an educational journey, yet the tie between creating a philosophy of education without some biographical content is foolish. It's all about process rather than coming out of the head of Zeus fully formed like Athena.
Being raised within and being weened on the milk of a fairly traditional educational system means that there's a lot of baggage that comes with the territory of being educated while deeply scrutinizing the current educational system. Like anyone else, I am a product of the schools that I went to. I can say with some pride that I went to Headstart (1968), Lincoln Elelmentary School (1st - 3rd Grades--1968-1971), and Berneice Childs Elementary (4th Grade--1972) all in Robbins, Illinois. I also attended Carl Sandburg Elementary and Junior High School (5th - 8th Grade--1972-1976) and Thorton Township High School (1976-1980) both in Harvey, Illinois. Yale College in New Haven, Connecticut (1980-1984) and Portland State University (2001-2003) for graduate school in Education. Those places and experiences formed who I am in some sense, but not totally. At this point in my life I have spent more time outside of formal educational settings as a student, but like the experienced teacher the other day said, "The students I have taught," the loves that I have known, and the children and their families I have been in contact with have given me just as much, if not more in forming the kind of learner and educator I am today.
I miss teaching these days. I miss teaching every day with a kind of dull ache that I don't often get outside of what I encountered when I was acting or at least being an actor who was working on his craft. There is a kind of withdrawal that happens, which is where I am now.
As a principal (or Head of School), I get to be the lead educator at my school, which means that I teach teachers, but I also get to be the chief learner. The best Heads of School, which I do not consider myself to be one at this point, are constantly learning. They are open to new ideas and new ventures and adventures. They know their limitations. Believe me, these past few weeks have shown me my own limits in creating organization and process. I am always open to new ideas, but I need to live those experiences (and ideas) so they are authentic. Creating a real and genuine self should be the nature of educaion. Sadly, it is not.
That gets me to my original point: What's the connection between memoir and trying to reinvent education as it is today? Perhaps it starts with the self and works outward. Do I have enough time in this lifetime to do that? Probably not, so I have to do what I can or say like the Existentialists, "Why bother, brother?" We'll come to some of these questions over time.
Again, that's one of the purposes of this blog. It comes down to forgetting and using all of the things that I have been taught to believe, partnering with Spirit and Intentionality, and Creating a process by which these elements can come together.
Being raised within and being weened on the milk of a fairly traditional educational system means that there's a lot of baggage that comes with the territory of being educated while deeply scrutinizing the current educational system. Like anyone else, I am a product of the schools that I went to. I can say with some pride that I went to Headstart (1968), Lincoln Elelmentary School (1st - 3rd Grades--1968-1971), and Berneice Childs Elementary (4th Grade--1972) all in Robbins, Illinois. I also attended Carl Sandburg Elementary and Junior High School (5th - 8th Grade--1972-1976) and Thorton Township High School (1976-1980) both in Harvey, Illinois. Yale College in New Haven, Connecticut (1980-1984) and Portland State University (2001-2003) for graduate school in Education. Those places and experiences formed who I am in some sense, but not totally. At this point in my life I have spent more time outside of formal educational settings as a student, but like the experienced teacher the other day said, "The students I have taught," the loves that I have known, and the children and their families I have been in contact with have given me just as much, if not more in forming the kind of learner and educator I am today.
I miss teaching these days. I miss teaching every day with a kind of dull ache that I don't often get outside of what I encountered when I was acting or at least being an actor who was working on his craft. There is a kind of withdrawal that happens, which is where I am now.
As a principal (or Head of School), I get to be the lead educator at my school, which means that I teach teachers, but I also get to be the chief learner. The best Heads of School, which I do not consider myself to be one at this point, are constantly learning. They are open to new ideas and new ventures and adventures. They know their limitations. Believe me, these past few weeks have shown me my own limits in creating organization and process. I am always open to new ideas, but I need to live those experiences (and ideas) so they are authentic. Creating a real and genuine self should be the nature of educaion. Sadly, it is not.
That gets me to my original point: What's the connection between memoir and trying to reinvent education as it is today? Perhaps it starts with the self and works outward. Do I have enough time in this lifetime to do that? Probably not, so I have to do what I can or say like the Existentialists, "Why bother, brother?" We'll come to some of these questions over time.
Again, that's one of the purposes of this blog. It comes down to forgetting and using all of the things that I have been taught to believe, partnering with Spirit and Intentionality, and Creating a process by which these elements can come together.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Open Source Learning Communities: Evolving Practice
Partnerships in an academic community usually means a quid pro quo relationship. Yet, is that what's best for all involved? Is that what's best for teachers? Is that what's best for students? Should there be an outcome or exchange for services in the schoolhouse?
At a Progressive Educator's conference in San Jose, California, one of the conference leaders said that Democracy is 'not about what you get, but it's about what you give up.'
Education is the same way. For teacher and student, certain things have to be given for it to be a true exchange, which is not necessarily even.
A teacher came to see me today to discuss his upcoming obeservation, which I am to do within the next two weeks. He said that one student taught him how to be a much better teacher because the student knew how to advocate for herself--even at nine years old.
The student said to the teacher, "When you give me instructions, I don't quite understand because you speak in a kind of shorthand or a kind of code that I can't crack. Can you give instructions that is more step-by-step so that I can be in on the learning, too."
The teacher said that although the student has not been in the teacher's classroom for more than four years now, she had left an indelible impression on the teacher, which taught him how to deal with children who have learning differences. Is this a true exchange? Can the student point to what she was given, too? Probably. Yet, the teacher remembered the teachable moment that he was given by this student who changed his teaching--for the better.
What about teacher to teacher exchanges? Open Source Teaching.
Teachers can share their "codes" with others with the intent to perfect their craft. In future blogs we'll talk about these exchanges. Again, they may not be quid pro quo ("this for that") Some people would call these exchanges "best practices." That's a bit of a misnomer because it means that the "practice" doesn't or shouldn't evolve. That practice is in s suspended state of stasis. Yet, the dialectic of teaching means that practice is constantly evolving and constantly changing. There are so many variables that make this so.
At a Progressive Educator's conference in San Jose, California, one of the conference leaders said that Democracy is 'not about what you get, but it's about what you give up.'
Education is the same way. For teacher and student, certain things have to be given for it to be a true exchange, which is not necessarily even.
A teacher came to see me today to discuss his upcoming obeservation, which I am to do within the next two weeks. He said that one student taught him how to be a much better teacher because the student knew how to advocate for herself--even at nine years old.
The student said to the teacher, "When you give me instructions, I don't quite understand because you speak in a kind of shorthand or a kind of code that I can't crack. Can you give instructions that is more step-by-step so that I can be in on the learning, too."
The teacher said that although the student has not been in the teacher's classroom for more than four years now, she had left an indelible impression on the teacher, which taught him how to deal with children who have learning differences. Is this a true exchange? Can the student point to what she was given, too? Probably. Yet, the teacher remembered the teachable moment that he was given by this student who changed his teaching--for the better.
What about teacher to teacher exchanges? Open Source Teaching.
Teachers can share their "codes" with others with the intent to perfect their craft. In future blogs we'll talk about these exchanges. Again, they may not be quid pro quo ("this for that") Some people would call these exchanges "best practices." That's a bit of a misnomer because it means that the "practice" doesn't or shouldn't evolve. That practice is in s suspended state of stasis. Yet, the dialectic of teaching means that practice is constantly evolving and constantly changing. There are so many variables that make this so.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Open Source Learning Communities
LA days are so far away from today, nearly a generation as the crow flies. As a beginning teacher back in 1990, I needed to learn how to learn. By the time I left full time college in 1984, I believed strongly that I was done for good with school--no looking back. Yet, I found myself trapped in the whirl of the school I graduated from, working in a pyschiatric hospital to dull the pain of feeling like a failure. How many people thought that when they left college? How many people saw that school had let them down or worse, they had let school down. Yet, I loved school, or parts of it: the reading, the discussing, the camraderie.
The spiral of history means that learning happens over and over again. Some folks call it karma, but it's more like loop the loops in a rickety World War I bi-plane or circling the globe for months on end, over and over and over again on the space shuttle--sometimes the terrain is the same but often times it is different.
I've been speaking to my colleagues about this concept of open source learning communities. It's not necessarily up to us to create it, we believe. We are all a part of creating something new. That's where you, the reader, comes in.
Open Source Learning Communities, like open source computer code, means that you get to share ideas and change what works to suit your needs. Learning is it's own dialectic. Sometimes the swoop and concept of history even changes. For those of us who believe in Democracy, particularly the Democracy that is the Internet at this moment in history, our lives reflect bringing a sense of community to the public K-12 education space, with real people, who have real challenges. There is also an ideal, too. It's a priori and relative.
The Open Source Learning Community is not about exploiting people or making money or creating skilled workers for a better tomorrow. Rather, open source learning is about giving what we create away so that other people get to take advantage of what has been created. They in turn give away what they have created, and so on, and so on. The world then becomes a more transparent place with an ethos that counters the notion that people are broken and not fixable. At this point I'm not pointing to socities that have it down and can give us what we need if we study them well. I'm also not positing that the notion of Capitalism is bad. Listen carefully, we have solutions to fix the world's problems and we will need all of the tools at our disposal to heal them, even some of those things that created the so-called problem.
In future installments, we'll cover what works in education and what needs more time to be developed. Part of the mission is to weave in the loop of history that is memoir, storytelling, and parables to illucidate what can be.
Story tells truth always, in all ways.
The spiral of history means that learning happens over and over again. Some folks call it karma, but it's more like loop the loops in a rickety World War I bi-plane or circling the globe for months on end, over and over and over again on the space shuttle--sometimes the terrain is the same but often times it is different.
I've been speaking to my colleagues about this concept of open source learning communities. It's not necessarily up to us to create it, we believe. We are all a part of creating something new. That's where you, the reader, comes in.
Open Source Learning Communities, like open source computer code, means that you get to share ideas and change what works to suit your needs. Learning is it's own dialectic. Sometimes the swoop and concept of history even changes. For those of us who believe in Democracy, particularly the Democracy that is the Internet at this moment in history, our lives reflect bringing a sense of community to the public K-12 education space, with real people, who have real challenges. There is also an ideal, too. It's a priori and relative.
The Open Source Learning Community is not about exploiting people or making money or creating skilled workers for a better tomorrow. Rather, open source learning is about giving what we create away so that other people get to take advantage of what has been created. They in turn give away what they have created, and so on, and so on. The world then becomes a more transparent place with an ethos that counters the notion that people are broken and not fixable. At this point I'm not pointing to socities that have it down and can give us what we need if we study them well. I'm also not positing that the notion of Capitalism is bad. Listen carefully, we have solutions to fix the world's problems and we will need all of the tools at our disposal to heal them, even some of those things that created the so-called problem.
In future installments, we'll cover what works in education and what needs more time to be developed. Part of the mission is to weave in the loop of history that is memoir, storytelling, and parables to illucidate what can be.
Story tells truth always, in all ways.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Visions: Love You Save
I had a vision that day out in the desert. What I visioned was myself very different than what I had dreamed of up to that point. No longer was I an actor. That was an image that I had as a child--to be famous like Michael Jackson and the Jackson Five.
I certainly wasn't much of a teacher either. I couldn't even drink enough water. So much for leading by example.
The vision I had while being transported back to base camp and getting care was not tied to solitary and solipsitic enedeavors. I couldn't get away from people--even in the desert.
Those days were over, forever, although I did not know it at the time. The green light well beyond my reach, out on Daisy's dock.
"Hey, Bri, you could've died. Didja know that? Gotta drink some water, dude. Lot's of the agua."
"Yeah, I'm stupid, I guess."
Jules who I hardly knew was the guru of the desert adventure escapes--for kids and adults. A hired teacher with his crew who would take anybody out for the right price.
"Say, dude, let me tell you about this time we were wa-a-a-ay out in Death Valley. We were near the Borax mine. You know, Twenty Mule Team and all that shit." Unhooking the IV, Jules pulls the long needle out of my left arm. "I'm not sure where the hell I was because I was wonky too. Very little water and operating on like no sleep. We had just finished tooling through Nevada on this bike day trip where it was snowing and back down below sea level near Furnace Creek where it was hot as hell."
I'm watching him dispose of the needle that was in my arm into a sharps box while pulling out the gauzy tape. He gently wraps my arm. "So, we get down to where the pool is. Bri-man, have you ever been to Death Valley?"
"Naw, I-I-I..."
"Sorry, man, just sit back and rest up. That IV had like double Gatorade. That shit you're drinking is like a nastier version. Anyway..." Jules spits the end of the Steripad package into the garbage in a perfect arc, "We roll right past the pool and I guess I wasn't, you know, looking."
His hand comes down hard on the side of the Coleman temporary table, shaking it and his canteen right off. "Blam. Right into a the back of a truck. I hit that freakin' truck like meteor wiping out dinosaurs. Nobody sees, nobody comes to my aid. I'm lying in this oasis parking lot hearing kids play in a pool in the middle of the desert. Freaky stuff, man."
He's just talking and not even looking to see if I give a damn or not.
"Must have been like 107 degrees, after it was 37 earlier. My body didn't know, you know, what to do."
I blink. Don't want to talk at this point because a guy name Jules who I didn't know all that well was playing beat my story. Pity Poker.
"I get run-over by this Bug. Thank god it was only a Bug or I would have been dead." Jules touches my arm like I'm his date.
"Why the hell are you telling me this." I pull my arm back, quickly. "I'm...just... could you just do your damned job and stop the chatter."
Jules doesn't know about the stuff floating through my head. He's adding to my confusion. Book. The coyotes. What the hell was I going to do now. My head's still hurting like it's about to come out of my skull.
"Sorry, man. I just..."
"No need, dude." He wraps up the rest of his materials in silence and leaves the medic tent. Our infirmary. Tent flapping into the open air, cholla and sage all around.
The vision was about leaving everything that I knew behind. One of those moments where things begin to solidify. But why was my head so heavy? Why couldn't I think straight? I stopped being one thing and became something else.
Jules ducks back in. "I saw you on that show. That's all I really wanted to say. You were good."
"Thanks."
I had no past--memory wiped clean. It looked like my future was forming and reforming in front of my eyes.
I certainly wasn't much of a teacher either. I couldn't even drink enough water. So much for leading by example.
The vision I had while being transported back to base camp and getting care was not tied to solitary and solipsitic enedeavors. I couldn't get away from people--even in the desert.
Those days were over, forever, although I did not know it at the time. The green light well beyond my reach, out on Daisy's dock.
"Hey, Bri, you could've died. Didja know that? Gotta drink some water, dude. Lot's of the agua."
"Yeah, I'm stupid, I guess."
Jules who I hardly knew was the guru of the desert adventure escapes--for kids and adults. A hired teacher with his crew who would take anybody out for the right price.
"Say, dude, let me tell you about this time we were wa-a-a-ay out in Death Valley. We were near the Borax mine. You know, Twenty Mule Team and all that shit." Unhooking the IV, Jules pulls the long needle out of my left arm. "I'm not sure where the hell I was because I was wonky too. Very little water and operating on like no sleep. We had just finished tooling through Nevada on this bike day trip where it was snowing and back down below sea level near Furnace Creek where it was hot as hell."
I'm watching him dispose of the needle that was in my arm into a sharps box while pulling out the gauzy tape. He gently wraps my arm. "So, we get down to where the pool is. Bri-man, have you ever been to Death Valley?"
"Naw, I-I-I..."
"Sorry, man, just sit back and rest up. That IV had like double Gatorade. That shit you're drinking is like a nastier version. Anyway..." Jules spits the end of the Steripad package into the garbage in a perfect arc, "We roll right past the pool and I guess I wasn't, you know, looking."
His hand comes down hard on the side of the Coleman temporary table, shaking it and his canteen right off. "Blam. Right into a the back of a truck. I hit that freakin' truck like meteor wiping out dinosaurs. Nobody sees, nobody comes to my aid. I'm lying in this oasis parking lot hearing kids play in a pool in the middle of the desert. Freaky stuff, man."
He's just talking and not even looking to see if I give a damn or not.
"Must have been like 107 degrees, after it was 37 earlier. My body didn't know, you know, what to do."
I blink. Don't want to talk at this point because a guy name Jules who I didn't know all that well was playing beat my story. Pity Poker.
"I get run-over by this Bug. Thank god it was only a Bug or I would have been dead." Jules touches my arm like I'm his date.
"Why the hell are you telling me this." I pull my arm back, quickly. "I'm...just... could you just do your damned job and stop the chatter."
Jules doesn't know about the stuff floating through my head. He's adding to my confusion. Book. The coyotes. What the hell was I going to do now. My head's still hurting like it's about to come out of my skull.
"Sorry, man. I just..."
"No need, dude." He wraps up the rest of his materials in silence and leaves the medic tent. Our infirmary. Tent flapping into the open air, cholla and sage all around.
The vision was about leaving everything that I knew behind. One of those moments where things begin to solidify. But why was my head so heavy? Why couldn't I think straight? I stopped being one thing and became something else.
Jules ducks back in. "I saw you on that show. That's all I really wanted to say. You were good."
"Thanks."
I had no past--memory wiped clean. It looked like my future was forming and reforming in front of my eyes.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Thoreau's Heartbreak
Out in the desert I see my step-father's face in everything: cacti, the devil's forehead climbing rock, the 15-passenger van that we have rented, on the shell of a passing tortoise.
In reality, I haven't seen him in over 10 years. The day I left home and entered college was the last time I saw him. He just showed up at my dorm on Old Campus in New Haven. Booker T. Washington. Of course, not THE Booker T. Washington. Book, as my brother and I referred to him, had changed his name from Booker T. Wolfolk.
He drank a lot. That's all I could say and what I remember most: his hard drinking side.
Out in the desert, I didn't remember much about him. Vision was waning.
"Hey, Bri, have you had any water lately? You don't look so good?"
"Book?"
"Why don't we get you back to base camp so you can take it easy?" The girls were far in front of us. We were acting as sweepers for the stragglers who couldn't make the entire trip up the rocks.
Moriah's question wasn't really a question. She was ordering me back along the trail to link back with the other adults who couldn't make the trip.
"No, I'm...I'm...cool." In actually, I was very hot and my head hurt something terrible. Pounding like a ball peen hammer between my eyes. I was swigging water like it was nobody's business--at least for the last hour or so. Why was this happening?
I was thinking of America at that point. "I've been to the desert on a horse with no name./It felt good to be out of the rain./In the desert, you can't remember your name/and there ain't no one there to give you no blame." I couldn't remember if it was "blame" or "pain." Whichever it was that was wrong. What the hell did that mean anyway? I could remember a whole bunch of stuff but my head was getting real light.
Earlier in the day it was about coyotes. The damned coyotes who had nearly taken over the camp who were ravenous in my imagination. Now, it was dehydration. They told us about that. At least they told us what to look for in the girls. I had forgotten about me.
Moriah told me to just sit. Stay still. They were sending a team out to come and get me in one of the jeeps. How did she communicate with them? Was she psychic, too? Sending signals back to the base without a walkie-talkie?
Our group of girls was ahead by some distance, bouldering up one of the rocks. I wanted to see the pool of water where they were headed that had frogs or tadpoles or mosquitoes or whatever would live out in this god-foresaken place.
"Book."
"What book are you looking for? Something in your daypack?"
For some reason that's all I could say. I knew I wasn't making much sense, but it was hard getting the words out of my cottony mouth.
In Concord, Massachusetts Henry David Thoreau began falling in love with his benefactor's wife. Lydia Emerson was a woman of her time, trapped in a loveless marriage with a man who was one of the first real celebrities of the time. I was wondering, out at Joshua Tree National Park, what made Thoreau head out to the woods near Walden Pond--alone. Two years, two months, and two days. What the hell was fracturing at this point was my own sense of isolation, even in the desert all around with a large group of girls from near Hancock Park LA, like a swarm of industrious bees?
"Book?"
"Hey, Bri, just sit still for a bit, will you." Moriah's canteen extended from out of nowhere it seemed, voice disembodied from where I was hearing it. "Just swig this down and keep drinking. They'll be here soon."
My step-father pulled hard from the flask, grinning at me, handing the pint to me. He was there as clear as day.
This is the story of my life until then. My education. What went wrong. Light failing. How death comes to you like the roar of a fire or like a pin-hole in a shoebox to view an eclipse by. Something so small as we fade/to/black.
In reality, I haven't seen him in over 10 years. The day I left home and entered college was the last time I saw him. He just showed up at my dorm on Old Campus in New Haven. Booker T. Washington. Of course, not THE Booker T. Washington. Book, as my brother and I referred to him, had changed his name from Booker T. Wolfolk.
He drank a lot. That's all I could say and what I remember most: his hard drinking side.
Out in the desert, I didn't remember much about him. Vision was waning.
"Hey, Bri, have you had any water lately? You don't look so good?"
"Book?"
"Why don't we get you back to base camp so you can take it easy?" The girls were far in front of us. We were acting as sweepers for the stragglers who couldn't make the entire trip up the rocks.
Moriah's question wasn't really a question. She was ordering me back along the trail to link back with the other adults who couldn't make the trip.
"No, I'm...I'm...cool." In actually, I was very hot and my head hurt something terrible. Pounding like a ball peen hammer between my eyes. I was swigging water like it was nobody's business--at least for the last hour or so. Why was this happening?
I was thinking of America at that point. "I've been to the desert on a horse with no name./It felt good to be out of the rain./In the desert, you can't remember your name/and there ain't no one there to give you no blame." I couldn't remember if it was "blame" or "pain." Whichever it was that was wrong. What the hell did that mean anyway? I could remember a whole bunch of stuff but my head was getting real light.
Earlier in the day it was about coyotes. The damned coyotes who had nearly taken over the camp who were ravenous in my imagination. Now, it was dehydration. They told us about that. At least they told us what to look for in the girls. I had forgotten about me.
Moriah told me to just sit. Stay still. They were sending a team out to come and get me in one of the jeeps. How did she communicate with them? Was she psychic, too? Sending signals back to the base without a walkie-talkie?
Our group of girls was ahead by some distance, bouldering up one of the rocks. I wanted to see the pool of water where they were headed that had frogs or tadpoles or mosquitoes or whatever would live out in this god-foresaken place.
"Book."
"What book are you looking for? Something in your daypack?"
For some reason that's all I could say. I knew I wasn't making much sense, but it was hard getting the words out of my cottony mouth.
In Concord, Massachusetts Henry David Thoreau began falling in love with his benefactor's wife. Lydia Emerson was a woman of her time, trapped in a loveless marriage with a man who was one of the first real celebrities of the time. I was wondering, out at Joshua Tree National Park, what made Thoreau head out to the woods near Walden Pond--alone. Two years, two months, and two days. What the hell was fracturing at this point was my own sense of isolation, even in the desert all around with a large group of girls from near Hancock Park LA, like a swarm of industrious bees?
"Book?"
"Hey, Bri, just sit still for a bit, will you." Moriah's canteen extended from out of nowhere it seemed, voice disembodied from where I was hearing it. "Just swig this down and keep drinking. They'll be here soon."
My step-father pulled hard from the flask, grinning at me, handing the pint to me. He was there as clear as day.
This is the story of my life until then. My education. What went wrong. Light failing. How death comes to you like the roar of a fire or like a pin-hole in a shoebox to view an eclipse by. Something so small as we fade/to/black.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Hellhound on My Trail (previously from www.achildsbook.com)
Cars lined up for a solid block as I pinballed my way out of the pocket of the restaurant’s drive-thru to the open road. I slammed on my breaks, trying to avoid hitting the car immediately in front of me. I had just come from Popeye’s on MLK and had to get home before the day proved to be a total loss—papers to grade and parent phone calls to make. My forays into fast foodland had spilled over from my monthly haircuts at Terrell Brandon’s Barbershop on Alberta to wherever, or more precisely whenever. Whenever I didn’t feel like eating the soup that was probably a better bet for my expanding autumnal waistline, I tramped through the city’s streets. So, I tacked hard to the right and parked in front of the cue (flash—red car—SUV—minivan—white car), then I saw him. For an instant, he reminded me of my grandfather old Zach Thomas, an old brown man kissing the pavement after too much cheap liquor—Night Train, Ripple, Peppermint Schnapps. I thought he had just gotten hit. My heavy foot wanted to accelerate to the open field—to Alberta then I-5 South to 405 South to the 26 to the 217 to Walker to home (touchdown)—but my hand inched to the handle to open the door. Something submerged in me said, “Help him dammit! Help him and you’ll help you.”
“Are you alright, Pops?” My voice dinged against the honking cars, reverberating too loudly in my own ears. I lifted the man to his feet. He teetered once more, almost falling again against the now useless shopping cart, bashed in on its left side, that once supported his weight.
“I’se ar’…ok, Ah guess. Where’s you goin’ man?”
That slurred question that met my question thrust me back to a man I barely knew. Yet, another relative who taught me vicariously about losing control and creeping despair.
“Can you gib’me a ride hom’?”
I looked south down MLK noticing the stares of the passerbys, trying to gauge my own reactions in their lancing stares. My moment of truth had arrived at last. The other cars, road, and the world dissolved to a timeout. Twenty-three years after Zachariah Thomas had die; I finally had a chance to dialogue with one of hellhounds that drives me, the son of the son of an ex-sharecropper, still.
Finally, I said, “Yeah man, I’ll take you home.”
I don’t remember all of the details of that ride, attempting to find his house while looking for North or Northeast Fremont; he couldn’t be entirely sure. Neither place seemed familiar to him, limp memories gouged by a long time inebriate’s faulty wires. He told me he was once a boxer once. He told me about a girl he used to love. He told me about everything it seems except what I wanted to hear.
I listened hard for the fight still left in him. He pissed in my car getting out.
I said, “That’s ok man. It’s ok. Really.” An old baseball jersey from my over thirty league team was martyred for his sake, their sake. BBB, which stood for Birmingham Black Barons, my grandfather’s boyhood colored team, embroidered across the chest. I left him to keen across Williams Avenue, away from where he told me that he wanted to go.
The boxer took me on a ride that I was never to forget, even though it was hard to hear exactly what he said to me. But as usual, I make it up. Creating the words for him, echoing
I think he said, “Son? I’m proud of you, boy. Damn proud to know you.”
Foot on the pedal, back to my own house now, soiled jersey in back near the spare tires of my new used car, barreling down field, looking for daylight.
© 2000 by Brian W. Thomas
“Are you alright, Pops?” My voice dinged against the honking cars, reverberating too loudly in my own ears. I lifted the man to his feet. He teetered once more, almost falling again against the now useless shopping cart, bashed in on its left side, that once supported his weight.
“I’se ar’…ok, Ah guess. Where’s you goin’ man?”
That slurred question that met my question thrust me back to a man I barely knew. Yet, another relative who taught me vicariously about losing control and creeping despair.
“Can you gib’me a ride hom’?”
I looked south down MLK noticing the stares of the passerbys, trying to gauge my own reactions in their lancing stares. My moment of truth had arrived at last. The other cars, road, and the world dissolved to a timeout. Twenty-three years after Zachariah Thomas had die; I finally had a chance to dialogue with one of hellhounds that drives me, the son of the son of an ex-sharecropper, still.
Finally, I said, “Yeah man, I’ll take you home.”
I don’t remember all of the details of that ride, attempting to find his house while looking for North or Northeast Fremont; he couldn’t be entirely sure. Neither place seemed familiar to him, limp memories gouged by a long time inebriate’s faulty wires. He told me he was once a boxer once. He told me about a girl he used to love. He told me about everything it seems except what I wanted to hear.
I listened hard for the fight still left in him. He pissed in my car getting out.
I said, “That’s ok man. It’s ok. Really.” An old baseball jersey from my over thirty league team was martyred for his sake, their sake. BBB, which stood for Birmingham Black Barons, my grandfather’s boyhood colored team, embroidered across the chest. I left him to keen across Williams Avenue, away from where he told me that he wanted to go.
The boxer took me on a ride that I was never to forget, even though it was hard to hear exactly what he said to me. But as usual, I make it up. Creating the words for him, echoing
I think he said, “Son? I’m proud of you, boy. Damn proud to know you.”
Foot on the pedal, back to my own house now, soiled jersey in back near the spare tires of my new used car, barreling down field, looking for daylight.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Coyote Raid--Quick Write
Through our campsite, the pack of coyotes pushed their way around the middle and edges, lapping up anything that wasn't in animal proof boxes. Tuna, pbj sandwiches, magic markers, a purple hoodie, and everything else that had a slight taste was eaten, except for the people in tents.
I could hear the baying and then the paws and finally the munching of wild animals on loose gritty sand. I woke early that weekday morning and refused to get out of my tent--until coaxed by a colleague, another teacher, who knew well my fear. This was my first night and early morning at Joshua Tree National Park.
When I think back on that time in September of 1990, what comes to mind is how afraid I was. There it is, I said it: scared shitless. The next few days (I can't remember how long we were there, perhaps a day or two) meant searching for coyotes everywhere. While rock climbing, I thought I saw them. Bouldering up a steep, steep hill, I could swear that they were right above the next rise. Finally, scanning the wide plane, looking over 29 Palms, the US Marine Base in the distance, was I able to release the tension I felt and had been feeling since birth, maybe. I got a hint of the vastness of my small presence in the desert, in the world really, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. It was at that point that I became calm.
Only in the teeth of truly scary moments do we face what is most urgent in us. Gain ground and get perspective. Truly, it's not difficult to do, unless you live in the flatlands of some plain or prairie--perhaps even the steppes of Russia. Even then, our imagination does not fail us--in our minds' eye. Unless we are lodged in some ghetto of our own choosing, deep in the corner near the back in the belly of the beast.
I could hear the baying and then the paws and finally the munching of wild animals on loose gritty sand. I woke early that weekday morning and refused to get out of my tent--until coaxed by a colleague, another teacher, who knew well my fear. This was my first night and early morning at Joshua Tree National Park.
When I think back on that time in September of 1990, what comes to mind is how afraid I was. There it is, I said it: scared shitless. The next few days (I can't remember how long we were there, perhaps a day or two) meant searching for coyotes everywhere. While rock climbing, I thought I saw them. Bouldering up a steep, steep hill, I could swear that they were right above the next rise. Finally, scanning the wide plane, looking over 29 Palms, the US Marine Base in the distance, was I able to release the tension I felt and had been feeling since birth, maybe. I got a hint of the vastness of my small presence in the desert, in the world really, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. It was at that point that I became calm.
Only in the teeth of truly scary moments do we face what is most urgent in us. Gain ground and get perspective. Truly, it's not difficult to do, unless you live in the flatlands of some plain or prairie--perhaps even the steppes of Russia. Even then, our imagination does not fail us--in our minds' eye. Unless we are lodged in some ghetto of our own choosing, deep in the corner near the back in the belly of the beast.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
The Joshua Tree
Before teaching full time in schools, I had never been camping. I hate to admit it now, but I was afraid of being out in nature. Wild animals, predatory and opportunistic murderers, and biting, stinging insects were all that I could think of as we prepared for that first trip from the Marlborough School.
So, the experience back in 1990 of being in nature with mostly privileged pre-teen girls from LA and their teachers, me among them, as we tried to calm their fears. I'm not sure what the others got out of it, but my own fearlessness (as well as life with fear) surfaced during those years. The Rodney King beating, police trials, Northridge Quake, Hurricane Iniki, and several busted relationships ruptured my own faultlines. I have the scars to prove it.
Yet, the healing came in an arid place.
Ever since then, the desert has been that magical and special terrain. A balm in Gilead. Stark and lunar landscapes remind me of growing up in the projects, which represented a different kind of sur-reality.
This post is a kind of quick write, but I am reminded of those days when everything seemed magical and dangerous, nothing plotted out and planned. The devil tempting from his mountain throne. The wrong step either meant a rattle snake or a gunshot wound to the head.
Well, where's the learning in that? What happens in that blink moment when you realize that your life has prepared you for a particular time and place.
The learning in all of this is you never know what your life is preparing you for, really. You just need to open up your heart, get out your notebook or sketchpad, and start thinking about every sensory element that comes to mind.
I love the desert now. I spent two years living in "the meadows," which is what the native peoples called Las Vegas. Again, that's another story for another day.
Our two years, two months, and two days came to a fitting end, which is why we are back in California, overlooking the Farallon's.* I so love it on the edge of the world because finding home is always about leaving it.
*See Farallon Islands at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Farallon_Islands.
So, the experience back in 1990 of being in nature with mostly privileged pre-teen girls from LA and their teachers, me among them, as we tried to calm their fears. I'm not sure what the others got out of it, but my own fearlessness (as well as life with fear) surfaced during those years. The Rodney King beating, police trials, Northridge Quake, Hurricane Iniki, and several busted relationships ruptured my own faultlines. I have the scars to prove it.
Yet, the healing came in an arid place.
Ever since then, the desert has been that magical and special terrain. A balm in Gilead. Stark and lunar landscapes remind me of growing up in the projects, which represented a different kind of sur-reality.
This post is a kind of quick write, but I am reminded of those days when everything seemed magical and dangerous, nothing plotted out and planned. The devil tempting from his mountain throne. The wrong step either meant a rattle snake or a gunshot wound to the head.
Well, where's the learning in that? What happens in that blink moment when you realize that your life has prepared you for a particular time and place.
The learning in all of this is you never know what your life is preparing you for, really. You just need to open up your heart, get out your notebook or sketchpad, and start thinking about every sensory element that comes to mind.
I love the desert now. I spent two years living in "the meadows," which is what the native peoples called Las Vegas. Again, that's another story for another day.
Our two years, two months, and two days came to a fitting end, which is why we are back in California, overlooking the Farallon's.* I so love it on the edge of the world because finding home is always about leaving it.
*See Farallon Islands at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Farallon_Islands.
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