Last Friday was the deadline for the online adolescent development course that I've been presenting; all participants were supposed to have their work in by then. In my mind, it was a flexible deadline, more along the lines of a vagabond's ETA, but everyone who planned to complete the course met it. Teachers! Sheesh.
So, I've been working my way through the assignments that have been submitted. It's a pass/fail course for re-certification points, and credit relies primarily on completion of the required assignments, but even so, I feel that everyone should get some feedback on their work, so that's what I've been doing.
This afternoon I looked at one of the final projects. It was a two page paper arguing against K-8 schools. I read it with interest, especially because I have the opposite opinion. It was well-reasoned enough, but ultimately I was unconvinced. Based primarily on the author's fifteen years of experience as a middle school counselor, near the end she cited a source. I did a bit of a double take when I saw that this expert and I had the same last name. Wow, I wonder who that is? I thought. I'll definitely have to read that article. Upon finishing the essay, I glanced eagerly to the bibliography.
Her source?
Was me.
She was citing the slide show that I authored which was the text for one of the units in the course.
I laughed out loud. Believe me, I AM an expert... in my own mind. At first, it was cool to have some independent confirmation of that, no matter how small. But then... I realized that she used my work to support an opinion I disagree with.
Hey! Is that even allowed?
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Rear View
Last week I smashed the hell out of the side view mirror on my new car. Regular readers will be relieved to know that it was the same mirror I damaged the first week I owned it, AND that I hadn't had it repaired yet. That first accident destroyed the trim on the mirror, and it looked a lot worse than it was-- the mirror itself was never non-functional, and once I popped a few pieces back in place, it wasn't even that noticeable.
My second go at destroying it was much more effective. I heard a sickening crunch of plastic and glass as I backed down my sister's narrow driveway, just a little too close to the gate on the right. The mirror was shattered into at least twenty different fragments, and I was sooo mad at myself for not being more careful. The fact that it already needed fixing was only lukewarm comfort.
Unlike the vagabond only concerned with the road ahead, I worried about making the 600 mile trip home without that rear view, but I did my best with what I had: I adjusted the other two mirrors and hit the road. Fortunately, we arrived without any problem, and the repair is scheduled for tomorrow.
The other day I realized the strangest thing, though. When I looked at that mirror out of habit, I could clearly see what was behind me. Somehow, my brain filtered those twenty disparate perspectives into one, usable image. In amazement, I even used the switch to fine tune the view.
What a marvel of adaptation the human brain is! Or is it? Because, quite frankly, objects in the mirror are still a lot closer than they appear.
My second go at destroying it was much more effective. I heard a sickening crunch of plastic and glass as I backed down my sister's narrow driveway, just a little too close to the gate on the right. The mirror was shattered into at least twenty different fragments, and I was sooo mad at myself for not being more careful. The fact that it already needed fixing was only lukewarm comfort.
Unlike the vagabond only concerned with the road ahead, I worried about making the 600 mile trip home without that rear view, but I did my best with what I had: I adjusted the other two mirrors and hit the road. Fortunately, we arrived without any problem, and the repair is scheduled for tomorrow.
The other day I realized the strangest thing, though. When I looked at that mirror out of habit, I could clearly see what was behind me. Somehow, my brain filtered those twenty disparate perspectives into one, usable image. In amazement, I even used the switch to fine tune the view.
What a marvel of adaptation the human brain is! Or is it? Because, quite frankly, objects in the mirror are still a lot closer than they appear.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Look at the Bright Side
Today was our first day back from Spring Break and contrary to expectations, I invited students to tell the class something awful that happened over the vacation.
Oh my... there was certainly no shortage of misfortune: they recounted all sorts of falls and scrapes and bangs and bruises; there were tales of long car rides with unruly siblings, games lost at the last minute, vagabond pets, cousins who wouldn't leave, sightseeing in the pouring rain, parents who forced their children out of bed for all manner of sunrise services, grandparents who insisted that reading at the table was rude, and television shows that simply disappointed.
Fortunately, those were the worst of it, and after all that, they couldn't very well complain about being back at school, could they?
Oh my... there was certainly no shortage of misfortune: they recounted all sorts of falls and scrapes and bangs and bruises; there were tales of long car rides with unruly siblings, games lost at the last minute, vagabond pets, cousins who wouldn't leave, sightseeing in the pouring rain, parents who forced their children out of bed for all manner of sunrise services, grandparents who insisted that reading at the table was rude, and television shows that simply disappointed.
Fortunately, those were the worst of it, and after all that, they couldn't very well complain about being back at school, could they?
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Hooked on the Book
Sometimes when I finish a book I become a little obsessed with it. That's what's happened to me and The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. As I type, I'm listening to an archived radio interview with Zusak from 2006, and he is reading an excerpt from the book. I have goosebumps.
Yesterday, I looked up the Geneva Conventions and laws governing civilian targets during war; next I found a hamlet named Olching (but not Molching) on the Amper river, outside of Munich, near Dachau. I learned that 22 civilians were killed there in a stray Allied bombing near the end of the World War II. On another website, I saw postcards of the town-- images that span the 20th century. So that's what it looked like, I thought. Or did it? Zusack's description is never very literal.
Last night, I paused the television show we were watching right in the middle. "I want to talk about The Book Thief," I said, and so we did: About how the reader comes to love the characters not in spite of their flaws, but because of them. About how although you know you will lose them by the end of the novel, you love them anyway. About how this book addresses the questions of why German citizens did not do more to oppose Hitler and the Nazi party-- in this way, it stands out against other WWII literature, especially for kids.
But what haunts me most about The Book Thief, even as humans haunt Death within its pages, is the figurative language. The colors, the smells, the words, the narrator himself-- from the first page I was a vagabond aboard an express train, dusty and sweet. There was no stopping until we got to the end of the line.
Yesterday, I looked up the Geneva Conventions and laws governing civilian targets during war; next I found a hamlet named Olching (but not Molching) on the Amper river, outside of Munich, near Dachau. I learned that 22 civilians were killed there in a stray Allied bombing near the end of the World War II. On another website, I saw postcards of the town-- images that span the 20th century. So that's what it looked like, I thought. Or did it? Zusack's description is never very literal.
Last night, I paused the television show we were watching right in the middle. "I want to talk about The Book Thief," I said, and so we did: About how the reader comes to love the characters not in spite of their flaws, but because of them. About how although you know you will lose them by the end of the novel, you love them anyway. About how this book addresses the questions of why German citizens did not do more to oppose Hitler and the Nazi party-- in this way, it stands out against other WWII literature, especially for kids.
But what haunts me most about The Book Thief, even as humans haunt Death within its pages, is the figurative language. The colors, the smells, the words, the narrator himself-- from the first page I was a vagabond aboard an express train, dusty and sweet. There was no stopping until we got to the end of the line.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Sometimes, Focus Eludes Me
I think the convention of nicknaming something by taking the first couple of letters of each part of its proper name-- think SoHo-- is wicked cool. It was definitely part of the appeal of NaNoWriMo for me.
Right now, we're listening to the audiobook version of The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot. This wonderful work of non-fiction tells a really good story and also raises a lot of important ethical questions about poverty, race, and medical research. The famous immortal cells that were cultured without the title character's knowledge or permission are known world-wide as HeLa. As compelling as the book is, as we listen, my vagabond brain starts nicknaming all of her family members, too-- amused most by one of her sons, LaLa, and her youngest daughter, DeLa. I nickname myself, too, TraShe, but I am dissatisfied because it sounds like nothing more than a slurred rendition of my first name, so I think of my friends, MaBro, LeMc, and ElSmi, and my colleagues, LaBa, MeCo, KiMi, and AlPa.
Next, I wonder if we should refer to my school as ThoJeMiScho... You have to admit-- it does have a certain Zen ring to it.
Right now, we're listening to the audiobook version of The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot. This wonderful work of non-fiction tells a really good story and also raises a lot of important ethical questions about poverty, race, and medical research. The famous immortal cells that were cultured without the title character's knowledge or permission are known world-wide as HeLa. As compelling as the book is, as we listen, my vagabond brain starts nicknaming all of her family members, too-- amused most by one of her sons, LaLa, and her youngest daughter, DeLa. I nickname myself, too, TraShe, but I am dissatisfied because it sounds like nothing more than a slurred rendition of my first name, so I think of my friends, MaBro, LeMc, and ElSmi, and my colleagues, LaBa, MeCo, KiMi, and AlPa.
Next, I wonder if we should refer to my school as ThoJeMiScho... You have to admit-- it does have a certain Zen ring to it.
Friday, April 2, 2010
It's a Lifestyle Choice
Vagabond sparks fly through the gathering dark, brilliant yellow on deep violet, and I know the coals will be hot enough to cook on in 20 minutes. Everything else is ready; this is my chance to steal some time to write. Today, I have been thinking about hobos. I had a conversation with friends last night about the resurgence in popularity that this term has enjoyed over the last few years. It is the name of choice among middle schoolers for anyone who appears to be living on the streets.
I remember when I first heard a student use the word five or six years ago. It made all the other kids laugh as if he had said something naughty, and it caught me by surprise, probably because I hadn't heard it since I was in middle school myself. Then, "hobo" was a choice Halloween get-up, requiring not much more than a pair of torn pants, one of your dad's old jackets, and a burnt cork rubbed liberally around your face. If you wanted to go all out, you could tuck a pillow in your over-sized shirt and smash a battered hat on you head, but those were totally optional. And what of that bandanna on a stick? It was widely agreed that the hobo bag, while a nice touch, made it much harder to carry your trick-or-treat bag, (and after all, we were there for the candy) so most of those were left at home.
No doubt I scolded that child back then, probably more because of the way his peers reacted than anything else, but the term also seemed inappropriate to me. Over the years, its shock value has declined, and it's use is not much of an issue anymore, other than the fact that it's what kids usually say when referring to vagrants, and sadly, I'm pretty sure it's the people and not the name that they laugh at, but that's another blog post.
Last night, my friends and I decided that hobo was too romantic a word to describe the situation of the folks around here who are homeless and on the street, and so not entirely accurate. Turns out that we were right. In the limited research I did today, I found that "hobo" refers specifically to people who choose to travel, usually by rail, and then look for work where ever they might land. There are rules for being a hobo, and they even have an annual convention, I kid you not. Hobos do not appreciate being confused with tramps (who travel but do not work) or bums (who neither travel nor work), and unlike most of the people my students refer to, hobos are not necessarily down on their luck.
I think there's a lesson there.
I remember when I first heard a student use the word five or six years ago. It made all the other kids laugh as if he had said something naughty, and it caught me by surprise, probably because I hadn't heard it since I was in middle school myself. Then, "hobo" was a choice Halloween get-up, requiring not much more than a pair of torn pants, one of your dad's old jackets, and a burnt cork rubbed liberally around your face. If you wanted to go all out, you could tuck a pillow in your over-sized shirt and smash a battered hat on you head, but those were totally optional. And what of that bandanna on a stick? It was widely agreed that the hobo bag, while a nice touch, made it much harder to carry your trick-or-treat bag, (and after all, we were there for the candy) so most of those were left at home.
No doubt I scolded that child back then, probably more because of the way his peers reacted than anything else, but the term also seemed inappropriate to me. Over the years, its shock value has declined, and it's use is not much of an issue anymore, other than the fact that it's what kids usually say when referring to vagrants, and sadly, I'm pretty sure it's the people and not the name that they laugh at, but that's another blog post.
Last night, my friends and I decided that hobo was too romantic a word to describe the situation of the folks around here who are homeless and on the street, and so not entirely accurate. Turns out that we were right. In the limited research I did today, I found that "hobo" refers specifically to people who choose to travel, usually by rail, and then look for work where ever they might land. There are rules for being a hobo, and they even have an annual convention, I kid you not. Hobos do not appreciate being confused with tramps (who travel but do not work) or bums (who neither travel nor work), and unlike most of the people my students refer to, hobos are not necessarily down on their luck.
I think there's a lesson there.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Ah, Springtime
All my life I've preferred cool weather; there must be something in my temperament that makes it so. Therefore, the change of seasons from winter to spring, while welcome to so many others, makes me a little uneasy. At the other end of the year, when the days turn cooler, I like to bundle up in flannel and fleece, but the opposite is not so. Clothes that were so familiar when last the weather was warm enough to wear them seem a little scanty and fit a bit awkwardly, and the unaccustomed sight of my bare legs startles. Who let them out? I wonder. Summer is on her way, and what exactly is there to look forward to? Long days of eggish sun and unrelenting heat, where cool breezes are nothing more than vagabonds waiting to hop the next jet stream north leaving us to fan ourselves, sweating in our swampy southern clime.
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