Crap Shoot

The other day I saw a bumper sticker that resonated with me: More Fun, Less Stuff. Probably one reason I was drawn to it is because I have a lot of stuff, and although I feel like over the last few years I have getting better, in essence that really only means that I am accumulating junk more slowly. I'm not sure how to break the habit, because like many people in affluent countries, I want what I want when I want it. Big ticket items are the easiest to resist; I think carefully before spending over a certain amount. It's the little things that are easy to toss in your shopping basket and that are currently cluttering up my house, my attic, and my classroom, because once they're paid for, it's hard for me to throw them away.


All of this is the prelude to my annual complaint about the PTA fundraiser our school does. We ask homerooms to choose a them for a "basket" and then the kids contribute items. The baskets are raffled off for a dollar a chance at our big international celebration. It's hugely successful, and why? Because people want stuff.

The Power of the Board

The chalk board is a powerful symbol of a teacher's authority, and as such, I confess that I do not like it when my students write on the board, and I rarely allow it. But kids LOVE a chalk board, perhaps for the same reason.

Today I was doing a lesson on the relationship between words and visual images. The students were supposed to take a passage from their books and parse it over the panels of a cartoon, and then illustrate the words. It can be a powerful activity to discover that rather than the proverbial thousand words per picture, sometimes one single word is worth a picture, and a rather detailed one at that.

In the class before lunch, a second language student asked me what a shingle was. Then she asked about a cape. I deduced that it was a cape-style house, and I drew a picture of one on the board; as a good measure, I added a few cedar shakes to the outside. "Can I finish the shingles?" a student asked, and I nodded, having better things to do than detail a chalk sketch.

My assent opened the floodgates. Along with the exterior of the house, kids wanted to add trees, a garden, tornadoes, earthquakes, and a chimney fire. Not to be outdone, other students started drawing things from their books until soon the board was transformed into a fantastic mural. "Stop!" I protested, but half-heartedly, since they were actually pursuing the objectives of the lesson, if only in a tangential way. "I'm just going to erase it when you leave," I finally threatened.

There arose a collective "Nooooooooo!" and so I told them that the only way they could save their masterpiece was to start their group discussions and do them very, very well. They flew to their seats and did a great job in the minutes that remained. As the bell rang, one of them asked me if I would take a picture of the board, and I promised I would. Off they went, quite proudly, to lunch. A nice story, but it doesn't end there.

During lunch, a few other students entered the room to drop off or pick up their things. They were stunned that any kids had been allowed to write on the board. "You like them better than you like us!" they accused me, and I tried to tell them it wasn't so, but in nothing short of outrage, one picked up an eraser and started to obliterate the chalk art. The others joined in with their bare hands until chalk dust powdered the tables and the board was an empty cloud.

"You didn't really need to do that," I said, a little shocked and perplexed. They wanted to write on the board themselves, but I took all the chalk and put it away. "Go to lunch," I told them.

Of course the first group was mad and disappointed to find their work was gone. "That's what happens when chalk is your medium," I told them lightly, but unconsoled, they had some choice words for their eraser-happy classmates.

Maybe my next lesson should be on symbolism.

Q-tip?

Our school is organizing an origami crane drive to benefit the survivors of the Japanese Tsunami. In support of the effort, the Tolerance Club learned how to fold them yesterday. The idea was that we would make some ourselves, but we would also teach other people how to make them, too.

First of all, those critters are complicated, but like skinning the proverbial cat, there are many ways to make the necessary folds, and since learning the skill, I have done my part to spread the word of the crane. Yesterday afternoon, two boys came to my room after track practice, one sorry he could not have been to the meeting, and the other just tagging along. "She's going to show us how to make origami cranes!" the first kid told his friend.

"What??!" his friend asked with profound confusion.

"Origami cranes," I repeated, but still he frowned.

I showed him one that was already finished. "Ooooooh," he answered, "origami cranes. I thought you said origami brains."

I laughed and crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it at him. "Here! We can make those, too."

Pep Talk

In the last class of the day today there were a couple of kids absent and several who were pulled for a meeting with the Gifted Coordinator. That left me and seven sixth grade boys. Tomorrow we are administering a reading test, the results of which will help determine whether kids take a foreign language next year, or continue on with reading, and I gave them the same spiel I had delivered to all of my classes. "A standardized test is like a snapshot..." I started.

My point to the kids was that there's no shame in doing their best on the test and finding out that it would help them to postpone taking another language for a year, but it would be a shame for them to blow off the test and miss out on the chance at a high school credit. I also reminded them that if they did take a language, then their grade would be important when they applied to college.

This group was confused. "What do you mean "apply"?" asked one.

"Well," I answered, "colleges don't have to let you go there. They get to choose who they want based on an application that you fill out.They look at a lot of things, but they definitely look at your grades."

"Whaaaaaaat?" said another student. "You can't just go somewhere?"

I shook my head.

"Did you go to college?" somebody asked.

"You can't be a teacher without a college degree," I shrugged.

They were unusually quiet for a moment, but then the silence was broken. "Let's get to work!" one guy suggested, clapping his hands in encouragement, and it was a very good class.

The Easy Part

I just can't shake the sense that as a culture we over-burden ourselves. As an example, what does it say about us and the way our lives are organized that it's quite common to hear folks say that they need a vacation after their vacation? It seems that we put so much time and energy into relaxing, that we miss out on the down time. I know I'm guilty of that; in fact, I'm feeling it right now. Fortunately, as a teacher, I have considerable time off in the summer, and not surprisingly, knowing that I don't have to go right back to work after a trip makes everything much less stressed.

I wish I knew the solution, but for now, I'm going to have to content myself with identifying the problem. I'm too busy to do anything else!

Resilience

I like to think of myself as a pretty positive person, steady in the face of crisis, even, but time and again, it's the little things that can get me down. Today I stoically bid my family good-bye and drove 9 1/2 hours through terrible traffic, only to arrive home and find my refrigerator not working. Sigh.

Yesterday at the beach I counted six iPhones, three iPods, an iPod touch, and an iPad in our group. Apple must have seen our family coming. Earlier in the week, my sister and I met the next door neighbor and his dog, a cute, nine-year-old, golden retriever-chow mix. Later, while walking with our mom, we saw the dog out in the yard, and my sister and I spoke of her in very familiar terms. "How do you know that?" my mother asked.

"We did genetic testing on her," I joked.

"We scanned her with our iPhones," my sister added.

"Yeah, there's an app for that," we laughed.

Eventually we explained about meeting the owner, but we were off and running on all sorts of app ideas. (Who Shat That? is still my favorite.)

Personally, I believe there is not only an app for most things, but a poem, too. Here's mine for the broken refirgerator:

Meditation on Ruin

by Jay Hopler

It's not the lost lover that brings us to ruin, or the barroom brawl,
           or the con game gone bad, or the beating
Taken in the alleyway. But the lost car keys,
The broken shoelace,
The overcharge at the gas pump
Which we broach without comment — these are the things that
           eat away at life, these constant vibrations
In the web of the unremarkable.

The death of a father — the death of the mother —
The sudden loss shocks the living flesh alive! But the broken
           pair of glasses,
The tear in the trousers,
These begin an ache behind the eyes.
And it's this ache to which we will ourselves
Oblivious. We are oblivious. Then, one morning—there's a
crack in the water glass —we wake to find ourselves undone.

Fair to Middlin'

Tonight was our last dinner at the beach, and as we gathered around the table, someone proposed that each person share the highlight of the week for them. Next it was the low point, which was sort of negative, but still interesting, and then five-year-old Richard suggested that we tell the middle of our vacation.

We asked him what he meant by that, and he explained that it was something kind of good, but kind of bad, too. He went first. "My middle was when a wave hit me in he face," he said.

Fifteen-year-old Treat was skeptical. "That was the mid-point of your week?" he asked. "Half of the week was worse than getting a face full of salt water? You couldn't have had a very good time."

The adults around the table wanted to jump in and defend Richard, but we were silenced by his explanation. "Treat," he said, "that was my middle because I was a big boy when the water hit me."

His answer clarified the task for us, and next Treat told us about the horseshoe crab tail that he carried all the way back from his bike ride only to discard it in disappointment when he found that everyone else had left the beach to go home.

Emily paused a little before she started. "What was my bittersweet moment?" she wondered aloud, and that word, bittersweet, really helped the rest of us get it. As it turned out, there was much more discussion about those in between times that each of us described than of any of the the highs or the lows, and those stories somehow seemed a lot more revealing and true, too.

What a good question, Richard!