Tread Marks

I think school administrators like a world that is black and white. They like problems to have expedient and inexpensive solutions.  So do all of us for that matter. Unfortunately most real world problems are complex and take some time to solve. The world can't be wrapped up into neat packages of right and wrong. Our imperfect world can be hard for the folks in charge. Too often they mistake being in Command for being in Control. All too often dishing out punishment gives them a sense of order and purpose. It makes them feel that they are doing something and therefore they must be in control.  Control is a myth. And lets be honest here, school administrators are in the business of covering their asses. Perhaps this is true of all of us at some point, but it certainly seems pervasive in those folks who gain authority over others.

Far too many administrators I know are guilty of this kind of thinking. They are not, in fairness, bad people. Just flawed leaders living in a flawed world. The problem is that courage or conviction of purpose gets trumped by survival every time. In their world success is measured by how much they can appease the squeakiest wheels. This system, as you might imagine, has created a lot of squeaky wheels- all trying to out squeak each other for attention. That is when the hyperbolic chorus of privileged suburban parents tends to run amuck. When the rhetoric hits the fan the survivalist administrator reaches for the most expedient solution to appease the swarm of suburban privilege. That solution inevitably involves throwing a  teacher under the wheels of the bus. After ten years in my system and seventeen years of teaching, I've got the tread marks to justify my cynicism.

Once, just once, I'd like to hear a principal acknowledge that this is the way the system works. Just once, I'd like to hear someone say, "I'm sorry, I know this sucks, but it's the only way I can get this crazy vindictive person off our backs".

A footnote on the One Week Challenge

I was initially disappointed in the results. I had no idea that following a few days of recovery I would discover that an authentic change had occurred. The “after burn” of calories is still with me almost one week later! Bottom line: By the end of the week following the challenge I saw a dramatic improvement in energy, stamina, and strength. Rethinking the lessons learned- adding patience to the list.

Rumi and Husam, revisited

After completing the self-indulgent "One Week Challenge", I have decided to re-post this piece. I have added MEW's comment to the body of the text. It's the day before returning to school and a healthy dose of humility is in order as I return to my classroom. -C. 

I just read something about Rumi, the 13^th century Persian poet and Sufi mystic, and his friend Husam[1]. The story goes that Rumi pulled a piece of paper from his turban and read the first lines of the Mathnawi, which he had written that morning to Husam. 

                  “There must be more”, said Husam.

                  “If you will write for me, I will continue”, replied Rumi.

Twelve years later Husam had scribed six volumes containing over fifty-one thousand verses of poetry. Husam recalls that, “He [Rumi] never took a pen in his hand while composing the Mathnawi.” I can’t help but wonder at the remarkable sense of humility Husam had achieved. I’m not sure how much Husam is ever mentioned in discussions of the great poet, but I have to wonder if there would have been a Rumi without a Husam? Husam replied to Rumi, “From this moment, I am your servant” after hearing the promise of more poetry to come.

         I’d like know Husam a little bit better. Was it love? It had to be. My 21^st century brain wants to know if it was romantic love, but my second thoughts dismiss the question as irrelevant. Did Husam have an intuition that there was twelve years of brilliance hiding in Rumi’s head? Did he recognize his own contribution to the creative process? Without a witness, without a scribe, I don’t believe Rumi could have produced the body of work that he did. His words would have been the proverbial tree falling in the woods. Husam reminds me of how different people draw out different aspects of us. What was it about this seemingly humble man that liberated the master to delve so deep into thought? Did Husam care for Rumi, feed him, cook, and clean , and serve?

         I think the Husam’s of this world go uncelebrated, and perhaps they prefer it that way. They are, after all, a modest and humble group. But, they make the world work. They make room for the genius to happen. They make the container that can hold the creation, which would otherwise spill onto the floor and be lost. I have no doubt that the world would be a better place if there were more Husams in it and less aspiring Rumis. 

MEW'S Comment:

as teachers aren't we all Husam? we get things out of others that might never come to light if we didn't ask for them. yet our role in their creation is never the focus of the final product.

---

[1] The Longing: Poetry, Teachings, Stories, and Letters of Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks and John Moyne

What Happy People Know

 

What is it that happy people do or know that allows them to enjoy a human existence? 

So far I have come up with three rules for happiness. I call them Steinman’s Rules for Happiness.[1]

1.  Allow yourself to feel what you are feeling, when you are feeling it. Talk about it.

Let’s unpack that a bit.

Happy people know that being unhappy is not a problem or a disease.  It’s part of the human experience. Before you go all crazy on me, please know that I am NOT talking about the very real and debilitating experience of chronic or clinical depression. I’m talking about the blues. Rather than trying to fix their blues, happy people are present with their feelings. Rather than suppressing their anger, they find healthy ways to be in it and express it. Happy people understand that a fully human experience is dynamic and rich and most certainly includes joys and pains. That is the way we are built folks. Happy people accept that it is natural to have a range of emotions.

2.  Do things that you can be proud of.

Unpacking time:

Happy people have  a self-esteem predicated upon some pretty healthy criteria. They behave in ways that they can be proud of. It happens to be a great yardstick by which to measure your behavior; is this something I can be proud of or not? When we behave in ways that will plant the seeds of shame, we are practicing being miserable. This ties into rule number one. Often when you are behaving in a way that you are not proud of it is because you are trying to protect yourself from feeling shame, or fear, or anger, or sadness. If you allowed yourself to stay present with the feeling when it came up, you might not be defending yourself in such a maladaptive way. The antidote for these uncomfortable feelings is doing things that you truly can be proud of. The tough part is figuring out what that is. Doing it is relatively easy.

3.  Be in loving relationships.

No big secret. Again, it’s the way we are built. We need it and we need to give it. Imagine a loveless life……no thank you! The thing is, caring and sharing are essential for our own happiness. I can’t help thinking about my grandfather when I talk about this. He was not an overtly loving or demonstrative man. But put the man near a puppy or one of his beloved dogs and he radiated joy. It was the simplest of affections, give the dog a treat or a scratch behind the ears and the old man was home. 

One quick diversion into “loving yourself”. I always hated that saccharine flavored sentiment. It always sounded like something from a poorly worded book jacket in the self-help aisle. Be kind to yourself feels a bit more authentic. Happy people don’t go around “loving” themselves. They really don’t take themselves too seriously, and love just seems too serious a word. What they do is extend the everyday kindnesses to themselves as well as others. Look you are going to mess up….a lot. Happy people just don’t spend a whole lot of time beating themselves up over this. Unhappy people spend a great deal of energy on self-flagellation. It’s one of their favorite pastimes. Happy people are a forgiving lot. They may not throw a parade for all the screw-ups that permeate the human experience. Nor will they waste too much time agonizing over that stupid slip of the tongue at so and so’s wedding ten years ago.[2]

Being a happy person might just be that simple:

1.     Do things that you can be proud of.

2.   Be in loving relationships.

3.   Allow yourself to feel what you are feeling, when you are feeling it.

    -Talk about it.

Oh and be nice. Mean people suck.

---

[1] I teach a very concrete group of kids, if it’s not a “rule” than it doesn’t count.

[2] Full disclosure time- I may not qualify as a happy person, I cringe every time I think about that wedding and bang my hang against the wall to make all the stupid go away.

The Mine Field

         I wrote the following post a few months ago. I left it unpublished because I thought it was too angry….to cynical. I’m not an angry or cynical man. But sometimes you need to rant. Tomorrow I will be more caring and forgiving. Tomorrow I will seek to understand why people arrive at their own cruelty, and hopefully recognize that it is the product of their own, very real, pain. But today……..today I will rant.

The Mine Field
         It’s all mine fields. Every step I take as an educator is just another step towards KaBoom.  It’s because we demonize each other and are our humanity. We take every opportunity to beat each other down. When a teacher reveals that they don’t know everything, Kaboom. When teachers don’t have expedient solutions to a bullying crisis, KaBoom. When a teacher turns out to be a human being, KABOOM! Maybe you think I’m being too cynical?
         If so, let’s do an experiment. Imagine you are a parent of a second grader. Your angel comes home and says, “Mr. Smith said the word shit today!”. Do you-
A). Write an Op-Ed piece in the N.Y. Times denouncing the educational system.
B). Start a petition going in order to get Mr. Smith fired.
C). Call the principal right away demanding that your angel be removed from Mr. Smith’s class and threaten to sue the school if the demands are not met.
D). Ask your child for more information, in order to place the event in context.

         Let’s be honest here, if you live in the privileged suburbs surrounding Boston you know that “D” is a rare event. That response is relegated to those who spend their lives in the company of children and who know intimately how quickly those innocent little people can manufacture an “oh shit” moment. You might find out that in the case of our unfortunate Mr. Smith, little Joey turned around really quickly after doing his job as the pencil sharpening monitor for the day and accidentally embedded some graphite into Mr. Smith’s posterior. Luckily for Mr. Smith, he had his back to Joey. This was because he was comforting Lucy, who had accidentally ruined her best friends dress by projectile vomiting the mystery meat served in the cafeteria earlier that day. At least Mr. Smith was prepared for this. You see the kids had been dropping like flies all week and Mr. Smith was a veteran teacher. He has a stash of emergency clothes and disinfectant wipes (that he purchased with his own meager salary, because the school system won’t pay for such things). Still, Mr. Smith might not have uttered the offensive syllable had not the chain reaction of illness begun. One sick child and an inadvertent impaling really isn’t enough to rattle a seasoned teacher. But…. three simultaneous evacuations of the digestive system just as the alarm for a fire drill sounds. Well, that might produce a slip of the tongue.
         Thank god for the ever vigilant helicopter mom who, upon hearing her child utter the very same syllable she learned from Mr. Smith (yeah, right!! Dad is a Red Sox fan!!!), the stay at home Mom with a full time nanny had the presence of mind to inquire a little bit more about the events and felt pangs of sympathy for the dedicated educator. Not a chance.
         Forgive me, but I’ve come to my cynicism honestly. It is so rare that I see folks function with compassion and empathy. We are so reactionary, so quick to blame and demonize. The act of refraining from a judgment or asking a follow up question is intrinsically compassionate. What really gets to me is that inevitably it is the most privileged among us who are so devoid of empathy and compassion?
          It seems that the most virulent attacks come from those parents who feel overwhelmed by a play date involving more than two children. These very same parents feel free to criticize a teacher who regularly handles 24 children with confidence. Likewise, administrators whom have never taught in a subject area feel free to criticize a lesson plan informed by nothing more that a loose understanding of the content.
         It all adds up to one big mine field, just waiting for us educators to be slight less than perfect. Then ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,you guessed it, KABOOM

Eleven-TEEN (rough draft)

“Daddy! I’m Eleven-TEEN”, my youngest twin said with the incredulous and perfectly executed eye-roll of a seasoned adolescent. I can’t recall what we were arguing about. It doesn’t really matter anyway. Facts are inconsequential relative to the greater truth of “I’m right and YOU are wrong”.  I am playing the role of YOU this evening. In fairness, the role belongs to my wife. I am merely the understudy. Tweedle B has been affirming her status as a teenager these days, drawn to all things adolescent and salacious. It hasn’t been all that bad. She and I have been having some interesting conversations lately, that is…..when I can get her to talk. With Twin B I have to employ stealth parenting.

Last night we had a good one, here is the gist:

We were stargazing and snuggled up. For some reason we got on the subject of ancient Greece and I began to tell the story of Icarus. She decided that Icarus flew too close to the sun out of “Pride and Arrogance”.  She arrived at this conclusion after speculating that Icarus was about her age, Eleven-TEEN. In her opinion, boys her age are inherently arrogant and way too proud of themselves. With great effort I resisted the urge to point out the pinch of arrogance and pride the whole "I'm right YOU are wrong" sensibility requires. Instead, we started talking about “pride” in both it’s positive and negative aspects. Finally, and stealthily, I asked her what she was proud of.
         “My difference!”, she replied without a trace of hesitation.

I found this curious, given that she is an identical twin. As an identical twin myself, I know first hand how hard it is to hold on to a sense of identity independent of your clone. As a very young child I had to grasp at straws to find a defining characteristic. It mostly came out in statements like, "I’m the one with the BLUE sneakers, not the RED ones", or more importantly "I like Batman, he likes Superman". We never did agree upon who got to be John and who got to be Paul when we played air guitar in synch with  Sgt. Pepper’s. It was a forgone conclusion that Butchy, our Lhasa Apso, got to be Ringo. He had the eyes for the part and was, in all likelihood,the better drummer.

         Twin B feels proud of her “difference” and I suspect Twin A might be a little resentful of it. The twins simultaneously feel compelled to differentiate from each other and feel rejected by the distinction that creates. I don’t envy their journey into adulthood, but I do empathize with their experience. My twin and I, unknowingly, struggled with the very same issue. I wish I could remember how we made some peace with it; how we moved from competitors to a relationship of mutual respect? The simple fact is, Glenn is among the best men I know, and anyone saying otherwise is itching for a fight.

Birds of a feather (Re-write)

      When I was a student at the School of Environmental Science and Forestry in Syracuse, New York I made frequent visits to the Montezuma National Wildlife Refuge. The place was fascinating and had all the elements of a true wilderness experience while still being close enough to “Doug’s Fish Fry and Cheap Beer” to satisfy my sensitive college palate. For me, it was the eagles that made Montezuma such a special place. There was a nest on the refuge that was shared by two males and one female, along with their offspring that had not yet fledged. Gene Houcut, the District Manager in charge of Montezuma claimed that it was the single most successful nest in the state, and I have no reason to doubt it. I always saw fledging when I was there. However, the fecundity of this breeding group was not what made these birds special. Up until then, it was largely believed that eagles were monogamous and mated for life. These birds had quite a different idea. On this nest everyone mounted everyone. It was not unusual to see the female mount both males, nor was it unusual to see the males sharing an intimate moment together. Leave it to me to find the sexual deviants of the species.

         I was thinking about these birds as the young man sitting next to me on my flight to visit Grandma Jane began to unwind his life story. He introduced himself with a name that I know his Mama didn’t give him. Suffice it to say that my first impressions were that either this young man was compensating for his shortness of stature or he had an uncommon attachment to his favorite comic book hero. His adopted name was punctuated by matching tattoos, like name tags.  I always like nametags, it makes things so much easier the morning after. But I digress…..

         During the five-hour flight I grew quickly to admire this unique man. For now, let’s call him Spidey. Spidey, like my birds, danced to a different beat. His stage name(s), are alternatively Mystique and Wolverine. His characters are adversaries who don’t realize they in habit the same body. One dances as a woman and the other dances as a man. He intermingles break dancing and hip-hop with the erotic forms of dance involving poles. Spidey arrived at these characters after some tough times, including a bad injury. While his stage life and his drag life were interesting, what I found most compelling about Spidey was how multifaceted he was. His nine-year-old son was playing quietly in the seat next to him and Spidey seemed to have an easy caring way with him. His son was an adorable and intelligent kid, clearly deeply loved. Apparently he spent a few weeks with his Dad every summer, before returning to his mom and stepfather. The two had just finished a trip to visit a quickly fading father/grandfather. Spidey was raised in a sleepy town deep inside the blue-line of the Adirondack State Park. As a younger man he made his living as a professional skateboarder and snow boarder prior to coming out as a drag racer. I’m not sure what he meant by drag racing, but I’m pretty sure it involved pole dancing in women’s clothing rather than cars. He mentioned something about RuPaul’s drag race, and I just can’t picture that seven-foot tall goddess behind the wheel of a racecar.

         The thing I found beautiful about Spidey was that he is not someone to be defined. He is openly bi-sexual, he is both masculine and feminine without being androgynous. He challenges the norms without being a rebel. He seems to refuse to play the “queen”, but genuinely inhabits Mystique’s character as a real woman. In his own brave way he is redefining what a drag queen is just by existing. Perhaps, my eagles are a bit like Spidey. I’m pretty sure no one explained to the Montezuma Eagles that Bald Eagles are suppose to be monogamous for life AND they certainly don’t mount same gendered birds or have multiple partners. They changed our ideas about what being an eagle is by simply existing.

         Now comes the really interesting question; how will Spidey’s offspring and the Montezuma fledglings turn out? I can’t wait to find out.

[i]

[ii]

[iii]

---

[i] My apologies to Spidey if I misunderstood or misrepresented him in anyway. This post was the result of my impressions of a chance meeting on a 5-hour plane ride. In telling the story, I am sure there are inevitable inaccuracies.

[ii] I make absolutely no apologies to the Eagles at Montezuma Wildlife Refuge, all statements regarding them are accurate.

[iii] At Spidey’s request, I have removed the original post entitled “Birds of a Feather” With respect to this request, I have changed names and removed places that might identify him. I hope I have conveyed the spirit of the original piece without compromising his request for more anonymity. This is a story about paradigm shifts and power of being an individual.