mysteries and faith

In my backpack there are a couple of very useful mesh pockets. They’re designed for water bottles, but they also collect my spare change, biking gloves, hand sanitizer, and other odds and ends that get stuck there. This morning, fishing out some change for tacos, I found two chocolates.

I ate them.

But how did they get there? I didn’t put them there, I don’t think. Perhaps I should have thought harder about this before eating them; and in truth, I did think about sinister possibilities: disgruntled student putting rat poison tainted treats in my bag, one of my wives trying to drug me, someone trying to further whittle away what physical fitness I have remaining. I considered all these and more, but I ate them anyway.

Perhaps I’m just that dumb and, like my dog, will just eat anything that is in front of me. It’s very likely. Or maybe I don’t really consider enough the possible ill effects of something. I wouldn’t be the first human to suffer from such, nor the last. Maybe I can’t control myself and my most basic desires that emanate from the bottom of my brain, just above the most basic functionings of the upper spinal column, the kinds of things that make invertebrates and a few political pundits function. I could be just that basic. If you’ve seen me eating a bowl of Doritos, you’d nominate this as the cause of my poor judgement.

I’d like to think that I’m functioning on a faith that, overall, there’s more goodness out there than malevolence. I have been operating more and more all the time that, in spite of all the shitty things we are capable of doing, we generally have the best intentions. I believe that there are people out there who teach second grade because they love — not just like — children. I believe people want other people to be happy and prosperous. I believe there are people out there who would see my backpack in a classroom and would, instead of swiping it, put two chocolates inside. And operating on that belief, I ate my chocolates. They were delicious, a communion of sorts based on a faith in humanity.

tag teams

I work daily with situations that could never be made up in the most extraordinary pieces of fiction. Quantum mechanics, science misconceptions, student interactions — these all open the door wide for a traveling circus of stories that I don’t even have words for. It’s usually not even explainable in a tale of the day’s happenings. At dinner it’s much more interesting to hear what happened in a second grade classroom, or what Miss Bennett said to one of Anna’s classmates. The stories I have to tell are fractured, just glimpses into insanity and wonder via snippets of conversation. Quotes like, “at least we’re not Estonia,” “but what if I drove to Washington D.C.?” and “my sperm count’s too low” are all among classics I’ve heard and look back on fondly. Alas, they make no sense if you weren’t there. And maybe not even if you were.

Today, though, provides a story that could be made into a short story, or at least just enough of an image to make me grin. I was just informed that the adjunct faculty retreat being planned for a Saturday in February had accidentally been double-booked with another event in our student union’s ballrooms. I wasn’t particularly surprised by this, but I was surprised and additionally delighted by the specific conflict: professional wrestling.

I’m left with a decision: Change the date for my event, which is probably just as well, though inconvenient. Or . . . yes . . . we could use alternate space in the same building. And perhaps there’s potential for “team building” exercises. Or unfortunate confusion. An underpaid composition instructor gets thrown into the ring and gets body slammed? Or, better yet, in these times of economic downturn, instructors battle it out for their teaching assignments. Just think of the potential battles, the outfits, the personas, the invented names. As it is, I’ve been wrestling myself with how to reform professional development. Who knew that this would play out so clearly, concretely, and physically in a planned event.

brevity

I could stand to be more brief, concise, in my writing.

constancy & change; status quo & complications

Some things on this Earth are enduring. One of these, at least since the 1957 launch of Sputnik, is the ritual of science fair; and at any science fair you will see a volcano and a solar system model. At my most recent elementary school visit and judging I think there were two of each. There were also a high number of microbiological studies, an occurrence the competition’s coordinator attributed to my students bringing an interactive demonstration on germ transmission a few weeks before. One of these projects, conducted by the neighbor kid, showed that the highest number of microbes on any of his swabbed spots in the school happened to be the communal hand sanitizer. It so happens that this is the one used as kids enter the school and line up for lunch.

I love to judge and visit the elementary school science fair because there is so much variety and thinking and nerves and, most of all, splendid quotes from the mouths of babes. There weren’t too many quotables this time, but I did really like the hypothesis that “tobacco will have the same effect on fish that it does on humans.” I pictured a small-brained, scaled ancestor out on the corner, puffing away while skipping class or taking a break from work. But this fifth grader was thinking of other effects. Turns out, feeding a fish tobacco makes it sick, so that it swims slowly and only in one corner of its small tank.

That was all yesterday. Today, I found myself back on campus, heading to the “other” office, which happens to be in the library. Entering the building I was immediately reminded that there was a book fair today. I was reminded because, well, there were stacks and piles of books pouring from tables, each with a sign designating a genre. I bounced to the pile with the small “education” flag. Funny, some of the used, donated, perhaps obsolete books sat on the shelf in my office. Others I might have donated myself. In particular I found a book called “Models of Teaching,” useful, for sure. I have a copy of the 2004 edition, but this one was the 1972 edition. There was also a hardbacked piece on models of learning, but it was on the other side of the table. Interesting. Also on the table: a useful guide on winning chess matches via opening strategies, and a large full color coffee table book dedicated to images of kittens. All these, apparently, go together. No wonder we’re confused.

Yesterday, before I was at the science fair, I was giving a presentation — a plea, actually — to my teaching students. It was about goals, teaching, and learning, and getting these all straight. You can’t be clear how you’re going to teach until you know what kind of learning you want students to attain; and you can’t know this until you know what your goals are. Mixing the pretty photos of the oh-so-cute kittens on the education table seems odd, but I think we’re doing this all the time. Fill in a glitzy PowerPoint slide animation or a brand new smart board for the cute kittens. It can be very confusing. I’d just revert to a model of the solar system, too, if I were doing science fair. In fact, truth be told, I showed my rock collection in fifth grade. It was worse than the solar systems and volcanoes I so despise now.

Confusion takes me to other prospects. In my office, after the pause at the book fair, I’m considering a recent prospect. I, from my mountain west university, could potentially find myself at a summer meeting place in London where I’ll meet faculty from Saudi Arabia. I’ve been asked to teach them how to teach. In four days.

How to teach all of teaching (it’s an Escher painting in word form) in four days? I’m told that I’m the right person for this. I’m terrified and excited. I would like to think that this task is impossible, but I also can’t help but think that if I don’t do this, someone else will. And how exciting to try to develop something so impossible and so prone to failure and so remarkably dreamlike, in the “dream” sense of juxtoposition of completely non sequitur pieces: me teaching teaching to turbaned and veiled faculty in a country foreign to all of us. Shit. Strangely but reasonably, it’s one of the few crazy just-one-more-tasks that Karyn thinks is a fantastic idea, and we’re already talking to the girls about what it would be like to go to Europe.

In the meantime, I still need to figure out how to teach my own how-to-teach courses, both for my students and for faculty here. And on Monday I’ve just scheduled a meeting with someone who wrote this in an email:

I would like to ask you if you and your students would like to participate in our project in Guatemala. I think it can be a great service learning/community research opportunity for them. I was going to explain everything by email, but it is too complicated.

“Too complicated” seems like an understatement. Seems like it’s just part of the norm, now.

Later, still in my office this morning, I had a meeting with someone who needs my help. People say this when they want to flatter you, but this group really does. I said “Project 2061″ and he didn’t know what I was talking about, and they’re writing for a group whose initials are NSF. We talked research and evaluation. And then I ate lunch.

I found out, just a few hours later, that I got the grant to go visit more schools. (So now I have to do it!) That is, the same trouble that caused the neighbor kid to swab the hand sanitizer dispenser. That is, I can go back to schools with more stuff and more people and I could do my penance for ever trying to pass off my rock collection as a science fair project.

diversion and distraction

Today I’m teaching class on the nature of scientific inquiry and hosting a panel discussion entitled “The Death of the University?” All exciting and enough to think about, but other things pop into my psyche:

• I’m being sued. Sure, it’s along with some other people, not so bad. Mostly just not much of a ‘thank you’ for volunteering to work on a school board.
• I got asked to be a co-PI on a giant federal grant that’s essentially already been written.
• Someone’s coming to talk to me tomorrow to see if I could potentially teach in England this summer.
• We could reformulate our lab program next semester and I could get a chance to study it.
• There are tacos for lunch from Rita’s.
• And something else . . . just give it 5 minutes, I’m sure.

But I really need to think about class and the panel. Tough work when your stomach is growling and there’s the prospect of carnitas (and law suits and giant grants and England studies and . . . ) very soon.

the return trip: halfway

Today’s workshop on electricity and magnetism went really well. I brought lots of stuff, they asked lots of questions, and it went directions that were surprising. It was fun. And then I left, packing two boxes of stuff in the trunk of the State’s econobox and heading up the road. The red rocks of southern Utah were back by a blue sky.

And then there was that wall of clouds. You can fill in the rest of the story. It took me four and a half hours to travel half the distance of a four and a half hour drive. I think I could have kept going and gotten in extra late, but being tired and tired of being where I was, I pulled over in the state’s “best kept secret,” according to the county travel magazine.

I have a room where I can watch college football and not move. There’s beer and road trip chips left.

But mostly it’s sad. I walked across the icy parking lot into the restaurant of this “Paradise Inn.” Confirming that my table was only for one, I was escorted into a back room, a booth against the wall under a low hanging incandescent bulb. I ordered the tomato soup and half sandwich. It all felt like the inside of a sad poem. I read the placemat that documented the history and festivities of the local area. Twice.

All things considered, I’m in a good spot. I’m comfortable, relaxed, with wireless access, and I have a couple of books. It’s 10:30, now so maybe none of that’s even necessary. (At one point, I thought I could do some grading while stuck on the road, but I’m now considering that a ridiculous idea, unless I get up early and bath in some coffee.) Even as I’m wistful for camaraderie and other adventures surrounded by a half glass full, my metaphorical glass is half full. With not too much trouble I should be able to be home in time tomorrow to return the car, help with science fair projects, finish that grading, and get to spend time at home.

a long commute

Today, I found myself volunteering to others after an initial greeting — “How are things?” “Good.” “You?” “Not bad.” — that I was “heading to St. George tonight to do an electricity and magnetism workshop with 5th grade teachers all day tomorrow and then driving back.” I don’t usually volunteer my weekend commitments so readily or completely, but for some reason this just summed up my focus, or lack thereof. “Fine,” or “good,” or “getting by” — none of these explained adequately where I was. Describing the trip “to St. George” immediately described a 5 hour drive each way, but followed by the “electricity and magnetism with teachers” it painted a whole different picture.

Truth be told, maybe I wanted a little sympathy for the endurance of the trip. I also think I like the identity of being the one to drive to the opposite corner (literally) of a boxy western state to work on science concepts with teachers. While a large part of me has been loathing the trip, some other part of me would have felt left out not to be doing this. Even the roadtrip (now that I’ve arrived at my squeaky clean Holiday Inn Express just off the highway) was fun. Mostly. Some events and features:

• I stopped at Home Depot on my way out of town to get batteries, wire snips, and sandpaper, all necessary items to add to the two crates of stuff already loaded. While in the tool aisle, I gawked at the most gigantic toolbox I’ve ever seen, rivaling the one that I’ve been using to transport science equipment to schools by a factor of 2 in volume. $59. I wheeled it around and tried it out, realizing that I was delaying time for my commute. I almost bought it, knowing I was in search of something like this anyway. But then I envisioned it not fitting into the new state owned Ford Focus, and imagined the comedy of me trying to wedge it into the back seat. So, another time. But it’s on my list.
• I was stuck in traffic. for. a. long. time. It was fucking 4:00 PM on a Friday. And later, but not much farther, it was 5:00 PM on a Friday. I loathed all people. I listened to a scathing review on NPR of the movie 2012, in which most everyone dies. For a moment, that vision didn’t sound so bad. (The review was hilariously scathing.)
• I got to listen to 2 hours of NPR. The best story, easily, was this one about a guy who photographs in the arctic and antarctic. He talks about narwhals and beluga whales like they’re cats in your backyard, an encounter with a leopard seal that threatened to eat him like it’s just part of a day’s experience at work.
• I drove by the location where, as I recently learned, Footloose was filmed.
• I got to listen to whatever music I wanted, as loud as I wanted. Jazz or Ben Folds or both — stuff the rest of my family would never put up with. I sang. Sometimes harmony (practicing, just in case), sometimes melody. I was fabulous.
• When my friend Trouble makes good on his dream/midlife-crisis to learn to play bass, I found the perfect song for us to take on the road, bass and piano.
• I thought I would be planning in my head the details of the workshop. I did a little, but not so much. I did think of a great comeback to a faculty member’s protest about 150 miles into my trip. I’m ready with it now. And I thought a bit about a panel discussion I’m moderating next week. It’s also very likely that I imagined and maybe even role played a future interview I’ll have with Jon Stewart on the Daily Show, but I’d never admit to it. It’s just to show that you can do a lot, alone in the car, over the course of 300 miles.
• I ate really bad food. It was delicious. You’d never think to mix salt and pepper potato chips with a frothy Starbucks frappuccino.
• I stopped off at the only gas station in sight of the hotel I’m staying at to see if it accepts this special state gas card. It doesn’t. But it had cold beer, so the stop wasn’t a complete waste.

Now I’m in that post-long-drive antsy state. I need to review a few things for tomorrow, but not too much. That’s another thing: I can’t believe not only that I’m here, but that I’m ready to be here. A few hours ago I was racing back and forth to turn in a grant application, get a signature, take a phone call, collect the stuff, go to the meeting, get the car, kiss the family, and get stuck in traffic. The beer sure tastes good.

red and blue weekend

It’s easy to keep the identity of my beloved spouse a secret, even if I post pictures of her. Why? Because she usually looks like this, a sexy figure behind a cyclops-esque device that swallows landscapes and portraits:

And it’s a virus that’s spread to her daughters:

Karyn’s in the hat and behind the camera in the foreground, and the girls are pointing their lenses down towards her. And me, I’m behind all this, pointing another camera back up the slope.

This is all from our weekend away in Southern Utah, bouncing around the Moab area. The skies were just that blue and the rocks are just that red. Karyn’s own pictures show this much better than mine, but you get the idea.

These trips to these places are kind of cathartic for us, not just a family escape but a spiritual revival. We don’t find ourselves speaking in tongues or emerging from rivers with cleansed souls, but there’s definitely a recharging. Others have written about this and others will continue to. I’m not really sure what else I can add to that discussion.

I’m usually reminded of other trips with each new trip. I knew I’d been, but I’d forgotten about Navajo Arch in Devil’s Garden until we stepped into it. I’d remembered the walls of sandstone above the Colorado River, but I also didn’t remember it. I knew that I could climb up the impossible inclines of slickrock, but I didn’t believe it until my feet were on those slopes again.

A few things I remember very specifically, like this particular Juniper tree:

There’s an essay in there somewhere about the arrogance of the Juniper tree, offering to hold the sandstone fin in place. Who’s leaning on whom? I imagine that the craggly old wood is going out of its way to hold the stone in place; but the stone has seen that type before, come and go, just a passing fad of the millennium.

And then I get caught in the quandary: Are the rocks built out of sand, or does the sand get eroded out of the rock? On my last visit to this place with teachers, I sat in between some fins working on a piece about the erosion of each piece of sand until a grain, previously buried in the Entrada layer, suddenly sees the light as its neighboring grains get whittled away, a whole new world that is not really so new; and a moment later it’s adrift in the wind, renewed as a dune.

I know that we tend to over-anthropomorphize inanimate objects like grains of sand. I also suspect that sand is bitter about the fact that we over-relate our human selves to the trial of sand grains. It’s all fair.

Regardless of any of this, it was a good trip. Necessary, even. Like the final escape of a grain of sand from its sandstone fin; or the helpful nudge of the juniper against the rock wall; or neither. Sometimes it’s good just to go on a walk.

progressivism and its opposite

Today I went to lunch with a small book group. We’re reading John Dewey’s Experience and Education, a short primer on how the progressivist’s stance should look and how it’s justified in education. The “progressivist” is in contrast to what Dewey refers to as the “traditional” model for education. This could also be referred to as the “essentialist” position. Essentially, the essentialist teaches that which we already know, passing down the old knowledge that makes our culture what it is; the progressivist prepares students for an unknown, dynamic world in the future. These could each be used to teach the same course. And they are both defendable positions, of course, with the slight advantage that progressivism is actually right and essentialism is wrong. Other than that, they’re equally defensible.

At about the same time, Karyn was in a district training session in which she learned something about how to coach elementary students in remedial math. I suppose we don’t have particularly ambitious, progressivist goals for third grade remediation in math. Maybe that’s the problem. At any rate, Karyn spent her day going through scripts. And then she rehearsed the scripts. In unison with the other tutors. It sounded worse than painful. But then it got worse still. They learned about “wait time.” They learned that they should wait one, two seconds for an answer. Two seconds for the mental wheels to turn. (I give my college pre-med students about 15 seconds.) So, of course, they rehearsed this. To practice they counted to two, out loud, in unison, at the end of their script.

And then they were reminded: Don’t count out loud when you’re doing this with the children, as that might be distracting. Just count to yourself. One. Two.*

I apologized to Karyn. Everything I and everyone else I work with in science and math education are failures. I gave her a hug and said how sorry I was. Then, I put my head against the wall and moaned.

____

*To be fair, Karyn suggested that this kind of training seemed to be helpful to some of the part time tutors. Huh.

the chair

This is the chair that I’m sitting in right now, sans me:

It’s one of those things that I’ve wanted for years, and suddenly on Friday afternoon it was just here, along with a rearranged living room. Karyn and the girls had had it shipped, and they spent their afternoon getting the chair ready for when I got home. They wanted to make sure, as Anna described, that it was ready for me so that I could “drink beer and grade papers.” So far I’ve drunk some beer, written a few things, had some coffee, listened to music, and read the New York Times. I’ve also pointed to it and said “look at my new chair” to guests. And now I sit in it, becoming one with the leather and working my hands into the hardwood. Like the piano behind it, it should be here a long time.

I’m fortunate in many ways, more than I can list. We’re healthy and we can afford where we live and the things we do, and we’ve reached a point where there are a few things beyond what we “need” that can show up randomly on a Friday afternoon in October. But most of all I’m fortunate that I have a family who thinks of all these things; daughters who answer the phone when I call from the office and giggle while simultaneously telling me “nothing” when I ask what’s going on; a partner who had long planned to cash in her first paychecks to invest in the chair I’ve always wanted. Most of all, they were excited to see me sit in it and drink a beer and listen to music.