The best thing I heard all week... it's a tie.
1) Hearing my gddaughter pronounce the Hebrew letters on the dreidel we gave her for Hanukkah
2) Receiving a phone call from my pen pal, unexpectedly, after such a busy few months
The worst thing was hearing that my cat had, finally, as I had feared, run out the front door - but, don't worry! We got her back in... I didn't cry... really... *sniff sniff*
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
Friday Sabbath: It's all about bearded white men
Hanukkah is a lovely, light-hearted holiday that offers a week of devoted togetherness within Jewish households. In a nation where most of us are busier than we can handle, I hope this holiday reminds Jews of the old laws of slowing down, taking time to rest. Really, it's a lovely idea.
But, my issue with this holiday, and several others, is the specific omission of the female heroines who make so many Jewish "miracles" possible. I keep saying I'm going to rewrite some of the seders and ceremonies for modern Jews to include these brave women more actively in the remembrance of the holy days.
As I said yesterday, Hanukkah celebrates the miracle that happened in the temple... the temple that needed to be purified... because the Greeks had filled it with their non-kosher habits... because the Jews were able to overcome the Greek army...
...and HOW did they do that? The Greek army was defeated because a courageous, Jewish woman walked into the tent of the Greek commander, Holofernes. She seduced him, and as he fell into a drunken slumber, she sawed off his head. With the commander dead, the Greek army lost all sense of how to fight, making it easier for the Jews to overtake them.
Is this story in the children's books? Of course not. Is it mentioned in the prayers said over the lights of the menorah? No. Do all Jews who celebrate Hanukkah know this story? Again, NO. The Jewish person I know best didn't even know who Judith was until I took a Baroque Art History class.
Obviously the Christian religion is guilty of a similar discrimination. The only women who receive any siginificant recognition are Mary, Mother of Jesus, and Mary Magdalene... a female disciple. Is Mary Magdalene included in the 12 apostles? No. They were all men... men who followed Jesus around... But, so did Mary. Shouldn't there have been 13 apostles? I actually think there was one other women as well, so was 14 not a good number?
It's simpler than that. Women do not count.
They do the dirty work, but they are not equal to the men who observed and recorded the miracles after the women saved their lives. It's like Purim. During the acutal services at Temple, you don't hear Esther's name more than once. How is that fair? Esther risked her life to save her people... She walked into the chamber of the king without being summoned. At the time, such an action was punishable by death. However, the king was fond of his wife, and spared her life. Instead, he honored her request to save the Jews from the genocide that the king's advisor had planned (that there would be one day on which all members of the kingdom had to bow down to the king... knowing that the Jews only bowed down to Gd... and the king fell for it).
Admittedly, sex and seduction has always been a spikey subject. In fact, the only times I remember hearing about sex in church were all in reference to the "naughty characters," like the woman who asked for the head of John the Baptist... Potiphar's wife who tried to seduce Joseph (who refused, enraging her, and so she told her husband that he had propositioned her and Potiphar threw Joseph out)... and the less I say about Jezebel the better. However, Jews, in my opinion, have always seemed to have a much healthier perspective on sex than most Christians who see it as taboo, as the method by which we all inherit the original sin committed by (Guess who? A woman, of course!) Eve in the Garden of Eden. In the old marriage contracts, Jewish women were protected in writing concerning how often her "needs" should be met depending on the man's occupation.
So, one may bind sex rules up in the Jewish law and tradition of marriage, but no one speaks for the women who used their wiles to help perpetuate the entire Jewish race? Makes me wonder if men would simply prefer not to have to admit that they're as easy as they are...
Don't misunderstand me - there are a handful of Jewish men that deserve every bit of recognition they receive. I, myself, am a big fan of Daniel, the prophetic boy. But, the problem creeps up again... Manyof you, most likely, do not know that a whole chapter of Daniel was removed after the dawn of the Middle Ages. The 13th Book of Daniel tells the story of Susanna, one of my favorite characters of Medieval Literature. Susanna was a Jewish woman who was very devoted to her husband. She was also beautiful, and other men definitely noticed her. Two elders of the Hebrew circle spied on her as she bathed in her garden unattended and caught her unawares. They threatened her to submit to them (sexually, naturally)... if she refused, they would accuse her of adultery anyway, which would cost her her life. She still refused, telling them that Gd would know the truth of her actions and she would never betray her husband. So, they formally accused her and she was hauled into court. It was Daniel who asked them, "Under what tree in her garden did you see her commit adultery?" Neither of the elders could come up with the actual tree that grew by her bath, and she was proven innocent. I'd say both Daniel and Susanna should get some credit for this shining example faith and conscience. But, unless you have a copy of the Douhay-Rheims Bible or bother to search the internet, you won't find this story in your Bible. Was it because it focused too much on a woman and not enough on the heroics of good old Daniel? Probably.
I was once told by a close Jewish friend, "All Jewish holidays are about the same thing: They tried to kill us. We killed them instead. Let's eat!" While that's a simplification, it's also partially true. It's not like there's any gratitude for the risks and sacrifices of Judith, Esther, or Jael... for the bravery of all the Jewish people, not just the men who waited in the dark for a woman to risk her life so that the men had a clear shot of the enemy.
So, for this Hanukkah season, I'm going to say a few words after the prayers to thank Judith, for having more guts than most men... and for having the strength to cut off a man's head.
(from http://sai.msu.su)
But, my issue with this holiday, and several others, is the specific omission of the female heroines who make so many Jewish "miracles" possible. I keep saying I'm going to rewrite some of the seders and ceremonies for modern Jews to include these brave women more actively in the remembrance of the holy days.
As I said yesterday, Hanukkah celebrates the miracle that happened in the temple... the temple that needed to be purified... because the Greeks had filled it with their non-kosher habits... because the Jews were able to overcome the Greek army...
...and HOW did they do that? The Greek army was defeated because a courageous, Jewish woman walked into the tent of the Greek commander, Holofernes. She seduced him, and as he fell into a drunken slumber, she sawed off his head. With the commander dead, the Greek army lost all sense of how to fight, making it easier for the Jews to overtake them.
Is this story in the children's books? Of course not. Is it mentioned in the prayers said over the lights of the menorah? No. Do all Jews who celebrate Hanukkah know this story? Again, NO. The Jewish person I know best didn't even know who Judith was until I took a Baroque Art History class.
Obviously the Christian religion is guilty of a similar discrimination. The only women who receive any siginificant recognition are Mary, Mother of Jesus, and Mary Magdalene... a female disciple. Is Mary Magdalene included in the 12 apostles? No. They were all men... men who followed Jesus around... But, so did Mary. Shouldn't there have been 13 apostles? I actually think there was one other women as well, so was 14 not a good number?
It's simpler than that. Women do not count.
They do the dirty work, but they are not equal to the men who observed and recorded the miracles after the women saved their lives. It's like Purim. During the acutal services at Temple, you don't hear Esther's name more than once. How is that fair? Esther risked her life to save her people... She walked into the chamber of the king without being summoned. At the time, such an action was punishable by death. However, the king was fond of his wife, and spared her life. Instead, he honored her request to save the Jews from the genocide that the king's advisor had planned (that there would be one day on which all members of the kingdom had to bow down to the king... knowing that the Jews only bowed down to Gd... and the king fell for it).
Admittedly, sex and seduction has always been a spikey subject. In fact, the only times I remember hearing about sex in church were all in reference to the "naughty characters," like the woman who asked for the head of John the Baptist... Potiphar's wife who tried to seduce Joseph (who refused, enraging her, and so she told her husband that he had propositioned her and Potiphar threw Joseph out)... and the less I say about Jezebel the better. However, Jews, in my opinion, have always seemed to have a much healthier perspective on sex than most Christians who see it as taboo, as the method by which we all inherit the original sin committed by (Guess who? A woman, of course!) Eve in the Garden of Eden. In the old marriage contracts, Jewish women were protected in writing concerning how often her "needs" should be met depending on the man's occupation.
So, one may bind sex rules up in the Jewish law and tradition of marriage, but no one speaks for the women who used their wiles to help perpetuate the entire Jewish race? Makes me wonder if men would simply prefer not to have to admit that they're as easy as they are...
Don't misunderstand me - there are a handful of Jewish men that deserve every bit of recognition they receive. I, myself, am a big fan of Daniel, the prophetic boy. But, the problem creeps up again... Manyof you, most likely, do not know that a whole chapter of Daniel was removed after the dawn of the Middle Ages. The 13th Book of Daniel tells the story of Susanna, one of my favorite characters of Medieval Literature. Susanna was a Jewish woman who was very devoted to her husband. She was also beautiful, and other men definitely noticed her. Two elders of the Hebrew circle spied on her as she bathed in her garden unattended and caught her unawares. They threatened her to submit to them (sexually, naturally)... if she refused, they would accuse her of adultery anyway, which would cost her her life. She still refused, telling them that Gd would know the truth of her actions and she would never betray her husband. So, they formally accused her and she was hauled into court. It was Daniel who asked them, "Under what tree in her garden did you see her commit adultery?" Neither of the elders could come up with the actual tree that grew by her bath, and she was proven innocent. I'd say both Daniel and Susanna should get some credit for this shining example faith and conscience. But, unless you have a copy of the Douhay-Rheims Bible or bother to search the internet, you won't find this story in your Bible. Was it because it focused too much on a woman and not enough on the heroics of good old Daniel? Probably.
I was once told by a close Jewish friend, "All Jewish holidays are about the same thing: They tried to kill us. We killed them instead. Let's eat!" While that's a simplification, it's also partially true. It's not like there's any gratitude for the risks and sacrifices of Judith, Esther, or Jael... for the bravery of all the Jewish people, not just the men who waited in the dark for a woman to risk her life so that the men had a clear shot of the enemy.
So, for this Hanukkah season, I'm going to say a few words after the prayers to thank Judith, for having more guts than most men... and for having the strength to cut off a man's head.
(from http://sai.msu.su)Thursday, December 10, 2009
Thursday Kitchen: What do you eat during Hanukkah?
(from www.courier-journal.com)Some of you might know that the first night of Hanukkah starts tomorrow. Jews all around the world celebrate the story of a miracle... When the Maccabees ran the Greeks out of their temple. They needed to purify it (of pork and other non-kosher ick), but they only had enough oil to light the temple as they worked for one night. And yet, as the story goes, the oil lasted for eight nights. I'll rant a little more on my thoughts about this holiday tomorrow. For now, I'll talk about the food...
...because, unlike most Jewish holidays, there's no specific meal that one prepares to honor the holiday. Yes, they make latkes... yummy, delicious, fantastic latkes... but, think about it. They didn't make latkes in temple. There were no potatoes in that part of the world. Latkes are an Eastern European thing... as in after Christopher Columbus brought back these souvenirs from his trip to America. The only link between the latkes and the original holiday is the oil.
Because the oil in the temple lasted eight days, Jewish kitchens are filled with cooking oil this time of year. Latkes are traditional, but any fried foods work... like donuts. When I have perused Jewish magazines this time of year, donuts are the next best thing. To me, that all sounds like breakfast. Because, well, latkes are an awful lot like hash browns (but better) and they're really terrific with eggs. Then you have a donut with your tea or coffee. And it's cold outside. What could be better?
There are a couple of other ways to eat latkes (eggs and latkes are just my personal favorite). Some people like to put applesauce on their latkes (it's not bad... especially if you like to mix salty with sweet). Others like sour cream. Some people are getting innovative and making latkes with different vegetables like carrots and parsnips (Click Here for a recipe). For recipes for all things yummy at Hanukkah, visit Chabad.org or click Here.
You've also probably seen those gold coins in some of the grocery stores... it's gold foil wrapped around chocolate. These little treats tend to accompany a spirited game of driedle... or, at least, it's a spirited game with my folks. We don't play for the chocolate coins since my brothers don't care for chocolate (Before you call them freaks, which is a natural reaction, they had a somewhat impressive dairy allergy when they were younger, so, they've never had a reason to develop a taste for the stuff). Instead, we play for popcorn... because there's plenty of it and you can play for a quite some time on popcorn.
(from http://hostedmedia.reimanpub.com)So, you can guess my family really likes popcorn to play this game. Whatever you play with, the more you have, the longer the game lasts... and if you use popcorn, you can eat while you play!
While I am fond of playing driedle for popcorn, I still include chocolate in my Hanukkah celebrations. We light the candles, say the prayer, and then we exchange gifts (eight little gifts for eight days) while eating clementines and chocolate (either dark chocolate pieces or, oddly enough, chocolate from our advent calendar). It's this ritual that I love the most about Hanukkah. Finding a moment of the day, on all eight days, to slow down and have a snack with your loved ones by candlelight. We're not so good about lighting the candles when "you're supposed to," (which is sundown), but we light them as soon as we can and have ourselves a lovely, quiet night in.
Happy Hanukkah, in advance, to those who celebrate this holiday!
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Wednesday Valuables: Gooey, but grateful
Though my inability to accurately estimate how much time I need to complete various tasks has run me into the ground, I'm actually very appreciative of the process of "journaling." I mean, yes, I've been keeping journals since I was... maybe 6 years old... but this journal was special.
The goal was to keep several writing samples in the journal, but to also play around with the look of the page. A fellow writer told me about a month ago that it's important for writers to "play." I thought that sounded pretty silly... I've never been particularly interested in "playing." Even as a kid, my idea of playing was memorizing Broadway musicals and acting them out with my stuffed animals in my room alone. My sisters and I played "make believe" a little, but it was typically based on books I'd read or theatrical productions I'd seen (I was a big fan of pretending to perform Peter Pan and stand in for Mary Martin).
This journal assignment asks you to play in a visual way... another place where I am distinctly untalented. I was never a doodler in school or a painter. Even when I tried those activities in art class, I would get very frustrated with how incapable I was to make my pictures look like "the real thing."
However, with the journal, you have tons of options for visual presentation. I tore out images from magazines and placed them together with print-outs from the internet. So, the images themselves are not my work, but I have re-arranged them in such a way to tell a story... or illustrate a significant feature of a story.
The prompts for the journal are really what made it a great exercise... we were given topics on which to write that I probably would not have considered on my own. I've decided to share one of the pieces I wrote for this class as an example. The prompt below asked, "Write about a time in which you were considered 'the other'." This prompt was given to us after reading about several racial issues just a few decades ago. Since very few people can identify my race at all, I pulled my material from a childhood memory:
“But, this car seats five people,” I stared blankly at the back of my father’s half-bald head.
“So?”
“When I’m here, there are six of us,” I was wishing for some decent explanation. Maybe this was all they could afford. Maybe the van broke down and this was a rental.
“Oh, yeah,” he spoke as though he was just noticing this fact and looked to his wife in the passenger seat. She looked back at him and her eyes widened. Her expression was expectant as though it were so clearly up to him to explain the situation to me. I was not her child, not her problem.
“Where are we all supposed to sit if we go somewhere?”
“Guess Davie will have to sit in someone’s lap,” my father frowned as he chuckled.
“Isn’t that against the law?” I asked.
“That’s right,” my step-mother chimed in as she turned in her seat to face me. “And you don’t want us to go to jail, do you? So, whenever it’s your turn, you better hide in the floor if a cop drives by.” She turned back in her seat and looked at my father with her chin to her chest and a grin blowing out her cheeks… as though she were proud of herself.
I was silent for several minutes. I was thinking about two major plans. I considered how to get as much of my body down on the floor as possible if a policeman did drive by one day. I imagined my three siblings squirming under the pressure and decided that I should be the one to hide on the floor. I was fast and flexible. I was also deciding how I worried I would be if my father went to jail. For a moment, I felt responsible for the image being painted in my mind: I could see my father in black and white striped pajamas, a ball and chain at his ankle, and a barrel of potatoes and a peeler in a small, lonely cell. I thought of ways to bail him out. I thought of what I would say to my mother when the cops brought me home and told her the story.
I was 8, but I was not blind. I could see from the red paint, the comfy beige interior, and all the stupid gadgets that this was my step-mother’s kind of car. It never entered her mind how her husband’s first child might react to her whim to purchase an attractive vehicle.
“We could all fit into the van,” I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
My step-mother sighed and opened her mouth to say something, but my father interrupted her. “We just thought this car was fun. Didn’t you see that keypad on the outside of the door? I’ll give you the combination so you can get into the car without a key.”
“That’s fun?” I asked with sincere confusion. “A keypad? I know how to use a real key, too.”
“I know you can use a real key,” he sighed. “Look. You’re only here twice a month, so, it won’t be too bad, right?”
My step-mother nodded in agreement and turned in her seat to smile at me.
I hated that smile.
It was the smile she used after my father did her dirty work. She would smile like that as though everything was his doing, like she was my friend, and that she thought this was all a misunderstanding, a crying shame.
I suddenly wanted to go home. I missed my sisters, but I didn’t want to be with these people driving the red car anymore than they wanted me in backseat. My head started to get hot around the temples and where the neck connects. My eyes were tearing, so I poked out my jaw, curled my bottom lip, and blew up hard to dry them out. I noticed my father looking briefly into the rear view mirror in order to see what was making that sound. I saw no concern in his expression as he looked back to the road and turned on the radio.
The goal was to keep several writing samples in the journal, but to also play around with the look of the page. A fellow writer told me about a month ago that it's important for writers to "play." I thought that sounded pretty silly... I've never been particularly interested in "playing." Even as a kid, my idea of playing was memorizing Broadway musicals and acting them out with my stuffed animals in my room alone. My sisters and I played "make believe" a little, but it was typically based on books I'd read or theatrical productions I'd seen (I was a big fan of pretending to perform Peter Pan and stand in for Mary Martin).
This journal assignment asks you to play in a visual way... another place where I am distinctly untalented. I was never a doodler in school or a painter. Even when I tried those activities in art class, I would get very frustrated with how incapable I was to make my pictures look like "the real thing."
However, with the journal, you have tons of options for visual presentation. I tore out images from magazines and placed them together with print-outs from the internet. So, the images themselves are not my work, but I have re-arranged them in such a way to tell a story... or illustrate a significant feature of a story.
The prompts for the journal are really what made it a great exercise... we were given topics on which to write that I probably would not have considered on my own. I've decided to share one of the pieces I wrote for this class as an example. The prompt below asked, "Write about a time in which you were considered 'the other'." This prompt was given to us after reading about several racial issues just a few decades ago. Since very few people can identify my race at all, I pulled my material from a childhood memory:
“But, this car seats five people,” I stared blankly at the back of my father’s half-bald head.
“So?”
“When I’m here, there are six of us,” I was wishing for some decent explanation. Maybe this was all they could afford. Maybe the van broke down and this was a rental.
“Oh, yeah,” he spoke as though he was just noticing this fact and looked to his wife in the passenger seat. She looked back at him and her eyes widened. Her expression was expectant as though it were so clearly up to him to explain the situation to me. I was not her child, not her problem.
“Where are we all supposed to sit if we go somewhere?”
“Guess Davie will have to sit in someone’s lap,” my father frowned as he chuckled.
“Isn’t that against the law?” I asked.
“That’s right,” my step-mother chimed in as she turned in her seat to face me. “And you don’t want us to go to jail, do you? So, whenever it’s your turn, you better hide in the floor if a cop drives by.” She turned back in her seat and looked at my father with her chin to her chest and a grin blowing out her cheeks… as though she were proud of herself.
I was silent for several minutes. I was thinking about two major plans. I considered how to get as much of my body down on the floor as possible if a policeman did drive by one day. I imagined my three siblings squirming under the pressure and decided that I should be the one to hide on the floor. I was fast and flexible. I was also deciding how I worried I would be if my father went to jail. For a moment, I felt responsible for the image being painted in my mind: I could see my father in black and white striped pajamas, a ball and chain at his ankle, and a barrel of potatoes and a peeler in a small, lonely cell. I thought of ways to bail him out. I thought of what I would say to my mother when the cops brought me home and told her the story.
I was 8, but I was not blind. I could see from the red paint, the comfy beige interior, and all the stupid gadgets that this was my step-mother’s kind of car. It never entered her mind how her husband’s first child might react to her whim to purchase an attractive vehicle.
“We could all fit into the van,” I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
My step-mother sighed and opened her mouth to say something, but my father interrupted her. “We just thought this car was fun. Didn’t you see that keypad on the outside of the door? I’ll give you the combination so you can get into the car without a key.”
“That’s fun?” I asked with sincere confusion. “A keypad? I know how to use a real key, too.”
“I know you can use a real key,” he sighed. “Look. You’re only here twice a month, so, it won’t be too bad, right?”
My step-mother nodded in agreement and turned in her seat to smile at me.
I hated that smile.
It was the smile she used after my father did her dirty work. She would smile like that as though everything was his doing, like she was my friend, and that she thought this was all a misunderstanding, a crying shame.
I suddenly wanted to go home. I missed my sisters, but I didn’t want to be with these people driving the red car anymore than they wanted me in backseat. My head started to get hot around the temples and where the neck connects. My eyes were tearing, so I poked out my jaw, curled my bottom lip, and blew up hard to dry them out. I noticed my father looking briefly into the rear view mirror in order to see what was making that sound. I saw no concern in his expression as he looked back to the road and turned on the radio.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Tuesday Favorites: A continuing goo theme
Well, when I sat down to write, I had about three ideas in my head for a Tuesday Favorites entry. However, since my brains are still goo, I'm not going to write about any of those three things. I can't do them justice tonight.
I think I'm going to go read before I fall asleep.
Yeah.
Here's a link to my current favorite portion of The Muppet Show... just for your amusement.
It's raining. Not helping to meld my brains back together. It's a weird rain, too... not as cold as you might think it would be for December. It's going to bring warmer weather rather than colder. My head can felt the drops as though they were drops of lead. Still, it's a nice sound. It's the sort of rain that needs no accompaniment. I had no desire to turn on the TV with another re-run of Frasier or something. It's the sort of rain for sitting and reading... a cozy, quiet night in sort of rain. Despite the physical discomfort, I like it.
I think I'm going to go read before I fall asleep.
Yeah.
Here's a link to my current favorite portion of The Muppet Show... just for your amusement.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Monday: Exam Period
Due to the mad dash to get everything ready for the conclusion of my writing class, my brains are goo and I must sleep.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Sunday Reflections: Our teachers; Stories of my education
Students across the nation are in exam mode. It's the end of the semester for nearly everyone in school, and both teachers and students are scrambling to turn in papers, grades, projects, etc. This brings to mind my past exams... past teachers... people who taught me to think the way I think...
I guess I was lucky. I can think of only one teacher who did me any educational harm. Only one teacher actively stifled my creativity, my self-confidence. So, since there's only one scratch on my record, I'd rather not waste my energy complaining. My school days are among my favorite memories. I used to dread summer... it took me away from my books, new ideas, and inspiring instructors...
When I was in first grade, my mother taught in the section of my elementary school designed for children with physical disabilities. She used to bring me to school with her, rather early in the morning, before any of the other kids arrived. This gave me a chance to get to know some of the other teachers... one in particular, Mr. Patrick, who was an artist of sorts. He encouraged all of my potential talents. We would talk in the mornings or after school, and he would ask me what was on my mind. Whatever I told him, he would offer me little art projects to guide me through my feelings. He told me to write poems, sing and compose songs, create plays and skits, etc... and his expectations were only that I did these things. I'd show him my work after completing one of his assignments, and he never criticized me. Sometimes he would help me elaborate on a theme or derive even more stories and poems from originals, but he never voiced dislike for what I created. All he cared was that I become an artist.
In second grade, my teacher was asked to teach a rap about drugs to her class. We were supposed to perform this song in front of the entire school for some special event. During the first practice, she heard my voice over the muttering of bored students (I had been in acting classes outside of school for three years by this point in time). She singled me out, and when the performance day finally arrived, I performed the rap by myself with the rest of the class reciting the chorus in between verses. I'm only somewhat embarrassed to admit that I still know most of that rap...
In fourth grade, I met a woman that I would wish for sometime were my step-mother (my own step-mother was not terribly fond of me). Ms. Babcock was beautiful, smart, and feisty. She treated us with the same familiarity she would her own children. She encouraged thoughtful answers... meaning we learned to close the book and speak for ourselves. If you read it, then you knew it. Use your own words. One day, and I can't remember what set her off, she went on this long tangent... she went around the room and told the entire class what she thought of every single one of us. Some of us were lazy, some of us were funny, some of us needed to get over ourselves. I was a little nervous, naturally, when she finally came to me. "Now you all know I love her," she said pointing to me, and moved on. She was one of the first people in my life to make me feel significant, special to someone. Later that year, our teacher was in an accident major enough that we were assigned a temporary, regular substitute. While this stand-in teacher was very kind, and became my first pen pal, I was devastated to have to get through about three months of fourth grade without Ms. Babcock.
Something inside me woke up in sixth grade... and that is all due to my homeroom teacher. She was in charge of our English lessons and assigned us quite a bit of creative writing. When Author Day was around the corner, she wanted us to begin working on longer works of fiction (more than three pages... mine ended up close to 15). She insisted that we write an intriguing first line... something that popped out at the reader and made him or her want to read on. The day we presented these first lines, I was towards the back of the last row. I waited impatiently for my turn... waited through many indifferent, silly, or boring first lines. When she finally nodded at my desk, I screamed out my first line (I had created a mother reprimanding her child for drawing on the wall). My teacher didn't say a word. She crooked her finger and curled it as if to say, "Come here." I walked towards her desk with my paper. She pulled out a spare desk, put it at the front of the room, and then asked me to sit and read the rest of what I wrote. Each week after, I was asked to read aloud each new installment of my work. This teacher had put me in a position to have a following, a group of readers who wanted to hear more of my story. She gave me the responsibility to keep their attention with my writing. Soon, I had people asking me in the hallways between classes to tell them what was going to happen next. It was one of those very rare moments during the preteen experience when you feel smart and successful.
In high school, the most influential of my teachers was the one who would later "adopt me," in a manner of speaking. The first year I knew him, he gave me extra reports to do outside of class. These reports were not graded. He just decided I needed the extra challenge. We spent a great deal of time talking after school. During these talks, he would pull out everything I thought I knew from my head, clean it up, and shove it back in. He was really a life coach, someone who broke down my misconceptions and opened my eyes to the world as it is beyond the arrogance of adolescence. He taught me how to read people, how to tell by what they do, or don't do, the sort of person they could be... and in turn, how to deal with my findings. He taught me to stop hanging my heart on the mistakes made by my father. I could go on for pages and pages... but it would be trite to list his accomplishments when it comes to my personal education. You know how we all say about one person or another that we wouldn't be who we are without him or her? Aside from our parents and those who grew up with us, there is no purer example of a presence that shaped a soul than this man to me. That was not his job... to help me grow up... to do better than ask me to regurgitate facts onto a test sheet... but he did.
In college, I certainly encountered a number of different sorts of academics... one of the cleverest lessons I ever learned was during a Biology exam. Our professor passed out the test sheets, casually mentioned that we should read the instructions before beginning, and we were given one hour. I dove into test mode and carefully filled out my answers. I took up the entire hour to look over my exam which made me the last student to turn in my work. Seeing that everyone had left the room, my professor chuckled as he took my paper from me. "Did you read the instructions?" he asked me, smiling kindly. "Of course," I said, wondering suddenly if I actually had. "Read them again," he handed my paper back to me, "Right there at the top of the page." The instructions read something along the lines of: You will have one hour to complete the questions below. Please use pencil or pen, black or blue ink only. For an automatic passing grade, simply fill out your name, the date, and answer the very last question on this exam. Please, do your own work. I felt so silly... but it certainly made an impression on me. I won't say I always read out all the instructions on my exams after that, but I definitely paid closer attention to what it was each individual professor was actually asking of me.
I will admit that one of my favorite professors was that sort of "receptacle" teacher... my first philosophy professor. He stood at the front of the room, lectured, and his exams were based on his words and the readings. All we were expected to do was regurgitate twice per semester what he had said during class. However, he was very open to questions and was able to offer a single answer in a number of different ways in order to make the concept make sense to pretty much anyone. It was his ability to work unrehearsed with anything that was thrown to him that prepared me for less versatile "receptacle" teachers. His creativity inspired me to demand more from my proud academic lecturers and, if they were unable to deliver, I demanded more of myself. I would find another book or another expert that would clear my confusion, illuminate the possibilities.
As long as I live, I will be in debt to Dr. Long. He was the ideal professor, in my mind. He would offer guidelines within projects, but you had absolute freedom as to the presentation of the material as well as the subject matter. He was my American Literature professor and our grade was broken into four parts: a rare books project, a museum project, a performing arts project, and the final presentation. Without going too far into the specifics, I chose early American children's education as my subject. I found old text books, mostly primers for science and religion in the W&M rare books collection. I went to The DeWitt Wallace museum and found an exhibit on early American children's toys. Then I went to the first Storytelling Festival in Williamsburg where I met a very, very dear friend (I will be grateful to this professor forever for leading me to a place that would inspire this precious friendship). For my final project, I created a "Commonplace Book," a early modern European tradition that came over on the boat, to display my findings from these adventures. Dr. Long not only led me to a beautiful friendship, he made research and field work exciting. By encouraging us to find a topic we could care about, I was hungry for more information... not so much for the grade, but to know things...
The list goes on and on... I've just been remarkably lucky. At W&M, I had a number of professors who expected his or her students to contribute to the general knowledge of the class just as a professor is subject to such a presumption. I have been asked not just for above average work, but to be myself. To use my own brain. I know a number of people have been traumatized by teachers abusing students and causing them to beileve they are stupid, uninteresting, and without hope. I had been well-trained before encoutering any such high and mighty tyrannts and was prepared to think about the situation before allowing those rare bad experiences to define me. I am grateful for the time I spent in school...
I guess I was lucky. I can think of only one teacher who did me any educational harm. Only one teacher actively stifled my creativity, my self-confidence. So, since there's only one scratch on my record, I'd rather not waste my energy complaining. My school days are among my favorite memories. I used to dread summer... it took me away from my books, new ideas, and inspiring instructors...
When I was in first grade, my mother taught in the section of my elementary school designed for children with physical disabilities. She used to bring me to school with her, rather early in the morning, before any of the other kids arrived. This gave me a chance to get to know some of the other teachers... one in particular, Mr. Patrick, who was an artist of sorts. He encouraged all of my potential talents. We would talk in the mornings or after school, and he would ask me what was on my mind. Whatever I told him, he would offer me little art projects to guide me through my feelings. He told me to write poems, sing and compose songs, create plays and skits, etc... and his expectations were only that I did these things. I'd show him my work after completing one of his assignments, and he never criticized me. Sometimes he would help me elaborate on a theme or derive even more stories and poems from originals, but he never voiced dislike for what I created. All he cared was that I become an artist.
In second grade, my teacher was asked to teach a rap about drugs to her class. We were supposed to perform this song in front of the entire school for some special event. During the first practice, she heard my voice over the muttering of bored students (I had been in acting classes outside of school for three years by this point in time). She singled me out, and when the performance day finally arrived, I performed the rap by myself with the rest of the class reciting the chorus in between verses. I'm only somewhat embarrassed to admit that I still know most of that rap...
In fourth grade, I met a woman that I would wish for sometime were my step-mother (my own step-mother was not terribly fond of me). Ms. Babcock was beautiful, smart, and feisty. She treated us with the same familiarity she would her own children. She encouraged thoughtful answers... meaning we learned to close the book and speak for ourselves. If you read it, then you knew it. Use your own words. One day, and I can't remember what set her off, she went on this long tangent... she went around the room and told the entire class what she thought of every single one of us. Some of us were lazy, some of us were funny, some of us needed to get over ourselves. I was a little nervous, naturally, when she finally came to me. "Now you all know I love her," she said pointing to me, and moved on. She was one of the first people in my life to make me feel significant, special to someone. Later that year, our teacher was in an accident major enough that we were assigned a temporary, regular substitute. While this stand-in teacher was very kind, and became my first pen pal, I was devastated to have to get through about three months of fourth grade without Ms. Babcock.
Something inside me woke up in sixth grade... and that is all due to my homeroom teacher. She was in charge of our English lessons and assigned us quite a bit of creative writing. When Author Day was around the corner, she wanted us to begin working on longer works of fiction (more than three pages... mine ended up close to 15). She insisted that we write an intriguing first line... something that popped out at the reader and made him or her want to read on. The day we presented these first lines, I was towards the back of the last row. I waited impatiently for my turn... waited through many indifferent, silly, or boring first lines. When she finally nodded at my desk, I screamed out my first line (I had created a mother reprimanding her child for drawing on the wall). My teacher didn't say a word. She crooked her finger and curled it as if to say, "Come here." I walked towards her desk with my paper. She pulled out a spare desk, put it at the front of the room, and then asked me to sit and read the rest of what I wrote. Each week after, I was asked to read aloud each new installment of my work. This teacher had put me in a position to have a following, a group of readers who wanted to hear more of my story. She gave me the responsibility to keep their attention with my writing. Soon, I had people asking me in the hallways between classes to tell them what was going to happen next. It was one of those very rare moments during the preteen experience when you feel smart and successful.
In high school, the most influential of my teachers was the one who would later "adopt me," in a manner of speaking. The first year I knew him, he gave me extra reports to do outside of class. These reports were not graded. He just decided I needed the extra challenge. We spent a great deal of time talking after school. During these talks, he would pull out everything I thought I knew from my head, clean it up, and shove it back in. He was really a life coach, someone who broke down my misconceptions and opened my eyes to the world as it is beyond the arrogance of adolescence. He taught me how to read people, how to tell by what they do, or don't do, the sort of person they could be... and in turn, how to deal with my findings. He taught me to stop hanging my heart on the mistakes made by my father. I could go on for pages and pages... but it would be trite to list his accomplishments when it comes to my personal education. You know how we all say about one person or another that we wouldn't be who we are without him or her? Aside from our parents and those who grew up with us, there is no purer example of a presence that shaped a soul than this man to me. That was not his job... to help me grow up... to do better than ask me to regurgitate facts onto a test sheet... but he did.
In college, I certainly encountered a number of different sorts of academics... one of the cleverest lessons I ever learned was during a Biology exam. Our professor passed out the test sheets, casually mentioned that we should read the instructions before beginning, and we were given one hour. I dove into test mode and carefully filled out my answers. I took up the entire hour to look over my exam which made me the last student to turn in my work. Seeing that everyone had left the room, my professor chuckled as he took my paper from me. "Did you read the instructions?" he asked me, smiling kindly. "Of course," I said, wondering suddenly if I actually had. "Read them again," he handed my paper back to me, "Right there at the top of the page." The instructions read something along the lines of: You will have one hour to complete the questions below. Please use pencil or pen, black or blue ink only. For an automatic passing grade, simply fill out your name, the date, and answer the very last question on this exam. Please, do your own work. I felt so silly... but it certainly made an impression on me. I won't say I always read out all the instructions on my exams after that, but I definitely paid closer attention to what it was each individual professor was actually asking of me.
I will admit that one of my favorite professors was that sort of "receptacle" teacher... my first philosophy professor. He stood at the front of the room, lectured, and his exams were based on his words and the readings. All we were expected to do was regurgitate twice per semester what he had said during class. However, he was very open to questions and was able to offer a single answer in a number of different ways in order to make the concept make sense to pretty much anyone. It was his ability to work unrehearsed with anything that was thrown to him that prepared me for less versatile "receptacle" teachers. His creativity inspired me to demand more from my proud academic lecturers and, if they were unable to deliver, I demanded more of myself. I would find another book or another expert that would clear my confusion, illuminate the possibilities.
As long as I live, I will be in debt to Dr. Long. He was the ideal professor, in my mind. He would offer guidelines within projects, but you had absolute freedom as to the presentation of the material as well as the subject matter. He was my American Literature professor and our grade was broken into four parts: a rare books project, a museum project, a performing arts project, and the final presentation. Without going too far into the specifics, I chose early American children's education as my subject. I found old text books, mostly primers for science and religion in the W&M rare books collection. I went to The DeWitt Wallace museum and found an exhibit on early American children's toys. Then I went to the first Storytelling Festival in Williamsburg where I met a very, very dear friend (I will be grateful to this professor forever for leading me to a place that would inspire this precious friendship). For my final project, I created a "Commonplace Book," a early modern European tradition that came over on the boat, to display my findings from these adventures. Dr. Long not only led me to a beautiful friendship, he made research and field work exciting. By encouraging us to find a topic we could care about, I was hungry for more information... not so much for the grade, but to know things...
The list goes on and on... I've just been remarkably lucky. At W&M, I had a number of professors who expected his or her students to contribute to the general knowledge of the class just as a professor is subject to such a presumption. I have been asked not just for above average work, but to be myself. To use my own brain. I know a number of people have been traumatized by teachers abusing students and causing them to beileve they are stupid, uninteresting, and without hope. I had been well-trained before encoutering any such high and mighty tyrannts and was prepared to think about the situation before allowing those rare bad experiences to define me. I am grateful for the time I spent in school...
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)