Author: Blue Cereal

Zod Wallop

~ Blue Cereal ~ 3 Comments

Zod Wallop Cover & Link

The wedding was held outdoors. An April sky darkened and gusts of wind, like large, unruly hounds, knocked over folding chairs and made off with hats and handkerchiefs. A bright yellow hat went sailing over the lake, cheered on by two small children.

Ada Story said to her husband, “I told Raymond this was not the season for an outdoor wedding.”

Her husband, who was watching a black cloud race toward him as though it had singled him out and intended some mischief to his new summer suit, replied: “I don’t know how you’ve lived this long and missed it, Ada. Our Raymond isn’t interested in traveling the highway of our advice.” Their son did march to his own drum, particularly when he was refusing to take his medication.

Mrs. Story sniffed and lifted her face to the darkening heavens. I hope they hold off, she thought. In case her own mind might misinterpret her thoughts, she added, The rain clouds, I mean. I hope the rain holds off.

All the chairs were filled with the wedding guests now, and there was, really, something exciting in the prospect of so much finery exposed to the elements. The riskiness of life, of all human ventures, was underlined by the first large raindrops and the growl of approaching thunder. The minister’s robes billowed in the winds, and the coming storm seemed intent on editing him, first snatching one piece of paper, then another, and launching them into the air. Reverend Gates displayed considerable dexterity as he darted after his text, and the crowd burst into a flurry of applause when he executed a twisting leap and fetched a loose page that seemed already lost to the lake. No outfielder snagging a bleacher-bound fly ball could have displayed greater style, and since the crowd had no way of knowing that the retrieved paper contained a rather tedious rehash of St. Paul’s thoughts on duty, their enthusiasm was unrestrained.

The Reverend Gates, having regained command of his notes, was giving them the once-over through gold-rimmed spectacles, when a stirring of voices caused him to look up.

A fat man in a tuxedo, perilously perched on a bicycle and pedaling with frantic enterprise, had crested a green hill and was now racing toward the gathering. His speed was disconcerting, but what truly troubled the Reverend Gates was the man’s appearance. He had two heads.

The minister’s rational mind harumphed loudly, but as the cyclist drew rapidly nearer, his two-headedness seemed more undeniable.

In the next instant, Reverend Gates realized that he was looking at a man – now so close that his blue eyes and explosion of brown mustache identified him as the groom, Raymond Story – and a monkey. The monkey, a small, soot-black, frightened mammal, was clutching Raymond’s neck and chattering wildly in the time-honored tradition of a passenger attempting to exert some control over his destiny.

(Excerpt from Zod Wallop by William Browning Spencer)

Zod Wallop is one of my favorite books of all time. It’s the single most engaging piece of fiction I’ve ever read, and remains so each and every time I’ve devoured it. It’s a book about loss and acceptance, innocence and broken people, and a crazy man with a monkey who believes he’s on a holy mission. It’s also about an author afraid of too much truth and withdrawn from human connection because he simply can’t take the harsh reality of personal loss.

In short, it’s one of those books I like talking about at any opportunity. The problem is, few people around me have read it. Most have never even heard of it, other than my carrying on about it. In other words, there’s no one to talk about it with.

If much of my own rhetoric is to be believed, this shouldn’t be a problem. Make your own way! March to your own drumbeat! Don’t go along with the crowd – you do you! Learn to live with who you are! Yay, individuality!

If I’m being honest, I’ve sometimes looked down a bit on folks who watch specific shows or listen to particular music or read certain books just because they’re popular. That’s what’s wrong with modern culture! You’re why the Kardashians happened! Have some dignity, people!

On the other hand, folks who do that get to talk to one another about those shows, that music, and those books. They have a shared Squid Game experience, however tragic I might find that to be. Meanwhile, I’m over here marinating in my own lofty elitism with my far superior music collection and personal library.

Alone.

So there!

Raymond Story cycled down the aisle between the folding chairs and stopped. He dismounted, frowned, and approached Reverend Gates.

“I’ve brought a monkey,” Raymond said, in a matter-of-fact tone that the minister found comforting – for no good reason, really. Raymond looked around, turning in a slow circle, and said, “They can’t influence a monkey.”

The Reverend Gates had known Raymond since the day of Raymond’s birth. The reverend was not, therefore, as unsettled as a stranger might have been under similar circumstances.

“Your mother’s arranged a lovely ceremony,” Reverend Gates said. “All we seem to lack, indeed, is the… ah… bride.” …

A large white van rose up over the hill and bore down on the crowd. Reverend Gates felt his arm clutched tightly and Raymond’s voice boomed in his ear. “Allan has not failed me. We’ll want a short ceremony, Reverend.”

The van spun sideways and lurched to a stop, revealing a blue insignia and the words HARWOOD PSYCHIATRIC emblazoned on its side. The vehicle rested placidly on the grass, and then it began to rock, the sliding door slid open, a ramp lowered to the ground, and someone in a wheelchair, flanked by a half dozen milling shapes, emerged.

“My Queen!” Raymond bellowed, causing the reverend to jump. The sky exploded; the world dimmed under sheets of gray, implacable rain. Umbrellas bloomed.

“Oh dear,” Ada said, as she huddled under her husband’s umbrella. “Wouldn’t you know it.”

She felt her husband’s arm encircle her waist and draw her closer. “It’s only weather,” he said.

Of course, part of the appeal of literature is that it IS company. The right story can be travel, or counsel, or knowledge, or inspiration. When you READ, you’re already talking about the content with at least one other person – the author (or at least the text). You often talk about it with yourself as well. A good book has a way of poking around inside you and making you think about things differently, and maybe feel things differently as well.

One of the primary justifications for including diverse literature in any school curriculum is that fiction promotes empathy. How many people alive in the United States today think and feel as they do about the Holocaust largely because of Anne Frank’s diary or that little boy in the striped pajamas? How many of our perceptions concerning right and wrong in society and government have been shaped by our connections with Boxer in Animal Farm, Piggy in Lord of the Flies, or Katniss Everdeen in The Hunger Games?

I’d never claim to truly know what it’s like to die from cancer just because I loved The Fault in Our Stars, but it’s given me a far better appreciation for the range of ways in which people respond to severe illnesses. I’ve never been Black or female or gay, but I’m a tiny bit closer to being able to connect with and value those who are because I’ve been allowed to become those things in a small, temporary way when I read.

But it’s not just a better understanding of others we often find between exposition and denouement. Many novels, short stories, and other texts mess with our understanding of ourselves as well.

Generations of young American boys grew up believing they could succeed even during hard times because of Horatio Alger books. Generations of high school girls grew up believing that sex with someone hundreds of years older than themselves AND a vampire couldn’t be THAT bad thanks to Twilight. Books force us to recognize ourselves not only in the heroic, but in the shameful. The broken. The desperate. The angry. They let us root for the protagonist even when relating far more closely to the supportive friend, the bewildered parent, or even the antagonist. Good stories shake up what we think, believe, and feel, leaving the solid bits reaffirmed and the shaky bits, well… shaken.

Good friends know when to encourage you, when to distract you, and when to call you out. Literature often does all three at once.

Which brings me back to Zod Wallop. I won’t try to summarize the plot here (you can look it up easily enough), but suffice it to say that it challenges with reckless abandon the distinctions we make between fantasy and reality, conviction and delusion, individuality and connection. The main characters turn out to be inextricably interwoven into one another’s stories for better or worse – and not all of them are thrilled at the realization. It’s not easy to befriend a madman with a monkey who claims to be on a holy crusade, especially when his mission is driven by your own words, feelings, and values (none of which were intended to mean what he insists they must).

And yet… maybe that’s what it takes to return to reality. Maybe we have to accept the unbearable and embrace the unbelievable to get back to living.

Reverend Gates had ceased congratulating himself on his calm. His own umbrella had been wrenched from his hand by the brutish gale. One of the wedding guests offered him an umbrella.

I’m as wet as I am going to get, Reverend Gates thought, and he dismissed the offer with a wave of his hand. His notes were a sodden lump. His white hair, generally a fine, regal mist, was plastered to his skull. He wondered if he looked as bad as the monkey, which had been transformed into a sort of gigantic sodden spider.

The reverend leaned forward, clutching his Bible, squinting through the deluge. Dim figures were coming down the aisle between the twin fields of umbrellas. A giant in a billowing raincoat emerged from the shadowy curtain of rain. He was pushing a wheelchair that contained a gray, hooded figure. A lovely girl, barefoot and wearing a white, one-piece bathing suit, walked beside the wheelchair, one hand casually resting on the occupant’s cloaked shoulder. She wore a white terry cloth headband into which bright yellow daisies had been tucked. The effect was oddly elegant. She smiled, pushed a strand of black hair from her cheek, and looked up at the minister who, disconcerted by the candor of her gaze, retreated into austerity, motioning them to move forward quickly.

“My beloved approaches,” Raymond said. “Like the sun.”

Reverend Gates glanced at Raymond, whose round face was slick with rain. Raindrops danced on the young man’s rain-glued hair, creating a silver halo. His eyes seemed unusually blue and bright. God, Reverend Gates thought (and not for the first time), had hugged this boy too tightly. …

The past several years have not been great ones for me. We all know the externals – the pandemic and the Trump years and the disappointment of watching friends and family embrace fascism and white supremacy in the name of an unrecognizable Jesus and a mythologized American past. I haven’t had it any worse than anyone else, and I’m sure my life was and still is far easier than many. I am either blessed or lucky, depending on your point of view, and I recognize this daily.

But I haven’t handled things very well. I bailed on most social media not because of my lofty principles, but because I didn’t like who I was when handed that microphone. I’ve drifted away from most of the folks skilled at tolerating me in real life. A spot of unpleasantness a few years ago completely derailed how I thought of myself as a teacher and a colleague, which in turn forced me to realize how heavily I’d been leaning on those elements of my identity to prop up pretty much everything else.

I still believe much of the rhetoric we throw around about the impact teachers can have on students, but those kites need string and someone with a good grip and their feet firmly planted on the ground. That was no longer me.

Things have gradually gotten better, but I don’t think I’ll ever feel about teaching, or being part of a community, or the supposed “calling” behind the profession, the way I used to. At the same time, I’ve probably spent too much energy soaking in the resentment and self-loathing of it all. I don’t believe in avoiding or denying unpleasant emotions or uncomfortable realizations, but that doesn’t mean we have to marinate in darkness forever.

Just ask Wanda Maximoff, amiright?

I think it’s time for me to read Zod Wallop again. It’s not a perfect novel, and it’s certainly not a holy book or a magical cure for anything, but it is a wonderfully manic fantasy which wrestles with the road back from isolation and anger and other very dark places through faith and passion and existential leaps into uncertain possibilities. By taking readers into a world of impossible events and unlikely characters, it circumvents our usual defenses and surprises us with just how much of ourselves we find there. Spencer shakes things up enough that by the time we land at the end, there’s a good chance we’re a bit better off than we were when we started.

Maybe we’re a bit better, period.

If Zod Wallop isn’t the book that does that for you, there are other titles out there. Lots of them. Whatever madness remains to be faced, collectively or personally, none of us have to do so alone. Grab a good book and hold on tight.

Harry listened. And remembered how Amy had giggled. “Daddy, a tree doesn’t grow in a flash,” she had said.

He had read the beginning of this book to her. He remembered now. He had been writing it before Dr. Moore had urged him to write. Yes. He had been telling the story and he had stopped when Amy died.

Harry ran out of the room. The grim hallway was littered with bodies. Some dark, furred thing the size of a large dog snuffled amid the corpses. It heard Harry’s approach and turned, regarding Harry with three small, red eyes. Harry snatched one of the glowing orbs that lighted the hall and threw it at the wall above the creature. The ball exploded with a cascade of arcing light and the creature grunted and lumbered away.

“Harry, wait!”

He turned and saw Jeanne coming toward him, golden, wending her way through the gore of shattered bodies.

“Go back!” Harry shouted.

“No.”

He waited then. She took his arm. “You’re going down to the ocean, aren’t you?”

“I have to,” Harry said.

Jeanne turned him and looked in his eyes. He saw them as he had never seen them before, not fearless – fear was certainly there – but filled with conviction, clear, dark, as luminous and mysterious as the universe itself.

“We have to,” Jeanne said. “We.”

Rabbit Trails: Cecil Rhodes and the Moral Complications of… Everything

~ Blue Cereal

NOTE: I’ve been playing with ideas for a future “Have To” History book, tentatively titled “Who In The World?” The premise would be to tackle major events and issues in world history through a series of brief narratives or biographies of world figures whose names may sound vaguely familiar but who aren’t the “A-listers.” Cecil Rhodes certainly fits that bill, but I’ve been having trouble narrowing down what to include and what to cut from his story. The draft I’m sharing today demonstrates both the potential of using biography as an anchor for larger themes and issues and the dangers of the rabbit trails which naturally result from this approach. I doubt most of this will make it into the final version, if such a thing should one day come about.

Cecil RhodesCecil Rhodes potentially represents many things in world history. In doing so, he reminds us of the futility of attempting to categorize our forebears into “good guys” and “bad guys.” Rhodes was… complicated. It in no way excuses the wrongs for which he was responsible for us to recognize and appreciate the laudable elements of his story. If anything, it reminds us that in the right circumstances, most of us are quite capable of being both swell and abhorrent – sometimes within a very short time frame.

As Marvel comics (or the Bible) figured out long ago, our heroes often have an unpleasant feature or two, while the nastiest villains may retain smatterings of graciousness, talent, or good intentions of the sort we’d much rather be reserved for someone more likable – hence the endless debates over whether or not the Declaration of Independence is forever tainted by Thomas Jefferson’s record as a slave owner or when it’s appropriate to spill tea on Nelson Mandela or Martin Luther King, Jr. Personally, I’ve always found flawed heroes to be far more inspirational and complicated villains far more illuminating. Few of us can aspire to be as flawless as Superman of Gandhi as commonly presented. Perhaps, however, we can strive to emphasize the better angels of our nature even as flawed, fallen mortals.

Then again, Rhodes was no Jefferson or Gandhi by any measure, no matter how much grace we choose to employ. Whatever his mitigating intentions or ideologies tied to his times and circumstances, Cecil was in many ways a very naughty man who used and abused those he deemed lesser than himself – which was most people.

Rhodes wasn’t American, but his life echoed a Horatio Alger tale: misfit kid defies all the odds and becomes monumentally successful. He craved wealth and power and exploited both once attained. He believed his race was naturally superior to all others – particularly those native to the continent of Africa, where he made much of his fortune and at one time had two countries named after him. He used his wealth and political power to fight for the protection of the “little people” (of various races). He started a war which wasn’t at all necessary and cost tens of thousands of lives. He believed deeply in British values and culture and the good it could do for the world at large once embraced.

Rhodes was idealistic when it came to British values or the power of education. He left behind an endowment committed to providing opportunities for others like himself to attend Oxford University and carve their own pathway to success, explicitly specifying that “no student shall be qualified or disqualified for election … on account of his race or religious opinions.” At the same time, he pretty much laid the groundwork for what would later be known as “apartheid” across South Africa.

Oh, and he helped make diamonds sacred in western culture, sparking a bizarre conviction (which still lingers today) that unless you cement your relationship with small rocks worth several years’ salary, you’re not REALLY in love.

So, like I said… complicated, despite leaning quite naughty by modern standards.

The Son’ll Come Out, Tomorrow…

And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?

Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him.

But his disciples muttered to themselves and insisted, that can’t be right. He’s mistranslating the original Greek or something. Can we go back and choose a passage from the Old Testament instead?

(John 9:2-4, Modern American Version)

Cecil Rhodes was born in 1853 in Hertfordshire, just north of London. He was by all accounts a rather “sickly” child – a generic term covering anything from asthma to allergies to lactose intolerance (but stopping short of something major enough to secure accurate diagnosis, like scarlet fever. His father was a clergyman in the Church of England, making the family what we’d today think of as “middle class.”  His older brothers attended what were known as “public schools,” the nineteenth century British equivalent of ritzy private schooling. Cecil, however, was sent to the local “grammar school,” an early version of what Americans today would think of as a decent, local public high school – humble, but still set above any “charity schools” in the area.

When he was sixteen years old, Cecil fell victim to “consumption” – most likely tuberculosis or something similar. This was a fairly severe condition in the nineteenth century and not everyone recovered. As we’ve recently been reminded, serious ailments which prove difficult to control tend to spark socio-political reactions on top of the personal suffering they cause. When people feel frightened or out of control, they tend to embrace explanations which offer them some sort of control or detachment from danger or suffering, reality be damned. Folks in nineteenth century England were no exception.

Like so many nasty things, tuberculosis was (and is) caused by bacteria attacking various organs inside the human body, most particularly the lungs. All that coughing and gagging and spitting up blood helps spread the ailment to fellow humans, making it highly contagious – particularly in crowded households, cities, or anywhere else people live and work together. Biologically, the disease itself was an equal opportunity infector. Rich folks were just as susceptible as the poor, other factors being equal.

But of course, other factors weren’t equal – end therein crept that socio-political dynamic history teaches us to expect. One of the primary benefits of wealth was having a little elbow room, thus reducing the chances of infection to begin with. Your surroundings tended to becleaner and you were more likely to spend time outdoors, further restricting the spread of yucky things.

Correlation, Causation, and the Moral High Ground

Nineteenth century medicine wasn’t quite caught up on the whole bacteria/infection thing, but physicians certainly noted the correlations between nasty conditions and disease. One of the most common treatments, in fact, was to send the afflicted who could afford it to warmer, and thus presumably healthier, locales, where they’d be directed to spend more time outside breathing fresh air and reading epic poetry or whatever. (In Cecil’s case, that meant sending him to South Africa to farm cotton with one of his brothers – but we’ll get back to that in a moment.)

Illness, in other words, correlated with poverty in the sense that poor folks were more likely to live in crowded, unsanitary conditions. Poverty, in turn, often correlated with the sorts of lifestyles upper classes derided as immoral and in constant violation of proper social norms. It’s not always easy to distinguish between difficult circumstances and poor personal choices, then or now.

By way of example, for centuries those paying attention had noted a strong correlation between bad smells and severe illnesses. It was thus reasonable enough to assume that strong odors were actually the source of many ailments. Avoid the nasty scents, and you’d reduce your chances of getting sick.

This “miasma theory” had such staying power because it largely worked. Staying away from gross things will, in fact, reduce your chances of serious illness. More time outside and “socially distancing” from others makes you less likely to take in new germs. Keeping your surroundings clean, eating healthier foods, and getting enough sleep also lower your odds of “consumption.” We can all break out our “correlation does not imply causation” memes, but it wasn’t such a crazy supposition – incorrect or not.

It was thus natural – if unfortunate – that many perceived a strong correlation between poverty and the careless, often “immoral” life choices which accompanied it, and tuberculosis. In other words, the disease took on an ethical component. As is so often the case throughout history, sufferers were thought to be at least partially responsible for their own conditions. If those living better lives, with better educations, and better morals, and better resources, were less likely to contract tuberculosis, then maybe those who did fall ill (or die) were kinda asking for it. Add in a predisposition for divine retribution and eternal justice and whatnot and you get the very human “just-world fallacy.”

Science Progresses; Bias Conserves

And therein lies the problem. (Well, one of them – and a BIG one.) The confusion about the source of illness is problematic from a purely medical standpoint, of course, but that element tends to clear up over time because that’s how science works – explanations are proposed, tested, messed with, and tried out, until refined into better explanations. Lather, rinse, repeat. It’s the oversimplification of the moral and personal factors which proves far more dangerous over time. Nearly two centuries later, and we’re still not fully convinced that poverty and illness aren’t primarily caused by the afflicted simply not being as wonderful as we are.

I mean, it should be obvious – we’ve worked hard to do all the right things, and while it hasn’t been easy, we’re doing OK. Therefore, that’s how things work. Therefore squared, anyone for whom things aren’t working out must not have worked as hard as we have or done as many right things – otherwise, the system is chaotic and random and meaningless and there’s no point to any of it and madness rules eternity.

It’s a tempting bit of reasoning, especially if we work very hard to avoid thinking about it too clearly. (It’s far “truer” when we just kinda “feel” it in the background and don’t over-analyze it.) Such a monumental fallacy goes nicely with some false dichotomy icing and blood-red sprinkles spelling out “EITHER OUR CHOICES MATTER OR THEY DON’T” in an awkward sugary scrawl (and the “DON’T” kinda crammed in at the far edge).   

In any case, “consumption” meant Rhodes was unable to attend the same sorts of schools as his brothers. He was instead sent to South Africa where it was warmer and he could spend more time outside, in this case working on a small cotton plantation with one of those same brothers. It just so happened that something else was going on in Africa at this time – something shinier and more appealing than picking or refining cotton.

Africa had diamonds. Lots of them. Now it simply needed someone with a little vision to make the most of the sparkly beasts.

A Leap of Well-Intentioned Delusion

~ Blue Cereal ~ 1 Comment

Indiana Jones Leap Of FaithThere are so many things about teaching that are difficult to explain to those outside the field. (That may be true of other professions as well, but this is the one I know best.) Even within the world of public education, it’s tricky to balance honesty with optimism, or transparency with teamwork. Too much venting can feed on itself and become entrenched cynicism. An excess of chipper determination, on the other hand, risks building endless castles on the sands of delusion.

Plus, it’s really annoying. Dial it back, Pedagogy-Anna.

For any of us to spend seven or eight hours a day surrounded by teenagers participating against their will and presume to inspire them to learn things about which they don’t generally care requires a degree of moxie most adults could never manage. It’s just as well we fill baby teachers with lofty ideals about changing lives and shaping futures before turning them loose in their own classrooms; they’d never survive long enough to develop thick skins and workable management techniques otherwise.

At the same time, I don’t trust anyone too consistently negative about their kids or their experiences during the day. It’s not that I don’t believe them. It’s just that – to paraphrase George Carlin – anyone more enthused about school than I am is dangerously delusional while anyone less enthused is an embittered cynic who needs a new career.

Nevertheless, I’d like to share something I’ve been wrestling with recently. Some of you may have experienced similar thoughts or feelings, in which case I’m once again sparking difficult-but-necessary discussions about an issue central to our profession. It’s also possible that the problem is just me, in which case the red flags are about 25 years too late.

Oh well.

I was fortunate for many years to teach in a suburban district with solid leadership and reasonable resources. While I had my share of disagreements with various authority figures over the years, I knew most of them had the same overall goals and priorities I did. I trusted their intentions and their expertise more often than not. My students were a fairly diverse bunch racially and culturally (if not always economically), and over the years I discovered that if I put enough time, thought, and creativity into my lessons, many of them would engage in actual learning, whether they wanted to or not.

At least most days.

I didn’t need to chart student growth based on standardized tests; I could watch it unfolding over the course of each year. Some of them talked to me about their lives, concerns, and victories, while others simply rolled in each day, did their thing, and moved on. Either way, I felt good about what I did most of the time. It wasn’t always easy, but there was never any real doubt that it mattered. I wasn’t perfect, but I did a decent job overall of pushing both my students and myself to be the best we could be.

Cue inspirational music.

About five years ago, we moved. I took a position teaching similar kids in what I thought was similar district – but very much wasn’t. Things went south and I ended up leaving under unpleasant circumstances. I considered leaving the profession altogether but settled for new surroundings and a new subject area. I ended up teaching English in a high poverty, majority-minority district.

The first semester completely kicked my @$$. I realized within about two weeks that nothing I’d done before would work here. I had to rethink everything I knew about teaching and learning, not to mention classroom management and student engagement. Keep in mind I’d just come out of a horrible experience with my previous gig and wasn’t exactly feeling indestructible. It was all quite humbling.

I’d just starting to build a little positive momentum when the pandemic hit and we all went home. “Distance learning” offered few challenges, mostly because only about four students logged in or attempted anything for the rest of the year. Halfway through last year we implemented a “hybrid” model in which small groups began attending in person a few days a week, meaning in reality that only the kids who really wanted to be there were physically present. That was amazing. (Sorry, but it was.) This year, we’ve largely been back to the “traditional” way of doing things (albeit with masks until recently), making this the first school year in which I’ve had my students, in person, the entire time. 

Now, please understand – I love my kids. I like most of my co-workers. I’m not fundamentally unhappy with the place, the people, or the circumstances. But it’s a very different world, and a radically different teaching experience than anything I’ve done before.

And it’s exhausting.

A high percentage of my students deal with or have dealt with some sort of trauma. I don’t always know the details, but I’ve seen more sweatshirts and pendants memorializing lost brothers, sisters, friends, or other loved ones in the past few years than in the rest of my life combined. Substance abuse is difficult to assess accurately, but seems largely confined to the light stuff – marijuana and vaping. (“Percs” come up in conversations from time to time when they think I’m not paying attention.) I’ve picked up enough to realize that family dysfunctions and sexual abuse are in the mix for many of them as well. There are missing or incarcerated parents and family members with all sorts of medical, mental, or emotional issues. Even strong academic students have difficulty backing down from conflict or confrontation, although thanks to an amazing (and unflappable) security team, fights within the building are rare.Then there’s the poverty itself, which comes with its own complications and does its own special damage. 

Add to this the fact that teenagers are teenagers. They often choose to be difficult, or lazy, or melodramatic. They find TikTok more entertaining than close reading strategies and texting more engaging than revising their rough drafts. Hormones and emotions and personalities and conflicting senses of self are flying in all directions, all day every day. Somewhere in the mix are the shortcomings of the district and its leadership, the political demands of a state legislature dominated by the monstrosity masquerading as the modern Republican Party, and whatever personal failures I bring to the table despite my best intentions.

It’s thus impossible to fully untangle the various factors which lead to the dynamics around me each day. What comes across as defiance or resentment might be a symptom of neglect, brokenness, or other trauma… or it might just mean that J.P. would rather be somewhere else goofing off so he’s making things difficult. What manifests as lack of focus or difficulty reading might be developmental, emotional, situational, or simply immature or lazy. Even the positive stuff can be difficult to figure out. Has my eternal optimism and encouragement finally begun to pay off, or is L.A. simply in a good mood because she has a new boyfriend?

In short, I can no longer rely on any of the cues which once let me know how things were going or how I was doing. Student engagement is a struggle for even the most celebrated veteran educators here, and student performance (at least as measured by the endless barrage of standardized tests we give) is rocky across the board. I’m not suggesting it’s impossible, merely that none of the things I’ve grown to rely on over the years work the same, and it’s disorienting. And discouraging. And exhausting.

I’m not alone in this wilderness. I have some wonderful co-workers, but many of us share that sense that all we’re doing is throwing lit matches into the swamp. We’ve been around long enough to reject simplistic explanations. Our kids aren’t unteachable, or evil; they come from unpleasant circumstances. At the same time, they have free will; they’re not helpless victims tossed about on waves of happenstance.

That’s when the teacher guilt kicks in. Maybe we’re, you know… doing it wrong. Maybe we’re simply not good enough at this. Or maybe their resistance, their brokenness, their circumstances, are so much bigger than our abilities and our ideals that it’s meaningless for us to keep trying.

You can see where this undercuts the whole “missionary zeal” element of the gig. All that personal fulfillment that’s supposed to offset all the other nonsense pretty much falls away after a few months.

Before you begin contacting my loved ones to organize an intervention, please understand that I’m just trying to be transparent here. I’m perplexed, but not in despair (at least not perpetually). I know intellectually that we must press on. That it matters. At the very least, I don’t have any better ideas.

But I’m also aware that such faith – just like the bigger, spiritual kind – is purely self-designed and existential. It’s a leap of well-intentioned delusion. Without reliable evidence either way, there’s no reason to believe anything I’m doing has value or a positive impact. I could just as easily be making things worse while ignoring the signs so I’ll feel better about myself. People do.

That would be… unfortunate.

So, I force myself to interact with trusted colleagues. To have difficult conversations. To encourage them, and in so doing, to encourage myself. I do my best to go back to the basics, to chart what growth I can, and to be vigilant about my attitude and my interactions. Most of all, I keep looking for ways to adjust, and to celebrate it when anything positive – even the smallest things – occurs as a result. I hope I’m pressing on faithfully, not clinging stubbornly to a series of bad decisions and inept efforts, but I’d hold off on the tear-jerking montage because I’m not entirely sure. At the moment, however, there’s no queue of highly qualified, more energetic alternatives lining up outside, vying for my job… so it’s on me to do the best with it that I can. 

If that requires creating a little of my own reality to make it happen, I’ll take that chance.

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‘D’ Is For ‘Dilemma’

~ Blue Cereal

House Glove‘D’ Is For ‘Dilemma’

I remember sitting down to my very first teacher certification test a quarter-century ago. I’d reported to some obscure little “testing center” hidden in an office complex I’d passed a hundred times without noticing and brought along all the right paperwork. I was armed with a reasonable knowledge of history and plenty of pedagogical theory, with a side of buzzwords and popular edu-trends of the time.

The first section of the exam was multiple choice. I read the first question and marked ‘D’. The second question I felt confident of as well; it also happened to be ‘D’. So was question three. And four. And five. 

I stopped after the tenth question and scrolled back through my answers so far. They were all ‘D’. 

I was fresh out of teacher school and had completed “Tests and Measurements” only the summer before. I knew darn well that no legitimate exam creation process would play those sorts of games with the answers – ten ‘D’s in a row. It was also considered poor form to do anything to undermine the test-taker’s confidence right out of the gate. Ideally, for example, exams should begin with relatively straightforward questions and only gradually increase in difficulty. “Trick questions” were discouraged in any context, but certainly shouldn’t be thrown in right at the beginning. 

I must have been missing something.

I went back through all ten again but still felt fairly certain of my responses. There were one or two that MIGHT have been one of the other options, but ‘D’ still made more sense in each case. So… I kept them and moved on. 

The rest of my responses were more or less varied in the usual way – plenty of ‘A’s, ‘B’s, and ‘C’s, along with a few more ‘D’s. I must have done OK; my overall score on that section was well above the necessary cut-off and seemed impressive enough at the time.

Apparently, the first ten answers were all ‘D’, no matter what good pedagogy or standard educational practices said.

Next Slide, Please 

It’s almost a cliche by now to note how often professional educators are required to endure some well-intentioned drone (usually from “downtown”) reading – word for word – a PowerPoint presentation of 60 – 70 slides. If you’re lucky, they even include a few single-panel comics… which they read and explain as well. Often they’ll hand out the entire presentation on paper so you can read along – as if THAT somehow makes it better. 

On at least two occasions, I sat through ninety minutes of this specifically on the topic of making our classrooms more interactive and engaging. We were scolded in classic Ferris Bueller style (minus even the token efforts at interaction – “Anyone? Anyone?”) about how bad it was to rely on direct instruction. Kids apparently don’t have the attention span for such things – it’s boring and bad pedagogy. The person droning on about this even offered to come help us develop more engaging lessons if we wished. 

There was absolutely NO sense of irony indicated. 

Some of you may remember when “Prezi” first became a thing. The folks from “downtown” were so excited! I remember vividly the first Prezi presentation I watched and all the many features it included. They started with a page of text… then zoomed way, WAY in on different text, then it swooped over in a circle to some new text before zooming back out to a different part of the original text – all while reading each word to us slowly and methodically. They even described what was happening: “we can now zoom in on this ‘T’ and it says…”

Let’s Go To The Rubric 

One of the most bewildering moments in the world of teacher enlightenment came when we were assigned to create rubrics for several different types of assignment. (For any of you unfamiliar with the term in this context, a rubric is an effort to bring clarity and standardization to grading subjective work – art, writing, projects, etc. It allows teachers to bring clarity to their expectations – or at least reduce everything to the same sorts of numbers we use when grading multiple choice quizzes.) The administrator in question wanted more “unified” expectations across the curriculum, starting with a rubric we could all theoretically use to grade student writing. 

The problem, of course, is that there are many different types of writing, and what English is looking for in a creative narrative may not be the same as what AP U.S. History demands from a historical argument. Such distinctions were lost on the powers-that-be, however, who insisted that surely there must be some shared priorities – like spelling and grammar, for example. He was correct that we were in agreement on this issue. While we all cared about clarity in student writing, none of us prioritized spelling or grammar over content or overall organization. 

I’m pretty sure he was convinced at that point that we were being difficult on purpose. 

Eventually we moved on to a different sort of assignment – say, a multiple choice exam. What sort of rubric could we create to promote more unified grading of multiple choice quizzes and tests?

We weren’t sure how to even respond to that one. The very idea demonstrated such a gross lack of understanding of rubrics and what they do that we were genuinely speechless. What’s the professionally appropriate way to tell a superior that you’re not sure how to do what they’re requesting because it’s inane?

Cross My Heart

Such issues become even more maddening when they involve classroom management or discipline. Ask any teacher and you’ll no doubt find a wide and troubling range of examples for the good, the bad, and the ugly when it comes to administrative responses when students are referred to them for various violations. There are districts for whom “restorative justice” simply means sitting around sharing feelings anytime a student commits a serious violation, then sending them back to class presumably fully redeemed. Other times, administration confuses “zero tolerance” for “consistent expectations,” refusing to let reality or context interfere with their approach towards students OR faculty.

Anyone who’s been in education for more than a few years has encountered their share of bizarre district mandates untethered by reality. I’m currently tasked with raising students who rarely if ever attend school by multiple reading levels by the years’ end – as if sheer determination and some creative lesson plans could transform a fifth grade reading level to that of the average ninth grader in even the best of circumstances. I don’t worry about it, however, because it’s inane. It’s so undoable as to be meaningless. Like my students, I may not always buy into even the legit stuff – but I’ll definitely ignore the impossible.

What’s Your Point?

I generally avoid expressing frustration with school boards or administration. (Not that I haven’t periodically vented a bit when I thought there were larger points to be made.)

We have too many common oppressors from outside the system to turn on one another, at least publicly. And besides, many of the folks working in those positions are sensible, well-intentioned professionals. Just like teachers in general, it’s unfair to demonize them based on the idiocy of a handful of their peers.

I bring up these few examples of nonsense I’ve encountered over the years to make a point many have made before and which I hope others will continue repeating as often as possible going forward: it doesn’t matter what you demand until you can demonstrate that you have some idea what you’re talking about. 

This is just as true with teachers as it is with students. My expertise in a subject area may not always secure enthusiastic cooperation from teenagers, but my ignorance pretty much guarantees problems. I may have an entire arsenal of policies and expectations intended to coerce them into doing what I say, but unless I manage to build some degree of rapport, I’ll have to rely on the authority of others to handle my problems (of which there will be many). 

The number one thing districts or administrators can do to secure more support and cooperation from their teachers is the same as what we’re told to do with students – build some credibility. Spend some time listening more than talking. Don’t pretend to know more than you do. Assume we can tell the difference between genuine interest in our perceptions and expertise and yet another survey about building climate or district priorities. Stop basing so many of your decisions on petty disputes with individuals or what looks best on your resume. Most of all, be genuine. You don’t have to sacrifice professional boundaries to not be full of $#!+. 

Just like in the classroom, you don’t have to be perfect, but you do have to be sincere. Until you’ve built up a positive track record with all involved, job title alone is insufficient for securing buy in.  

You may get token compliance, but genuine cooperation? Not so much. 

Teachers aren’t always easy people to deal with, but then again, neither are students. That’s the gig. If you can’t be genuine about it, or you lack the necessary skills and knowledge to do more than fake it, maybe it’s not for you. There are many professions where you can rely on misdirection and obfuscation without doing any real damage, but this isn’t one of them. In short, whether you’re a superintendent, a department manager, a curriculum director, or a building principal, please take a moment and ask yourself what you’re really doing, and why. 

Then ask the folks working “under” you how you could be doing it better. And mean it this time.

In Loco Parentis

~ Blue Cereal ~ 2 Comments

We The Parents

Let’s start by addressing the gaslighting elephant in the room:

I have no interest in parenting your children. 

I have a legal and ethical obligation to teach them, and to some degree train them, for an hour or so each day. I’m responsible for their safety and all that good stuff while they’re here. And yes, I end up caring about many of them and occasionally listening when they have something on their minds. 

But subverting you or replacing you? Yeah, not so much. 

First off, that’s way too much work for what I get paid. I’ve raised my kids, and while they’ve both turned out pretty well, that’s largely in spite of my parenting rather than because of it. Secondly, there’s too much else I’m supposed to accomplish during the limited time I have them. Honestly, even if I wanted to shatter their faith, change their gender, or make them feel horrible about being straight, white, and privileged, I’m having enough trouble getting them to check Google Classroom when they miss class or bring their books on silent reading days. 

If we get those things under control, maybe then I’ll spend some time demonizing America or persuading them they might be way gayer than they think. 

There are two things about which many of you are apparently all worked up which I suppose I should take partial “blame” for (three if you count my terrible abuse of prepositions just now). The first is that I do, in fact, sometimes use texts in class which disagree with your personal, heartfelt beliefs. The second is that despite my determination to avoid it, I periodically listen to your kids when they’re upset without immediately calling you or state authorities every time. 

I’ll wait while you email Tucker Carlson. 

The first issue has been well-covered in other blogs you don’t read and news stories from organizations you don’t trust. The short version is that I have way more faith in your kids than you apparently do, and hope they’ll one day be able to function in a complicated, diverse world. I have no interest in making them feel “guilty” for being white (that’s not really a thing, by the way), but I do believe they’ll be more successful personally and professionally if they have some understanding of why many people of color still seem so annoyed by so many things. I wouldn’t even know how to convert them to Islam or any other religion, but I am convinced they’ll be better able to navigate the world around them if they’ve been exposed to some of the basics of other cultures and faiths. (If I were a religious person, I’d also argue they’ll be better able to defend their own faith when they’ve gained insights into the beliefs of others.) I’m pretty sure I lack the ability to turn them gay or spark some previously-buried interest in gender transformation, but personally I’d rather they not self-harm, turn to drugs, or commit suicide based on a misplaced sense of guilt or shame over being whoever they are. 

There’s a whole related argument to be had about whether or not it’s sometimes in the best interest of the child to undercut their parents’ extreme ideologies. (“Is it OK to teach the child of a misogynist that women have the same inherent value in the eyes of the law as men?” That sort of thing.) That’s a bigger, even more emotionally loaded question, and not relevant at the moment BECAUSE SCHOOLS ALREADY BEND OVER BACKWARDS (and sometimes forwards) TO AVOID DOING THIS. Having that discussion would require mutual respect and an acknowledgement of complexity that I don’t think we’ve established just yet – so we’ll set that aside for now and instead address the second issue I mentioned above – teachers who “counsel” kids in various ways. 

*sigh*

I’ve written before about the impossibility of ignoring a child’s physical and emotional health, even if all we care about are standardized test scores. I’ve tried to explain some of the complexities of wooing teenagers to actually learn the stuff we’re tasked with teaching them, and even resorted to complaining a time or two about the way some parents approach their children’s teachers. It occurs to me, however, that I’ve yet to drop the sarcasm and frustration long enough to simply try to explain something I feel should already be obvious to everyone involved.

It’s good when your child talks to caring adults, even when they’re not you. Sometimes especially when they’re not you. 

Taking this as a reflection on your parenting or a subversion of your values is – and I don’t know how else to say this – tragically insecure. My ex-wife (the mother of my now-adult children) and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye about things (hence the ‘ex’ part), but I still remember her reaction when we discovered our then-teenage daughter was sharing uncomfortable details about her home life during some pretty rough years with one of the adult leaders at her church. Rather than get upset, her mother told me how thankful she was that our daughter had found a trustworthy adult outside of the drama to help her process and navigate the feelings and fallout which resulted. 

Why did she react that way? Because she cared more about the well-being of our child than she did her ego or mine. Because she recognized that while the relationship of parent and child is unique and sacred, there’s some truth to the whole “it takes a village” mindset as well.

When your kid talks to me about their personal problems, I don’t think about what a bad parent you must be – I think about how difficult it must be for them to navigate complicated situations and emotions at 14 or 15 years of age. I’ve been working with young people for over two decades, and I’ve figured out by now to take everything they say with a shaker or two of contextual salt. With all due respect, it’s not usually about you, or your rights, or your power. Sometimes it’s about them and their need to sort things out or handle their feelings in a non-destructive way.

Yes, if they tell me they’re being abused or harming themselves or going to hurt someone else, I have to call an 800 number and everything is going to suck from there forward no matter what happens next. Most of the time, though, that’s not what they say. Most of the time, they just need a fresh perspective on how to manage the stresses of school, or why their mom is always mad at them, or how come they can’t focus in class, or what is wrong with their math teacher who needs to stop tweakin’ and doin’ too much.

They don’t unload to me because I’m trying to be their parent; they unload to me because I’m not. 

See, I don’t have to get them up in the morning when they’re being impossible. I don’t have to deal with the fallout of their poor relationship choices. I don’t have to feel guilty when they get in trouble at school or feel like anyone’s judging me for how they behave. I don’t have to feed them or clothe them or take care of them in any meaningful way beyond learning some reading, writing, and math, and secretly trying to turn them into transgender Muslim socialists. 

(I’m kidding about that last part. No, seriously – I am. Dammit… there goes another email to Tucker Carlson.)

That gives me an advantage in some situations. I’m less threatening. I’m less invested. I care about them, and want what’s best for them, but they don’t “answer to me” in any long-term way. They’re not afraid of disappointing me in the same way they often are with you. It’s not a better relationship than you have with them; it’s a different relationship. One I take very seriously, even though it scares me to death. It’s not a responsibility I want, and the entire system is just waiting for me to make the wrong call in the moment and crush me if it can. But I’m also trying to get them through metaphors and appositives and a functional thesis statement, and sometimes they simply can’t focus on such things until we’ve done something about the rest of Maslow’s hierarchy. 

I’m not competing with you. You want them to graduate? Me, too. You want them to cooperate better with authority (including yours)? Me, too. You want them to learn how to manage their emotions and find solutions to their struggles that don’t involve self-harm, sex-for-approval, or violence against others? Me, too. You want them to grow up to function in a complicated world? To do better than you did at their age? To be “happy,” whatever that means? Yeah, me too. You want them to share your worldview forever and never be challenged by other beliefs or opinions? 

OK, on that one we may not be fully aligned. But still – 6 out of 7, am-I-right?

For what it’s worth, you’re always welcome to come sit in on class and see what we’re actually up to. You have full access to everything I assign to your child – it’s on Google Classroom or Canvas or whatever. I’m happy to discuss why I use the materials I do, as well as share what’s worked and what hasn’t and look for better options. I’m honestly rather excited when a parent wants to collaborate with me to figure out what might best serve their little darling. It happens far too rarely. Sorry if that’s more trouble than yelling at the school board or sharing the latest demagoguery by your elected leaders on Facebook, but it might be way more effective. 

If, you know, we both want the same things for your child.