A Moment or Three

A couple of successes:

One student told me today (halfway through the book) that it was against her religion. (She gave me a note, and was fine when I told her we would discuss it after class. All totally appropriate and on the level.) Anyway, Bless Me, Ultima by Rudolfo Anaya, is, in many ways, about a witch. Actually a curandera: think medicine man or even a root worker, but still. I'd heard from other sophomore teachers that this might be an issue, but I haven't really confronted this sort of thing before. Anyway, end of class comes and I give my schpeel (sp?) about reading something doesn't mean you believe it and it helps to know how other people feel about the world, bla bla bla, but what do you think?

She thinks she would get in trouble. OK. I'll talk to the other sophomore teachers at lunch, come up with a suitable solution, and she can come back during homeroom and we'll figure it out. So, I talk at lunch and statement number 1 is this: talk to mom and make sure it's true, and if so, why not read Fahrenheit 451? We've already read some Ray Bradbury this year, so the pre-reading is already done. OK. I call mom. Sure enough, Mom would *not* like daughter reading the book. I say OK, we'll give her an alternative assignment. Mom (thank God -- pun intended, sorta) is not angry that I've assigned this book, but thrilled that I called to check with her and am being reasonable about it. "Commendable" is, I believe, the word she used to describe me. After a lot of crap from all angles, someone taking what could be a disaster and saying something nice to me feels really awesome. I also tell Mom what a pleasure it is to have her student in my room. (No kidding, she's a great student.)

Fast-forward to the end of the day. Student, who is a Hellstudent, although not one of the vicious ones, comes by to pick up his tiny footballs that he let other students have yesterday and they were flying about the room. Needless to say, he didn't get them back yesterday. Well, I channel my classroom management professor (for once) and get *him* to tell *me* what his behavior is like (instead of the other way around): he blurts things out, he's often inappropriate, he distracts others. Then, we talk about what he can do to improve. Well, we worked up that we'll make up a clipboard with a chart on it. He will track how well (or poorly) he's doing in class. If he's talking out of turn -- a checkmark. If he contributes to the conversation positively -- a checkmark in another column. And, if -- heaven forbid -- the checks in the good column outweigh the checks in the bad column, well, I'll call his mom and tell her. Now, this has yet to be put into practice, but the mere act of working out a potentially viable solution with a Hellstudent leaves me optimistic.

In other news, I had a long conversation about hospitality with all my sophomores today. They were ROTTEN for their substitute last Friday. So, first they wrote a journal about the rules of hospitality (because it's Thanksgiving). I started it, of course, with a reminder that the gods allowed Odysseus to kill Penelope's suitors because they had violated the rules of hospitality. Then, I compared their behavior on Friday with their role as host in the classroom. Some of them got it. But not the ones who think their job is to try to not work. You know the ones: they think it's my job to give them a grade, not theirs to earn it; it's the custodians's job to pick up their trash, not theirs to take care of their messes; it's the administration's job to catch them breaking the rules, not theirs to follow them. This is the best I can do to combat that thinking. It's their job to be a member of society, and even as students, they are members of society. Might not work. Might. ish. Let's just say I have a lot of phone calls to make and paperwork to fill out.

Then I made them do boring vocab. They were still rottenish. But less. And no one stole my tape today. And, for about 10 minutes at the end of each class, I forced them to be quiet by threatening to hold them in otherwise. The quiet was good for me, if not for them. Sometimes, it really is just about me.

P.S. I realize this is not that well written. But I have no energy for editing. Maybe, in awhile, I'll edit this for posterity -- but I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you.

Manamana

Yes, the Dead Hensons, the Muppet cover band will be playing in San Francisco on Saturday night. Yes! It's an 8-piece funk band that plays only songs from Sesame Street. Nothing is happier than songs from childhood with beer and a bunch of other adults singing and dancing along. I am so finding my way there.

R&D, you are so jealous right now.

If you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear to wear flowers in your hair

Finally made it up to SF yesterday. I only spent the day, so I certainly haven't done it up "right", but it was good to find my way there. The first time is always the hardest. Now I know how to get to downtown at least, even if I never knew where I was again after that.

I met up with an old friend from Chapel Hill. Reconnected on Facebook and he happened to be in town visiting friends, so we took a day. We had brunch at Luna Park on something and 18th (the old crack hood all gentrified) then drove around looking for his hotel then went down to the Ferry Building. We had an app at a wine bar and then ferried over to Sausolito. My, was that nice. It was late -- later than I had hoped seeing as I had to teach today -- but it was worth it. The sun was setting behind the Golden Gate Bridge as we chugged across the Bay. And the weather is unseasonably warm (to say the least) with clear blue skies. Just gorgeous. Had some clam chowder (still too much starch, not fully cooked potatoes, but not too salty and good clam heft to it) and a Crab Louis salad. Not too bad. Then back home.

It's a 2 hour drive, which is kinda annoying, but not impossible. I do need to go back and spend more time. But I need to plan it when I *have* the more time to spend. Maybe a long weekend or if Shells really comes to visit for spring break.

I'd make this a better-written post, but I'm too tired and cranky (meetings!) to do much more than a mind-dump. I've shared; I'm alive; I'm not just sitting on the couch every evening.

Done.

I Thought of a Good Title

But then I forgot. Maybe, if it comes back to me, I'll fix it.

Today I decided I needed to get out of Dodge. So I packed up my thick-ass stack of papers to grade, citysearched a place to eat, and drove to Santa Cruz. Of course, I forgot to bring the sticky note that had the addresses on it (it's still sitting right here at my elbow), but I sorta remembered the cross street of the breakfast place I was looking for. So, being in a winging it frame of mind, I took off in what I though was the right direction and lo and behold -- I found it!

Well, for a place that is supposed to have long lines, there weren't any at 9:30 on Veterans's Day. Fine with me. I ordered a cup of decaf (have to) and Mike's Mess. Mike's Mess is a scramble of eggs, bacon, mushrooms, and homefries topped with cheese, sour cream, tomatoes, and scallions. Sounded delicious.

The coffee arrived -- bleugh. They have an old-skool coffee pot system, and this decaf had definitely been sitting on the burner too long. Invest in some air pots people!

But then breakfast came. Glorious breakfast. It's been awhile since I've had a good breakfast, and this qualified. The plate was covered with a pile of food and two good scoops of sour cream. The only complaint I have about the Mess is that the taters were overseasoned (aka: too much salt) and also contained tumeric. Don't get me wrong, tumeric belongs in many, many things, just not in breakfast potatoes. It's a trend I've noticed out here: a curried potatoes for breakfast habit; I don't buy it. (Well, obviously I do since I paid for my breakfast, but you get my drift.)

Now, on the side of the plate was a piece of bread sliced in half. White sourdough, to be exact. It was lovingly toasted and sandwiched between the halves was a scoop of butter (yes, butter). I spread the butter over the toast (with plenty left over in case I really wanted to destroy my arteries), and took a bite -- and landed in heaven. The bread was dense and tender at the same time. The bread wasn't too sour, which is more to my liking than the inverse (converse? contrapositive? who remembers their geometry?). I could eat that bread forever. I do love white bread. Yes, I do.

The menu also boasted some sourdough pancakes that looked delish, as well as the usual eggs and bacon fare. I will definitely need to go back.

And to add to my pleasure was the crowd of eaters. There was an undergrad couple next to me (it was early on in their dating life) and an older professor (or math teacher) across the way. I watched in fascination as he ate a decidedly snotty egg. It was so slippery he could barely get it on his fork and stay there. He was not a break-the-yolk kind of man. I was impressed and slightly grossed out when he finally got it in his mouth. I think that egg whites should be cooked all the way through, although the yolk is allowed to remain runny. All in all, good people watching.

Then I went and say on the pier and graded a few papers. It was good.

Some Blocks are Good Blocks

I've been doing some lame teaching with my juniors. The "teaching" part is slim; we're reading The Crucible out loud. I do this not just because, but because I know that my students will not read it if we don't. It's in the textbook, and they will not take it home and read it and come back to school prepared to discuss it. It written well about their reading level AND with antiquated language, so even if they did read it on their own, they wouldn't understand it. The affective filter is too high. It is beyond their zone of proximal development (without my scaffolding).

(Yes, I understand that I'm making sweeping generalizations about my students. Some of them would read it. Some of them would understand it. But by and large, my population demonstrates low motivation and poor English skillz -- it's a cultural thing, dear. Hey, I'm not sure I'd be signing up to be a part of white culture if I weren't here already. And, well, they are far more bilingual than I -- tell me whose language skillz are more valuable in today's global economy.)

Back to this morning. In a stunning feat of actual teaching, I had planned to lead them in a book-making excercise where we could look at irony, mood, and tone and find some examples and then do a little evaluation. It would involve paper and crayons and all sorts of good things (don't let high school students fool you -- they love crayons as much as elementary students do). But they rebelled.

They insisted that we read the play.

I'm serious, a good half of the class begged me to let them read. Nobody disagreed. (We assign parts and read it out-loud -- a little Reader's Theater for the Dramatically Challenged.) They want to know what happens. They want to get to the end. They don't want to forget what's going on. I (well -- I'm taking credit, but I don't think I really had much to do with it) have them hooked on the story. They've seen beyond the language to the meaty part -- the plot. And it is a gripping story: teen girl has affair with older man and schemes to kill his wife; the rest of the town is gripped with jealousy and rivalry and takes advantage of the situation to get retribution; murder, mayhem, frenzy, religious fervor, mistaken assumptions, a know-it-all judge, and a thoughtful minister. I think I'm going to have them script a Jerry Springer reunion when it's over.

So, I scrapped my lesson. We can get to it later. And we read. It was pretty sweet.