ETHOS

ETHOS

Wednesday, December 9, 2015

Fresh Prince of West Thebes


Inspired by several sources, primarily conversations with colleagues about "putting yourself out there," and a desire to overcome my camera-shyness.

Monday, October 12, 2015

A grading selfie, from The Most Interesting High School English Professor In The World





I don't always grade composition essays with The Disney Channel blaring in the background, but when I do, it makes me touch my forehead like this...

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Graduation


The end of school has me thinking about how education should strive to teach humility as well as self-confidence.  I think these seemingly contrary qualities grow inside the individual, but it's hard for me to determine what role a school plays in their development.  I was discussing the word "humiliate" with some classes the other day, and the connotation our culture places on it.  No one wants to be humiliated... that would be so... humiliating!  A montage of slapstick scenarios are conjured in our minds, like getting de-pants-ed, etc.  I said that humiliation happens for me when I open the OED.  I feel small and humbled by the size and history of the language, and that it's (for me) a good feeling.  It's through seeking a form of humility, possibly humiliation, that I continue to open just about any book.  Must one have an intrinsic appreciation for humility as well as the confidence that the page will offer something to grow "self" in order to become a serious reader?      

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

TMNT and Me

"Donny" by Wyatt, age 6
TMNT and Me
On a whim I decided to drive to my son’s school. It was his last day as a kindergartner at Marshallville Elementary School, and it was Marshallville Elementary School’s last day as a school. They were all set to tear it down that summer. I was home early from teaching and in a rush to make it there before the school closed its doors for good. On the way I noticed a turtle seemingly frozen in the middle of the highway, baking on the hot, black tarmac. I decided to pick him up and take him into school. He was a painted box turtle, and because of his red markings the kids would name him Raphael.
When I was a kid, one of the ways I would try to get the other kids to like me in school was to draw them ninja turtles. It didn’t work all that well. Rather than simply moving twenty miles south that summer, it seems as if I had also entered a time warp that matured children at astonishing speeds, and rather than bending those poorly articulated turtle figures, my new classmates preferred listening to bands like Great White, and Young MC on their Walkman cassette players. Songs about hanging with chicks. The only chick I wanted to hang with was April O’Neil, which wasn’t saying much. That yellow jumpsuit? That hair? Not to mention the fact that those early stories did little to round out her character, and besides, she liked Casey Jones. Judging by his long hair and sleeveless shirts, he was probably listening to Great White too.
The turtles were my solace during that transitional year. They represented everything I wanted to be: tough, resilient, and despite the fact that they were total outsiders, they had a great sense of humor. Everything just bounced off their shells. I was on the cusp of adolescence I didn’t just want to be a teenager, I wanted to be a teenage mutant ninja turtle. They all hand jived, man, and said things like “Awesome!” and “Bodacious!” in their identical surfer-dude voices. In those iterations the turtles were still relatively one-dimensional, but they seemed, to me, the epitome of cool. Besides, the only dimension I was familiar with was Dimension X: home of Krang, the malevolent master brain.  
    The only folks that shared my opinion about the turtles seemed to be my next-door neighbors, Robert and Ryan. Robert was a grade behind me and drew turtles too. Even then he was an entrepreneur, keeping his originals and tracing copies for a dollar each. He is now partner in a graphic design company in Sacramento, California. Ryan seemed to appreciate the toughness of the turtles the way I did. He was a Mikey kind of guy, so we made nunchucks from the cardboard tubes on wire clothes hangers and practiced our ninja moves at dawn and dusk. At the time I couldn’t understand how such “Awesome!” behavior could add to my status as the weird new kid, but it did, and if playing with the Cheapskate during class didn’t seal the deal, constantly drawing turtles and turtle related pictures certainly did. I found myself in a new grade with no friends.           
    My teacher seemed to understand this all somehow and began wearing a brightly colored ninja turtle wristwatch. Don’t get me wrong, she was still capable of acts of great cruelty. I thought it was a smart idea to carve my name into my desk. She made me walk down to the janitor’s closet, borrow a piece of sandpaper, and rub it out in front of the whole class. Yet, she did her part to try to make me feel a little less like a sewer dweller that year by wearing a Michelangelo watch, a gesture which simple as it was, stands as one of the nicest things any teacher has ever done for me. And when the contest to see who could decorate the class door came around, I was chosen to draw the design. I chose ninja turtles, of course.
    I drew a large turtle themed mural complete with all four heroes and the Party Wagon, which said, “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles want to be your friend.” It should have said, “I want to be your friend,” since that was the desperate message I was trying to convey.   
    It turns out the mural would help win me my first real friend in a new school, but not before we nearly fought one another at the coat closet where we stowed our lunches and other personables. I had accidentally knocked a boy’s glasses off as I was reaching for my lunch. He responded by whipping his own lunch around over his head like a flail and challenging me to a duel. I suppose a ninja turtle would have accepted and then kicked some serious butt. I chose to apologize. Paul was the kid that could speed read faster than the teacher, spoke Elvish and got A’s on everything. This boy was Krang, the master brain. We became friends after I bought him some pencils and a sketchpad for his birthday and told him I’d help him learn to draw ninja turtles. In exchange he taught me how to play Dungeons and Dragons. We bonded through our socially doomed passions and became great allies. It seemed that the people I bonded with most deeply during childhood were those with whom I was able to share a passion. Perhaps not such a brilliant insight, but one that still defines the terms of my friendships, as I’ve found it is only through this kind of interaction that you glimpse the real amateur with whom you share a bond. To borrow from Michael Chabon’s essay “The Amateur Family” being an amateur is all about not being afraid to disclose that which holds you in a vulnerable state of wonderment. It is only those that express a willingness to understand that wonderment, or to share their own variety, that I am ever able to truly call friend.  
Twenty-five years passed since I first learned and then forgot how to be an amateur. One day on the ride home from his after-school program, my son Wyatt told me about his friend in kindergarten with whom he played ninja turtles at recess. “Do you play with anyone else?” I asked. “No one else believes in them,” was his response, and in an instant I remembered what it was like to chase and capture ghosts in a plastic glow-in-the-dark ring at recess backed up only by other true believers. “We saw them in the sewer at recess. They’re real, aren’t they dad?” I answered the way I do all of my son’s questions that deal with wonder and imagination and awe. “Of course they are.”
Raphael should have been my favorite turtle in those days when I was grappling with the relentless bully known as puberty alongside the shame of being an outsider, playing bloody knuckles and arm wrestling at lunch to fit in, but Leonardo and Donatello were the turtles I looked up to. Leo was the one trying to make things better by coming up with a plan, or obsessively training to be the best. Deep down I wanted to be a leader, like Leo. And Donny was the smartest. Together they represented my ideal.
Most of my turtle lore came from the cartoon, the toy line, and the original movie. As a kid I got around to reading the original graphic novels, had checked them out from the library in fact, but got caught up in petty grievances like, “but their bandannas are all red!” and “why are there so many Krang?” I absorbed the origin story, dodgy as it was, and came to hunger for the full page explosions of action. The turtles were grittier, which had to do with the style of Kevin Eastman’s illustrations: thick, black lines and heavy, crosshatching. Lately I have revisited the original storyline, have truly enjoyed watching the Nickelodeon series with my sons, and have begun obsessing over the excellent IDW comic line. which contains a totally re-imagined turtle universe in which Hamato Yoshi and his four sons become reincarnated as Splinter and the turtles after they are executed by Oroko Saki in feudal Japan. Rad, I know.
I spend a lot of time and money buying turtle toys and comics. Some are for my kids but, let’s be clear, most of them are for me. In the novel Telegraph Avenue, Michael Chabon writes that nostalgia is just a way to try and reclaim some part of your youth. Tragically, my neighbor Ryan died in his early twenties. I know that part of my affection for the turtles has to do with the fact that we can no longer swing nunchucks, and every time I buy an old toy we shared, I remind myself it won’t bring him back. Despite this, most of my Ebay watch list consists of retro ninja turtle gear.  
Now that I am an amateur father with two sons, the message of the turtles that speaks to me most clearly is that of the importance of family. I am in awe of the love, respect and obedience the turtles have for their “dad,” and how loyal they are to one another. In my most sentimental moments, the relationship the turtles have with Splinter reminds me of my own adopted parents, their unconditional love, and the fact that they taught me the best they knew how to survive in an imperfect world.  Now as a father, it is all I hope for my own sons: for them to see their father as a person worth obeying, to have the courage to stand up against evil, and to look out for one another, no matter what dangers may lurk ahead. Some believe that cartoons and comics are at best a waste of time, or at worst, trash that rots your brain. Today Wyatt wore a policeman’s hat and a ninja turtle shirt out to dinner with the family. On the way home I overheard him telling Jonas that he would run down any bad guys that ever tried to hurt him, and that he would always be there for him. Always. He made sure to emphasize the word “always.” It makes my heart swell with pride to hear my little turtles profess such loyalty to one another, and if that’s trash, then I guess this amateur belongs in the sewer.
The kindergartners, once they had dubbed him Raphael, were very taken with the turtle as it reared up and attempted, unsuccessfully, to climb out of the white plastic bucket we used for a temporary home, and despite the thoughtful touches (a smooth grey rock, a bit of grass and a twig) he seemed to really dislike his new digs.  Wyatt and Jonas wanted to keep him as a pet.  “He belongs in the wild,” I explained.  “He’d be unhappy as our pet.”  The boys were skeptical, so we fought them into the van to drive to the nearest public lake.  We tipped the bucket on its side and, sure enough, Raph moved with all of his touted agility and speed, like a shot really, out of the mouth of the bucket and into the water.  If you’d have blinked, you’d have missed it.  “Maybe he’ll find a family,” my wife said.  And it was all we could hope.          



Sunday, November 30, 2014

crosspol

crosspol is a journal of transitions for high school and college writing teachers edited byAndrew Hollinger and Colin Charlton who are both rad as all heck.  Anyway, you should check out the inaugural issue, v1i1, featuring yours truly.  I am flattered to be a part of the discussion, and excited for Andrew and Colin.  Looks great guys!



  

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

"Other Daddy" becomes "Other Mommy"

Being an avid Thor fan... it's funny.  I was never much of a Thor fan until my youngest son became fascinated with him.  It happened one day when I sat down to watch the first film, and my son became enthralled.  Since that day, Jonas refers to Thor as "other daddy."  I told my wife I wouldn't judge her.  Thor is the very portrait of pseudo-masculinity: muscled, powerful, bearded... he's apt to kill a dragon, binge drink mead for days and make time with the entire village's population of ladies. He exemplifies all of the superficial traits of manhood... at least in the most recent Thor: God of Thunder series by Marvel comics.  I very much enjoyed the comic, especially the story arc featuring Gorr The God Butcher.  The Roxxon arc was decent as well.  I am very fond of the stand alone issue in which Thor battles a hoarde of trolls with and then celebrates victory with a dragon, who he later has to put down... once a dragon gets drunk he develops a reckless taste for the stuff, I guess.  But since the God of Thunder series has terminated and Thor has been re-imagined as a woman, my mind has done this... So, Marvel is owned by Disney... Thor is a prince of Asgard... OMG!  Thor is a Disney Princess!  Thor!  The man who grafted the necrosword to his soul as a bearded, eye-patched, one armed all-father and defeated Galactus Devourer of Worlds!  A woman!  What is the most awe inspiring thing a woman can do?  Create life.  Dudes are incapable of this amazing feat, and yet culturally we tend to associate pregnancy with a state of vulnerability and weakness: not befitting the God of Thunder...ultimately deemed so to emphasize the power and destructive capability to make things go boom.  And yet the hammer is also a tool to build.  In the movie Thor regains his power only when he learns to put others before himself... a gesture we often, culturally, associate with weakness and vulnerability.  Has that changed?  Will it change?  Will we ever associate pregnancy with strength?  Will there ever be a bad ass male hero with the power to create?

But the more I think on it... Disney is guilty of emphasizing superficial feminine features in its princess characters... so, I'm assuming they will do the same with Thor?  Was the destructor Thor really that much of a Real Man?  Will the female Thor really be that much of a Real Woman?  I think of my youngest son... Jonas, who loves Thor... what will the character's legacy be to my son?  To smash, drink and womanize?  Pseudo-masculinity can be fun, but as long as it's tongue in cheek.  I may prefer the film message in this case: to learn how to put others first.  Isn't that what a real man does? How is the female version of Thor going to behave?  Smash, drink and sleep with tons of men?  For some reason I don't think that image is going to hold up for Marvel, or Disney.  My guess is that she will in some way need to learn her role through a man, just like the vast majority of Disney princesses. Will she sparkle?  Will Disney use her to continue to market princess products? What is the proper behavior for a female God of Thunder?  How will the plot-twist in the Thor universe "other mommy" reinforce or challenge established gender stereotypes?

Update 12.8.15



I just finished Thor #1 released in November of 2015, and I'm speechless.  It's almost like my thoughts about true heroism were being played back to me through the comic.  In case you're not reading the new Thor comic, let me explain.  Jane Foster, Thor's love interest who happens to be battling breast cancer, is the new Thor. There is a scene in the new issue where she is receiving chemotherapy and someone is in need of Thor.  Jane calls Mjolnir and makes the transformation.  We learn that every time she transforms, she gains back her strength, but the chemicals involved in chemotherapy are also purged from her body and therefore lose their effect.  By choosing to use the power of Thor, Jane is revealing a self-sacrifice that is beyond admirable.  I couldn't be happier with the new series and the unlikely directions in which it is traveling.  What a read!

Jonas with "Other Daddy"

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Romeo's Kind of a Hipster


I'm sure you've heard this song by now, so there's probably no need to post the video, but I've gained an appreciation for this pop single by imagining it from the point of view of Romeo.  I don't know why but I can't get it out of my head.  One of my 4 Noble Truths is "Refuse to Take No for an Answer at Least Once in Life" (no clue why the randy caps).  Love seems like a good reason.  Classic themes.  If I ever teach R&J I'm going to work in the song somehow...

Update... The songs "No Evil" "Let Your Hair Down" "Stupid Me" and "How Do You Want To Be Remembered?" are all great tracks for "The Crucible."   I'd love to spell out the connection, but then if I had to do that the tip wouldn't be worth a darn, now would it?

Sunday, October 26, 2014

Mission Questions

The soul speaks a subversive language. 

It looks for exceptions rather than rules… mistrusts the handles of “wise men” and "fool."

The journey toward literacy is a pursuit of the formless through a form.  Some days it’s like trying to make a mirror speak lies.  To what is math a language?  Do hearts pump logarithms?   How many stars am I capable of understanding?  Are any of them on a flag?  Who was the President of the Divided Tables at Lunchtime on September 17, 2014?  What is the atomic weight of love?   How deep is the lake of the mind?    


How do we inspire ourselves to seek the unanswerable question?  How do we chart its value?  Can we quantify gains in the dynamo of the imagination?   
          
 

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

A Love Letter to the True Believers

Education is one of the few industries that subjects its young professionals to an unpaid internship.  This may be annoying to college students who find themselves saddled with the accrued bulk of their undergraduate debt while the financial miasma of adult life (marriage, mortgage, etc.) looms high on the horizon, but it is a practice that should not change.  Let me repeat: we should NOT pay our student teachers.  Why, you say?  Many of our young teaching professionals are as credentialed and hardworking (maybe more-so) as our young engineers.  So, why does one group get well-compensated, and one does not?  Shouldn't we offer a big paycheck to attract the best and brightest to our profession?  No, we should not.  Here's why.

The true believers (yes, that is a Stan Lee shout-out) that enter the field of education do so out of an almost painful idealism to dedicate their lives to a cause that matters.  Sorry cynics and naysayers, that's the way it is, and education, despite everything, is still a profession in which it is possible to change the world for the better.  Do we really want to jeopardize the future of our profession by attracting young professionals motivated by a large salary?  Here, let me answer that for you.  No, we don't.


The young professionals that enter the field of education do not do it for the money.  The common perception is that teachers rake in the cash, and some politicians have made careers of painting us as having too many hands in the collective cookie jar... but let me explain why this perception is wrong. Recent gubernatorial budget cuts in public education have placed undue scrutiny on the salaries of public educators.  If you're an educator reading this and you don’t think people know what you make, Google yourself.  I’ll bet your salary is one of the first hits.  In a profession in which we are required to be nearly as educated as doctors and subject to one of the most difficult audience in the world, the American teenager, we are woefully behind the salary trends for professionals according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, coming in under the average salaries of not only Engineers, Architects, those in Social Science and Business, but also people in Humanities and Liberal Arts, Law, Communications and Journalism.  The only group we beat are those in the Arts.  Take it from someone who knows how financially ruinous a degree in the arts is (I worked my tail off to obtain a Masters of Fine Arts degree and cannot really think of a profession save teaching that could financially support my family) we only edge them out by a $1,000/year on average.  So, while it is true that public educators make good money... it really ain't that good, honey.    

So, in a profession whose median salary is less than someone's in the food service industry (no disrespect to any of you food service brothers or sisters who may be reading this), why set a student teacher up with unrealistic expectations of wealth?  I think it's good training that they work harder than they ever thought they could at something, become totally and completely emotionally invested, and make zero dollars.  That is good training for the field of education.  

A few years ago here in Ohio legislators tried to limit our right to collectively bargain and to strike.  We repealed this legislation through a voter referendum known as Issue 2.  This legislation was initiated by politicians who are unfriendly to public education.  It appears their sympathizers want to undo years of educational progress.  Collective Bargaining is constructivism at work.  For those of you who don't happen to be education majors let me define what I mean here by constructivism... plain and simple I mean that we construct a context for meaning.  For the same reasons the classroom teacher has evolved from a pedantic gatekeeper of trivial knowledge to a facilitator creatively encouraging independent thinking, so have the rules of our employment changed for the better.  In short, we have a say.

As teachers we are invested heart, soul, and wallet.