I have exactly 8 minutes until 'they' arrive, the 'they' that have been plaguing my last moments of freedom this past week. They will be loud, and I love the quietness surrounding me right now; they will be full of questions, and I have relished a summer without being an authority on anything other than what is a quality cigar or pub. No, they will be interested in due dates for homework, the proper procedure for going to the restroom (hopefully they have the mechanics down by the time they get to my class, but I find that bathroom breaks are a major source of intrigue for school children), ....
3 minutes....I'm a slow thinker. I'm reminded of Marlowe's Dr. Faustus, because it closes brilliantly with the last 24 hours of his life prior to be taken by the devil being swept away in the proverbial "blink of an eye". He keeps trying to philosophize his situation, thinking it through, and the time keeps slipping through his fingers, and finally....
....there's the bell (seriously, I could not have timed that better). In the spirit of Faustus, it would be unfair for me to complete my thoughts right now; instead, I will sign off and do my job...similar to being plunged into Hell, right?
3 minutes....I'm a slow thinker. I'm reminded of Marlowe's Dr. Faustus, because it closes brilliantly with the last 24 hours of his life prior to be taken by the devil being swept away in the proverbial "blink of an eye". He keeps trying to philosophize his situation, thinking it through, and the time keeps slipping through his fingers, and finally....
....there's the bell (seriously, I could not have timed that better). In the spirit of Faustus, it would be unfair for me to complete my thoughts right now; instead, I will sign off and do my job...similar to being plunged into Hell, right?
I am involved once again in the most fickle of affairs with the angry, vindictive lover, school. As of last week I was no longer an aimlessly wandering barfly, walking from bar to cafe, movie theatre to bookstore ad nauseum; no, now I am a gainfully employed barfly, wandering from cafe to school to bar..etc (the bar tabs will inevitably rise as the children begin filtering back in next week....I am slowly building stil). Last week marked the beginning of another school year, and in the midst of meeting after mind-numbing meeting, I realized two distinct things: I love teaching, and I hate being a teacher.
I was reminded of the former last week when I was privileged to get to lecture for a summer class that had been studying Jane Austen for the summer. They all mutually hated Emma, which I actually loved, and word spread that I might be able to turn their young minds in favor of it, and so the call was made early in June for a class that I was not going to teach until late July (bad idea). I got a call from Brian the day before asking a question about the lecture, and suddenly I was slammed to the floor by a pile of bricks. I had completely forgotten about that commitment. My first several thoughts were clever ways to avoid the engagement, but honesty and integrity won the day, and so I spent until the wee hours of the morning studying up on the book and criticisms, and I went to class the next day and waxed eloquent for 1 1/2 hours....and I loved it! I forget what a rush it is to teach, and it sometimes takes something like that to remind me.
Fresh off my victory with the Janeites, I went to my first day of work at Prince of Peace only to quickly discover how much I hate being a teacher. Allow me to be blunt: I do not really like kids; when they are young, they are sticky, smelly and otherwise gross, and by the time I get to them in high school, they are still smelly, but now there is a much more pungent odor of smart-a** that overrides all other senses. I love education, just not kids, and this apparently makes me a bad teacher....I could only be more of a social outcast at a Christian school if I engaged in dogfighting while hating kids.
Secondly, I do not give two damns how many times my students a) go to the bathroom, b) chew gum c)show up late d) fail to turn in assignments e) like me d) tell their parents how mean I am e) hold hands in the hallway f) curse g) write perverse poetry h) write notes, and the myriad of other pressing concerns that keep us in hours of meetings everyday. I tried; I came in the first day determined to care....but I don't, I just don't.
Teachers are a different breed of human, and I am pretty sure that I am not one of them....although I still lay claims to the "human" part. Regardless, that is what I am, in title, if nothing else. So, let us iron our Winnie the Pooh sweaters, gather our Garfield posters to display proudly on our pristine bulletin boards (to be changed monthly, mind you), brush up on our cliche's (after all, there is no I in TEAM), and get ready for those little "blessings" to come bounding through the door in a week. If nothing else, we have summer to look forward to...and not many professions can say that.
I was reminded of the former last week when I was privileged to get to lecture for a summer class that had been studying Jane Austen for the summer. They all mutually hated Emma, which I actually loved, and word spread that I might be able to turn their young minds in favor of it, and so the call was made early in June for a class that I was not going to teach until late July (bad idea). I got a call from Brian the day before asking a question about the lecture, and suddenly I was slammed to the floor by a pile of bricks. I had completely forgotten about that commitment. My first several thoughts were clever ways to avoid the engagement, but honesty and integrity won the day, and so I spent until the wee hours of the morning studying up on the book and criticisms, and I went to class the next day and waxed eloquent for 1 1/2 hours....and I loved it! I forget what a rush it is to teach, and it sometimes takes something like that to remind me.
Fresh off my victory with the Janeites, I went to my first day of work at Prince of Peace only to quickly discover how much I hate being a teacher. Allow me to be blunt: I do not really like kids; when they are young, they are sticky, smelly and otherwise gross, and by the time I get to them in high school, they are still smelly, but now there is a much more pungent odor of smart-a** that overrides all other senses. I love education, just not kids, and this apparently makes me a bad teacher....I could only be more of a social outcast at a Christian school if I engaged in dogfighting while hating kids.
Secondly, I do not give two damns how many times my students a) go to the bathroom, b) chew gum c)show up late d) fail to turn in assignments e) like me d) tell their parents how mean I am e) hold hands in the hallway f) curse g) write perverse poetry h) write notes, and the myriad of other pressing concerns that keep us in hours of meetings everyday. I tried; I came in the first day determined to care....but I don't, I just don't.
Teachers are a different breed of human, and I am pretty sure that I am not one of them....although I still lay claims to the "human" part. Regardless, that is what I am, in title, if nothing else. So, let us iron our Winnie the Pooh sweaters, gather our Garfield posters to display proudly on our pristine bulletin boards (to be changed monthly, mind you), brush up on our cliche's (after all, there is no I in TEAM), and get ready for those little "blessings" to come bounding through the door in a week. If nothing else, we have summer to look forward to...and not many professions can say that.
Although I gave her a hard time for it, Debby did take some good pics of the
party; I think she captured to night well. Enjoy.
Do you notice anything different about us? Look closely....closer....no, not that, but good guess.
Perhaps you might look just below the back of our necks...our shoulders. If you observe closely you might notice that the giant weight of homeownership has been removed as of yesterday! That's right, WE SOLD OUR HOUSE!!!
It was something of a whirlwind courtship with the current owners of 1221 Moore Ter., because we went from no leads to a contract in a matter of a few days....and then they wanted to close within a week. We couldn't have been more thrilled to rush through the process.
So, raise your glasses and toast with us to no longer living in Arlington.....cheers!
Dear Mr. University President,
I recognize that you are basically the CEO of a large, state-funded corporation, that the comfort, or perhaps more apropos, discomfort, of we measly commoners is of no more import to your day than an approval rating or war-status-report is to 'Dubya', but, if I might, I have some suggestions to make the graduation ceremony a bit more palatable for all involved.
First, and, to be honest, foremost, is it necessary to have graduate students share the ceremony with undergrads? Sure, time and space are undoubtedly at a premium in the bustling early weekends of August, though you do a nice job of disguising your institution as an old-West ghost-town, but do you think we might can recognize the obvious? Undergrads and their parents/friends/frat-brothers/... apparently have the social graces of tractor-pull attendees...only these people are already on edge because they are wearing the three sizes too small 'funeral suit' that they haven't touched since Peepaw's unfortunate tractor accident. The grad-students have spent the last three years working, raising their families, contributing to society, all the while studying every spare moment of their busy days, and they and their families want a moment of reflection and enjoyment without a damn air horn going off every five minutes.
While we're there; airhorns? really? In 2007 we have not moved past airhorns? Ha, ha, it's funny to be an asshole, ha, ha.
Secondly, are there no scholars left to give the type of rousing, inspiring speech that will be written up in future anthologies? Sure, I appreciate the guy who got his Bachelor's 40 years before and hasn't cracked a book since, who doesn't, but one can only put up with 20 or so minutes of self-deprecating humor absent any true sentiment before one demands at least of modicum of substance. What message are you sending to your graduates: "All these years of hard work, they mean nothing, because 40 years from now you will neither remember anything you studied nor have anything original or inspiring to impart to the future generations...but, if you are lucky, you get to wear a cool robe and stutter into a microphone in front of a crow of people who wish you wouldn't...cheers.
Thirdly, two words (or one hyphenated word): Pronunciation (-) Guide. Can there be a more deflating moment for a graduate and his/her family after years of waiting for this moment than a Texan butchering your surname, stammering, and then finally rushing through the pronunciation again as if saying it faster will cause people not to know that you don't know how to say it?
Finally, two more words: Open Bar...I might even learn to appreciate the airhorns then.
I recognize that you are basically the CEO of a large, state-funded corporation, that the comfort, or perhaps more apropos, discomfort, of we measly commoners is of no more import to your day than an approval rating or war-status-report is to 'Dubya', but, if I might, I have some suggestions to make the graduation ceremony a bit more palatable for all involved.
First, and, to be honest, foremost, is it necessary to have graduate students share the ceremony with undergrads? Sure, time and space are undoubtedly at a premium in the bustling early weekends of August, though you do a nice job of disguising your institution as an old-West ghost-town, but do you think we might can recognize the obvious? Undergrads and their parents/friends/frat-brothers/... apparently have the social graces of tractor-pull attendees...only these people are already on edge because they are wearing the three sizes too small 'funeral suit' that they haven't touched since Peepaw's unfortunate tractor accident. The grad-students have spent the last three years working, raising their families, contributing to society, all the while studying every spare moment of their busy days, and they and their families want a moment of reflection and enjoyment without a damn air horn going off every five minutes.
While we're there; airhorns? really? In 2007 we have not moved past airhorns? Ha, ha, it's funny to be an asshole, ha, ha.
Secondly, are there no scholars left to give the type of rousing, inspiring speech that will be written up in future anthologies? Sure, I appreciate the guy who got his Bachelor's 40 years before and hasn't cracked a book since, who doesn't, but one can only put up with 20 or so minutes of self-deprecating humor absent any true sentiment before one demands at least of modicum of substance. What message are you sending to your graduates: "All these years of hard work, they mean nothing, because 40 years from now you will neither remember anything you studied nor have anything original or inspiring to impart to the future generations...but, if you are lucky, you get to wear a cool robe and stutter into a microphone in front of a crow of people who wish you wouldn't...cheers.
Thirdly, two words (or one hyphenated word): Pronunciation (-) Guide. Can there be a more deflating moment for a graduate and his/her family after years of waiting for this moment than a Texan butchering your surname, stammering, and then finally rushing through the pronunciation again as if saying it faster will cause people not to know that you don't know how to say it?
Finally, two more words: Open Bar...I might even learn to appreciate the airhorns then.
*******Let me go ahead and give a WARNING here. I realize that many of you (I suppose 'many' is a pretty subjective term, because it can mean, in this case, the majority of a small audience) are good-hearted, non-cynics, and this post may not be for you, though it is not a bad as some others have been*******
Thanks to the overacting smugness of Russell Crowe in the early 00's, I found out what a 'proof of life' is. Since I trust anything that is broadcast through electric visual media (have they given us any reason not to....need I remind you of The Passion of the Christ...see, they're all Christians), I KNOW that a proof of life is what those paying a ransom demand in order to prove their kidnapped associate is still alive and that money therefore needs to be paid. It also has something to do with a Roman soldier and a schizophrenic mathematician, but I think those were only minor points.
Why the sudden interest in a movie that I have not seen in several years? - I experienced something very similar yesterday, and I wanted to scoreboard my brother and sister in the process. Yesterday, via phoneline, I was given definitive proof that Dorothy Stone (aka: Grandma) still exists.
The conversation, if you can call it that, went something like this:
*******Sidenote: I archive this conversation, not only for the edification of the reading public, but also as some sort of historical document. I have not spoken with this woman this century, nor do I anticipate any of us will ever, in some sort of Saschwatch/Elvis mysterious sightings-sense, track her down again, so, like the recording of Neil Armstrong's steps on the moon, a once in a lifetime experience, I render to you my first conversation with 'Grandma' since childhood.
*******In the spirit of Russell Crowe, there might be slight embellishments for dramatic effect.
Dad: "Do you want to talk to Grandma?"
Me: "Who's that?" - (ok, I wasn't that rude) "I don't care....not really....what would I say to her....probably better that I don't...."
Dad: "Ok, here she is."
Me: "Dad!, did you not hear...Hi, Grandma."
Elvis: "Hi, Marshall...um, Mitchell...oh, Mandible...Grandson!"
Me: "How have the 90's and 00's been treating you?"
Jimmy Hoffa: "We are good, I don't think I would have recognized your voice."
Me: "Ha, ha... (awkward silence....getting worse....the laughter is fading....what do I do?!)
Loch Ness: "I guess you probably wouldn't have recognized mine either....ha, ha"
Me: "Ha, ha....(trailing off....almost ready to feint phone static to end this)"
(imagine giggles and stutters so palpable and thick that I am literally swatting uncomfortableness out of the air like mosquitoes)
Me: "I was hoping we might reconnect....maybe this conversation could be the bridge that reunites our side of the family...we are, after all, family, and isn't that more important than any grudges of misunderstandings that may have arisen over the years. We lov..."
George Bush's Credibility: "...Good to talk to you too.....ha, ha.....here's your dad...bye, now."
-------------------
So let's recap the scores for the past decade or so:
Abbey: 0
Jim: -800....drum-stealing bastard.
Michael: 1 - winner and new champion!
After the Deutschkurse in June, I entered what can only be described as 'Nerd-Summer-Camp'. Tucked into the heart of Uptown there is a nondescript old house with a wrap-around porch, surrounded by a blanket of green-leafed trees and cats (it seems like there are thousands, though I think in actuality there are only five). A quarter-century ago Dr. Louise Cowan and her late husband began this odyssey that has been devoted to both the arts in Dallas, and, each summer, for training and revitalizing teachers.
For three weeks, we read and immersed ourselves in every particular of a dozen novels or dramas, we wrote, and we were able to 'sit at the feet' of some truly brilliant minds that sought to challenge us, to push us. It was fantastic, and after the dust had settled, and after everyone was back home (though still working on their final papers, which were due two weeks later), you had that same weird youth-camp feeling; you missed seeing people who were isolated in the same pseudo-reality that is the bubble of the Summer Institute, and, in a drastic departure from youth-camp, you missed the food (they fed us like kings for three weeks...had I not been on a strict running regimen I would have gained 400 lbs.....that's right, 400).
I have since dried my "on fire for Lit." eyes, though "I know, I just know that I'm going to be different now...I'm going to tell everyone about Aeschylus and never be ashamed...", and I have finished my research paper, and now it is time to get into school-mode. I have not even gotten to the move yet, but that will have to wait until later. I have to run; it is oh-so-tough to keep up with a teacher's schedule in the summertime.
michael
It is morning, I need to get on the road to church, but, as I have been reminded by the two or so people that still check this thing (b0th, consequently, share my DNA) that I have not posted since Father's Day. I checked...they are right. I am still not sure I have anything of substance to write, but I thought I would share a picture or two. Here's the view from our balcony this morning....it's a nice place to sit and type....it will be a sauna by 10 this morning.
This summer has been interesting, to say the least. Whereas last summer I fled the country, seeking asylum in the friendly confines of every Suude-Muenchen bar I could find...living the easy life...going to class a few hours a day and then watching Weltmeisterschaft (World Cup)
all night in one of the the many previously mentioned bars, this summer has been all about toil. I suppose it is good for the soul not to be a wanderer, even while on summer vacation (though I think another wandering soul who shares my DNA might disagree......I admit it, by the way, I have no idea if relatives really share DNA, but that cliche sounded good twice in this post).
June was devoted to the study of Deutsch. A new professor of German at UD let me sit in on the first month of an intensive German course in order for me to brush up and find that which I had lost in the last 12 months of little German study. It was a really good, really tough time. Not that most of it hasn't already been forgotten in the last 30 days, but hopefully enough to pass a written exam later has stuck.
I am going to be late for church, so I better go. I'll finish my "summer in review" later....tell your friends, it is what we have all been waiting for.
