Here 2.0

Sometimes there aren’t metaphors waiting to be found. Sitting and listening to Dylan talking to Woody is enough for him. A little glass of whiskey would be nice, but not today, none around, not for miles anyway.

Last night a dream kept him pinned under his blanket, but his loud screaming woke his wife and son up. “Can’t really explain what it was about,” he’d tell his wife in the morning, but not because he didn’t remember the dream, it was that he couldn’t figure out how to say it in her language. That happens a lot to him. And, because it happens to his wife as well, he hoped his actions, his behaviour could make up for it.

Outside he could see the buildings and cars down below. From their 6th floor flat everything up-close was clearly outlined. Sure dust curled around the ground irregularly, but that was to be expected here. He considered how he got here. His wife followed him here, subsequently his son as well. But when he looked out toward the horizon, the distance dissipated, like someone was shaking an Etch-a-sketch across the sky. He’d recently learned it’s called “petroleum dust.”

His boy’d developed a cough about three months after they’d arrived in country and when his tongue turned a pale-color orange he decided to take him to the doctor. It was the doctor that told him about the petroleum dust. She said it with a hint of disdain in her voice.

Most people are really nice. It struck him—the lack of hustle here. Every place he’d ever been, people had a hustle to ‘em. The first time he saw it was as a child, in Toronto, walking down the street with his family, on their way to eat at a Chinese restaurant. He was 8 or 9, still held his dad’s hand, and they passed by a raggedy looking old man sitting right there on the sidewalk—against the wall of a building. He sensed something, a tug from his father’s hand, an uneasiness in his mother or older sister, but when he turned and looked back at the old man, he smiled warmly at him. His feet had slowed and his dad tugged on him and he scampered to catch up before they all turned to walk into the Chinese restaurant.

After eating, he remember purposefully falling behind his family. The old raggedy and dirty man was still sitting there against the building. As they all passed by him on their way back to the hotel, he turned quickly and flipped a quarter to him. The man winked at him and smiled gratefully—hustle.  

Looking back at that moment now, it was like every other memory. He’d learned to turn them around and examine them in stride. If he was alone, as was the case in this moment, he could really focus on them. If he wasn’t alone, at work, or with his small family, whatever the case might be, the memories were just like a warm breeze or a chilly draft, catching him unaffected, or curiously, and then moving on. But as he walked along in the curling dust at dusk, the memory of the old man in Toronto spawned the idea that nobody here really hustles. No one sits on the street. No one has a line, nobody’s looking to scam anyone or pull a fast one. Everyone smiles and when they look you in the eye they don’t zero in on you and try and sell you something.

“I think it’s because everything is illegal here,” he said to one of his colleagues. “And there’s no drinking, at least not as such. I mean you can’t just stumble round the place being obnoxious. They’d have you thrown in the klink.”

Everyday after work he takes his son to the playground, or out for a bike ride, or down to the fire station. They keep the firehouses open to the public here. His son loves going because the firemen are super nice and like to hold the boy and play with him. They flip on the lights, turn on the siren, let the boy say stuff into the public announcement speaker, and the boy laughs and stares at everything with wide eyes and says, cooool a lot. He doesn’t like to take his son there too often, not because he wants to keep his son from having any fun, but because he feels guilty about the level of attention the firemen pay them. After they finish at the firehouse or playground or whatever activity they decide to entertain themselves with, they go shopping at their local grocery store.

He doesn’t know why the firemen’s hospitality makes him uncomfortable, but he’s starting to make connections. The first time he and his small family went out to explore their new neighbourhood was after getting a good night sleep and waking up at noon. He got online to try and scout the neighbourhood, at least narrow down his options, he didn’t want to be outside too long, it’s hot here.

They woke up and he made something for everyone to eat. He kissed his wife and she rolled her eyes and then he went and horsed-around with his son. He carried him to all the windows of their new flat and they looked outside. His son noticed all the little buses and trucks, pointed to them as they moved busily down below. From their bedroom they could see a crowded round-about and horns sounded regularly.

He and his son went around the flat looking at things like the AC thermostat, locating the water heaters and figuring out how the gas stove worked. He found a small cubby above the kitchen bathroom hallway and pulled a chair over to see what was inside. His wife warned him to be careful when he scooted his son up and into the small space to look around. He looked like a little raccoon peering out from a dark alley and he laughed and poked his son’s little belly making him laugh too.

Getting ready to go out, they made sure to have plenty of water, a sun-hat for the boy, and sun screen. He felt like they might not come back alive, even though Google Maps said it was only a 17 minute walk. He tried to think about how far they would get in 17 minutes where they used to live. They’d pass by two playgrounds, a gas station with a 24 hour quick-mart, three coffee shops, a grocery store and a two Indian restaurants, among other things before at around 20 minutes they could get to one of the biggest, newest malls in the city. He looked at his wife, but he couldn’t tell her any of this, not because he didn’t want to.

They got the boy ready and together they took the elevator down to the lobby, his wife pushed the stroller along and he horsed-around with the boy. It was peak-summer-time daytime hour.

The lobby of their building is a complete floor to ceiling glass enclosure. When the boy stepped out of the lift, he stood for a second in awe, the bright sun and dusty ground, the cars and buses circling the round-about and a handful of cats, all looked like he could just run up and touch it all. The glass barrier, invisible to him, shielded the sounds and hostile heat of the outside and he ran straight for all of it and bounced with a thud off of the invisible glass and fell back on his little bottom and cried.

He thought for a moment about this—in the moment. Was this a metaphor waiting to be recalled from somewhere? He and his wife laughed. After comforting the boy, they stepped outside and the heat overwhelmed the boy. In an instant his demeanour turned from cheerful and expectant, to oppressed and weighted down. He cast his gaze inwardly and tried to hide from the hostility of nature. He noticed this in his son and he instantly regretted coming here.  

His son didn’t want to walk so they put him in the stroller and pushed along in the dusty parking lot. The parking lot was as big as a proper city block and was filled with abandoned cars, trucks, and buses of every variety. Some were pasted with a year’s worth of parking tickets. It looked like one of those salvage yards where you bring your tools, pay an entrance fee, and rummage for parts that fit your own vehicles make and model. In the heat it looked like a vast wasteland, and he imagined there were Bedouin tribes camped out and staking territory. He’d learn that there were parking lots like this all around here, but today it was brand new and invigorating. They finally crossed the lot and found a street. No sidewalks to speak of, and if one did exist it was only passable for a hundred meters before some random pile of rubble diverted them onto the street again. Every taxi, and there were many, that passed them honked quickly, either to solicit a fare or get them out of the way. Everything looked as if it was under construction, about to be finished and then abandoned.

He reminded his son every few minutes to drink more water. The heat had pushed the boy so far back into his stroller he could barely see him. They winded down street and alley, and everyone stared at them, this odd caravan, foolishly or courageously bearing the conditions, pretending to be walking along as if along the streets of Paris.

They finally spotted the shopping center they were aiming for, and it seemed as if they’d been traveling half a day. By now it was approaching later afternoon. Online, the shopping-center hours said 9-noon, re-opening again at 4:30. He figured they just needed to get indoors and they could get out his sons toy cars and play around on the floor until stores opened, and according to the time that would only be 15 minutes or so. He would find out soon enough, that in this place, time has other ideas and they ended up waiting around for another two hours until things began opening.

They crossed a busy avenue in order to get to the shopping center. There was no cross-walk that they could see, and no intersection as far as they could tell in either direction that had a traffic light and the traffic stream was too fast. If he was alone and 20 years younger and high on cocaine he would have hesitated, and thought twice before attempting to cross the harried street. But, plenty of examples showed him how it was done, he turned to his wife, gripped the handle of the stroller tightly, reared it back on two wheels for easy manoeuvrability…”Ready?” His wife nodded and on his word they stepped into the street. To his astonishment traffic knew what to do and they crossed to the median, looked at his wife again before crossing the rest of the way, nodded and as before all the cars and trucks and buses knew how to behave and they arrived safely in front of the shopping center.

He looked down at his son and tickled his nose, “See son,” he said. “That’s the way it’s done here!”

Here; or Not

“There are signs everywhere,” he said. “Pay attention,” he said. “Is your head spinning, palms sweating,” he asked rhetorically. “Have you ever experienced a tragedy and it felt like the end of the world was coming,” rhetorical again. Of course he had. “And in that state, time seems to stop. People tell you things like time heals all wounds, but therein lies the problem, time has ceased. This is no consolation. In those times of great despair you don’t see, literally or figuratively, anything. You are soaked in the moment. Your mind goes chasing after every whim and leaves your body standing alone in the physical world. If your mind and body ever do converge, and you do notice what’s going on around you—say catch eye contact with a stranger in line buying noodles and whiskey—it’s certain the person looking at you can see the empty, gaping chasm your life has become. You’re vulnerability is without boundary. And there is freedom in these moments. It’s not apathy, it’s recognizing the inconsequentiality of your actions. The inevitability of everything burning comforts in these times and like a citizen of ancient Greece, you submit.

“Just like when you experience something great,” he continued. “Your head sings and your lungs fill up and you feel like you could fly,” he said. “Senses heighten and your mind connects everything with everything, tuned-in is a state-of-being. It’s understood in these moments you are not responsible for what’s happening, but a witness to it. Your compassion is limitless and you are open to every possibility. The mind, while soaring, remains in-tact with the body...it even feels as if the body is being carried away with the mind, yet you are grounded and moving in every moment. Laughter is easy and filled with none of the sinister irony you endure under tragic circumstances. But you are aware that this can be taken away at any moment, so you temper and check it, the same way you might pinch yourself to establish consciousness in a dream. In this state, time has its own governor, in the same way tragedy draws a noose over the speedometer, freedom preserves our clock too. Like a passive passenger in ship traveling at warp speed, without control over when you’ll drop out of warp, you soak up every moment while you are here—in this moment. And like a citizen of ancient Greece, you submit.

“Of course none of this is true. Time continues. Chronos winding and winding, unconcerned, yet aware of you hiding in the corner,” he said.

Letter to JJ; or, Whatchoo talkin' bout Willis?

hey jj,

Thanks for the heads up on the posse thing. I had no idea, hadn't had a chance this week to check out First Take or Undisputed. Shannon Sharp tried to turn posse into a racial slur and if everyone agrees the original use (had to look into this) of this term is archaic and unknown to most everyone, and we agree that Americans, at least, only know this term from western movies, then it's impossible to characterize the word as racist.

For sure, rap has acculturated the word in song and applied an old west term to refer to their crew, but also misapplied the term to mean outlaw gang. I don't know if before this time posse carried negative weight, but certainly young black people usurped the term and within these counter-cultures the term posse carried positive connotations, but the mainstream most definitely feared this new interpretation of the word.

From a cursory search online i found a term called, "posse cuts" which are music or videos that include such "outlaw gangs," black crews dressed in old west attire running around committing crimes, robbing banks, etc., and the earliest of these go back to the late 80's. So, by the time Michael Jordan is winning championships and Phil Jackson is hitting his stride and being recognized as a "Zen Master," the term would have infiltrated mainstream vernacular, but still would have been largely associated with rap and carry negative weight, which would have been ripe time for someone who wanted to seem hip to start using the term, even if he wasn't part of the counter culture that claimed the term as their own. And so, whalaa, enter Phil Jackson.

At this time, he is relevant and young enough that using the word would endear him to young black players, like look at that crazy old white guy, he understands our language, kind of thing. He's the coach of the greatest of all time and MJ likes him so we can too. Besides, the word posse is relatively new and to have your crew referred to as a posse versus a gang of thugs is probably appealing because the media is beginning to acculturate and accept the usage; albeit still negatively perceived by parents and corporate stiffs. The young, up-and-coming generation is always doing this with language.

Flash forward to 2004 when Jackson makes his comments about a young 19 year old LBJ. Jackson is still using the term posse and characterizing a generation that wasn't even born when the term began to catch fire, and players like Kobe and Shaq are left-over relics of the same time period so when he says this back then he looks like a cautionary sage because he still has that shine of zen master glistening all over him, so he gets away with it. Jackson using this term in 2004 is a little like me when I say, "whatchoo talkin' bout willis." I think it's funny, but nobody else does anymore. But I'm not Phil Jackson, and so when he said it in 2004 people gave him a pass because, you never know, maybe LBJ does get psychologically wrecked. In fact, I'd go so far as to say, these statements from his book go unnoticed except by broadcasters and professional sportspeople (I didn't know he said that), because they're inconsequential and depend on people paying attention for a really long time...or until something happens to make everyone remember.

Visa-vie, 2016. Now Jackson, a failing NBA executive, whose value is rapidly diminishing, uses the word again, effectively negating his prophesy because LBJ is a juggernaut in terms of business and in terms of influence, changed the actual infrastructure of the NBA single-handedly, and now Jackson just looks like an old-headed fool that doesn't realize the only person who can pull of the word, "Word!" is Dave Chappelle on an SNL skit meant to expose the hypocrisy and racist infiltration America is still steeped in.

Ultimately, Phil Jackson has become a caricature of himself, and that would be fine if he was like Regis or Phil Donahue, old dudes sitting at home bitching about the way these young punks are fucking everything up for the rest of us, but he's the GM of the New York Knicks. I love Lebron's statements though, and I'm not sure who versed him in linguistics and connotation but someone did, and it doesn't matter because now he knows how to think for himself a little bit better. It's clear he understands the damage and extent of racism and it is systemic, systematic, and semantic in its application, and if we think 150 years of emancipation has erased 400 of slaveholder/slave dynamics we are laughably underestimating our corporate institutions and cultural traditions. 

Well, i do believe that sound is the sound of the mic dropping homie! Word...

seacrest out!

Love,

Ozone

Ridin' the Rails

Some of Ollie's favorite things. Riding his bike, and walking along the tracks to the Nadrazi. We saw four trains today, plus a couple cars shunted together. Especially good because it's our last time for another year as we are off to the middle east for a while. Teaching the boy a little country living techniques. He's a natural!


watch it here...Last day in Slany

Bleedland...Go Cavs!

Thank You Bleedland

When Kyrie hit that three with 53 seconds left, my mind stretched back through the years of heartbreaking moments wherein this exact thing happened to us. The moment when you realized, “It’s over!” Except this time it was us breaking hearts. I had this crazy hope and yet I couldn’t allow myself to hope, after all Jordan’s shot over Ehlo still threatened my dreams…Curry and Thompson and Draymond were still on the floor. And then James hit his second free throw and I almost believed we got this. But then I remembered Byner’s fumble and Jose Mesa’s choke in the 9^th and reigned in my excitement. There was still 6 seconds left and GSW was inbounding and Curry got the step and the shot...time stopped...he missed, a mad scramble and Speights put up a hilarious prayer and all the times I’ve watched Cleveland do this exact same thing vaporized and even though I was alone I clinched my fists heartily, I was already standing pacing the floor and ripping my hair out, but I clinched my fists and punched the air.

I’m happy LBJ got the MVP, but while I have no analytics to support this, I seem to remember Irving being the more clutch player. It seemed that when Cleveland really needed something to happen he was the one to do something big. A shake-n-bake with a step-back mid-range…a down-hill drive with a crazy left-handed, high-off-the-glass lay-up…an off-screen behind the arc crowd-deflating/inflating three…or some ridiculous ankle-breaking handle that made even the Oracle ooh and ahh! I understand LBJ dominated the last three games and that’s why he got the MVP, that’s what allowed Uncle Drew to do his thing and “get buckets,” but holy hell batman, Kyrie-diculous was a killer in this series.

I watched the playoffs in Germany with League Pass and this is a strange experience because you get pure game, no hype, no commercials, and the sounds of the game are often times devoid of the network propaganda. When I saw the end of the game and Lebron’s reaction it almost seemed contrived to me. I know this is a crazy notion because he wanted this really badly. It seemed to me he was trying to invoke the spirit of Michael Jordan’s first championship in Chicago. The difference, and one that’s hard for me to swallow, is that LBJ left Cleveland. Jordan stayed and fought until he won, then he won three and quit to go play baseball. It’s not a fair comparison I know…Jordan was older, wiser when he went to the NBA. He graduated college, got a degree, played four years in North Carolina. James came out of high school. When he failed to overcome adversity he was still young and let Wade convince him to “take his talents to South Beach.” Maybe if James had gone to college for four years he wouldn’t have been so naïve. He was just a kid so, while I didn’t watch basketball in 2011, I still forgave him. In a way I was happy for him. Finally a player who was writing his own destiny, vs getting traded, moved and manipulated like so much chattel. I never burned the shirt that bore his name.   

Watching the games on League Pass there are no commercials, no hype. In time outs the camera pans the crowd, aims at the on-court cheerleading, t-shirt tossing, and parachute dropping that when you’re in the stadium you would be subjected to. But they turn the volume down and whatever music is playing on the loudspeaker is funneled down through the broadcast without the background of the crowd. It’s like you’re there but not really there. Like I said, devoid of hype and the feeling of being there. I watched it alone in my apartment. My wife and son had already moved to Slany, Czech Republic and I was alone to clean, repair and paint the flat to ensure our three month deposit is returned in full. Nothing but my bed, a small table for my computer and cleaning and paint supplies. The games usually started at 3:00 AM. I’d wake up most games a little before tip-off and watch the whole game. In the case of the finals, this was agonizing. You can imagine, the shouting and pacing and exuberating cheers and howling…all of this echoing through my vacant flat…my neighbors already thought I was a lunatic. I watched with JJ. He was in Portland and we WhatsApped throughout the playoffs. The League Pass broadcast, to my surprise, was a little delayed compared to network broadcast, and at times he was tipping me off to events to come, it was a little like seeing into the future. Sometimes that was a good thing, other times, not so much.

JJ was definitely the more optimistic. I kept reminding him that throughout Cleveland’s run, they never really faced anything comparable to what lay in store for them from the West. I actually feared OKC more than GSW. Even though James has Durant/Westbrook’s number, they really looked like they’d figured it out. And if not for the hero ball tactics over the last two games they should have won. JJ kept reminding me during the finals, it’s not over yet! I kept remembering last year, and 2010 when Lebron seemed to give up in the Boston series. It seemed to me he was giving up. I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t taking control, why wasn’t he playing with urgency. After game four I was sure it was over. The way they played winding down the fourth quarter looked like they thought they were in the lead. My last WhatsApp to him after that game… “What a Joke!”

I told myself I wasn’t going to get up at 3 AM and watch game five, but I did anyway. Game six I said I’ll sleep until the fourth quarter and see what’s what, but I woke up at 3 and watched the whole thing. I was so excited all day Friday. On Saturday I watched games 5 and 6 a couple times each while making memes of Draymond Green as Bubba Blue from Forrest Gump. I tried to infect the Cavs fb page with multiple posts of the same image but it never took hold. I was sitting alone in my flat making memes and posting them secretly laughing to myself about how clever I was. It was fun, but nobody got it.

Game seven came and I slept through the first three quarters. I couldn’t bring myself to watch, I was so certain they’d choke…Cleveland always chokes. We’re always the ones left staring at the screen. Like at the end of game four, when Cleveland was cooked and they went on that fouling barrage in the last two minutes hoping for anything and the entire Q arena stood, no one leaving, everyone simply staring slack-jawed and feckless at the tragedy unfolding before them. That’s the way our seasons end in Cleveland. I woke up and JJ had shot a few WhatsApp’s at me and I was encouraged. By the time I logged into League Pass, the fourth was just about to start and it was 75-75 or something like that and I sat straight up in bed, made a coffee and started messaging JJ. What’s going on man? What you think? What’s the vibe? He was positive in his responses. GSW hitting 3’s and CLE battling straight-ahead LBJ style basketball to keep it close. I scanned the box-scores during time-outs and it looked good except CLE’s 3-point shooting was terrible.

Well the rest, as they say, is history. I told JJ before game seven that LBJ coming back and trying to recreate history wouldn’t work. It’s like getting back with an old flame, the moment’s passed, it never works out. But the difference here is that James didn’t come back…sure he returned to Cleveland, but the relationship was with his team, not us. We are all only witnesses to this, and it’s good enough for me. It’s LBJ and Kyrie. Irving and Lebron. These two guys should have been given the MVP together. Without James, Kyrie is just a really awesome scorer, and without Kyrie, James is all alone and runs out of gas (i.e. 2015 finals).

I love Cleveland. I remember the first time I watched a football game. My dad and I watched it on my little black and white TV in the kitchen. They were playing the Vikings and my dad was explaining to me how the game is played and by the time the game was ending I was hooked. Cleveland was leading and time was running out and my dad and I are screaming at the TV and Fran Tarkenton threw a hail-mary bomb down the right sideline. The ball was tipped around and bobbled and finally landed in the hands of a Minnesota wide receiver. I was crushed. It was my initiation into Cleveland sports. It wasn’t long after that our family started attending Indians games at old Municipal stadium. I’ll never forget the field opening up as we came out of the concourse and into the stands…the bright green field and the contrasting rich brown base paths. That moment resonates every time I walk into a professional baseball stadium. There were times it seemed like the stadium was empty, the lone drummer beating his impotent drum in the bleachers. A spattering of boo’s ran around the stands after the opposing team ran off this pitcher or that, and when something good did happen in the game the sounds of clapping barely registered in the cavernous stadium. It became a running joke that every time the Esterles attended a game the Tribe was sure to lose. I remember, Go Joe Charboneau! and Here We Go Brownies, Here We Go! The Tribe’s alive in 85! The Kardiac Kids! Mark Price, World B. Free. I remember going to watch the old Barons play and even had a pennant from them that I think I kept until I was in my 20’s. We went to an Indians game once in Minneapolis with my aunt and uncle to watch them play in the then brand new Metrodome. The ceiling would breathe up and down as the doors flung open at the end of the game. I caught a foul ball that day. I remember going to a Cavs game once with my friend Matt and Jon and JJ was there too. Matt’s dad got into an accident, it was winter and we were driving out route 303 and his dad swerved, lost control and ended up in the ditch. Somehow we got to the game. The old Coliseum seemed to come out of nowhere after driving along that old two-lane highway through the Cuyahoga national parks. Suddenly the forest around opened up to a gleaming edifice with white lights pushing out the darkness.

Going to these games, events, transcended the outcome. It was being with friends, or the times I’ve gone alone (and there were many) the atmosphere was enough company to outshine whatever happened in the game. But, every single season of my life, childhood and adult, has ended in “Why?!” or “There’s always next year.” or “Man, so close!” or “They got robbed!” or “F#$%’in Jordan!” or “Browns Suck!” or any number of appellations. Not this year suckers! This year we get to cheer. We get to be happy about our team doing something no one thought possible. We get to read the newspapers, watch the news, read the fb posts, and live in this moment. Thanks for the memories CLE! Thanks for doing what I began to think would never happen in Cleveland! Thanks for kicking ass! Go Cavs!   

Oliver's way home...

We went to Paul and Emma's kindercafe last weekend and Ollie decided to take a different way home and of course it was a good decision.



Long Way Home...

Ollie's first taste of chocolate, and he doesn't want to relinquish his quarry.

Chocolate Monster!

Here we are at the spielplatz near the where I work.

Spielplatz!

Chasing your Tail Isn't as Fun as it Looks; or, An Emperor Sits in Church

Education...I have a really good friend, goes way, way back, told me once when I was getting my M.Ed., “don’t ever call yourself an educator.” He went on about the type of teacher who refers to himself as an educator. I didn’t know what he was talking about. He is more wizened than me. He’d been around the block, many more blocks than I had. He’d dealt with reputable folk….me not so much. I’ve spent most of my life carving no powerful connections.

Like I said, I didn’t know what he was talking about. What’s wrong with referring to yourself as an educator? Nonetheless, I decided, from his tone of voice and anecdotal evidence, I would always say I was a teacher. Since…I’ve come to find myself more as an instructor. I still call myself a teacher when people ask, but in my CV I say I’m an instructor.

I probably shouldn’t admit this, but it’s a fundamental problem—an inner conflict—something I’ve always thought—I don’t really like teachers. I’ve said from the beginning of my career as a teacher… “just promoting the fraud.” And I still believe this.

When I first started teaching I could never sustain the fraud. By the end of the second week, students had lost faith in me. As the years went by, I learned to stretch this space of faith longer and longer into the school year. I remember, my fourth year teaching was the first time I was able to sustain their faith in me until the end of the year.

I call my students by their last names. This tactic helps tremendously. Mr. So-and-so, can you tell me what part of speech this word is? How does this help understand context Miss Such-and such? I’m also brutally honest with them. I think of two instances in my life as to why I am truthful with my students. Mr. Barge, my 9^th and 10^th grade English teacher, who broke down in front of us one day, and more recently, Atticus Finch’s advice to his brother Jack… “Kids see through your bullshit.” Or something to that effect.

Most teachers are well intentioned. I shouldn’t need to remind people the road to hell was paved with good intentions. Most teachers went to high school and were successful, then straight to college, then back to high school to teach. They’ve never had jobs. This is a fundamentally flawed system. Teachers don’t know what the world is like. A friend of mine recently told me his daughter came home excited about having to learn cursive writing. He was befuddled at the notion that teaching hours would be wasted on such an archaic skill. It’s a beautiful truth. Why on earth are we still teaching kids to write in cursive. The only justifiable reason that even approached sensible I’ve heard is to sign your name. But, upon further reflection, teach them to sign their name and move on. Other reasons I’ve heard: They need it in high school. They need it to read other people’s cursive writing. They need to be able to read their teacher comments. All of these reasons are self-perpetuating. The only reasonable rationale is to be able to read other people’s writing, which is debunked as soon as you realize that all…and I can verify this…all, forms and documents of official nature, academic, business, government or otherwise are either in print form or word processed.

When is the last time you read a memo in cursive, let alone in paper form. It’s a preposterous skill to teach and a waste of time. But, ask a teacher, and they will stand on ceremonious hyperbole defending the silly skill. Teachers have no ability to see their positions objectively.

I have encountered more teachers of the variety who would kill themselves before admitting what they’re teaching is obsolete than I care to admit. We are teaching students to analyze literature in a world where nobody is reading books. The average time spent reading is 15 minutes as an adult. 20 years ago, I remember having to learn about art. Having to write about it. We used to laugh…who in the fuck is going to care about this? We’d ask each other. Care about why DaVinci’s Mona Lisa is smiling oddly…this is about as helpful as understanding Raskolnikov’s need to taunt the police chief.

Yes, these are interesting quandary to ponder. But essentially valueless. We are more interesting people because we’ve thought about these things, but there’s no value in it. This is the core of my problem with educators.

Every English teacher fancies himself or herself a writer. I do as well. This is important because you can’t teach writing or analysis of texts without understanding the writing process yourself. Trying to get an English teacher to share their writing is like trying to get a 7^th grader to share something they’ve written personally. I’ve come across more than a handful of students who want to share what they’ve written and I always enjoy reading what they’ve written. I’ve learned students just want to hear that I liked their story. I think English teachers are the same, with the added baggage of years of experience. The vast number of students whose writings will never see publication; ratio-wise the same is true of English teachers. So, in both cases, why should we read these writings with such a critical eye. We would do better to allow the authors’ stories to exist within the lives they’ve been created, and not “make suggestions.”

Of course I have a different approach for essay writing. I will have students write stories and then analyze each others’, and hopefully provide authentic critic/creator experiences. It’s difficult to persuade kids they have as much right as anyone in the world to make judgements on texts bound in published books. To a kid, the act of picking up a book carries too much weight.

For example: You give out the next book to your class. The Outsiders. Maybe 4 or 5 have already read it and love it. Another couple of students have friends who’ve read it and can’t wait to read it. Then there’s a handful who’ve heard about the other class that’s reading it now and have heard how cool it is. There is weight in these expectations. And then, as English teachers we tell the kids we are going to create an argumentative thesis that speculates on what message the author is trying to deliver. That’s a best case scenario, things start to spiral down fast once you start including things like…what’s the effect of literary devices on tone or atmosphere, or how does diction convey point of view. To a seventh grader, this must seem like a preposterous and utterly pointless endeavor. To a senior, you can take away the preposterous, but the pointless aspect of such an obscure task still resides inside the psyche.

So give a task like write a short passage wherein the student must convey an emotion about a gift they’ve received. The challenge is to convey an emotion that is “not cliché” but maybe for the younger kids, “not normal.” Then students share documents and analyze how their friend expressed the character’s emotion…i.e., what emotion is it and what language delivers the emotional connotations.

This will help students see how often these literary “tricks” often rely upon one or two phrases, and many times one or two words is all it takes. Examples can be made of subtle and exaggerated approaches. This can parlay into dialogue and sharing verbally and hopefully generate deeper understanding. Do enough of these and then slip in an excerpt from a famous story and have the students do the same thing.