No Consonants Left Behind

I feel much better now. I just spent a week locked in a hotel conference room with thirty-seven other very intelligent people who shared this common goal: to teach the children of Oakland how to read better. Wait a second - what I meant was that our common goal was to better teach the children of Oakland to read. Okay, you get what I mean. While the five days we spent was essentially redundant to the training that we received in that same hotel conference room a year ago, we all came away with a sense of common purpose. That purpose was to make sure that we got out in time to miss the traffic leaving the A's game that was finishing up just about that same time.
So why do I feel better? I feel better because I just read a news item about education in Germany. Apparently the folks in Bavaria and North-Rhine Westphalia are having a hard time adjusting to the new rules governing spelling. The Bavarians and their friends in Westphalia have had seven years to prepare for the changes, intended to simplify things, but have decided to allow both old and new spellings as school begins this year. Meanwhile, Ulm and Neu-Ulm, on opposite banks of the Danube and in different conservative-led states, cannot agree how to spell the word "river," while "shipping" could have two "F"s in one town, but three in the other (Schiffahrt/Schifffahrt). Go ahead and snicker not just at the predicament, but the word "Schiffahrt/Schifffart."
Truth is, I took German in high school, and I know just how complex and rule-governed the language is. Learning German made it easier for me to teach English. The fact that all of this wrangling is taking place in a political context makes me even more amused. The lengthy debates about the spelling of "Krankenschwester" would probably have me in hysterics if they were broadcast on C-SPAN. For now I'll just have to take solace in the spelling of our governor's name.

Puberty Blues

A short time ago, there was a post here that recounted a time in junior high. An astute observer noted that, in a radical departure for this blog, the entry was written in third person. It could be that the third person change was an opportunity to try out some fresh fiction technique. It could be that the characters and ideas were so distant to the author that there was no connection to him. The real reason is this: I believe that all of junior high school is best viewed in third person.
When I recall the onset of puberty, I see it from above. Like the diagrams you see in newspapers of some horrible accident the day after. I have never heard of anyone waxing rhapsodic about their years in junior high (or middle school, if that configuration holds for you). It seems that for most humans the years from roughly thirteen to sixteen are spent trying desperately to adapt to the world in a constantly shifting body filled with surging hormones and oils. It's hard to imagine what might erupt on any given day.
Once you have reached the relatively calm days of high school, you can begin to imagine a future that doesn't necessarily include massive insecurity. That is not to say that high school years are care-free and safe from biochemical and psychological trauma. The main difference is that by tenth or eleventh grade you have some idea about where you fit in, if you fit in at all.
Junior high is a proving ground for social order. There is plenty of hope - you could still be cool if you ditched that backpack with Care Bears on it, or you could still experiment with sports and clubs. There is massive potential in junior high along with the massive terror that accompanies it. That's why I believe that way back in 1976, the folks at Saturday Night Live were on to something. There was a commercial for a product called "Rovco's Puberty Helper." Puberty Helper is a large brown bag with holes cut in it for her arms, eyes and mouth with a huge smiley face on the front. At the onset of puberty, kids pull the bag over their heads and don't have to worry again until their lives have become their own again.

"I've got a blue and red Adidas bag and a humongous binder,
I'm trying my best not to look like a minor niner.
I went out for the football team to prove that I'm a man
I guess I shouldn't tell them that I like Duran Duran.
This is me in grade nine, baby, this is me in grade nine
This is me in grade nine, baby, this is me in grade nine
Well, half my friends are crazy and the others are depressed
and none of them can help me study for my math test.
I got into the classroom and my knowledge was gone;
I guess I should've studied instead of watching Wrath Of Khan.
This is me in grade nine, baby, this is me in grade nine
This is me in grade nine, baby, this is me in grade nine"
-Barenaked Ladies: Grade 9

Be Prepared

"The jamboree gives Scouts an opportunity to test the skills they have learned through Scouting and try new things," said Roy Williams, Chief Scout Executive, BSA. "However, the greatest benefit of the jamboree is when Scouts from all over America and the world come together to share the brotherhood of Scouting."
What they failed to mention here is that when that many scouts come together, they seem to make a bigger target. It could be that the gods or God are unhappy with the Boy Scouts, but I'm pretty sure that the past month has been more than a little brutal to the Scouts. The BSA pride themselves as being "the nation's foremost youth program of character development and values-based leadership training." This past week, an 8-year-old girl died after a tree suddenly fell on top of her while she was sitting at a picnic table at a Boy Scout camp in New Jersey. Three other girls suffered minor injuries. The girls were attending a first aid class at the camp. This follows directly in the wake of two scouts who were killed during an eight-day backcountry hike with six other teenage Scouts and four other adult troop leaders when a lightning bolt made a direct strike on a tarp they had set up in a meadow while taking shelter from a storm on July 28.
It gets worse.
The deaths of four adult Scout leaders in an electrical accident at the Jamboree in Virginia, and five other deaths this summer from drowning and lightning during Scout outings in Wyoming, New Mexico, Utah and California. Add to this a lawsuit or two from the ACLU (I quote from the BSA web page: "Scouts come from all walks of life and are exposed to diversity in Scouting that they may not otherwise experience. The Boy Scouts of America aims to allow youth to live and learn as children and enjoy Scouting without immersing them in the politics of the day.") and you have a real summer to remember for the Boy Scouts of America.
Maybe the motto needs to be amended, slightly: Be prepared for the worst.

Tucker Carlson is a Simp

Tucker Carlson is a twit. It's not just the bow tie this time - it's the stuff that leaks out of the hole in his face just above the bow tie. This is how he explained why he was pro-France: "You know, France blew up the Rainbow Warrior, that Greenpeace ship in Auckland Harbor in the '80s. ... It won me over."
For the record, French secret service frogmen planted two mines that tore apart the ship's hull as it was preparing to sail to France's South Pacific nuclear test site at Mururoa Atoll and campaign for a nuclear-free Pacific Ocean. Two French agents were arrested by New Zealand authorities in the bombing and convicted of manslaughter. They were released after less than two years in prison.
So, you do the math - Tucker Carlson promotes manslaughter. And who was this person who deserved to be snuffed out by Tucker's Froggie men? Fernando Pereira was a Dutch photographer, originally from Portugal. Pereira had just celebrated his 35th birthday in Rongelap Atoll in the Marshall Islands with the crew of the Rainbow Warrior. He was planning to go to Moruroa to bring photographs of French nuclear testing to the world. Aha! One of those Portugese photographer trouble-making peace types. I can see Tucker's point.
If he's starting to remind you of another of our media's conservative blowhards, Robert Novak, it's no surprise. They shared a special little corner of journalistic hell called "Crossfire" until Jon Stewart showed up and pointed out that the emperor had no clothes - or maybe the emperor was just a big bag of gas, spewing vitriol.
Here's how Tucker is described by his pals at PBS: "Tucker Carlson's rise to prominence in the media landscape is rooted in his unique vision, combining wit, wisdom, insight and a wry perspective on the events that shape our lives politically, socially and culturally." Here's a bit of the touch of Tucker's wry perspective from April: Laura :Why isn't a Libertarian like you pro-choice? Why aren't you a feminist?
Tucker:If you think there is even a possibility that a fetus is a human being, and I do, then abortion isn't really a personal choice; it's a decision one makes about another's life. And I don't believe we have the right to kill other people, except in self-defense. As for feminism, I've lost track of what the term means. If it means treating women fairly, I'm a feminist. If it means pretending that men and women are the same, I'm not.
Okay - if you still don't believe me, go ahead and watch this pinhead's show. He's on MSNBC - he got fired from CNN.

Professional Development

We sit in these conference rooms for six and a half hours a day for five days in a row. When we're done, we're supposed to come out with a better understanding of what it takes to be a better (fill in the blank). This is the nature of seminars/conferences/retreats. Professionals are herded off into these hotel settings with their high ceilings and easels with chart paper, and suddenly we revert to our base instincts.
"Why can't we get the air conditioning to turn off when we come in?"
"When will the parking validation stickers be handed out?"
"What is the vegetarian lunch alternative?"
"How do you get Post-Its like this?"
It's a stirring sight, really. Watching adults mill about with no real sense of the task ahead of them except to avoid the task itself. It's a trick we learned in grade school. If we ask enough clarifying questions about process, the process might just cave in on itself. It is actually a pretty impressive sight, as trainers who came prepared to discuss the importance of the innovation of the implementation of the particular service or process that will impact the attendees are forced to scurry about researching menus and parking regulations while the rest of the crowd simmers in their minimally padded chairs.
Is it better than a day at work? Probably. Are we able to take some of our petty work frustrations out on the facilitators who won't see us again for at least a year? You bet.
See you next year at the Hilton - I hear the buffet is great!

Lunch Break 2

Last day of junior high school. He had waited for it. He had made some solemn vows over the course of three years, not the least of which concerned his lunch box. His mind traveled back to the sunny summer afternoon before seventh grade. He had admired his masterwork in the light coming through the window: a flying pig, a seal with a propeller for a tail. One end had a bullet shaped man with drooping eyes and enormous hands. His name swirled across the front. It was his lunch box.
He had used enamel paint, and almost three years later, even with daily insertion and removal from his backpack the graphics remained sharp and intact. So did the memories of abuse. After the first day of ridicule, he could have left it at home, but he promised himself then that he would carry his lunch in that bucket every day of his junior high career. He was called a retard, a baby, a fairy, a nerd, a geek. That rolled off. He rarely flinched when the bigger kids pulled their punches - still he invariably got "two for flinching." It made his resolve stronger.
By eighth grade he made the wrestling team (B-mat), and track (shot put and discus). The lunch box followed him on this adventure, and in ninth grade he was on the football team too - a three sport man. He still played in the band. And he carried a lunch box. He had a close circle of friends - none of whom carried their lunch to school.
That last day, as lunch was ending and his friends heading inside for yearbook distribution, he paused at the end of the soccer field. The sun came down through a cloudless sky to remind him of summer's approach. He set the lunch box down, carefully removing the thermos bottle and setting it aside. Closing the lid and flipping the latches shut, he closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. He jumped in the air and landed squarely, both feet on the lunch box, flattening it. The bell rang as he opened his eyes. He was alone with the black metal pancake that had held his food for three years. Picking up the thermos with one hand and peeling the lunch box from the grass with the other, he walked a few steps to the trash can at the end of the bike rack and pitched the hunk of painted metal. He hurried into the building carrying his thermos, on his way to get his ninth grade yearbook.

Lunch Break

He was just getting used to the lunches that his mother wasn't making him. In the eighth grade, he was finally turned loose on his own midday meal. It was ironic that he was using most of the same raw materials from his mother's pantry, but now he took special care in making a lunch that looked like he imagined teenagers should eat. No more Wonder bread - sandwiches came on rolls that were carefully split down the middle. Chips were pretty much the same - Mom wasn't buying any of those individual serving bags (waste, waste, waste!). The chip portion was larger because there weren't carrot or celery sticks. This too was sometimes cause for a moment of melancholy, since Mom was so very good at putting just the right amount of peanut butter in a celery gutter. There were days he wished he had the patience. Dessert was where the difference really showed. Instead of a few cookies in a bag, or a single Zinger, there was a pair of Twinkies or a foil wrapped Ding Dong. When he had the time to spare he went to the store with his mother to make sure she brought home the chocolate Snack Pack pudding - not those damn fruit cocktails. He didn't need milk, since he brought his thermos full of water kept cold by the ice cold aluminum of the mountaineering bottle that had his name etched in the bottom.
He was completely self-sufficient and didn't need to stand in line for a minute. He walked to the lunch room with his lunch box and started eating. Wait. Lunch box? Eighth grade? Not a brown bag? Nope. A big black construction worker's lunch pail that had been lovingly decorated with cartoons from his own feverish imagination. Lunch box in junior high school=social death. How could he have known?