Sixteen Candles

It's the thing about being a father that I didn't fully appreciate until the last couple of years: hearing your funny bits come tumbling out of your progeny's mouth. Chief among these is the way he answers the phone. "Yello?" He has absorbed my prior absorption of the affected way in which Herb Tarlek, Sales Manager for WKRP in Cincinnati, would address callers when they reached him at his desk. And now, at age sixteen, we have a number of friends and family who make the mistake of believing that they have reached the elder when they have in fact reached the younger.
Proud? Sure. Why not? It's the part about growing up that I really don't mind: his. My wife might not agree, but I've got a great deal of fondness for the kid as he has grown. The fact that I can talk with him about music, and movies and even politics is a gift. Even those moments when our thought patterns don't completely mesh are a giddy good time. He knows a bunch of things that I don't. Early in his existence, the things that I learned from my son were primarily things I found out about myself as I learned to care for another proto-human. These days he's bringing home plenty of new and varied information that I wouldn't have imagined could come from someone who is just a sliver of my age. Most of these factoids concern motor vehicles, and that's okay. There is a significant gap in my knowledge and understanding of cars and trucks and things that go. With all of this discussion of internal combustion engines and the like, you might guess that part of today's celebration would involve the procurement of that sixteen-year-old's rite of passage, the driver's license. You would have guessed wrong. My son has yet to acquire his learner's permit. The smart money, a year or so ago, would have had him and his parents lined up outside the DMV, waiting for the chance to take that driving test.
That's not how this one worked out. As it turns out, there are myriad opportunities and challenges to fill the days of our boy. When asked, he'll give some sort of vague answer, but the underlying truth is well known to me. He isn't ready yet. He knows it and has purposely put it off for the time being. Which is fine and right. He's doing what I have done myself all my life. When it comes time to jump, you won't need to push me. I'll jump on my own because I'm ready. That's the way my son is, too. I'm proud as I can be, even though he's stealing my best bits. Happy Birthday, kiddo.

Parking Space

Those were the words that rang in my head the day after our last "Bike To Work Day." I didn't have to worry about a "parking space." I knew right where I was going to put my kickstand down: in the back corner of my classroom, just like I have for more than a decade and a half. Bike To Work Day, for me, is a little like Amateur's Night. I have been fortunate for the past sixteen years that I have been able to negotiate the side streets of Oakland each morning and afternoon without too much stress or discomfort. Sure, it rains. Sure it's hot. Sure it's cold. That's weather. I've been uncomfortable inside a climate-controlled motor vehicle. This particular morning was pretty standard East Bay: gray and cool in the morning, warming to the upper sixties in the afternoon. That's another nice thing about my commute. I don't generally have to worry about drifts of snow impeding my progress. And for some magical, ironic reason, the trip to work is downhill, and the way home is up.
Maybe that's why there was no Energizer Station on the path to and from work for me. The miles I pedal each day probably don't require a lot of roadside assistance. There's a drinking fountain at school if I need it, and by the time I get home, I know how many stairs I have to climb before I collapse in a heap just inside the front door. That doesn't come up very often. It's just part of the way things roll, bicycle-wise.
Did I notice packs of other cyclists making their way to and from their busy days as I made my own? No. I may have picked just the wrong route or something. Or maybe all the real bike enthusiasts made the trip much earlier than I did. Or much later. Or maybe not at all. But if they did, they didn't have to worry about those two words, but they might have had some trouble trying to remember the combination to the lock they never use.

Madre

My wife, the mother of my son, will tell you that we officially have a teenager. You know the kind: sullen, uncommunicative, periodically despondent. To be fair, these symptoms don't occur on an every day basis. On the contrary. We've been very lucky on this particular front. That doesn't mean that we still don't have to fight the periodic fight or give lengthy lectures to a person who has already figured out how the interaction will end and the number of words simply add to the frustration level for all involved.
It's a chore, sometimes. That's why my wife, the mother of my son, deserves a day all her own. She manages the schedules of three humans and a dog. She copes with the ever-shifting sands of commitments and interests. She keeps track of our various locations, rarely resorting to GPS. She does it with love in her heart and a smile on her face.
Until it's used up. There are days when all that good Mommy Mojo runs a little thin. It never runs out, but it's a tough job and she's got to do it. I think of the times when I tested my own mother's patience and wonder how she managed to keep it together through all three boys' adolescence. When we were all five, my son included, all we need to know was "potty, jacket, lunchbox." Out the door we went to whatever adventure was in front of us. Then came the report cards and play dates and all the attendant others. The friends and their families and eventually the girlfriends.
Girlfriends? Well, our son is still making inroads in that arena. He's testing the waters and that means another rite of passage. What we never knew about those passage rites when we were going through them was that our parents got to go along for the ride as well. That's tough. But my mom did it with admirable aplomb. And so is my son's mother. It takes a great deal of inner strength and patience to make it look like you know what's going to happen next, even when at times you're making it up as you go along. Thank you Mom(s). Happy Mothers' Day.

Arborists

"Talk about massive potential for growth!" - Bill Mlurray in Stripes.
Yes, in the education business, we talk a lot about the little acorns that we all hope will grow to be giant oaks. That's not always how it works. Sometimes that little acorn turns into something that we barely recognize. Sometimes they remain, always, a little acorn. The reason to keep coming back are those magnificent trees that cover the land.
If the land in which you live happens to be southern West Virginia, however, when school started in the Fall, one out of seven classrooms was without a teacher. Leaders there couldn't recruit enough educators to that sparsely populated rural area.In McDowell County, a place perpetually ranked among the worst in the state by almost every measure, twelve people a month die from drug overdoses here, while more than one hundred people are on a waiting list to talk to rehab counselors via Skype. Three-quarters of all students live in a home where parents can't find work in this one-time coal hub that has slowed. The county leads the state in teenage pregnancies.
Suddenly working in Oakland, California feels like a pretty good deal. Educators are working hard to transform those West Virginia schools, turning them into community centers where families can turn in this time of uncertainty. Arne Duncan, Obama's Secretary of Education is a big fan of this plan. It's an idea he championed when he was in charge of public schools in Chicago. That's the idea that we have struggled with here, as well. We have kids who are dropped off by single moms at seven in the morning and aren't picked up from our after school program until after five in the evening. It is an awesome responsibility. We continue to do everything we can during those ten hours to help those little acorns grow. The realities that have created the world outside our doors don't change quickly, but we keep hoping that we are making it easier for our sprouts to put down solid roots and spread their branches. Sometimes it takes a village. Sometimes it takes a forest.

Libros

I have been asked, over the past couple weeks, by a number of people if I have ever read "The Great Gatsby." I can answer this query with calm assurance, "Yes." I have also seen the Robert Redford film version more than once, which kind of hinders my ability to be a literature snob. That's because my recollection of F. Scott Fitzgerald's masterpiece is aided and abetted by the soft-focus 1974 movie. I would love to talk in great deal about Fitzgerald's use of symbolism and metaphor, and the significance of that green light, but it would be mostly talking through my hat. My awareness of Mister Gatsby is not dissimilar to that of Nick Caraway: an outside observer, taking in impressions of what must be a very complicated man.
I could go on and on, but it would be ultimately as empty as any discussion I might have about "Moby Dick." I have, in good faith, read every word in Herman Melville's fishing story, but I have also seen Gregory Peck lash himself to a pretty cheesy looking special effect. I am, it would seem, a victim of the dominant pop culture funnel through which I received most of my education. Like Beaver Cleaver and his "book report" on "The Three Musketeers," I could have watched the musical version of any number of classic stories and taken them as the original text.
I read the Bible for the first time when I was ten. I felt it was a good idea, since I had earned it by learning a great many verses and committing them to memory. At that age, I was consumed with images from Cecil B. DeMille as well as various film incarnations of Jesus. My imaginings of most of the stories in that book were informed by central casting. In college, I read the whole thing again, front to back. This time I was a student of literature, and even though I was a much more studied reader, I couldn't help but refer to the movies in my head as I moved from Genesis to Revelations.
Which brings me to today's essay question: Compare and contrast Jay Gatsby to Jesus Christ. Extra credit for citing any film starring Kevin Bacon.

Life Style

Ozzy Osbourne is back in rehab. At least that's what the tabloids want us to know. The guy who once snorted a line of ants after the cocaine had been hoovered up, now wants us to know that he is a month and a half sober. That little episode took place in front of Motley Crue bassist Nikki Sixx, who recently celebrated his bandmate Mick Mars' sixty-second birthday by watching his guitarist get bowled over by a fan who was on his way to getting his hands all over singer Vince Neil. Authorities suggest that alcohol may have been involved.
None of this would be considered "news." This would be the way we rock and roll. All night. And party every day. What surprises me is that these gentlemen can continue to carry on into what many might refer to as their golden years. Mick Jagger just turned a hundred and thirty-seven, so it shouldn't come as a surprise that these relative youngsters are continuing to live the life. Billy Joel now has his own wing of the Silver Hill Hospital in Connecticut. Sex, drugs and rock and roll just aren't enough anymore. You've got to do some cleanup work now and again to keep yourself going.
Alas, there doesn't seem much we can do for Jeff Hanneman, guitarist for Slayer. Jeff passed away last week from complications due to a spider bite he suffered three years ago. It's doubtful that Mister Hanneman ingested the spider first, but with a band that sports song titles like "Raining Blood" and "Angel of Death," it might not come as a huge surprise. Like the Strokes' song, "I'll Try Anything Once": "Sit me down, shut me up, I'll calm down, and I'll get along with you." And you could do it all without Doctor Drew Pinsky.

Mother Lode

Mother's Day is coming. If you haven't already considered getting mom a nice card or some flowers, it's not too late. It's also time for me to consider the spectrum of motherhood. I spend a good deal of time trying to comprehend the connection that exists between my son and his mother. It is unique and profound. Okay, maybe it's not that unique. My mother is one of my best friends. Always has been. Except for a while there when I was testing that bond, trying to find out just how much weight it would support. As it turns out, it was and continues to be a lifeline. I can't imagine what it would be like to lose that.
That's why I was so deeply affected when I watched Francine Wheeler sing a song with Dar Williams. The song was "Family," by Pierce Pettis and I only made it to the one minute mark before I started crying. Francine is the mother of Ben Wheeler, one of the first graders killed at Sandy Hook Elementary. The loss of a child, whether by accident, illness or crazed gunman, is all but incomprehensible to me. It's not supposed to happen in that order. In an interview after the song, she talked about the direction her life has taken since her son was taken from her. She has joined a growing movement of men and women who believe we need to take some time and figure out how to keep our kids safe. She chose gun control as her platform.
Beckie Brown chose to campaign against drunk driving. She helped establish Mothers Against Drunk Driver's first chapter, in 1980. This was a short time after her son, Marcus, died from injuries sustained in a traffic accident that involved another teenager. A drunk teenager. She helped get Florida, where she lived, to raise the legal drinking age to twenty-one. By 1988, the legal drinking age in every state was twenty-one. Alcohol related traffic deaths among sixteen to twenty year olds declined by seventy-seven percent over the thirty years since she took up the cause. Along the way, Ms. Brown ruffled plenty of feathers socially and politically by calling for zero tolerance legislation for dealing with teenaged drinking and driving, asking the federal government to withhold highway improvement funds from those states who refused to get on board.
Beckie Brown passed away last year, and even though she could look with pride on her achievements, I'm certain that she would trade them all to see her son graduate from high school. From college. Get married. As ugly coincidence would have it, her oldest son killed himself in 1987, causing her to turn her attention to issues surrounding gun violence. The doubts that plague every parent were magnified. What could I have done better? What could I have done differently?
No law is going to keep accidents from happening. Bulletproof glass doesn't stop the bullets that have already found their target. No legislation is going to keep hearts from being broken. But we can honor those who died too son by trying to figure out how to keep it from happening again.