Lent is Dangerous

From my good friend the Rev. Toby Sumpter:
Stephen was stoned to death. James was beheaded. Matthew was pinned to the ground and beheaded. James the brother of Jesus was thrown off the temple tower and clubbed to death. Following Jesus is dangerous.

Matthias was stoned and then beheaded. Andrew was crucified on an X-shaped cross. Mark was dragged to his death. Peter was crucified upside down.

Paul was beheaded. Jude was crucified. Bartholomew was beaten and crucified. Thomas was tortured, run through with spears, and thrown into the flames of an oven. Luke was hung from an olive tree.

If the season of Lent is an annual, concentrated reminder of the call of discipleship, the call to follow Jesus, then Lent is dangerous.

Lent is dangerous because there is historical controversy associated with it. While it had been celebrated for over a thousand years by the time of Calvin, there was so much superstition associated with it that he counseled against keeping Lent. Lent is dangerous because there are a number of ways to celebrate it badly: morbid introspection, conjuring up vague guilt and feeling holy for it, prideful abstaining from food and drink, looking down on those who don’t celebrate. False humility is as easy as lighting a dead Christmas tree on fire. One little spark and we puff up.

But Lent is dangerous ultimately because the cross is dangerous. The message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing but to those who are being saved it is the power of God (1 Cor. 1:18). To those who want to find another way to grace, another path to mercy, the cross is an offense (Gal. 5:11). The sinful heart of man is offended by grace, offended by the folly of the cross. We would rather be proud in all sorts of ways.

Read the rest! It's wonderfully arresting and sound advice.

The Mythic in the Everyday

This is what life is all about, for me -- moments of loveliness that pass unnoticed most of the time:
All of which converged
into a random still life,
so fastened together by the hasp of color,
and so fixed behind the animated
foreground of your
talking and smiling,
gesturing and pouring wine,
and the camber of your shoulders

that I could feel it being painted within me,
brushed on the wall of my skull,
while the tone of your voice
lifted and fell in its flight,
and the three oranges
remained fixed on the counter
the way that stars are said
to be fixed in the universe.

Thank you, Billy Collins.

Looking Back

While on my computer-less vacation, I took some time to think about my writing.  "What am I doing with this blog?" I wondered aloud to Rob one night over dinner.  "I don't feel like I'm . . . getting anywhere.  The point was to have a place to put my writing, but now that I have it, I don't like what I'm filling it with."

"Really?" he responded, in that Socratic tone all teachers love.  "None of it?"

This made me sulk a little, but he'd made a good point.  There are a few entries I'm proud of.  And when I read over them, it's interesting to see that very few of them have to do with teaching, except tangentially.

To quote the catechism, What does this mean?!  I'm not sure.  But I know I like writing about my life, whether or not it's directly related to my career.  I know it doesn't make sense to limit yourself to the point where you can't write what you enjoy.  So if you see less social commentary and more personal vignettes from now on, don't be alarmed.  But do tell me what you think!

"A Wholesale Flight from Truth"

If you do nothing else today, please take a few minutes to read Frank Rich's most recent column.  As chilling as it is brilliant, this incisive piece of social criticism shames us all, moving from the recent Tiger Woods scandal to the weightier issues of subprime mortgages and terrorism:

As cons go, Woods’s fraudulent image as an immaculate exemplar of superhuman steeliness is benign. His fall will damage his family, closest friends, Accenture and the golf industry much more than the rest of us. But the syndrome it epitomizes is not harmless. We keep being fooled by leaders in all sectors of American life, over and over. A decade that began with the “reality” television craze exemplified by “American Idol” and “Survivor” — both blissfully devoid of any reality whatsoever — spiraled into a wholesale flight from truth.



Rich points out that virtually all of the decade's scandals, from Ted Haggard to Barry Bonds and the much-maligned WMDs, have been a result of media hype that everyone believed, even the media themselves.  He doesn't claim he knew all along; he points out that we were all duped, over and over again, by politicians and celebrities and yes, by newspaper columnists too.  We have forgotten how to think for ourselves.

Reading this, I am given a rare and fleeting moment of confidence.  This is why I go to work every day, why I fight for correct grammar and thoughtful sentences, why I cruelly force Journalism students to know all 9 Supreme Court justices and American Literature students to connect Arthur Dimmesdale and Jonathan Edwards.  Because if you can't reason and you have no facts, you will have no defense against the shams that pelt us, day after day, trying to erode our ability to distinguish between truth and truthiness.

Toughing it Out

Sarah Fine, a fairly new teacher, is so overwhelmed and disheartened that she's quitting.  Statistics are fuzzy, but it's estimated that half of all new teachers will follow her before the five-year mark. Burnout is the most frequently cited reason:

But there is more to those numbers than "burnout." That term is shorthand for a suite of factors that contributed to my choice to leave the classroom. When I talk about the long hours, for example, what I mean is that, over the course of four years, my school's administration steadily expanded the workload and workday while barely adjusting salaries. More and more major decisions were made behind closed doors, and more and more teachers felt micromanaged rather than supported. One afternoon this spring, when my often apathetic 10th-graders were walking eagerly around the room as part of a writing assignment, an administrator came in and ordered me to get the class "seated and silent." It took everything I had to hold back my tears of frustration.


The teaching itself was exhilarating but disheartening. There were triumphs: energetic seminar discussions, cross-class projects, a student-led poetry slam. This past year, my 10th-graders even knocked the DC-CAS reading test out of the water. Even so, I felt like a failure. Too many of my students showed only occasional signs of intellectual curiosity, despite my best efforts to engage them. Too many of them still would not or could not read. And far too many of them fell through the cracks.



Bolded sentences are my "Amen!"s.  This year, God willing, I plan to be one of the half that stays in teaching, but I can't tell you how many dozens of times I've wanted to quit.  I especially sympathize with her comments about administration, who shuts down the majority of good ideas and micromanages the rest into mediocrity.  And yes, it is utterly defeating to encounter people who don't love learning, especially when you love it as much as she and I do.

Fine spends the second half of her article talking about how little respect her profession receives from the outside world.  My experience could not be more different.  I've had total strangers call me a hero upon learning my occupation, and my friends (those who aren't teachers themselves) are deeply appreciative as well.

In fact, it could be that  the only reason I'm still here is my diehard optimism: I love the thought of a class where ideas are shared and intellects are shaped, and no matter how unrealistic that idea may be, I'm seduced by the fleeting glimpses I've received over the years.  The student who exclaimed in discussion last year, "I love this class!  We get to talk about stuff!"  Inarticulate, spontaneous and sweet, those comments stay with me.  Maybe I'm a sucker, or maybe I just love what I do.

Bravo, Maman

Today my mother turns fifty-six. I know she would not mind my revealing this to the online world; it’s no exaggeration to say that she is asked to prove her legal age at drinking establishments about as often as I am. My friends describe her as “cute,” and some of them call her “Mom” without even thinking about it. Because if you are over there and happen to mention you have a headache, she will offer you ibuprofen, herbal tea, or a couch to lie down on – without smothering. Just being – a great mom.

Besides a great mom, however, she is a great teacher. It’s a family joke that I once, in a bout of 16-year-old angst, told her that as a piano teacher, she didn’t have a “real” job: “Your only job is that little kids come over and play with you.” I meant it to be an insult. Years later, the joke’s on me; I have the same job. And it’s wonderful.

Everyone should have a mentor – someone who’s been in their career longer than they have and has the war wounds and jokes to prove it. I’m lucky enough to have my mother as mine. When a difficult situation with a student presents itself (as it did this week) I can call her to ask for advice; what I get is the comfort of a truly sympathetic ear, one who has been there before, and the strength to stick up for my convictions. She’s taught me plenty of tricks of the trade. Wiggly small ones? Hold their hands and look into their eyes as you speak to them calmly, reassuring them that they are the center of your world at that moment and they don’t have to act up to get attention. Disillusioned middle-schoolers? Find a piece they can get excited about, jazz or romantic or contemporary, and let them chip away at it while you continue to reinforce their repertoire.

The older I get, the more I recognize that I have very few (if any) actual gifts. Most of what I can do well is some combination of practiced imitation and miracle. Teaching is certainly both of those. When I’m at the end of my rope, I close my eyes – and I see my mother, smiling, patient, with the heart of a servant. I pray I can be half the teacher she has taught me to be.

Harry, Schmarry

English teachers are notoriously snobby.  I am no exception.  A few Christmases ago I read through two and a half Harry Potter books and decided they weren't worth the effort -- bad writing and overly convoluted plots.  I had plenty of people tell me otherwise, but I kept saying, "I don't have time to read mediocre literature.  I'm still behind on the good literature!"

Fast-forward to last summer, when my good friend and media expert Terry Mattingly was helping me develop a new class called Media Studies.  I wanted to compare books with films, and he insisted I needed to do the third Harry Potter book.  This meant I had to finish it, which wasn't as bad as I remembered.  Some good themes for discussion, anyway.

I have to say, even with all the hype, I had severely underestimated the size of these books' influence.  The first semester, I had to drag students through classics like Emma and 2001: A Space Odyssey, feeding them bite-sized excerpts and promising sexy special effects to come.  But The Prisoner of Azkaban?  Every one of them had already read it.  Most had already read every book in the series, identifying with Harry as a kid about their age who had gone through school's tribulations and triumphs alongside them.

The second semester, the fans were so rabid they extracted a promise from me to finish the series.  "It's really unfair to judge them without reading them all," they said. Grumpily, I agreed, wondering inwardly if there are other instances of art that is only good when consumed in very large doses (okay, I have also heard the same about American Idol, sooooo enough said.)

Both times we finished our study of this book, I begged the students to explain its appeal.  "It's fun and magical," they said.  "So are the Narnia Chronicles and the Lord of the Rings books, but those aren't flying off the shelves," I countered.  I see so many holes in Rowling's world, so many clumsy fixes and unnecessary plotlines and GRATUITOUS ELLIPSES................... and to be honest, I think they are so popular because they are dumbed-down versions of the fantastic worlds created by Tolkien, Lewis, McDonald et al.  In fact, so far, I think the movies are far superior: they trim off the fat and present only the key scenes, with thought-provoking ambiguity and fantastic visual effects.

I'll be sure to report back once I'm finished, but for now, enjoy this video, received from a student around the time I was finishing Book 4.  I haven't laughed harder since the first Austin Powers movie. (This and this are even funnier, but rated PG-13.)

On the Bright Side

My dear friend Zenaida has given me lots of good advice over the years, but among the best is the simple directive to count your blessings as a remedy for feeling persecuted.  Air travel always makes me feel a bit persecuted, and I've taken six flights in the last month (still not ready to talk about it, but Jeffrey Goldberg recently made a great case for dispensing with the TSA altogether -- it's an amusing as well as a spot-on critique -- and Peggy Noonan, God bless her, saw years ago the ugliness in "safety" that seems to be ignored everywhere I go.)  So I'm going to scroll back mentally to a happier moment.

A few weeks post-Pascha, my husband announced he was craving greasy food of the type that can only be had at a divey place he told me about only after I was safely in the family: Ann's Dari-Creme at the Marley Station mall.  Before you raise your eyebrows at the word mall, I should explain that this place is the ultimate in Crunchy Con-ness.  It's been around since people thought fried food was good for you, or at least pretended to think that; when the "new" mall (now a very dated mall) was to be erected, the owners refused to sell their property.  So it's remained a tiny chink in the armor of the great suburban paradise, a chink complete with picnic tables, space for plenty of diners to park and eat in or on their cars, and a tiny, sweltering interior with about a dozen stools before a stainless-steel counter.  They have a limited menu and are most famous for their hamburgers, Double Dogs (two footlongs, one roll; I shudder to think of it) and cheesesteaks.  There are a huge array of toppings, from ketchup and mustard to fried onions, chili and cheese, pickles, etc.  Their fries are okay, but their milkshakes are amazing and their ice cream cones never topple over into the sprinkle dish, no matter how precariously tall they grow.  The amazing thing about this place is the cashier service.  You line up inside (if you're lucky; more than likely you'll be about 50 feet from the door) and when you get to the front, you recite your entire order.  You can order five different subs with five different combinations of toppings, and they'll never write it down but they'll never miss a thing either.  A few minutes later, you'll be holding a bag with hot liquid seeping through the paper in one hand, and a thick, frosty shake in the other, and you will be as close to heaven as you can get in Anne Arundel County.

Well, anyway, I was in the Glen Burnie area and Rob sheepishly asked if I would stop for cheese steaks on the way home.  I stood in line opposite an older gentleman and his wife for some time, and as we waited in the cool evening air, feeling occasional blasts of grease-laden warmth from the griddles inside, we suddenly heard the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle tearing across the parking lot at a breakneck pace.  It whizzed by us, ridden by two teenage punks who revved the engine unnecessarily for a few minutes before accellerating like mad in the other direction.

I respect the rights of bikers everywhere (and count several in my own family) but this kind of thing brings out the little old lady in me.  The sound reverberates inside my chest cavity until I really think I might die from decibel poisoning, and if I had a thumpin' cane handy I'd be using the word "whippersnapper" before you could say, well, "whippersnapper."  I'd just be saying it first, that's all.

This particular night, though, I was too seduced by the possibility of gooey cheese product to get angry.  As soon as the noise died down, I looked at the two seniors and shook my head ruefully.  "Kids," I said.  They both laughed and said they'd been through all kinds of rebellion with their own.  Did I have kids?  No, but I saw many of them each week.  I was a teacher.

"A teacher?" the gentleman replied as his eyes widened.  He shook my hand solemnly.  "Well, that makes you a hero."  I actually welled up, and not just from the emotion of an impending date with arteriosclerosis.  His face was just so sincere.  Their granddaughter was a teacher, too, they said.  It was a hard job, but they sure did appreciate everything we were doing.

Well, sir, your opinion counts for a lot.  I guess I'll try for another year.

Resolution

Looking for a seat in the lunchroom never gets less intimidating.  I surveyed the group of high schoolers, trying to see if there were any who 1) I knew, and 2) wouldn't be embarrassed if a teacher sat down next to them.  It was the school's coffeehouse / poetry slam, where I was supposedly co-coordinating with the music teacher.  In fact, he and the students had basically planned it, and I was there for moral support (and to be another Adult in Charge in case some kind of disaster took place.)

Then I saw a familiar face: the mother of one of my private students.  She was sitting alone, reading the same novel she had been reading two nights before when she brought her daughter to my house for SAT tutoring.  I approached her.  "How nice to see you here!"  She put her novel away and we chatted for a bit; apparently her daughter is quite an accomplished musician, playing flute and piano in addition to her main instrument, the french horn, which she plays with the Maryland Youth Symphony Orchestra.

"It's nice that she wanted you to come," I said.  She agreed: "We're still on speaking terms.  Most of the time, anyway."  We both laughed at that.

Then one of my students approached me with a list of poems that would be read during the show.  I was supposed to "approve" them (more on that later, ugh.)  I scanned through and circled a few things, then sent her off.

"Do you have a teaching degree, too?" my conversation partner asked after the brief exchange.  No, I said.  I studied architecture and got a degree in classics, but not in education.  She shook her head.  "You should go back to school or something.  You're obviously really good at teaching.  It fits you well."

I was a little taken aback.  She hadn't even seen my Teacher Voice!  All I had done, really, was talk to a student.

She continued, "I've thought about teaching, but I'm not sure I could do it.  Then again, I got my degree in engineering.  What the hell was I thinking?"  She laughed, and I laughed with her again, not letting on that I had thought the exact same thing (about myself, and about teaching) only moments before, as I typed out a scathing letter of protest to the administrators who refused to help me print the literary magazine.

Somehow, praise from a stranger is more meaningful.  It's not exactly resolution, but it helps a lot.  At least for today.