When you're a teacher, you get observed. The principal or the department chair or the curriculum instructor or someone else important will sit in your classroom, observe your teaching, and then write up an assessment. It goes in your permanent record, and that's how you get tenure (or get fired).
I hate being observed. I HATE IT. So much so that I just wrote it in all capital letters. And let me be clear, it is NOT because of the people who have observed me. I've had my department chair observe, the principal observe, about 14 Fulbright teachers observe, and two German exchange teachers observe. And that's just in the first 8 weeks. (In one class, on one day, I had 11 observers observing 11 students). All of these observers have been thoughtful, respectful, helpful, inquisitive, and downright wonderful.
But I still hate being observed. This is my 17th year of teaching, and if I did the math, I've probably been observed on at least 40 occasions, by 50 or 60 people. I should be used to it. But I dislike being observed today as much as I did in my first year.
And why?
Because of murphy's law, and because of the observer effect (otherwise known as the observer-expectancy effect or the actor-observer bias, sometimes erroneously conflated with Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle).
First, murphy's law: You've been having an entire month of fantastic classes. The students are engaged, the conversations are authentic and organic, and curiosity abounds. You've had 20 straight classes of good behavior and sophisticated scholarship. And then your department chair or the principal wanders in on the ONE day that month when the kids are dragging, or when one kid says a cuss word to another, or when the kids complain, or when the kids have endless sidebar conversations, or when the whole room seems to be off task. That's the day you get observed. The observer will only see the thinnest slice of your teaching, and it's that one bad day out of the entire month, and from that one class they will have to come to broad conclusions about your teaching ability.
I remember, about 14 years ago, I had one last observation before I was up for tenure . . . so I planned and I planned, and I even got a haircut the night before to look presentable. And lo and behold, on that very day, as my department chair was sitting in the back, a kid shot a coin across the room at someone else at 100 miles an hour that clanged into a cabinet and bounced around the room. After weeks of good work with that class, I was now yelling at a student as I watched the whole room (and lesson) fall apart, on the day of my final, crucial observation.
(Happy ending though, I did get tenure . . . back then in the mid 90's, it only took 2 years).
Here's another perfect example of murphy's law at work.
I teach AP Language second hour; I've really enjoyed the class thus far, and I am pleased with the progress of the students. We've talked about rhetorical strategies, we've read some of the big name philosophers, we've talked about justice, happiness, human rights, animal rights, etc. Which means 99% of the time, if anyone would have walked in the room, they would have heard something that might make me look good.
But one day we talked about female genital mutilation. It's a great way to talk about cultural relativism, and whether the good life is a universal virtue or something contingent from society to society. But it's still about female genitals and their mutilation.
And this was the one day that the principal came in to observe, unannounced.
That's right, the principal Dr. Saheed has been in my class once, and he walked in during our female genital mutilation conversation. For all I know, he opened the door when I was saying "genitals."
I quickly told him the broader discussion we were having, how this issue is an entry into important philosophical and sociological questions. He was great about it, and he had some really interesting things to say to contribute to the class discussion.
But, think about it. The one day he comes in. Female genital mutilation.
And then there's the observer effect. This is a psychological term that refers to the idea (in my mind, the truism) that you can never actually observe anything in it's true form, because the very act of observing changes the nature of what you are trying to observe. When there's an observer in the classroom the kids know it, and you the teacher definitely know it. So now everything is different--this isn't how you are normally as a teacher, and the atmosphere and goals of the class have been altered.
I've found that when I'm being observed, my mind is always split into two: the part of me that's speaking and teaching, and the part of me that is watching myself speak and teach. And a split mind isn't a fully immersed mind. The best classes are the one where you not only speak and teach, but also merge with the students and the lesson and the content and what you're pursuing-- you're almost no longer an individualized self (or as Alan Watts would say, a "skin-encapsulated ego"), but rather a part of something bigger. Which is why Yeats wrote "how can we know the dancer from the dance?"
O.K., I know that's a bit trippy and metaphorical and mystical, but the point is we're never at our best when we're hyper self-aware. And being observed makes us hyper self-aware.
So where does all this leave us? How do you ever know how good a teacher is?
Here's the only way I know: teach next door to somebody for 10 years. I taught in the same hallway of English teachers for 11 years, and only after all that time could I go down the hallway and give you my personal assessment of the teachers. Only after all those years of knowing the teachers, talking to them, teaching their former students, discussing students in common, being in their classrooms, walking by their classrooms, working on curriculum with them . . . only then did I get a true sense of who they are as educators.
I don't know how you formalize that into a school policy, (O.K., you can't), but that's the only way I know how to do it.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
The Social Network
I just saw The Social Network. Great movie. Here's the thought I left with:
Nothing changes the world like a jilted nerd.
Nothing changes the world like a jilted nerd.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Least-Fun Uncle in the World
I think I'm the least-fun uncle in the world. Why? Because I I'm opposed to sugar and television. I won't buy ice cream or candy for my niece and nephew, and I won't let them watch T.V. if I'm babysitting. I bring over vegetables in a plastic container to eat in front of them. If they are watching T.V., I cover their eyes.
And do you know what two things children want to do more than anything else in the world? Eat sugar and watch T.V. It would be interesting to put sugar in one room and a television in another room and tell a child to pick a door. They might blow a gasket.
But I found a third thing that makes me the least-fun uncle in the world: I'm opposed to the song "Little Bitty" by Alan Jackson. My niece and nephew LOVE the song and would think nothing of listening to it 20 times in a row. And I have made it my campaign to prevent them from hearing the song--to try to save them from bad art that is defiling our collective cultural consciousness.
In order attack these three crimes against humanity all at once, I wrote my own version of "Little Bitty." I removed the corporate country twang and turned it into a bluesy, folksy number. And I've repurposed the idea of "little bitty" with my own lyrics: my version is about how sugar and television are acceptable only in the ittiest, bittiest amount.
So come and sing along everybody, and join me in being no fun to children:
"Itty Bit, That's It, Thank You"
You have a little dinner at the end of your day
Drink a little milk, have a little bit to say
You ate all your broccoli, ate all your greens
And you’re asking for a little ice cream
It’s alright to have an itty bitty
You can just nibble like an itty-bitty kitty
Just one bite, no more than two
Have an itty bit, that’s it, thank you
You’re a little kid with a lot of growin’ up
You never want to fill up on sugar-filled stuff
Eat a biggie meal as healthy as can be
Then and only then have a little candy
It’s alright to have an itty bitty
You can just nibble like an itty-bitty kitty
Just one bite, no more than two
Have an itty bit, that’s it, thank you
The best of you is right inside your head
You think all day and even when you go to bed
So much to learn and so much to see
But now you ask to watch a little tv
It’s all right watch an itty bitty
Then close your eyes like a sleepy little kitty
Or go outside, read all your books
Then and only then have an itty bitty look
In your head is where you keep your dreams
All the words and stories, and your self-esteem
So don’t slow it down, your head ain’t tired yet
Got so much more than the television set
It’s all right watch an itty bitty
Then close your eyes like a sleepy little kitty
Or go outside, read all your books
Then and only then have an itty bitty look
And do you know what two things children want to do more than anything else in the world? Eat sugar and watch T.V. It would be interesting to put sugar in one room and a television in another room and tell a child to pick a door. They might blow a gasket.
But I found a third thing that makes me the least-fun uncle in the world: I'm opposed to the song "Little Bitty" by Alan Jackson. My niece and nephew LOVE the song and would think nothing of listening to it 20 times in a row. And I have made it my campaign to prevent them from hearing the song--to try to save them from bad art that is defiling our collective cultural consciousness.
In order attack these three crimes against humanity all at once, I wrote my own version of "Little Bitty." I removed the corporate country twang and turned it into a bluesy, folksy number. And I've repurposed the idea of "little bitty" with my own lyrics: my version is about how sugar and television are acceptable only in the ittiest, bittiest amount.
So come and sing along everybody, and join me in being no fun to children:
"Itty Bit, That's It, Thank You"
You have a little dinner at the end of your day
Drink a little milk, have a little bit to say
You ate all your broccoli, ate all your greens
And you’re asking for a little ice cream
It’s alright to have an itty bitty
You can just nibble like an itty-bitty kitty
Just one bite, no more than two
Have an itty bit, that’s it, thank you
You’re a little kid with a lot of growin’ up
You never want to fill up on sugar-filled stuff
Eat a biggie meal as healthy as can be
Then and only then have a little candy
It’s alright to have an itty bitty
You can just nibble like an itty-bitty kitty
Just one bite, no more than two
Have an itty bit, that’s it, thank you
The best of you is right inside your head
You think all day and even when you go to bed
So much to learn and so much to see
But now you ask to watch a little tv
It’s all right watch an itty bitty
Then close your eyes like a sleepy little kitty
Or go outside, read all your books
Then and only then have an itty bitty look
In your head is where you keep your dreams
All the words and stories, and your self-esteem
So don’t slow it down, your head ain’t tired yet
Got so much more than the television set
It’s all right watch an itty bitty
Then close your eyes like a sleepy little kitty
Or go outside, read all your books
Then and only then have an itty bitty look
Song for Stella
Congratulations to my brother Matt and sister-in-law Senoe on the birth of their daughter Stella Naga Jordan Torgerson. I wrote her a song (everyone should start off life with their own song) called "Hello World." Here are the lyrics:
Hello world, how do you do
A pleasure finally meeting you
Why yes, I’d love to stay
As soon as can I learn to stand
I’ll cross all your meridians
I’m thinking if I may, I’d like to say:
REFRAIN
Hey-yo what’s up howdeedoo
Ni hao, sabaidee, yiassou
Shalom and gutentag
Que honda with a bon giourno
Salam alei kum, hujambo
G’Day, konnichi wa
I’ll shake the hands of all the trees
The oceans want to play with me
Take lunch up in the sky
The animals all dancing ‘round
The mountains echoing the sounds
As everyone decides to come on by
I know I’ll grow up big and tall
It makes it much more fun to fall
With grass stains on my knees
But here, today, I just arrived
To keep this feeling deep inside
To stay as new and free as I please
Hello world, how do you do
A pleasure finally meeting you
Why yes, I’d love to stay
As soon as can I learn to stand
I’ll cross all your meridians
I’m thinking if I may, I’d like to say:
REFRAIN
Hey-yo what’s up howdeedoo
Ni hao, sabaidee, yiassou
Shalom and gutentag
Que honda with a bon giourno
Salam alei kum, hujambo
G’Day, konnichi wa
I’ll shake the hands of all the trees
The oceans want to play with me
Take lunch up in the sky
The animals all dancing ‘round
The mountains echoing the sounds
As everyone decides to come on by
I know I’ll grow up big and tall
It makes it much more fun to fall
With grass stains on my knees
But here, today, I just arrived
To keep this feeling deep inside
To stay as new and free as I please
Sunday, June 27, 2010
My Awful Confession
So, I really like the outdoors. I like my Outward Bound trips, I like forests and rivers and mountains, I like the wide-open permeable feeling you get after being outside for seven days straight. I feel healed, I feel right. I think that's also true for all of us and the whole world.
Anytime I make these jaunts into the natural world, I come in contact with people who who have organized their life around it. I hang out with wilderness guides, mountain climbers, kayakers, wilderness rescue crews, campers, hikers, etc., etc.
But I have an awful confession to make.
Here it is:
These outdoor types are BORING.
Boring to talk to that is. I like how they can take me into the wild, which makes their actions interesting I suppose. But their minds and their words are BORING.
I don't know how to explain it exactly. You might know the type. They wear Patagonia and fleeces and have tons of camping equipment and wear sandals with wool socks. They're never, ever mean to anyone; they're laid-back and easy going and know a lot about the outdoors.
But it's like they're psychologically 10 yards away from you anytime you converse with them. They never seem to quite register the real you that is trying to talk to them. They have no edge, they have no irony. Their highs and lows are flattened into a white noise of a personality. They seem interchangeable. You can feel your own sharpness depreciate when you talk to them.
But they're not dumb. In fact, most of them were usually pretty good students. But their words never seem to cut into anything, and there's never a shortage of things that need cutting.
Of course I feel like a jerk saying it. Like comedian Patton Oswalt said, "I never realized how desperately I depend on negativity and cynicism just to communicate with the outside world."
Maybe these outdoor types lack irony because they're kind of happy and satisfied with life. And that shouldn't be a bad thing.
Maybe I was hoping to export my interest in philosophy and literature and the like INTO the natural world. To be hiking and paddling WHILE ALSO talking about Heidegger and Orwell would be some kind of heaven.
But those two interests never seem to coexist.
There are eleven other students at this wilderness first responder course. They can talk all day about the mountains they climbed . . . and yet, how much is there to say? What else besides, "yep, I climbed that mountain. All the way to the top. Then I came back down."
Not a single one of the students brought a single book with them. For an 8 day course.
My wilderness first responder teacher is a 55 year-old guy with an amazing history of outdoor experience. It seems like he's climbed every mountain, plunged through every rapid, weathered every kind of injury. He pioneered the snowboard craze in the 90's, he started his own outdoor gear company, and he's rescued hundreds of people in his 30 year career as a search and rescue expert.
And his sense of humor as he lectures in class? It's no more developed than the noises 6 year-old boys make. Fart noises ("ppppffffffttt"), falling down noises ("badoom!", "kerplunk"), or engine noises ("vvvrrrrrooooommmmm!"). He'll start to use weird voices (of various characters I suppose) that have no point, make no jokes, have no irony, and go nowhere.
I know, I'm just a pompous jerk elitist who plans to read Anna Karenina this summer. But I've heard if you climb to the top of one of the tall Tolstoy mountains, you might have an interesting thing or two to say when you get back down.
Anytime I make these jaunts into the natural world, I come in contact with people who who have organized their life around it. I hang out with wilderness guides, mountain climbers, kayakers, wilderness rescue crews, campers, hikers, etc., etc.
But I have an awful confession to make.
Here it is:
These outdoor types are BORING.
Boring to talk to that is. I like how they can take me into the wild, which makes their actions interesting I suppose. But their minds and their words are BORING.
I don't know how to explain it exactly. You might know the type. They wear Patagonia and fleeces and have tons of camping equipment and wear sandals with wool socks. They're never, ever mean to anyone; they're laid-back and easy going and know a lot about the outdoors.
But it's like they're psychologically 10 yards away from you anytime you converse with them. They never seem to quite register the real you that is trying to talk to them. They have no edge, they have no irony. Their highs and lows are flattened into a white noise of a personality. They seem interchangeable. You can feel your own sharpness depreciate when you talk to them.
But they're not dumb. In fact, most of them were usually pretty good students. But their words never seem to cut into anything, and there's never a shortage of things that need cutting.
Of course I feel like a jerk saying it. Like comedian Patton Oswalt said, "I never realized how desperately I depend on negativity and cynicism just to communicate with the outside world."
Maybe these outdoor types lack irony because they're kind of happy and satisfied with life. And that shouldn't be a bad thing.
Maybe I was hoping to export my interest in philosophy and literature and the like INTO the natural world. To be hiking and paddling WHILE ALSO talking about Heidegger and Orwell would be some kind of heaven.
But those two interests never seem to coexist.
There are eleven other students at this wilderness first responder course. They can talk all day about the mountains they climbed . . . and yet, how much is there to say? What else besides, "yep, I climbed that mountain. All the way to the top. Then I came back down."
Not a single one of the students brought a single book with them. For an 8 day course.
My wilderness first responder teacher is a 55 year-old guy with an amazing history of outdoor experience. It seems like he's climbed every mountain, plunged through every rapid, weathered every kind of injury. He pioneered the snowboard craze in the 90's, he started his own outdoor gear company, and he's rescued hundreds of people in his 30 year career as a search and rescue expert.
And his sense of humor as he lectures in class? It's no more developed than the noises 6 year-old boys make. Fart noises ("ppppffffffttt"), falling down noises ("badoom!", "kerplunk"), or engine noises ("vvvrrrrrooooommmmm!"). He'll start to use weird voices (of various characters I suppose) that have no point, make no jokes, have no irony, and go nowhere.
I know, I'm just a pompous jerk elitist who plans to read Anna Karenina this summer. But I've heard if you climb to the top of one of the tall Tolstoy mountains, you might have an interesting thing or two to say when you get back down.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Conway, New Hampshire
New Hampshire is a pretty interesting state. In some ways, it's the forgotten child of the northeast. Massachusetts has Boston, Vermont has hippies and timeshares, Maine has Stephen King and lobster and the honor of being as far northeast as you can get. And New Hampshire? It doesn't really know what it is, which makes it kind of cool. Overlooked by tourists, it's kind of scrappy and mountainous and rustic and undefined.
But I'm getting to know only one part of it--the area around Conway. And cities where people live are always more amusing than the majesty of the landscape. Conway is a perfect example.
Let's take their newspaper, the Conway Daily Sun, which I have been reading all week. On Thursday one of the front page headlines was "Losing 'Rural' Status Could Be 'Census Consequence' for Conway." You see, if the census says that Conway now has more than 10,000 people, they would no longer be designated as "rural".
Really? Does "rural" just refer to population? Doesn't it also refer to local culture? Or maybe a state of mind?
If we look at some other headlines from the Conway Daily Sun, we'll probably want to keep calling it "rural".
Here's my favorite, from this past Wednesday:
"Bear-Crossing Signs Going Up on West Side Road".
And that was FRONT page news. And many more to choose from. These headlines are from the past 3 days ALONE:
"Library Book Sale in Full Swing"
(It's such a bummer when it's only in partial swing.)
"Race Fans Rejoice: More Bathrooms at N.H. Track"
(Rejoice. That's right, the fans are rejoicing.)
"Bartlett/Jackson Food Pantry Now Open on Saturdays"
(It's such a bitch when you can only go Mon-Fri.)
"In Golf, As in Life, Timing is Everything"
(An editorial, of course. Too boring to read.)
"Police Cite Wrong Record for Suspect in Pepper-Spray Assault". (Didn't 40 people die in Chicago in one weekend recently? And all the while, the Conway Police were dealing with the ominous pepper-spray assailant.)
"Soup's On in Conway Village: Annual Conway Village Festival and Soup-a-thon is Saturday."
(I talked to some of my other Wilderness First Responder classmates about this. I could sit at home and just eat my own can of soup, but it wouldn't be a soup-a-thon. So the question is, what is the minimal number of cans you would need for it to be classified as a soup-a-thon? We decided it would be twelve. Twelve.)
Ah yes, the rural life can be funny. It can make you feel pretty superior about yourself.
Then again, the other day, I was the one digging through a stack of recycled newspapers, looking for headlines I could make fun of for this blog. Which means I'm an asshole. New Hampshire may be rural and rustic, but I'm an asshole with a blog.
Maybe I should try rural and rustic some day.
But I'm getting to know only one part of it--the area around Conway. And cities where people live are always more amusing than the majesty of the landscape. Conway is a perfect example.
Let's take their newspaper, the Conway Daily Sun, which I have been reading all week. On Thursday one of the front page headlines was "Losing 'Rural' Status Could Be 'Census Consequence' for Conway." You see, if the census says that Conway now has more than 10,000 people, they would no longer be designated as "rural".
Really? Does "rural" just refer to population? Doesn't it also refer to local culture? Or maybe a state of mind?
If we look at some other headlines from the Conway Daily Sun, we'll probably want to keep calling it "rural".
Here's my favorite, from this past Wednesday:
"Bear-Crossing Signs Going Up on West Side Road".
And that was FRONT page news. And many more to choose from. These headlines are from the past 3 days ALONE:
"Library Book Sale in Full Swing"
(It's such a bummer when it's only in partial swing.)
"Race Fans Rejoice: More Bathrooms at N.H. Track"
(Rejoice. That's right, the fans are rejoicing.)
"Bartlett/Jackson Food Pantry Now Open on Saturdays"
(It's such a bitch when you can only go Mon-Fri.)
"In Golf, As in Life, Timing is Everything"
(An editorial, of course. Too boring to read.)
"Police Cite Wrong Record for Suspect in Pepper-Spray Assault". (Didn't 40 people die in Chicago in one weekend recently? And all the while, the Conway Police were dealing with the ominous pepper-spray assailant.)
"Soup's On in Conway Village: Annual Conway Village Festival and Soup-a-thon is Saturday."
(I talked to some of my other Wilderness First Responder classmates about this. I could sit at home and just eat my own can of soup, but it wouldn't be a soup-a-thon. So the question is, what is the minimal number of cans you would need for it to be classified as a soup-a-thon? We decided it would be twelve. Twelve.)
Ah yes, the rural life can be funny. It can make you feel pretty superior about yourself.
Then again, the other day, I was the one digging through a stack of recycled newspapers, looking for headlines I could make fun of for this blog. Which means I'm an asshole. New Hampshire may be rural and rustic, but I'm an asshole with a blog.
Maybe I should try rural and rustic some day.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Wilderness First Responder
So I’m on the outskirts of Conway, New Hampshire, for about 8 days. I’m getting my Wilderness First Responder certification at a wilderness medicine school. That means I’m learning how to stabilize fractures, treat hypothermia, dress lacerations, etc., all improvised with what you can find in the wilderness or in a camper’s pack.
Yep, that’s me, a tough outdoorsman. The kind of manly roughneck that can survive on twigs and morning dew for a month if he needs to. The kind of guy who can wrestle a bear and catch salmon in his teeth.
Or at least that’s the plan.
Because I seem to have a ways to go. I’m not in the wilderness per se . . . if I was I wouldn’t be posting this blog. I’m moving between rustic three buildings: a classroom, a dining hall/administration office, and a dorm, all a few yards from each other in the New Hampshire woods.
As I mentioned in an earlier blog, I’ve been battling a face rash all year. It comes and goes, and when it comes, it’s a real drag: itchy, painful, inflamed, red, rough skin. All over my face. The only thing that helps a very powerful steroid cream. Which I didn’t bring with me.
Two days into the wilderness course it started to flare up in a serious way, so I had my roommate find the cream and overnight it to the camp. Yep, I was being trained to survive in the wilderness, and I needed a face cream mailed to me. What a mountain man.
Superman’s downfall was kryptonite. Mine is ketoconazole cream. For dermatologic use only.
Yep, that’s me, a tough outdoorsman. The kind of manly roughneck that can survive on twigs and morning dew for a month if he needs to. The kind of guy who can wrestle a bear and catch salmon in his teeth.
Or at least that’s the plan.
Because I seem to have a ways to go. I’m not in the wilderness per se . . . if I was I wouldn’t be posting this blog. I’m moving between rustic three buildings: a classroom, a dining hall/administration office, and a dorm, all a few yards from each other in the New Hampshire woods.
As I mentioned in an earlier blog, I’ve been battling a face rash all year. It comes and goes, and when it comes, it’s a real drag: itchy, painful, inflamed, red, rough skin. All over my face. The only thing that helps a very powerful steroid cream. Which I didn’t bring with me.
Two days into the wilderness course it started to flare up in a serious way, so I had my roommate find the cream and overnight it to the camp. Yep, I was being trained to survive in the wilderness, and I needed a face cream mailed to me. What a mountain man.
Superman’s downfall was kryptonite. Mine is ketoconazole cream. For dermatologic use only.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
The Real Housewives of New York City
For some reason, I watched clips of The Real Housewives of New York City today. For those of you who don't know (and I hope that's many of you), it's a reality show about the richest wives/gold diggers of New York City. I think I was checking out the Huffington Post, and there was a link to some of these wives' shenanigans, and I watched it.
I saw about 5 minutes of clips, but I think that's enough to understand the scope of the show. (Kelly really is crazy! That Bethany is such a bitch!)
These women are the most embarrassing, reprehensible, unabashedly shallow, useless, self-involved people on the planet. Which must the the function of the show. Maybe we needed to get to the rock bottom of the human species, to take all the horrors of consumerism and wealth and media whoring and superciliousness and selfishness and push them to their logical ends. And when we do, we get these housewives, the most shameful, vile versions of any human beings ever. And then we can look at it and say "there, that's it. That's as low as we can go. It can get no worse than this. We can start here, and any move we make will be an improvement. And least we know which way is up."
And yet, I may just need to watch a few more of these clips before I go to sleep tonight.
I saw about 5 minutes of clips, but I think that's enough to understand the scope of the show. (Kelly really is crazy! That Bethany is such a bitch!)
These women are the most embarrassing, reprehensible, unabashedly shallow, useless, self-involved people on the planet. Which must the the function of the show. Maybe we needed to get to the rock bottom of the human species, to take all the horrors of consumerism and wealth and media whoring and superciliousness and selfishness and push them to their logical ends. And when we do, we get these housewives, the most shameful, vile versions of any human beings ever. And then we can look at it and say "there, that's it. That's as low as we can go. It can get no worse than this. We can start here, and any move we make will be an improvement. And least we know which way is up."
And yet, I may just need to watch a few more of these clips before I go to sleep tonight.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Progress of Some Sort
Now that I'm done with this whole Harvard gig, I ought to reflect a bit. I remember writing my first sentence for my first essay for my first class . . . a rather anxious undertaking. I'd write a sentence and then panic: is that sentence smart enough? It has to be a Harvard sentence. It's for a Harvard assignment, and it will be read by a Harvard professor. Is that how they write their sentences here? Is that how Harvard scholars string their words together? Is my vocabulary embarrassingly shallow? I'll write it again. O.K., how about THAT sentence. Uh oh, am I trying too hard? Is that a vacuous thought that amounts to no more than a thinly-veiled attempt at sounding intelligent? Will I be exposed for the sham that I am?
It went on and on like that.
And then, by the end of the year, I was turning in a 34 page paper that largely disagreed with the professor's position, the very same professor that would be reading and grading the paper. (What can I say? He was wrong, really wrong.)
None of this means I think I'm smarter than Harvard academics. Far from it. If I was honest with myself (and because the ed school is an entirely different animal than the other schools), I'm in the bottom 1% of the university. I'm not bummed out about it or anything, I've just seen the intellectual acumen of folks around here, so I know my place.
But now, at the end of the year, I find I'm not really intimidated by all this brilliance. I'm not brilliant myself, but I'm also not that insecure when I'm amongst the geniuses. They're smart, but they're mortal.
I'll consider that my Harvard education.
(And I like cooler bands than they do anyway).
It went on and on like that.
And then, by the end of the year, I was turning in a 34 page paper that largely disagreed with the professor's position, the very same professor that would be reading and grading the paper. (What can I say? He was wrong, really wrong.)
None of this means I think I'm smarter than Harvard academics. Far from it. If I was honest with myself (and because the ed school is an entirely different animal than the other schools), I'm in the bottom 1% of the university. I'm not bummed out about it or anything, I've just seen the intellectual acumen of folks around here, so I know my place.
But now, at the end of the year, I find I'm not really intimidated by all this brilliance. I'm not brilliant myself, but I'm also not that insecure when I'm amongst the geniuses. They're smart, but they're mortal.
I'll consider that my Harvard education.
(And I like cooler bands than they do anyway).
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Graduation - Part 1
Yep, graduation at Harvard University. I think it's supposed to be a big deal. At least it's a spectacle.
Every school has their own graduation in the afternoon, but on graduation morn they actually get everyone together for an all school event. That's when the president speaks, that's when they give honorary degrees (Meryl Streep got one this year), that's where it's nearly impossible to get tickets as a spectator. So after a previous night of drinking and celebrating, you wake up very early the next morning, squint through the pain in your don't-really-feel-Ivy-League-at-all aching head, and you head out to the yard.
And it's packed. It takes about two hours just to file in, and then you're stuck in a teeming prison of brainy graduates for the entire ceremony. I spent most of my time worrying about my bladder and the impossibility of finding a toilet if needed.
Some of the ceremony feels like you've snuck into an old cultish ritual. It all starts off with an announcement from the Sheriff of MIddlesex County. (Nearly impossible to say that title without affecting an east coast snobby lilt in your voice). I guess he's the ACTUAL sheriff of Middlesex County; he rides in on a horse, wears a top hat, and walks (stomps) around the stage with a huge scepter in his hand. He marches up to the microphone and bellows (like the word "bellows" was invented just for him): "AS THE SHERIFF OF MIDDLESEX COUNTY I DEEM THIS ESTEEMED GRADUATION CEREMONY IS NOW UNDERWAY!"
It's pretty obvious what's happening here. Harvard is the oldest university in the country, so they have some antiquated rituals that have never gone away. Apparently in the days of horses and buggies (and a university that would only admit white males), the Sheriff of Middlesex County would officially start and end the graduation. And he still does.
Which had me wondering. When the Sheriff first did this long ago, and for for the first 10 or 20 graduations, it fit the times. It was the protocol, it was completely normal. When he does it now, it's mere theater, a throwback scene which provides some charm and some history. The ridiculousness of his outfit and his scepter and his histrionics are completely anomalous to modern times, and are enjoyed for exactly that reason. But what about those years between these two extremes? What about those awkward years when the whole Sheriff ritual seemed ridiculously out of date, but it was still too soon for it to be a gesture to antiquity? Those must of been some tough years. The Sheriff must have felt like a complete tool, especially considering the getup he'd be wearing. Wearing no costume is fine, wearing a costume that everyone knows is a costume is fine, but wearing an outfit in which it's unclear if it's ironic or just a poor clothing choice, is the worst.
Wait, where was I? Oh yeah, the ceremony. Next came the undergraduate speech. Every year they pick some over-overachiever over all other overachievers to give the student speech. Can you even imagine such a person? Think of how type-A you have to be to even get into Harvard. And think of what a go-getter you must be in the top 10% of your class at Harvard. Now fathom the unfathomable person that can actually surpass ALL of this. I guarantee you they are no fun at parties (and are cold and inert in the bedroom).
But here's the catch: who ever is selected to give the speech, they have to write it in Latin, and then MEMORIZE it in Latin. It's not a student who is majoring in Latin mind you, it's just someone who has to put the WHOLE thing in Latin. And it must be memorized. That's right, you're 22 years old, you've memorized a 15 minute speech in a language you don't speak, you're at the most esteemed university on the planet, the Harvard president is sitting behind you, and Meryl Streep is looking on. So you better have that shit memorized. And to think I can't go to the grocery story without a list written down.
Why give the speech in Latin? I suppose it's another antiquated ritual a la the Sheriff. But more likely it's just Harvard pompousness. YES Harvard, we know you're smart . . . YES Harvard, smart people speak and read Latin . . . YES Harvard, most of us don't understand a word of this speech, and we feel a little dumb for it, and that's what you wanted. So here was this young woman, rambling on in Latin about pursuing your dreams or some such nonsense, and I don't get a single word. But then she said something and some people start chuckling. What? You're laughing? At what? You were tracking that whole speech IN LATIN? For real? Is that even possible? Can you be funny in Latin? How would you say "take my wife, please"?
Every school has their own graduation in the afternoon, but on graduation morn they actually get everyone together for an all school event. That's when the president speaks, that's when they give honorary degrees (Meryl Streep got one this year), that's where it's nearly impossible to get tickets as a spectator. So after a previous night of drinking and celebrating, you wake up very early the next morning, squint through the pain in your don't-really-feel-Ivy-League-at-all aching head, and you head out to the yard.
And it's packed. It takes about two hours just to file in, and then you're stuck in a teeming prison of brainy graduates for the entire ceremony. I spent most of my time worrying about my bladder and the impossibility of finding a toilet if needed.
Some of the ceremony feels like you've snuck into an old cultish ritual. It all starts off with an announcement from the Sheriff of MIddlesex County. (Nearly impossible to say that title without affecting an east coast snobby lilt in your voice). I guess he's the ACTUAL sheriff of Middlesex County; he rides in on a horse, wears a top hat, and walks (stomps) around the stage with a huge scepter in his hand. He marches up to the microphone and bellows (like the word "bellows" was invented just for him): "AS THE SHERIFF OF MIDDLESEX COUNTY I DEEM THIS ESTEEMED GRADUATION CEREMONY IS NOW UNDERWAY!"
It's pretty obvious what's happening here. Harvard is the oldest university in the country, so they have some antiquated rituals that have never gone away. Apparently in the days of horses and buggies (and a university that would only admit white males), the Sheriff of Middlesex County would officially start and end the graduation. And he still does.
Which had me wondering. When the Sheriff first did this long ago, and for for the first 10 or 20 graduations, it fit the times. It was the protocol, it was completely normal. When he does it now, it's mere theater, a throwback scene which provides some charm and some history. The ridiculousness of his outfit and his scepter and his histrionics are completely anomalous to modern times, and are enjoyed for exactly that reason. But what about those years between these two extremes? What about those awkward years when the whole Sheriff ritual seemed ridiculously out of date, but it was still too soon for it to be a gesture to antiquity? Those must of been some tough years. The Sheriff must have felt like a complete tool, especially considering the getup he'd be wearing. Wearing no costume is fine, wearing a costume that everyone knows is a costume is fine, but wearing an outfit in which it's unclear if it's ironic or just a poor clothing choice, is the worst.
Wait, where was I? Oh yeah, the ceremony. Next came the undergraduate speech. Every year they pick some over-overachiever over all other overachievers to give the student speech. Can you even imagine such a person? Think of how type-A you have to be to even get into Harvard. And think of what a go-getter you must be in the top 10% of your class at Harvard. Now fathom the unfathomable person that can actually surpass ALL of this. I guarantee you they are no fun at parties (and are cold and inert in the bedroom).
But here's the catch: who ever is selected to give the speech, they have to write it in Latin, and then MEMORIZE it in Latin. It's not a student who is majoring in Latin mind you, it's just someone who has to put the WHOLE thing in Latin. And it must be memorized. That's right, you're 22 years old, you've memorized a 15 minute speech in a language you don't speak, you're at the most esteemed university on the planet, the Harvard president is sitting behind you, and Meryl Streep is looking on. So you better have that shit memorized. And to think I can't go to the grocery story without a list written down.
Why give the speech in Latin? I suppose it's another antiquated ritual a la the Sheriff. But more likely it's just Harvard pompousness. YES Harvard, we know you're smart . . . YES Harvard, smart people speak and read Latin . . . YES Harvard, most of us don't understand a word of this speech, and we feel a little dumb for it, and that's what you wanted. So here was this young woman, rambling on in Latin about pursuing your dreams or some such nonsense, and I don't get a single word. But then she said something and some people start chuckling. What? You're laughing? At what? You were tracking that whole speech IN LATIN? For real? Is that even possible? Can you be funny in Latin? How would you say "take my wife, please"?
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