Seeing as I've been working on a particularly unwieldy [read: unpublishable] piece on the death of note passing in the classroom--it's much simpler to send a text message--I was delighted to meet two high school-aged boys who don't even own cell phones.
One has an email address, but he doesn't really use it for correspondence, although he gets a lot of emails.
I was incredulous. His friends send emails but he doesn't write back?
No, he said. People email me--do you know about it? I think it's called Spam?
3/17/2009
3/05/2009
teacher school
"What's another word for initiative? Initiative...initiative..." mumbles one. She spends her evenings in master's classes, plans her lessons during lunch.
"Use the thesaurus," says the other.
"I know, but I don't know how to get it on this computer." She types in initiative, hesitating over the i-n-i-t-i-a...t-i-v-e.
Two sets of hands fumble with the mouse.
"Click on the word. Right click," says the other.
"Oh! Right click!" She clicks. Scans. "Inventiveness... originality... ingenuity! That's what I want. Ingenuity." She selects the word, replacing initiative with ingenuity. "I don't want to plagiarize," she says, with parentheses.
She types a few sentences and clucks. "Man, this essay is supposed to be 15 pages. I'm at 12. I'm going to have to puff it up a bit. Fifteeeeen pages." She saves her 12 pages and goes off to teach her next class.
"Use the thesaurus," says the other.
"I know, but I don't know how to get it on this computer." She types in initiative, hesitating over the i-n-i-t-i-a...t-i-v-e.
Two sets of hands fumble with the mouse.
"Click on the word. Right click," says the other.
"Oh! Right click!" She clicks. Scans. "Inventiveness... originality... ingenuity! That's what I want. Ingenuity." She selects the word, replacing initiative with ingenuity. "I don't want to plagiarize," she says, with parentheses.
She types a few sentences and clucks. "Man, this essay is supposed to be 15 pages. I'm at 12. I'm going to have to puff it up a bit. Fifteeeeen pages." She saves her 12 pages and goes off to teach her next class.
2/04/2009
Sunday best
A Sunday morning rises slowly, regally, distinct from weary weekdays and worldly Saturdays. Perhaps it is the thud of the thick Sunday Times on cement stoops, or the velvet suspension of alarm clocks. Perhaps it is the emptiness of mailboxes and agenda books, the luxury of champagne brunches and “and that’s a first down at the 30-yard-line.”
Or perhaps it is the rustle of shampooed hair laid damp across the pillow on Saturday night. Perhaps it is the sheen of patent leather, the rigid crease in a starched shirt, the stretch of dark nylons and the murmur of slips. Perhaps it is the rhythm of eight, or ten, or twelve Miss Mary Mack buttons climbing up a dress’s back.
This is the whisper of Sunday best: arms bent into long winter coats, hair tucked under brims and bows, hands clutching cracked leather Bibles, hearts bound for the sweeping harmonies of the cloaked and clapping Brooklyn Tabernacle choir. The songs may speak of miracles, as may the parishioners—they number 10,000—a seemingly prodigious tree of prayer and passion, for what was once a handful of churchgoers has blossomed into one of the city’s largest churches, home to a Grammy-winning choir and a stone-facade building that fills the better part of the block. Tourists, whether religious or curious or both, ask for their pictures to be taken at the church’s entrance: THE BROOKLYN TABERNACLE is chiseled in the wall behind their heads.
“The sermon was about light—how Jesus brings light into our lives,” says a girl from Korea. “And boy do I need that light.”
Perhaps a Sunday wakes separately from the rest of the week because she laden with ritual and religion—centuries of Hail Marys and Hallelujahs and wine sipped from communal cups. Perhaps things are different because, as is oft observed, Sunday mornings are our most segregated moments, our most divisive hours, where we, believers and non-believers, practice our respective vocabularies: heretics and heathens, puritans and posers.
After Sunday services, the doors open on two streets, smiles and laughter vaulting against the interior halls. The churchgoers speckle the sidewalks of downtown Brooklyn, crowding into the restaurant around the corner for a late lunch or wandering the Fulton Street Mall in their furs and heels. A man in a blue plaid jacket and blue pants and blue shoes [not suede] and a blue hat and—of course—a blue handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket leans against the building. He grins at a group of ladies who walk by, swishing, in their Sunday best.
Or perhaps it is the rustle of shampooed hair laid damp across the pillow on Saturday night. Perhaps it is the sheen of patent leather, the rigid crease in a starched shirt, the stretch of dark nylons and the murmur of slips. Perhaps it is the rhythm of eight, or ten, or twelve Miss Mary Mack buttons climbing up a dress’s back.
This is the whisper of Sunday best: arms bent into long winter coats, hair tucked under brims and bows, hands clutching cracked leather Bibles, hearts bound for the sweeping harmonies of the cloaked and clapping Brooklyn Tabernacle choir. The songs may speak of miracles, as may the parishioners—they number 10,000—a seemingly prodigious tree of prayer and passion, for what was once a handful of churchgoers has blossomed into one of the city’s largest churches, home to a Grammy-winning choir and a stone-facade building that fills the better part of the block. Tourists, whether religious or curious or both, ask for their pictures to be taken at the church’s entrance: THE BROOKLYN TABERNACLE is chiseled in the wall behind their heads.
“The sermon was about light—how Jesus brings light into our lives,” says a girl from Korea. “And boy do I need that light.”
Perhaps a Sunday wakes separately from the rest of the week because she laden with ritual and religion—centuries of Hail Marys and Hallelujahs and wine sipped from communal cups. Perhaps things are different because, as is oft observed, Sunday mornings are our most segregated moments, our most divisive hours, where we, believers and non-believers, practice our respective vocabularies: heretics and heathens, puritans and posers.
After Sunday services, the doors open on two streets, smiles and laughter vaulting against the interior halls. The churchgoers speckle the sidewalks of downtown Brooklyn, crowding into the restaurant around the corner for a late lunch or wandering the Fulton Street Mall in their furs and heels. A man in a blue plaid jacket and blue pants and blue shoes [not suede] and a blue hat and—of course—a blue handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket leans against the building. He grins at a group of ladies who walk by, swishing, in their Sunday best.
1/18/2009
overheard at the met
A girl of eight, in coral jeans and boots, walks from one room to another. "Oh, here's that guy again!" she exclaims, pointing to thick paint and swirls.
Farther down the gallery, the straw-hatted man is a glimpse of blue and gold--too far away to confirm if that was a smile hovering around his lips.
Farther down the gallery, the straw-hatted man is a glimpse of blue and gold--too far away to confirm if that was a smile hovering around his lips.
12/09/2008
demography
As I wait for the train, at that time that is both early in the morning and late at night, two young men who look like they should still have bedtimes sit down next to me. The one with a skateboard is white, his friend is Hispanic. Both have piercings that suggest awkward a bit more than they suggest hip.
"Did you see that one chick I made out with?" asks the boy who is white.
His friend shrugs.
"She was white, I think," says the first. He proceeds to list off the night's conquests by race: four white girls, two black girls, one Asian chick [at this point I begin to doubt his reliability], and, to top it off, a few Hispanic girls.
I remain in a quandary of mirth and horror. What astonishes, one top of everything else, is how accurately his demographics mimic the nation's.
"Did you see that one chick I made out with?" asks the boy who is white.
His friend shrugs.
"She was white, I think," says the first. He proceeds to list off the night's conquests by race: four white girls, two black girls, one Asian chick [at this point I begin to doubt his reliability], and, to top it off, a few Hispanic girls.
I remain in a quandary of mirth and horror. What astonishes, one top of everything else, is how accurately his demographics mimic the nation's.
12/06/2008
Revelation 19:16
Signing for packages at a certain New York publication, the delivery man points to my bare upper arm (the offices of the publication are excessively warm) and says I should get a tattoo there. I sigh and explain that I can never decide what to get.
"Get this," he says, lifting his shirt to reveal a life-sized handgun tattooed over his breastbone.
"Now how did you decide on that?" I ask.
"I was in a gang in L.A.," he tells me. "It was a long time ago."
The tattoo is slightly gray, as old tattoos go. He heads out to his next delivery. I turn back to my computer, editing a podcast about the legality of torture, a podcast about the science of loneliness.
"Get this," he says, lifting his shirt to reveal a life-sized handgun tattooed over his breastbone.
"Now how did you decide on that?" I ask.
"I was in a gang in L.A.," he tells me. "It was a long time ago."
The tattoo is slightly gray, as old tattoos go. He heads out to his next delivery. I turn back to my computer, editing a podcast about the legality of torture, a podcast about the science of loneliness.
11/22/2008
Epiphany
Fact: on any given day, at least sixty percent of the people at my local branch library will be in a bad mood.
Having braved the grumps of Epiphany to check out Gilead and The Art of Fiction (thanks Ms. Nosneb), I was disgruntled to discover that someone has, at least throughout the preface, penciled in an s in front of every he. I am an advocate of marking--in pencil--sections of interest, but this I cannot abide. It seems to me that any person reading The Art of Fiction should have the good sense to know that this exercise in silliness isn't really doing anything for the state of women other than distracting them with ugliness.
Having braved the grumps of Epiphany to check out Gilead and The Art of Fiction (thanks Ms. Nosneb), I was disgruntled to discover that someone has, at least throughout the preface, penciled in an s in front of every he. I am an advocate of marking--in pencil--sections of interest, but this I cannot abide. It seems to me that any person reading The Art of Fiction should have the good sense to know that this exercise in silliness isn't really doing anything for the state of women other than distracting them with ugliness.
11/19/2008
the short answer
This seems to be a week of channeling ire toward standardized testing. Perhaps it's just a reflex; this is the time of year where, if I was still teaching, the districts would bring out the benchmark tests--practice tests written in-house, which guaranteed two things: a badly written test that provided no helpful results, and a squandered week of school. After November benchmarking, it was time for December review and polishing. Rest up on winter break, because when you burst into the classrooms in January, it's time for the the six week sprint before state testing. In many ways, the approach mimicked the activities of a person hoping to be in shape for a Spring Break cruise: curse yourself for all those years of overeating and then employ all sorts of desperate tactics--starvation, colon cleanses, exercising in plastic--to make up for lost time. Don't worry--keep it up and I'm sure you'll look great next year.
Actually, this is a terrible metaphor. For more productive information, read this piece by someone who's graded standardized test essays for the last 14 years. I have some pity for him for doing this (it must be a mind-numbing task) but, hey, he's writing a book about it, so my jealousy balances that out.
Actually, this is a terrible metaphor. For more productive information, read this piece by someone who's graded standardized test essays for the last 14 years. I have some pity for him for doing this (it must be a mind-numbing task) but, hey, he's writing a book about it, so my jealousy balances that out.
11/16/2008
wonky wishes
I have sighed many times over Joan Acocella's writing--a sigh of desperate admiration. In a recent New Yorker article on the rise of overparenting, Acocella makes a succinct and astute observation:
Of course, like most selfish impulses, it's wildly illogical and will, at some point, come to a diseased and deadly fruition (known in Texas as shooting oneself in the foot). As Adrienne Rich observed:
Relatedly, the connections between George W. Bush and the testing companies were made years ago, but this remains an excellent article about the other economic wish that drove the development of No Child Left Behind. If there is one quality I will allow G.W.B., it is that he seems to know how to have fun. But I am befuddled by his cronyism: based on their inane curriculum and testing materials, the friends that made millions off NCLB appear to be the dullest of people.
No Child Left Behind: that sounds like the expression of a democratic wish. More likely, it was the product of an economic wish--that America not be left behind by India and China.If one has any doubt this truth, let me show you the latest language on the need for a successful education system--it is tinged with a fear of losing our accustomed world order. Battalions of foreign students breath down our necks. We must devour our math and science textbooks not because their content might help us unlock the beauty and power of scientific and mathematical theory, but because a country that can't add can't calculate tax breaks for U.S. corporations; a country that can't reason through science experiments won't own the means of energy production. In the new era of xenophobia, it's not that we can't imagine a world where resources are freely shared, but that we can imagine it all too well--we see that it means we might have to give things up.
Of course, like most selfish impulses, it's wildly illogical and will, at some point, come to a diseased and deadly fruition (known in Texas as shooting oneself in the foot). As Adrienne Rich observed:
Universal public education has two possible--and contradictory--missions. One is the development of a literate, articulate, and well-informed citizenry so that the democratic process can continue to evolve and the promise of radical equality can be brought closer to realization. The other is the perpetuation of a class system dividing an elite, nominally "gifted" few, tracked from an early age, from a very large underclass essentially to be written off as the alienated from language and science, from poetry and politics, from history and hope, an underclass to be funneled--whatever its dreams and hopes--toward low-wage temporary jobs. ...The results are devastating in terms of the betrayal of a generation of youth. The loss to the whole society is incalculable.Writing this in 1997, Rich was specifically referring to tracking, which has passed out of vogue in its most blatant forms. But regardless of this, we must remember that tracking was merely a symptom of a larger fear-plagued motivation--a motivation that remains just as viable in 2008 as it did during the Cold War.
Relatedly, the connections between George W. Bush and the testing companies were made years ago, but this remains an excellent article about the other economic wish that drove the development of No Child Left Behind. If there is one quality I will allow G.W.B., it is that he seems to know how to have fun. But I am befuddled by his cronyism: based on their inane curriculum and testing materials, the friends that made millions off NCLB appear to be the dullest of people.
11/13/2008
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