It must be 80 degrees in the library classroom as I peer over at the clock, wishing away the minutes until I can coast down a series of hills to my doorstep. I have vowed not to drive my car to work on any more sunny school days, and so most of my afternoons these days end with a quiet ride through the Broadview neighborhood, sliding between the cemetery and a row of spacious backyards. Today, it is this cool, green place I am craving while I stare out at the hot, blue-white sky. 80 degrees in here, and I have even taken the proper precautions, pulling the shades down as far as I can bear, cracking the windows and leaving the doors open. It is unavoidable, and we begin to wilt in the heat.
"It's so hot," I moan, probably far more emphatically than any of my students.
"We're dying!" cry the Seattle students, shaking their heads and plotting what outfits they will wear (or rather, NOT wear) to counter the early heat wave. "We're going to burn up in here!"
We surely will roast, I am thinking, dreaming of the tall bottle of water with which I will ward off the rising temperature. A young Islamic girl, wrapped in a veil, long sleeves, and a floor-length, flowy skirt, raises her eyebrows at me.
"Seriously, folks. It's supposed to be 85 tomorrow!"
Another student, from Somalia, wakes up from his reading as I slouch listelessly across the laptop keyboard, teacher poise tossed aside like an unnecessary garment. I glance over the top of the screen to see him grinning.
"Oh!" he cries. "It's good, it's good, it's good, good, good!"
I begin to laugh in the hot, quiet classroom, where my diligent students deal with climate better than I. After a moment they ask why I am laughing, and I can't tell them why. I am laughing about perspective, the lesson I taught so carefully this morning but have forgotten now. I am laughing at myself, the whiny young teacher who can't bear to be cooped up inside during these last four weeks of school. I am laughing not with derision but with delight, delight for my students who waited patiently through eight rainy months and are now rejoicing in the sunshine.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Sunday, May 6, 2007
The Spider and the Saw
“Hey, did you ever see Saw II?” The question is not new, and I have not seen the gruesome horror flick since the last time this student asked me.
“No. Never.” I shake my head and scowl. I probably will never see any of the Saw movies, as they fall into a genre that seems to consist of gory violence heaped onto meager plots, carried out by flavorless characters who mostly die in the end, anyway. Of course, as I am not a consumer of horror movies, I cannot fairly move further than generalizations, but even without particulars I am repelled by covers, posters, previews, and the retellings to which I’m subjected the Monday after one of these gems hits the screen. Always the same wide-eyed awe at scenes of especial brutality. Always the same grimacing, writhing horror as they recall the sights to me, their faces and hands wrinkled up in distaste.
I have been baffled this year by the preoccupation of teenaged boys with this particular brand of violence. In a recent essay in Time, Richard Corliss discusses the effect that “R” ratings have on the teenage audience they mean to keep out:
“The MPAA needs the teen market. Tougher than most other national ratings boards on sexual images in movies, it's far more lenient when it comes to violence. In many countries, Saw was forbidden to those under 18. In the U.S., your 17-year-old could go and chaperone his younger siblings. The argument may be that sexuality is real and disturbs kids more than pretend maiming. But these ratings teach that sex is forbidden and killing is cool. They also tell the world that America is a place where violence rules.”
As this kind of exploitive violence begins to fill the screen—a medium that dictates in such a powerful way the conversations, priorities, and fascinations of our adolescents—I am increasingly skeptical of the teenage response: “Hey, don’t worry about it. It’s just a movie. We know it’s just a movie.” How can that much of that not affect you? And, if that is the case, I’ll be just as worried about the callousness that makes a fifteen-year-old capable of consuming violence without thinking.
Cut to yesterday afternoon, when I went to see Spiderman 3 with my family. For a long 140 minutes, we were wrapped up in a world of Good vs. Evil where, even when the sides were blurry or complicated, right could always be clearly sifted from wrong. A wonderful way to spend an afternoon, escaping into a place where the heroes stumble and fall and rise again, and where the only characters who are truly lost are those who choose to be.
As we left the theater, I bristled at the word “cheesy,” which I heard floating over Market Street from the crowds pouring out into the sunshine. Cheesy? I suppose so. As the shots twisted and turned between New York City skyscrapers, I may have thought that there were holes in this story, or that the pacing was uneven. Fine.
In the end, though, I am unable to mock Spiderman 3 for its shortcomings. The overwhelming voices of pop culture today are screaming that manipulation and violence are the only means to success, and that a giant stack of cash is as good as it gets. The top-grossing films among young people generally end with pools of blood and nameless victims. When I see the grotesque values implicitly and explicitly peddled to teenagers, I can’t help but applaud a mainstream blockbuster that tackles friendship, forgiveness, and unscrupulous ambition. If one of my ninth-grade boys for once leaves a theater considering how forgiveness is related to friendship, then I am willing to forgive far more clumsy storytelling than that. Spiderman 3 was meant to have a record-breaking opening weekend. For my part, I hope that it did.
“No. Never.” I shake my head and scowl. I probably will never see any of the Saw movies, as they fall into a genre that seems to consist of gory violence heaped onto meager plots, carried out by flavorless characters who mostly die in the end, anyway. Of course, as I am not a consumer of horror movies, I cannot fairly move further than generalizations, but even without particulars I am repelled by covers, posters, previews, and the retellings to which I’m subjected the Monday after one of these gems hits the screen. Always the same wide-eyed awe at scenes of especial brutality. Always the same grimacing, writhing horror as they recall the sights to me, their faces and hands wrinkled up in distaste.
I have been baffled this year by the preoccupation of teenaged boys with this particular brand of violence. In a recent essay in Time, Richard Corliss discusses the effect that “R” ratings have on the teenage audience they mean to keep out:
“The MPAA needs the teen market. Tougher than most other national ratings boards on sexual images in movies, it's far more lenient when it comes to violence. In many countries, Saw was forbidden to those under 18. In the U.S., your 17-year-old could go and chaperone his younger siblings. The argument may be that sexuality is real and disturbs kids more than pretend maiming. But these ratings teach that sex is forbidden and killing is cool. They also tell the world that America is a place where violence rules.”
As this kind of exploitive violence begins to fill the screen—a medium that dictates in such a powerful way the conversations, priorities, and fascinations of our adolescents—I am increasingly skeptical of the teenage response: “Hey, don’t worry about it. It’s just a movie. We know it’s just a movie.” How can that much of that not affect you? And, if that is the case, I’ll be just as worried about the callousness that makes a fifteen-year-old capable of consuming violence without thinking.
Cut to yesterday afternoon, when I went to see Spiderman 3 with my family. For a long 140 minutes, we were wrapped up in a world of Good vs. Evil where, even when the sides were blurry or complicated, right could always be clearly sifted from wrong. A wonderful way to spend an afternoon, escaping into a place where the heroes stumble and fall and rise again, and where the only characters who are truly lost are those who choose to be.
As we left the theater, I bristled at the word “cheesy,” which I heard floating over Market Street from the crowds pouring out into the sunshine. Cheesy? I suppose so. As the shots twisted and turned between New York City skyscrapers, I may have thought that there were holes in this story, or that the pacing was uneven. Fine.
In the end, though, I am unable to mock Spiderman 3 for its shortcomings. The overwhelming voices of pop culture today are screaming that manipulation and violence are the only means to success, and that a giant stack of cash is as good as it gets. The top-grossing films among young people generally end with pools of blood and nameless victims. When I see the grotesque values implicitly and explicitly peddled to teenagers, I can’t help but applaud a mainstream blockbuster that tackles friendship, forgiveness, and unscrupulous ambition. If one of my ninth-grade boys for once leaves a theater considering how forgiveness is related to friendship, then I am willing to forgive far more clumsy storytelling than that. Spiderman 3 was meant to have a record-breaking opening weekend. For my part, I hope that it did.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
New Seasons
“Hey, Ms. D,” a student greets me as he walks in a few minutes after class has started.
“Welcome,” I reply, glancing up from the lesson I’m teaching.
“Sorry I’m late.” He sits down quietly, gets out his binder, and begins to work on his independent project. Just like that. No coaxing or cajoling. He just starts writing.
I stare at him for a moment in unmasked curiosity, but he is too busy to notice. He apologized for being late. He never apologizes. In fact, he usually begins on the defensive, entering the room and saying, all in one breath, "ImnotlateIhaveapassdontmarkmelate!" Today he apologized.
“No worries. Thanks for being here.” I return to the lesson; he bends his head toward the paper in concentration. I understand after a few minutes. He was not apologizing for being late. Or not ONLY for being late.
I think back to five hours before, when he was in my first class, of an irritating interaction with him that ended with a wordless stare from the front of the room. I have often found this silence a better—and safer—correction than anything I can say. Now, he is working quietly, a model of politeness and generosity. This is his apology.
The sun is shining again in the library, while my students read busily. We have reached a rare equilibrium, that comfortable place where I can trust them to work hard and they can trust me, in return, not to bother them too much. There is a time for direct instruction, for those lectures and announcements at the front of the room, but this is not it. For a moment, I am silent, free to enjoy the return of light.
The routines of life here at Ingraham—perhaps as a teacher, in general—allow me to appreciate fully, as I never have before, the seasonal nature of life. Before this, years have been divided into artificial sections by activities. I had Cross-Country Season, AP Test season, College Application season, Playing-Frisbee-on-the-Lawn-Behind-Hill-Hall season, SMC Application season, Frappucino Season, and (as an accountant’s assistant) tax season. Like real seasons, these had their routines, things I could expect as the times returned each year. Unlike them, however, these seasons were not constant through the changes of my life. As I left high school, jobs, and finally college, I left behind the seasons that had marked my life.
Now, I have new artificial seasons, which divide life into Summer and School. Summers are short and unpredictable. The long school year, on the other hand, stretches through three seasons, carrying the earth from summer through autumn, winter, spring, and back again to summer. Each day, between 7:00 and 7:20 AM, I turn north off of Greenwood and greet the sun in a new place in the sky, hanging eagerly over the Cascades in the early morning. Daylight savings affords me extra sunrise drives, extra hours when the sunlight spills golden down the eastward-facing hallways in the school, reflecting in gilded pools on the linoleum. My five weekly apples get expensive and mealy in time for me to purchase oranges, then grapes, strawberries, bananas. And the year spirals around on itself. Winter, miraculously, turns to spring again while we go through the rituals of our days together.
This pendulum is so symbolic, for me, of the relationships I have developed with my students. I had once believed that student-teacher relationships were static, for better or worse, decided by circumstances very early in the year. I now know that, like the length and temperature of days, there are cycles, patterns, to each one. Just like any other relationship, we have our ups and downs. We make mistakes and jokes. We hurt and apologize. We forgive. We forget. We laugh again.
This student, now diligently reading across the room, has traveled from cruel to kind in under six hours. Neither version of him was false. There are days when I leave school delighted, and others when I wish I never had to return. Every afternoon, however, I know that I will return the next morning. We will have to solve our problems, get to know one another, understand when to speak and when to remain silent. There is no escape, and for that I am daily thankful. The hard days will not last forever. They may not even last a whole day.
“Welcome,” I reply, glancing up from the lesson I’m teaching.
“Sorry I’m late.” He sits down quietly, gets out his binder, and begins to work on his independent project. Just like that. No coaxing or cajoling. He just starts writing.
I stare at him for a moment in unmasked curiosity, but he is too busy to notice. He apologized for being late. He never apologizes. In fact, he usually begins on the defensive, entering the room and saying, all in one breath, "ImnotlateIhaveapassdontmarkmelate!" Today he apologized.
“No worries. Thanks for being here.” I return to the lesson; he bends his head toward the paper in concentration. I understand after a few minutes. He was not apologizing for being late. Or not ONLY for being late.
I think back to five hours before, when he was in my first class, of an irritating interaction with him that ended with a wordless stare from the front of the room. I have often found this silence a better—and safer—correction than anything I can say. Now, he is working quietly, a model of politeness and generosity. This is his apology.
The sun is shining again in the library, while my students read busily. We have reached a rare equilibrium, that comfortable place where I can trust them to work hard and they can trust me, in return, not to bother them too much. There is a time for direct instruction, for those lectures and announcements at the front of the room, but this is not it. For a moment, I am silent, free to enjoy the return of light.
The routines of life here at Ingraham—perhaps as a teacher, in general—allow me to appreciate fully, as I never have before, the seasonal nature of life. Before this, years have been divided into artificial sections by activities. I had Cross-Country Season, AP Test season, College Application season, Playing-Frisbee-on-the-Lawn-Behind-Hill-Hall season, SMC Application season, Frappucino Season, and (as an accountant’s assistant) tax season. Like real seasons, these had their routines, things I could expect as the times returned each year. Unlike them, however, these seasons were not constant through the changes of my life. As I left high school, jobs, and finally college, I left behind the seasons that had marked my life.
Now, I have new artificial seasons, which divide life into Summer and School. Summers are short and unpredictable. The long school year, on the other hand, stretches through three seasons, carrying the earth from summer through autumn, winter, spring, and back again to summer. Each day, between 7:00 and 7:20 AM, I turn north off of Greenwood and greet the sun in a new place in the sky, hanging eagerly over the Cascades in the early morning. Daylight savings affords me extra sunrise drives, extra hours when the sunlight spills golden down the eastward-facing hallways in the school, reflecting in gilded pools on the linoleum. My five weekly apples get expensive and mealy in time for me to purchase oranges, then grapes, strawberries, bananas. And the year spirals around on itself. Winter, miraculously, turns to spring again while we go through the rituals of our days together.
This pendulum is so symbolic, for me, of the relationships I have developed with my students. I had once believed that student-teacher relationships were static, for better or worse, decided by circumstances very early in the year. I now know that, like the length and temperature of days, there are cycles, patterns, to each one. Just like any other relationship, we have our ups and downs. We make mistakes and jokes. We hurt and apologize. We forgive. We forget. We laugh again.
This student, now diligently reading across the room, has traveled from cruel to kind in under six hours. Neither version of him was false. There are days when I leave school delighted, and others when I wish I never had to return. Every afternoon, however, I know that I will return the next morning. We will have to solve our problems, get to know one another, understand when to speak and when to remain silent. There is no escape, and for that I am daily thankful. The hard days will not last forever. They may not even last a whole day.
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