Notes from the Underground

An Open Letter to Mike Rowe

2010-03-25T06:47:00.000-07:00

My family spent part of our spring break in Washington DC . The capital doesn’t disappoint. It’s a wonderful mix of beautifully crafted idealism and cheerful, blue-collar determination.

Walking the grounds at Arlington Cemetery, my 10 year old pointed to a headstone marked ROWE and asked, “hey look, I wonder if that guy is related to Mike Rowe?”

“Well, “ I answered, “he probably is because getting buried…”

Is a dirty job.

We are fans of the show.

Later that same day we found ourselves wading through a crowd of immigrant activists that was later estimated to be 200,000 strong. We didn’t know if this was just another Sunday in the capital or a sign of sea change, but we were glad to be witnesses, glad to feel the energy.

I must have had a far off look in my eyes at dinner that night, because my wife asked, “what are you thinking about?” I grinned sheepishly because the truth was a little embarrassing. “Mike Rowe”, I confessed.

“Micro? Do you mean like micro fabric or micro-technology?”

My sons and I exchanged glances and raised eyebrows. She is not nearly the fan that we are.

“No. Mike Rowe. The guy from “Dirty Jobs”. I was just wondering what he thinks about immigration.”

The show is about “hard-working men and women who earn an honest living doing the kinds of jobs that make civilized life possible for the rest of us”. From what I’ve seen, a heck of a lot of these jobs are done by immigrants. On this trip alone, our cabbies, our maids and our busboys were, in large part, from someplace else. They seemed to fit the bill.

I tried to remember how many of the real people he’s worked with and filmed were immigrants. I understand that, for on-camera interviews, it’s important to find spokespeople who can be understandable and clear, especially when Mike isn’t. It’s best to have someone whose first language is English. But the show doesn’t seem to reflect the idea that the least desirable jobs go to those freshest to our soil.

At my high school job, no one wanted to bread chicken. It involved taking ice cold chicken pieces, ripping extra fat from their skin, then covering it with a fine seasoned powder, as quickly as possible. It left your hands painfully cramped and your body covered with a chicken smelling ooze. Usually the job was rotated among the employees, to prevent open revolt, but occasionally it was used as punishment for being late. I remember a kid was fired for throwing chickens away so that it appeared he’d done the job without actually having to do it. Eventually, the job was taken permanently by someone who would do it cheerfully and well…an immigrant.

Mike Rowe believes that, “hard work needs a PR campaign.” This seems to align with the message on so many of the placards I saw at the DC rally, “Immigrants Work for America’s Prosperity”. Immigration policy is too complicated for both Mike Rowe and me, but I think that “Dirty Jobs” is the perfect place to acknowledge the contribution of new Americans to hard work.

So what do you say, Mike? How about dedicating an episode?

The Byzantine State

2009-12-28T19:16:00.000-08:00

Each year, at the beginning of the week I teach my AP World History class about Byzantium I tell the following true story:

When I was a junior at St. Thomas I took a whole semester on the topic that we will cover here in one week. It was an upper level course attractive only to history majors so I was surprised when I walked in and there were 12 young men who I had never seen in any other course. I was even more surprised when, several minutes later, a priest walked in and the entire class stood and began to pray. What is a confused suburban Lutheran boy supposed to do in a situation like that? I jumped to my feet and tried to follow along.

The priest was the teacher and I was the only student in the class who was not a seminarian. Father Welzbacher was one of the smartest and most knowledgeable men I’ve even met. He had a deep, jowly voice and a jutting bald forehead that seemed to have grown with his learning. Educated at the University of Chicago, the only thing he ever brought with him to class was a worn leather Bible. He would lecture an hour and a half four days a week without a single note. Of course he was a hopeless academic and impatient with both youth and current events. On at least three occasions that I can remember him addressing a modern topic, turning more scarlet than his usual pink and bellowing righteously, “that is a sin against God!”

It is probably the hardest class I ever had. The lectures were dry and the tests, just two of them in the term, were brutal.

This is what we call, in the trade, an “anticipatory set”. It introduces students to a topic and gets their attention. For whatever reason, this one is gold and I usually have then in the palm of my hand for the rest of the hour. Whatever my reasons for telling it, I’ve been doing this long enough to understand that every student takes something different away.

Never was this more clear to me than after an e-mail I received from a parent on the first day of winter break, within weeks of my story to my class:

I just wanted to respond to a couple things going on at SES lately. There has been much talk here at home about evolution and all the issues that go with it. Kids are very impressionable and K*** has been militant about the theory and separation of Church and State. All fine and good. But kids seem to take it to another level and one of her friends decided she didn't believe in God anymore. That concerns me. Fortunately, K*** seems to have worked through all sides now and hopefully has rested on the co-existence level. I wanted to thank you for telling the class you were Lutheran. K*** respects you so much and everything you say she deems above all. Also fine and good. We are also Lutheran and I appreciate for K***'s sake that you shared that. We are political liberals but also strong ELCA people. They can co-exist!

No one is as militant about the separation of church and state as I am. As a result, when we teach the theory of evolution, I take great pains to keep my own beliefs as veiled as I can. The only place and only way I can remember revealing my Lutheran roots is in my introduction to Byzantium. Despite this parent saying some very nice things about me, there was no way I could reply that she was about as wrong as she could be. But I had to respond, didn’t I? So I crafted a response that is born as much in my history in customer service as it is in my long career in teaching:

Thanks for your message. I've long been amazed and humbled by the influence I have on students. I take it very seriously. My strategy is to be respectful, positive and patient. In the end, students are going to come to their own conclusions and their time with me represents only a small fraction of all the information they acquire and process. Most students, including K***, are far more the product of the conversations they have in their homes.

The e-mail gets even more interesting in the second paragraph, but I’m going to indulge the luxury of having very few readers by making it a New Year’s cliff hanger.

Groups in Tents

2009-11-17T03:48:00.000-08:00

Part of the magic of a group trip is how well you get to know your companions. Being with them constantly and seeing their private quirks and routines, sitting near them at all hours of the day, hearing how they eat, watching how they fiddle, smelling them before they have a chance to cover their scent. You know them quickly and intimately.

This is magnified with teenagers, who are more casual than adults and thus willing to let you in to their worlds. They are also not as practiced at hiding their foibles, so they either let it all hang out, or overcompensate self-consciously. It is easier to love a teen at these times because they are at their most genuine and their most vulnerable.

As an example, I was talking to a student named Jenny on my recent trip to Florida when she casually mentioned her 20 year old sister’s battle with alcoholism. It was a passing conversation. I asked if she was the oldest child and, bam, bam I learned of her concern for her older sister and her continuing struggles. She trusted me enough in that moment to share that far away from home, her mind was on her sister, Stacy.

A big part of what you discover about the secret lives of teenagers comes from what you overhear from neighboring tents. The zipping and unzipping of a frantic search for something lost, the soft arguing and the loud gossip. The squirming, the scratching, the farting, the snoring. Trip leaders quickly learn how to filter out the annoying while staying on alert for the disruptive. Soon, even the annoying becomes the cricket song of a tenting teacher’s half sleep.

One night in the middle of our trip my colleague and I heard a sharp cry, a ripping of a zipper flap and hard footsteps in the dark moving toward our tent. That, and a crying voice calling my name. These are sounds that get you out of your bag and on your feet quickly. Jenny ran up to me sobbing as I stumbled out of my tent and said, “my sister was hit by a car.” Then she pushed her cell phone to me like it was diseased.

Even as I write this I have to take a deep breath to continue.

On the other end of the line was a mother who had just lost her child. She spoke with the calm matter of factness that comes with the shock of grief. Stacy was hit by a car while she was crossing the street in a crosswalk. She was on her way home from an AA meeting and was celebrating her third month of sobriety. She was brain dead.

I don’t know how I was able to speak lucidly, but I did. In some shock myself, I was sympathetic and concise. We would take care of Jenny’s grief on our end and do our part to bring the family back together as quickly as possible. I did not know the mother at all, but we were connected in those minutes by the love of our own children and our care and concern for Jenny.

The logistics are boring, but you can imagine that they weren’t easy. Complicating matters was irregular cell phone reception and the necessity of working by flashlight. My trip team, my three colleagues in Florida, get high marks for handling the situation. We are four men, two of us parents, with 40 student camping trips between us. We were exhausted, but we each took a role and performed it efficiently and well. You always hope nothing will go wrong in the field, but it generally does. I was glad not to be a rookie that night. I was glad the others weren’t either.

Less than 24 hours later, Jenny was home and our trip was back on schedule with nary a glitch. I believe there were students who didn’t even know what happened. But I do. I was as close to the situation as a stranger can be.

Another Day on a River

2009-10-21T04:51:00.000-07:00

I'm going to tell you a story that is 100% true and leaves out no details unless they are irrelevant or uninteresting. I'm telling it to see if I can make you laugh, but honestly, it's also a metaphor for my whole life right now.

I went on the annual SES canoe trip down the Canon River today. 200 teenagers, half of whom had never canoed before, were herded down a beautiful Minnesota river valley at the peak of autumn. All of them returned alive and each of them had an experience they will never forget.

Can you imagine the logistics? Buses, permission slips, canoe rental, helping the kids prepare for how to dress and how to canoe, getting first aid kits and arranging chaperones. And then you have to prepare your own bag, not forgetting to pack extra clothes and food for those children whose parents might forget. This year, as most, this last prep occurs after the first round of parent teacher conferences, which we had last night from 4-8.

I have to make special arrangements for my family and I volunteer to work half a day for free because I love that river and I love those kids and I really believe in my heart that canoeing down a cold river in the peak of fall makes everyone a better person for their whole life.

At the risk of sounding like I'm thumping my chest, a trip like that can't happen without a person like me. I know I'm not the best teacher, even at my school, but if you gotta pick a guy to be in that place on this day, you pick me first.

So I found myself at 8:45 am on a muddy bank in Cannon Falls. 70 canoes were in a line above me, Steaming bodies and red cheeks and nervous smiles. For the next 45 minutes, my job is to bring the front of every canoe into the water, make sure everyone gets safely on, and shove them downstream. Only way to do that is to be calf deep in 45 degree water and to smile cheerfully and confidently at every person in the line, giving the same calm instruction to each one, one moment heaving with all my might, the next patiently repeating what has already been said.

Because I'm the last one on the river, my canoe is the sweeper. The sweeper uprights overturned canoes (two today), it monitors hypothermia, it gives on the spot canoeing lessons ("you are not mixing a batter here, you're paddling a boat"), it reminds people to wear lifejackets, it points out wildlife, it administers first aid and it does whatever it can to maintain the morale of the weakest members of the herd. I'm not claiming I did this myself. I had three excellent partners in two canoes.

Every year, 6 miles into the trip, the teachers at the back end up splitting up and being the rear paddler in a canoe full of inexperienced, shivering and despondent students. Having someone who knows how to steer, has strong arms and knows how to beat exhaustion invariably moves things along. Today, I commandeered one canoe, then added another canoe's duffer 1/4 mile further up. Around me, six people were wearing pieces of my clothing. The duffer made herself as comfortable as possible directly in front of me, wearing 8 layers of wet cotton sweatpants. I only had 4 miles to go, but for the first mile, I couldn't distract myself from the fact that this poor girl smelled like ass. Not BO. Not farts. Ass.

We got em all in of course. And, in a rare departure from the norm, we got em in on time. My feet were numb as hell and I was itching for bacon, but the final job is to get kids to clear out their canoes and get on the bus. At that point the sun was shining and everyone was feeling fine.

Except the French teacher.

This guy left the business world because there was too much pressure in middle management. He's a mealy little know it all who cannot help but tell you his opinion any any subject he happens to overhear. He's got a candy ass goatee and looks like an over the hill satan gone soft. As is the custom of the French, when he speaks to me, one of his hands is always in the small of my back.

He's been asked to check off kids' names from a list made on the bus on the way down. Kid gets on the bus, he's safe and sound and his mom is happy, scribble his name from the list. Easy.

He walks up to me and he's clean and he's dry. He smells faintly of lemon basil soup, but I think it might be a lotion. He places his hand in the small of my back and says, "you know what you should do next year? You should type the names of all the kids who are going and put a check box next to each name. I don't know how to do it, but I've seen it done on a computer. That would make it easier to check these kids in. That's what you should do next year."

As I say, this is metaphor.

Youth Football

2009-09-23T18:56:00.000-07:00

I haven't raised aggressive boys.

That isn't an apology. I'm not fond of the trait in others and I've actively discouraged in my sons. I like to think they are confident and enthusiastic and strong willed without being overbearing and selfish. I suspect genetics in involved as I'm not terribly aggressive myself. I stand in lines, I ask permission, I wait to be called on. It isn't that I don't like to win, it's just that I've found that I sometimes lose and I've come to terms with that.

In most areas of modern life, you can be successful without aggression, but that probably isn't true in sports. The whole point is to be the best by beating everyone else, which is tough to do if you don't go after it without hesitating about stepping on a toe or two. At very least I think it separates the best athletes from those who are just playing.

Baseball is one of the few physical games where you can be a little mild as still play the game well. In football, mildness is anathema. I'm still taken aback, being principally involved in baseball, at the unabashed bloodlust of so many people surrounding football. Players, coaches, fans. I don't have sufficient knowledge of the game to ever coach it, but the angry shouting in and of itself is enough for me to want to keep my distance. That's what I did last year.

This year, I liked the guys running the team. Coach Jon must be 6-6 290, but he runs his practices in a voice appropriate for a preschool Sunday school class. Sure, he occasionally loses it in games and throws his visor, or yells so loudly that every square inch of Shannon Park fields can hear his displeasure, but he fights it and often as not comes sheepishly back within 3 minutes with an apology and a "come on, guys". Coach Bob must be the mellowist body builder history has ever seen. He's imposing just in the act of crossing his arms and frowning, but, despite spending some 500 hours with him this summer, I've never heard a cross word. They're a couple of nice, goofy guys and with their good will and encouragement, I was reluctantly coaxed to the player side of the field.

The thing is, the shouters often win in football. Shaping burgeoning testosterone may require some volume, some anger and some physicality. That's mostly what I've seen from the opposing coaches all year. So while our team has speed, it has a good amount of football knowledge, it practices frequently and stays in games, it only has one win.

It didn't occur to me until after we won, but the in-game chat between team coaches, neither of which yet had a win, was as amiable as a backyard BBQ. It was all "Aw, shucks" and "that was a nice play".

What WAS occurring to me during the game was that our fastest player, the only one to have scored any TD's, was out for the season with a shattered kneecap. That our left guard had not taken his ADD medication. That our safety was asking about the identity of an overflying bird. That our nosetackle was still standing up before driving forward, that our center's pants were too small to be buttoned, that our quarterback believed in his heart that he'd been assigned to the bad news bears, that our 2 back was more interested in hitting the statistician than the linebacker and that our head coach was looking at his watch and talking about going to the Gopher's game.

If the meek shall inherit the Earth, they better hope that the next of kin is even meeker. That is how we got our only win.

There are still claims at our practices that "we can compete with any of the other teams" and "we're getting better every week". I'm not sure if that's coach speak or naivete, but I'm pretty sure its not true. There is still one game left in the season when we might get another win and there are other sports and other seasons. But after countless hours preparing and encouraging, even if it's only once, winning sure is a lot more fun than losing.

Not a Cowboy

2009-09-01T03:58:00.000-07:00

Did you know that my wife is fascinated with horseback riding? It comes from all those damn historical romance books she reads, but one of our future vacations is going to be at a dude ranch. I shit you not.

About two years ago, when she revealed this, I asked her, never having ridden a horse WITH her and having a long standing ill ease with horses, "how many times have you ridden?" Answer? Never.

So, once in Tennessee and once in England, we rented horses and rode. Each time for me is an exercise in smiling through anxiety and discomfort for the benefit of my companions. I've ridden probably 20 times in my life and can honestly say I never really enjoyed it. I think I have a good attitude, but it isn't my thing. There just isn't much cowboy in me.

On a vacation to the West, it seemed appropriate to get on a horse. To get a taste of what the frontiersmen and settlers did. There were several opportunities within Yellowstone, but none of them would take my 7 year old niece. The CH did some research and found a couple of spots just outside the north entrance in Montana. Because of its location, we picked one called the Slip and Slide ranch.

We drove the two 30 foot RV's into Montana and up a mile long gravel road through a big wooden arching sign to Ryan's 900 acre ranch and home. It's beautiful, obviously. Rugged, but neat. Ryan and his family (wife and three kids) are waiting for us in the driveway and when I get out he shook my hand with the strongest grip I've ever felt. Huge bulging cowboy hands that squeezed me like I was a Canadian circus freak.

We sign ONE form. All of us on one together. No helmets, no body armor (seriously, they give you that in England), no questions about
ability level or weight or comfort....just 3 minutes of fast plain
talk about what not to do and how to proceed. He didn't even ask for
payment until he shook our hands goodbye at the end. He lifted both
my niece and nephew up on their horses with such efficiency that each
of them, surprised, almost went over the top. He would have done the
same with each of us, but no matter how intimidated I am by a horse
(bless you, Poncho, for submitting to my will), I will not be thrown
on top of one.

And off we went before the sunscreen was even fully applied. At the
lead of the line was Ryan's 8 year old daughter, in a pink cowboy hat
and matching boots. At the rear was his seven year old son and 4 year
old daughter, also garbed in pink. Ryan was training a new horse and
basically went up and down the line barking instructions like (to my
brother), "first ask, then encourage, then enforce. Don't make me
take you off that horse and put my little girl on." Occasionally, in
small lispy voices one of the kids would chime in, "go a little
faaasah. kick a little haaardah" or yammer away like an elementary
kid with a new friend. The boy pointed out the best trout lake and
told this great story about the time they saw a cougar. We saw hawks
and ducks and a huge herd of elk. Also bison, which is the livestock
Ryan raises. You can look all around on a horse and not worry about
where your feet are falling.

At the one quarter mark, the boy took the lead. He rode around the
line with his four year old sister and took my niece's reigns, the
two girls then rode ahead to circle back around to the tail of the
line. They were out of sight and I was making small talk with Ryan
when we heard, in the distance, squeals and screams from the two
girls. Ryan's ears perked...really, perked. He road up to the front
to meet the two, who were speeding back and squealing, "there's a
raaahtlah on the trail."

Ryan says (with the tone of "christ, you're gonna scare the
greenhorns"), "use your heads girls, calm down." He rides up and
dismounts. Moments later we see a rattlesnake skeleton fly 50 feet
into the air and into the shrubs. We were told by my sister in law,
who witnessed it, that he had crushed the snake with his boot, grabbed
it by the back of the head and pulled the entire spine out of the
snake's body, then tossed it. When I passed there was a second snake,
head and rattle removed, squirming by the trail.

"All in a days work?" I asked.

"Yeah, pretty much."

"What's the preferred tool for that job?"

"Always seems to be rocks around till you need one, but they work
best. Or a big stick"

He handed my brother the two bloody rattles and we moved on up the trail.

The Colorado River

2009-06-23T14:05:00.000-07:00

I have no idea why I don't feel comfortable posting here until an event is long gone, but there you have it. If it helps you, PRETEND I just got back from this trip.

Just back from 10 days of adventures in the mountains of Colorado. Foremost among our activities were rafting, disc golf and geocaching, with a generous amount of decadent consumption sprinkled in.

We spent five days and two nights along some 50 miles of the Colorado River, fantastic by every measure. For my friends with experience in the North Country, you can equate rafting to canoeing, with the following subtle differences:

Rafting is easier. If you aren’t the oarsman, you can swivel 360 degrees to take in the scenery, the wildlife and the sky at your leisure. There are no portages, so the limit to your packing is the confines of a raft, not your back. You can thus carry fresh meat, luxurious gear and a king’s weight of your favorite beverage.
There is substantially more drama, from the cut of the canyons, to the thrill of the rapids, to the personalities of the folk you meet. Part of this is the unpredictability of the mountain river as opposed to the waltzlike rhythm of a canoe on a northern lake.
And…there are no mosquitoes.

My heart is still with a canoe, but I’ve spent more hours at dusk and dawn within it’s tapered ends, so you can hardly let that be the judge.

Our companions were a Breckenridge family with two girls, 6 and 4. These girls are mountain born and bred and I’d put money on them in any venture. However, they weren’t as used to my blend of enthusiastic hyperbole as my own boys are. That taught me something about perspective.

In addition to wildlife highlights of river otter and golden eagle, we saw at Colorado National Monument, while camped on a 400’ ridge overlooking a canyon, what I later learned was a hare, but at the time believed was a jackrabbit.

You can probably hear my voice saying the following (with expletives removed):

“That was the biggest rabbit I’ve ever seen.”

“That thing was a monster.”

“I can’t get over that. The that jackrabbit was a man-eater.”

My own boys, Star Wars bred from three and constantly with me from the time they could talk, knew these comments for what you know them for.

But Mairi, the eldest mountain girl, looked at me with wide eyes as the sun was setting.

“I’m scared”

“Of what, Sweetie?”

…

“Jackrabbits”

…

Lesson learned.

I missed by bed, my bike and each of you, but that’s all.

Graduation Speech

2008-10-30T06:24:00.000-07:00

Speaking at graduation is a wonderful honor, but I won't lie, it's hard. Everyone wants something different from you and there is a cliche at every turn. Before I ever did it, a colleague who I have a great deal of respect for asked for advice about what to say. I told him, "figure out why they picked you....then give em ten minutes of that."

Here was my attempt, given to 1200 excited and anxious people outdoors at the Minnesota Zoo Amphitheater.

When I try too hard at my writing, I fall into a workmanlike, explicit 5 paragraph essay style. I've been told that when it happens, I sound 'academic' (which would make my friends who are really academic smile) I'm afraid I've slipped into that here.. I rationalize even today that you really almost have to do that with the spoken word, that you have to stick to a visible structure and repeat yourself.

The Myth of Dichotomy

Ladies and Gentlemen, here we are again. It is a great honor to be able to speak to you tonight. Most teachers only get a group of students for a year. Not only have I spent two years with this group, you’ve been good enough to give me ten more minutes.

I hope you already know that as a teacher I don’t believe that best learning happens by you sitting and listening and me talking. The best learning happens by getting real experience. But since you’re about to go about getting nothing but real experience and since we’re all dressed up, I hope you won’t mind if I remind of some things before you go.

There is a tendency, by westerners at least, to break the world into dichotomies. A dichotomy is the categorization of the world into two separate and mutually exclusive groups. An example you all know is called a dichotomous key. Trees, for example are separated into deciduous and coniferous; they are either one or the other. A dichotomous key goes on to separate the leafy trees into simple and complex, toothed and smooth and so fourth. The advantage of a dichotomy is that it helps us simply divide and describe the world. We have a tendency, however; to attempt to make all problems into dichotomies, to make every situations appear as if you must go either entirely one way, or entirely in another. The problem is that the world is often not encompassed into only two possibilities and our belief that it is closes the door to solutions that lie in between. I believe that many of the dichotomies that our world gives us are mythical, that they do not really exist.

Let me give you an example that you have already heard. At the end of your junior year you heard that there are two ways to view the world, classically or romantically. In the classical view of the world there is a desire for explanations for all things in minute detail. That there is unfailing order and organization in the way things fit together that can be discovered and explained rationally. In the romantic view, order need not be found, because the nature of things was contained in the holistic experience of them. One view looked with hard eyes at the trees, the other, with soft eyes, at the forest. I don’t believe that dichotomy exists and there are many people in this class that prove it. The most hard core of you in terms of attention to detail and the ability to reduce things to their component parts have written beautiful essays about the intrinsic, unexplainable value of forests. And the most abstract of you have explained in detail how the components of a forest work together in a system. Clearly there is room in each of us for both the romantic and the classical. The dichotomy does not exist.

You may also have heard that you must choose between working hard and taking your job seriously and having a fun, carefree life. I don’t believe this dichotomy exists and you have proven to me every day that it doesn’t. I have seen many of you here between 6am and 6pm, working on unworkable computers to finish a project that was important to you. But invariably, you were here cheerfully and of your own free will. I’ve had some great laughs, shared some great stories and eaten some great baked goods in these out of school hours. Visitors to our school often wonder what makes our students tolerate our challenging curriculum. I tell them that you work hard because you love it here. Clearly, there is a middle ground between hard work and having fun.

Some people say that you have to make the choice between being an active, committed member of a community and being a healthy, unique individual. I don’t believe this dichotomy exists and you have proven to me every day that it doesn’t. Of course, each of you is here tonight with different skills, values and paths for the future. You have, in the past two years, carved a path for yourself that fits your individual talents and needs. At the same time you have consistently showed that you can be your own individual and still help others, still help the community as a whole find its way to be successful as well. If your talent was organization, you have given it, if it was art, you gave it, if it was making the computer work, you gave it. Each time you gave to the community, you earned something for yourself as well. It is possible to serve your self and a group at the same time and you’ve been proving it every day.

You’ll find that wherever you look people will try to limit your choices by telling you must either have one thing or the other. There are dozens of examples:
• You must either be dedicated to a career or dedicated to a family
• You must be a leader or be a follower
• You must either be a law-abiding citizen or a radical dissident
• That you must either use reason to solve the world’s problems or be a person of faith.

Hooey, hooey, hooey, hooey.

I see none of you are writing this down, so let me be clear about what I am not trying to say. I am not trying to say that dichotomies do not exist. After all, there will always be coniferous trees and deciduous trees. I’m not trying to say that you will not and should not lean toward one extreme or another. I am not trying to say that it will be easy to find the middle ground between ideas that appear to be opposite.

What I am trying to say is that to view the world as having two opposed ends closes you off from wonderful possibilities. It closes your eyes to solutions that encompass the best of both worlds. It makes the world seem like it is less complex and rich that it really is. I am saying that you are up to the task of finding the middle ground.

There is one last dichotomy that you have heard a thousand times, perhaps even from me. I’m sure you’ve heard that we must choose between having a healthy environment or having a strong economy. I’ll be honest with you, it’s a sticky wicket because it seems that the two ends are at such odds and I just don’t know if we can have both.

• But as I look out at you tonight I see so many of you that I know very well. I see so many of you whose characters I respect
• whose abilities I admire
• whose friendships I value.
I believe that if there is a middle ground to be found between the environment and our economy, it is you who will help to find it. This is not false hope or pride. I have seen what you can do.

I wish you all the best in your future. I believe in what you can do. Please keep in touch. Thank you and congratulations.

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2008-08-30T16:32:00.000-07:00

Had a great fatherhood night during the storm last week. Sam traditionally wakes up for storms and comes in to our bedroom (also letting the damn cat in). So, when the storm was coming at bedtime, I volunteered to lay with him for 15 minutes until he got to sleep. He suggested that we lay in my bed so we could watch the lightening. I used to do that as a kid, too, cause I love a storm. He asked questions about electrons and how you burn from lightening and wind and molecules until he was satisfied and drifted off. I love that.

And I had a great teaching night at the open house. Old students looked me in the eye and shook my hand, new, excited students nodded appreciatively at my attempts to comfort them, and proud parents of both smiled at the men and women their children were becoming. Nice work if you can get it. We have three really great new teachers this year and I'm ready to be back in the saddle.

Did you hear Obama speak? I wonder what you thought of him. I like his cry to stop besmirching a person's loyalty, character, or patriotism if they disagree on a matter of philosophy or policy. I'm disgusted by rhetoric that accuses someone of high crimes just for disagreeing...doesn't seem right in a democracy.

I made a rare purchase for myself of a shirt. It’s one I saw at Valley Fair on my first trip there. It says, in small letters, "I'm very excited to be here". Come on, what occasion can you not wear that shirt for? I also commissioned a charature of Andrew, Sam and their almost cousin Jack. It turned out well, they appear as members of a future rock band. While they got painted, I slipped away with Chuck and did the ride the kids refused to do; Tower Power drop. Its the only ride that has absolutely THRILLED me every single time I've tried it. Heart pounding, sweaty handed, involuntary exclamation thrill. Fun.

A little peek at my recent canoe camping trip. The following was written back and forth in e-mails from my friends. These are guys who know my soul and aren't afraid to give me crap. They have a slightly different vision of me than I have of myself, but I find most people do. By the way, I don't fashion myself a fisherman and didn't bring a rod on the trip. I've always been drawn to fly-fishing though and I was trying it for my first time.

"I laugh when I think about Scotto fly casting. It was liking he was
whipping someone to death. Very impressive line speed. A lot of fly
fisherman would kill to be able to cast that fast."

"I was scared."

"His faced was fitted with a scowl, muscles were bulging, and line was
snapping like a whip. Scary."

"I may have hear him whisper "take that, motherf****r"."

The picture that triggered the story was remarkably benign. Its at the top of this post.

And the last regular feature I propose is a list. I’ll take suggestions, if you like, but my pick this week is 10 things I like now that I already liked when I graduated from high school.
Charles Dickens
My mother’s pork roast
My father’s sailboat
Prince
Coca Cola Classic
Oak trees
The planet Venus
Times New Roman
Baseball caps
The Renaissance Festival

My best to you this week.

Moving Day

2007-10-30T14:19:00.000-07:00

The date on this, from a book that is optimistically labeled "Journal" is 7/5/02. Talk about pulling something out of a drawer.

I have a policy to always offer help to a friend when he's moving. If you do it often enough its easy work, you can help and tell stories simultaneously, and its appreciated because its a job you just can't effectively do alone. Also, it always comes back around. Its the closest thing to a barn raising we have in modern suburban America.

Everything about the move today was classic Steve. He didn't call me himself, he rarely has ever called me. Instead he had Tom make the calls, figuring he had more clout. Steve is a classic collector of junk. He collects with a zeal no married man could ever match. He's like many teachers in that he revels in taking anything that's free and rarely throwing anything away. Unlike most teachers, however, he is shameless and persistant in asking for donations on behalf of his many entrepreneurships. As a result, his ohouse and garage were filled with flotsam of his failed endeavors. A two foot high plile of heat reflecting tile for passive solar, 20 pair of women's mucluks in various sizes, a large pile of freee pamphlets inclding no less than 40 on duck identificatio nand 50 on recycling in Dakota County.

His decor and housekeeping would not be called classy by anyone, ut at the same time, it would be hard to disagree that it's interesting. Since he's traveled widely, his walls are covered with pictures of places most people only dream of visiting. A series of a sea turtle being released from a net. A picture of Steve next to a Javan rhino in indonasia. A picture of hazardous waste containers being pulled out of a pubic wetland. A large, authentic african mask. The entire series of Topps National League cards from 1972, uncut and framed.

Peppering these interesting and sometimes museum quality relics are some momuments to taciness. These, when found, always elicited commentary form his sympathetic, but wise ass friends.

A large wicker basket filled with deer antlers: "I saw this on Marth Stewart, its the hot thing this year."

A huge and unweildy, half filled, black canvas bag: "One of his ex-wives, taxidermy was getting expensive"

A large synthetic zebra stripe throw rug: "This can't possibly be REAL?"

There were bottles of screws, piles of lumber, panes of glass and a stack of cinder blocks. "Hey, Steve, instead of buying a new house, why don't we build a new one from all this extra stuff?"

You have to endure this sort of thing when you ask for help, but Steve doesn't deserve it.

Part of the Lore

2007-09-24T06:40:00.000-07:00

The adults involved in this story wrote it serially. I just pasted the quotes together, made the prounouns match and put them in a logical sequence.

Quite beautiful, really.

It will forever be part of the Lore, "Dad, remember when you chained that guy up in Winnipeg?"...And the other boy will say, "Yeah, remember? You lifted him up by his crotchstrap."

The beer tent, you see, wouldn't let beer out and it wouldn't let children in. It was Scotto's shift to watch the four boys.

We happened to be in Winnipeg on the same night, each on our way to different trips. And the last star to come into alignment was a fringe festival going on downtown that very night.

The freak bound himself in a straight jacket. Four innocent children who he knew, and countless others who he did not, stared intently, fascinated as the freak asked him to tighten the straps of the straight jacket. Veiled S and M references dripping with experience, desire and a hint of solicitation floated gently over the heads of enamored children and drunken homeless natives as Scotto cinched each strap. Brent took a long sip of his Canadian lager as Chuck said "Hey, the freak has Scotto up on stage!"

The freak had an expression of pleasure as Scotto snugged the straps. Scotto, with his arms crossed, loomed over the tiny gay freak, dwarfing the impish performer. Brent uttered, "Scotto is a big fucker". The lights shone hard on the larger man binding the smaller man. By the time he'd cinched the third strap, the freak was sweating through the jacket.

Scotto stepped back a safe distance and looked at the gay imp with both disgust and dislike. The imp began to twist and contort as if he was performing a mating-dance at a gay bar at closing time. Scotto squinted thirstily past the flood lights toward the beer tent. There stood his grinning friends, bottles raised in toast, looking for all the world like the best beer ad marketers ever conceived.

Part Two

2007-08-27T16:34:00.000-07:00

Thanks for the great feedback. Much of it was quite passionate and some of it was very specific!!

I learned so much about people from their responses. For example, I met Chuck 15 years ago and probably know some things about him that even his mother doesn’t (sorry Barb). But when I sent him the first draft with the line “Tattooed, sinewy, and pierced, with rock star hair and a biker beard”, I was surprised when he replied, “For the record, I’m not pierced.”

I would have sworn that he was.

A slim majority of you encouraged Chuck to come out of the closet about his heterosexuality. It’s true and it’s easy and has a chance of moving a kid who is clearly stuck. The student’s attitude isn’t going to change, so why not pick a battle that’s winnable? Why not get the kid’s trust first and work on his bias second? In fact, an almost universal phrase in that set of replies was, “why not?”

You can probably tell by my initial description, Chuck is a “why not” kind of guy.

So I was a little mystified as he was telling me the story why he was resisting coming clean.

Viscerally, it’s because it’s none of the kid’s damn business. I know, we’re public figures, celebrities in our own classrooms, so we lose a bit of the luxury of privacy, but wait a second… did you hear how that sounds? I’m willing to be greeted at the mall and spied on in church, but if I should tell a student my sexual preference…what shouldn’t I reveal? Some things aren’t part of the price of admission.

If you’re looking for something noble, it’s that if he tells, it makes it harder for the teacher somewhere in his school who IS gay. What’s THAT guy supposed to do when a student says he can’t learn from a homosexual? He’s got it tough enough without Chuck giving in. You can also bet there’s a different kid in the same class who’ll slump a little lower in his seat when he hears a denial.

The pettiest reason is to not give the parent or the child the satisfaction.

Every teacher dreams of the perfect response, the one that’s funny and biting and doesn’t let the parent or the kid off the hook:

“What makes you think I’m gay?”
“He’s pretty perceptive, but not really my type.”
“I think he’s gay, too.”
“Will you take my word for it, or will you need proof?”

But, alas, neither Chuck nor I are close enough to retirement for that.

In the end, Chuck did exactly what I would have done. He’s not happy with it, but there are a lot of days in public education where you just have to throw up your hands. He let the mom squirm for 10 minutes, then looked her in the eye and said, “It shouldn’t matter one bit, but for the record, I’m not gay.”

The next day, he did the same for her son.

Public Education

2007-07-03T06:05:00.000-07:00

The first set of people I sent this commented about how heroic my friend is. My definition of heroic is ordinary people doing extraordinary things in difficult circumstances.

And you have no idea how heroic my friend Chuck is:

I have a true story of public education that has moments of humor and sadness and also ends in a cliffhanger.

My friend Chuck is an EBD teacher at a large high school that lies on the edge between rural and suburban. In a country and in a profession marked by gentle, politically correct euphemisms, EBD is the rare acronym that retains a bit of bite: Emotional and Behavioral Disorder. These aren’t clowns, knuckleheads or pains in the ass. They’ve been medically diagnosed with something serious.

Among these, I believe that Chuck gets the toughest cases. In part, it’s because of he looks like a person that a rough kid would either be attracted to or intimidated by. Tattooed, sinewy, with rock star hair and a biker beard. He plays hockey and sings in a band. He reads Spin Magazine religiously.

He also gets the tough cases because he’s terrible at playing office politics and, I suspect, because he’s volunteered for some of the kids no one else wants to take.

But mostly, it’s because he’s good at it. He’s patient and he’s principled and he’s tough and he knows that it’s important for everyone to laugh every day. I think his love of hockey taught him that there are times for offense, times for defense, and times to play for the tie.

When I say tough cases, I mean this is the end of the line. For many of them, the next step is jail. In fact, for some of them, the previous step was also jail. The powers that be are playing long odds, but they only get longer elsewhere.

There’s a kid in his class who’s a great example. He suffers from Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, one of the more horrific disabilities you can imagine. Because the brain is damaged by alcohol in the womb, it is unable to establish effect from cause, unable to control impulses, unable to make new social learning stick. They can be unpredictable and they can be mean and it isn’t because they’re recalcitrant, it’s because they’re physically unable to be any other way.

In addition to his other issues, the kid is refusing to work with Chuck. He won’t talk to him or even look at him, which isn’t a great strategy for success. So, Chuck sets up a meeting with the mother to see if he’s missing information that isn’t in the file. It’s a routinely painful meeting that both Chuck and the mother have played out before, but it takes her 10 minutes to work up the courage to blurt out the issue.

“He has a problem with the fact that you’re gay.”

…

She spent another 10 minutes explaining that she herself didn’t have any problem with his homosexuality, which I would have paid money to see.

I’ll let you in on the dramatic irony.

He isn’t gay.

Something of a stud, if you want my opinion.

I know the end of the story and, in a future installment, I’ll share it with you.

Meanwhile, I’d love to hear what you think. Should he tell the parent that he isn’t gay? Should he tell the kid?

Sienna

2007-06-29T05:38:00.000-07:00

Europeans do something that Americans really don't. At major intersections, they build large cobblestone squares and fill them with statues. Usually, the square is surrounded with beautiful buildings from several centuries of European architecture. In modern times, small restaurants have outdoor cafes on the flat sides and traffic has been banned, so they've become large open air museums and gathering places.

Because the streets of these cities are invariably narrow and winding, you can't really see these piazzas until you're 30 or 40 feet from them. The darkness of the streets will suddenly open up to a sunny view of the plaza, usually with some ornate public building, like a church or a city hall dominating one side being illuminated by the sun, or casting long, interesting shadows.

People speaking many languages and on different errands stride, saunter, stroll, wander or shuffle through the center. Old men with old women on their arms. Young men smoking cigarettes on break from their jobs. Women in large sunglasses and festive scarves on bicycles. Tourists in shirtsleeves taking pictures in all directions. Smartly dressed shopkeepers sweeping their sidewalk or hawking their wares. Priests or cops standing sternly or shifting from foot to foot in boredom. Children chasing pigeons with ice cream and smiles on their faces.

It is so wonderfully natural, but also so alien, like feeling at home in a strangers house. On one occasion, I was sitting on the largest piazza of Siena, laying on the cobblestones and soaking up the sun. Its said to be among the best in Italy, though it would be impossible to ever see them all. Its pretty wonderful. 600 year old buildings in all directions and perfect light

We've been hitting it pretty hard and this is our last day in the Tuscan countryside before we go into Rome. Rachel is checking the guidebook for recommendations on drinks. She points to the end of the square opposite the government center. Two floors up is a 2 foot balcony over which hangs a sign that says, "Pub Sandwiches". “That's it right there."

We go. Its in the a tunnel like, English pub on the second floor overlooking the square that I had my first beer of the trip.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do, and so I had been drinking wine. In moderation, but with passion. Wine gives a slow buzz, a warm buzz, a pleasant buzz.

For me, though, its not like a beer. I order a British bitter in an Imperial Pint. Cold on a hot day, with the ability to wash away salt and grime. The first sip makes me excited, euphoric, enthusiastic. Makes me feel young and ready, strong and well loved.

So, with the sun setting and the sounds changing, we enjoyed the view from the balcony.

Little Bit of Fence

2007-05-29T05:44:00.001-07:00

I don’t know enough about ornithology to tell you much about these birds. Their individual identity is lost and it’s hard to say if they are relations, lovers, acquaintances or friends. Together, but apart; apart, but together.

In this moment, they share a little bit of fence and a whole lot of sky.

And what a sky!

Broad and mysterious and endless with possibility.

The picture is filled with secrets and here is one. The picture is taken at a zoo and the fence is an enclosure.

Sophia Loren

2007-04-26T07:05:00.001-07:00

People are under the universal impression that Italians are beautiful. I was expecting it when I took my recent trip to Italy, looking forward to it. But I’m not so sure. Maybe I was overwhelmed by a country whose art and countryside are simply breathtaking, I wasn’t impressed by the Italians themselves.

Sophia Loren probably contributes to the mythology. There is no question, she keeps a man’s attention. She defines sultry, drawing you in with mystery and keeping you with the suggestion she knows about the things you want her to know about. Something about her makes your eye rove all over, it never falls anywhere for too long, desperate to see the next bit.

But if you look at her too long, any one of those bits by itself doesn’t hold on its own. I guess it might it you were into big. Big eyes, big hair, big teeth, big boobs, HUGE mouth. Maybe that’s why so many people loved her on the big screen.

The other thing she embodies, as do so many other Italian women, is a sense of being overly made up. Lots of eye makeup, lots of hairspray, perfectly and fashionably dressed in every photo. Even the turn of her hips, the angle of her face, the cast of her eyes seems contrived. Its what I like to call framing. She’s certainly very good at it, but in photos, when you can spend a good long time looking, it falls apart. Not unnatural, exactly, but not totally natural either.

I thought about Italian woman at the time that they were like an incredibly beautiful woman in the moment they wake up on their 40th birthday. Slightly tired, but fresh for the day. In need of some practiced art to make things seem slightly different than they really are. I think that pretty well sums up Sophia Loren for me.

St. Pat's

2007-03-20T05:19:00.002-07:00

This contains some language that can't go out in my normal newsletter...

heh.

I count myself one quarter Irish on my Dad’s Dad’s side. I’ve never seen conclusive evidence to support this, but that is his claim and he sure is happy when you call him on St. Patrick’s Day and that’s good enough for me.

Growing up, my parents often had party on the weekend of March 17. On at least two occasions this event took the form of a foosball tournament/ beer tasting affair much beloved by their friends. No Irish beer or food was served, but everyone wore green and the rosy cheeked revelry lasted to the wee hours. My German mother absolutely loves it and in recent years they always choose March as their month to host their card party. I am always invited, but we usually find an excuse not to go.

I didn’t eat a traditional Irish meal until I was married. My Puerto Rican mother in law also loves the holiday and pulls out all the stops. Irish beer, Irish whiskey, corned beef and cabbage and a reel in the background. Immigrants seem to love celebrations of culture, even it its not their own.

So, both by genetics and experience, I’ve always looked for some family fun on this hallmark holiday. We now make our own boiled meal and both my boys love it. Of course I have a mix of both traditional and modern music for the occasion and, whenever possible, we invite an uninitiated friend over to join the party.

The A list was universally unavailable. Do you have an A list? Those people you don’t really need to plan for or worry about and who will, inevitably make you feel satisfied and loved at the end of the night?

The B list requires a bit more effort, but still plenty good when you have a theme that includes strong drink. However, something seemed to go awry with even these friends. Remembering the immigrant’s love for this holiday, I invited a local Norwegian, who enthusiastically accepted. The next day, he sheepishly called back. He had overstepped his bounds with a spouse who has a weak GI. The spouse of another invitee, a blood relative, was overheard to say in the background of the phone call, “you couldn’t pay me enough.”

That’s why they’re on the B list, frankly.

The C list is a bit too difficult for an intimate, casual family event and the D list can kiss my shillelagh.

Something may still come together. I don’t care. I still have my meal and my music and my family. I’ll amuse my children with brogue and maybe even indulge in a jig. Later, I might stop by the home of a Scotch neighbor for a final pint or a neat glass of Jameson. With any luck, I’ll dream in poetry of the land of magic and green hills. The Irish believe in ghosts, did you know?

Chapped Hands

2006-12-04T05:48:00.000-08:00

I have stood with my back against the insulated exterior of an ice house at night

and felt its warmth.

Heard the muted voices of friends within,

The dry cold of dark on my face

and the grand expanse of night sky above and forever.

Every breath becomes part of consciousness
as you trace its icy progress toward your lungs
and observe its ghostly remnants as it escapes and enshrouds.

I have opened the door, welcome

and walked into a convivial air

of warmth and shared purpose.

Stood confidently on a wafer of pressed wood

and known the satisfaction of every need at arm's reach.

With scant reminders of the everyday world.
Where balance is often achieved by throwing the full force of your mass
Wildly in another direction

I have perched with lithe wand of fiberglass cradled on my fingertips

and waited.

Attached by a line to a world that begins

In a circle that is definite and known

then fades through a cylinder in a sparkling flash

to rest in mysterious ether, alive.

Time stops in the hypnotic fluctuation
Between the warm patterns of the past, the close detail of present
And the vagary of the future.

I have felt the distant tug that stirs primal memory

and paused, exhilarated, anxious,

before giving my tug in return

Heard a hungry chorus of encouragement

and for a moment,

held life and death in my chapped hands.

Cubs Hat

2006-11-06T05:37:00.000-08:00

He put on his Cubs hat.

He loved that Cubs hat.

He bought it on a whim while on layover on his way to Uzbekistan. He wasn’t a Cubs fan, but he liked the nostalgia in the voices of people who told stories about them. And, he liked the way Greg Maddux looked in the hat in the sports page. Neat, competent, happy.

He didn’t understand at the time that certain expectations came with wearing such a storied cap. St. Louis fans would bark derision at him when he passed. Complete strangers would ask him the score to a game that he didn’t even know was in progress.

Worse, it took him some time to realize these events were associated with the hat and he was unnerved by the intensity of emotion contained in these encounters.

He was still befuddled to have his personality assumed by his clothing, but at least now he knew the source and it wasn't enough to stop him from making the hat a part of his daily wardrobe.

Marty wore it so often that when he pictured himself, the hat was part of the picture. It fit so comfortably, it was an almost seamless part of his head.

And how better can you describe love?

A Zebra's View

2006-10-11T19:49:00.000-07:00

The zebra gazed alertly toward the open plain out of one of its eyes, while the other rested lazily on a giraffe drinking clumsily from the watering hole.

“You’re neither as lithe nor as chic as you think you are. Your knees are knobby and you drink too much and you’re just as ignorant as you look.” thought the zebra.

He was highly self aware. He knew he had a bit of a paunch, that his hair was bristly and that he sometimes looked and acted a bit like an ass. But of course, all zebras did. He aspired to nothing more and nothing less. He judged his neighbors critically, but un-aggressively. The hyena was obnoxious, the wildebeest a boor, the gazelle was vapid, and the lion was arrogant.

The only animal for whom the zebra carried any animosity was the elephant. It was jealousy, he knew. Lumbering and large and possessed of quiet, but lethal self-confidence. The elephant had a host of ways it could destroy you and each seemed the more dangerous. He could trample, clumsy but efficient; he could gore you unexpectedly from right or left with those beautiful, hard, sharp tusks. And the memory! He seemed never to forget. His ears and nose and teeth were cartoonishly large, but somehow he pulled it off to look noble and imposing and beautiful.

Though the sky was clear and bright, there was a sudden, air-shattering crack of thunder. The animals of the plain started and ran three paces in random directions, tense and alert, straining to discover where the danger came from.

But not the elephant.

The elephant, without cry or moan, shuddered and fell elegantly to its side, crashing and bouncing once, never to move again.

It may have been the fall that killed him, thought the zebra, for what else could it have been?

Eating grass and living in a herd does very little to hone a sense of irony. And so, the zebra, along with the other species, returned warily to their meals without appreciating the otherworldly drama that had just unfolded. The instinctive rule of the plain was that if you were not the immediate prey, then you were safe, at least for the day. He took only the slightest notice of the small, ungainly animal that approached the dead elephant slowly. “Ridiculously thin hide”, thought the zebra, flicking flies with his tail and wandering slowly away to take a drink.

On Vacation in Banff

2006-10-07T09:28:00.000-07:00

The day I took this was declared a rest day, which mostly meant that we didn't drive anywhere. I took advantage of the family sleeping late to try for a hike that would exhaust me. I chose Mt Rundle, which was right across the valley from our hotel. The guide book listed the trail as 14 km with a 1700 foot elevation gain. So much for rest. I left at 6:30, got coffee and was on the official trail by 7. It took me 2 and a half hours to get to the summit, but I was rewarded by the sun just beginning to come over the mountain in front of me and have it warm my back on the return trip.

I had walked in silence on the way up, but as I was tired and hurrying on the way down, I went with a low volume iPod accompaniment. I met several hikers coming the other direction, each asking what to expect ahead, each thinking they were the early birds on the trail. About Â¾ down, I saw a couple ahead of me taking it slow and enjoying the vistas. I was only about 5 yards from them, just around a quick turn in the trail when they first noticed me. The woman in the lead jumped and made three quick, loud claps.

My backcountry friends know what that means.

I was next to her in two more strides and clearly saw in her eyes the fear of a person who believed she was about to die.

Distracted by the scenery, she had mistaken a lumbering, dirty, stinking, humming American for a marauding grizzly bear.

I guess that's funny.