I saw "The Wizard of Oz" Saturday at the new and old Varsity Theatre on Franklin Street. My sister, cousins and I watched the film every Thanksgiving for years on our grandparents' VCR. I remembered only significant parts, the tornado in the beginning and Dorothy meeting her friends on the yellow brick road. At The Varsity last night I saw, for the first time, Dorothy leaving Oz with Glinda the good witch's help. Her wish came true.
That part stands as the film's most important message: you can find a way home, but you have to find it for yourself. And when you do, you must say goodbye to your best friends even though you will see them as another part of the animal kingdom upon your homecoming. I think.
I had a few high school friends - Danny Webster, Greg Likens and John R. Pavletic - who represented the Lollipop Guild in their middle school musical. My junior year homecoming date, Deanna, was Dorothy in the same production. I went to a different middle school and missed the show. I guess she sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," which is indeed one of the best songs of all time. I should ask her what it was like to sing that song.
The theater's opening was perfect. Tickets cost $3, and the popcorn followed suit. Families fighting for the best "Wizard" seats formed lines that spilled onto the sidewalk. Four Carolina students had repainted the foyer, and the owners had installed new carpet and lighting. Franklin Street found its way back home.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Taking care
If I could work from home, earning money from poker and this insanely popular blog, the world would be a better place. My students are lucky to have me, but the people who care about me would be luckier to have my time. My perception of the value of my work would rise if I could help the people I wanted to help when I knew they needed it.
Imagine a classroom in which a teacher sits at a large table. Students would come in only if they could not accomplish a preassigned task. Teachers would help but never spoon feed. All students would have to be literate for this to work, but if they were, teachers would love their jobs. I know I would.
What happens instead is this: mobs of unmotivated students sit down in high school classrooms across the country and try to sleep away their hour-long opportunity without interruption. Usually a kind, highly qualified teacher attempts to inspire and lead by example. In this country those teachers usually fail when their students do not see the point in not failing.
Now understand that these mostly failing teachers have husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, friends and children who care enough about themselves to fight the hurdles of life: depression, anxiety, boredom, loneliness, illness, addiction and personal loss. If you have a pulse, you love someone who struggles with one of these demons. Imagine what the world would be like if caring for these people was every man's primary occupation.
"What do you do?" a stranger might ask you at a party.
"I stay with my friend who just came out of surgery," you might say. "By the way things are going, we will both be ready for something new in two weeks. I might volunteer at the hospital until something pops up."
Is this societal fantasy socialism? Or is it plain European? You might say the impact of teachers is enormous and necessary no matter what I write in this wee hour. But the impact my teaching has on me is minimal. Teachers more often talk about feeling frustrated than rewarded. Who wrote that damn chicken soup book? Was it a teacher? I suspect it was a student.
I care about a lot of people because I am lucky. A lot of people care about me because they are lucky. If we had time for each other, living would be so full of life.
Imagine a classroom in which a teacher sits at a large table. Students would come in only if they could not accomplish a preassigned task. Teachers would help but never spoon feed. All students would have to be literate for this to work, but if they were, teachers would love their jobs. I know I would.
What happens instead is this: mobs of unmotivated students sit down in high school classrooms across the country and try to sleep away their hour-long opportunity without interruption. Usually a kind, highly qualified teacher attempts to inspire and lead by example. In this country those teachers usually fail when their students do not see the point in not failing.
Now understand that these mostly failing teachers have husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, friends and children who care enough about themselves to fight the hurdles of life: depression, anxiety, boredom, loneliness, illness, addiction and personal loss. If you have a pulse, you love someone who struggles with one of these demons. Imagine what the world would be like if caring for these people was every man's primary occupation.
"What do you do?" a stranger might ask you at a party.
"I stay with my friend who just came out of surgery," you might say. "By the way things are going, we will both be ready for something new in two weeks. I might volunteer at the hospital until something pops up."
Is this societal fantasy socialism? Or is it plain European? You might say the impact of teachers is enormous and necessary no matter what I write in this wee hour. But the impact my teaching has on me is minimal. Teachers more often talk about feeling frustrated than rewarded. Who wrote that damn chicken soup book? Was it a teacher? I suspect it was a student.
I care about a lot of people because I am lucky. A lot of people care about me because they are lucky. If we had time for each other, living would be so full of life.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Happy to read Strunk and White
None of my unread thrift store books interested me in recent weeks, so I settled on Strunk and White's "The Elements of Style." Its brevity and efficiency make it a classic for writers of all persuasions. The back cover boasted its required reading status and pocket convenience.
I liked the book enough to want to carry it on my person, so I packed that punctuation in my pants. I did not like the look. Critics must have enormous pockets. The print is not unusually small; if they really wanted to make the thing a pocket reference, they could. They tease us.
Their false claim reminded me of the horrible words editors like to clip from book reviews. They like the words "compelling" and "spellbinding." My personal favorite is the "Tour de Force," which brings to mind Lance Armstrong cycling up a mountainside in a yellow jersey. You know, just like any of Toni Morrison's novels.
I am convinced that a lot of book reviewers never read the books they review. They might squint at synopses on the Web and dig into that small but foolhardy word bank that nobody believed existed until now.
I liked the book enough to want to carry it on my person, so I packed that punctuation in my pants. I did not like the look. Critics must have enormous pockets. The print is not unusually small; if they really wanted to make the thing a pocket reference, they could. They tease us.
Their false claim reminded me of the horrible words editors like to clip from book reviews. They like the words "compelling" and "spellbinding." My personal favorite is the "Tour de Force," which brings to mind Lance Armstrong cycling up a mountainside in a yellow jersey. You know, just like any of Toni Morrison's novels.
I am convinced that a lot of book reviewers never read the books they review. They might squint at synopses on the Web and dig into that small but foolhardy word bank that nobody believed existed until now.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
What happens when I grade papers
Grading tests is boring no matter how well students may have performed. But when they perform poorly, life can be as depressing as a football fan suggesting to convert Kenan Stadium into a water park.
Do not think I wallow in these red marks without reason. I try to surround myself with happy things while I grade. I am about to start now, and here are the positive interventions I already implemented for myself: Pandora bluegrass station entitled "Dueling Banjos," two hot dogs with mustard and sweet relish, the anticipation of reading another chapter of Dean Smith's book when I finish, and the sweet memory of a Carolina football victory that puts us in position to have the best regular season record since my arrival in 2003.
Here we go. The time is 4:30 p.m.
4:35 p.m.: Already this sucks. I am grading makeups, which are difficult to grade because I lose the solution key by the time my kids finish them. My best strategy is to group by test and grade the best student's test first. This test will almost serve as a key for the rest. The inherent inexactitude of this makes my blood boil. I have not graded a single paper yet. I feel like I need to change the Pandora station to reduce the panic settling between my ears. Cue Rage Against The Machine.
5:06 p.m.: I finished my first set of tests. Some of the tests were blank. Those are the easy ones. My days-old stubble is breaking my concentration. I might need to take a shower to give myself a shave and a break. The break needs to be an incentive to work, so I will shower after I work a bit more.
5:43 p.m.: I am feeling bad about life because one of my students wrote correct answers to the practice version of the test on the real version of the test. I am not sure how to tell this to his parents.
9 p.m.: I quit a long time ago and watched The Godfather.
Do not think I wallow in these red marks without reason. I try to surround myself with happy things while I grade. I am about to start now, and here are the positive interventions I already implemented for myself: Pandora bluegrass station entitled "Dueling Banjos," two hot dogs with mustard and sweet relish, the anticipation of reading another chapter of Dean Smith's book when I finish, and the sweet memory of a Carolina football victory that puts us in position to have the best regular season record since my arrival in 2003.
Here we go. The time is 4:30 p.m.
4:35 p.m.: Already this sucks. I am grading makeups, which are difficult to grade because I lose the solution key by the time my kids finish them. My best strategy is to group by test and grade the best student's test first. This test will almost serve as a key for the rest. The inherent inexactitude of this makes my blood boil. I have not graded a single paper yet. I feel like I need to change the Pandora station to reduce the panic settling between my ears. Cue Rage Against The Machine.
5:06 p.m.: I finished my first set of tests. Some of the tests were blank. Those are the easy ones. My days-old stubble is breaking my concentration. I might need to take a shower to give myself a shave and a break. The break needs to be an incentive to work, so I will shower after I work a bit more.
5:43 p.m.: I am feeling bad about life because one of my students wrote correct answers to the practice version of the test on the real version of the test. I am not sure how to tell this to his parents.
9 p.m.: I quit a long time ago and watched The Godfather.
Friday, November 13, 2009
A big day for Carolina
The top basketball recruit in the country, Harrison Barnes, signed with Carolina today. So did two other heralded recruits. Recruiting news usually does not excite me. The last time I was interested in a recruit was when Carolina fans thought Mike Paulus would carry the football program on his shoulders. Paulus brought a lot of top players to Chapel Hill but managed to lose one crucial game last year and drop to third on the depth chart.
Barnes announced his decision late this afternoon on ESPNU and ESPN Radio. I was listening in my car and did not know for sure that he would pick us. I imagined throwing my car radio out the window if he said he wanted to go to Duke. My worrying was a waste of energy. Barnes was smart enough to see the difference between the blues. On a day like today, it does not seem like we are in football season.
But on a day like tomorrow, it will not seem like we are in basketball season.
Barnes announced his decision late this afternoon on ESPNU and ESPN Radio. I was listening in my car and did not know for sure that he would pick us. I imagined throwing my car radio out the window if he said he wanted to go to Duke. My worrying was a waste of energy. Barnes was smart enough to see the difference between the blues. On a day like today, it does not seem like we are in football season.
But on a day like tomorrow, it will not seem like we are in basketball season.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Raised a fan
My parents raised me to be a fan. They might have hoped they were raising me to be an athlete of local repute, but really they raised me to be a fan. My ill-fated competitive days were numbered, but I really do not mind. I know being a fan is better than being an athlete.
My parents and I used to trudge toward the Wildcat Den through heavy, wet snow in the Libertyville High School parking lot. The small hallway inside the door acted as a foyer for the auditorium of my youth. Parents sold orange and black afghans to snowflake-covered fans shaking out their coats while the jazz band serenaded inside. The scoreboard buzzer sounded inside the gymnasium before the team exited the court to a rousing standing ovation for their final pregame pep talk. If we arrived late, we had to wait outside the door with tens of others and rush in together at the next timeout. My parents found my friends' parents, and I tip-toed along the edge of being my parents' son and my friends' friend. I was 6, 7 and 8. I was 9 and 10. I was growing up.
All the kids my age sat in the same spot. We watched those games knowing we all wanted to be players when we grew up, and the pressure we applied to ourselves was entirely unfair. I hope I would look at those days in the same light if I never made the team years later. Those days were magical.
I remember it all: spark plug Brian Hamlett, linebacker convert Tim Beshel, shifty Chris Mitchell and his middle-school receptionist mother, the Warren kid with the curly hair, the Heldman-Kessel rivalry, high school students strolling the sideline, Coach Panther by the side door, Coach Sanders' reddened face, Super Fan Gary and a full-court swish at the Mundelein game's halftime buzzer.
My best Libertyville hoops memory was Chad Lee's 1994 sectional final, triple-overtime dagger in the doghouse by my dad's side. I have never seen a finish so frenzied, and I am a Carolina alumnus. I watched the video eight years later with my teammates in the locker room I could finally call my own. Most of them saw it in person too. I wish I watched their faces in 2002 when they saw the shot go in again on the fuzzy screen. We were little kids again.
When Heldman passed, Libertyville held a pregame tribute with comments from our coach and video footage from his Libertyville and Illinois careers. I remember warming up without several teammates who were still in the locker room with their hands on bowed heads. I do not think any of them ever met him. We scored just nine points against Warren in the first half.
My mother and I continue our basketball tradition by going to Carolina basketball games together. As one might expect, Carolina offers a better brand of basketball than my days of youth. We danced with Danny Green. We saw the greatest Carolina player of all time play his last two seasons in Chapel Hill. Our Carolina memories live forever in our minds but also on DVDs, ESPN Classic and YouTube. We rarely walk through snowy parking lots in Chapel Hill, and I never worry about working hard enough to make the team anymore. My remaining eligibility will go unspent.
One thing has not changed. We still go to the games together. My dad cannot always go, but he calls me after the games to talk. It's a family affair. And as much as I appreciate my family's shared experience, I think my parents appreciate it more.
Despite being as blessed as I am with Carolina football and basketball season tickets, I still have the fondest memories of the early 1990s in snowy Libertyville. That was my introduction to what it meant to be a fan. I learned about disappointment, relief, caring about something outside of myself and being a part of a family. I regret to say that all of those memories exist only in my head, but I did find one video that connects my Libertyville and Carolina families.
Heldman played in one game at Duke during his Illinois career. Illinois won and ended Duke's 95-game non-conference winning streak. Heldman, not surprisingly, was a victim of the infamous yet classic Duke flop.
My parents and I used to trudge toward the Wildcat Den through heavy, wet snow in the Libertyville High School parking lot. The small hallway inside the door acted as a foyer for the auditorium of my youth. Parents sold orange and black afghans to snowflake-covered fans shaking out their coats while the jazz band serenaded inside. The scoreboard buzzer sounded inside the gymnasium before the team exited the court to a rousing standing ovation for their final pregame pep talk. If we arrived late, we had to wait outside the door with tens of others and rush in together at the next timeout. My parents found my friends' parents, and I tip-toed along the edge of being my parents' son and my friends' friend. I was 6, 7 and 8. I was 9 and 10. I was growing up.
All the kids my age sat in the same spot. We watched those games knowing we all wanted to be players when we grew up, and the pressure we applied to ourselves was entirely unfair. I hope I would look at those days in the same light if I never made the team years later. Those days were magical.
I remember it all: spark plug Brian Hamlett, linebacker convert Tim Beshel, shifty Chris Mitchell and his middle-school receptionist mother, the Warren kid with the curly hair, the Heldman-Kessel rivalry, high school students strolling the sideline, Coach Panther by the side door, Coach Sanders' reddened face, Super Fan Gary and a full-court swish at the Mundelein game's halftime buzzer.
My best Libertyville hoops memory was Chad Lee's 1994 sectional final, triple-overtime dagger in the doghouse by my dad's side. I have never seen a finish so frenzied, and I am a Carolina alumnus. I watched the video eight years later with my teammates in the locker room I could finally call my own. Most of them saw it in person too. I wish I watched their faces in 2002 when they saw the shot go in again on the fuzzy screen. We were little kids again.
When Heldman passed, Libertyville held a pregame tribute with comments from our coach and video footage from his Libertyville and Illinois careers. I remember warming up without several teammates who were still in the locker room with their hands on bowed heads. I do not think any of them ever met him. We scored just nine points against Warren in the first half.
My mother and I continue our basketball tradition by going to Carolina basketball games together. As one might expect, Carolina offers a better brand of basketball than my days of youth. We danced with Danny Green. We saw the greatest Carolina player of all time play his last two seasons in Chapel Hill. Our Carolina memories live forever in our minds but also on DVDs, ESPN Classic and YouTube. We rarely walk through snowy parking lots in Chapel Hill, and I never worry about working hard enough to make the team anymore. My remaining eligibility will go unspent.
One thing has not changed. We still go to the games together. My dad cannot always go, but he calls me after the games to talk. It's a family affair. And as much as I appreciate my family's shared experience, I think my parents appreciate it more.
Despite being as blessed as I am with Carolina football and basketball season tickets, I still have the fondest memories of the early 1990s in snowy Libertyville. That was my introduction to what it meant to be a fan. I learned about disappointment, relief, caring about something outside of myself and being a part of a family. I regret to say that all of those memories exist only in my head, but I did find one video that connects my Libertyville and Carolina families.
Heldman played in one game at Duke during his Illinois career. Illinois won and ended Duke's 95-game non-conference winning streak. Heldman, not surprisingly, was a victim of the infamous yet classic Duke flop.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Dale Christensen
My girlfriend called me a week ago to tell me she found a story on mentalfloss.com about a high school football coach who faked his own shooting death in front of his team to motivate them before a playoff game. She remembered me saying that the former coach Dale Christensen retained his employment with my alma mater and taught freshman physical education for years after the incident, which must have happened in the early 1990s. I was his student during the 1998-1999 school year.
Christensen was a burly, old man who I can best describe as a combination of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Santa Claus. He spoke in a low, gruff voice that complemented bushy white eyebrows and often broke into soldier marching songs while we patiently sat around him. He frequently told his innocent freshmen war stories about his personal war hero, Roy Benavidez, and then digressed into explanations of why men like himself could not "live on bread alone." At the end of the semester, he traditionally gave each student a physically uplifting bear hug. I was no exception. The man was cashews, almonds and peanuts.
Anyway, his weirdest act was faking his own murder in front of the entire Libertyville High School football team. I remember attending the game and reading the shocking story in the newspaper the next day. One of the players mentioned that Christensen's motivational message was lost in the team's concern of being shot in the school cafeteria with their coach.
As a high school student, I never thought it was strange for him to keep his job. He obviously had tenure, which was a more unshakable contract than I previously thought. In the late 1990s he was considered a colorful figure, a person unlike anyone else. He seemed to be an alien on Earth who we were allowed to observe each weekday.
Libertyville lost the game.
Christensen was a burly, old man who I can best describe as a combination of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Santa Claus. He spoke in a low, gruff voice that complemented bushy white eyebrows and often broke into soldier marching songs while we patiently sat around him. He frequently told his innocent freshmen war stories about his personal war hero, Roy Benavidez, and then digressed into explanations of why men like himself could not "live on bread alone." At the end of the semester, he traditionally gave each student a physically uplifting bear hug. I was no exception. The man was cashews, almonds and peanuts.
Anyway, his weirdest act was faking his own murder in front of the entire Libertyville High School football team. I remember attending the game and reading the shocking story in the newspaper the next day. One of the players mentioned that Christensen's motivational message was lost in the team's concern of being shot in the school cafeteria with their coach.
As a high school student, I never thought it was strange for him to keep his job. He obviously had tenure, which was a more unshakable contract than I previously thought. In the late 1990s he was considered a colorful figure, a person unlike anyone else. He seemed to be an alien on Earth who we were allowed to observe each weekday.
Libertyville lost the game.
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