Racing Now

A good political battle for the nomination is often referred to as a horse race. "We've got an old fashion horse race here," the pundits often say. Fair enough. Some of these contests are hard fought, neck and neck, with one candidate eking out a win. It would never surprise me if a photo finish was ever required to separate the winner from the rest of the pack. Not sure how that would go, but after "hanging chads" and all manner of recounts, it just seems plausible. So why not apply a few of the necessities of a good old fashion horse race to this year's Republican contest. Let's start with the way horse racing announcers speak.
Believe it or not, some of the more widely know horse racing announcers are flat out among the best entertainers out there. I'm not referring to Oaklawn Park's Frank Mirahmadi and the way he calls a race imitating everyone from Rodney Dangerfield to his fellow colleagues. Frank is great and certainly entertaining, but I'm thinking of certain words and phrases and how they might be applied to the current bizarre sideshow that is currently masking as the Republican primary in many states.
Trevor Denman of Santa Anita Racecourse is a classy guy. The native South African brings a certain elegance to his calls mostly evident in his accent. But Trevor is noted for specific phrases that raise his game. When a horse has a race all but wrapped up and there is nobody in a position to catch him, Trevor might haul out the ever popular, "They would have to sprout wings to catch him." Currently, no wing sprouting is necessary, but by the time most primaries are over, a good pair of wings might be needed by whomever is in second place. Other phrases past and present abound. Just imagine what a good political commentator could do with "Here they come spinning out of the turn" or "And down the stretch they come." Michael Wrona, a popular Aussie announcer now working at Golden Gate Fields in Northern California, is not only loaded with special phrases, but he can be downright surprising at times. He's full of poetry too when the situation demands. If a horse has an unfortunate accident or spill, Wrona will call the name and then tell his audience that he's "come to grief." If he says that, and fortunately it's rare, you know it's serious. One time Wrona was calling a race in which an older mare, a real crowd favorite, was in the middle of a formidable win streak. I can't recall her name, but I'll never forget the race. Just when it looked like she was hopelessly beaten, the 9 year old found another gear and swallowed up the field with an impressive move to win going away. Wrona's call was unforgettable. "And here she comes, collaring the leaders now, what an incredible performance, she's nearly old enough to vote!"
In the end, there is only one call I want to hear. Ironically it's the one that Trevor Denman says when the starting gate opens, not anything said during the call of the race. It's how I feel about the entire crop of politicos..."And away they go."

Best and Brightest

I spent half the day at a middle school in SE Portland yesterday. That should be required for anybody elected to public office. It should be required for anybody who would write anything about education reform. It should be required for all taxpayers, especially those with no children and those who will never have children.
This is what I saw. I went to observe a beginning teacher whose mentor I have become. I saw her energy and her patience. I saw her overcrowded classes. Imaging being the only one in the room with 35 6 and 7th graders. They move and dart at such a pace that one pair of eyes can't even begin to keep up. They clap their hands, they are eager...for most anything. (That is good) They push and shove each other. They chew gum when they shouldn't. They pull hoodies over their heads when they shouldn't. They sneak food. (all students do this) They need to go to the bathroom, need to get a drink of water, need to express every thought, every sudden nuance, every whim and every constantly changing mood.
This was the first real diverse classroom in Portland I've seen. These kids were Brown. They were Asian and Latino. They were African-American and Native American. They were maybe 20% white. Did I mention that they were eager.
My mentee is a drama teacher. She's been hired to not only teach drama to 6-9th graders, but also to initiate the first drama program at her school. Even with so much of it in their lives, these kids are not clear on the concept. But they have a warehouse of natural ability. So I shall do my best to provide insight and guidance for this budding teacher-hero. Perhaps I will even do a little one on one with a few of her students. Maybe a special ed. student or an English language learner. Maybe a student with a pronounced learning disability or one diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome. Even a small group of kids who don't get enough attention because she's busy dealing with all the others who drain her finite energy and resources.
I will give her my best because she is giving them hers.

Hanging Koan

Most people don't notice them. Probably because they never look above themselves all that often. But they are everywhere and have been for decades. You see them in urban ghettos and suburban sprawl. They are on dessert phone wires and near mountaintops. Tennis shoes, sneakers, gym shoes...hanging on phone wires, on streetlight wires, on traffic light wires...twisting in the wind or shining down at night. They are evident.
Urban folklore abounds. They supposedly have been used to mark territory. Gang turf, drug dealer's turf, the spot marked. But the evidence just isn't there because sneakers hang overhead in all sorts of neighborhoods. They hang where no gangs exist, where no dope is sold, where you'd least expect them to be. Wonder how long it would take you to find a pair in your neighborhood?
Some say it's a different kind of ritual. The purveyors of urban legend say they function as rites of passage. First sexual experience, all manner of initiation or even the end of a school year. Tossing a well-used pair of gym shoes does make sense, but then the pair of white tennis shoes I see hanging over the intersection of Hawthorne and SE 37th street in Portland began their tenure in fairly new condition. Maybe some disgruntled kid whose mom bought the wrong logo vented and tossed them up and over for all to recognize his rage. Not really.
I view them as a sort of Zen Koan. Something that you keep turning over in your mind, working thorough your brain. Something that (and here comes a favorite phrase of mine) you finger the jagged grain of until one day, meaning appears, at least for the moment.
This pair of white sneakers I have seen hanging for a couple of years has gone through a range of temperatures from 103 to 23. Still it hangs. It's survived rain, freezing rain, snow, hail, wind and heat. Still the shoe laces hold. Washed and bleached, this white beacon is trying to tell us something about living this life. I've got a few ideas but I'm still refining them. I figure I've got a while to let them crystalize in my head because those shoes aren't going anywhere for awhile.

Respect Yourself

George Reedy was a former press secretary and political writer who served under Lyndon Johnson. Probably more intellectual than most Presidential Press Secretaries, and sometimes thought of as a Johnson whipping boy, Reedy was nevertheless a keen observer of the White House and the institution of the Presidency.

In writing about the bitterly fought 1964 campaign between Johnson and Barry Goldwater, Reedy noted how the respect for the office of the Presidency was quickly restored after the heat of the campaign ended with the final results. You might recall that Johnson was running for his first elected term after finishing out JFK's term. This was the campaign that featured the infamous "Daisy" political add where a child's game of "loves me, loves me not" was superimposed over an exploding mushroom cloud. In the end, despite the taunts, insults, and fear mongering, Johnson won a landslide victory.
George Reedy once noted that the day after the election, when the President met with Congressional leaders, Goldwater, then Senator from Arizona, was there beaming with the rest of them. It was Mr. President this and Mr. President that. he concluded that despite the bitter campaign, the respect for the office of the President was intact. That the leaders in Congress, especially those in the losing opposition party, never lost respect for the President.
My how things have changed. As the nation debates the recent finger in the face of President Obama by the Governor of Arizona, we might do well to pause and ask where that respect for the office has gone. I'm not really all that surprised, are you? Culturally, we are more polarized than ever and many of the once taboo restrictions on language in thought and action are gone. I've real all manner of reactions to the finger pointing incident and I must say the best appears here:
http://phillisremastered.wordpress.com/2012/01/27/a-teachable-racial-moment-on-fingers-pointed-in-black-faces/
Yes, we have lost a good deal of civility. That fact stands in line with the overall malaise that sensitivity and appropriate behavior are slogging through right now. Listen to me, I sound like Ms. Manners here, but some things are painfully obvious.

Return to Sender

It's such a simple phenomena. Been around since dirt. But it's oh so true. It has lots of names, some fancy, some academic, some right to the point. Let's see, predictable, indicators, and past performance all fit into the equation. Dr. Phil, in all his prime time glory is fond of saying, "We teach people how to treat us." Certainly do.
The great historian Mircea Eliade called it "The Myth of the Eternal Return." AKA...what goes around comes back. Native Americans built much of their culture on the cyclical nature of all experience. Four seasons, four directions, four quarters or quadrants. The Daily Racing Form and it's advocates swear by knowledge of the past. If it happened once, chances are it will happen again. It's true, often the best indicator of future behavior is past behavior.
I can't leave out police detectives from this discussion. For every one of those, "Gee, he or she was the last person I'd ever suspect of having a double life. Always so nice, never seemed to argue with family members, kept the house neat and tidy, I'm dumbfounded" statements you hear on the nightly news, there is a past history just waiting to glint in the sunlight.
If we apply this principle to the current political scene it explains much. Why wonder about the current use of unethical or racist sentiment when it's all laid out if one would only look over the shoulder and into the past. There is a very good likelihood that similar sentiments are just waiting to be re-discovered.
But people forget. They choose to forget, and when they avail themselves of denial in the process, they can have it their way every time.
I see this in my work as a teacher and now as a teacher of teachers. People lug their satchel of old worn out excuses and projections along for the ride. They re-run the narrative. I remember being on the brink of a new relationship once and having to listen to a phone conversation between my new interest and someone she was trying to let down easy. Even though I was hearing the words I longed to hear, it was most uncomfortable. I was old enough to know that the dialogue, the reasoning would probably apply to me some day. While not always exactly the same, the future is more often than not dictated by the past.
So what's the message? Don't ignore the past...absolutely, but more than that, learn it.

Artsy

Recently, I was given the opportunity to make a small poster about my life as a teacher. As a fan of the medium of collage, I had no trouble deciding which way to go. Then the entire world of computer software opened up to me and I found myself fascinated with how easy it is to throw down a melange of meaningful images. See what I mean:

I'm still playing with all the possibilities of this software, but it appears it is well worth the expense. I'm supposed to sell myself, as it were, to a group of beginning teachers by making this poster so they can learn a bit about my academic and social self. Perhaps I should say selves. In doing this, it occurred to me that I can easily make a lesson out of this presentation...an inquiry lesson. What questions will the viewers ask? What will be assumed correctly and incorrectly from the images I've chosen?
If I were to replace each image here with a half a dozen other images, what conclusions might be drawn. Lastly, how difficult is it to accurately say something about yourself in a photo collage. For those reading this entry, any responses to these any any other questions would be appreciated.

Still Waiting

It is the Fall of 1964 and I am walking to my local shopping center deep in the heart of the San Fernando Valley. I'm a high school junior and I have 75cents in my pocket to finally purchase a paperback book that resides on a small revolving book rack near the front of the drug store that sells everything from make-up to first aid supplies, kitchen items to magazines and books. It takes me 2o minutes to walk home and I can't keep the book in brown paper bag because there is a center-set of black and white photos that comes with this edition. The Book is Why We Can't Wait by Martin Luther King. I want to read his thoughts on the Civil Right Movement as it is happening. Earlier in the year I did a paper for my American History class that changed my life. I'd heard on the evening news that voter education and registration was an important issue. In trying to find a topic I came across a Newsweek magazine with a small article on literacy tests still being used in Southern states. When I read the question "How many bubbles are there in a bar of soap?" I felt the pain in a new way. Coupled with events like the murder of 3 civil rights workers, I felt my perceptions of my beloved country slipping away. I needed to read what wasn't in any textbook I carried. I needed to learn a wider, deeper context that my environment couldn't provide. I've often wondered how that book got to the rack with other pulp fiction and sci-fi and true romances.
It's 1968 and I've been in my poetry seminar for three hours. The sun is setting over the UCLA campus as I walk down the hills that separate the older buildings from the student union and athletic fields. Only a few people are walking the paths to and from the libraries and lecture halls. When I begin the walk up the narrow road toward the parking lots near the dorms I notice a car careening up and down those narrow streets. Occasionally it stops and the windows roll down and the people inside speak to somebody walking along. When the car stops at a stop sign near me I notice that everyone inside is African-American. "What's going on?" I ask.
A woman with large natural tells me that Martin Luther King has been shot and killed in Memphis Tennessee. It is 3 days before my 21st birthday.

This year, 2012, the MLK holiday seems all about "spectacular sales" and three day weekends. The ad for Sears seems blind and deaf. Like everything else in this culture the celebration of the birth of one of the last great orators and leaders has become quantified by slashed prices and limited time only propositions. In so many ways, we're still waiting.