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Showing posts from May, 2012

Spell Check

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The media is agog this morning with video of the national spelling bee.  Most eyes are on a little six year old competitor who is the epitome of the precocious, home-schooled child.  That's right, she is only six.  Unfortunately our heroine left the competition after incorrectly spelling ingluvies a word nobody uses that has something to do with a bird's throat or esophagus.  You see where this is going.  What strikes me most about the little girl's defeat is the crestfallen look on her face.  One wonders if this isn't some form of emotional abuse?  I agree that it is important to spell correctly, but at what cost? An educator I admire, Hugo Kerr, believes that there is an emotional component to asking kids to spell correctly all the time.  In a recent post on a list-serv we both belong to he wrote:      "...spelling is not related to writing technically speaking, but it is closely related emotionally! Most less than perfectly literate adults are vary wary of

Hang Tight

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I have a little project in mind. A bit of a random act of kindness, if you will. It's the kind of thing that potentially could offend, but could also benefit all involved. My intention is to replace a worn out and fading set of Tibetan prayer flags with a new set. Seems simple enough but here's the rub. It seems my upstairs window looks out over a small alley way that separates a row of backyards. The house directly in back of me has no fence dividing the yard from the alley. It's a rather unkempt hunk of overgrown grass with a jumble of berry bushes on one side of their neighbor's garage, and a little shared garage on the other side. The inhabitants of the house are either visually impaired or just don't care about their backyard. There is a small cement patio with a small coffee table and a ping pong table partly visible. Seems to me a little girl of about 7 or 8 lives with her parents there. Sometimes I see the girl standing on a swing attached to a

A is for...

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It's such a simple image. A red apple sitting on the pavement by the side of the road. A freeway off ramp in this case. How did it get there retaining all it's shiny appeal? Store bought for sure, it's little bar code sticker proudly reflecting the morning sun like a sheriff's badge. Placed there for the finding? Perhaps. No sign of any homeless person with sign. No sign of any spilled groceries. No sign of anything human for that matter. I'm exiting the Interstate, slowing to a stop, beginning the crawl to the 3-way intersection that takes me home and I casually look to the right. Red, ripe, ready to be eaten, yet quite unreachable, this little piece of fruit is quite the Zen Koan. OK, I'll start and then maybe in a while, an hour, a day, a month or a year, something more will emerge. Maybe it'll take a decade or a lifetime, or maybe not at all, but that's the challenge. If I notice the apple sitting on the edge of the road, how many

De-Fence

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Nobody likes to be played. While I have a fairly evolved bullshit detector, mostly honed from 33 years as a public school teacher, every now and then I have my doubts. A bit of cognitive dissonance is good for the body and soul now and then, isn't it? If we look at the recent efforts by groups like the Innocence Project to free wrongly tried and accused prison inmates, it's easy to justify erring on the side of doubt. After all, that's the basis of our entire legal system, reasonable doubt. In public education it isn't always so easy. Case in point. Last week I found myself the moderator of a discussion between a student teacher and the Cooperating Teacher (we used to call them Master Teachers) where it was clear that someone wasn't telling the truth, or at least the whole truth. At stake were simple things like not getting lesson plans on time and becoming a bit more pro-active about asking questions. Still, it seemed that each party was experiencing their

Body Language

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I'm sitting there in a hospital gown, waiting for my doctor to complete my yearly physical.  This is when I look at everything on the walls, read the medical posters, the instructions on any equipment in the room, look in every corner and behind every chair.  I study the paper on the examination table, laugh out loud at the picture of a smiling child holding a bouquet of broccoli, and the note the placement of the computer in the room. Finally, wondering if the gown I'm wearing is on correctly, I focus on myself.  At this point in my life I'm fairly comfortable in a doctor's office.  But it always seems to take so long when waiting for the doc to enter.  So I fidget.  Then I begin a tour of myself.  Scars are tattoos.  I look at the one on my knee and see myself at 12.  Whittling a piece of wood with my Boy Scout jack knife.  The blade slips and I cut a crescent slash through my jeans and into my flesh for life.  50 years later I see the moment.  I'm worried mor

One More Time

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Kentucky Derby 138 is firmly in the books this morning with all the hoopla, hangovers, and might have beens quietly tucked away.  It was the first time in recent memory that Cinco de Mayo coincided with the Derby.  Here in Portland, they celebrate these two rites of spring in their own weird way.  The 5th of May commemorates the Battle of Puebla, but Portlanders could probably care less.  Hence the name "Drinko de Mayo."  The riverside is transformed into a carnival and this year the rain held back so that the mud wasn't too deep. Derby parties take place in many local pubs and sometimes the neighborhood establishments even rent a bus and take the party out to Portland Meadows, the local race track, so the patrons can have a moving fashion show and actually bet a few bucks on the race. My Derby ritual is in transition.  I've done parties at home, intense gatherings at the track with my thoroughbred  cronies, and, when a working turf writer, watched the race in