No Moon For You

In July of 1969 I found myself in Houston, Texas, completing the training to become a VISTA Volunteer, our nation’s domestic Peace Corps.  As part of the training , we were placed in poor communities living with families that survived on surplus commodities like government cheese, peanut butter and powdered milk. Each day I would make my way from my “home” to the training session in downtown Houston.  One particularly muggy morning I decided to take a bus in early and find a small air-conditioned café to hang out in until the training meeting began. The 42 Holman pulled up to the stop half a mile from the home of the family where I was living.  I boarded, sitting near the front. Only a handful of people occupied the bus. Two more boarded at the stop after mine.

 Waiting at the next stop was an elderly black woman carrying a package and holding a cane. As she boarded the bus, her legs buckled and she dropped to her knees onto the bus steps. I looked up and noticed the driver remained still and looking forward. Nobody moved. This woman, easily in her 70s, grimaced and made a futile attempt to rise. Time stopped. When it was painfully clear that nobody planned to move, I leapt up and ran to her. Helping her to her feet, I escorted her to a nearby seat, gathered up the package and the cane, and asked her if she was OK. A raspy “Thank You” dribbled from her mouth, breaking the ringing silence. She smiled as I returned to my seat directly behind the bus driver. One block later the driver reached over his shoulder and still looking forward, handed me a small black and white card. He never made eye contact. I saw only the massive starched gray back of his uniform shirt and the stubble of his auburn flattop. ACCIDENT REPORT read the 5X8 card. I had only to answer a few simple questions about time and place as the “witness.” I kept wondering what would have happened if I weren’t on that bus? Did the drivers always remain seated when a passenger fell?

After the morning training session, I was still upset. My anger crystallized as I filled out the report and bummed a stamp to get it into the afternoon mail. I attached a sheet with my questions about why the driver never moved and what kind of accountability existed? I spoke briefly with Rev. Miles Simmons, one of the VISTA supervisors and a longtime resident of Houston about the incident. He told me not to obsess about my wording of the report form. He reminded me I would probably never get a response and that in all likelihood the “incident” was over. “Welcome to Houston,” Miles added. I sulked the rest of the day. No one ever called or contacted me about my accident report.  In the years that followed, I realized that this incident occurred right around the time of the Apollo 11 Moon landing.  We VISTA trainees were escorted out of town because of planned demonstrations in Houston by community groups opposed to government spending on the space program.  The fear was that VISTA Volunteers would get arrested in the planned demonstrations incurring further costs and bringing criticism to the program.  

So I missed the moon landing.  The kid who grew up with the space program, was obsessed with satellites and idolized astronauts, spent the day on the beach along the gulf coast unable to see this history in the making.  While the world was focused on Neil Armstrong’s one small step for a man, I was still wondering why nobody recognized or cared about one small step of a woman.

Playback

I took the old tape recorder out of the bottom file cabinet drawer and was surprised there was not much dust on it.  It was residing under a few old political posters and boxes of slides; right where I hoped it would be.  The true test of time would come when I plugged in the AC cord.
In went a cassette and down went the button marked "Play."  Out came the voice of Kate Wolf, the late darling of the Bay Area folk music community.  Shock and awe.  The old machine was not dead, in fact, it was full of life.  The recording made in 1977 sounded as good as I could ever expect.
These old Sony cassette recorders were always well made, but I never expected one to pop to life after sitting dormant for the last 12 years.  Shock turned quickly to delight.

When you try to play a tape cassette that hasn't been used for years, it's quite dicey.  It helps to rewind and fast forward the tape a few times to stretch it out a bit.  This old machine was able to play some tapes I hadn't heard in 20 years without any pre-stretching.  Marvel of marvels.  There went the afternoon.  I listened to bits and pieces of live recordings I'd made many years ago with such pleasure that it felt like a new world opening for the first time.  Even a cassette copy of one of the radio shows I'd produced back in the 80s came back to life.  The voices from the interviews and the music that interspersed those conversations sounded fresh and vital.
Before I closed up my makeshift recording studio for the day I took a long look at that old Sony machine.  I wondered how many times it had played the recording of Death of a Salesman with the original cast for high school juniors.  At least 50 times, I'll bet.  Never missed a year.  I thought of the radio shows I'd done as well as some smaller efforts done by my seniors one year on the Vietnam War.  This particular class, somewhere between 1985-1990 had really wanted to learn about the war which had affected so many of their fathers and uncles.  We don't know very much and nobody really wants to talk about it, they said.  That Sony recorded their segments in my classroom and played it all back beautifully.
When I became a working journalist for The Bloodhorse magazine, I lugged that machine on my shoulder at many a backstretch looking for and finding interviews with old timers and young guns alike.  I recorded the sound of 12 thoroughbreds thundering down the stretch and the call to the post.  Crowd roars and the sudden drop of emotion that follows crossing the finish line were all taken in my that recorder.
The technology has changed so fast that cassette tapes are more of a burden.  I know I've got to downsize and thin out what I lug around these days, but now, at least I may be able to give some of the tapes I accumulated one last listen.  As long as the old stand-by machine still lasts.  I'm glad I did not take it for dead.  If I can revive some of the old tapes they just might be in good enough condition to convert to MP-3 files and pass on share again.  If not, I tried.  Too bad the microphone I used to use has died.  Maybe I can find another, but what for?

Next World

The man was very centered.  He was clam and thoughtful and smiled when he spoke.  His ideas appeared well thought out and he was dressed for the occasion.  A nice business suit is definitely appropriate for an appearance on 60 Minutes, still among the most watched television programs.
The man is an expert.  After a few niceties, he uttered a profound thought.  "It's probably the most important invention since electricity," he said.
The man is a successful Chinese businessman.  He is not both enamored by and involved solely with his expertise: A I...Artificial Intelligence.

The TV interview was punctuated with images of video screens that reduced people walking down busy city streets to numbers and black and white descriptions of their clothing.
The man said, "it's coming whether we like it or not," in many ways.  He was convincing.
The man explained that we do not want to think for machines, rather we want to teach them to think for themselves.
The man is from a country with 5 billion people.  Each one has a face that can be used as an individual identity.  The computers can quickly measure the size and shape of an individual nose the exact distance between the eyes.  The man made it sound like this precision is something that is so precise that the computers are to be trusted.  He also mentioned that data is now his countries most valuable resource.
The man's name is Kai-Fu-Lee and he is known as "the oracle of AI."
Before his interview was concluded, Mr. Lee left us with a comforting thought.  He agreed that computers will never be able to think like humans.  He conceded the argument that they will ever have the internal and emotional workings of people.  BREATHE...
Fortunately, people of my age bracket will not have to worry too much about this world that is sure to come.  Mr. Lee thinks much of the major changes...those that will engulf about 40% of the jobs now available to humans, are between 30-50 years away.
My first impulse is Resist!  But then I won't be around to feel many of the upcoming consequences.  Still, my perspective becomes even more valuable because of that.  I may even be able to see the value of my life , as it was and continues to be, through a new lens.
The man scares me, but his smile is so pleasant.  A Zen koan?

Talking Over (Talking not Taking)

We all have them.  Those "friends" who hover around and over the fringes of our lives whose political beliefs are the direct opposite of our own.  Some times they come in handy when we want to think about what the "other side" believes and what informs those beliefs.  For me, these folks come from very disparate parts of my life.  That could be from specific interests I have like fly fishing, or horse racing, or writing, or even my generation.  Usually our close friends, especially those we have maintained relationships with for decades have compatible political beliefs.  We almost take for granted that the people we hold close will see things the way we do.
And then there is family.  The classic trope of the family holiday dinner that has to avoid any talk of politics is repeated thousands of times every year.  That Aunt or Uncle or a distant cousin who seems to be radically conservative or liberal does really make regular appearances.  But back to our own friendships, how many do we value that feature a person whose beliefs are drastically than our own.
Certainly social media has fostered these uncomfortable friendships.  In fact, I've seen a trend lately of some people I know beginning to cull their "friends" based on political beliefs.  I'm not sure that this is a good idea because only interacting with the converted has real dangers.  But each of us has had that moment when we see that someone we previously thought was well-informed has had a bit of the Kool-Aid that often gets consumes by the politically naive.  We're shocked, disappointed, and sometimes angry that this is so.

If we encounter our "friend" and fall into a lively discussion...well, you know where that usually leads.  I think the key here is to disagree in a way that helps to inform and in no way disparages, insults, or degrades another human being.  There is a brilliant power that comes from expressing a viewpoint with one's emotions in check.  I realize that this cannot always be done, and I for one tend to err on the side of being too emotional.  That can have positive connotations, but the level-headed, articulate, respectful expression of one's position always wins the day.
I'm reminded of a student I once had in a World History class.  When the class was in the middle of an emotional discussion and had to be reminded to speak one at a time, he'd hold back.  His peers valued his comments but had to wait until order was restored.  Then, I'd call on him and he'd smile as the class turned around to face him.  He always prefaced his remarks with the phrase, "Here's what I think."  I marveled at his ability to be heard by all.  If only that trait were teachable.  Today, on talk shows and panel discussions we see people constantly talking over one another.  Perhaps our technological advances can come up with a solution.  Maybe when people talk over another their microphones could go off, or a red light could blink indicating that we can't understand any of you people when you speak over one another.  Wonder how much dead air (silence) that would yield?

Teaching Reality

New day, new year...but an old dream with a new twist.  One recurring teaching dream that seems to find me now and again popped up on a cold, fairly quiet (until the firecrackers started) New Year's Eve concerns the last class of the day.  The recurring part is that I have a class in a room that is not my own and, of course I have forgotten to prepare adequately for it.  It's always a challenge for me to find the exact room because I have to walk across a big campus that offers me only a vague sense of where I am.  The class is reminiscent of one I had many years ago because it has a large group of hyperactive, low-skilled 9th graders who have very little buy-in to the whole notion of school and reading.  Even with no lesson plan I am not at a loss because these kids are mostly the ones that have given up and been given up on.  I want to establish some reading and writing routines and am willing to try all manner of strategies.  But, in the dream I enter the room and have to make some decisions quickly because I always arrive right when the tardy bell rings having had difficulty finding the classroom.

I should say at this point that yesterday I heard on our local public radio station an interview with a friend of mine who teaches at the local city college.  She was describing her students as those who want a college experience, but haven't enjoyed much success because they come from severely disadvantaged backgrounds or are vets with PTSD, or have learning disabilities. Many of these first year college students have never read an entire book, and that is a goal of her course...a novel of their own choosing.
Back to my dream:  My classroom appears very different when I begin to take role and I notice there are many nooks and small rooms attached like coves in a large lake.  So in walking around the room taking roll, I notice small groups of students sitting together and many seem to know each other.  This geography could be an advantage, I think.
I scramble around looking for a class set of books I believe is in one of the cupboards.  I want to do some reading with this group so I can assess their reading and interest levels.  No books.  From out of the blue I get an idea and pass out some 8x11 sheets of blank paper and ask the class to fold their papers into small squares by folding the paper in half again and again.  From there I ask each student to place their response to a question in each square...about 16 squares in all.  Somehow, the questions calling for a response just keep coming and I realize by connecting the squares in any order each student will have a story to tell, or even a series of stories to tell.  This is somewhat reminiscent of a mind-map strategy I've used before but never as a writing strategy in an English class.
When I awake I have a strong sense of accomplishment, but realize that this class for this group of students needs to be planned out carefully for the year and I need to get some books in the room
pronto!
I'm also reminded that, on occasion, some of the best lessons are those that arise out of immediate need and can't quite be planned out.  That's the reality of teaching.