Passing People

 Sometimes it does seem as if we are every age we’ve ever been. When the Fire dept. showed up at my neighborhood “Safer Together” block party and let all the kids climb over their shiny red engine, I  regressed to a 9-year-old. Watch me catch a fish and I’m 12 again. Watching a baseball game with the Giants playing I become all ages. But in the last few decades of our lives, something decidedly different occurs. Expression of those differences becomes problematic.

Having spent the better part of my life as a high school teacher, I am comfortable around young people, especially adolescents.  Consequently, I often acknowledge them when walking in public, forgetting sometimes that they don’t think of me as a familiar, albeit trusted teacher they know. When that happens, I get either no response, a cold eye roll, or a rapid look away. Being perceived as a threat or inappropriate may be the last thing on my mind, but it frequently happens.

In fact, it seems lately that most people we pass on the street look away or don’t acknowledge your presence. Clearly, some will always smile or say good morning or afternoon, but they are usually the older folks. I’m not sure what this means, but it makes me want to greet everyone, especially a stranger, no matter how uncomfortable. 

Some years ago in Berkeley, California we had a resident known as the “waving man.” He lived on MLK St. a main boulevard, and would water his lawn and wave to the morning traffic. Soon people waved back. After a year or two of this spontaneous morning ritual, the waving man began to wear white gloves to make his waves more visible. They’d he was given a few pairs of day-glow orange or yellow!

He must be long gone by now, but his simple act of an unsolicited wave met a deep need. I know I always looked forward to passing his house on my way to work.

II

I’m finding that with age comes a narrowing of friendship. Last week alone, I had two close friends lament that they have very few friends anymore. One even looked at me and lamented, "You're it."  Of course, we survived, while some of our friends moved away. But those friendships that linger like an untended garden, often die. Even Facebook can’t help those ties. The statistics for people living alone in this culture are staggering. In 1940 one-person households averaged just under 8%. Today it is around 30%.  I'm not putting a value judgment on this fact, just noting that it is dramatically on the rise.  

Friendship takes work. It takes sacrifice too.

Not Forgotten

 It's hard not to live in the past these days.  At the risk of pining for the good old days, I miss more and more some of the things I previously thought would always be there.  Newspapers, for example.  Not only do we not rely on them for news,  I have come to call my local paper the $3.00 crossword puzzle.  Now, I could argue for retaining local and national papers,  but most of the people who would benefit from that argument would never read or hear of it. 

At some point, all of us over 50 have faced the reality that technology has mapped out our future and left many of the familiar and favorite things we came to depend on in its wake.  But at what cost?

People seem distracted and speedy these days.  That might explain why I see so many people drive right through Stop signs.  One of the streets in my neighborhood almost requires drivers with a clear right of way to slow to a stop when they come to a corner where side streets have clear Stop signs.   Not doing so will often result in a near miss and /or collision.  

The impatience that comes from being online so much impacts many other forms of social interaction as well. We want it and we want it now, whatever it may be.  In my neck of the woods, it is possible to go through a day running errands, eating, purchasing needed products, and "relaxing" without getting out of a car.  That can't be good.  I wonder how long it will be before a car will be on the market that features a toilet of some sort.  People would buy that, no doubt.

Am I grousing?  Not really, just recognizing that the life changes we are now experiencing have losses as well as gains.  Unfortunately, when something we like goes, it seldom returns.  Last week I saw an ad for a tee-shirt with a rotary dial pictured on the front.  It is a mysterious-looking device to the younger generations.  

The Other

 With the war between Israel and Hamas has come a huge rise of antisemitism.  That’s less surprising than the fact that hatred toward Semitic people is as old as time. Lost in the current strife is the fact that both Arab and Jewish people are considered Semitic. It comes down to the language groups originally spoken by people who historically hail from the Middle East.

But when we speak about antisemitism and its rise, we’re talking about hatred and prejudice directed toward Jews. In a complex situation like Palestinian and Israeli land claims and rights, the situation is further complicated. How alike and how dissimilar are these people? Isn’t it true that some Israelis and Palestinians have lived side by side peacefully for decades? 

Nevertheless, hatred toward Jews and the vicious stereotypes that often accompany it is very much alive and on the rise. For some, it’s a matter of indolence. Too lazy to change their thinking about the old tropes. Thus when an elderly guest at a dinner party I attended a few years ago told be about a good deal she got at a garage sale by “Jewin’ ’em down" on the price, I was not really shocked, but rather disappointed. Tropes about stingy Jews and dishonest "Gypsies" ( getting Gyped)  persist because some folks are too lazy to change their thinking and behavior. Nevertheless, the sting remains for the target group.

Growing up in a post-war suburban area of Southern California, I was never given any religious background. I knew that my parents and most relatives were Jewish, but never having gone to a synagogue or celebrating the religious holidays, being a Jew was never something that was clear to me. Being the “other” definitely was. That’s because of the way I was treated.

My middle school experience offers the best examples. From time to time I’d hear comments like “dirty Jew” or “quit acting like a Jew” but they usually weren’t personal. Of course, there was always a little sting, but I just chalked it up to ignorance. Those same kids freely referred to black folks as “niggers” and Latinos as “beaners” and all Asians as Chink or Dink. Occasionally the term Jap would find its way into this lexicon of stereotyping. 

My Middle School was tough. It had a fair mix of Mexican-American, Asian, and working-class white kids. It also had a tradition of hazing through an act called “scrubbing.” The incoming 7th graders were harassed by 8th and 9th graders by chasing after them and then holding them down while applying lipstick all over their faces. It was harmless at best, and humiliating at worst. Usually, these incidents came at the beginning of the school, but by Fall or Winter, good old-fashioned racial bigotry or antisemitism took root.

Kids known or suspected to be Jewish had pennies thrown at them. Pelted by pennies was more like it. The message was that Jews are so tight they covet every penny. So if a penny was on the ground, everyone who was Jewish would fight for it. One day while walking to my next class I observed this particular behavior,  followed by one of the perpetrators making another. "Do you know why Jews have such big noses? It's where they put all the pennies!" Uproarious laughter followed, but for every kid like me another dart was thrown directly at me.

The worst incident I experienced came one day while still in Elementary school.  I used to walk home with a handful of the kids who lived near me.  Three or four lived only a few blocks away and by the time we reached their houses, I was almost home.  One day, one of the other 5th-grade girls had about $5.00 to spend on candy.  I think her parents were recently separated and her dad gave her a $5 bill for candy because she was feeling depressed about her new home life. She told all the kids she was going to spend the entire $5 and asked about five of us, "What do you want?"  Most of us said nothing. So she went on ahead and returned from our community drugstore with the large candy counter with a big brown bag. In those days there was still penny candy and even two for a penny candy.  Regular-sized candy bars were a nickel and a dime, so you can imagine how many pieces added up to $5. 

Everybody crowded around to see what poured out of the bag.  Then it saw it. The gold foil gleaming in the sun.  The one candy I could never afford: was Rolo.  The caramel-covered chocolate little disks that were always out of reach for me.  Others went for Look bars or Almond Joy.  Lots of takers for Necco Wafers, Snickers, and 3 Musketeers.  "Go on Bruce, take something our benefactor urged.  There was still a huge bagful of candy remaining.  "Can I have the Rolo," I queried. "Sure, came the quick reply.  So I took it out of the bag and began to carefully unwrap the shiny exterior.

"Only a Jew would take that," soon echoed in my ear.  Dennis, a local bully wasted no time.  "I wouldn't take candy from somebody,   only a Jew would" he repeated.  A dart in the heart, that 65 years later stings as sharp now as it did then.  

I used to question where this kind of insensitivity comes from?  But I know now it's taught.  There was probably a good reason for adhering to these stereotypes because putting down people often serves to elevate the self.  A shakey self, at that.  Still, the message that always came through is we are the ones that set the rules, this is our world and you are the other, the less than, the inferior.  

Save Our Land

 Timothy Egan has done it again.  This writer is an American treasure.  His books cover essential topics from America's past that resonate today and allow for historical perspective that is needed and necessary.

In A Fever in the Heartland, Egan traces the rise of the Ku Klux Klan in middle America.  When we think of the notorious Klan, most of us automatically think of the South.  But shortly after World War I, with the country in the throes of a postwar moral dilemma, the infamous Klan rose to prominence and swelled its ranks in the states of Ohio and Indiana.  We are talking of a membership in the hundreds of thousands.

Under the direction of a few prominent personalities the Klan leadership first co-opted the Protestant Church and its ministers. Then it went on to recruit and bribe various political officials from members of Congress to local politicos and judges, law enforcement agencies, and any other decision-making entity that might be of use.  

With DC Stephenson at the helm, the Klan became a national terrorist organization to reckon with and fear. Stephenson was a drifting con man whose racism and xenophobia found a quick home in the Klan.  Despite the Klan's moral facade, Stephenson was a hard-drinking, wife-beating, paranoid opportunist who saw a land and population ripe for the picking.  He often predicted his success.  His arguments on all things political and social were underpinned by his ability to tell a lie so long and strong that he convinced thousands to drop their notions of democracy, fairness, equality, and violence.

To see thousands of our fellow Americans draped in sheets and hoods attending public meetings that openly advocated white supremacy, anti-semitism, racism, and anti-Catholic views is truly eye-opening.  Yet it is the kind of thing that conveniently has been left out of many history books.  Those educators committed to telling the truth will have to face these facts at some point.  Timothy Egan helps bridge that wide and ever-widening gap with his scholarship.

As I read through this book one thing comes dramatically to the surface. In documenting the life of DC Stephenson the parallels to a former President of the United States are glaringly clear.  The racism, the xenophobia, and the attitudes toward the underclass, immigrants, and women are spot on.  If a sociopath can win the presidency, one can surely wrangle the leadership of the Klan.

**Footnote: In the summer of 1969, while a VISTA Volunteer in Houston, Texas, I took a small poster off a telephone pole near downtown Houston on Main Street.  It was a Klan recruitment poster that had a black graphic of a hooded Knight holding a torch while mounted on a rearing steed.  Across the image were the words "Save Our Land, Join the Klan."  Since that time over 50 years ago, the hatred and fear pseudo-science espoused by this hate group has refused to go away.  Are we or have we already been condemned to repeat?

Brown-Eyed Son

 

Early Morning Walk

Fall is diminishing on this new day,

Tell me what you saw,

Jung lives in graffiti and a bag of potatoes on the sidewalk,

A man wearing a fez gestures emotionally,

Children stare from a glassed-in playroom,

But we can only wave and smile before

Being ushered away silently.

Motorcycles or motor-psychos have their own

Brew now.

A vegan patio, a robed tattoo artist, a bookstore that knits.

None of this is surreal, just unreal,

There is a difference, you know.

Old Sheet Music for Sale (Rare)

 About 35 years ago, while roaming through an uptown antique store in the Carrollton district of New Orleans, I saw something that stopped me cold. It was a piece of sheet music from the early 1900s.  I have a small collection of old sheet music, not for playing the tunes, but because of the imagery.  I have used pop culture items in my classroom to illustrate racial attitudes and the proliferation of racist, sexist, anti-Semitic, and distorted imagery.  In front of me was just such an image, but of such unique quality, I was dumbstruck.  

    There has long been a tradition of racist imagery in the development of music in America.  The genre popularly known as the "Coon Song," was in its prime around the early part of the 20th century.  Derived from the minstrel show tradition, the song lyrics of this period unabashedly use the terms nigger and coon as if they were accepted in everyday usage.  They were.  

Sh,  here I am in the heart of Dixie staring face to face with this bonafide antique in a condition that suggests it is authentic but there is something about this particular piece that makes it stand out.  It is both Anti-Semitic and racist! A double-dose.

The song title is "Rebecca's Left Home with a Coon" Under that title is the line, "A Hebrew AfroAmerican impossibility."  I must have this.

Slowly and unobtrusively, I make my way to the small counter at the front of the store.  A balding man in his 60s looks up.

"What would you have to have for this piece, " I ask. (I hope he doesn't realize what he has there.) 

"Oh, that piece is special, it would cost you $100.00.  

Dumbstruck again.  $100. for something that probably cost 15 cents when it first appeared.  Still,  I knew this opportunity would not come again.  I was in New Orleans for a few more weeks participating in a seminar on Southern women writers and on a very limited budget.  A hundred bucks would put a dent in my budget I could not afford, so I turned to the only possibility I had to go home with this relic.  I had a day off that weekend so I went to the racetrack.  Not Fair Grounds, the oldest and best track in town, but Jefferson Downs, a small bull ring track that was as dicey as it appeared.  Suffice it to say the last Exacta of the evening paid me $150. so I marched back to Oak Street and that little shop and purchased Rebecca.  I wrapped the glassed-in frame in a soft towel and placed it in the middle of my suitcase.  She made it home just fine and for the last 35 years or so has resided in my office.

*Recently I posted this picture of Rebecca on a Facebook page for African-American memorabilia or some such euphemism.  I asked if anyone had ever seen this before or anything like it.  After a few weeks, I got a couple of responses confirming how rare I thought it was.  One collector even said he had something like it but added no details or pictures.  

Like my entire collection, it is for sale.  I'll accept all issues.

Holy Landmine

 As if we didn’t need another major news trauma to occupy our fearful minds, here comes that old nemesis  the latest version of the Arab-Israeli conflict to bring new heights of despair to the airwaves. Of course, what we are dealing with these days is the unprovoked attack by Hamas on the state of Israel. Yes, I know using the word unprovoked here is debatable, but for now it will have to remain.

This conflict is as convoluted and complicated as it is frustrating. It is not a simple matter of just making sure the Palestinians have a homeland. If that were the case, surely a compromise satisfactory to both sides could be hammered out. I turned an International Relations class of high school seniors loose on this conflict 25 years ago and after looking at the arguments on both sides, and spending time with maps of the region, they came up with a solution that allowed Israelis and Palestinians to live and prosper side by side in the land they have both occupied for centuries. Would that this was so easy to accomplish. 

What is not so easy to deal with is the mentalities both sides hold.  Golda Meir, the former Israeli Prime Minister once said that you cannot talk peace with “someone who has come to kill you.”  And now the media has a field day with confirmed and unconfirmed reports of atrocities. Most Americans probably don’t know the difference between the Palestinian people and Hamas, let alone the history and current status of the crisis. 

So, with Ukraine suddenly on the back burner, the world watches their news anchor of choice appear under night skies covered with the sight of deployed missiles and explosions. The helmeted news reporters    duck for cover, they shed a tear here and there, and report live on the 24 hour cycle. Programs are preempted, live war comes into your living room around the clock. Just in time for Halloween.

And what of innocent Palestinians who are not supporters of Hamas? The two way bloodbath that is sure to follow will, no doubt tighten the judgment of those who follow the daily array of bombings and atrocities. Who can take sides in a war that kills babies and the elderly without shame?

An Ice Cream Tale

 I love bittersweet chocolate ice cream. The trouble is, very few companies make it. That wasn’t always the case. A few years ago the Three Twins company made a wonderful bittersweet chocolate. Like many things we love, it disappeared when the company went out of business. That happens all too often these days. We find a product we love and then it’s suddenly gone. I have a long list of things I always looked forward to that have disappeared.  So it goes.

A few months ago, while browsing the ice cream freezer at my local grocery, I chanced to see the words Bittersweet Chocolate on an ice cream container. Well, not exactly. It was a cashew milk frozen dessert boldly displaying my favorite flavor. With lowered expectations, I purchased the product and was delighted to find it was really good. The flavor I’d been missing was now back in my life. 

Not for long. This product, manufactured by the Forager company suddenly disappeared. No store that had previously carried the flavor had it. Most that carried the brand only had Cookies and Cream in their freezers. Another mysterious loss.

One evening, fantasizing about ice cream I decided to do some serious research to see if anyone made any version of bittersweet chocolate.  After much disappointment, I discovered that the Humboldt Creamery in very Northern California did, in fact, offer bittersweet chocolate ice cream. 

But available only in Northern California. 

I drove from Portland, Oregon to the Bay Area a couple of weeks ago. On this drive I’ve done many times, I often stop for gas around Redding, California. There is a large chain grocery store near a convent gas station that is good for hard-to-find things as well as a good selection of fly fishing gear and magazines. Sure enough, there it was Humboldt Creamery Bittersweet Chocolate ice cream. What to do. I could try to eat a pint while on the road, but that wasn’t the best alternative. I waited for the return trip when I’d spend the night in Ashland, Oregon. 

I bought a pint and tasted it in the parking lot. It was as good as I hoped it would be. Then we packed it up in a freezer bag with ick blocks. By the time I got to Ashland a couple of hours later, it was time to see the results. There, in the quiet motel lobby I removed my prize cargo carefully. The ice had melted but the ice cream container was in tact. What I had was a cool, liquid that resembled and tasted like the best chocolate malt I’d ever had. Definitely worth the effort.

Poetry and Rain

     About 55  years ago, when I was in my Junior year of college at UCLA, I participated in a most exciting activity.  On a large bulletin board on the ground floor of Royce Hall, far away from the ads for typewriter service, and upcoming concerts and speakers, way up in the right-hand corner a little experiment was taking place.  

    an anonymous group of students was exchanging ideas and opinions under pseudonyms.  It was the age of flower children and war resistors.  It was smack dab in the big middle of the Civil Rights movement.  Nixon was the President, and the Beatles were still a relatively new group.  Dylan was transitioning from Folk to Rock, Janis Joplin was about a year away, and the Rolling Stones were a competent blues band of British blokes.  

    There were no cell phones or computers.  Gas costs about a quarter a gallon and tuition for arguably one of the best universities in the country was approximately $80.00 a quarter.  Using these false names, students were reaching out to find humanity in a sea of 30,000 students in a city of millions.  Anyone could read the posts left by this group.  Those posts were literally posted with thumbtacks!

    Trying to broaden my world and perhaps meet some new friends I sheepishly joined this group under the name of B.L. Poet.  Occasionally I offered an opinion or a critique.  In time I came to look forward to passing this bulletin board to see if anything new had appeared.  One day,  someone, whose name I do not recall asked the participants: Write me a poem about rain.  I took up the challenge.  Within a couple of days, I posted my work. 

    I no longer have that poem.  In the last 50 years, I have lived in 3 states and moved a dozen times.  That poem, if it ever made it into one of my poetry folders, did not survive.  It served its purpose.  But I do recall the last line of the poem.  It was something about children who "watched us breathe the rain."  I liked that poem, especially the last line.  

    Fast forward to today.  I decided to see what an AI Bot would do if asked to write a poem.  Here is the result:

Write a poem about rain

The rain falls down 

A soothing sound

A tranquil moment

For which we are bound

It washes away

The dust of the day

And cools down the earth

In its own special way

The plants and the trees

Dance in glee 

As their thirst is quenched

By natures decree

There is more, but you get the idea 

What You Do After

 I just finished a thousand mile road trip. One of the things that happens When you spend the better part of your day in a car is that you hear things on the radio that you might normally have missed. While I often listen to music while driving, I mostly listen to NPR stations from city to city, state to state. It’s always fascinating to hear the differences between the larger cities versions of NPR and those national stations emanating from smaller or university towns.

So it was last weekend while driving back to Portland from the Bay Area I chanced to hear the name and then the voice of a former student of mine. It was on one of those Sunday afternoon NPR programs that deal with important subjects, but that many people miss because they aren’t in their cars at that time. The topic was AI and other recent computer consequences that our culture is bracing for. I was vaguely listening, concentrating more on passing large semi trucks and noting the distance to the next town. When I heard Lydia’s name mentioned my ears perked and then that familiar voice followed. She is an authority on computer programming and is currently a professor at Columbia University. That is not surprising to me because Lydia was probably the most intelligent student I encountered in my 34 years in the classroom. Unlike other brilliant students I’ve encountered, there was no trace of arrogance or intolerance in Lydia. She easily worked well with her classmates and readily shared her ideas. 

I’d heard that she recently married and accepted a position at Columbia, so life must be good for her. I focused on that for a few minutes because I soon recalled a conversation I had with her shortly before she graduated.  Lydia dreamed of going to the US Naval Academy. That was her fondest desire and certainly possible because she had the grades, the distortion, and the intangible qualities sought after. Shortly before her final admission, Lydia was diagnosed with some sort of heart murmur that disqualified her. She was crestfallen and upset that she had to go to MIT, her second choice. We laughed because most students would be overjoyed with acceptance to MIT.  I tried to help her see that things would be just fine wherever she went. I constantly repeated the line, “It’s not where you go, it’s what you do after you go there that counts.” It often helped soothe an injured soul. Not so Lydia. I think by now she finally has achieved what she’s dreamed of.

Peer Pressure

 I probably won’t be around to see it, but I’m fascinated by how the era of Donald Trump and his impact on American politics will be portrayed. IF, in time he is seen as the sociopath who would be President, then the real emphasis must fall on those who enabled him. Trump is who he is. He’s remarkably consistent at that because he used the same defense mechanisms repeatedly. He projects, denies, and rationalizes with unabashed frequency. 

It is not I who am lying, it’s you.  I did not lose the election, my opponent did. I am not racist, you are. Ad nauseam.  As a noted psychologist put it, “It is easier for him to lie than to tell the truth.” He checks all the sociopath boxes. He is who he is.

So, the question now turns to his supporters.  It’s fairly to see where his base is coming from. He speaks truth to what they consider the real harmful perceived power in their lives. He does so without shame or accountability.  He oversimplifies issues and that plays well with the uneducated. He is their hero despite the contradictions that his racism, sexism, and duplicity convey. 

That leaves the supporters of his that know better. These folks are the ones that interest me the most. They have surrendered their honesty and integrity completely. Their fear of losing an election gets in the way of any sense of ethics they may have previously had. They tremble quietly in fear, save a few Republicans who have ambitions in what remains of the party he ransacked.

What will history say of these folks?

In the next year some of Trump’s outrageous actions may come before a jury. A jury of his peers would mean a panel of sociopaths. Wouldn’t it? 

It Was Once a Game

             It's always about the money.  No surprise there, but something is happening to professional sports in America, resulting in consequences for amateur sports.  I'm not talking about the salaries, that's another story, albeit inter-related to my topic.  

            Time was when a baseball player could play an entire career for one team.  Mention a name like Al Kaline, or Ted Williams, and only one team comes to mind.  Most folks forget that Jackie Robinson was traded to the Giants right before he retired.  He never played for them, but had he gone on with his historic career, it would have ended in a Giants uniform.  

        I never thought that Willie Mays would ever leave the Giants.  Seeing him in a Mets uniform was tough, but at least he had the familiar NY on his cap again. There is no allegiance left for most professional athletes.  They are commodities and while some are brought back to their original teams before they hang it up for one last hurrah, the chances of playing for the same team all career long are almost nil. 

    A similar thing is happening with team uniforms and colors.  Specific colors were consistently associated with specific teams.  The other day I saw an SF Giants cap in Dodger blue advertised.  What's up with that?  Just step on tradition.  
In recent years, many teams, both collegiate and professional have added black to their color schemes.  UCLA football has a uniform with the familiar blue and gold on black pants.  It's supposed to make them more fierce, like the old Oakland Raiders, I suppose.

    Speaking of college football, the money involved is now impacting the demise of a once strong and important conference.  The Pacific 12 will be down to 9 teams next year as USC, UCLA and the University of Oregon will soon join the Big Ten.  This leaves the state schools, like Washington State and Oregon State in a tough position.  It has yet to be determined what Stanford and the University of Washington will do.  The reason is simple: the millions involved in television rights.  So in effect, the big networks like ESPN and NBC, and CBS can end the years of traditional rivalry that was once so important to those programs.  

    Yeah, I know I sound like an old man complaining about change.  That's right.  I'm proud to be one of the voices that hate to lose some of the traditions that made college football so different from professional. The money does the talking and a few schools will benefit.  Those with power and influence will ruin another dimension of American sports.  

    About 30 years ago a book and movie appeared called Rollerball.  It was a dystopic look at a world where all sports had evolved into one remaining sport called rollerball. A large steel ball was herded into a steel net by two teams representing large corporate interests.  No matter if players were killed during play.  The injured were scooped up and replaced quickly.  The whole world rooted for the multinational of their choice.   Looks like we are on our way to this dystopic form of sport.

    

History 176

    I recently discovered the newsletter of Kareem Abdul Jabbar, the famous basketball player, now retired.  I subscribed and found his take on various events in the news both well-written and most enjoyable.   I'm not surprised, as I've read some of his books and followed his on and off-the-court career for years.

    We go way back, Kareem and I.  I'm about 6 months older than he, and we shared some of the same classes in college at UCLA.    Most noteworthy were the two African-American history classes taught by Dr. Ron Yakaki in 1967 and 1968.  These were among the first Black history courses in the University of California system.  As history majors at UCLA, it was probably inevitable that our paths would cross in a classroom or two.  

    Occasionally I'd see Kareem on campus walking to class like any other student.  He was hard to miss.  I recall he often walked with a woman who may have been one of the cheerleaders. She was barely 5 feet tall.

    Years later, I realize how special those courses were.  Of course back then they were listed as History 176, History of the American Negro.  They must have been titled by some academic dean who hadn't read Malcolm X and didn't know,  as Malcolm said, "Negro attaches you to nothing. there is no place called Negroland."  Soon afterward, the preferred term became Black, with a capital B.

    Dr. Takaki's lectures were stimulating and very informative.  We were learning things that had been missing from our education for years.  Probably the day I recall most was the afternoon that Kareem stood up, all 7 feet 1 1/2 inches of him, and announced to the class that his name was no longer Lew Alcindor.  He had a copy of Life Magazine with him that featured a profile of him.  He explained to the class that though the article in Life referred to him as Lew Alcindor, it was wrong, his name was now Kareem Abdul Jabarr and he was now a Muslim.  That was not surprising as we all knew about the conversion of Muhammad Ali and other sports figures.  

    I've often wondered what happened to some of my classmates from those two history courses.  I became friendly with a young African American man named David Morris who, I think, was headed for the clergy, and a Latino man named Gerald Padilla, who was then a graduate student in history.  Gerald used to say that the chances of his marrying a Latina were greatly reduced because he was an intellectual and the statistics for Latina graduate students were virtually non-existent.  He worried about that.

    There was another classmate from those two courses that crossed my mind the other day.  Her name was Wallace Albertson.  She was the wife of Jack Albertson, the actor (Chico and the Man, Days of Wine and Roses), and had put together a little discussion group in their home in the Hollywood Hills.  It was an attempt to bring together a diverse group of people to rationally discuss key issues and learn from each other.  As I recall, some of the other participants in Dr. Takaki's classes and those discussions had entertainment industry connections.  There was Eddie Anderson Jr., the son of the famous Eddie Anderson who played Jack Benny's man Friday named Rochester.  

    UC Berkeley got most of the national attention in those days, but the UCLA campus was the site of a number of big anti-war demonstrations, the all-campus People's Park Strike, and the assassination of two Black Panther Party members.  

    Many history classes met in Haines Hall, the beautiful Italian Romanesque building that stood next to the UCLA landmark, the iconic Royce Hall.

    I recall I once stayed after class to ask Dr. Kakaki a question and Kareem and a couple of his friends were close by.  They were discussing something that had been the topic of the lecture that day and I soon joined in with them.  Craning my neck to look up at Kareem while I was addressing him was definitely memorable.  It's nice to reconnect with him again, in some small way.  

Come Out and Play

     Psychologists have long studied the nature of play in and for children.  Often, the bottom line here is imagination.  The essence of play for many children is the ability to imagine and then model the people and things we see.

    But Play, like most social institutions is changing...rapidly.  Kids don't play the way they used to, quite simply.  Something is lost and gained because of that.  Take three generations and sit them down and discuss the nature of play.  What and how did you play as a child and how does that differ from kids today and how did it differ from your parent's generation?

    The technology developed in the last few decades seems to be the driving factor in describing these differences.  Today everything is virtual as opposed to real.  Sure kids still play Monopoly and maybe even Clue but they rarely invent their own games.  

    I think my childhood, growing up in the 1950s was typical of the post-war generation.  My memories of play are vivid.  With the boys, it was always war, with lots of army gear and running through the neighborhood attacking and defending various areas. But with the many kids in my neighborhood, all being between 8 and 12 years old, we had elaborate games and scenarios that included boys and girls playing all day in summertime together.

We played Western Town, and  Office, the most.  Sure the sex roles were rigid, but that's what we knew.  We created a restaurant with a bar and called it the Candlelight Inn.  When my uncle gave my folks some retired bowling pins ( his job was refinishing bowling alley lanes) we grabbed the best-looking ones before they could be burned in the fireplace and played Bowling Alley using a basketball to knock over the pins in our driveway.

    When one of our neighbors who was an executive for the Carnation Company dumped a load of file folders containing invoices and correspondence in his trash, we salvaged the best-looking ones and played office.  I was the vice president of a firm called Rockwell and Rockwell.  The President was the oldest kid in our group.  I'm afraid the girls were secretaries and wives.  But that's what we knew.  That's what we saw on television, in our parent's lives, and in our society in general.  It was a true Mad Men universe.

    When my nieces' children were young, about 15 years ago,4 cousins used to go into their Great Grandma's closet and put on all her costume jewelry and play.  Invited to join them one day, I agreed to have them adorn me with all manner of costume jewelry.  According to them, I was the "King" even though I was wearing their Nana"s earrings, scarves, hats, and necklaces.  It all looked rather sparkly and therefore fit for a king.  I rejoiced that they were using their imagination much like I recall I did with my peers.  How often does that happen today?  I hope it is not lost, for I fear the consequences.  

    In the next few years, I expect there will be studies that answer some of these questions.  Already we, as a culture, seem to be concerned about the amount of outdoor time kids spend, and how they often are online for hours at a time.  All of us need to be concerned about the latter, I'm told.  

Sweet Home in the Delta

     With the release of the long-awaited work of the late blues scholar Mack McCormick, I decided to read what blues enthusiasts and ethnomusicologists were crowing about.  McCormick was reputed to be the best source on the subject of Robert Johnson, the Mississippi Delta bluesman that is generally regarded as the force for much of what later became Rhythm and Blues and Rock and Roll. 

    His archive was enormous if organized.  Filled with notes, photos, records, and clippings, and Mack was always going to write a book.  After his death, the entire bundle went to the Smithsonian. Fortunately, the book that was always promised came to light posthumously.  It did not disappoint. However, it is not the last word on Johnson, whose short life, (he died at 27) was always shrouded in myth and legend.  

    Slowly, the veil is lifting and the real Johnson is beginning to emerge after decades of misinformation and just plain nonsense.  One of Johnson's sisters released a book called Brother Robert, along with a wonderful work called Escaping the Delta, Robert Johnson and the Invention of the Blues, by Elijah Wald the man emerges from the weight of the mythology like a beautiful butterfly from a cocoon. 

    Johnson was a master of the slide guitar style so typical of the Mississippi Delta. No, he did not go to the crossroads and sell his soul to the Devil.  But he did almost miraculously improve his playing skills in a short time.  He played in small Delta towns and ultimately went to larger venues in Chicago and New York.  He was a loner,  a rambler, and a hard-drinking survivor who loved the attention from the women who came to the Juke joints and country stores where he most often played.  

    Reading all these books has settled some things for me.  It has also given me new insights into who many of these sketchy figures really were.  For example,  many Delta blues figures, Robert Johnson included, loved and could play other kinds of music.  They were well aware of current trends and tastes but the record companies who grudgingly recorded them were only interested in one stereotypical genre.  The fact that Johnson liked and played tunes by Gene Autry or Fats Waller, comes as a huge surprise, but it need not.  These guys were real people who went to movies when they could, listened to the radio, and occasionally bought phonograph records.  They cared little about what was "authentic" and more about where and how they could make a living.

The Barber of North Portland

 Going to the barber shop is an entirely different experience in 2023 than it was as a kid in the 1950s and 60s.  Back then,  it was a man's world with calendars, magazines, and conversation. It was all male-centered.  

There was one barber who specialized in cutting women's hair, but I only saw him do that a few times in my first 20 years.  Today, I go to what I like to call, "my hipster barber shop."  Depending on the time of day, you can sip a beer or some good whiskey while waiting.  There are a few coffee table-type books but most folks just amuse themselves on their smartphones.  Those phones are used for obtaining appointments and making payments, including tips for the work done.

In my barber shop today, the haircutters are both men and women.  An equal number usually.  But what I like most is the conversation I enjoy with my favorite barber there.  He's young, 26, and loves to chat.  He's also very good at what he does, from the first few clips through to the shaving of the neck.  

    I like the conversation but must also note the music played is often rock and blues with a sprinkling of jazz and pop.  So different that the Perry Como, Bing Crosby, or Doris Day tunes from my childhood.  

The barbers often look like the historical photos on the walls there.  They have big, well-maintained beards, and wear pocket watches on chains.  But my man, Dash, is thin with short hair,  and a most curious disposition.

We talk about pop culture, books, music, and the outdoors.  Like me, he likes to fish and even fly fishes.  His fiance is always referred to as "my lady."  I think he's intrigued by the fact that I taught high school for 35 years and often asks me questions about that.  But the last time I was there we explored our age difference. It's 50 years!  "What's it like to be old?" he asked in all seriousness.  It's different and not different from being young I responded in all seriousness.  He liked the fact that I told him in my find I'm sometimes 19.  The body tells a different story, though.  

Last week Dash told me a funny story about the oldest customer he has.  This 90-year-old comes in about every two weeks.  According to Dash, "He has very little hair on the top of his head and what he does have on the sides is thin and rather wispy." 

Dash continued, "When I'm done he looks in the mirror, pats the wispy hair on the sides and then says, Yougive a great haircut." 

I don't thin I'll ever get to that stage.

Silver Path

 On the eve of my 25th Wedding Anniversary 

Our slow dance continues,

   We walk this silver path together 

into a new forest.

We have received the greatest gift of all,

          Time

The best rest on this sojourn is the

   Space we find available...always.

We are only alone with ourselves when it matters,

   Beyond fear and despair,

The music plays ever slowly for partners 

   Who care, and are there.

Cap n' Gun

     It was bound to happen.  A shooting at a high school graduation just seems par for the course these days.  I can't think of a worse place for panic.  As a veteran of at least 30 high school graduations, I've seen them decline in quality and substance.  For that reason, I volunteered to run the tryouts and judging of grad speakers at my high school.  I did that for about 10 years.  Of course, there were other judges that included students and parents.  A well-balanced approach.

    What I noticed is that the ceremony of the graduation became increasingly less formal.  So much so that it began to feel like a mockery.  Aside from students dancing or romping, or strutting across the stage, the parents often were most out of control.  The "ceremony was so noisy on the occasion that no one could hear anything.  

    It got so bad that most educators I know couldn't wait for it all to end.  Is this what we want? I kept asking myself that question, with very little sense of outrage from some, and apathy from others.  Finally, I settled on a compromise.  I must accept that I'm essentially old school about all the screaming and strutting.  I decided to let that go in favor of some speeches of substance.  

In that area, we made some gains.  One year, when my district almost went bankrupt, and 19 teachers were laid off, one of the speakers said what everybody was thinking.  She delivered the most effective speech I've ever seen questioning the powers that be who allow budgets to be cut, dynamic young teachers to be let go, and the ineptitude of lawmakers to prevent these situations from re-occurring every year.  Of course, some of those same powers had edited her speech and removed some of the most controversial (in their view) content.  But...She went ahead and delivered her speech just the way it originally appeared.  She was right in the middle of her graduation.  What were they going to do?  She knew what speech would be delivered and had no intention of making any changes.  

    That's why I say it was bound to happen.  The school is a reflection of the community.  Nothing more, nothing less.  If the community has gun violence problems, those problems get invited to graduation too.  Somehow there is a great irony here.  Graduation is one of the closest institutions we have in this culture to a rite of passage.  It marks, in a formal way the passage from childhood to adulthood.  With the loss of decorum and the fear of violence, what are we saying about what matters and what can we expect for these newly minted adults?

    

A OK?

 Hovering out on the ragged edge of civilization right now is the phenomenon we’re suddenly hearing so much about called AI. Thinking and conceptualizing beyond the human mind. Already teachers are becoming increasingly wary of who or what is doing the writing on tests and assignments. Is the intelligence human or artificial?

Think of it as Photoshop for the mind. Just as you can take a simple photo of a dog and instantly put him in a desert, a ship at sea, or in outer space, so too can essays and treatises be written by tapping into the vast database of what exists or what is possible. Like most of us, I barely understand all this myself. However, what seems to be screaming at me is the question, how on earth will we ever be able to tell what is real and what is not? Think of the consequences. Will our collective personalities become increasingly skeptical or paranoid? What a life huh? 

Much like the inception of nuclear energy, human nature is truly going to be put to the test. Game changer is a huge understatement.  What is clear at this moment in time is that we can't stop or even slow down this encroachment, so we're going to have to learn to adapt and deal with it.  Like those of us advanced in years, I often find myself saying, "Well, I won't be around to see some of the negative consequences."  But, even that may not be true.  

I'm wondering if this new technology will make our culture even more paranoid and distrustful?  How could it not?  It is going to take some superhuman efforts to avoid falling into the pitfalls that AI is sure to bring.  Human nature will get a real test here.  UNLESS it becomes abundantly clear that we must never let anything artificial do our thinking for us?  Some in the know feel very positive about the future.  Their faith in humanity says that ultimately people will do the right thing and never succumb to letting a computer have the final say about what they think, feel, or will morally accept.  

It's clear now, in the post-pandemic era, that our public education system needs a new paradigm.  What better reason to begin the overhaul than the coming of AI.  It's at once terrifying, yet exciting to see where this will go.  Faith denied,  or faith restored?

Transcend Cynicism

 In a recent interview, author Nana Kwame Adjei Brenyah talked about transcending cynicism. He says we have to be willing to do that. I couldn’t agree more. But finding the will to act is no easy matter. The reasons we’re experiencing what feels like an epidemic of cynicism are many. some days it feels like piling on.

Daily we see people instantly becoming the victims of mass shootings (200 already this year), we see the senseless war in Ukraine, the thousands swarming the Southern border, and the breakdown of the political process in our country. The difficult economic times have always triggered a sharp rise in hate speech, racism, and violence. When a package of crackers costs almost $8.00 and a cup of coffee is over$2.00 it’s easy to be cynical.

Just when we think we’ve rounded up these big issues, others appear fully blown. The climate crisis and the rise of AI both bring new stress lines to our faces. Animals continue to disappear and water looms as the challenge for future survival.

Mental health is, of course, one of the by-products of becoming so negative. To say that we are experiencing a national mental health crisis is not an understatement. It seems as if all the support services that underpin our social structure have taken a vacation. People call 911 for emergency services and sometimes do not get a response. When they do get one, it is often not very timely.

Here’s where we have to dig deep. I’d Love to see the finest minds come together, take some risks, and generate some solutions. At least attempt to do so. Even failed attempts to rectify some of these social ills would be welcomed. Transcend the cynicism and you transcend the cynic, no?

Booked

     Books have always been important to me.  I wish that were true for everyone, but living in a country where more than half the people did not read a book last year, it's clear that reading a book is not high on the list of priorities.  Hell, many folks don't even read actual books these days. The ever-popular handheld devices do everything for them electronically.

    In the last few years, I have downsized my book collection.  I used to love to be surrounded by my bookshelves and had them everywhere.  The bedroom, living room, office, den, and even bathroom usually had some sort of bookshelf.  No longer.  In my household, we share books and pass them along.  Usually, something comes back to us from that effort too.

    When I first retired from teaching I found that my reading time increased 10 fold.  I could finally read whatever and whenever I desired.  I even went to my bookshelf and read some novels and non-fiction works I'd been toting around for years.  It felt great to complete them instead of carrying them around with me for the past few decades.  I'm ready now to pass them along.

    I think I could best be described as an eclectic reader.  I'll read a work of non-fiction, say history or biography, followed by a novel.  Then spend some time with a volume of poetry and perhaps re-read something from years ago.  Like the authors interviewed weekly in the New York Times Book Review, I have a small pile of books on my nightstand, in no particular order. I also have one book I've owned for almost 60 years that fits in no category and I may or may not complete before my time is up.  That special volume is the surrealistic novel The Journal of Albion Moonlight, by Kenneth Patchen.  For many, this novel is difficult to read because, in true surrealistic fashion, it plays around with space and time.  I pick it up now and again and spend time reading a few pages in spurts.  I may one day complete it.  However, I may not.

    Soon it will be time to find new homes for some of my books.  These select few are autographed by the author or qualify as rare, out of print, or are of such limited interest that they would bring joy to a select few.  I am strong in my desire to move them along to good homes.  I'm not sure my energy to do that will match that desire but I will definitely try.  A small bookstore in my neighborhood will be the first destination for some of my obscure stuff: a chapbook by poet Jack Hirshman, all my Kenneth Patchen books, and some rare books on hobos and riding the rails.  I have autographed books by John Nichols, Studs Terkel, and a number of poets.  

    So what will replace my love of owning books?  Probably a log of titles, which can easily be kept on sites like Goodreads, and the knowledge that new books will come and go until I can no longer hold  a book in my hands.  

American Idols

     I'm at that age.  The age when people you know and people you have followed all your life begin to die.  Just last week I heard of a high school friend that is now in hospice care.  Since my retirement, I can count six former colleagues that have passed on.  Seems like almost daily I hear of the death of a musician, an entertainer, a politico, or an athlete that I admire(d) that has recently died. It comes it the territory.

    On the other hand, there are idols of mine that are still around.  I was musing about Willie Mays to some friends the other day.  My first idol, I had to have his baseball cards and a signature glove.  That glove was magic to me.  As a Giants fan growing up in LA, it was difficult to find.  My dad and I rode the bus downtown to United Sporting Goods where they had a wall of gloves.  The McGregor Willie Mays model was there and I was over the moon.  Three years later, in the first league championship playoff game, that glove rained down some Willie Mays magic as I drifted back on a high fly ball to dead center and leaped slightly above the 4-foot fence, and robbed Joey Ball of a homerun.  His dad was none too thrilled with my catch, but I was certain the glove did the work and Willie was smiling somewhere.  After that play, the leadoff batter in the first inning, our shortstop, Mike Reynolds, drifted to the edge of the outfield grass and made a diving catch of a windblown pop fly.  Maybe my Yankee team would have a chance of winning after all.  Then the next three hitters, Chuck Fox, Richard Close, and Danny Slaugh, all hit monstrous home runs.  They were all big 12-year-olds, and the game was essentially over before the third out of the first inning.  But that catch was mine...forever.

By my early teens, another idol had come along.  Seeing the Civil Rights movement unfold on TV during the summers of  '63 and '64, by 1965 I was fascinated with a new idol: Bob Dylan.  Soon afterward, I picked up a harmonica and began writing poetry every chance I got.  There was something in the air that Dylan had captured and as the Civil Rights movement became entangled with the unpopularity of the war in Vietnam, new music was on fertile ground.  Dylan said important things and my generation was paying attention. 

    Of course, my idols grew, changed, and ultimately aged.  Both are still living as this is written.  I'm preparing myself for a world without them.  Willie Mays is in his 90s now and Dylan, who is still touring and writing, is in his 80s.  They continue to inspire me as I travel through this world a decade and a half behind them.  

Sanctimonious

 So now some folks in Florida are trying to prevent their kids from seeing Michaelangelo's famous sculpture of David because his entire body is exposed. A principal was even fired because allowed the renaissance sculpture to be seen by his students. This famous piece of classical art has been around since___ but suddenly in 2023, it is considered pornography by some overzealous parents. It is, no doubt, the offshoot of time people trying to ban books from school libraries.  

If you've wondered about the word sanctimonious lately since Donald Trump applied his invented word de-sanctimonious to Ron Desantis, the governor of Florida, this is a good example.  When a person or group of people are sanctimonious they are making a show of being morally superior.  That applies nicely here.  Of course, the way Trump uses the word is more of his nonsense as desanctiminoius is not really a word.  Trump could hardly be morally superior to anyone or anything, having a rusty moral compass himself.  

So, what is going on with these folks that try to prevent others from making their own decisions about art, music, and literature?  Are they afraid of the human body?  Is sexuality or sensuality something to fear or hide away?  What do they think will happen to their children if they see or read about other human beings who don't exactly believe or act the way they do?

    Often in these book-banning cases, we find that those most vocal have not even read the works under scrutiny.  Or if they have, they often misconstrue the author's intention or misread the meaning of the scenes in question.  When I was in high school, The Catcher In The Rye, was a very big deal.  You had to have your parent's permission to check it out of the library.  The big fuss seemed to be the use of the F word somewhere in the text.  Of course, everybody wanted to read it then.  A generation later, when I taught American literature to high school Juniors, the book was still banned in many places, but many schools, like the one I taught in, had made the text part of the curriculum.  It is perfect for adolescents grappling with personal identity, the corruption in the adult world, and of course the ever-present fall from innocence.  Ironically the part that caused the big kerfuffle was a minor reference to Holden Caulfield's grave.  He says that when he died someone will probably scribble "fuck you" on his gravestone.  A true sign of how awful the world has become that nobody can even die peacefully without some fool marring their eternal rest.  That's it.  That's what all the fuss was about.  As if 17-year-olds haven't heard the term before.  The fact is, you can go into any secondary school anywhere in the nation and find these words written on walls and stalls all over the place.  You can also find much worse if you know where to look.  

The Things You See

    I once knew an old Kentucky "good ol' boy" who was fond of saying,  "The things you see when you ain't got a gun." If he saw something outrageous like a poorly dressed person, or perhaps something truly ugly, it could be funny.  But the things you see can be a lot more than that.

      It's often said that the things you see as a young person set the tone for much of your later life.  These are usually things that initially came as either a surprise or shock or perhaps an affirmation of something you wondered about as a child.  Are there evil people in the world?  Does the society I live in treat all people equally?  Does money talk?  Does anybody really win a war?

    We know that people who grew up during the Great Depression forever retain that "Depression mentality.  They waste nothing.  They constantly worry about the vagaries and vicissitudes of the economy.  Having enough food, a decent place to live, and the ability to overcome unpredictable weather are lifelong concerns.

    In my formative years, I saw the Civil Rights movement and a very unpopular war in Vietnam.  It's no wonder much of my life has centered around social justice and working with those less fortunate.  I counted myself in that group as  well because of early experiences where I was considered "the other." Religion had always been a mystery to me because I was raised in a home that had a vague concept of God, but nothing to do with organized religion.  I knew I has a Jewish background because my parent told me, and they often spoke a word or phrase in Yiddish when they didn't want my sister or me to know what they were talking about.  But in school, it was rough.  I didn't go t church or synagogue like most of my friends and neighbors, so I always felt on the outside.  To this day, I think my sister longed to wear a pretty pastel dress on Easter Sunday and go to church with her friends.  

So, what have other generations seen, and how will that impact their futures?  The effects of the COVID pandemic, the mob attack on the nation's capital, and the numerous police brutality cases in recent years will no doubt affect a generation.  One can only hope that these young people will use these experiences and events to springboard their careers in medicine, social work, law enforcement, and the politics of civility.  That is something to be optimistic about.

Next time you find yourself in a discussion about current affairs or life choices with people, see what happens when you raise the question about what kinds of things did you see at a young age that left a significant impression on you?  

    This just might be a good way to find common ground with people you think yu might have nothing in common with.

Class Size Matteers

 I recently saw another news story about the current teacher shortage.  The lack of qualified professionals is only one dimension, another is that young or beginning teachers are leaving the profession at an alarming rate.  Lots of one-and-done careers. As a retired teacher who went the distance(34 years), I am concerned and outraged that the powers that be don't do something drastic.  

We need to maintain the notion of a public school system that values equality and adequately provides the type of education that our kids deserve.  Who would want to enter a profession that undervalues all the time and effort it takes to educate a person?  If we vetted and tested candidates for public office they way we attempt to vet teachers, we'd have a Congress that could pass some legislation that would properly fund school systems.  

Everybody agrees that teachers should be paid more, especially given the demands and the time required to effectively do the job. Yet nothing happens.  Wealthy communities have the highest salaries, and poor communities have lower pay aside from fewer resources.  What else is new.  

Class size is always among the reasons that teachers quit.  Don't let anybody tell you differently.  It matters.  It makes a difference.

So offer some solutions.  OK, I will.  What's the old saying that applies...Desperate times call for desperate solutions?  Daring solutions. Rather than desperate let's use radical, out-of-the-box, don't let anybody tell you differently  Here's one.  Create a program for retired teachers to come back and teach one class.  Yes, one class.  Pull 5 students from an overcrowded classroom and create a new class of 15 and give it to a veteran teacher who comes in for just one class.  15 students are manageable and won't create the enormous paper load that 37-40 does.  Pay a salary of 1/5 the full one and you don't even need to worry about benefits because retirees have those already.  

I cannot guarantee that this would work, but it should make an impact on those teachers with a full-time schedule and could open up other benefits for an entire faculty.  I might be tempted to return for a part-time gig like that.  

The point is that we have to do something, given the current state of affairs.  If the forces of segregation at work in this divided country should prevail, we'll lose all hope of a culture that truly values diversity.  Private and charter schools will attract and pull kids and parents of privilege to fund and run their own schools and leave those born into generational poverty to fend for themselves.  We're better than that.  I hope.

That our public school systems have taken a big hit by COVID, there can be no doubt.  Let's turn some things around with some dynamic solutions.  

Footnote: As a young teacher with 10 years of experience, I was laid off for the third time.  When I returned the following year, I was ultimately assigned to my old school because the class sizes were ridiculously high.  A  program was put together for me that included 4 preps in two departments.  The dregs... but nevertheless, a job!  One of my classes was a 9th-grade World History class.  The teachers of the largest overflowing 9th grad World History classes were allowed to pick 3-5 students that would be transferred to my newly formed class.  I knew that they'd probably pick their most challenging or troublesome students.  No matter, as I was often reminded, "You're lucky to have a job." So this new class was formed and to it was added a smattering of students who transferred to my school later in the year and students that enrolled later in the year or came from other placements like Juvenile Hall.  I think the total enrollment of this new history class was about 16.  On any given day about 12-14, students attended.  That was so uncommon those days.  Yes, there were behavior problems in that class.  Yes, many of those kids were not the stellar students that any teacher would love to have.  But they were so small a group by the standards of the day that it made for an unusual and memorable teaching experience.  It was the last class of the day.  The first thing I did was tell the students to make a large semi-circle, a kind of half-moon-shaped seating arrangement.  I pulled a student desk and would sit in front of the crescent-shaped class.  There was nowhere for anybody to hide.  It was more intimate and relaxed than most classrooms.  It worked, too.  This class was not the difficult situation I originally expected given the nature of the student population.  Yes,  many of these kids had attendance problems, they'd get suspended now and then but not for behavior in my classroom.  9th-grade kids do a lot of stupid things, like throwing spit wads, and sneaking looks at comic books, cell phones, or notes passed.  That still happened, but rarely in this little group.  I truly think the size of the group and the seating arrangement helped me accomplish many of my objectives and ultimately led to a better experience for all.  We read literature as a group, viewed photos, artwork, films, and videos as a group, and shared ideas as a group.  I swear, some of these kids never had that experience before.  I don't want a medal, just some acknowledgement that class size matters and we can do something about it.