Category: TIK365

Things I Know 35 of 365: Toupées gross me out

Give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen.

– Hair

I’ll likely be bald in the next decade or so.

Already, my hairline has begun the retreat from the front of my scalp to safer ground.

If the common mythology of genetics is to be believed, it’s my mother’s father that best evidences my follicle future. Unfortunately, I only met him once when I was very young and have a swiftly evaporating memory of those moments.

So my hair memories are connected to my father’s family.

Running along this reasoning, things are not looking good.

From time to time, I’ll shave my head because stopping for a haircut seems more troublesome than it’s worth.

On the rare occasion those photos make it to Facebook, my sister Kirstie invariably comments, “You look just like dad.”

And, as much as I love our bald father, I’ve been mocking his baldness since my adolescent boldness made it seem appropriate.

So, I’ll be bald.

That’s my future.

I own that.

I only bring this up because, tonight at dinner, I was reminded of the alternatives.

A dinner party of six took their seats near the window. As they raised their glasses and sang the first verse of “That’s Amoré”, I noted something askew about the hair of one of their party.

Namely, it wasn’t his own.

A kidney transplant, I can defend. A blood transfusion, I’m on board. Want a heart transplant? Sure. I like to grab things.

But, hair?

C’mon.

It’s hair.

I get the importance of identity. I get the cultural implications. I get all that.

Still.

Taping another person’s hair to my head strikes me as gross.

Not only that, I can’t come to terms with such an obvious denial of who I am.

That man sat at his table, ordered a bottle of wine and an appetizer in a disguise I have to believe was fooling no one.

I must give credit to the others in there party.

Sometimes, I imagine the first day of fake hair. Do people bring it up? Do you? Are we supposed to treat it as though nothing has happened?

“Hey, Larry, that a new suit?”

And Larry soaked it up. He purchased a game of make believe and asked everyone with whom he came into contact to play along.

And they did.

And I looked on.

As much as I love the rat’s nest atop my head, when it’s gone, it’s gone.

I contemplated my future tonight.

It’s not devoid of choices.

It is devoid of attractive choices.

I’ll be faced with a choice in the next 20 years.

Barring tremendous scientific advances, I’ll choose nature.

I’ve chosen it in all other aspects of my life. Why should my head be different?

Things I Know 34 of 365: The importance of asking ‘What can I do?’

We must aim above the mark to hit the mark.

– Ralph Waldo Emerson

People have been asking me for money while I shower.

All week.

Over and over again, they’ve been begging. It carries on while I’m brushing my teeth and tying my shoes.

And as much as I listen to public radio, I’ll admit I’ve never donated money to them.

This week, I’ve been considering it.

A sucker, right?

More this week than any other, I’ve found myself answering aloud as the pledge drivers spout their rhetorical questions.

“Do you listen to public radio on a regular basis?”

“Yes.”

“Do you value the programming of public radio?”

“Yes.”

“Would you miss the programming of public radio if it were to disappear?”

“Yes, yes I would.”

“Can we count on you to become a member to support the programming you value on this station.”

“Ummm…”

And that’s it, isn’t it? I run face-first into inertia.

“…I mean I could, but it seems like you guys are doing fine without me.”

Or, as Ebeneezer Scrooge put it, “Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses?”

Last night I watched a film about a school in Kenya that selected 40 boys per year from the Baltimore public school system to live and study at a boarding school in Kenya or the final two years of their middle school experience. The school’s goal was to prepare the boys to gain admission to any Baltimore high school to which they applied once they’d completed the program.

I watched the documentary with an admitted air of, “I could do that. In fact, I could probably do it better.”

Today, the angel or the demon who was asleep on the opposite shoulder last night woke up to say, “Yeah, but you aren’t, and they did.”

Last Friday, ethicist Neeru Paharia explained the effects of distance on our sense of involvement, connection and need to act. A sense of immediacy is elicited the greater our proximity to the source of need.

The key to answering “What can I do?” is ignoring the proximity.

As Karl Fisch said Sunday, “All our students are local. All our students are global.”

It’s tough stuff, this global citizenship. More difficult still is possessing even a glimmer of understanding of the connectedness of it all.

That kind of glimmer led to the first and second Red Scares. It is the impetus behind the Global Millenium Development Goals. It is the terror that keeps the Minutemen patrolling the U.S.-Mexico border and it lays at the nexus of the argument in favor of the DREAM Act. Fathoming that connectedness led to the creation of the Peace Corps, City Year, AmeriCorps and a litany of other organizations in which thousands invest themselves each year to create or repair the systems necessary for sustaining and building.

To understand connectedness is to beg the question.

What can I do?

Answering the question has its own evolutionary path.

From “nothing” we move to “not much.”

Gradually, this becomes “something.”

As we learn and experience, we say, “I can do this.”

For many, the evolution ends here.

For the brave few, the answer becomes, “A little more.”

And, in the best of people, “Anything.”

Tomorrow, I’ll shower with cell phone in hand.

Things I Know 33 of 365: These are not my secret thoughts

Whatever you think, be sure it is what you think, whatever you want, be sure that it is what you want, whatever you feel, be sure that it is what you feel.

– T.S. Eliot

February 4, 1994 I started keeping a journal.

In between moves a few years ago, it was uncovered. I pulled it from a box in my basement thinking I’d include an entry as part of this writing.

I can’t.

I can’t betray my own trust.

Twelve-year-old me wrote those pages for the posterity of us. They serve as an anchor to memories of past love, broken friendships, broken families, personal successes.

Most of all, those entries were where I was trying to figure out new ideas I’d stumbled upon or had thrust upon my brain.

Reading the entries, I can see the genesis of some of the ideas I consider at the core of who I am today. Those nascent ideas are between me and myself. Some of their more recent iterations, though, have found their way to publication. Some are still in the thought lab.

While I was keeping that journal, I was also a contributor to the student section of my local paper. Before media became social, the State Journal-Register created a space for young writers to document the world as it appeared to them and share it with our community. I wrote about ideas about which I was more confident – school lunches, music, that time a mouse got into my bedroom.

I started to find my public voice in those pages.

I still keep a journal.

This is not it.

It is worn, has been dumped in the Colorado River and stolen by a baboon. My journal holds the lint of my days and the figments of stray thoughts. I note the world and my questions about it. My opinions start there. Like the first journal 15 years ago, it holds my secret thoughts.

This is a different space.

Here, I place the thoughts I’ve played with. I’ve pushed and pulled them and shared them with those I trust to do the same.

By the time I’ve written them here, I’ve already argued against the thoughts I publish. They’re the fourth or fifth or seventeenth drafts.

Online writing should be that. It should never be the space my brain vomits with hopes the Internet custodians will clean it up.

My worry over digital footprints extends beyond avoiding embarrassing pictures of myself online. It covers embarrassing or incomplete thinking online as well.

As I write myself into existence, I work to make it the better version of myself.

Things I Know 32 of 365: You’d beat me in a fight

A wise man can learn more from a foolish question than a fool can learn from a wise answer.

– Bruce Lee

I was in fourth grade the first time I got hit by a girl.

We were lining up to go back inside from recess when Monika, a girl who I knew of but didn’t know punched me in the face.

I only point out that she was a girl because I’d been told there were rules about hitting and there were rules about hitting girls and there were rules about hitting back. I’d never been hit before, so the shock of the experience greatly impaired my ability to follow the appropriate line of the retaliatory flowchart.

I didn’t do anything.

This is not to say I ran.

I didn’t do anything.

I stood there and wondered why this person had hit me. We’d had little interaction inside or outside of the classroom, so all I could do was guess she was angry and thought I had something to do with it.

I wasn’t angry. Just surprised. A little sad that she was so angry. I’d never been that angry, and imagined it must have taken a lot to make her do that.

That’s been my M.O. since then.

When Matt, the kid who lived up the street and had parents who I thought were inexplicably mean, road his bike to the end of my sidewalk and yelled at me to come off my porch and fight him, I yelled back, “Why?”

When some intoxicated dudes cornered some friends and I on the Quad one night in college and punched my friend Andy in the face while yelling some pretty hateful words, I had questions.

So, I turned, stared at them and yelled, “That was stupid! Why would you do something like that?” Clearly, not suspecting this might be our reaction, they cursed.

“What kind of answer is that?”

They ran away.

I’ve seen a few fights as a teacher.

Once the parties are separated, my questioning always starts the same, “Why were you fighting?”

“He said such and such.”

“Ok, but why were you fighting?”

“It made me feel this and that.”

“Ok, but why were you fighting?”

I’ll rephrase and redirect my questioning as long as it takes. Infallibly, the students don’t know.

I don’t get fighting. So, I keep asking.

Self defense, yes.

Making a point, sure.

Fighting, though, just feels like something we should be done with.

Newton gave us all the reason we should need with his third law. Fear of equal and opposite reaction kept the Cold War oh so chilly.

Socrates is my Burgess Meredith. The dude knew how to battle without fighting his enemies. When they were throwing punches, Soc was landing blows of logic they never saw coming or knew landed until it was too late and they were in agreement.

If I must be a warrior, let me be a warrior of the Socratic tradition.

Things I Know 31 of 365: Silliness is golden

I love to laugh.

– Uncle Albert, Mary Poppins

You know what made Captain Kirk great?

Not the countless rescues of the planet(s) cum galaxies cum universe((s)?).

Not his rainbow of romantic conquests.

Not..his…ExceptionalCadenceWhenSpeaking.

James Tiberius Kirk was great because he could have fun. The guy heeded Mary Poppins’s advice, and took a spoonful of sugar on each mission.

Almost every episode ended with Jim, Bones and Spock on the bridge ribbing each other as though they’d forgotten thwarting death once again.

Lately, it strikes me the fun is neglected more often than not when we talk about teaching.

I’m not talking learning.

I’m talking teaching.

It’s fun.

Seriously.

My best days in the classroom are those in which I do one hundred silly things before lunch. If I’ve taken my work seriously, but not myself, I’ve done alright.

I don’t get the feeling programs like KIPP put too much stock in silly.

That might be the real danger.

If we’re truly facing some of the most complex challenges of the modern or any era, building classrooms of Borg is not the answer.

Success should include an element of silly.

Saturday, Diana, Ros and I led a session at EduCon on interdisciplinarity. The ideas were flying, and nearly 50 educators from all over the country joined us.

We spoke of supports and obstacles. We shared resources and we networked. We deliberated on the existence of common ground between scripted and project-based curricula. Many pieces of the conversation challenged my thinking.

The most tweeted moment from the session?

A joke I made.

No profession should ever be this starved for funny.

Yes, times are hard. Yes, the policy debate looks like it was designed on the island of Dr. Moreau. Yes, budgets are drying up faster than Cuba Gooding Jr.’s career.

And, we’ll get all of that sorted out.

First and always, let’s have a little levity.

It will save us.

When Mike Myers faced off with James Lipton on Inside the Actor’s Studio, Myers commented on the most important lessons he’d learned while growing up poor.

His parents taught him the value of free fun and of silly.

I’ll buy that.

When I hear about the incredibly high burnout rates of new teachers, I cannot help but think their professors taught them how to teach, but not how to have fun doing it.

And, it’s too much work not to have fun doing it.

I love teaching because teaching the whole child requires me to be my whole self. Every day, I access my passion for learning and asking questions – all the while looking for the funny.

Seriousness of mission and purpose need not mean seriousness in execution.

Things I Know 30 of 365: Feedback can be tricky

Do not say a little in many words, but a great deal in a few.

– Pythagoras

For a pretty large chunk of the day, yesterday, I was in my office – lights off, bottle of lavender essence open, Balmorhea playing on iTunes.

I was working to complete an implementation plan for the inquiry project assigned as part of my grad program.

By the end of it all, my desk was covered in printed resources and my web browser was creaking under the weight of all my open tabs.

I submitted my 6 hours of work ahead of schedule, hopeful it rose to the challenge presented by the assignment.

For the plan, I’d suggested some ideas the practicality of which I was unsure. As I juggled them in my head, I was fairly certain I’d culled the best of the ideas. Still, I was uncertain.

This afternoon, I logged in to the course to find my assignment had been graded. I’d earned 45 out of 45 points. Relieved, I turned my attention to the comments field to see how the ideas had played out with my facilitator:

The plan summary clearly articulates a focused problem statement: the specific goals, which are measurable; the specific solutions you have chosen for t his project; the preparatory steps; and the expected outcomes for the inquiry project. The weekly plans are clear, creative, and appropriate with evidence of insight and thoughtful planning.

While I’m pleased with my score, it doesn’t doesn’t really do much for me as feedback.

Neither do the comments.

Two circumlocutious sentences with words that certainly sound as though they should mean something, but no.

Today, I had the honor of moderating a panel discussion on how schools can foster student innovation. While, I can carry on a conversation with a tree stump, I’ve never moderated anything. For 90 minutes, amid some interesting audio issues, I attempted to probe the minds of five deeply thoughtful educators. I was, in a word, nervous.

While the audience clapped when they were supposed to and several strangers told me “good job” when everything had concluded, I was uncertain of the job I’d done.

Later, sitting in the office snarfing a bag of popchips and downing lukewarm coffee, I checked in to twitter.

From Chris, I saw “@MrChase is an amazing moderator,” with a picture of the panel in progress.

Michael replied with, “So true…You are rocking, Zac.”

And from Ben, “You did an amazing job. Period. You=my hero.”

I realize they are tweets. Even re-typing them here, I feel a bit silly.

Still, those three lines contained more feedback than any of the acrobatic language from my facilitator.

I know these three. Through the relationships we’ve cultivated, I’ve come to understand their expectations and what it means to earn their approval. While I see the hyperbole in what they’ve said, I also know they do not offer up public praise lightly.

I understood their expectations, and they offered up their opinions using clear language.

I know I completed neither the implementation plan nor the panel moderation perfectly.

The feedback I received on both was positive. In fact, the implementation plan score implies I did nothing wrong.

Still, I’ll never message my facilitator seeking advice for improvement. The relationship is too distant, the language too obtuse.

Should I ever need to moderate again, though, I’ll seek the advice of these three, knowing they will evaluate me with a notion to help me be a better version of myself.

Things I Know 29 of 365: Time runs out

For the longest time…

– Billy Joel

I had the chance to talk with a room of almost 50 educators from around the country today.

Teachers are pretty amazing.The main thrust of our conversation focused around interdisciplinarity. At some point, the problem of scripted curriculum reared its head.

“If I try to use interdisciplinarity in my classroom, will I be able to make it through my scripted curriculum?”

We went back and forth for a bit.

Then the voice of experience spoke up, “I came to terms long ago with the fact that I’d never get through everything in my curriculum. There would never be enough time.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

Today, I wanted desperately to be in EduCon sessions learning and conversing with dedicated and passionate educators, but I needed to sequester myself away from everyone to complete another grad school assignment.

When I was finally done, I was able to socialize with other attendees and have some pretty excellent discussions with those peers.

Even that, though, meant there wouldn’t be enough time.

Now, I’ve 30 seconds to hit “Publish.”

Things I Know 28 of 365: Sometimes it’s best to sit and listen

Listen my children and you shall hear.

– Henry Woodsworth Longfellow, “Paul Revere’s Ride”

Five people from varied fields sat in leather chairs I’ve been told have some pretty intense historical value.

Representing tech, ethics, agriculture, design and the arts, these five spoke for two hours on the ipetus and importance of innovation.

They’ve traveled the world, worked in amazing locales and used focused their lives on understanding, solving and anticipating problems unique to their fields.

The ideas they’ve played with exist largely outside the ideas floating in the air of a traditional English classroom.

No one polled the audience, no one asked for show of hands or had to prepare a slide deck or vacate the stage after 20 minutes.

It was intelligent people who do useful work talking to one another, sharing ideas. And, we got to watch.

Nothing was expected of me other than listening and considering.
Pondering.

Nothing was ignited and TED wasn’t in the house.

And this, this has value. It has the value of listening to Beethoven or reading Wilde or visiting a Picasso.

Sometimes, participation means listening. Sometimes, learning is a silent act.

Tomorrow, there will be sessions and presentations and conversations and we will talk and listen and ask and answer.

Tonight, thoughtful people spoke and our job was to listen and ponder.

Things I Know 27 of 365: My mom was right

Hello, mudda…

– Allen Sherman

Fifty-one years ago, my mother was born.

I’ve called her on my birthday to say, “Thanks for birthing me.”

Tonight when I called her I said, “Thank you for being born.”

If you’ve ever read Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything, you understand the weight of that statement. For thousands of years, the right person had to be born for me to be born.

She’s taught me many things in our time together. Here are the two most important.

“Remember who you are.”

I can’t remember an important moment of my life where my mother’s Edward R. Murrow sign-off as I was heading out the door wasn’t, “Remember who you are.”

And I have.

I’ve tried.

Every once in a while, there have been moments of decision where I’ve chosen poorly. In the wake of those choices, I’ve remembered who I am.

In my best moments as a person, I remember who I am. I stand before my classroom or the bathroom mirror and realize, “I got that right. I was me.”

It’s tricky. Anyone who’s ever lost sight of who they are will understand.

One more thing.

At some point, when I was small and my mom was heading to something I thought it to be important, I tried to give her a taste of her own medicine. She walked out the door, and I said, “Remember your name.”

It wasn’t quite what I meant. But, it was.

Somehow, that sentiment has lived on in the pantheon of our family’s oral history.

It’s why the final scene of The Crucible gets me so worked up.

For me to remember who I am, I must also remember my name. I must own who I am. I must be fully and completely me – at all times.

As a teacher and participant in the virtual world, I’ve many names. I’m Zac. I’m Mr. Chase. I’m “mister…mister…” I’m “hey.” In a pinch, I’m the litany of every person you’ve ever known who looks like me even if you can’t think of my name.

Beyond the verbalization, my name stands. And, like who I am, I remember it.

Thanks, mom.

Things I Know 26 of 365: I need to know my teachers

No more teachers’ dirty looks.

– Alice Cooper, “School’s Out”

“Do you like your facilitator?” one of my kids asked the other day about the facilitator of my grad class.

I paused.

“I don’t know her.”

I truly don’t.

This course has featured no welcome e-mail, no bio on BlackBoard. Nothing.

In the course chat, I learned a little about her church, but not much about her.

Were it not for the tacit trust I put in the university’s hiring processes, I might worry she’s a pimply-faced high school sophomore who fits his grading in between Dungeons and Dragons sessions.

I don’t know her enough to like her.

I’ll never know her the way I would were we to share physical space. I’ll never know the color of her hair. I realize the strangeness of that statement, but it’s nothing to the strangeness of the not knowing.

Her face looks like as she gives a class time to ponder a question will forever be a mystery to me.

Does she pronounce my name with a drawl? Would she appreciate my humor? I’ll never know if she’s someone who stands the entire class or leans against a wall or desk.

I’ll never know.

These things I’d like to know.

If I’m to like her, these things help me decide.

If I’m to respect her, I need to know her.

She is responsible for facilitating my learning around curricula and learning, yet I can tell you not one thing about her pedagogy.

I imagine these weeks we’re together in this course to be similar to the early days of an arranged marriage. Contrastingly, though, we both have designs on an annulment.

It’s easier to dislike her if she exists as this disembodied set of deadlines and dropboxes.

My own little Milgram experiment.

A key piece of learning from my grad program has been my understanding of my drive to connect my learning to relationships.

My mathematical matriculation through AP Calculus was due solely to the care and academic craftsmanship of Mr. Curry.

I’ve yet to feel that care or craftsmanship in my courses.

This is not whining.

This is me attempting to understand why my otherwise voracious appetite for learning, understanding and creating meaning absolutely vanishes in these courses.

In no small part, I need to know my instructor as much as I need to know my content.