Category: TIK365

Things I Know 5 of 365: We need more letters of recommendation

We can’t always be happy. In fact, in the midst of our trials or others’ hardships it is not healthy to be happy. With a big movement in “positive affirmation” and “authentic happiness” currently in mainstream thought, it can seem that if we are not happy, we must be living our life wrong somehow.

– Gloria DeGaetano

Striving for Dr. John Gottman’s ratio of 5:1 for positive to negative interactions is a lofty goal. A fairly positive person, I certainly have moments when I’m more likely to respond with snark than kindness.

This is why I love letters of recommendation. Even last fall, when I had to write for 20 academic advisees and almost as many English students, I thoroughly enjoyed the process.

Letters of recommendation do more than compliments. They ask us to sit and think about the positives of those with whom we have relationships and not only think of their positive attributes, but build context around those attributes as well. We’re shaping a narrative to show how the recommended has earned our esteem throughout our regular, mundane interactions.

It’s an ultimate act of reflection asking us to gather up all those moments of positive interaction that have likely gone unnoticed and put them in a story of merit.

I like to picture a world where people write letters of recommendation in the same way news programs produce celebrity obituaries – amassing an archive of letters and culling our experiences at regular intervals to keep them updated and ready for submission at a moment’s notice.

Perhaps it would look something like this:

To Whom It May Concern:

It is my pleasure to offer my recommendation on behalf of Patrick Higgins, Jr. Patrick’s dogged approach to his own professional development shines through in all aspects of the work he does on behalf of the students and teachers he serves. His creativity, dedication and thoughtfulness will make Patrick an invaluable addition to any organization fortunate to bring him on board.

I first met Patrick three years ago when presenting at an educational technology conference. Slotted to present at the end of the day, Patrick faced an uphill battle in engaging a crowd that was tired and already gorged on ideas. Equal to the task, Patrick organized his session in the way I would hope any teacher would. He asked his audience to participate, to move, to interact, to communicate and to listen. What could easily have been an hour and a half of lethargy and apathy was one of energy and thoughtfulness.

In his role working with teachers in his district, Patrick has continually impressed me as he reflects on his practice in his writings on his blog. Celebrating his successes, Patrick is also the first to admit his shortcomings and work to better understand how they can be prevented in the future. Throughout numerous posts, one sees how he constantly searches for new ideas to integrate into his own and ultimately improve his practice.

While Patrick’s blog may serve as a public gallery of his internal reflection, make no mistake – he is a creature of collaboration. More than once, an instant message or Skype conversation with Patrick has led to a discussion of the ideas one of us is working with. I can think of no conversation with Patrick that hasn’t included the pushing of my thinking or him welcoming the pushing of his own thoughts.

I would be remiss to conclude without including an aspect of Patrick’s character that is key in my estimation. Whether an informal conversation, a training session with a room of strangers, or speaking of his own family, Patrick approaches all whom he interacts with a genuine ethic of care and intent to understand. Of Patrick, a colleague once recently remarked, “He is quite simply a good person.” No more needs be said on the topic.

For all of the reasons above, I am honored to offer my recommendation on behalf of Patrick Higgins, Jr. He is a person of superb character, thought and professionalism.

Sincerely,

Zachary Chase

Now you write one.

Things I Know 4 of 365: I am a kitchen dancer

I am satisfied … I see, dance, laugh, sing.

– Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

I don’t chaperone dances at SLA.

One was enough for me.

The Monday after, I was still reeling from the spectacle of what I’d seen the Friday before.

These were my students. They were my charges – my brilliant angels. Well, maybe not. Still, I was responsible for helping them to realize the power of words, the diverse and divergent lineage of the world’s great thinkers.

What I witnessed on the dance floor, I could not rectify with the versions of my students I’d come to know.

I was expecting the awkward bumblings of the dances of my youth – the clumsy first drafts of the kinetic poetry dance can become.

I attempted to explain this to them. I accused them of not having any poetry in their souls. Their mouths hung agape at my ignorance.

Other teachers confirmed my it. This, I was assured, was how high schoolers danced. Post modernism had taken over even the poetry of dance.

I felt 100 years old.

Dance was always a million miles away from possible when I was growing up.

Those who could dance, like my best friend Travis, appeared to have some access to the mystical rhythm I was never meant to know.

Seriously, who teaches these things?

Much of my school dance biography tells the story of guard of the punch or the kid propping up the gymnasium wall.

This wasn’t how my people danced.

The dancing I was used to and which I was brought up on was kitchen dancing. While the spaghetti cooked or the meatloaf baked, we were kitchen dancers.

If the ideal of dancing, with the capital “D”, in my mind is the mobile version of Leaves of Grass, kitchen dancing is A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man…scat version.

It is reckless abandon of invoking the joy of the day. There is hopping, and weaving and flailing of appendages. It’s not pretty, but it is beautiful.

If you ever visit, I’ll teach you.

The other night, in the midst of preparing dinner, I frightened my dog and commenced a kitchen dance solo.

The song was unimportant. My frenetic ballet was a reminder of what my day had brought me, the meal to come and the days to follow. It was nod to the excitement inherent in being alive. And, it was a check-in to see if I still had it. You have to keep in practice with these things.

Yeah, I’ve got moves.

Things I Know 3 of 365: I like to help

Everybody can be great… because anybody can serve. You don’t have to have a college degree to serve. You don’t have to make your subject and verb agree to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love.

– Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I was hoodwinked today.

In the minutes between arriving for the start of the school day and the actual school day, I was tricked into going to SLA’s fifth floor. As my classroom is on the third floor, this was decidedly out of my way.

Diana brought her weekly load of produce to give to the kids and needed help getting it to her classroom. She asked for my help. I moaned and complained, claiming I hadn’t time to go ALL the way up and then ALL the way back down.

I compromised by telling her I’d help get the load to the elevator and then part her company at the third floor.

And then, I didn’t push the right button.

It was nice to see her classroom.

As we were exiting the elevator, I joked it was my midwestern subconscious that led me to help.

I was only partly joking.

Truth be told, I knew when I was complaining in the office that I’d be taking that fruit to the fifth floor.

I like to help.

Really.

A little over a month ago, I met a first-year TFA teacher at my local coffee shop. She was meeting with her program director, and I got drawn in to their conversation. I butted in for a few minutes dropping the pieces of my classroom I thought could be of use as she struggled to reconcile the teacher she wanted to be with the teacher she’s starting out as. When I left, I gave her my card and said I’d be happy to sit with her and just talk about teaching.

A few weeks later, we had coffee and did just that.

Hopefully, we’ll be doing it again soon.

I knew when I heard the frustration in her voice that I’d do whatever I could to help her right the rocky ship of her classroom.

I like to help.

Don’t you?

It’s what I hope for my students every day. I hope that they help those around them. We call it “collaboration,” but it’s really helping. It’s really caring.

Nel Noddings writes, “I would not want to choose, but if I had to choose whether my child would be a reader or a loving human being, I would choose the latter with alacrity.”

I wouldn’t want to choose either, but I would choose the same.

Some unquantifiable part of why I like to help comes from the feeling of worth it brings me. The other equally unquantifiable part of why I like to help comes from the memory of all those times I’ve needed help and it was freely given – the extended deadline, the midnight statistics tutoring session, moving to a third-floor apartment in the late summer heat with the aid of someone who’d known me only a few days.

I will commonly tell whoever will listen that I want my students to leave better speakers, listeners, readers, writers and thinkers.

Chris says he hopes our students leave SLA thoughtful, wise, passionate and kind.

We don’t say it because it is embedded in how we treat one another, but more than all of the above, I think we want them to leave us capable and willing to help.

Help isn’t doing it for someone. Help is doing for someone.

Help is not telling a runner to sit down so you can finish the race for him. Help is handing them the cup of water and telling them to keep running.

Things I Know 2 of 365: I am not a vegan

Not a single turkey you can buy in a supermarket could walk normally, much less jump or fly. Did you know that? They can’t even have sex. Not the antibiotic-free, or organic, or free-range, or anything. They all have the same foolish genetics, and their bodies won’t allow for it anymore. Every turkey sold in every store and served in every restaurant was the product of artificial insemination. If it were only for efficiency, that would be one thing, but these animals literally can’t reproduce naturally. Tell me what could be sustainable about that.

– Frank Reese, Farmer

via Jonathan Safran Foer’s Eating Animals

When I was a freshman in high school, I announced to my mother I was going to become a vegetarian.

I told her the idea of eating meat after all the dissections we’d done in biology classes grossed me out.

She understood what I was saying, but suggested there might be another reason for my dietary shift. Betsy, the girl I was trying to date at the time, was a vegetarian, and my mother suggested this might be a more likely catalyst for my decision.

I argued ardently against this line of reasoning.

Now, older and wiser, I can admit she was correct.

Almost 15 years later, Betsy is married with two children, and I’m still a vegetarian.

What’s more, I’ve watched pretty much every food documentary out there, read the best of Michael Pollan, Eric Schlosser and the rest.

Whereas misplaced teenage lust was the impetus for going veg, the decision to stay that way has come with a fair amount of research.

I should say, because it needs saying, I’ve never been a proselytizing vegetarian. In college, after explaining the idea of eating flesh grossed me out, I claimed the notion of killing animals didn’t bother me at all.

Just typing that now helps me to see what kind of dork I was in college.

Still, I’ve never been one to spread the good word of vegetarianism. If you want to be all omnivorous with your bad self, have at it.

I’ll be at the salad bar.

Then, in October, I read Jonathan Safran Foer’s Eating Animals.

It was the first time I’d read someone make the moral argument for vegetarianism that made me care.

“Food choices are determined by many factors, but reason (even consciousness) is not generally high on the list,” Foer wrote. And, it started to get to me – even as a vegetarian.

From the moral argument, to the ecological argument, to the nutritional argument, to the sustainability argument – Foer put it all in front of me.

And so, on Black Friday, I decided to conduct an experiment. For one month, I would eat a vegan diet. Suddenly, I couldn’t distance myself from the treatment of the animals producing the dairy or egg products I’d told myself were acceptable because none of them was killed.

So, for one month, I ate like a vegan.

I read about veganism.

I visited vegan websites.

I talked to vegans.

I went to a vegan restaurant.

And, I have to tell you, it felt pretty good. After two weeks, I noted an uptick in energy, and my body felt lighter.

On the downside, I was a pain to choose a restaurant with. Plus, I needed to eat. All. The. Time.

Taking the processing out of my food meant my body didn’t take as long to, well, process it.

In the last week of my experiment, I was seriously considering turning vegan. On the drive from Philadelphia to Illinois, I had a rather lengthy phone conversation with Ben who cautioned me against being fanatic about the whole thing. After we talked, I did a gut check. Nope, not fanatical.

When I walked in my house, my parents ran me through the list of vegan foods they bought at the specialty food store to make certain I’d have enough to eat throughout my stay.

The decision was getting easier and easier.

My mom even made a special dish with rice pasta to take to my grandparents’ annual Christmas Eve celebration.

At my grandparents’, I realized I am not a vegan.

I care about the effects of factory farming, and I realize my place and the part I feel compelled to play in working against a treatment of the land and animals that would set my great-grandfather rolling in his grave.

At the same time I was reading Eating Animals, though, I started reading Nel Noddings‘ Caring.

And here’s why I can’t be a vegan.

Faced with the corn casserole and the sugar cookies shaped and decorated to look like each of my grandmother’s grandchildren, I realized I care about animals, but I care for my family and they care for me.

In the face of the feast prepared by my family and the reasons for that feast, I realized saying, “I’d love to try a cookie, but I’m not sure where the eggs came from,” wouldn’t quite be in keeping with how I want to honor the care my family shows me.

I allowed myself a 48-reprieve from the experiment. I focused on enjoying the company and offerings of family. The day after Christmas, I picked it up again.

I’m sure there are those who would argue I’ve violated my rules. Maybe I did. When the rules are arbitrary, though, I am uncertain as to how much it matters.

And here I am, again a vegetarian.

Only now, I’m working to be more thoughtful as to the source of the eggs and dairy I choose to consume. The politics of food and what I say when I decide how to feed my body are trickier now than they’ve ever been before. The stakes are getting higher. They require, as so many things do, thoughtfulness – not fanaticism.

Things I Know 1 of 365: I know nothing

Scio me nihil scire.

– Socrates

Saw that coming, did you? Fair enough.

Here’s where that logic gets away from me.

If I know nothing, then everything is empty and I wander around hoping to find something I can know. And, while I do a fair bit of wandering and learning, my life is admittedly built around what I think I know. So, I know nothing, but think I know something.

A few weeks ago, I was walking with a student and listening to him talk about his writing. The struggle was around trying to argue a point. He could tell me where his brain was on whatever he was writing about in the moment he was writing.

The struggle came when he started to remember that he didn’t know what he didn’t know. He might learn something down the road or unlearn something he’s already picked up that would change his perspective on the issue. Worse yet, he could walk down the path that led him to realizing his point was wrong. Then, there would be this archive, this indelible record of not just his thinking, but his wrongness.

Knowing he did not know kept him from knowing where he was right then.

All of this is to say I know I know nothing with absolute certainty. This year, these 365, are more mile markers along the road of understanding.

They are to serve as reminders of where my thinking used to live and hopefully push that thinking deeper.

Aside from Socrates, another philosopher to whom I turn on a regular basis is Robert Fulghum. If the name rings a bell, it’s because you remember Fulghum’s book that inspired a decorative poster found in many classrooms in the early 90s – All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. My grandmother gave me Kindergarten after she’d received it for a gift. It blew the mind of 9-year-old me. It still does. I’ve read everything Fulghum’s ever published – more than once. I’ve given his books as gift to more people than I care to admit.

And, when I was 14, I sat down to write Fulghum a letter.

Though my handwriting was atrocious, I decided against using the family’s computer in order to show him what I said was true.

I wrote several drafts.

My offer was simple. I would come to him, wherever he was, and spend my summer cleaning out his garage, painting his house, whatever needed to be done, if he would teach me. I wanted to know how he wrote things that were so clearly true. I wanted to know how he saw the world with such understanding. I wanted to know.

I never heard back from Fulghum.

In some secret part of my brain, I keep hoping he will happen upon my letter some day when he’s reaching for a pen that’s fallen behind his desk.

Until then, here are the things I know for now…in this moment…but not really.