My School-Teacher Soapbox

It has been more than a semester now that I have not been a teacher.  I am missing it mightily.  I even miss the yelling and screaming, the name-calling and the crazy-eyed threats against life and limb.  And that’s just me.  I miss what the kids always did too.  This was driven home to me as I tried to move my middle child from one school to another.  We were hoping to get a bit of a break on his placement.  He is a gifted child with a penchant for bizarre and long-lasting obsessions.  He has a talent for building huge, monumental structures in Minecraft.  He is very computer-nerd and history-wonk.  (Yes, I know those are not pure predicate adjectives, but I am a retired English teacher and just don’t care any more.)  I was hoping they could overlook his burnout/blowout eighth-grade brain meltdown from the previous year and give him the chance to be a ninth grader for at least half a year.  No.  Arbitrary rules must be obeyed.  (That isn’t even how she said it.  More like, arbitrary rules MUST be obeyed).  That meant of course that he has to continue to repeat the mindless indoctrination of year number 9, (eight numbered grades plus K), (And Pre-K, come to think of it.)  Make that year number 10.  No high school yet, though he is more than mature enough, intelligent enough, motivated enough, and sweet-natured enough.  We are not loving and forgiving people.  We are strict and by-the-book people!  Forgive me, Lord.  I am writing my own book.  (In more ways than one.)

This is what we are doing wrong in Education;

1.   We are putting people in boxes.  (Little people.  Kids mostly.  We are calling those boxes things like ADHD, Special Education, trouble-maker, learning disabled, emotionally disturbed, disobedient, truant, and “in need of alternative education”… here meaning kid-prison.)

2.  We are sealing those boxes with heavy-duty red tape.  (Read special or remedial classes as waste-baskets for keeping the rabble and the riff-raff out of the good teachers’ hair.)

3.  We are routinely handing those boxes to the box-bangers and package manglers.  (The semi-incompetent teachers who have discipline problems because in teacher college nobody tells you what to do with the kid who sits in the corner and sings to himself instead of paying attention, or the girl who gets out of her seat every time the teacher turns his back to go flitting around the room like a bumble bee going flower to flower (except that it is a more hormonal attraction and goes boy to boy); or the competent teacher like me who incurs the principal’s disfavor for having classes that always make noise and are given such classes in boxes as a punishment because that kind of principal is too limited in intelligence to understand that those kinds of boxes are not really a punishment if you merely take a moment to examine the treasures they contain.)

4.  We keep the boxes air-tight so that no oxygen or light gets in.  (To suffocate learners under piles of worksheets and endless drill and practice is murder.  We are killing the precious learners with boring stuff and teaching them to be zombies who all act alike and hate learning because their brains are rotted masses of goo.)

This is what we must do instead;

1.  Open the boxes up again and thoroughly mix the contents.  (The rich suburban parents will resent the heck out of having their precious honors student sitting in class next to the poor black kid from the projects, but studies show that both kinds of learners do better when they are mixed together.)

2.  Notice, we don’t need two any more, because learners are already distributed to different and diverse boxes based on what they individually need and want to learn about and have talent for.  Groups should be more like the Shakespeare-loving group or the talkative-socializing group or the Tinker-toy builders group or the vampire-literature-writing group and less like groups of kids all the same color or all the same culture or all the same age.

3.  All the teachers need to be trained to handle all the possible… no, make that probable problems that may come up in the classroom.  Every classroom needs a proven veteran teacher and an enthusiastic young apprentice teacher.  Neither one should have to face the evil hordes alone.  And most important of all, any teacher who doesn’t love working with kids (and doesn’t love the kids in a way that will not lead to a prison term) needs be utilized in some way other than as a classroom teacher.

4.  Every classroom is a laboratory and every teacher is a creative and daring mad-scientist-type intent on trying new things and only re-doing things that really work well.  Forget this nonsense about standard curriculum goals and common core curriculum.  Those are only buzz words for suffocating learners and being too lazy to think on your feet in the middle of the every-day classroom battle in the on-going War on Ignorance.

Now you see… I have all the answers and I know everything.  The only mystery is… why don’t more people listen to me?

Tabron

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Wise Guy

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At school today the principal asked us to come up with one word that we wanted to apply to our own lives as teachers.  You know how the teaching game is.  You start a new semester; you have to be subjected to eight hours of blah-blah-blah.  It is required blah-blah-blah mandated by Texas education laws.  My magic word was wisdom.

So, what does wisdom imply?  Well, I am old.  I should have some of that thing in one pocket or another.  So I search my pockets.  As a kid I vowed to become a wizard.  What is a wizard if not a wise man?  A wise guy.  How, then, do you acquire wisdom?

In the movie Mystery Men, Ben Stiller tells us that mystical wisdom from the wise guy mystical sage is only saying a thing is its opposite.  Thus true wisdom comes from learning how foolish you really are.  It’s a good joke, but it’s also true.  You can’t be wise unless you realize how little you actually know out of all the things that there are.

Why would I want to be wise?  Well, I have the fool thing down pretty well already.  As fools go, I’m a humble fool who trades in foolishness and calls it humor and young adult novels.  So it follows, by logic, an advanced form of foolishness, that I must be wise.

Okay, wise guy, time to say something wise in the conclusion… Doh!

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Metaphor and Meaning

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In this week’s Paffooney remix, I have pictured the little boy crooner Francois Martin on the main street of Norwall.  Why have I done such a foolish thing?  Why have I drawn a boy singing silently a song that only I can hear in my silly old head?  In fact, why do I label them Cantos instead of Chapters?  Of course, the answer to these rhetorical questions is metaphorical.  I look at my writing as being poetry, or, more accurately, as music rather than mere prose.  It is a metaphor central to my being, writing is putting the inner music of my mind down on paper.

Here is a secret to powerful writing.  Connect ideas with metaphors.  A metaphor is a direct comparison of two unlike things to create an analogy, an echo of an idea that gives resonance to a notion.  Sorry, I’m an English teacher.  It’s in my genes.  But metaphors can serve as the essential connections, as glue to put paragraphs and scenes together.

Let me show you a metaphor.  Here is a short poem, the natural environment where many metaphors live;

                                                The Cookie

Once I had a cookie… But every time I took a bite, It became smaller and smaller…

                With each bite I had less and less cookie left.

But when it was gone, the sweet taste of it…

                Lingered on… as memory.

 

The central metaphor of this poem is comparing the cookie to my life.  I am getting older.  I have six incurable diseases, some of them life threatening.  I have been thinking about mortality a lot lately.  So what is the point of the poem?  That even when the last bite is taken, and there is no more cookie… when I am dead, there is the memory of me.  Not my memory.  The memory of me in the minds of my family, my children, my students, and other people who have come to know me.  That memory makes whatever goodness that is in me worth living for.

Okay, a metaphor explained is kinda like a bug that’s been dissected for a science fair.  Its innards are revealed and labeled.  The beauty is gone.  It’s kinda icky.

What works better, is a metaphor that the readers can readily grasp on their own.  The beauty has to be discovered, not dissected and explained.  Let me try again;

 

                                                The Boy and the Boat

                The boy looked to the horizon where wild and wooly white-caps roiled upon the sea.

                “Lord help me,” he said, “the sea is so large, and my boat is so small…”

 

I can hear what you are thinking.  “That’s too simple and ordinary.  If it’s a metaphor, then it’s a really stupid one.”  Well, I heard someone thinking that, even if it was not you.

Let me add a bit of information to help you connect things as I do.  When I was ten years old, a fifteen-year-old neighbor boy sexually assaulted me.  I told no one.  I was so devasted by the event that I repressed the memory until I reached the age of twenty two.  In high school, my suicidal thoughts and darkest depressions were caused by this event even though I couldn’t even recall.  To this day I have not explained to mother and father what happened.  I can only bring myself to tell you now because my abuser died of heart failure last summer.  It was a life event of overwhelming darkness, pain, and soul scorching.  Now look at “The Boy and the Boat” again.  Has the meaning changed for you the way it does for me?

Now, I know that the last paragraph was a totally unfair use of harsh reality to make a point about metaphor and meaning.  So let me give you one last poem… a sillier one.  You can make of it whatever you will;

 

                                                The Grin

The wrinkly, bewhiskered old man

Had a smile like a plate of moldy spaghetti

In the afternoon sun.

 

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New Art for a New Year

What are the chances that this is a class picture from a private school for young witches? I wouldn’t bet money on it, but I think they might eat my heart if I tried to teach there. (Ironic Humor Spells Class, of course.)

I sometimes think I use smiling faces too much in my digital art practices, so I made this Winter Portrait to cure that. I bet you couldn’t tell that this was supposed to be Emma Watson.

This is a redrawing of an old colored-pencil picture. The Native American boy is standing in front of a mesa-lined sunset.

The original picture.

The big-eyed boy goes to school. Notice the poorly tied tie. He’s a bit nervous of starting middle school as a tiny sixth grader. Such is the nature of my holiday artwork.

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Why Babysitters Hate My House (A Surrealist Comic that’s only slightly True)

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Okay, I know it’s creepy.  I know it is only a little bit funny.  But I like to think it’s good colored pencil work, and it does seem to stand up well over time even though it was created back in 1980.  I wrote this hoping to break into the cartoonist world in the 1980’s.   I only managed to get rejection letters and form letters back then.  Big dreams and no real breaks.  But if you are goofy long enough and cartoon up a storm with enough lightning and hailstones in it, somebody will invent the internet (Thanks, AL Gore) and digital photography and WordPress Blogging so I can share it all with you.

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Little Red-Haired Girl (A Poem and Paffooney)

Little Red-Haired Girl

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

That little red-haired girl, so cute, so nice

You only looked and looked from afar

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

You could’ve held her hand

You could’ve walked her home from school

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

She never got your Valentine

At least, you forgot to sign your name

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

No hope of marriage now, nor children for old age

Happily ever after has now long gone

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

Now every love poem is a sad poem

And the world is blue and down

You never told her that you loved her…

You never told her that you loved her…

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

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I Don’t Wanna Be a Teacher (a poem of irony)

When I was a child in school I’d say,

“I’ll never be a teacher in any way!”

I’d say it out loud all around the town,

“Anything else! I’d even be a clown!

What I really want to be is a funny cartoonist,

An astronaut, cowboy, or even a balloonist!”

I knew there were kids like the terrible Spencer,

Who torchified teachers who were sit-on-the-fencers.

He lived on our block in a house made of brick,

But I made the boy laugh with my jokes and my tricks.

He followed me around like a second small brother,

And, “Go play with Michael,” was the word from his mother.

I knew there were girls like the truculent Rachel,

Who argued with Grandma and said things most hateful.

A girl full of bitterness and burdened with want…

Who threatened to die and then come back to haunt.

And Granny told her, “You should go talk to Michael.

He’s a well-behaved youth and may even help you die well.”

I knew what I was in for if I became a teacher…

So, I tried really hard to be a lofty-goal reacher.

But cartoonists and clowns often meet with rejection,

Astronauts and cowboys live with lives of subjection.

So, not wanting to starve or live on the lam,

You can probably guess what I finally am.

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New Pictures For a New Year

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Mr. Happy

I know that I am probably the last person you would think of to ask for advice on how to be happy. I am a crotchety old coot, a former middle-school English teacher, a grumpy old-enough-to-be-a-grandpa non-grandpa, an atheist, a nudist, and a conspiracy theorist. You would expect someone like me to be out in his yard in his underwear yelling at pigeons for pooping on his car more than they do his wife’s car. Be that as it may, I am also basically happy.

You know what happy looks like, surely. After Christmas day is over you see two kinds of kids. One kind is miserable and grumbling in his or her room about their Christmas gift that they didn’t get, in spite of the five expensive toys they did get. Yeah, that one’s never going to be happy. Then there’s the other kind, the one happily breaking or playing with the few cheap toys their parents could afford, using more of their own imagination than the imagination the toy companies pay someone to put into their TV or YouTube toy commercials. That one is going to be somebody you can rely on for years to come. That’s the kind of kid I like to think I was. Of course, I’m probably wrong about that too. Being a middle-school teacher gives you plenty of opportunity to learn the lesson that you are actually wrong about everything in life, and like Socrates, you know absolutely nothing for sure about anything.

Years upon years of being a public school teacher, the butt of comedians’ best school-memory jokes, the target of Republican spending cuts for saving enough money to give massive tax cuts to billionaires, and having to be every kind of professional for every kind of kid, no matter how ugly and unlovable they are, teaches you where true happiness comes from.

A. You have to learn to love the job you are trying to do. And…

B. You need to do the job you love with every resource you can squeeze out of your poor, battery-powered soul.

I did that. I did the job all the way from deluded and idealistic days of youth to cynical and caustic old age hanging onto your job by the fingernails until you have to choose between dying in front of the whole classroom of horrified kiddos you have learned to love, or going kicking and screaming into retirement to maybe live a bit longer than you would have if you had stayed at your work station in the idiot-to-income-earner factory for young minds.

Being satisfied with the career you chose and the success or failure you made of it is not the only factor in being happy. Teachers don’t earn much compared to corporate informational presenters who do the same job for a lot more money in front of a lot less hostile audiences far fewer times a day. So, it helps if you can manage to need less stuff in life. After all, stuff costs lots of money. Especially stuff you don’t really need.

That is why being a nudist and not having to worry about how much you spend on clothes helps a lot with your basic level of happiness and peace of mind. Also, lots of vitamin D soaked up through your nude all-togetherness produces happy-hormones in the brain.

Being an avowed pessimist is good for being happier in life as well. After all, the pessimist is always prepared for the worst to happen. And since the worst rarely is what actually happens, the pessimist is never shocked and dismayed and is frequently pleasantly surprised.

And so, here is Mr. Happy’s secret to a long and happy life;

  1. Tell yourself that the job you have to do is the job you love to do often enough that you actually begin to believe it.
  2. Do that job you love as hard and as well as it is possible for you to do.
  3. Love the people you work for and the people you work with, even if you have to pretend really hard until it becomes real to you too.
  4. Be satisfied with the stuff you need, and try to need as little as possible. The man whose paycheck is bigger than his bills is happier than the man whose paycheck only pays for a portion of the interest on his wife’s credit cards.
  5. Wear fewer clothes. You don’t need them in a quickly warming world. And you should love the skin you’re in.
  6. Expect the worst possible outcome from everything in life, and then there is nowhere to go but upwards.

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The Journey Through 2023

2023 has been a year of recovery. I don’t believe I published a single book in 2022. I experienced in that year the very first complete year with both of my parents gone. Neither of them died of Covid, but I lost both of them during the pandemic. My father died of Parkinson’s Disease in 2020. My mother died of heart and kidney failure the year after in 2021. Then in 2022, I came down with Covid Omicron Variants twice even though I took every vaccine and booster I could up to the time I first came down with it. Depression, fatigue, and serious degradation of both my ability to see color due to increasing color blindness and my loss of some of my drawing skills due to arthritis.

My sons have both left me behind, the former Marine now going to college on a military scholarship in Oklahoma, and my number-two son joining the Air Force. My daughter is still at home, but she is an independent adult in most of the ways that matter, and I am now more or less unemployed in the job of parenting, really for the first time since 1981 because when I became a teacher I was suddenly swamped with fatherless boys and girls who attached themselves to me as the significant adult father-figure in their lives. I didn’t become a parent of my own children until 1995. And now that I am no longer really accepted in my wife’s religion for reasons of atheism and agnosticism, as well as retired from teaching, there are no more captive audiences in my life. (My wife only talks at me rather than to me… for reasons of atheism and agnosticism.)

My books do not really take the place of having a captive audience to carry the big pencil in front of. When you write a manuscript, it never laughs at your jokes… or at you when a joke fails spectacularly. You don’t really get feedback from a book the way you do from a captive audience… even an audience of sixth-grade non-readers. It is a one-way conversation with nobody but whatever fools make the mistake of picking up one of my books and actually reading it. To be fair, though, there are some who read and review my books to tell me how well I connected with them across the void. Mostly being an author means speaking into the void to the greater universe and the future, where whatever answers or echoes you get come only after you are dead. It is frustrating to put on a show with all your best tricks now refined… to a visibly empty theater.

But I have rediscovered my writing mojo (hiding under my bed with stacks of old notebooks and drawings and Paffooney-making materials.) And I bought an electronic stylus and a Chromebook computer with a touch screen to start doing digital art. (The Chromebook, however, died a mysterious virus-related death before I had it a year, making me regret not buying the Best-Buy warranty that usually is only a waste of money.) I started doing art digitally, a process much easier to make corrections and changes on. And I even found an AI program called AI Mirror that can edit my art and remove entire ranges of mistakes I could never alter before. (This last thing proved crucial because the only touch screen I had access to was the tiny one on my phone where my fat, arthritic fingers make whole ranges of mistakes.)

I used the rediscovered mojo and new digital art skills to create and publish another book, the first one since my mother died. And it has proved to be a real boost to my author’s delusions, scoring about three days on the top-seller list for its category. It is an essay about overcoming the loss of innocence, and it is filled with stories, poems, and art about writing about nudism, drawing and painting nudes, and being one myself. It is a delicious irony that this is how I recovered in 2023, and I hope to recover more in 2024.

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