Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Put on your dancin' shoes, cuz tonight we're gonna party like it's 1999!
Night school is over! I have bid farewell to Mr. Bigwand on the stoop of his McMansion, after attending the mandatory last-night-of-night-school barbecue there. I think I can speak for the other inmates ... errr ... night school students when I say we were all happier than landfill buzzards!
I have endured ... errr ... learned (not) from Mr. Bigwand since last September, in search of a teaching credential that I need to teach what I'm already teaching. In September I was kind of in the YKMR (You're kidding me, right?) stage. Late in October, when he began to brag about scaring the piss out of little kids on Halloween, my minor annoyance turned to righteous wrath. At Christmas, when he said, "SO, WHAT DO YOU WICCANS CELEBRATE AT THIS TIME OF YEAR?" my wrath turned to the white hot loathing of a thousand galactic stars.
But spring has sprung, and I have come to look on Bigwand with the sort of resigned indifference one bestows on an elderly uncle who can't stop gushing about the glory days of Ronald Reagan. In other words, my parting with Mr. Bigwand was cordial. I even paid him the ultimate hypocrisy of thanking him for his hard work on behalf of our class.
I hate to say it, because it shows that I can be small-minded, but I loved watching him admit he doesn't like to take his beloved boat into the Chesapeake "because it's only a single engine." Whatever that means. I've been in the Chesapeake with just my arms and legs, and have seen every kind of boat besides. It is comforting, though, to know that I'll never be tucking into a dozen hard shell crabs and a pitcher on some dock, only to see him and Mrs. Bigwand tootling toward shore with worksheets in their hands.
It is customary for a student to reflect upon what he or she has learned in a class in order to pass a final examination. What I learned from Mr. Bigwand that is useful is this: Teaching is like salesmanship. If you don't hook the students in and get them excited about what they're going to do, you might as well whistle into the wind. Also, it's a good idea to close each lesson with a teaser for the next day, so the students will want to come back for more.
How long did it take you to read that? Okay, I spent 9 MONTHS LISTENING TO THIS ADVICE, AND PAID $1600 FOR IT!
Might as well get something for my money, eh?
Readers! Guess what? Tomorrow I'm going to teach you how to ward off boredom and hex people who use sacred holy days as a reason to frighten children! So come on back now, you hear?
Showing posts with label night school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label night school. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
One Theme Retires, Another Returns
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Ah, what a beautiful early summer eve! So glad you could stop by. Watch where you're stepping, there are faeries about!
This evening I spent some time tending my little Shrine of the Mists. I noticed that my daughter The Heir had added some items to it. New offerings include little pieces of geode, sea glass, random chunks of semi-precious stone that had once been on a necklace, and even some jacks. Everything that brings joy to the Shrine of the Mists brings peace to my little yard.
I took a moment from my tending to show the neighbor boys a fossil from the farm on Polish Mountain that is also in the Shrine: unspeakably ancient brachiopods, turned to stone by a couple hundred million years of burial. I used to think fossils were magical. I still think so. Not magical in the Young Earth Theory respect, but just sort of miraculous. Our planet has kept pretty good records of its history. The miracle part is that we find the stuff on mountainsides.
One chapter of TGAB comes to a close on Wednesday. It is my final session of night school. Oh, goodbye, Dear Mr. Bigwand! I'll try not to spray you with gravel as I drive off into the sunset! And yes, Bigwand is not going into the Great "Gods Are Bored" archives without a swan song. He mandated that our final meeting be held at his house, where he will heave hamburgers and hot dogs at us, along with his usual lengthy, self-aggrandizing sermons.
I may get misty-eyed. It's allergy season.
The good news is that the end of night school heralds the return of the enriching sorts of activities that have also been recorded here in the annals of TGAB. My, but it has been months since I even mentioned the Monkey Man! Next week is his annual birthday bash in Camden ... an event that dependably becomes rowdy because the booze is cheap and plentiful. Someone will read a haiku. Someone will sing a bawdy song. Sometimes we have a puppet show. Then we stumble out into a charming urban landscape with our heads full of poetry and our throats hoarse from laughter.
When I think of all the people I know and call "friend," I'm sure the world will never become boring to me.
This evening I spent some time tending my little Shrine of the Mists. I noticed that my daughter The Heir had added some items to it. New offerings include little pieces of geode, sea glass, random chunks of semi-precious stone that had once been on a necklace, and even some jacks. Everything that brings joy to the Shrine of the Mists brings peace to my little yard.
I took a moment from my tending to show the neighbor boys a fossil from the farm on Polish Mountain that is also in the Shrine: unspeakably ancient brachiopods, turned to stone by a couple hundred million years of burial. I used to think fossils were magical. I still think so. Not magical in the Young Earth Theory respect, but just sort of miraculous. Our planet has kept pretty good records of its history. The miracle part is that we find the stuff on mountainsides.
One chapter of TGAB comes to a close on Wednesday. It is my final session of night school. Oh, goodbye, Dear Mr. Bigwand! I'll try not to spray you with gravel as I drive off into the sunset! And yes, Bigwand is not going into the Great "Gods Are Bored" archives without a swan song. He mandated that our final meeting be held at his house, where he will heave hamburgers and hot dogs at us, along with his usual lengthy, self-aggrandizing sermons.
I may get misty-eyed. It's allergy season.
The good news is that the end of night school heralds the return of the enriching sorts of activities that have also been recorded here in the annals of TGAB. My, but it has been months since I even mentioned the Monkey Man! Next week is his annual birthday bash in Camden ... an event that dependably becomes rowdy because the booze is cheap and plentiful. Someone will read a haiku. Someone will sing a bawdy song. Sometimes we have a puppet show. Then we stumble out into a charming urban landscape with our heads full of poetry and our throats hoarse from laughter.
When I think of all the people I know and call "friend," I'm sure the world will never become boring to me.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
College Daze
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," better known as Deity Central Station! All aboard the westbound train -- making stops everywhere and anywhere! Just let the conductor know when you want to disembark. No schedule necessary.
Ah, if only life were like this, eh?
As part of getting my teaching certificate, I have had to attend occasional Saturday classes at a university here in South Jersey. I will not name the school in question, because my feeling is that most of these "alternate route" teaching gigs are about equal whether you're in New Jersey or Newfoundland.
It works like this: Young people pay upwards of $30,000 or more in tuition for four-year degrees in elementary or secondary education. You can't expect them to like it when mature, working people with life skills are stuck in classrooms without having to learn any of that expensive undergrad stuff. So we working people with life experiences have to cram all the "pedagogy" into a few Saturday sessions and some online "modules" so that college professors and college students won't feel insignificant.
This Saturday morning topic was multicultural education and developing tolerance for cultural and racial distinctions. So you can best believe that I was intently interested in this topic, considering that my entire student body is minority (except for three kids whose parents attended the school).
The professor overwhelmed us with handouts, slid through an incomprehensible two-hour lecture, fielded questions that yielded incomprehensible answers, and then had us take a true-false, multiple choice test he gives his graduate students ... just so we could see how little we knew.
He was right about knowing little. I never thought graduate students were given true/false and multiple choice tests. Did you? I thought graduate school was all about writing papers and doing research. How silly of me!
Turns out this professor knows as much about semantics as I know about multiculturalism, because some of his true-false questions contained the dreaded words "always" and "never," which are sure-fire pointers to FALSE, but his were TRUE! Oh well. There was no grade involved. You just had to sign in and sit there, more or less.
Which brings this sermon to its point. The whole class was about being tolerant of diversity. You got that point, right?
I was one of the last people to leave the room, simply because I'm super-responsible, and I also felt like I'd just been beaten about the head with a bunt object for three hours. So it was that I overheard the following conversation between The Professor and one of my classmates. The classmate in question was an elderly male (looked to me to be too old to have to work at all) with an extremely thick foreign accent.
Classmate: I am so sorry, sir, to be late to your class.
Professor: You were two hours late. I can't give you full credit.
Classmate: I know, I am so, so sorry! I live in Philadelphia. I no know how to get to the New Jersey. How to find the college. Then I no know which building. Then the classrooms no marked.
Professor: Well, that's too bad. It's not fair to the people who got here on time if I give you full credit. You'll have to make it up somehow.
Classmate: Oh, I will! I will! I will! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!
Readers, I don't know about you, but after sitting through a class where we were told to make modifications for different ethnic and cultural groups, to respect their differences and try to teach them in the best way they would understand, I thought the Mighty Professor was contradicting himself. Here before him stood an elderly man with a foreign accent who had to cross a river into a different state and find a classroom on the most poorly-labeled campus in America. If the student in question doesn't deserve some slack for his accent, he should at least get it for his age!
Professor Hypocrite. As The Spare would say, what a TOOL.
Ah, if only life were like this, eh?
As part of getting my teaching certificate, I have had to attend occasional Saturday classes at a university here in South Jersey. I will not name the school in question, because my feeling is that most of these "alternate route" teaching gigs are about equal whether you're in New Jersey or Newfoundland.
It works like this: Young people pay upwards of $30,000 or more in tuition for four-year degrees in elementary or secondary education. You can't expect them to like it when mature, working people with life skills are stuck in classrooms without having to learn any of that expensive undergrad stuff. So we working people with life experiences have to cram all the "pedagogy" into a few Saturday sessions and some online "modules" so that college professors and college students won't feel insignificant.
This Saturday morning topic was multicultural education and developing tolerance for cultural and racial distinctions. So you can best believe that I was intently interested in this topic, considering that my entire student body is minority (except for three kids whose parents attended the school).
The professor overwhelmed us with handouts, slid through an incomprehensible two-hour lecture, fielded questions that yielded incomprehensible answers, and then had us take a true-false, multiple choice test he gives his graduate students ... just so we could see how little we knew.
He was right about knowing little. I never thought graduate students were given true/false and multiple choice tests. Did you? I thought graduate school was all about writing papers and doing research. How silly of me!
Turns out this professor knows as much about semantics as I know about multiculturalism, because some of his true-false questions contained the dreaded words "always" and "never," which are sure-fire pointers to FALSE, but his were TRUE! Oh well. There was no grade involved. You just had to sign in and sit there, more or less.
Which brings this sermon to its point. The whole class was about being tolerant of diversity. You got that point, right?
I was one of the last people to leave the room, simply because I'm super-responsible, and I also felt like I'd just been beaten about the head with a bunt object for three hours. So it was that I overheard the following conversation between The Professor and one of my classmates. The classmate in question was an elderly male (looked to me to be too old to have to work at all) with an extremely thick foreign accent.
Classmate: I am so sorry, sir, to be late to your class.
Professor: You were two hours late. I can't give you full credit.
Classmate: I know, I am so, so sorry! I live in Philadelphia. I no know how to get to the New Jersey. How to find the college. Then I no know which building. Then the classrooms no marked.
Professor: Well, that's too bad. It's not fair to the people who got here on time if I give you full credit. You'll have to make it up somehow.
Classmate: Oh, I will! I will! I will! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!
Readers, I don't know about you, but after sitting through a class where we were told to make modifications for different ethnic and cultural groups, to respect their differences and try to teach them in the best way they would understand, I thought the Mighty Professor was contradicting himself. Here before him stood an elderly man with a foreign accent who had to cross a river into a different state and find a classroom on the most poorly-labeled campus in America. If the student in question doesn't deserve some slack for his accent, he should at least get it for his age!
Professor Hypocrite. As The Spare would say, what a TOOL.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
My Mummer
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" The vulture mascot costume arrived, and soon to follow is my daughter The Heir! Heir knows how to shoot videos, so perhaps you'll soon see me in all my vulture finery!
It's the funniest thing, but I've noticed it frequently. There's always some little bit of good to be found in any bad situation. This philosophy kept me in the Methodist Church for years. But never did I think anything spectacular would come out of the stupid night school classes I have to get in order to get a piece of paper saying I can do the job I'm already doing.
In night school, each of us students has had to get up and teach a "lesson" on something we find interesting. I did mine on kitten fostering. This past Wednesday it was someone else's turn.
That someone was a tall, young guy with a South Philly accent. His topic was being a Mummer.
Not much can divert my attention from buzzards during Buzzard Week, but this did. I finally met a Mummer!
For my three readers who don't know, Philadelphia has an annual Mummer's Parade on New Year's Day. Lots and lots of people -- mostly men -- dress up in sequins and feathers. And they strut in lavish routines. If you're a TGAB regular, you've seen the YouTubes.
I've lived in the Delaware Valley for 25 years, and I had never met a Mummer. They are, with perhaps the exception of the drunken Comics, titans one and all in my book. I would rather meet the humblest Mummer than Kevin Bacon or Bruce Springsteen. So, meeting one and learning about what it takes to be a Mummer, was absolutely fascinating to me. That one short presentation made up for every boring Bigwand harangue, and then some.
One of the things I learned was that each Mummer has to buy and assemble his own costume. My Mummer spends $2500 a year. He raises the money by selling chances. Guess who's gonna be buying a lot of chances? Heck, it's high time I got lucky!
After his presentation I gave him a hug. He said that some people on my side of the river don't even know what Mummers are. Well, I do. They're fabulous, and now I have my very own to support and root for. Sweet!
It's the funniest thing, but I've noticed it frequently. There's always some little bit of good to be found in any bad situation. This philosophy kept me in the Methodist Church for years. But never did I think anything spectacular would come out of the stupid night school classes I have to get in order to get a piece of paper saying I can do the job I'm already doing.
In night school, each of us students has had to get up and teach a "lesson" on something we find interesting. I did mine on kitten fostering. This past Wednesday it was someone else's turn.
That someone was a tall, young guy with a South Philly accent. His topic was being a Mummer.
Not much can divert my attention from buzzards during Buzzard Week, but this did. I finally met a Mummer!
For my three readers who don't know, Philadelphia has an annual Mummer's Parade on New Year's Day. Lots and lots of people -- mostly men -- dress up in sequins and feathers. And they strut in lavish routines. If you're a TGAB regular, you've seen the YouTubes.
I've lived in the Delaware Valley for 25 years, and I had never met a Mummer. They are, with perhaps the exception of the drunken Comics, titans one and all in my book. I would rather meet the humblest Mummer than Kevin Bacon or Bruce Springsteen. So, meeting one and learning about what it takes to be a Mummer, was absolutely fascinating to me. That one short presentation made up for every boring Bigwand harangue, and then some.
One of the things I learned was that each Mummer has to buy and assemble his own costume. My Mummer spends $2500 a year. He raises the money by selling chances. Guess who's gonna be buying a lot of chances? Heck, it's high time I got lucky!
After his presentation I gave him a hug. He said that some people on my side of the river don't even know what Mummers are. Well, I do. They're fabulous, and now I have my very own to support and root for. Sweet!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
International Rat Fink Day
All right, I have no authority to declare International Rat Fink Day. Guilty as charged. I own a few late models. My sis has some vintage ones. But we're certainly not Grand Wazoos in the Ed "Big Daddy" Roth cult of the wicked hot rod. If you've never looked at original Rat Fink artwork, and you're contemplating worship of some excessively elaborate bored deity, you can check out this site or this one. And if those links work, no Fink is a jerk!
Here are some requested photos of my sister's Rat Finks doing the electric slide. And classically swilling a little too much Fink champagne, thereby going into a funk.
Wednesday was one of the hardest work days of my entire life. I hadn't had such a tough gig since 1999. During the school day I had four teachers, a consultant, and my department supervisor in my 7th period class. They had come in to watch me ask 17 kids under the age of 17 to sit absolutely still and not move a muscle for five minutes. (It was to experience what complete muscular disability would be like.) My department supervisor was not supposed to be there -- this was supposed to be a teacher-watching-teacher opportunity. But the supervisor came, not in an official capacity, mind you ......
Hey. Supervisors have to supervise. They've got to grade something, they're all ex-teachers!
I took a huge chance with my students. They could have crucified me. I even told them, the day before, that this was their chance to hang me out to dry if they hated me.
They don't hate me. They sailed right through the lesson, saying and doing all the right things. The objective of the lesson was to interest them in reading a slight piece of fiction called Stuck in Neutral. By the end of the class, they were fairly drooling over the book and vowing to read it in one sitting (which is entirely possible, it's only 114 pages long).
After being observed, I was "debriefed" by the teachers, consultant, and supervisor. They liked the lesson. The veteran teachers noted that they would never have attempted something like that with their students. (I didn't attempt it either with my other sophomore classes. You've gotta know when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em.)
After that hurdle, I had to go to (key audio, "Stooge Sounds") night school, for another lengthy lecture by Mr. Bigwand. At least this time he didn't exhort a bunch of penniless teachers of penniless students to travel the globe. But he did repeat all his other mantras. They're too numerous to mention. Actually I would mention them if I could remember them, but at my age you've either learned to tune things out, or you've gone into in-patient psychotherapy.
Murphy's Law being what it is, I also had to do my teaching demonstration that evening. Like I hadn't been on stage enough that day! Oh! The humiliation! There's nothing like trying to give an entertaining lecture on raising foster kittens to a room full of exhausted, stressed, and Bigwand-bored first-year teachers on the far end of their 12-hour day!
Mr. Bigwand rarely says anything mean about his students' silly little game-playing lessons. He liked mine. The class did too -- no, actually they would have said anything to get out of that room and home to their kith and kin. They sprinted for the door the minute Bigwand said, "See you next week for another thrilling story of my adventures in the Coast Guard."
I was packing up my cat carrier and found myself next-to-last to leave the room. Ah. Bigwand cornered me and showered me with delightful anecdotes about his departed kitty. Under any other circumstances, with any other person, I would have loved to hear a few new cat stories. But this is Mr. Bigwand. If you own a cat, he owns a celebrated, highly-intelligent and peerlessly bred cat. If your cat knocked over a vase, his knocked over an entire rack of bar glasses and sat in the shards purring.
The kicker was being unable to get out of the Catholic School parking lot because of all the SUVs and snowdrifts making it impossible to K-turn. Who needs to die to go to hell, I ask you?
Then I came home to all your kind comments. Thank you, my friends! The whole reason I wrote that post was to feel your presence as I marched through a grueling day. You were there with me, every step of the way.
That being the case, you had to go to night school with me. I have to apologize for Mr. Bigwand. You see, he wanted to be a preacher. Instead he became a teacher. Sadly, he's a long-winded creature. Without a redeeming feature.
Back to Rat Finks. You give me a sandbox and a dozen Rat Finks, and I'll show you how to spend an afternoon in an alternate universe without ever hitting a computer key. Forget all about the collectible crap! I'll make them a castle. With a moat!
Friday, January 29, 2010
Laughter in the Ninth Circle
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," deep in the heart of Suck City without a GPS! I'm your driver, Anne Johnson. What's your destination? Never heard of it.
Wednesday was the kind of day when my sense of humor got stretched until it snapped. But luckily it snapped on the right person -- Mr. Bigwand.
I had a long day of teaching and then had to go straight to night school. Where I sat through a 90 minute lecture on Bloom's Taxonomy, which is the first thing teachers learn on the first day of orientation before the first day of school. There's nothing quite like being exhausted and yet having to act interested in learning something you already know.
But the best was yet to come.
This term we are all expected to teach a 15-minute lesson, complete with lesson plan. You know what's hard? Try teaching something in 15 minutes. Bigwand sure as hell can't do it.
So, after enduring 90 minutes of training I've already had, I prepared to listen to had four presenters scheduled to give 15 minute lessons. That's an hour right there, before even adding the post-lesson critique.
The first dude gave a PowerPoint presentation about the peripheral nervous system. Fairly simple science, a few vocabulary words. More than 15 minutes. Two days later I can't tell you anything about it.
We critiqued that puppy, with no one being impolite enough to say that it was boring as dirt. Then the next presenter stood to give her 15-minute lesson.
Her lesson required that we arrange all the chairs in a small Catholic school classroom into a circle. This alone took five minutes.
The lady put on Celtic music, littered the floor with paperbacks with titles like "Christ of the Celts," lit a nauseating Yankee Candle, and placed it on the floor in the center of the room. Then she turned out the lights and asked us to meditate on the nature of humanity.
This meditation was a short respite. The lady announced that she was going to explain the tenets of Celtic Christianity to us. First, we needed to share with a partner what we thought made human beings special.
I turned to the fellow student to the right of me, a nice Hispanic lady who teaches fourth grade. I said, "Can I take a pass on this? I don't like the direction this lesson is headed already."
The Hispanic teacher said, "I'm a born again Christian, so I'm not sure I'm going to like this either." Then the fumes of the candle made her sick, and she had to run from the room.
Our presenter gave a less-than-brief introduction to Celtic Christianity, light on details and heavy on how great it is. Then she said, "I became a Celtic Christian when my daughter was born. I couldn't believe that an innocent baby could have original sin. I had to get out of a religion that loaded me with Catholic guilt."
Readers, more than half the teachers in this night school class are working at parochial schools. To put it succinctly, they are practicing Roman Catholics. And they were pretty blunt in their criticism of the Celtic Christianity lesson. I don't blame them. It wasn't a lesson, it was a polemic ... offered to an audience guaranteed to be hostile to its message. Heck, I didn't even have to mention the bored gods! I let the rest of the people gripe for me!
When all was said and done, the lady's presentation and subsequent critique from the audience took FORTY MINUTES.
Bigwand adjourned the class, declaring that the other two presenters -- who were all ready to do their lessons -- would have to wait a week.
As we shuffled toward the door in exhaustion (and in some cases high dudgeon), I was near Bigwand. He said, "My goodness! This time just flies by, doesn't it?"
Could not help myself. I looked him in the eye and asked, "What did you DO all day?"
Defensively he responded, "I supervised student teachers."
I just turned and fled.
Yesterday I wrote Bigwand an email and apologized. I can offend him anonymously on here, but it's not good form to alienate your night school professor.
What could that presenter have been thinking to insult the Catholic Church and present a Jesus who bears no resemblance to the one in the Bible ... to a room full of Catholic teachers?
A lesson on foster kitten care is looking better and better all the time.
Wednesday was the kind of day when my sense of humor got stretched until it snapped. But luckily it snapped on the right person -- Mr. Bigwand.
I had a long day of teaching and then had to go straight to night school. Where I sat through a 90 minute lecture on Bloom's Taxonomy, which is the first thing teachers learn on the first day of orientation before the first day of school. There's nothing quite like being exhausted and yet having to act interested in learning something you already know.
But the best was yet to come.
This term we are all expected to teach a 15-minute lesson, complete with lesson plan. You know what's hard? Try teaching something in 15 minutes. Bigwand sure as hell can't do it.
So, after enduring 90 minutes of training I've already had, I prepared to listen to had four presenters scheduled to give 15 minute lessons. That's an hour right there, before even adding the post-lesson critique.
The first dude gave a PowerPoint presentation about the peripheral nervous system. Fairly simple science, a few vocabulary words. More than 15 minutes. Two days later I can't tell you anything about it.
We critiqued that puppy, with no one being impolite enough to say that it was boring as dirt. Then the next presenter stood to give her 15-minute lesson.
Her lesson required that we arrange all the chairs in a small Catholic school classroom into a circle. This alone took five minutes.
The lady put on Celtic music, littered the floor with paperbacks with titles like "Christ of the Celts," lit a nauseating Yankee Candle, and placed it on the floor in the center of the room. Then she turned out the lights and asked us to meditate on the nature of humanity.
This meditation was a short respite. The lady announced that she was going to explain the tenets of Celtic Christianity to us. First, we needed to share with a partner what we thought made human beings special.
I turned to the fellow student to the right of me, a nice Hispanic lady who teaches fourth grade. I said, "Can I take a pass on this? I don't like the direction this lesson is headed already."
The Hispanic teacher said, "I'm a born again Christian, so I'm not sure I'm going to like this either." Then the fumes of the candle made her sick, and she had to run from the room.
Our presenter gave a less-than-brief introduction to Celtic Christianity, light on details and heavy on how great it is. Then she said, "I became a Celtic Christian when my daughter was born. I couldn't believe that an innocent baby could have original sin. I had to get out of a religion that loaded me with Catholic guilt."
Readers, more than half the teachers in this night school class are working at parochial schools. To put it succinctly, they are practicing Roman Catholics. And they were pretty blunt in their criticism of the Celtic Christianity lesson. I don't blame them. It wasn't a lesson, it was a polemic ... offered to an audience guaranteed to be hostile to its message. Heck, I didn't even have to mention the bored gods! I let the rest of the people gripe for me!
When all was said and done, the lady's presentation and subsequent critique from the audience took FORTY MINUTES.
Bigwand adjourned the class, declaring that the other two presenters -- who were all ready to do their lessons -- would have to wait a week.
As we shuffled toward the door in exhaustion (and in some cases high dudgeon), I was near Bigwand. He said, "My goodness! This time just flies by, doesn't it?"
Could not help myself. I looked him in the eye and asked, "What did you DO all day?"
Defensively he responded, "I supervised student teachers."
I just turned and fled.
Yesterday I wrote Bigwand an email and apologized. I can offend him anonymously on here, but it's not good form to alienate your night school professor.
What could that presenter have been thinking to insult the Catholic Church and present a Jesus who bears no resemblance to the one in the Bible ... to a room full of Catholic teachers?
A lesson on foster kitten care is looking better and better all the time.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Night Class Resumes: Gremlins Seize Phones, Tix
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," dedicated to the proposition that no human makes it through life without being somehow annoyed by something inconsequential.
If you know someone who has never been annoyed, I sure would like to meet that person. The first thing I would do is try my damnedest to annoy. Sour grapes and all that, don't you know.
Tonight was the first meeting in a dreary round of night classes that will stretch all the way to June ... and include six Saturdays as well. Returning as our teacher is the infamous Mr. Bigwand, who has lost none of his power to pontificate due to holiday revelry.
Those of you just joining "The Gods Are Bored" need a little back story. Mr. Bigwand is a retired teacher of Advanced Placement history classes at a posh suburban school. He has been hired to teach people like me (not formally trained as teachers) who are employed by urban districts struggling to meet state standards. In other words, he knows not of what he speaks ... and speaks ... and speaks...
I didn't like Mr. Bigwand from the evening of his first sermon back in September. But he sealed his fate when, the Wednesday before Halloween, he bragged for 15 minutes about terrifying little kids with expensive, theatrical-grade horror masks. Apparently this is his favorite Halloween activity.
Tonight Mr. Bigwand waxed eloquent about the fact that "gremlins" have stolen his cell phone. Worse, they also walked off with five tickets to Wing Bowl, Philadelphia's most toxic annual show of moronic slobbery.
It was all I could do not to fall from my undersized Catholic school right-handed desk.
Our house furnace is broken, but I'm toasty warm thinking about Mr. Bigwand having to buy five more tickets to Wing Bowl. He also has to buy a new phone. Did the faeries ... errrr ... gremlins do this?
Well, we can rule out faeries. No faerie of any stripe would attend Wing Bowl. It's disgusting. And since gremlins rather enjoy watching big, mean men scare cute little toddlers, I think I will point the accusatory digit at the gremlins.
Good job, gremlins!
During this term I will be expected to conduct a 15-minute class for adults, complete with lesson plan. I can choose my topic. Of course at first I thought I would give a class on faeries. Then I thought twice. Fifteen minutes is hardly enough time to do justice to faeries.
I have fallen back on Plan B, which will be a snap to do, won't require any research, and will only demand a minimal outlay of cash.
Ladies and gentlemen (Bigwand's favorite phrase ad nauseum), I will conduct a lesson on the acquisition, care, maintenance, and relinquishment of foster kittens. I'll have them weeping in the aisles!
Wait a minute. Maybe I should give a presentation on the East Coast Vulture Festival! Drum up some business for a worthy event!
No, scratch that. The thought of seeing Mr. Bigwand at Buzzard Day is not appealing.
Cute little kittens it is.
If you know someone who has never been annoyed, I sure would like to meet that person. The first thing I would do is try my damnedest to annoy. Sour grapes and all that, don't you know.
Tonight was the first meeting in a dreary round of night classes that will stretch all the way to June ... and include six Saturdays as well. Returning as our teacher is the infamous Mr. Bigwand, who has lost none of his power to pontificate due to holiday revelry.
Those of you just joining "The Gods Are Bored" need a little back story. Mr. Bigwand is a retired teacher of Advanced Placement history classes at a posh suburban school. He has been hired to teach people like me (not formally trained as teachers) who are employed by urban districts struggling to meet state standards. In other words, he knows not of what he speaks ... and speaks ... and speaks...
I didn't like Mr. Bigwand from the evening of his first sermon back in September. But he sealed his fate when, the Wednesday before Halloween, he bragged for 15 minutes about terrifying little kids with expensive, theatrical-grade horror masks. Apparently this is his favorite Halloween activity.
Tonight Mr. Bigwand waxed eloquent about the fact that "gremlins" have stolen his cell phone. Worse, they also walked off with five tickets to Wing Bowl, Philadelphia's most toxic annual show of moronic slobbery.
It was all I could do not to fall from my undersized Catholic school right-handed desk.
Our house furnace is broken, but I'm toasty warm thinking about Mr. Bigwand having to buy five more tickets to Wing Bowl. He also has to buy a new phone. Did the faeries ... errrr ... gremlins do this?
Well, we can rule out faeries. No faerie of any stripe would attend Wing Bowl. It's disgusting. And since gremlins rather enjoy watching big, mean men scare cute little toddlers, I think I will point the accusatory digit at the gremlins.
Good job, gremlins!
During this term I will be expected to conduct a 15-minute class for adults, complete with lesson plan. I can choose my topic. Of course at first I thought I would give a class on faeries. Then I thought twice. Fifteen minutes is hardly enough time to do justice to faeries.
Ladies and gentlemen (Bigwand's favorite phrase ad nauseum), I will conduct a lesson on the acquisition, care, maintenance, and relinquishment of foster kittens. I'll have them weeping in the aisles!
Wait a minute. Maybe I should give a presentation on the East Coast Vulture Festival! Drum up some business for a worthy event!
No, scratch that. The thought of seeing Mr. Bigwand at Buzzard Day is not appealing.
Cute little kittens it is.
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
Weekly Bigwand Update
For those of you who joined at our last pledge drive and need a short update, My name is Anne. I lost my job of 20 years in 2004 and had to re-invent myself, so now I'm a brand-new, first-year school teacher.
This morning I was so exhausted that I looked out at my first period class and just about babbled. I couldn't form a sentence. But it was first period, and I was surrounded by 15-year-olds who had also been up until the wee hours (not grading papers, though). They babbled right back at me. Jolly good fun!
This Wednesday marks the end of Phase IB of my new teacher training classes. Again for those of you just arriving on the late train, Phase IB is the class I have to take that teaches me how to teach, while I'm already teaching and being thoroughly (and expertly) coached in my classroom. I must endure this punishment until June.
The punishment is significantly enhanced by the instructor, a pompous, self-satisfied retired teacher I've affectionately re-named Mr. Bigwand.
Awhile back, Mr. Bigwand noticed Puck, the faerie I wear to work on a cord around my neck. He asked me what Puck was, and I said it was a symbol of my Pagan path. He immediately assumed I was Wiccan. Not that it matters, but that's like assuming every Christian is Catholic.
Tonight, in a moment when he paused from his self-praise, he said to me, "So. What do you Wiccans do at Christmas?"
(Honestly, I do not make this stuff up. You've just got to take my word for it.)
I replied: "First, I'm not Wiccan. I'm Druid. And the better question would be, 'When are you Christians going to give us our holiday back?'"
Having already told us (three times) that he studied for the Anglican collar, Mr. Bigwand now had to prove his big, broad, flexible outlook, which he did by querying me about which of the O'Reilly-sanctioned holiday activities were actually "more ancient" in origin. I replied that the far shorter list would be those that aren't "more ancient" in origin. Which launched him into a mostly monologue about burning candles all night on the solstice. As he moved on to converse with the next victim, he proclaimed, "I love the opportunity to learn new things."
I'll have to take his word for that, because so far as I can see, the last new thing he learned was how to drive a car.
I don't know if it's bad news or good news, but I will be continuing classes with Mr. Bigwand after the aforementioned holidays. I really don't mind, because like H.L. Mencken, I'm mildly amused by loud morons ... and they make good copy.
Oh yeah ... Did I mention that I got the opportunity to evaluate him anonymously last week? He handed out forms, specifically told us not to put our names on them, and then -- after we had our say -- officiously shoved them in an envelope destined for the New Jersey Department of Education. But did he close the envelope? Oh heck no. I'm sure he didn't even wait to read those evals until he drove home. Funny thing was, I looked around me as I evaluated, and I saw fellow inmates scribbling away in high dudgeon. You just can't save everyone from themselves, so I returned to my own form.
My NJDOE anonymous evaluation of Mr. Bigwand? "Stellar teacher."
Machiavelli's lessons aren't lost on me.
P.S. - Sorry to mention the holiday. I promised I wouldn't. I just couldn't let this opportunity pass to hold up for inspection another boorish Bigwand comment.
"So, what do you Wiccans do at Christmas?"
Have at it, readers. Trust me. Mr. Bigwand is going to wander onto this site some day. Go ahead. Teach him something. He loves to learn new things.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Checking the Little Box
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Now it's official. I'm dancing faster than I can. I'm Ginger, and Fred just went on crank. How's that for a multi-century analogy?
Tonight I stayed at school until almost 6:00. There's this program our school has called 21st Century Initiative. It's chock-a-block with federal funding which no one quite understands how to disburse. For instance, one evening this week another teacher just showed up on my doorstep and said I was "on the team," and a student had stayed after school to spend three hours in my company.
That student is a wonderful person and the very model of what a student should be. Getting paid to help him get into college -- and understand the work when he gets there? -- yeah. I'll do that.
This evening the student and I sent out some requests for information to colleges in Baltimore and Washington, DC. Asking colleges for information is rather like using a copy machine. No two web sites are the same. I guess they do that to keep spammers out. Student and I had to re-input every bit of information on every site.
There's one thing all these colleges have in common, though. Every one of them has a special little box to check if you are Hispanic.
Each time student and I came to that little box, we laughed. He is, you see, Hispanic.
He wants to be a writer. I don't know why I would thank the bored gods for dumping him into my lap, but I think this partnership was meant to be.
I think I'm going to encourage him to start a blog.
What else is going on in the Annals of Anne?
Well, Decibel the Parrot got hold of my middle finger and tried to sever it from my hand. He ground away, down to the bone, and only gave up when Spare screamed at him. What an adorable pet! Everyone should own a parrot.
Staying after school to help Student is one matter. Listening to the loquacious Mr. Bigwand and his chipper wife every Wednesday night in the "alternate route" teacher program is another. For some reason known only to him, he called on me last night. He pointed in my face and said, "How are you and I different?"
Oh, was it ever on the tip of my tongue to say, "I'm human!"
But instead I pulled out the tried-and-true. "I'm from Appalachia," I told him.
Which sent him off on another long-winded diatribe about how my formative experiences go into the classroom with me. And they do, of course. I didn't need him to tell me that ... over and over again.
Then, during a break, he blundered by me and said, "By the way, lovely part of the world." As if he has traveled the length and breadth of Appalachia, weighed it in the balance, and found it satisfactory.
So there's my "teacher." A guy who can sum up Appalachia in half a breath by saying, "Lovely part of the world."
I was tempted to show the guy a lovely part of my anatomy. But I need the grade. Gee, he's one swell instructor! Where's that evaluation form?
Saturday I have school from 8:30 until 1:30. All of this is keeping me so young!
Tonight I stayed at school until almost 6:00. There's this program our school has called 21st Century Initiative. It's chock-a-block with federal funding which no one quite understands how to disburse. For instance, one evening this week another teacher just showed up on my doorstep and said I was "on the team," and a student had stayed after school to spend three hours in my company.
That student is a wonderful person and the very model of what a student should be. Getting paid to help him get into college -- and understand the work when he gets there? -- yeah. I'll do that.
This evening the student and I sent out some requests for information to colleges in Baltimore and Washington, DC. Asking colleges for information is rather like using a copy machine. No two web sites are the same. I guess they do that to keep spammers out. Student and I had to re-input every bit of information on every site.
There's one thing all these colleges have in common, though. Every one of them has a special little box to check if you are Hispanic.
Each time student and I came to that little box, we laughed. He is, you see, Hispanic.
He wants to be a writer. I don't know why I would thank the bored gods for dumping him into my lap, but I think this partnership was meant to be.
I think I'm going to encourage him to start a blog.
What else is going on in the Annals of Anne?
Well, Decibel the Parrot got hold of my middle finger and tried to sever it from my hand. He ground away, down to the bone, and only gave up when Spare screamed at him. What an adorable pet! Everyone should own a parrot.
Staying after school to help Student is one matter. Listening to the loquacious Mr. Bigwand and his chipper wife every Wednesday night in the "alternate route" teacher program is another. For some reason known only to him, he called on me last night. He pointed in my face and said, "How are you and I different?"
Oh, was it ever on the tip of my tongue to say, "I'm human!"
But instead I pulled out the tried-and-true. "I'm from Appalachia," I told him.
Which sent him off on another long-winded diatribe about how my formative experiences go into the classroom with me. And they do, of course. I didn't need him to tell me that ... over and over again.
Then, during a break, he blundered by me and said, "By the way, lovely part of the world." As if he has traveled the length and breadth of Appalachia, weighed it in the balance, and found it satisfactory.
So there's my "teacher." A guy who can sum up Appalachia in half a breath by saying, "Lovely part of the world."
I was tempted to show the guy a lovely part of my anatomy. But I need the grade. Gee, he's one swell instructor! Where's that evaluation form?
Saturday I have school from 8:30 until 1:30. All of this is keeping me so young!
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Big Bad Bigwand
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," rest stop for deities amidst the hectic turnpike of modern life! Take a break, stay awake! We can find you an amiable traveling companion.
My three or four regular readers will recall that I have recently begun teaching school full-time, and I don't have a teaching certificate. Hence, once a week I have to go to a little Catholic high school in Gloucester City, New Jersey and take "alternate route" teaching classes.
The classes are taught (if you can call it that) by a puffed-up sack of hot air I'll call "Mr. Bigwand." Go ahead. Unscramble the letters. If his wand was as big as his self-opinion, he'd need to drag it around in a wheelbarrow like The Dagda.
I've never seen anyone who could digress with more frequency and at greater length than this guy. He missed his calling. He should have been an Episcopal pastor. (One of his digressions last night was to say he had studied for the cloth. Would that he had kept at it!)
Last night, in one of his digressions, Bigwand made a boast that chilled my soul.
According to Bigwand, every year he buys a new frightening Halloween mask from an expensive, theatrical-grade costume company. He uses it to scare away little kids who trick-or-treat. He bragged that he never has to give away any candy, because when kids come to his door they are so transported by terror that they run off into the night. With glee he described how one little tot became paralyzed with fear -- all the kid could do was stand there, as a single tear rolled down his little cheek.
Even if I was not a Pagan who takes Halloween seriously, I would be furious about this. What kind of pustule on the buttocks of American society brags about scaring little kids to a bunch of people who are TEACHING LITTLE KIDS? Half the class consists of people working in the elementary grades.
Never mind the audience. What kind of hemorrhoid on the butthole of society would take perverse pleasure in scaring little kids on a holiday where kids ought to be happy and having a good time?
That's a rhetorical question. But it still has an answer, and the answer is MR. BIGWAND.
I cannot call this man out. He holds my future in his hands. If he says I didn't do the classwork, or some such, I won't get my certificate.
But I have a long memory. I also have his email. He will not remember my name two days after the class ends.
I'm not a vengeful person by nature, but the thought of some kid having Halloween ruined, perhaps forever, by a big, tall-ass bully just boils the blood in my veins!
Bigwand, it's not a good idea to anger the Cailleach in the front row. She will level the playing field on behalf of every little kid you have ever scared on the Holy Night of Halloween!
My three or four regular readers will recall that I have recently begun teaching school full-time, and I don't have a teaching certificate. Hence, once a week I have to go to a little Catholic high school in Gloucester City, New Jersey and take "alternate route" teaching classes.
The classes are taught (if you can call it that) by a puffed-up sack of hot air I'll call "Mr. Bigwand." Go ahead. Unscramble the letters. If his wand was as big as his self-opinion, he'd need to drag it around in a wheelbarrow like The Dagda.
I've never seen anyone who could digress with more frequency and at greater length than this guy. He missed his calling. He should have been an Episcopal pastor. (One of his digressions last night was to say he had studied for the cloth. Would that he had kept at it!)
Last night, in one of his digressions, Bigwand made a boast that chilled my soul.
According to Bigwand, every year he buys a new frightening Halloween mask from an expensive, theatrical-grade costume company. He uses it to scare away little kids who trick-or-treat. He bragged that he never has to give away any candy, because when kids come to his door they are so transported by terror that they run off into the night. With glee he described how one little tot became paralyzed with fear -- all the kid could do was stand there, as a single tear rolled down his little cheek.
Even if I was not a Pagan who takes Halloween seriously, I would be furious about this. What kind of pustule on the buttocks of American society brags about scaring little kids to a bunch of people who are TEACHING LITTLE KIDS? Half the class consists of people working in the elementary grades.
Never mind the audience. What kind of hemorrhoid on the butthole of society would take perverse pleasure in scaring little kids on a holiday where kids ought to be happy and having a good time?
That's a rhetorical question. But it still has an answer, and the answer is MR. BIGWAND.
I cannot call this man out. He holds my future in his hands. If he says I didn't do the classwork, or some such, I won't get my certificate.
But I have a long memory. I also have his email. He will not remember my name two days after the class ends.
I'm not a vengeful person by nature, but the thought of some kid having Halloween ruined, perhaps forever, by a big, tall-ass bully just boils the blood in my veins!
Bigwand, it's not a good idea to anger the Cailleach in the front row. She will level the playing field on behalf of every little kid you have ever scared on the Holy Night of Halloween!
Sunday, October 04, 2009
It's Hip To Be Scared
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," typed several times a week by a person who has been a ball of anxiety since before John F. Kennedy was assassinated! Is it possible for a little kid to be anxious? You bet, my lieblings!
All my life I have lived with two problems:
1. Persistent anxiety
2. A dark and pessimistic view of life
We must remember that anxiety helped our species to rock on back in the bygone days. If you weren't scared of lions, you got eaten. You just had to worry about those lions all the time. And if the lions were sleeping, the snakes were up. And if both were sleeping you had to find stuff to eat.
In short, I believe that people who don't worry are part-alien mutants.
If you combine persistent anxiety with a dark and pessimistic view of life, you get ... my great-grandmother, from whom I inherited both traits.
On occasion, however, this bad emotional double-whammy can save one's day. Please settle in for a TGAB story!
On Saturday past, I had to drive to Rowan University to take a day course for alternate route teachers. The night before I had come down with a nasty grippe (didn't have to cook supper after all). Being pessimistic, I figured I would feel bad on Saturday morning, and by golly, I did.
Friday evening I checked the Alternate Route Teaching home page at Rowan University. It gave the time of the Saturday think tank and the location as the "education hall."
*No specific directions to the education hall. Ding ding ding! There goes the anxiety bell.
*Anxiety bell activates pessimism: "Shit. I'm gonna have trouble finding that building. I just know it."
The Rowan University web site gave general directions to its front gate. I perused the Rowan directions page and found the education hall on a primitive grid map. It is near the football stadium.
Given the scarcity of hard data, I decided to give myself 90 minutes to find the place. (It takes about 40 minutes to drive to Rowan on a Saturday morning.)
Thus it was that I got out of bed at 6:30 Saturday, gargled fruitlessly, and hopped in my Dodge right around 7:00. I found Rowan easily enough -- its front gate, that is. There was no one at the gate to give me directions to the education hall.
I could see the light standards of the football stadium to my left, nestled deep within the campus. But in New Jersey, seeing a landmark means nothing. You can hardly ever get there from here without help. So I asked a dude who was warming up for a morning jog, "How do I get to the stadium?"
He couldn't help me. He was like the scarecrow in the "Wizard of Oz." Literally, he said I could go this way, or that way, or both ways, and maybe I'd get there, but he wasn't sure how to do it.
In the meantime, another car pulled up behind me. It was a gal from Philly who was also slated to attend the lecture. She said she had found the stadium but couldn't figure out which building was the education building.
On the primitive map, it says, "education building." On the building, there's the name of some fat cat who dumped a load of ducats into the university coffers. In fact, all the buildings had fat cat names. With not even a sculpture or mosaic outside to give away their inner scholarly purposes.
I followed the Philly gal to a parking lot adjacent to the football stadium and a dull, square building that might or might not be the education building. She said she had tried the front door, and it was locked. Since we parked at the rear of the building, I suggested we give the service entry a shot. It was open. There was an elevator. We took it to the first floor. There was one dude in the lobby who said we needed the third floor.
Having spent 75 minutes to find a classroom that I could have gotten to in 45 (with better directions), I finally entered the lecture room where my sore throat and I would spend Saturday morning. The Philly gal and I were nearly the first people there. I told the professor I intended to sit in the rear of the room, as I was ill and didn't want to spread germs. Drawing himself to snarky heights, he sneered, "How good of you to grace us with your presence."
More teethmarks in the tongue. Where do they find these pompous skunks?
Anxiety quelled in favor of seething hatred, I took a seat right by the classroom door. I heard the professor tell the Philly gal that he expected 30 people for the lecture.
Promptly at 8:30 he began to drone in the usual way professors do, by telling us how little we knew about the pedagogy of education.
People were still streaming into the room. By 8:45 there were 50 people. By 9:00 there were 75 people. By 9:15, people were still coming. They had to drag chairs from an adjacent classroom. We students topped out at 100 strong -- more than twice the number considered safe by the fire marshal. (I knew this because I was sitting near the sign that said, "Maximum capacity: 49 persons." Oh, how I did WISH the fire marshal would make an unscheduled raid!)
At about 9:20, the professor doled out this tidbit of helpful advice:
"Two thirds of you will not make it in the profession of education."
Well, that sure was cheery news!
Then he continued:
"Do you know how I can tell? Because education is a business of MINUTES. You have to be on time! If you're two minutes late to your classroom, that's when your students will incite to riot. And how do I know you can't cut it? Look how many of you were LATE TO THIS CLASS!"
A considerable amount of squirming ensued. Almost everyone had been late.
Everyone except moi, the nervous Nelly who knows she needs all kinds of time to find a place that has:
*insufficient directions
*misleading signage
*locked front door
Early on a Saturday morning!
Pip pip for anxiety and the dark, pessimistic outlook! Saved my pink tush in the profession of education!
In closing, I would like to repeat myself. Many long decades ago, I attended the Johns Hopkins University, graduating Phi Beta Kappa. In my four years there I met more than my share of pompous pedants. But here's the difference between the JHU profs and the ones I've met so far in alternate route education. The JHU profs were experts in their fields. (I had one once who cancelled class because he was going to advise Jimmy Carter.) This chap who lectured at Rowan Saturday morning had spent the sum total of 7 years in a classroom before ascending the ranks in the ed biz. By 35 he was a superintendent of a district, and he went on to advise several governors. Yet he was there to teach us how to teach! No politics of modern Cuba, no recent fossil finds, no insight into the nuances of King Lear, no spirited discussions of the philosophy of American letters in the Antebellum South. Nope, this dude with seven years' teaching (in the 1970s, no less) was there to teach neophyte teachers how to teach!
Oh well. He let us go early after giving us the answers to the handout we had to write on to prove we were there. I limped home and spent the rest of the day in the settee, mumbling lyrics to Talking Heads songs.
All my life I have lived with two problems:
1. Persistent anxiety
2. A dark and pessimistic view of life
We must remember that anxiety helped our species to rock on back in the bygone days. If you weren't scared of lions, you got eaten. You just had to worry about those lions all the time. And if the lions were sleeping, the snakes were up. And if both were sleeping you had to find stuff to eat.
In short, I believe that people who don't worry are part-alien mutants.
If you combine persistent anxiety with a dark and pessimistic view of life, you get ... my great-grandmother, from whom I inherited both traits.
On occasion, however, this bad emotional double-whammy can save one's day. Please settle in for a TGAB story!
On Saturday past, I had to drive to Rowan University to take a day course for alternate route teachers. The night before I had come down with a nasty grippe (didn't have to cook supper after all). Being pessimistic, I figured I would feel bad on Saturday morning, and by golly, I did.
Friday evening I checked the Alternate Route Teaching home page at Rowan University. It gave the time of the Saturday think tank and the location as the "education hall."
*No specific directions to the education hall. Ding ding ding! There goes the anxiety bell.
*Anxiety bell activates pessimism: "Shit. I'm gonna have trouble finding that building. I just know it."
The Rowan University web site gave general directions to its front gate. I perused the Rowan directions page and found the education hall on a primitive grid map. It is near the football stadium.
Given the scarcity of hard data, I decided to give myself 90 minutes to find the place. (It takes about 40 minutes to drive to Rowan on a Saturday morning.)
Thus it was that I got out of bed at 6:30 Saturday, gargled fruitlessly, and hopped in my Dodge right around 7:00. I found Rowan easily enough -- its front gate, that is. There was no one at the gate to give me directions to the education hall.
I could see the light standards of the football stadium to my left, nestled deep within the campus. But in New Jersey, seeing a landmark means nothing. You can hardly ever get there from here without help. So I asked a dude who was warming up for a morning jog, "How do I get to the stadium?"
He couldn't help me. He was like the scarecrow in the "Wizard of Oz." Literally, he said I could go this way, or that way, or both ways, and maybe I'd get there, but he wasn't sure how to do it.
In the meantime, another car pulled up behind me. It was a gal from Philly who was also slated to attend the lecture. She said she had found the stadium but couldn't figure out which building was the education building.
On the primitive map, it says, "education building." On the building, there's the name of some fat cat who dumped a load of ducats into the university coffers. In fact, all the buildings had fat cat names. With not even a sculpture or mosaic outside to give away their inner scholarly purposes.
I followed the Philly gal to a parking lot adjacent to the football stadium and a dull, square building that might or might not be the education building. She said she had tried the front door, and it was locked. Since we parked at the rear of the building, I suggested we give the service entry a shot. It was open. There was an elevator. We took it to the first floor. There was one dude in the lobby who said we needed the third floor.
Having spent 75 minutes to find a classroom that I could have gotten to in 45 (with better directions), I finally entered the lecture room where my sore throat and I would spend Saturday morning. The Philly gal and I were nearly the first people there. I told the professor I intended to sit in the rear of the room, as I was ill and didn't want to spread germs. Drawing himself to snarky heights, he sneered, "How good of you to grace us with your presence."
More teethmarks in the tongue. Where do they find these pompous skunks?
Anxiety quelled in favor of seething hatred, I took a seat right by the classroom door. I heard the professor tell the Philly gal that he expected 30 people for the lecture.
Promptly at 8:30 he began to drone in the usual way professors do, by telling us how little we knew about the pedagogy of education.
People were still streaming into the room. By 8:45 there were 50 people. By 9:00 there were 75 people. By 9:15, people were still coming. They had to drag chairs from an adjacent classroom. We students topped out at 100 strong -- more than twice the number considered safe by the fire marshal. (I knew this because I was sitting near the sign that said, "Maximum capacity: 49 persons." Oh, how I did WISH the fire marshal would make an unscheduled raid!)
At about 9:20, the professor doled out this tidbit of helpful advice:
"Two thirds of you will not make it in the profession of education."
Well, that sure was cheery news!
Then he continued:
"Do you know how I can tell? Because education is a business of MINUTES. You have to be on time! If you're two minutes late to your classroom, that's when your students will incite to riot. And how do I know you can't cut it? Look how many of you were LATE TO THIS CLASS!"
A considerable amount of squirming ensued. Almost everyone had been late.
Everyone except moi, the nervous Nelly who knows she needs all kinds of time to find a place that has:
*insufficient directions
*misleading signage
*locked front door
Early on a Saturday morning!
Pip pip for anxiety and the dark, pessimistic outlook! Saved my pink tush in the profession of education!
In closing, I would like to repeat myself. Many long decades ago, I attended the Johns Hopkins University, graduating Phi Beta Kappa. In my four years there I met more than my share of pompous pedants. But here's the difference between the JHU profs and the ones I've met so far in alternate route education. The JHU profs were experts in their fields. (I had one once who cancelled class because he was going to advise Jimmy Carter.) This chap who lectured at Rowan Saturday morning had spent the sum total of 7 years in a classroom before ascending the ranks in the ed biz. By 35 he was a superintendent of a district, and he went on to advise several governors. Yet he was there to teach us how to teach! No politics of modern Cuba, no recent fossil finds, no insight into the nuances of King Lear, no spirited discussions of the philosophy of American letters in the Antebellum South. Nope, this dude with seven years' teaching (in the 1970s, no less) was there to teach neophyte teachers how to teach!
Oh well. He let us go early after giving us the answers to the handout we had to write on to prove we were there. I limped home and spent the rest of the day in the settee, mumbling lyrics to Talking Heads songs.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
My, How Things Have Changed!
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," as we kick off October! For about one million reasons, this is my favorite month of the year. Autumn is such a grand season, isn't it? I admit I miss the mountains more this time of year. But some day I'll go home for good. Bet on it.
Yesterday I had my third class in what looks to be a long, dreary series of useless exercises in educating educators. At least I have a name for my "professor." From here on out, he will be known as Mr. Bigwand. (Buttroy was a close second, but that one more or less can only be used by my dear Yellowdog Granny.)
Mr. Bigwand has a big boat and a big, impressive teaching resume that he likes to reminisce about constantly. He tells very amusing stories about his days in the classroom. Some of the stories are so amusing that he tells them every week.
He does rather ramble, but what else do I have to do on a Wednesday afternoon except sit and listen to him?
Inevitably at conflabs such as this night school class, the predominant question is that of student discipline. How do we get the attention of these fine young minds, and keep the attention long enough to impart some wisdom?
When pressed for an answer to this widely-held conundrum, Mr. Bigwand told yet another story. He is proud (quite proud) to say that he taught at-risk students at an inner city school in Philly. He had 20 kids in a room the size of a two-seater privvy (or some such). One day he got a new pupil, the toughest kid in the school.
Pinky swear, this is what Mr. Bigwand told us.
When the kid began to act up in class, Mr. Bigwand invited the kid out into the corridor. Mr. Bigwand shoved the kid into a locker, closed the locker door, and had a conversation with the kid while the kid was stuck inside the locker. Needless to say, Bigwand concluded, the kid never gave him any more trouble.
I'm trying to picture myself following this edifying advice.
Maybe in some places.... no, wait. I can't even insult the citizens of the usual states that I'm fond of insulting! I'll bet they don't even shove bad kids into lockers in such bastions of brilliance as Idaho and Utah!
If Mr. Bigwand is giving us his true age (and he looks about the age he gives), he must have pulled this stunt when I was still a college stripling. And even then, the 1980s, I can't imagine how he got away with it.
This charming anecdote -- plus the suggestion that one should hover over misbehaving students and pat them nicely on the shoulder -- has been the sum total of Mr. Bigwand's advice on how to deal with discipline problems in the classroom.
I would ask him how to handle a situation where 20 out of 25 students are giddy simultaneously, and school rules prohibit my touching any of them, even in the most kindly way, but why set him off on another long-winded diatribe?
Let's see how this motif unfolds, friends. Bigwand has me in his thrall for ten months. I'm not sure I'll be able to bite my tongue that long without sticking my teeth right through it.
Yesterday I had my third class in what looks to be a long, dreary series of useless exercises in educating educators. At least I have a name for my "professor." From here on out, he will be known as Mr. Bigwand. (Buttroy was a close second, but that one more or less can only be used by my dear Yellowdog Granny.)
Mr. Bigwand has a big boat and a big, impressive teaching resume that he likes to reminisce about constantly. He tells very amusing stories about his days in the classroom. Some of the stories are so amusing that he tells them every week.
He does rather ramble, but what else do I have to do on a Wednesday afternoon except sit and listen to him?
Inevitably at conflabs such as this night school class, the predominant question is that of student discipline. How do we get the attention of these fine young minds, and keep the attention long enough to impart some wisdom?
When pressed for an answer to this widely-held conundrum, Mr. Bigwand told yet another story. He is proud (quite proud) to say that he taught at-risk students at an inner city school in Philly. He had 20 kids in a room the size of a two-seater privvy (or some such). One day he got a new pupil, the toughest kid in the school.
Pinky swear, this is what Mr. Bigwand told us.
When the kid began to act up in class, Mr. Bigwand invited the kid out into the corridor. Mr. Bigwand shoved the kid into a locker, closed the locker door, and had a conversation with the kid while the kid was stuck inside the locker. Needless to say, Bigwand concluded, the kid never gave him any more trouble.
I'm trying to picture myself following this edifying advice.
Maybe in some places.... no, wait. I can't even insult the citizens of the usual states that I'm fond of insulting! I'll bet they don't even shove bad kids into lockers in such bastions of brilliance as Idaho and Utah!
If Mr. Bigwand is giving us his true age (and he looks about the age he gives), he must have pulled this stunt when I was still a college stripling. And even then, the 1980s, I can't imagine how he got away with it.
This charming anecdote -- plus the suggestion that one should hover over misbehaving students and pat them nicely on the shoulder -- has been the sum total of Mr. Bigwand's advice on how to deal with discipline problems in the classroom.
I would ask him how to handle a situation where 20 out of 25 students are giddy simultaneously, and school rules prohibit my touching any of them, even in the most kindly way, but why set him off on another long-winded diatribe?
Let's see how this motif unfolds, friends. Bigwand has me in his thrall for ten months. I'm not sure I'll be able to bite my tongue that long without sticking my teeth right through it.
Friday, September 25, 2009
A New Recurring Motif
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where Friday nights suddenly mean something! Wow, I have been working hard. But I like to work. So there you are. Give me a brick wall to build, I'll start mixing the mortar.
I have landed a full-time teaching job without the certification people need to be school teachers. This means that I have to attend night school. One evening a week I have to drive to a town in the shadow of the Walt Whitman Bridge and go to class to learn how to do the job I'm already doing. At the end of this year-long class, I'll get a piece of paper that will show that I know how to do the job I've already been doing for a year.
And by the way, Barack Obama wants moms to go back to school, but they have to pay for it themselves. At least I do.
The man who is teaching this mandatory night course needs a whole name to himself. I will reserve judgment for exactly one more week, and then I'll give him a name. Or maybe you will. We will devise a name for this dude. Because I have a feeling he's going to be a recurring motif here at TGAB.
The first night of class he talked for an hour, gave us a five minute break, talked for half an hour, and dismissed us.
This past Wednesday, he talked for an hour, gave us a five minute break, talked for another hour, gave us another five minute break, talked for a half hour, and took questions that he answered at length for another half hour.
For. The. Love. Of. Fruit flies. I've never heard a bigger windbag in my life! And that's saying a lot. I went to Johns Hopkins University, which was chock-a-block with conceited professors. But at least when they started talking from the podium, it was about something interesting, like James Joyce or Australopithecus afarensis. It wasn't about how wonderful they were, or how wonderful their big boat is, or what a great professor they'd always been.
The thought of spending every Wednesday night in a right-handed desk in a stuffy little classroom in a Catholic school with this dude is seriously making me wring my mittens!
My mother, now asleep with the Confederate dead, had a favorite saying: "Brevity is the soul of wit." (It's no doubt from Shakespeare. My mom was nuts about Shakespeare. Or just plain nuts, or both.)
"Brevity is the soul of wit." So I'll be brief when I say that night school bites under any circumstances, but to have a conceited bore for a teacher is the worst of biting. It's like being swarmed by 17,000 thirsty mosquitoes, all with that ear-piercing hum.
I have landed a full-time teaching job without the certification people need to be school teachers. This means that I have to attend night school. One evening a week I have to drive to a town in the shadow of the Walt Whitman Bridge and go to class to learn how to do the job I'm already doing. At the end of this year-long class, I'll get a piece of paper that will show that I know how to do the job I've already been doing for a year.
And by the way, Barack Obama wants moms to go back to school, but they have to pay for it themselves. At least I do.
The man who is teaching this mandatory night course needs a whole name to himself. I will reserve judgment for exactly one more week, and then I'll give him a name. Or maybe you will. We will devise a name for this dude. Because I have a feeling he's going to be a recurring motif here at TGAB.
The first night of class he talked for an hour, gave us a five minute break, talked for half an hour, and dismissed us.
This past Wednesday, he talked for an hour, gave us a five minute break, talked for another hour, gave us another five minute break, talked for a half hour, and took questions that he answered at length for another half hour.
For. The. Love. Of. Fruit flies. I've never heard a bigger windbag in my life! And that's saying a lot. I went to Johns Hopkins University, which was chock-a-block with conceited professors. But at least when they started talking from the podium, it was about something interesting, like James Joyce or Australopithecus afarensis. It wasn't about how wonderful they were, or how wonderful their big boat is, or what a great professor they'd always been.
The thought of spending every Wednesday night in a right-handed desk in a stuffy little classroom in a Catholic school with this dude is seriously making me wring my mittens!
My mother, now asleep with the Confederate dead, had a favorite saying: "Brevity is the soul of wit." (It's no doubt from Shakespeare. My mom was nuts about Shakespeare. Or just plain nuts, or both.)
"Brevity is the soul of wit." So I'll be brief when I say that night school bites under any circumstances, but to have a conceited bore for a teacher is the worst of biting. It's like being swarmed by 17,000 thirsty mosquitoes, all with that ear-piercing hum.
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