Generation Text
Walking forward in a line
Three teens with haste are wasting time
They have their hair done up just right
And their skinny jeans worn a bit too tight
The fine quick movements of their thumbs
Shorten words and strike them dumb.
I jotted this down last week at the "Red, White, and True Convention" in DC. The sight really was rather amusing. Three girls, all of them probably about 15 years old, walking in a single file line while typing. They were so absorbed with their phones that if the first in line were to have fallen the other two would have blindly continued forward, tripping over her, while tweeting their tumble.
___________________________________________________
On the second day of class I asked my students to list the top 10 words they associate with “America” … Texting made the lists 18 times, second only to Freedom for most frequently listed.
About Me
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Play
Billy Budd: A SAAALIOR!
St. Benedict’s Prep Drama Guild has undertaken the production of Billy Budd, a play based on a Herman Melville novel of the same name. The story centers around the stoic Captain Vere as he battles with the desire to do right despite the restraints of his office.
The play calls for a nearly all white cast with the title role filled by a blond haired, blue eyed, muscular boy, about 18 years of age. St. Benedict's has cast a skinny, pubescent, black, 16 year old, with dreads. The SBP drama guild is, to say the least, taking some necessary creative license. In one scene the crew is chasing down a French frigate and doing it “fabulously”. Melville’s crew were able, cut throat seamen. The Benedict's drama boys are more likely to kiss seamen than cut them. During one rehearsal the overly queer captain Vere delivered the line: “of his own election”, in a fashion that Freud would have found telling. This slip was followed by riotous screams and girlish giggles backstage.
Truth be told the flamboyant style could make for a hilarious play, think Mel Brooks’ Springtime for Hitler, but in its current state the actors’ fabulousness just makes for two hours of awkward viewing.
And so it was in desperation that the director came to me two weeks ago and asked me to “butch up the cast”. This daunting task (Ray Charles leading Helen Keller?) has been slow moving and it was only last week that I was finally able to work with them on masculating stage presence. I am pleased to say that Captain Vere no longer sashays down stage, but the stiffening of his exaggerated limp wrist is going to be a challenge.
St. Benedict’s Prep Drama Guild has undertaken the production of Billy Budd, a play based on a Herman Melville novel of the same name. The story centers around the stoic Captain Vere as he battles with the desire to do right despite the restraints of his office.
The play calls for a nearly all white cast with the title role filled by a blond haired, blue eyed, muscular boy, about 18 years of age. St. Benedict's has cast a skinny, pubescent, black, 16 year old, with dreads. The SBP drama guild is, to say the least, taking some necessary creative license. In one scene the crew is chasing down a French frigate and doing it “fabulously”. Melville’s crew were able, cut throat seamen. The Benedict's drama boys are more likely to kiss seamen than cut them. During one rehearsal the overly queer captain Vere delivered the line: “of his own election”, in a fashion that Freud would have found telling. This slip was followed by riotous screams and girlish giggles backstage.
Truth be told the flamboyant style could make for a hilarious play, think Mel Brooks’ Springtime for Hitler, but in its current state the actors’ fabulousness just makes for two hours of awkward viewing.
And so it was in desperation that the director came to me two weeks ago and asked me to “butch up the cast”. This daunting task (Ray Charles leading Helen Keller?) has been slow moving and it was only last week that I was finally able to work with them on masculating stage presence. I am pleased to say that Captain Vere no longer sashays down stage, but the stiffening of his exaggerated limp wrist is going to be a challenge.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Date unknow
Oct sometime
The romance of the city has worn and now shows the dull tones of regularity. My life is made up of waking, checking emails, covering classes, disciplining students, and instructing my course- which has begun to feel like a task rather than the privilege I once regarded it as. They talk- I hiss for silence- they talk- I glare- they fight- I swear.
Where is the glamour? Where is the changed life because of my presence? Where is the storybook turnaround from troubled student to eager citizen? This volunteer bit comes with little reward, or at least I have days that feel especially underappreciated.
But then there are the nights, when, perched on the roof, I look out over the city and see from the tops of the three tallest buildings the billowing stripes of freedom and always I am moved. When I see them high above the streets thoughts of greater good leap to my mind like flames from a fire and spur me onward…one more day.
The romance of the city has worn and now shows the dull tones of regularity. My life is made up of waking, checking emails, covering classes, disciplining students, and instructing my course- which has begun to feel like a task rather than the privilege I once regarded it as. They talk- I hiss for silence- they talk- I glare- they fight- I swear.
Where is the glamour? Where is the changed life because of my presence? Where is the storybook turnaround from troubled student to eager citizen? This volunteer bit comes with little reward, or at least I have days that feel especially underappreciated.
But then there are the nights, when, perched on the roof, I look out over the city and see from the tops of the three tallest buildings the billowing stripes of freedom and always I am moved. When I see them high above the streets thoughts of greater good leap to my mind like flames from a fire and spur me onward…one more day.
Monday, October 12, 2009
10/10/09
Proctoring the SAT
"Do not open your test book until I tell you to do so. The standard time for this section is twenty-five minutes. You must fill in the answer sheet using a number two pencil. If you finish before time is called you may not turn to any other section of the test. Now please open your answer sheet to page two..."
"Oh god I'm going to puke!"
And she did- all over page two of her answer sheet.
After she had completed her one heave wonder she looked up at me, "can I finish?"
[Flash] Girl driving home to expectant parents wondering how she'd done, looks of disappointment on their faces when they heard her test could not be accurately graded because the eggs her mother had cooked her for breakfast were now covering the circles the girl had so dutifully darkened; and how although she had pleaded the proctor had informed her that the machine used would not be able to read her answer sheet. The girl then looks up into her parents' eyes and says: "I need to retake it". [Flash]
Although this momentary day dream did tug at my heart, the smell of her breakfast atop the desk was yanking at my gut. "I'm sorry your answer sheet is no longer valid." She nodded understandingly.
"Do not open your test book until I tell you to do so. The standard time for this section is twenty-five minutes. You must fill in the answer sheet using a number two pencil. If you finish before time is called you may not turn to any other section of the test. Now please open your answer sheet to page two..."
"Oh god I'm going to puke!"
And she did- all over page two of her answer sheet.
After she had completed her one heave wonder she looked up at me, "can I finish?"
[Flash] Girl driving home to expectant parents wondering how she'd done, looks of disappointment on their faces when they heard her test could not be accurately graded because the eggs her mother had cooked her for breakfast were now covering the circles the girl had so dutifully darkened; and how although she had pleaded the proctor had informed her that the machine used would not be able to read her answer sheet. The girl then looks up into her parents' eyes and says: "I need to retake it". [Flash]
Although this momentary day dream did tug at my heart, the smell of her breakfast atop the desk was yanking at my gut. "I'm sorry your answer sheet is no longer valid." She nodded understandingly.
9/29/09
Here in Newark we have begun to make Turrell house our home. The common space has been redecorated and fitted to our liking, our rooms are dressed with posters and pictures reflecting each of our individual characters, and the greenroom (a room which was at onetime a greenhouse) has now become our library.
The greenroom sits on the very top of our four story redbrick and, as one might expect in a room which once existed as a greenhouse, there are windows everywhere. The view of downtown Newark from this room is really stunning, and it was in want of this view that I found my way up there last night. I sat myself at a desk by an open window. The sky was clear and the buildings bright.
Time passed, and in the midst of my debating whether or not to let sleep take me I was stirred. At first it was just a few clinks- maybe, I thought, just dreamed on the edge of sleep. But then I heard it again a bit stronger this time. I opened the window wider and the sound grew louder. Yes, it was unmistakable; floating on a cool breeze up from the gym came the sound of fumbled keys and broken melody, then all at once but very slowly, it changed- Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.
Soon I was sitting in the middle of our makeshift library a top a little redbrick in Newark listening to my own personal concert. The music contrasted wonderfully with the sounds of far off sirens, near by horns, and chatter on the streets. When the piece ended there was no applause, no cries of bravo, just the anxious sound of a rustling city.
The greenroom sits on the very top of our four story redbrick and, as one might expect in a room which once existed as a greenhouse, there are windows everywhere. The view of downtown Newark from this room is really stunning, and it was in want of this view that I found my way up there last night. I sat myself at a desk by an open window. The sky was clear and the buildings bright.
Time passed, and in the midst of my debating whether or not to let sleep take me I was stirred. At first it was just a few clinks- maybe, I thought, just dreamed on the edge of sleep. But then I heard it again a bit stronger this time. I opened the window wider and the sound grew louder. Yes, it was unmistakable; floating on a cool breeze up from the gym came the sound of fumbled keys and broken melody, then all at once but very slowly, it changed- Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.
Soon I was sitting in the middle of our makeshift library a top a little redbrick in Newark listening to my own personal concert. The music contrasted wonderfully with the sounds of far off sirens, near by horns, and chatter on the streets. When the piece ended there was no applause, no cries of bravo, just the anxious sound of a rustling city.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
9/17/09
Feigning Teacher
Looking down at the class roster I raise my voice to get my students’ attentions. “Alright time to get started everyone sit down.” I look up into a sea of several confused and slightly affronted faces- no one had been standing.
Panic washes over me. This is it, I think, this is my most recent greatest fear come to fruition, this is when they realize I’m not “a teacher” this is when the realize I make mistakes. Oh lord I’ve pictured this scene before. Riotous laughter, mutinous charges towards my desk, and finally me, a disheveled clump of kakis and short sleeved button ups, hiding in the corner of my darkened classroom while students dance around trash bins set-a-fire, shred their note books, and text their friends. I try to raise my voice; I try to say, "No please stop. Put the phones away. Nafis you’re going to need those notes." But no one listens. I’m not a perfect teacher and they know it- all is lost.
Breaking from this horrid day dream I recover with a joking smile. “Sorry guys, it’s just habit.” They chuckle and I move on having gained another day without detection.
Looking down at the class roster I raise my voice to get my students’ attentions. “Alright time to get started everyone sit down.” I look up into a sea of several confused and slightly affronted faces- no one had been standing.
Panic washes over me. This is it, I think, this is my most recent greatest fear come to fruition, this is when they realize I’m not “a teacher” this is when the realize I make mistakes. Oh lord I’ve pictured this scene before. Riotous laughter, mutinous charges towards my desk, and finally me, a disheveled clump of kakis and short sleeved button ups, hiding in the corner of my darkened classroom while students dance around trash bins set-a-fire, shred their note books, and text their friends. I try to raise my voice; I try to say, "No please stop. Put the phones away. Nafis you’re going to need those notes." But no one listens. I’m not a perfect teacher and they know it- all is lost.
Breaking from this horrid day dream I recover with a joking smile. “Sorry guys, it’s just habit.” They chuckle and I move on having gained another day without detection.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
9-15-09
Back in Black or Back in the Habit- both titles amuse me.
Fall term started September 9th and from the moment I woke up I was surrounded by the chaos I have come to relate with St. Benedict’s Prep.
Schedules were distributed to students at morning convocation and it was only then the faculty realized that nearly 1/4 of the student population weren’t signed up for any classes. I spent the majority of the day in the cafeteria helping those students I dubbed the lost boys pick the classes they needed to fulfill their graduation standards. When the time came for me to go to my fourth block class I found that the books I was told were ordered three months ago, the books around which I had designed my class, the books out of which I was going to assign homework, hadn’t actually arrived- in fact they had never been ordered.
While still reeling from the realization that I would be teaching my class without a book for at least the next three weeks students started to trickle into the room. By the end of the period my class of 16 had grown to 18, the next day it would be 20, and as of today I am teaching a class of 23.
With every morning here in Newark comes another adventure. I never know who I’ll be teaching or what random event might alter the course of the day. I wake up unsure what class I might be covering or if I’ll have enough time to fit in a meal. Yesterday while I was sitting down for lunch one of the older members of the monastic community pressed what he thought was the button for the elevator and the entire building had to be evacuated for an impromptu fire drill.
The tree the tempest with a crash of wood
Throws down in front of us is not to bar
Our passage to our journey's end for good,
but just to ask us who we think we are
Insisting always on our own way so.
She likes to halt us in our runner tracks,
And make us get down in a foot of snow
Debating what to do without an axe.
And yet she knows obstruction is in vain:
We will not put off the final goal
We have it hidden in us to attain,
Not though we have to seize earth by the pole
And, tired of aimless circling in one place,
Steer straight off after something into space.
-Robert Frost
Fall term started September 9th and from the moment I woke up I was surrounded by the chaos I have come to relate with St. Benedict’s Prep.
Schedules were distributed to students at morning convocation and it was only then the faculty realized that nearly 1/4 of the student population weren’t signed up for any classes. I spent the majority of the day in the cafeteria helping those students I dubbed the lost boys pick the classes they needed to fulfill their graduation standards. When the time came for me to go to my fourth block class I found that the books I was told were ordered three months ago, the books around which I had designed my class, the books out of which I was going to assign homework, hadn’t actually arrived- in fact they had never been ordered.
While still reeling from the realization that I would be teaching my class without a book for at least the next three weeks students started to trickle into the room. By the end of the period my class of 16 had grown to 18, the next day it would be 20, and as of today I am teaching a class of 23.
With every morning here in Newark comes another adventure. I never know who I’ll be teaching or what random event might alter the course of the day. I wake up unsure what class I might be covering or if I’ll have enough time to fit in a meal. Yesterday while I was sitting down for lunch one of the older members of the monastic community pressed what he thought was the button for the elevator and the entire building had to be evacuated for an impromptu fire drill.
The tree the tempest with a crash of wood
Throws down in front of us is not to bar
Our passage to our journey's end for good,
but just to ask us who we think we are
Insisting always on our own way so.
She likes to halt us in our runner tracks,
And make us get down in a foot of snow
Debating what to do without an axe.
And yet she knows obstruction is in vain:
We will not put off the final goal
We have it hidden in us to attain,
Not though we have to seize earth by the pole
And, tired of aimless circling in one place,
Steer straight off after something into space.
-Robert Frost
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