Quicksand and Vectors

In the movie "The Replacements," expression-challenged Keanu Reeves delivers a pretty memorable speech about the nature of adversity.  He is sitting in a locker-room, pre-football game, while the coach try to talk a team up from the previous week's defeat.  The coach, played by Gene Hackman, asks his players, "what scares you?" After a fun interchange about spiders and bees, Keanu pipes up.  "Quicksand," he says.  The team is confused so the coach has him explain:

"You're playing and everything is going fine.  And then one thing goes wrong and another and another.  And you try to fight it but there's nothing you can do.  You're in over your head. Like quicksand."

I think this fear is more legitimate for high school students in 2016 than it is even for professional football players.  Because here's the reality of your lives: things were going well.  You had good grades, you worked pretty hard, everything seemed pretty smooth.  Then BANG.  You suddenly weren't moving forward.  You were stuck.  But hey adversity was nothing new so you doubled back and tried something else.  BANG. You started to feel trapped.  Classes used to be so easy.  But this junior year thing, this college writing thing.  It seemed like a trap.  Wait, you said without saying it, I have to tackle a complex, truly difficult prompt, organize a response on a level I've never encountered before, all while getting held to a rubric that feels way over my head?

At this point in the year, AP Lang can feel a bit like quicksand in that regard.  Vocabulary, rhetorical tools, sentence styles, tone, audience... so many things to keep track of all at once.  So what if instead of adding to the overwhelming complexity of it all we try to simplify things?  What if we reduced the pressure instead of turning it up?

If we reduce an RA to its simplest component it's really all about purpose.  Why did the author put these words on paper?  Why?  Once you can answer that you can tackle corollaries: why is it effective? what tone is created? how does that tone convey the purpose to the audience?

In the wonderful animated movie "Despicable Me", Gru (voiced by Steve Carrell) runs into a man at the Bank of Evil (formerly Lehman Brothers) who calls himself "Vector".  It's another spendid cinematic exchange.  But Vector's name is symbolic, he says, because he (like the word itself) has direction and magnitude.  ("Oh yeah!")

Vector is an interesting idea to apply analysis too.  Authors, with their words, have direction (purpose) and magnitude (tone).  They are headed somewhere; they have a goal.  They can also convey a certain immediacy about that journey.  We have seen evidence of different tones in almost everything we read.  In "Usher", Poe knows that his dark and chaotic tone will ultimately help him achieve the wonderfully introspective purpose of his short story.  In "Young Goodman Brown", Hawthorne skewers the overly judgmental Puritans to achieve his ends.  Even in "Candide" today Voltaire effected a tone - sardonic, sarcastic, slightly inappropriate - to drive his frustration home.

So what if tomorrow instead of worrying about how many rhetorical tools you can find you asked yourself a simple question: what is the "vector" of this passage? Where is it going? Can I articulate the goal here?  And once I can how is it trying to get there?  Am I supposed to feel something along the way?

Because here's what you already know: quicksand thrives on people flailing about reaching in any direction for literally anything.  It's chaotic and unfocused.  They sink faster.  So to avoid it you need to reach out with a deliberate effort for a specific goal and pull yourself toward the answer.

That's your vector.

Deeper Obligations

Politics leaves us all a little broken.

But bitter, earth-shattering politics isn't all the new to our species.  In 1170, King Henry of England committed one of the most politically-motivated murders this world has ever borne witness to.  He incited his confidants to take the life of his former-best friend Thomas Becket.  The TL;DR version of this story (although the whole story is well worth your time) is that Becket was Henry's right hand many for many years.  Then in 1168 Henry names Becket Archbishop of Canterbury, the most important religious post on England.  Henry did this in an attempt to make the church subservient to the English crown.  He was sure that Becket - his friend, his informant, his bodyguard, his everything - would bring the rebellious elements of the church in line for the good of the whole country.

Becket did no such thing.  Almost immediately Becket challenged the King's authority in a whole host of controversial issues.  In short, he became King Henry's worst nightmare.  And the King - not for the last time in English history either - moved to have this man killed.

One line from Becket's writings remains with us to this day.  When the King, in writing, asked his friend why he was suddenly so resistant and objectionable, the Archbishop replied, "With this new position you have introduced me to deeper obligations."

That's an interesting phrase and I think it pertains to you this year.

We've talked before about how writing used to be for school or for the teacher or for the grade.  Some of you claim you still feel that way, even in AP Lang.  I think that's legitimate and honest feedback.  But I want more than ever for your writing to be something that you express because you believe in it.  YOU believe in it.  The prompt might be a bit mundane in your eyes but something in the text galvanizes you in a way that is unshakable.  The words you produce, then, become not just the things you think you ought to say to get a good grade but things that you no longer have the power not to say because they are eating you from within.

Becket was placed before a man he counted as his friend and still he found within him the unquenchable desire to do the right thing. To stand up for people he believed in, for a world view that mattered to him.  And we all have those moments.  Things that push us to finally write and communicate in a way we wish we always had.  Sometimes those things are huge (elections, family changes, friends) and sometimes the reason we cannot contain our words start with the smallest crack in the foundation of something we thought was rock solid (a la House of Usher).

Last week Leonard Cohen died (youtube him... seriously) and I thought a great spark of literary genius had gone out from this world.  The air is colder today and darker.  For some of you, this is true for other reasons.  How many of you have sat with me after school and said, I always thought I wrote just fine? I put some words on the page and that was "good enough"?  Then along came this scrawny pompous white Lang teacher who said, "why did you use that word?" and "what do you mean by this phrase?" and you were forced to explain and clarify in ways that you hadn't really had to before.  And your grade suddenly wasn't what it always was and your world was darker and colder.

We both have outlets though.  We put words on the page and it begins to ameliorate us.  We say the things we want to say the way we want to say them.  And in doing that - our style, our voice - we discover that we had the words all the time.  It just took jarring us from our place to make us realize it.

You see, the thing that King Henry never understood was the Thomas Becket opposed him not because he had the power to but because with great power come great responsibility.  To stand in the most powerful position of a country without any checks or balances is the most dangerous situation of all.  You have some of that power: you are educated and articulate and your voice in both your class and school resonates, whether you know it or not.  So here and now we shape it: we make your words a force for good, ones that can be eloquent and perceptive about the world around you.  Pathos. Logos. Ethos. It's not random, do you see?

When Becket was murdered all of England was aghast. A shrine was built to commemorate him and for centuries people made pilgrimages to honor his memory.  It has lasted  The shrine you construct tomorrow with your words and tone will last as well.  So be sure every brick in the foundation is strong enough to support the depth of your "obligations".

Pep Talk #2

Second Pep Talk Email for AP Lang Students 2016-17

This is the story about a boy, a bowl of black eyed peas, and a revelation.

Imagine, if you, will a youth who spent the first sixteen years of his life in Florida.  Not inner-state Florida where the ocean breezes can't penetrate.  I'm talking about the gulf coast.  The water is calm and a consistent 84 degrees.  The breezes blow in and the salt in the air sticks to every exposed surface of your skin.  So close to the water that the sounds of shrimping boats meant it was almost lunchtime.  A place where children have read about this thing called snow the way you've read about this thing called the Revolutionary War.  Words on the page.  But in reality?  It never falls below 60 degrees.  And such a temperature calls for a fairly sturdy jacket.

This boy though has a strange fear.  Call it irrational or unjustified or whatever.  But he fears, deep down inside, the taste of lima beans. He's eaten them on occasion, when he was forced to eat them.  He follows rules after all.  And maybe "eat" is too loose a word.  He places them in his mouth and chews the organic matter knowing that it's important to someone that he do this.  But he doesn't like it.  Not one bit.  Might as well be green eggs and ham.

One day during the last year he lives in Florida he's invited over to dinner at a friend's house.  The family is much more affluent: open air Florida house on the shore.  There's a boat dock out back.  There's wealth here.  And this boy knows that an uncontestable rule when one eats over at another's house is that one is expected to eat the food put before him.  Much of the dinner is wonderful: chicken, corn, a side dish that he's never had before.  But also... there they are.  A bowl of them.  The bowl is beautiful china, like the rest of the dishes on the table.  It's off-center on the table, closer to the boy than the rest of the food.  The black eyed peas that fill the bowl practically stare at him.  Black EYED peas after all.  And they're not just looking at him; they're staring.  With that one beady EYE. They know - THEY KNOW - he can't refuse.  When his friend's mother offers a spoonful the boy will say yes because it's understood.  It's custom.  And to transgress custom is unthinkable.

So he accepts and spends most of the meal eating around them, hedging his bets.  What can he do?  Is there a way out of this?  Maybe the host parents will leave the table early and he can ditch them in the trash when no one is looking?  No such luck: they stay and talk the entire time.  Soon his plate nearly is empty of everything else except the one-eyed devil creature of absolute doom.  So here it goes.  Time to bite the pea, as it were.

This isn't a Dr. Seuss story.  The boy didn't suddenly develop an improbably love for this strangest of all vegetables.  He didn't take a bite and rise from his seat ready to engage in impromptu song and dance.  But here's what did happen: he ate the black eyed peas.  And as he combined them with the other foods on the plate (admittedly to dull the flavor and texture) he discovered that in a tiny way they complemented some of the taste of the chicken and the corn and the unidentified other side dish that at this point will probably never be named.  The point is that while it wasn't suddenly ice cream and cake it also wasn't really that horrible.

What's more is that the boy learned combining foods that he hadn't previously considered combining paid dividends.  Years later he would recall this incident as he tried his wife's beans and rice and found, to his surprise, they were magnificent together.  It was risk-taking and creative combining all in the same sweep.

Tomorrow I will place something on the desk in front of you that will probably simulate the feeling I had all those years ago when I saw those black eyed peas before me.  Maybe the prompt will be easier than you expect; maybe harder.  Maybe it will be a unique combination of rhetorical flourish that allows you to see something about the author or about good writing that you know you have read about but hadn't really seen with your own eyes.  But like this Florida boy who moved north when he was sixteen and discovered, whoa, snow was, like, real you might find that good writing pops up in the most unexpected of places.

The point of this email, though, is this: good writing involves risk taking and creative combining.  Should you build a paragraph about just tone? Or just diction? Or just pathos?  I won't say that's a bad idea but what if you did something more interesting?  What if you wrote about diction by emulating the author's style?  What if instead of calling it ethos you called it an appeal to conscience?  That's what it is, isn't it?  Maybe the writer of the prompt doesn't have a conscience at all and you're horrified by the argument he or she makes.  Can you call that out?  Here's the better question: who has the power to STOP you from calling that out?

Tomorrow has not been written.  Your ability to craft an articulate and meaningful analysis of an author's work does not depend on the score you got two weeks ago.  It doesn't even depend on what you think you knew yesterday.

Your score will be a result of opening your mind wide and creatively combining all those rhetorical tools.  And then?

Take a bite. You might be surprised at the result.

Fishing for Grades

Dear AP Lang Students,

Henry David Thoreau once said, "Many men go fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after."  You'll hear a lot more from this man over the next few months.  Suffice it to say: he is an important figure in American literary history.  But today he has a single message for us: when you are in pursuit of a goal, be clear about what that goal is.  I think it's easy as a student to be blinded by the academic arms race that most high schools generate.  You get caught up in comparing scores on tests and GPAs and interim grades and you sometimes lose sight of the thing we're supposed to be about.  That learning thing.  Discovering knowledge that we didn't previously have; uncovering skills that you hadn't tapped before.  My hope this year in Lang is that you and I find a way to make learning more important than the points and the grades and the "rat race," as it were.

Many of you have already sat down and had writing conferences with me; more of you are scheduled to do so in the future.  And a hefty number of these conferences evolve into a version of the following question: "Mr. Reid, how do I get an A in this class?"  I completely understand what motivates this question.  I entertain no doubt that the pressures sitting behind (or above) you are formidable: parents, teachers, guidance counselors, peers.  But maybe we can redesign this question with the act of learning in mind.  So the question then becomes: how do I become a better writer.  Because really the greater you flex your writing muscles (is that a thing?) the closer you will get to that A you covet so dearly.

So how does one do this "good writing" thing?  We've explored that the past couple of days in class.  But perhaps we can construct a more practical list.  Let's try:

1. Do you have a hook?  Find 4 or 5 quotes (online or otherwise) that you like that could be used in multiple situations.  Make a copy of them and bring them tomorrow.  Maybe they won't be useful but if you find yourself writing a bland intro, one of those quotes could be the thing that kicks your "lower half" intro in an "upper half" one.

2. Resources.  Tonight, make a list of the resources you plan to have in class tomorrow.  Remember, space is a premium.  Do you want the example essays from today? Or maybe the analysis packet? Or the 9 point rubric?  All are good choices.  But you need to decide what you want to bring.

3. Time.  How do you plan to keep track of time tomorrow? Maybe your back is to the clock in the room so that doesn't help.  Want to set up your phone so you can see it when you need it?  Don't let it be a distraction but as a time keeper it might be helpful.

4. Prepare. How do you prepare for a skills-based test?  In English?  You want the truth?  The honest, no-nonsense truth?  Read good writing.  Do you have a favorite author or columnist or blogger?  Go read something by them.  I love reading Paul Krugman from the NYTimes.  You can read more by that Erik Lundegaard guy who wrote the "Why I Hike" essay if you want (www.eriklundegaard.com).  Find your author; find the person that speaks to you.

At the end of the day, we don't do this for the grade (not really).  What does that grade stand for anyway?  What does it mean to earn an A?  That you're smart? That you've worked hard? That you've made progress of some kind?  In an essay, it probably boils down to this simple thing: you've said something interesting in an interesting way.  That's really all it is.  70+ students are going to write about the EXACT. SAME. THING. on tomorrow's test.  So here's the real question: how will your essay, your voice, your words stand out?

Because it's not really fish you're after when you look deep in those waters.  The thing looking back at you... is yourself.

Friends (Part 5 of 12)

This is part 5 of 12 in my attempt to catalog friends and people in my life that I am thankful for and why I am thankful for them.  Stay tuned each day for a new friend and a new story.

**************************************************************

My first "real" teaching gig started a year after I graduated college.  I was hired by a country 40 minutes east, at a school I had never attended, never even been to for competitions or anything.  I was unfamiliar with the layout, the people, the students, the culture.  Culture, it would turn out, mattered most of all.

My first year is a combination of hazy "how did I survive that?" memories coupled with very specific, jarring recollections of "wow so teaching's like that" moments.  I got to know my department fairly quickly.  My Principal too.  But I remember slowly becoming friends with a man training to be an administrator.

Bob Kerns struck me as an atypical leader.  He was very soft spoken, both in one-on-one conferences and larger meetings.  He had the physique of an admin (they tend to have to break up a lot of fights after all) but always seemed to reserve his comment of judgement.  Sometimes this worked to his advantage in that people couldn't dislike him for what he didn't state; something this didn't as others wanted him to act on a problem where his hands were tied.

One day, one situation specifically I remember.  I was in my last year or two there (although, I didn't know it then - I was about to transfer to the city and MUCH closer to home, thus less driving time) and in a parent conference.  The young lady in my class was struggling with some of the assessments related to our reading.  These were the days I taught Twain's "Pudd'nhead Wilson" (God, miss that book) and Upton Sinclair's "The Jungle" to 11th graders.  Good stuff.

The meeting though consisted of the student, her mom, the special education teacher, Bob, and myself.  For those on the outside of the teaching profession looking in, a quick note: parent conferences are intimidating as hell for parents.  Here is a room full of professionals who are going to "tell" you about your kid.  With the right people, it can be wonderful, affirming experience of grownups coming together to ferry an adolescent through something particularly tough in their life.  Without them, it can be a nightmare clash of wills.  I've been in both.

The concerns the student and parent had were genuinely honest: how do we better prepare her for an assessment on her reading?  I was still relatively young so I didn't understand that the mom was basically aiming for more time on the quiz.  My daughter can do it, she was saying, but not as quickly as the other students in the room.  So without any real fore-thought I asked the special ed teacher a  quick question about the student's score on some diagnostic tests that had been conducted prior to the meeting.  These tests measure things like students reading level, test taking speed and stress, among others.  I asked what strengths had been identified from the diagnostic.  My thinking was: maybe we can use something in her strengths to help her succeed on these quizzes more.

The teacher looked at the printout before her and replied, "She had significant aptitude in reading comprehension and vocabulary."

And the room stopped.  I will never forget how slowly Bob's head came up, looked at me, looked at the student, looked at the special ed teacher and asked her to repeat the statement.  Sure enough, the girl was in the top quartile for reading and vocabulary.  (Again, for those unaccustomed to this, the translation: the girl read well above her grade level and had a vocabulary significantly above her peers.)  Just as slowly it dawned on me that I had asked the one question the exposed the student in a pseudo-lie.

The mom turned to her daughter and asked her what book she was reading for me currently.  The daughter stammered a title.  In a last ditch effort, the mom asked the special ed teacher for the readibility of the book (again, translation: what grade level is the vocabulary and content).  It was an 8th grade level.  (Another sidenote: Twain often comes out in readbility much lower than he does in maturity required to read him.  c.f.Huck Finn.)  The last thing of that meeting was the mother demanding of her daughter what was the big problem, and how could this really be hard, and was she really reading the damn book in the first place!

And then Bob impressed me, as he would on so many future occasions.  He sided with the student.  He offered suggestions: flashcards, study guides, peer groups.  Heck, just talk about the book with a friend.  (I think he knew the real issue was that the girl wasn't making time for the reading but he was giving her an out that she needed.)  The mom and daughter left feeling a little chastised but not alienated.  I would participate in enough future parent meetings to realize how rare it is to strike this particular chord.

After the student and parent left, I was gathering up the things I had brought (most of which proved unnecessary to the meeting but that was normal) when I caught Bob's eye.  He glanced from me to the special ed teacher and said, "And that's why I like having Aaron in parent conferences."  He smiled; she smiled.  I looked as confused as a baboon at the north pole.

It dawned on me later that night: in a way, I had arrived at what I wanted to do well.  I wanted to be a good teacher (definition pending) but I also wanted to be valuable.  To be important to the school and other people I worked with.  Not celebrated or crap like that.  But respected.  What we all want, I supposed.  But Bob Kerns said it first.  He made me feel like just maybe I had chosen the right profession and one day I might get a little good at it.

Friends (Part 4 of 12)

This is part 4 of 12 in my attempt to catalog friends and people in my life that I am thankful for and why I am thankful for them.  Stay tuned each day for a new friend and a new story.

*************************************************************

Jeff Raiola is my cousin on my mother's side once removed... or something.  When I was little I didn't so much understand that he was kin as much as I knew he was cool to play with.  He liked a lot of the toys I liked.  He taught me stuff about school and girls and life.  He was and still is my original definition of cool.

My favorite story to tell about Jeff involves a hot tub and an iguana.

Growing up in Florida, most of my friends had a pool in their backyard.  I did too.  I remember it being dug; I remember walking in it after the concrete was poured but before it was filled.  It might as well have been the Grand Canyon to six year old me.  But not many people owned a hot tub.  I suppose in Florida, really, what's the point?  You wanna be hot?  Step outside.  102 in the shade, son.  So what point did anyone have for a hot tub or Jacuzzi or anything like that.  There were kids in school I knew vaguely who had things like that at their houses.  But that seemed part of the ultra-wealthy lifestyle.

But Jeff wasn't ultra-wealthy.  In fact, part of what always impressed me about him was how content he was with what he had.  I don't want to make him sound poor, because I don't think he was.  But whenever we got together (he only liked like 30, 40 minutes from my house) I remember talking about what I didn't have and he would just comment about the toys he liked and how much he enjoyed them.  I learned this lesson fast: don't get whiny.  People will something else to do and somewhere else to be, fast.

Of those things Jeff counted as his was this hot tub, right out back of his house.  It was fantastic because unlike a pool, this thing had bubble jets!  Oh now!  See, swimming in a pool was calm, relaxing, individual.  Hot tubs are, by design, party machines.  The water is calm, probably air temperature.  Then: vroom!  The jets.  Suddenly you couldn't see the floor, you couldn't see your feet; hell, you couldn't see your waist.  Hot tubs were great playgrounds for kids with an imagination.

Once, when I was visiting, Jeff taught me a great trick.  He took a great gulp of air and went under the bubbles.  I followed and watched as he lined up on one of the jets.  He pursed his lips, exhaled through his nose and... I couldn't tell.  He was just hanging there.  Like he was kissing the side of the tub. I got a little uncomfortable, honestly.  But before I could decide to surface for air I saw him exhale again.  Wait... he had more air in his lungs?  I watched.  My own lungs were beginning to scream but I held myself down.  Sure enough, moments later, another breath exhaled.  Ok, what kind of demon trick was this?  I tapped his foot and popped up.

"How-" I started.

Jeff was shaking water out of his ear.  "What do you think the jets shoot out, dummy?"

It wasn't that I hadn't thought of the air they blasted.  I just never thought to breathe the stuff.  "But," I remember asking, "is it safe?  Isn't it like chemical or toxic or something?"

"Nope," he replied.  "Try it."

I thought about the posture he had adopted and sank down.  I lined up on a jet, exhaled, lined up my mouth and... received a huge gush of water into my lungs.  I surfaced, coughed like an chain smoker, and shook my head.  Jeff was sympathetic though.  He showed me the shape his twisted his mouth into.  I tried again.

I don't remember how long it took I just remember once I figured it out, it was AWESOME.  We just sat down there.  Breathing.  For a long time.  After one long bout we surfaced and I felt a little light headed but it was just too much fun.  We shouted for an adult to come out.  "Let's show them," we said.  And before the adult (who was it? his grandmother? someone else?  can't remember) could open the door to come out, we slide under the roiling bubbly surface.

We sank to the bottom and breathed the air bubbles.

As a parent today, I understand why after several long panicky minutes the adult reached under the water and yanked us both up.  They were frantic, an angry.  I couldn't understand it then.  This is cool!  Didn't we impress you?  

That wasn't the moment that solidified Jeff's coolness for me.  But it was definitely on the spectrum.

The last time I ever saw that hot tub I was a teenager but just barely.  13, 14?  I remember putting on my suit and heading to the sliding door our back.  "Hot tub!" I yelled.  But Jeff wasn't with me.  I yelled again for him.  "You coming?"

From down a hallway, he replied "no, but say hi to Bubba."  I stopped short.  Bubba?  He had another friend over? A relative?  Were there really people in this world named Bubba?

I opened the latch to the screened in porch containing the hot tub and stopped.  The whole thing was... like overgrown.  There were plants on the ledges and around the hot tub.  It was like it got an extreme makeover and someone went with the Amazon Rainforest theme.  Before I could close the door, I saw why.

I met Bubba.

Bubba was a four foot iguana who conveniently lived in the hot tub.  Like full time.  He slithered out of the water and took two steps toward me.  I suspect my screams were girlish but I also suspect I didn't care.  When I ran back in the house, Jeff was smiling.  "He's not bad.  He's just Bubba."

I've never been in a hot tub since.  I don't chalk that up to fear or iguanas; I think it's because the only hot tub that feels right is the one with a smiling, cool-ass cousin.

Friends (Part 3 of 12)

This is part 3 of 12 in my attempt to catalog friends and people in my life that I am thankful for and why I am thankful for them.  Stay tuned each day for a new friend and a new story.

**********************************************************************

Only one person has ever said I would make an effective TV evangelist.  He said it when I was 15 and very impressionable.  My impression, after said accolade, was to assume this guy had no clue who I was, what I stood for, or who I wanted to be.  He would end up being my future supervisor.

When I met Rob Quel, he sported a business-man's mustache and a weird, weird sense of humor.  The moustache is different now (read: grayer) but the humor is the same.  Over time, I've come to understand it and even appreciate it.

When I first arrived in Lynchburg as a 15 year old city boy from a state that knew no winter I tunneled head-long into the E.C. Glass High School sophomore curriculum and landed in Mr. Quel's Writing Lab class first semester.  He was quirky; I liked that.  His jokes sometimes fell flat in class; I liked that too.  I already had my eye on probably being a teacher and I was sensitive to not just lessons that went off without a hitch but the ones that seemed to sputter as well.  I was intensely interested in how that happened to teachers.  (I was later to learn, as teachers all know, that there are many MANY things that can make an effective lesson go awry.)  The class was also unlike English classes I had taken in the past.

We didn't read literature really; we didn't act out plays.  We talked about essays and argument.  We also performed.  Not poems and plays but other stuff.  We created commercials.

It was one of these performances where the aforementioned comment was made.  We were tasked with selling an item; something mundane, everyday and run-of-the-mill.  I remember putting it off. I don't remember why.  But when it was my turn I grabbed the pen off my desk and went at it.  What did I say?  That is had extra qualities, James Bond stuff.  Need to vaporize the talkative kid in front of you?  Boom, laser beam.  Needed to call home?  Boom, a phone.  Needed something to eat?  Boom, a replicator.  These imaginary qualities probably say more about me as an adolescent than anything else.  Repressed anger?

Anyway, when I finished several peers conveyed how impressed they were, how much fun the bit was.  I was grateful.  Then Quel said, "You ever think about a career as a TV evangelist?"  I laughed, a few laughed with me.  But I thought: what the hell, dude?

It wouldn't be for almost 20 more years before I understood the compliment.  When I returned to my alma mater to teach, I found myself after a few years there reporting to him as my supervisor.  I was glad: he challenged me without making ridiculous demands.  It was after one particular class he observed when he stopped by to review my lesson that he said, "Well, one thing is certain: you could sell anyone anything."  I was brought back to my sophomore year.  And it made sense.  It wasn't the religion thing; it wasn't the capitalist thing; it was the persuasive thing - it was the ability to communicate and end up with people listening and liking what they listened to.

Quel isn't my supervisor anymore (I wear everyone out eventually) but here's what I love about him, what I wouldn't trade for the world.  On a random day in any given period of school, if he is in the building and passing by in the hall, he unceremoniously throws my door open and without excusing himself demands to know what I am subjecting my poor students to today.  Whatever my answer, he finds several reasons to lambast my choices and encourages my class to revolt, like French Revolution revolt.

He's Kramer to my Seinfeld.  And I'm not close to the genius of Seinfeld.  He throws that door open and slides into my room.  I put on my part of the show: impatience, frustration, are-you-done-yet?  But I know (and I think he knows) I love it.  I love every moment of it.  I love it when he looks at my new Forensics trophy cabinet and asks if it is The Shrine to Aaron.  When he goes through my end of the year student feedback looking just for the negative ones and getting frustrated when he can't find many.  I miss sitting in his office in the late afternoon talking about Forensics or English or whatever.

I'm not sure if I am as funny as he often was, or impact my students the way he impacted me.  But I know he continually provides me with a role model for where I am headed.  He might not ever join me Marlin fishing in the Caribbean but I know that he would listen to the stories I tell about it when I returned.