The Source

Anton Chekov, the guy who pretty much invented the modern short story, the medical doctor who saved hundreds of lives (for practically free), was wrong. And what's more, he was wrong about writing. Way back in the 1900's (and this isn't some post-modern nostalgic way back in the 1990's, but actually way back around 1905) Chekov commented to a concerned family member that happy people write sad stories and those in pain write happy stories. I'm pretty positive he was full of it, totally depressed, and didn't want to talk about it. Writing comes from a deep place inside that you can't, and shouldn't, try to separate from yourself. Just ask every other writer out there, in fact don't even ask them, just read a random book, short story, or poem. It's right there in the words. People write what they know. I'm not here to criticize or laud one over the other. Writing with happiness and sadness both have their merits and have both given us fantastic literature that has lasted longer than you or I will. But in this contemporary society we live in numbness is the new depression, a lack of any strong feeling except self pity. The great writers of the post-modern age (whatever that is) have used this idea to feed off of. They have formed deep, well-planned, emotional opinions about what this means and how to live with/through it. But, for the rest of us does it mean an inability to express beautifully what we mean to say. People 150 years ago could write...well, let me rephrase that--literate people 150 years ago could write. There are countless letters from those with much less than the degree I've earned who could express thoughts beautifully. With all of these means of freedoms of expression have we as a culture lost our ability to feel something at our core when it is most necessary. Take some time to seriously consider what you are feeling, whether it be happiness, excitement, sadness, or pain. Ignorance has cut us deeper than any grief might have, we've too often lost our ability to experience and survive through what has been for centuries the source of our greatest means of communication--story telling.

This Post Brought to You By...

What do you do when you are tired of being in sessions about teaching? Well, at first it was do work for the next week of actually teaching, but I've gotten pretty tired of that too, so it's on to writing the nearly, but not quite, forgotten blog. You see my week, every day, nearly every hour is taken up with thinking about my classroom, my lesson plans, my tests and quizzes, and my students and their success. It takes a lot of energy and it takes a lot of work and a lot of stress to get through all of these things--not much of a break you might guess. So when I have to go to Saturday Professional Development days you might guess that it is not the number one thing on my wish list for the day. Not even top ten actually. Instead of bringing the intense focus to Saturdays that I give to my school five days a week, which might actually kill me, as Mark Zuckerberg/Jessie Eisenberg would say to Saturday PD's, "You have part of my attention--you have the minimum amount." That's right I'm still remotely culturally relevant even as a middle school teacher. The rest of my attention is back planning for the next week, is developing my next unit test, is considering how in the world I am going to get a kid who hates school to love reading and writing.

Until of course my brain looks like the fried egg in that "this is your brain on drugs" commercial (cultural relevancy points dropping as I write, I know)--probably a poor analogy considering my work is in an attempt to avoid this trajectory for my students, but for some reason it's more fitting than any other I can think of (further proof it's a fitting analogy?) Now that my brain is a fried egg, I'm writing this blog instead of working on my lesson plans and unit exams. So I know my students won't experience quite the scattered craziness I've got going on right now. To you, my faithful readers, I must apologize for the "clear as mud" post. So what's the moral of today's post? (This is taking on a really odd PSA announcement tone). It might be don't do drugs, or don't become a teacher. But, I think one that would better help us all is give us teachers a break every now and again, it will help your kids I promise--and don't do drugs.

Obligation

Yes, this is an obligation post. Posting on the blog has been heavy on my mind lately and to be honest there's no room for it on my mind. I've got 120 students to think about now, which means 120 families to think about, homework lessons, tests, quizzes, worksheets, drills, speeches, lectures, lessons, and probably a lot more that I can't think of right now. So, I'm posting here to make sure that at least someone is still reading and checking in every now and again. One of these days it will get to be regular...or die out completely--it's pretty 50 50 right now I think. Anyway, this is not too foreign to the practiced writer. We all at one point or another have had to fill an obligation. Writing-based obligations are always harder for me than most others though. I feel such a strong sense of need to attach emotion and passion to writing, because writing is such a strong medium of communication and expression. As the freedom fighting protagonist of V for Vendetta states, "Words offer the means to meaning, and for those who listen, the annunciation of truth." Words are the method of understanding what is fundamentally important to our being. They provide, for us, an understanding of what is true, what should be felt from the depths of our very souls. And obligation writing tears at the fibers of this writing structure threatening to unravel this marvel of a tapestry (hows that for a metaphor). So how do we get around it. Put simply--we do not. Instead we continue to write and think and edit and write some more. We work and we write until the passion returns. For here is the beautiful thing about something that is essentially (in the second definition kind of way) built on truths, emotions, and passionate fire--it cannot die a death of obligation and boredom. No writer, if he continues to write, can lose what is most important about the words he puts on the page or impresses upon the screen. Like the ash-covered coals of an unkempt fire, the passion is nestled deep in the heart and mind of the writer still warm ready to spark anew with words of truth pouring forth.

9-5

Sorry for the delay in posts, and the shortness of the present post. You see I've recently entered the work force. I am an officially active Teach For America 2011 Corps Member. I started about a week and a half ago and I'm not sure if I've really slept since then, much less had time to make a post. As you might have guessed Teach For America is a program that cultivates...anyone?...yes, that's right, teachers. I've been learning the ins and outs of program management, investment plans, curriculum writing, lesson developing. Basically a four year education on education in about 6 weeks. To say the least, it's ambitious. And with such high goals the idea of a "job" goes out the window. No longer does the work and personal life exist (except on the ever coveted weekend). Teaching, apparently isn't that easy, and it takes a lot of time, effort, and caring on the teacher's part. So the whole 9-5 idea is basically a joke...wallstreet? please. Try Sesame Street. Up at 5:15 and I don't get a break in my day until 9 or so at night. For all you English majors out there that means about 16 hours of work a day. Or to put it another way two full work days in a single day. But, I'm thinking this is the boot camp of teaching. They'll beat you down for the next 5 weeks and you'll come out in the fall cleaning up and destroying the evil Achievement Gap with ease. This theory would be great except that the leaders continually remind us scrubs that we will inevitably fail, it will be hard and we won't get it for a few months. I'm determined to prove them wrong. I will be prepared, I will be confident, and I will be a great teacher--Just as soon as I get a few hours where I don't have to think about the next poster I need to make.

The Graduate

June 3, Day 13 of being a graduate from Dickinson College and so far the real world is pretty nice. I must admit, I haven't experienced any real world kinds of things yet though, so my opinion is probably a little skewed. Let me just take you through the past couple of weeks briefly. Graduation day: Unfortunately our original Commencement speaker backed out at the last second because he thought leading the Army in Afghanistan was too important (guess you can't blame him, that's a pretty good excuse, maybe next time Petraeus). So we had another guy, but at least his was short. Ceremony went of without a hitch, beautiful weather, graduation party following that. Post-Graduation Days: Two days after that I got to sit around the house and do just about nothing. Now I can't confirm this, but I'm pretty sure that is not what this so called real world consists of, so these days aren't providing a great basis either. Post-Post-Graduation Days: Now here's where it gets interesting. Going to a school like Dickinson you're bound to have friends in high places, and for a week I was lucky enough to experience the perks of such a friendship. I got a week's vacation in sunny South Beach, where the water is clear, the lights are bright, and the breeze is cool. Sitting on the beach all day, wandering Miami at night, eating out every day, and staying in a condo on the 33rd floor of the Continuum South Tower. Oddly none of these characteristics have been listed in the "real world" definitions I've received. Luckily I've got another two and a half weeks to live up this hiatus from the real world before my rude awakening officially begins on June 21 where I start my tenure as a TFA corps member. Until then though, I plan to take full advantage of these weeks. Not a bad way to start out in the real world--with a nice long vacation. (Readers: don't be too quick to jealousy just yet, in a few months I'll be teaching a classroom in inner-city Baltimore and complaining about how harsh the real world is. So don't fret, rude awakening countdown now begins: 17 days till real world lift off.)

Paper, What Paper?

I have five days of undergraduate work left as I write this post. One exam to take on Monday and one paper to turn in on Thursday (encouraged to be turned in earlier, but let's be honest that's never gonna happen). I take this time to write a post now because one: I'm not worried about the exam, two: I need to think about something other than this paper, and three: This is a great means of procrastination and there's no use in trying to change my study habits so late in the game. So in an effort to free my mind, momentarily, of the huge amount of work I have in the next few days, I'm writing about the huge amount of work I have in the next few days. Sure it seems counter-intuitive, and definitely counter-productive, but I think most people do this. From what I gather a lot of people like to talk about their work instead of doing it; it seems to be a stress reliever of some kind. I'd say I'm a pretty knowledgable source on the matter considering I live on a college campus, and everyone knows college students are both terrible workers and great complainers. And, for the most part we're pretty chilled out. At least that's what all those old folks say about us young whippersnappers. "Take advantage, don't know the value of a dollar, college isn't real life, blah, blah, blah." So, they might be right. But I wasn't so worried about all that. This method had carried me through so many years of school it was bound to work during my college years too. And so it did, but I'm beginning to get a little skeptical. Perhaps this method carried me through all my college years, minus one paper. And it is this fateful paper that I have left to complete before I walk across that stage and accept my $200,000 piece of paper. So basically I've got 200 grand riding on this assignment, and still I'm not really that moved to do work. There's got to be something wrong with that, right? I'm sure there is, but I can't seem to form a coherent thought about the idea. Come to think of it, my brain has not really been firing on all cylinders this week. Not the greatest news when I've got a deadline careening towards me at the speed of light (give or take a mph or two). So, I guess I'll just do what I always do. Let the adrenaline set in, hope for one more stroke of brilliance, try not to have too many typos, and pray to God that my frantic typing makes some sense. Until then, you can find me surfing the web or playing brick breaker 'cause, you know, college isn't real life.

Desperate Hope

I'm not sure I can make generalizations about the Bible at all. But, if I had to I would say that it is meant for our spiritual growth. The Sermon on the Mount is often pointed to as a premiere passage of the New Testament. At first glance this makes a lot of sense. It is a sermon on the "do's and don'ts" of Christianity. It is Christ telling the people what they must do to get to heaven. Then, you begin to realize, "No way in Hell is this happening." I mean, no way ever, not even for an hour is this possible. This is a speech of extremes. "Don't murder, and don't be angry." "Don't commit adultery, and don't lust." Yeah, ok, no problem--So much for spiritual growth. I've already ruined it four times while writing this post. This passage drives you into the ground. The more I read the more I dig my own grave. My life is over, there's no getting around this one. Sermon on the Mount--you've ended all hope in me. It's reached into my soul and shown a light on its blackness; it's personal. But Christ doesn't end with this Sermon. He offers hope outside of ourselves. The sermon is where we need to start for us to know in our hearts that it is true when he says "I do this for you, I do this for you alone." The creator of all things dies for dirty, desperate people. His best friends, the ones who we study as scripture today, were thieves, adulterers, blasphemers, and murderers. Let me say it again, these were his best friends! There must still be hope yet. The greatest followers of Christ were filth, and he taught them to love--and taught me to love them. Looking to Christ's love gives me hope, gives me love that I cannot claim as my own. And, that is spiritual growth, that is everlasting life.

.03

Well it's been quite awhile since any kind of update. When I last posted, I was in the full swing of the swim season, the spring semester had barely started, and I hadn't started any of my thesis yet (30 pages in, now, if you're wondering). Now, the swim season has been over for a couple weeks and I've been reflecting on my relatively short career as a swimmer. With only six years under my belt, it doesn't take too terribly long to think of the best and worst moments of my career. But, I can now say, without a doubt, that I know the best week of swimming I've ever had.

It began, oddly, a day after my last post--January 29th, 2011. This was our senior night and the last home meet of the season. For a little added pressure, it was against F&M--big rivals and a school we hadn't beaten in about a decade. This is a story of battle between enemies, truly epic, and for once we had a packed house to watch it. It began well for Dickinson, as we jumped to an early lead in the medley relay. About half way through the meet the 400IM comes up. This is a crucial event that F&M had an advantage in. But it was the event that changed the pace of the meet. Our top IMer came from behind on the last lap to touch out the F&M swimmer by less than two tenths of a second, putting us just slightly ahead of the other team. Throughout the rest of the meet we battled back and forth gaining and losing the lead at nearly every other event. Then comes the final break; two events left--the 100 breaststroke and the 200 free relay. We are down 7 points and need big victories to take the win. We take the 100 breaststroke in great form taking first and second. One more event, score tied at 94, and we haven't lost this event all year. Charged and ready to race, we step up to the blocks with the crowd screaming deafening cheers. Then, all at once, silence--Take your mark, the buzzer sounds and the decibels rise to a whole new level--never before have I heard it this loud. Our lead off swimmer gives us a small lead, our second swimmer keeps pace, our third swimmer extends the lead to .2 seconds. Now, I'm on the block and as I dive into the water I notice what I thought impossible. Mid-air I hear the crowd noise rise again, even louder--and I know I cannot lose; there is no way this man next to me will beat me. At the turn, I see him right next to me, gaining ground. 12 yards to go and he's got a slight edge; 5 yards it's to0 close to call. I have one last stroke to make a difference, to edge out the win. I shoot my hand to the wall, pick my head up out of the water--and there is endless silence. The times post 1:28.94 and 1:28.97. We did it, .03 ahead of F&M we made history beating our overmatched rivals, bringing victory on our last home meet ever. Shouts of joy, screams of elation--the team coming together in a mass of hysteria, nothing can be greater than this.

Except a week later, when our meet would rival the excitement of that day. Our last dual meet of the season. The last dual meet of my career, and once again I've been called to finish the meet and be the anchor of the 400 free relay. With incredible wins already on the day including a .01 win in the 200 butterfly, it had been a battle to say the least. Swarthmore College, a hated competitor and serious challenger (never before had we even come close to beating them while I've been here) was primed for the win, expecting it at the last event. We were leading the meet by a mere 6 points. Whoever won this event would leave the meet the victor. Heading in to the event, we knew we would need a lead entering in to my leg; they left their fastest for the end, we put ours in the front. By the time our third man touched the wall we had just under a second lead on Swarthmore. The 1oo freestyle is not my greatest event. Just a short 30 minutes before this race I posted a 50.8, not a great time. I knew I needed to break 50 to take the win. Swimming two laps of this event is easy, adrenaline carries you through most of it. Then you hit the third lap, and you are gasping for air, kicking with fatigued legs, and arms that are cramping and burning. At the third turn, I see him right next to me. Panic fills my whole body. He had made up the entire lead on the last three laps, and he's still got another whole lap to get ahead and win it. A new wave of adrenaline hits my body, I cannot let him win this, my last dual meet ever. Breathing furiously and often, I see the splash of his strokes, as I too am thrashing my arms using every ounce of energy and somehow finding more in me. Digging deeper than I ever have before, making up lost time in the last 5 yards I'm not sure if it's enough until I touch the wall. This time I know we've done it again. I look at the time--.03 ahead. I needed to post a time in the 100 a second and a half faster than I had swam it earlier in that very same meet to win it. The impossible was nothing, we were champions over the only two teams our senior class had never beaten, and all in the same week. We had touched out our collegiate rivals and ended the season victors and champions. It was a season of heroic swims and brotherly support. I owe this greatest week of my swimming career to my teammates for all of their support and work. What a way to go out.

Mirage

I've decided to come to terms with the idea that I have the wonderfully cynical view that my life has become something of a desert. Yes, in the middle of frigid, snow-covered Carlisle, PA I'm thinking of the achingly hot sand, boiling sun, and waves of torturous heat stretching to the horizon. So, no there isn't a nostalgic smile of warmth on my face when considering these thoughts. But as much as I hate the sun and the sand and the heat; I expect it. This is, after all, the desert. It's pretty transparent about the whole sand thing. The part that really gets me are the oases, or seeming oases, these phantoms of relief. Because what could be worse than reaching for cool water only to grab a handful of scalding sand.

After spending a good amount of time here in the desert you even come to expect these mirages. And, one would assume, with this expectation comes the loss of genuine hope. Oddly, this is not really the case. With every distant glimmer, every sparkling drop of this apparition is a fundamental, primal hope that stirs in my chest. In the most recognized place of hopelessness there still lives in me the elevated heart beat of hope that yearns for "This time, this time for sure it is real." Only to come of no avail. So the question is, when does this unceasing hope lose itself and become only crazed desperation? Am I yet a wild man staggering through the desert with outstretched arms plunging into the sand around him, searching for what is not there, what will never be there? I pray that there be something other than desperation, but with every mirage it seems unlikely. At the sight of clear refreshment I dive in, with hope perhaps, but probably desperation beating in my chest. With every glance, every step "This time , this time for sure" my heart beats, as my mind already knows "Not this one, there is no water." And so I walk endless in sun and sand, parched and waiting, hoping without hope.

What We Write About When We Write About Nothing

For some of you newer followers it may come as a bit of a surprise to you to know that I am linguistically challenged. I am not a good writer, and writing is a hard process for me. For those of you who have been reading this blog for a while, I'm sure you're all thinking to yourselves, "well at least he knows." (Thanks for hanging in there anyway). It's an endless battle for me, and even harder when I can't even think of something to write about. There is sage advice that has always been given to me when this occurs. It goes something like, "When you have writer's block the best thing to do is write about how you have nothing to write about." I haven't written here in a while because I couldn't think of anything worth writing; so, I'm following the advice of the many writers who have come before me. I've actually practiced this exercise a number of times before. This would seem to suggest that I'm pretty good at writing about nothing, that I know the ins and outs of how to get around writer's block and come up with some words of meaning, but that's not really the case. Writing about nothing has a new definition for me every time I try it, and somehow none of those definitions are 'something' of substance.

Learning how to writing about nothing for me is like trying to understand a black hole--its vacuous. Perhaps this is a part of why I'm not a great writer. Writers can make nothing look like something, but, in a sense, this is just what I do. It's avoiding the writing prompt; it's not writing about nothing, it's turning nothing into something else and getting away from the problem completely. These writers (and myself) do not know 'nothing' they fear it endlessly. True writers are capable of turning something into nothing. These men and women understand what 'nothing' really means; they know the black hole; they never have true writer's block. It is the craftsman who can turn a phrase and make characters that are so real, so personal that the words disappear, they become nothing and the story is no longer writing, but something deeper. I envy those who can turn something into nothing, who make words disappear before my very eyes. I want to know the black hole and not fear it.