The end of E.B. White's "Stuart Little" has a thought that's stuck with me for a long time. Every goodbye is a hello. A year ago at about this time in June, I learned that the company I founded could not afford my position as Artistic Director due to the economic crisis.
Since then, I've explored the worlds of unemployment insurance, career centers, resume revising, job sites, online jobs, certificate programs, substitute teaching credentials, etc. True to the news accounts, people my age who are laid off are finding it hard to start over in the job market. Growing up a baby boomer in a family without a TV until I was 13 years old, I like real - not electronic - books, and I check facebook only once a week. The innards of the computer are as mysterious to me as quantum physics.
Nevertheless, I'm grateful for a year to try new things. At my age (if I hear one more person say,"at your age, Susannah", I have a chance to.... and... mmpf.. what was it.. I had an idea but .. Sorry. whatever it was, slipped my mind. Stop. I know what you're thinking.
Never mind. To sum up the unemployed year: I worked on 3 or 4 book projects (who isn't a writer?), received certification as a Jazzercise instructor, taught a chorus/voice class at Oakland Technical High, and collaborated on creating a memoir play with Gina Gold of theginagoldshow.com. Thinking about selling my fruit pies on the street corner.
To get back to the beginning - or ending -- I'll be using a different blog address in order to write about arts, education, baby boomers, politics, religion, trends, and ... ?
My new blog address: http://susannahwood.wordpress.com Goodbye and hello.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
Graduating High School
The tall round-faced girl beams, breathing fast with excitement while her friends in younger grades admiringly surround her. The slender girl wearing silver high heels sighs. "How do I feel about graduating? Relieved."
Walking the floor, the rite of passage for high school seniors, features inspirational songs and speeches, balloons bouquets, and shrieks of joy from proud relatives. For the approximately 60% of urban public high school seniors who graduate, this is a wonderful day. These students earned the necessary credits to complete 13 years of K-12 schooling.
Remembering the excitement and sadness of my own high school graduation, I did a little informal interviewing in Oakland this week. Most of the seniors I spoke with seemed in a state of euphoric shock. For example, I was unable to interrupt one group of close friends who were lying on top of each other like puppies, laughing and teasing. Others appeared more sober.
"Senior year is extremely stressful. The teachers, home, my part time job. Everyone wanting more from you every minute."
"I don't know how I feel. I'm glad it's over but I'll miss my friends."
"Quite a few of us won't walk the floor; we lost textbooks and can't replace them, or we failed one class we needed, or messed up on our credits."
"I have one piece of advice for freshmen: stay away from all the drama - he said and she said. There's so much going on, and if you fall behind in your work it's hard to catch up."
As I walked around campus, I noticed both happy faces already looking at summer vacation and worried faces looking at final essays and exams. But seniors's faces glowed. They had finished finals, signed out, cleaned out lockers, gone to graduation rehearsals.
It hadn't hit them yet. High school graduation represents achievement; it also represents a goodbye to childhood, a loss of innocence. After the cheering, our young men and women face the overwhelming reality of the adult world.
Walking the floor, the rite of passage for high school seniors, features inspirational songs and speeches, balloons bouquets, and shrieks of joy from proud relatives. For the approximately 60% of urban public high school seniors who graduate, this is a wonderful day. These students earned the necessary credits to complete 13 years of K-12 schooling.
Remembering the excitement and sadness of my own high school graduation, I did a little informal interviewing in Oakland this week. Most of the seniors I spoke with seemed in a state of euphoric shock. For example, I was unable to interrupt one group of close friends who were lying on top of each other like puppies, laughing and teasing. Others appeared more sober.
"Senior year is extremely stressful. The teachers, home, my part time job. Everyone wanting more from you every minute."
"I don't know how I feel. I'm glad it's over but I'll miss my friends."
"Quite a few of us won't walk the floor; we lost textbooks and can't replace them, or we failed one class we needed, or messed up on our credits."
"I have one piece of advice for freshmen: stay away from all the drama - he said and she said. There's so much going on, and if you fall behind in your work it's hard to catch up."
As I walked around campus, I noticed both happy faces already looking at summer vacation and worried faces looking at final essays and exams. But seniors's faces glowed. They had finished finals, signed out, cleaned out lockers, gone to graduation rehearsals.
It hadn't hit them yet. High school graduation represents achievement; it also represents a goodbye to childhood, a loss of innocence. After the cheering, our young men and women face the overwhelming reality of the adult world.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Memorial Day
"...All the cherished moments they have made possible for those they left behind... all the things that make us alive.. these are the gifts they gave us.. life... that is what our fallen have given us." The words of a uniformed speaker at the Memorial Day Ceremony at Arlington National Cemetery drift from the TV this morning.
I looked up Memorial Day, just to double check its history. I learned that the day was formally established in 1868 and originated in the practice of decorating the graves of those who died in the Civil War. It eventually became a day to remember those who had died in the "service of the nation."
By strange coincidence, this holiday originated during the Civil War, and people are still dying in a kind of civil war. Today people are dying in a civil war of poverty, of suicide from mental illness, of street violence. I don't know where his grave is, but in my heart I decorate the grave of Orlando, a young actor with mental illness who killed himself out of loneliness and depression. I decorate the grave of a gifted former student who died of kidney disease that wasn't caught in time. I decorate the graves of my students' friends and relatives who died by gun violence on the streets. I decorate the graves of the young people whose only job opportunity was the armed forces.
Here is a poem written years ago by East Oakland 7th grader Klarissa, one of my former students. Her words represent the hundreds of similar poems written by my students over the years, fitting for Memorial Day. Often the title of their poems was R.I.P.
My heart cries when
People die from cancer and other diseases
Every day
Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
Love leaves a memory no one can steal
My heart cries when
I hear that people are getting shot and killed for no reason
Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
Love leaves a memory no one can steal
My heart cries when
I hear that the economy is in danger
People losing their homes and lives because of the economy
Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
Love leaves a memory no one can steal
I looked up Memorial Day, just to double check its history. I learned that the day was formally established in 1868 and originated in the practice of decorating the graves of those who died in the Civil War. It eventually became a day to remember those who had died in the "service of the nation."
By strange coincidence, this holiday originated during the Civil War, and people are still dying in a kind of civil war. Today people are dying in a civil war of poverty, of suicide from mental illness, of street violence. I don't know where his grave is, but in my heart I decorate the grave of Orlando, a young actor with mental illness who killed himself out of loneliness and depression. I decorate the grave of a gifted former student who died of kidney disease that wasn't caught in time. I decorate the graves of my students' friends and relatives who died by gun violence on the streets. I decorate the graves of the young people whose only job opportunity was the armed forces.
Here is a poem written years ago by East Oakland 7th grader Klarissa, one of my former students. Her words represent the hundreds of similar poems written by my students over the years, fitting for Memorial Day. Often the title of their poems was R.I.P.
My heart cries when
People die from cancer and other diseases
Every day
Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
Love leaves a memory no one can steal
My heart cries when
I hear that people are getting shot and killed for no reason
Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
Love leaves a memory no one can steal
My heart cries when
I hear that the economy is in danger
People losing their homes and lives because of the economy
Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
Love leaves a memory no one can steal
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Substitute Teaching 2
I wrote a month or so ago about subbing in Oakland public schools. It's difficult; like being a stepmother in a blended family. The students want their "real" teacher, not a "guest." At the same time, they expect the substitute to replicate exactly the style and methods of their regular teacher. An almost impossible task. I continue to search for ways that substitute teaching can offer the same satisfaction as teaching a class regularly.
Last week I subbed for a 4th grade class at Think College Now, a very nice elementary school in the Fruitvale District. It was a large class of bright, active, and talkative children. The extremely efficient regular teacher had left many work sheets and detailed plans for the day. All went well the first half of the 8:30 - 3:15 schedule. Circle discussion, silent reading, recess, conflict resolution, social studies, lunch, library, math, "fun" time. Elementary school teachers teach multiple subjects and also serve as life skills mentors.
Challenges surfaced. As the day progressed, the crowded classroom grew hotter and hotter. I opened the windows, which made no dent in the stuffy air. I turned on the large fan in the corner. However, I had to turn it off after only a few minutes. Overheated students crowded around the fan trying to catch the breeze, jostling each other and unable to do their assignments. Some of the children -- because of the heat or tired of studying - completely lost focus and gathered in groups to socialize.
For those who suffer from the character defect of pride, I highly recommend substitute teaching. A few children talked whenever they felt like it, perhaps thinking that since the Sub was not 'real,'they could act as if the Sub were invisible. About 45 minutes before the final bell, we all fell apart. A generous boy had brought small chocolate brownies to share with the class. After the first round of passing them out, the boy announced, without getting my permission: "Everybody line up if you want a second brownie." I was unable to stop the stampede that left the boy himself without a second brownie and a girl in tears.
Nevertheless, the class accomplished a surprising amount. They read many pages, in books and in their social studies magazine. They wrote 3 acrostic poems, they played several games of Four Square, checked out books at the school library, drew (art), engaged in group discussion, and addressed pressing challenges in getting along with each other. The school is clearly doing a great job; I noticed that almost all the students were really interested in the many books that were available to them - a huge accomplishment.
Last week I subbed for a 4th grade class at Think College Now, a very nice elementary school in the Fruitvale District. It was a large class of bright, active, and talkative children. The extremely efficient regular teacher had left many work sheets and detailed plans for the day. All went well the first half of the 8:30 - 3:15 schedule. Circle discussion, silent reading, recess, conflict resolution, social studies, lunch, library, math, "fun" time. Elementary school teachers teach multiple subjects and also serve as life skills mentors.
Challenges surfaced. As the day progressed, the crowded classroom grew hotter and hotter. I opened the windows, which made no dent in the stuffy air. I turned on the large fan in the corner. However, I had to turn it off after only a few minutes. Overheated students crowded around the fan trying to catch the breeze, jostling each other and unable to do their assignments. Some of the children -- because of the heat or tired of studying - completely lost focus and gathered in groups to socialize.
For those who suffer from the character defect of pride, I highly recommend substitute teaching. A few children talked whenever they felt like it, perhaps thinking that since the Sub was not 'real,'they could act as if the Sub were invisible. About 45 minutes before the final bell, we all fell apart. A generous boy had brought small chocolate brownies to share with the class. After the first round of passing them out, the boy announced, without getting my permission: "Everybody line up if you want a second brownie." I was unable to stop the stampede that left the boy himself without a second brownie and a girl in tears.
Nevertheless, the class accomplished a surprising amount. They read many pages, in books and in their social studies magazine. They wrote 3 acrostic poems, they played several games of Four Square, checked out books at the school library, drew (art), engaged in group discussion, and addressed pressing challenges in getting along with each other. The school is clearly doing a great job; I noticed that almost all the students were really interested in the many books that were available to them - a huge accomplishment.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Appearances can deceive
"Don't judge a book by its cover" and "the clothes make the man" are old -if opposite- cliches I grew tired of hearing as a child. As an adult, I learned the importance of attraction as promotion when I collaborated on creating theatrical productions. "What should we call this show?" we would ask each other. We'd brainstorm and toss titles in the wastebasket. "Too long; one word is better. That name won't hook an audience to come. Any title could be turned into a joke or an opening for a bad critical review."
Titles are marketing, not description. We all know that the pictures on paperback covers often fail to relate to the contents. Businesses research what will attract the "target" audience. Targeting. That word suggests the shooting range, or a dartboard. Every time I click on a website, a data path is created for a business to target my interests with a related ad. It's a bulls eye of I buy.
Listening to NPR this morning, I heard the words, "sometimes a surprise discovery forms one of the better life experiences you could have." Exactly. I like the surprise of my assumptions proved wrong. For instance, I observed a woman in a class of mine who looked like a professional athlete: strong, slim, well groomed, confident. In conversation, I discovered she was recovering from surgery that removed a brain tumor and felt confused from her hearing loss. Or another woman who on the surface appeared arrogant and distant was actually suffering from years of caring for a deaf child.
Why does any of this matter? As an artist and educator, I applaud life long curiosity, life long learning, life long wonder. When I'm manipulated by marketing an judged by my age or looks or internet use, I feel robbed of individuality. Someone stole my identity and shrink wrapped it.
Titles are marketing, not description. We all know that the pictures on paperback covers often fail to relate to the contents. Businesses research what will attract the "target" audience. Targeting. That word suggests the shooting range, or a dartboard. Every time I click on a website, a data path is created for a business to target my interests with a related ad. It's a bulls eye of I buy.
Listening to NPR this morning, I heard the words, "sometimes a surprise discovery forms one of the better life experiences you could have." Exactly. I like the surprise of my assumptions proved wrong. For instance, I observed a woman in a class of mine who looked like a professional athlete: strong, slim, well groomed, confident. In conversation, I discovered she was recovering from surgery that removed a brain tumor and felt confused from her hearing loss. Or another woman who on the surface appeared arrogant and distant was actually suffering from years of caring for a deaf child.
Why does any of this matter? As an artist and educator, I applaud life long curiosity, life long learning, life long wonder. When I'm manipulated by marketing an judged by my age or looks or internet use, I feel robbed of individuality. Someone stole my identity and shrink wrapped it.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Books for Children
See Spot run. See Jane run.
Perhaps Baby Boomers remember struggling with these dry phrases in kindergarten and first grade. Today's short attention spans might applaud these three-word sentences that fulfill the template: subject- verb -object (although the "command" verb format eliminates the understood subject,"You," as in "You see Spot run.")
I'm getting my Certificate in Writing from UC Berkeley Extension, exploring different genres to see what I might pursue in depth. My current course is called "Writing Children's Picture Books." After taking other courses that revealed gaps in my creative imagination, I thought that I might do well with the minimal number of words and pages needed for picture books. Besides, I have excellent qualifications to write for the under 8's. I love teaching pre school through grade three, I read story books every night to my children when they were little, and I have spent many years writing scripts and performing for young audiences. Picture books should be no problem. Just let the imagination roll freely, right? Wrong! Although children's books now have longer sentences, they have a template. No publisher in his or her right mind would print something that strays from what he or she thinks will sell.
"Too much dialogue; eliminate 95% of it. You've got to have your story structure laid out before you start writing. There are only three kinds of children's picture books: concept, information and a story with a message. If the baby here is asking where his breakfast is, the editors will think the mother is starving the child." Hmmm... Anyone who's ever taken an arts class is familiar with the Critique and the challenge of deciding which comments are helpful. "I like that the situation here is real, but it wouldn't appeal to kids." "What are you really trying to say here?" "I'd like to piggy-back on what she just said..."
This class suggests to me that today's adults would freak out at the old stories by the Brother's Grimm or Hans Christian Anderson or Babar, in which parents die with regularity and children face inappropriate horrors, like the original Cinderella. Perhaps because children face more information than in times past about a scary adult world, today's writers must dish up fantasy with bright colors, happy faces and reassuring informational footnotes for parents. After all, in a year or two many of the children hearing these stories will be playing video games and will have seen 'Bambi.' Parents who buy books these days want their toddlers to learn college readiness skills as soon as possible. And disobedient story book children must very clearly learn a lesson by the end, even though our culture constantly tells toddlers' older siblings that "good girls like bad boys."
It's all very confusing. I'm not sure how I feel about story templates and selling. Is this art? Can children handle art? How utilitarian should art be? However, I've also learned in the class that it's okay to mention poop in a children's book. I don't think I will.
Perhaps Baby Boomers remember struggling with these dry phrases in kindergarten and first grade. Today's short attention spans might applaud these three-word sentences that fulfill the template: subject- verb -object (although the "command" verb format eliminates the understood subject,"You," as in "You see Spot run.")
I'm getting my Certificate in Writing from UC Berkeley Extension, exploring different genres to see what I might pursue in depth. My current course is called "Writing Children's Picture Books." After taking other courses that revealed gaps in my creative imagination, I thought that I might do well with the minimal number of words and pages needed for picture books. Besides, I have excellent qualifications to write for the under 8's. I love teaching pre school through grade three, I read story books every night to my children when they were little, and I have spent many years writing scripts and performing for young audiences. Picture books should be no problem. Just let the imagination roll freely, right? Wrong! Although children's books now have longer sentences, they have a template. No publisher in his or her right mind would print something that strays from what he or she thinks will sell.
"Too much dialogue; eliminate 95% of it. You've got to have your story structure laid out before you start writing. There are only three kinds of children's picture books: concept, information and a story with a message. If the baby here is asking where his breakfast is, the editors will think the mother is starving the child." Hmmm... Anyone who's ever taken an arts class is familiar with the Critique and the challenge of deciding which comments are helpful. "I like that the situation here is real, but it wouldn't appeal to kids." "What are you really trying to say here?" "I'd like to piggy-back on what she just said..."
This class suggests to me that today's adults would freak out at the old stories by the Brother's Grimm or Hans Christian Anderson or Babar, in which parents die with regularity and children face inappropriate horrors, like the original Cinderella. Perhaps because children face more information than in times past about a scary adult world, today's writers must dish up fantasy with bright colors, happy faces and reassuring informational footnotes for parents. After all, in a year or two many of the children hearing these stories will be playing video games and will have seen 'Bambi.' Parents who buy books these days want their toddlers to learn college readiness skills as soon as possible. And disobedient story book children must very clearly learn a lesson by the end, even though our culture constantly tells toddlers' older siblings that "good girls like bad boys."
It's all very confusing. I'm not sure how I feel about story templates and selling. Is this art? Can children handle art? How utilitarian should art be? However, I've also learned in the class that it's okay to mention poop in a children's book. I don't think I will.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Bin Laden's Death and Ethics
This past weekend was the weekend that was: Friday, Saturday, Sunday. From pure innocent joy to the murky ethics of war. On Friday, the whole world rejoiced with the beautiful bride and handsome groom, the pageantry, the Bank Holiday for Britons, the soaring cathedral music, the two kisses. We needed a chance to celebrate, to party on.
Saturday in Oakland we basked in the warmer spring weather, the sunshine, the flowers. I saw more people strolling and window shopping on the streets than I'd seen in many weeks. Ah, the Bay Area Weather! "It's worth facing the high unemployment after all, if just for today."
Sunday was May Day, also the historical code words for "Help! Disaster," shouted on the radio in the old black and white movies by midshipmen from their leaking cubbyholes below decks. May 1st also used to feature Morris dancers with satin ribbons whirling around a Maypole. And I can't forget that May Day used to be a time for the Workers to reflect or even to organize for The Revolution.
Then Sunday night. The President makes a special announcement: Osama Bin Laden has been killed during an "action" in Abbottabad, Pakistan. Huh? I've almost forgotten about this bearded mythical media-ogre, rumored to be hiding in caves in between speeches on TV. Then the television and computer screens go berserk. The wedding parades are suddenly superseded by jubilant processions of victory dancers outside the White House, in Times Square, strangely similar to celbration after the final game of the World Series, or World Cup Soccer.
Wait a minute. We were all celebrating the Royal Wedding, examining the Dress, day dreaming about who Harry will marry. Now we're jumping up and down because someone is dead? We shot the enemy in the head and threw the body into the Arabian Ocean. Full stop. Yay hurray? Flashback: did Arab crowds cheer the exploding Twin Towers? I can't remember. Possibly, even probably. There's something chilling, something familiar, about this joyful vengeance, high five for retaliation-as-victory, the way we'd slap each other after getting a strike at the bowling alley. We explain to ourselves that killing Bin Laden was self defense, right?
But still, in my book, taking a human life is not like winning the World Series. I was brought up to believe that dancing on someone's grave was one of the worst things you could do. Perhaps Bin Laden danced on the graves of unknown numbers of Americans. Does it make it right for us to dance on Bin Laden's? Or do we then become like him?
Saturday in Oakland we basked in the warmer spring weather, the sunshine, the flowers. I saw more people strolling and window shopping on the streets than I'd seen in many weeks. Ah, the Bay Area Weather! "It's worth facing the high unemployment after all, if just for today."
Sunday was May Day, also the historical code words for "Help! Disaster," shouted on the radio in the old black and white movies by midshipmen from their leaking cubbyholes below decks. May 1st also used to feature Morris dancers with satin ribbons whirling around a Maypole. And I can't forget that May Day used to be a time for the Workers to reflect or even to organize for The Revolution.
Then Sunday night. The President makes a special announcement: Osama Bin Laden has been killed during an "action" in Abbottabad, Pakistan. Huh? I've almost forgotten about this bearded mythical media-ogre, rumored to be hiding in caves in between speeches on TV. Then the television and computer screens go berserk. The wedding parades are suddenly superseded by jubilant processions of victory dancers outside the White House, in Times Square, strangely similar to celbration after the final game of the World Series, or World Cup Soccer.
Wait a minute. We were all celebrating the Royal Wedding, examining the Dress, day dreaming about who Harry will marry. Now we're jumping up and down because someone is dead? We shot the enemy in the head and threw the body into the Arabian Ocean. Full stop. Yay hurray? Flashback: did Arab crowds cheer the exploding Twin Towers? I can't remember. Possibly, even probably. There's something chilling, something familiar, about this joyful vengeance, high five for retaliation-as-victory, the way we'd slap each other after getting a strike at the bowling alley. We explain to ourselves that killing Bin Laden was self defense, right?
But still, in my book, taking a human life is not like winning the World Series. I was brought up to believe that dancing on someone's grave was one of the worst things you could do. Perhaps Bin Laden danced on the graves of unknown numbers of Americans. Does it make it right for us to dance on Bin Laden's? Or do we then become like him?
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Beyond Words
I spend a lot of time using words, like writing, teaching, reading --every day. But this week I encountered two reminders of the power of non verbal activities. Is there something beyond words that connects all of us to life beyond human?
The first experience was a seminar at AgeSong Institute in Emeryville, led by Natalie Rogers (daughter of Carl Rogers), about her practice of Expressive Arts Therapy. Some things in our lives lie in our unconscious so they can't be put into words in conversation or in talk therapy. We can draw, sculpt, collage or paint images that reveal feelings, thoughts, dreams or ideas we didn't know we had. Rogers told us that engaging first in movement and dance helps us to access these images. I know that I respond emotionally and intellectually to paintings, photographs and film, but I rarely draw or do visual art and I rarely remember my dreams. I also know that we only use 10% of our brains, the rest lying in the unconscious. Ms. Rogers' presentation raised the question: what lies in that large un-used part of my brain that might surprise, delight, terrify and enlighten me?
Earlier in the week I'd heard an interesting conversation on National Public Radio about the brain. A scientist recounted the case of a patient whose brain was almost completely destroyed, with only a small part of the brain stem remaining. The person lay paralyzed in a coma, slowly dying and unresponsive. But someone accidentally played music in his room one day. Miraculously, the dying man moved his eyes and showed the doctors he "heard" the music!
Which leads me to my second non verbal experience, when I attended a Good Friday performance of Bach's St. John Passion at St. Paul's Episcopal Church,Oakland. My whole body trembled afterwards from the emotions of three hours in the presence of Beauty. Especially a cello/viola da gamba line, really an equal duet with the mezzo soprano soloist, in the aria "It is Finished." The cello melody wove and sang, umber, amber, tremulous, pure, soaring, cradling, dark, bright, flame, spirit, heart, consoling, dancing -- the words fail. I wanted to hug the musician, a Yo Yo Ma clone, to thank him for an experience that was somehow like being loved by a new parent, a better parent than any parent could be. My heart is full still.
The first experience was a seminar at AgeSong Institute in Emeryville, led by Natalie Rogers (daughter of Carl Rogers), about her practice of Expressive Arts Therapy. Some things in our lives lie in our unconscious so they can't be put into words in conversation or in talk therapy. We can draw, sculpt, collage or paint images that reveal feelings, thoughts, dreams or ideas we didn't know we had. Rogers told us that engaging first in movement and dance helps us to access these images. I know that I respond emotionally and intellectually to paintings, photographs and film, but I rarely draw or do visual art and I rarely remember my dreams. I also know that we only use 10% of our brains, the rest lying in the unconscious. Ms. Rogers' presentation raised the question: what lies in that large un-used part of my brain that might surprise, delight, terrify and enlighten me?
Earlier in the week I'd heard an interesting conversation on National Public Radio about the brain. A scientist recounted the case of a patient whose brain was almost completely destroyed, with only a small part of the brain stem remaining. The person lay paralyzed in a coma, slowly dying and unresponsive. But someone accidentally played music in his room one day. Miraculously, the dying man moved his eyes and showed the doctors he "heard" the music!
Which leads me to my second non verbal experience, when I attended a Good Friday performance of Bach's St. John Passion at St. Paul's Episcopal Church,Oakland. My whole body trembled afterwards from the emotions of three hours in the presence of Beauty. Especially a cello/viola da gamba line, really an equal duet with the mezzo soprano soloist, in the aria "It is Finished." The cello melody wove and sang, umber, amber, tremulous, pure, soaring, cradling, dark, bright, flame, spirit, heart, consoling, dancing -- the words fail. I wanted to hug the musician, a Yo Yo Ma clone, to thank him for an experience that was somehow like being loved by a new parent, a better parent than any parent could be. My heart is full still.
Friday, April 15, 2011
SOS Stopping the Silence
Stopping the Silence, SOS, and Oakland group founded by Kehinde Seitu dedicated to fighting sexual abuse. This weekend I perform with the group a monologue and a poem that I wrote. This family -- they're like a family rather than a performance troupe -- inspires me. These women are strong beyond belief, supporting each other in recovering from trauma and loss. The show takes place at 8 pm tonight and tomorrow, Saturday at Wo’se Community Church, 8924 Holly St. Oakland, CA 94621. A free conference will be held Saturday from 9 am to 4 pm at East Oakland Youth Development Center.
Today She
is the kitchen sink
draining stuff
old stuff
out of mind body time past
oozing
slow fast
through pipes winding under sewers' sludge
up, down, out -- stuff - goodbye
Go away pain, leave her
sparkling fresh cleanser TV ad clean
nice, sweet and safe
Today she
is the kitchen sink
you'd like her to do these dishes
piled up over here wouldn't you
but she doesn't feel like it just now
she thinks she'll wait.....
Oh, look, here comes Hope
hopping through the kitchen door
sayshaying a tricky two-step across the floor
Hope is turning the faucet on
ooohh... bet that water feels smooth and warm
Today Hope is helping her
wash the pain
down the drain
Today she
is the kitchen sink
Today She
is the kitchen sink
draining stuff
old stuff
out of mind body time past
oozing
slow fast
through pipes winding under sewers' sludge
up, down, out -- stuff - goodbye
Go away pain, leave her
sparkling fresh cleanser TV ad clean
nice, sweet and safe
Today she
is the kitchen sink
you'd like her to do these dishes
piled up over here wouldn't you
but she doesn't feel like it just now
she thinks she'll wait.....
Oh, look, here comes Hope
hopping through the kitchen door
sayshaying a tricky two-step across the floor
Hope is turning the faucet on
ooohh... bet that water feels smooth and warm
Today Hope is helping her
wash the pain
down the drain
Today she
is the kitchen sink
Friday, April 8, 2011
Substitute or Guest?
I've been working as a substitute teacher in the Oakland Public Schools for the past two weeks--high school. The substitute department told us to call ourselves "guest teachers."
Unfortunately, the students haven't grasped the beauty of having a Guest Teacher.Attitudes vary from "Hey-Let's Cut-Class" to "Hurray - a sub - it's Social-Hour." Classroom teachers leave great lesson plans and explicit instructions for the Guest Teacher in order to keep the curriculum moving in a consistent, forward direction. But students have a different lesson plan in mind.
When does this attitude start? Kindergarteners and first graders sseem to understand that the adult standing in the room is a teacher that should be listened to, even if she/he has a different face than their regular teacher. Perhaps by 4th grade the Myth of the Substitute has drifted into children's minds from whatever School Room Epic Poem it comes from.
Former students who are now in college gave me this advice about substituting in high schools:
1. Don't follow the regular teacher's lesson plan; students will refuse to do it.
2. Bring your own lesson plan, even if it's poetry writing in a Physics class.
3. Best option: bring a movie, sit back, and relax.
I refuse to give in to this cynicism. So far. But I'll let you know how I feel in another month or so.
Unfortunately, the students haven't grasped the beauty of having a Guest Teacher.Attitudes vary from "Hey-Let's Cut-Class" to "Hurray - a sub - it's Social-Hour." Classroom teachers leave great lesson plans and explicit instructions for the Guest Teacher in order to keep the curriculum moving in a consistent, forward direction. But students have a different lesson plan in mind.
When does this attitude start? Kindergarteners and first graders sseem to understand that the adult standing in the room is a teacher that should be listened to, even if she/he has a different face than their regular teacher. Perhaps by 4th grade the Myth of the Substitute has drifted into children's minds from whatever School Room Epic Poem it comes from.
Former students who are now in college gave me this advice about substituting in high schools:
1. Don't follow the regular teacher's lesson plan; students will refuse to do it.
2. Bring your own lesson plan, even if it's poetry writing in a Physics class.
3. Best option: bring a movie, sit back, and relax.
I refuse to give in to this cynicism. So far. But I'll let you know how I feel in another month or so.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Solo Recital at Oakland Tech High
"Tonight was our recital. It was the first time I sang in front of a big crowd. And loud too. We did great." Sahiba, a freshman, shared on Facebook last night right after Oakland Technical High's small chorus gave its solo voice recital. (I've been directing the program at the school for about two years.) She was clearly proud and excited. In fact, she sang "Smile" wonderfully, even though pundits would have criticized the fact that she sang along with Michael Jackson on recording. As a beginning singer, she understood she wasn't quite ready to sing on her own to piano or karaoke accompaniment.
The whole event was unorthodox; our group of shy beginners didn't look remotely like "Glee." Some sang out of tune from nerves. One student, when he sang in front of people, forgot the words and needed someone else to be singing with him so he could keep going. One young woman who rarely speaks, in class or outside of class, mastered her fear and sang -- even though many of her notes were "wrong." The singers' faces showed determination, fear, focus, and total lack of pretense; they weren't ready yet to add "performance values" of facial expression and gesture. Just getting up to bare their voices in public was a huge challenge and victory because revealing our singing voices makes us unbelievably vulnerable. To sing means to let go.
And yet, hearing the tone, texture, colors, sweetness or roughness of each voice blessed us who listened. We looked briefly into the spirit of each young person, just as they are. We entered the miracle of self acceptance, if just for a moment.
Before the performance, I tried to explain my philosophy about singing to the audience of parents. I tried to explain that the reason to sing is because you love it and you love music, not to impress people or be a great singer. I tried to explain that each person's voice is unique and beautiful right where it is, that it takes time to find where your voice feels right in terms of technique, that telling people to "be quiet, you can't sing," is a huge mistake. But Anne Lamott said it better than I could, in her commencement address at UC Berkeley in 2003. I believe that she captured the reason why we sing. Here's a quote from that speech:
"Your problem is how you are going to spend this one odd and precious life you have been issued. Whether you're going to spend it trying to look good and creating the illusion that you have power over people and circumstances, or whether you are going to taste it, enjoy it and find out the truth about who you are....... It's magic to see spirit largely because it's so rare. Mostly you see the masks and the holograms that the culture presents as real. You see how you're doing in the world's eyes, or your family's, or yours, or in the eyes of people who are doing better than you -- much better than you –or worse. But you are not your bank account, or your ambitiousness. You're not the cold clay lump with a big belly you leave behind when you die. You are spirit, you are love, and, while it is increasingly hard to believe, you are free. If you find out next week that you are terminally ill -- and we're all terminally ill on this planet-- all that will matter is memories of beauty, that people loved you, and you loved them, and that you tried to help the poor and innocent."
The whole event was unorthodox; our group of shy beginners didn't look remotely like "Glee." Some sang out of tune from nerves. One student, when he sang in front of people, forgot the words and needed someone else to be singing with him so he could keep going. One young woman who rarely speaks, in class or outside of class, mastered her fear and sang -- even though many of her notes were "wrong." The singers' faces showed determination, fear, focus, and total lack of pretense; they weren't ready yet to add "performance values" of facial expression and gesture. Just getting up to bare their voices in public was a huge challenge and victory because revealing our singing voices makes us unbelievably vulnerable. To sing means to let go.
And yet, hearing the tone, texture, colors, sweetness or roughness of each voice blessed us who listened. We looked briefly into the spirit of each young person, just as they are. We entered the miracle of self acceptance, if just for a moment.
Before the performance, I tried to explain my philosophy about singing to the audience of parents. I tried to explain that the reason to sing is because you love it and you love music, not to impress people or be a great singer. I tried to explain that each person's voice is unique and beautiful right where it is, that it takes time to find where your voice feels right in terms of technique, that telling people to "be quiet, you can't sing," is a huge mistake. But Anne Lamott said it better than I could, in her commencement address at UC Berkeley in 2003. I believe that she captured the reason why we sing. Here's a quote from that speech:
"Your problem is how you are going to spend this one odd and precious life you have been issued. Whether you're going to spend it trying to look good and creating the illusion that you have power over people and circumstances, or whether you are going to taste it, enjoy it and find out the truth about who you are....... It's magic to see spirit largely because it's so rare. Mostly you see the masks and the holograms that the culture presents as real. You see how you're doing in the world's eyes, or your family's, or yours, or in the eyes of people who are doing better than you -- much better than you –or worse. But you are not your bank account, or your ambitiousness. You're not the cold clay lump with a big belly you leave behind when you die. You are spirit, you are love, and, while it is increasingly hard to believe, you are free. If you find out next week that you are terminally ill -- and we're all terminally ill on this planet-- all that will matter is memories of beauty, that people loved you, and you loved them, and that you tried to help the poor and innocent."
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
West Side Story
Last week I lived in King's Beach, CA, next to Lake Tahoe, directing a project called "West Side Story Remix." The project, sponsored by an amazing organization called Arts for the Schools, consisted of a week of rehearsals for an adapted, student cast version of West Side Story, and four days of creative writing classes at Truckee High School. My heart/mind is still "processing" the impact on my life of a week of magic, tears and love.
It snowed. A lot. From a gray and green rainy Oakland landscape I was immersed in a pure white wonderland.
In a sports-oriented rural community, high school age boys were at first reluctant to join the cast (singing and dancing don't feel as masculine as snow boarding?). But when they did, they loved it.
A few days after we began rehearsals, a beloved boy at one of our project's high schools committed suicide. Students in the monologue writing workshops wrote about feeling lost, alone, and seeking. Suddenly we faced the fact that young people in our society need a different kind of support than just "stay in school." The project became much larger than putting on a wonderful performance of an iconic musical theater work. The transforming nature of the dramatic form called Tragedy began to connect us to our own real lives.
Our cast of 20 middle and high school performers were largely inexperienced. Many had never even been in a play before. As the week proceeded, I watched the miracle of our teens blossoming. Living night and day with the ancient story based on "Romeo and Juliet," thrust our bodies and spirits into the center of life's questions about Love, Loss, Hate, Betrayal, Hope, Redemption, Heroism. I believe that the audience for our one performance last Friday night was transformed as well. I believe they left the theater knowing the power of love.
It snowed. A lot. From a gray and green rainy Oakland landscape I was immersed in a pure white wonderland.
In a sports-oriented rural community, high school age boys were at first reluctant to join the cast (singing and dancing don't feel as masculine as snow boarding?). But when they did, they loved it.
A few days after we began rehearsals, a beloved boy at one of our project's high schools committed suicide. Students in the monologue writing workshops wrote about feeling lost, alone, and seeking. Suddenly we faced the fact that young people in our society need a different kind of support than just "stay in school." The project became much larger than putting on a wonderful performance of an iconic musical theater work. The transforming nature of the dramatic form called Tragedy began to connect us to our own real lives.
Our cast of 20 middle and high school performers were largely inexperienced. Many had never even been in a play before. As the week proceeded, I watched the miracle of our teens blossoming. Living night and day with the ancient story based on "Romeo and Juliet," thrust our bodies and spirits into the center of life's questions about Love, Loss, Hate, Betrayal, Hope, Redemption, Heroism. I believe that the audience for our one performance last Friday night was transformed as well. I believe they left the theater knowing the power of love.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Freedom
Hopefully it won't fade from the news, the crisis in Libya. My heart reaches out, and I try to make sense of what's happening. The revolution's purpose is to get rid of a dictator,and also to achieve freedom, right?
The dictionary definition of freedom is "absence of restraint, coercion or necessity of choice or action." Pandora's box opens; by this definition no one is really free, since we can't do whatever we want if it involves hurting others or taking away their rights. Now in Libya the rebels are under fire. How can they agree on creating a new government, or even achieve unity when so much sacrifice is required?
I take basic political freedoms for granted and complain about the lack of habeas corpus at Gitmo, or the recent threats to collective bargaining. The day to day accounts of the chaos, death and pain happening in North Africa force me to wonder: what is so important that I would sacrifice my comfort and my life for it? As an artist and educator, do I just express my ideas, or do I have the courage and integrity to walk them?
The dictionary definition of freedom is "absence of restraint, coercion or necessity of choice or action." Pandora's box opens; by this definition no one is really free, since we can't do whatever we want if it involves hurting others or taking away their rights. Now in Libya the rebels are under fire. How can they agree on creating a new government, or even achieve unity when so much sacrifice is required?
I take basic political freedoms for granted and complain about the lack of habeas corpus at Gitmo, or the recent threats to collective bargaining. The day to day accounts of the chaos, death and pain happening in North Africa force me to wonder: what is so important that I would sacrifice my comfort and my life for it? As an artist and educator, do I just express my ideas, or do I have the courage and integrity to walk them?
Monday, February 28, 2011
Market Survival
I watched the Oscar's last night. No, more similar to the days of radio, I listened to them while typing, doing laundry, and vacuuming and didn't miss a thing. The movies the pundits expected to win, "King's Speech" and "Social Network," interested me as examples of Creative Nonfiction, the current hot genre. And I agree they both did a terrific job of making a true story very dramatic.
Why do we love these popularity contests? I rate the Oscar's alongside a few other (popularity) contests that I rarely watch, like American Idol, Who's Got Talent, Iron Chef, Top Model and Survivor. The world loves a winner, whether in ski jumping or break dancing. Tension builds; fumble with the envelope; "and the Oscar goes to... " Glitter, stars in our eyes, believe in the dream of fame and riches.
Saturday I went with my chorus students to do a "flash mob" performance at Emeryville Public Market food court. Hardly a mob: we had 7 singers able to participate. At Oakland Tech, we had achieved a pretty high level of skill in preparing a break up skit followed by a wild rendition of "I Will Survive." Parents and I all knew we were taking a risk, experimenting, trying something new and uncertain. When we got there, sure enough, it was more crowded and louder than we anticipated. We couldn't find an electric outlet. My students suddenly got stage fright. People in the crowd could sort of tell we were going to do something because we were standing around talking about it-- surprise element gone. The final blow happened when the singers couldn't hear the recorded accompaniment on the boombox. Hey, they did a great job a capella anyway. Two young men from Vacaville danced along.
But it was not glitzy or slick. My students' faces reflected their disappointment. We failed to measure up to the proficiency of our practice sessions and failed even to come close to our expectations. Too many things were out of our control. So did we fail? We would not have won any prizes, for sure. Yet the people who saw and heard us enjoyed it. The workers in the nearby food stands loved it. The parents, friends and one grandmother who formed our claque loved it.
What makes it so hard to take risks and fail to meet expectations? How do we define winning? My son's soccer coach, Dave McKeithen, used to say during a season in which the team didn't win a single game: "Did you run fast? Did you sweat? Did you have fun? You're a winner!" In my eyes our brave band of shy beginning singers won the Oscar's on Saturday. From the beginning of the year they moved from being so quiet I could hardly hear them, from being so shy they couldn't even sing solo in front of each other (let alone an audience), from having a vocal range of only four or five notes to this: over an octave vocal range, good projection, and taking risks to sing in front of their scoffing peers at assemblies and singing without technical support in front of a huge crowd of strangers in a busy food court.
Check out the video on UTube under "Market Survival."
Why do we love these popularity contests? I rate the Oscar's alongside a few other (popularity) contests that I rarely watch, like American Idol, Who's Got Talent, Iron Chef, Top Model and Survivor. The world loves a winner, whether in ski jumping or break dancing. Tension builds; fumble with the envelope; "and the Oscar goes to... " Glitter, stars in our eyes, believe in the dream of fame and riches.
Saturday I went with my chorus students to do a "flash mob" performance at Emeryville Public Market food court. Hardly a mob: we had 7 singers able to participate. At Oakland Tech, we had achieved a pretty high level of skill in preparing a break up skit followed by a wild rendition of "I Will Survive." Parents and I all knew we were taking a risk, experimenting, trying something new and uncertain. When we got there, sure enough, it was more crowded and louder than we anticipated. We couldn't find an electric outlet. My students suddenly got stage fright. People in the crowd could sort of tell we were going to do something because we were standing around talking about it-- surprise element gone. The final blow happened when the singers couldn't hear the recorded accompaniment on the boombox. Hey, they did a great job a capella anyway. Two young men from Vacaville danced along.
But it was not glitzy or slick. My students' faces reflected their disappointment. We failed to measure up to the proficiency of our practice sessions and failed even to come close to our expectations. Too many things were out of our control. So did we fail? We would not have won any prizes, for sure. Yet the people who saw and heard us enjoyed it. The workers in the nearby food stands loved it. The parents, friends and one grandmother who formed our claque loved it.
What makes it so hard to take risks and fail to meet expectations? How do we define winning? My son's soccer coach, Dave McKeithen, used to say during a season in which the team didn't win a single game: "Did you run fast? Did you sweat? Did you have fun? You're a winner!" In my eyes our brave band of shy beginning singers won the Oscar's on Saturday. From the beginning of the year they moved from being so quiet I could hardly hear them, from being so shy they couldn't even sing solo in front of each other (let alone an audience), from having a vocal range of only four or five notes to this: over an octave vocal range, good projection, and taking risks to sing in front of their scoffing peers at assemblies and singing without technical support in front of a huge crowd of strangers in a busy food court.
Check out the video on UTube under "Market Survival."
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Play
Happy Valentine's Day! Usually I like this holiday all right, but in the back of my mind consider it a kind of manufactured occasion to buy more stuff. But this year I participated in a performance art event that touched me deeply. The "happening" occurred at AgeSong in Oakland, a care center for elders with Alzheimer's related brain disorders.
I began a week ago by interviewing residents, asking them questions: what is love?; what's the secret to marriage?; what advice would you give to young people to help them have a loving, long term relationship? I reminded them about the high divorce rate and that some young people today feel marriage is a useless institution -- why bother? I taped the interviews.
We also decorated hearts and each resident told us one word to to write on a heart, words to express what makes a good marriage. I loved the words they gave: patience, wedding rice, laughter, kisses. I loved the interview comments:
* "You can't wait for your husband to care for you, you've got to care for him."
* "When times are hard you have to realize things are hard and separate a little, then come back and talk about what to do. It's hard work."
* "You've got to decide what you want to do in life, not just sit around making sugar cookies. I think we should all learn to dance, your husband, your cousins, everybody, and we'll all have great fun."
Yesterday I packed up a huge bag of hats, jackets, dresses, a ring box, and wedding veils. I put my fake wedding cake in a large stainless steel bowl. I'm proud of that cake, since I specialize in performing arts, not 3D construction. I glued boxes of different sizes together, painted them white and slathered them with vanilla icing. On top, I put candy hearts for decoration. It looked good enough to eat. I drove with my loaded car down to AgeSong.
Along with Patti, one of the wonderful activity leaders there, we staged a mock wedding ceremony. Jean put on the bright blue crepe dress with full skirt, low back and bow. Mary wore a green shawl, Ruben wore a gold glitter derby hat, Bill wore a tan felt stetson, most of the women wore tulle wedding veils. We sang the wedding march and made a procession with those who could walk or whose wheelchairs we could push. Rosie gracefully accepted her tinsel wedding ring. Someone agreed to hold the bouquet. As a combination bride and Justice of the Peace I gave a suitably metaphorical homily. "Love is sweet. And so we will put our marriage ingredients into our wedding bowl(I called out the words they had chosen the week before) -- trust, amore, dedication -- we stir up our Love Recipe -- and voila! What did we make? A wedding cake (I ran to the table where I'd hidden the cake and waved it in the air)!!"
Continuing in my role: "How do we end our marriage to our imaginary partners or to our best inner selves? We dance, of course." And so I got to dance with John, who smiled and smiled, and turned me under his arm in a graceful jitterbug. I wish I could have been as playful at my own wedding years ago.
God bless those who can play and pretend, no matter where or when, no matter how well or ill. It was the best Valentine's Day ever.
I began a week ago by interviewing residents, asking them questions: what is love?; what's the secret to marriage?; what advice would you give to young people to help them have a loving, long term relationship? I reminded them about the high divorce rate and that some young people today feel marriage is a useless institution -- why bother? I taped the interviews.
We also decorated hearts and each resident told us one word to to write on a heart, words to express what makes a good marriage. I loved the words they gave: patience, wedding rice, laughter, kisses. I loved the interview comments:
* "You can't wait for your husband to care for you, you've got to care for him."
* "When times are hard you have to realize things are hard and separate a little, then come back and talk about what to do. It's hard work."
* "You've got to decide what you want to do in life, not just sit around making sugar cookies. I think we should all learn to dance, your husband, your cousins, everybody, and we'll all have great fun."
Yesterday I packed up a huge bag of hats, jackets, dresses, a ring box, and wedding veils. I put my fake wedding cake in a large stainless steel bowl. I'm proud of that cake, since I specialize in performing arts, not 3D construction. I glued boxes of different sizes together, painted them white and slathered them with vanilla icing. On top, I put candy hearts for decoration. It looked good enough to eat. I drove with my loaded car down to AgeSong.
Along with Patti, one of the wonderful activity leaders there, we staged a mock wedding ceremony. Jean put on the bright blue crepe dress with full skirt, low back and bow. Mary wore a green shawl, Ruben wore a gold glitter derby hat, Bill wore a tan felt stetson, most of the women wore tulle wedding veils. We sang the wedding march and made a procession with those who could walk or whose wheelchairs we could push. Rosie gracefully accepted her tinsel wedding ring. Someone agreed to hold the bouquet. As a combination bride and Justice of the Peace I gave a suitably metaphorical homily. "Love is sweet. And so we will put our marriage ingredients into our wedding bowl(I called out the words they had chosen the week before) -- trust, amore, dedication -- we stir up our Love Recipe -- and voila! What did we make? A wedding cake (I ran to the table where I'd hidden the cake and waved it in the air)!!"
Continuing in my role: "How do we end our marriage to our imaginary partners or to our best inner selves? We dance, of course." And so I got to dance with John, who smiled and smiled, and turned me under his arm in a graceful jitterbug. I wish I could have been as playful at my own wedding years ago.
God bless those who can play and pretend, no matter where or when, no matter how well or ill. It was the best Valentine's Day ever.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Achievement
Educators talk about mastery, success, test scores and other monikers of academic achievement. We subscribe to the theory that if someone works hard enough they can succeed at whatever they do. I agree that persistent effort does bring results. I'm not sure that we all agree on the definition of success.
What about the student who loves to dance and works hard, but can't kick very high or memorize choreography? Or the student who loves to sing and works hard, but lags way behind the rest of the class in singing in tune? Sometimes that student would get an A, sometimes not. Most of us need goals and evaluations but I've seen too many students focus on getting a good grade instead of getting an education that prepares them to be caring, thoughtful adults.
Our culture sometimes holds up an absolute value for mastery. Success looks like a 10 in Olympic competition, a multimillion dollar stock portfolio, Nobel Prize, lead dancer in Swan Lake, American Idol winner, 4.0 GPA. Our students may one day achieve these things, but I think that we'd serve them better if we prepared our students to notice different kinds of success. For some students, getting up in the morning, taking a shower and making it to school on time is success because everything in their lives conspires to make them drop out (I once had a student who told me he didn't need to graduate because he was going to sell drugs like his uncle, but he did manage to graduate). In Oakland, we try to acknowledge student effort or ethics with a catch-all Citizenship grade: 'O' (Outstanding), 'S' (Satisfactory), 'U' (Unsatisfactory); or a choice of comments like, "a pleasure to have in class," and "steadily improving."
I don't have a practical assessment system figured out, although I like the way arts and many other educators now focus on portfolios, presentations and written reflections as measurements. Ideally perhaps - instead of a high school Exit Exam - a student might demonstrate what they are curious about, what new discovery in assignments excited them, why the required curriculum is or is not important for their lives, what made a good teacher, how they grew (or not) because of school. Is it possible to grade the quality of someone's thinking and personal growth, or should each person learn to assess these things in his/her own mind and heart?
What about the student who loves to dance and works hard, but can't kick very high or memorize choreography? Or the student who loves to sing and works hard, but lags way behind the rest of the class in singing in tune? Sometimes that student would get an A, sometimes not. Most of us need goals and evaluations but I've seen too many students focus on getting a good grade instead of getting an education that prepares them to be caring, thoughtful adults.
Our culture sometimes holds up an absolute value for mastery. Success looks like a 10 in Olympic competition, a multimillion dollar stock portfolio, Nobel Prize, lead dancer in Swan Lake, American Idol winner, 4.0 GPA. Our students may one day achieve these things, but I think that we'd serve them better if we prepared our students to notice different kinds of success. For some students, getting up in the morning, taking a shower and making it to school on time is success because everything in their lives conspires to make them drop out (I once had a student who told me he didn't need to graduate because he was going to sell drugs like his uncle, but he did manage to graduate). In Oakland, we try to acknowledge student effort or ethics with a catch-all Citizenship grade: 'O' (Outstanding), 'S' (Satisfactory), 'U' (Unsatisfactory); or a choice of comments like, "a pleasure to have in class," and "steadily improving."
I don't have a practical assessment system figured out, although I like the way arts and many other educators now focus on portfolios, presentations and written reflections as measurements. Ideally perhaps - instead of a high school Exit Exam - a student might demonstrate what they are curious about, what new discovery in assignments excited them, why the required curriculum is or is not important for their lives, what made a good teacher, how they grew (or not) because of school. Is it possible to grade the quality of someone's thinking and personal growth, or should each person learn to assess these things in his/her own mind and heart?
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Fame
I'm collaborating on a play by a wonderful local actress, Gina Gold. One of the themes in the piece is the addiction to fame, to getting noticed, to being seen or heard, to ..to... to.. being loved.
In the theater world we understand the attraction to applause. Getting attention from an audience can be addicting; lack of attention from an audience can be devastating.
I notice that these days, non-theater folks seem to want fame too.
"I'm trying out for American Idol and So You Think You Can Dance and America's Got Talent." We can have a blog (ahem, like this one), we can see how many friends we've got on Facebook, followers on Twitter, connections on LinkedIn, how many hits on YouTube. My voice students long to catapult to Idol status; then they wonder why fame doesn't happen from singing a song fairly well along with a recording. Fame should be instant, like Facebook, right?
By the way, how are all the famous people doing? I wonder - when I read about the celebrities in rehab or on their sixth divorce. Is there something about the addiction to fame that makes us want more and more?
"The only reason to sing is because you love it," my 80 year old voice teacher, Margaret Sheldon, said to me years ago. We're seldom in control of whether we get noticed or not, so why not find something we love doing for its own sake? In a culture where we do things to "get" money or status or to "build" skills, I like the idea of "art for art's sake."
In fact, I think I'll take Mrs. Sheldon's wise advice even further. Maybe the only reason to live is because I love it.
In the theater world we understand the attraction to applause. Getting attention from an audience can be addicting; lack of attention from an audience can be devastating.
I notice that these days, non-theater folks seem to want fame too.
"I'm trying out for American Idol and So You Think You Can Dance and America's Got Talent." We can have a blog (ahem, like this one), we can see how many friends we've got on Facebook, followers on Twitter, connections on LinkedIn, how many hits on YouTube. My voice students long to catapult to Idol status; then they wonder why fame doesn't happen from singing a song fairly well along with a recording. Fame should be instant, like Facebook, right?
By the way, how are all the famous people doing? I wonder - when I read about the celebrities in rehab or on their sixth divorce. Is there something about the addiction to fame that makes us want more and more?
"The only reason to sing is because you love it," my 80 year old voice teacher, Margaret Sheldon, said to me years ago. We're seldom in control of whether we get noticed or not, so why not find something we love doing for its own sake? In a culture where we do things to "get" money or status or to "build" skills, I like the idea of "art for art's sake."
In fact, I think I'll take Mrs. Sheldon's wise advice even further. Maybe the only reason to live is because I love it.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Priorities
My head is spinning. I'm trying to put things together in my mind before the State of the Union address President Obama will give tonight.
Here's a fragment of an interview I heard on NPR: "Education is everything.. but the white flight to suburban schools has left urban public schools mostly to Latino and African American students without political or financial clout."
Here's a comment our trainer made when we applied for jobs as K-12 substitute teachers in the Oakland Unified School District last week: "A substitute teacher saved my child's life. That's the truth."
Here's a comment made by a full time teacher in a public school: "I can't actually support my family on a starting teacher's salary in this district."
Here's a comment made by a young man I passed in a high school corridor: "I'd go crazy if I had to come to school every day."
Here's a comment overheard in a job line: "We're spending billions every day on the war in Afghanistan, right?"
Here are two headlines: "Job growth Shows Economic Upturn" and "Obama will propose spending freeze."
Here's a how de do, to quote from Gilbert and Sullivan, whose ironic insights in the late 1800-s seem oddly current, in a world where opposites are equally true and where priorities clash with our values.
I appreciate that we have a few people willing to enter politics, given the painful challenges. I dread hearing from our President and our Governors about cuts to education and social services. I hate that we tell our community and state college students how important their education is one moment, but that we don't have the funding to offer the classes they need the next My head spins.
The sun shines today. Students remain intelligent and hopeful. President Obama will offer us some good ideas tonight. I will continue to embrace ambiguity.
Here's a fragment of an interview I heard on NPR: "Education is everything.. but the white flight to suburban schools has left urban public schools mostly to Latino and African American students without political or financial clout."
Here's a comment our trainer made when we applied for jobs as K-12 substitute teachers in the Oakland Unified School District last week: "A substitute teacher saved my child's life. That's the truth."
Here's a comment made by a full time teacher in a public school: "I can't actually support my family on a starting teacher's salary in this district."
Here's a comment made by a young man I passed in a high school corridor: "I'd go crazy if I had to come to school every day."
Here's a comment overheard in a job line: "We're spending billions every day on the war in Afghanistan, right?"
Here are two headlines: "Job growth Shows Economic Upturn" and "Obama will propose spending freeze."
Here's a how de do, to quote from Gilbert and Sullivan, whose ironic insights in the late 1800-s seem oddly current, in a world where opposites are equally true and where priorities clash with our values.
I appreciate that we have a few people willing to enter politics, given the painful challenges. I dread hearing from our President and our Governors about cuts to education and social services. I hate that we tell our community and state college students how important their education is one moment, but that we don't have the funding to offer the classes they need the next My head spins.
The sun shines today. Students remain intelligent and hopeful. President Obama will offer us some good ideas tonight. I will continue to embrace ambiguity.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Shootings
On April 4, 1968, I was in Chicago on my spring break from college. Staying with friends on the Southside near the University. It was already dark as I walked that night from the train to m my friends' apartment. The streets buzzed with groups of people shouting, cars full of people driving around and around. "What's going on?" I asked someone. "Martin Luther King Jr has been assassinated," the man said.
At that moment, I felt the same stabbing pain in the chest and dizziness I had felt only a few years before, on hearing of the Kennedy assassination. Someone told me that news on November 22, 1963 in an elevator and I almost fainted then, too.
Thankfully assassinations are still not commonplace; the word itself feels alien in my mouth. One dictionary definition reads, "to murder (a prominent person) by surprise attack, as for political reasons." JFK, Martin, Robert. Those of us who lived through these horrible shootings remember exactly where we were when we heard the news.
But are assassinations as rare as we think? We don't call drive-by shootings assassinations. We tally our homicides here in Oakland and compare them to the tallies in comparable large cities. The recent shooting of Representative Giffords reminded us how easy it is to get a gun and of the travesty of the "background check." My own high school students have scoffed at the idea. "Anyone can get a gun any time," they said. In fact, some schools have metal detectors at the front door and now we have body scans to detect plastic guns or explosives at airports. We don't use the word assassination for these murders - the aspects of prominence and politics, are missing. But in a way homicides on our streets are political, and shouldn't we view each human life as "prominently" valuable? Street shootings and violent crimes link to poverty and social injustice, which are political. Altars of flowers and teddy bears on street corners testify to the prominence of another young person gunned down.
When I first started teaching high school drama, I was shocked to learn of the frequency of gun violence in students' lives. We were playing a warm up exercise I called "the community game," in which we stepped into the center of our circle to identify common ground. Towards the end of the warm up I asked, "Step to the center if you've ever lost a friend or relative through gun violence," ALL OF US stepped into the circle. Slowly over the years I became accustomed to my students' need to talk about neighborhood violence, to write skits about it, to mourn.
Martin Luther King Jr, who exemplified peace making and was aware of the threats against his life, showed us the way we should live. I am grateful he has his own holiday for us to reflect on his dream and his reality. May both come to pass.
At that moment, I felt the same stabbing pain in the chest and dizziness I had felt only a few years before, on hearing of the Kennedy assassination. Someone told me that news on November 22, 1963 in an elevator and I almost fainted then, too.
Thankfully assassinations are still not commonplace; the word itself feels alien in my mouth. One dictionary definition reads, "to murder (a prominent person) by surprise attack, as for political reasons." JFK, Martin, Robert. Those of us who lived through these horrible shootings remember exactly where we were when we heard the news.
But are assassinations as rare as we think? We don't call drive-by shootings assassinations. We tally our homicides here in Oakland and compare them to the tallies in comparable large cities. The recent shooting of Representative Giffords reminded us how easy it is to get a gun and of the travesty of the "background check." My own high school students have scoffed at the idea. "Anyone can get a gun any time," they said. In fact, some schools have metal detectors at the front door and now we have body scans to detect plastic guns or explosives at airports. We don't use the word assassination for these murders - the aspects of prominence and politics, are missing. But in a way homicides on our streets are political, and shouldn't we view each human life as "prominently" valuable? Street shootings and violent crimes link to poverty and social injustice, which are political. Altars of flowers and teddy bears on street corners testify to the prominence of another young person gunned down.
When I first started teaching high school drama, I was shocked to learn of the frequency of gun violence in students' lives. We were playing a warm up exercise I called "the community game," in which we stepped into the center of our circle to identify common ground. Towards the end of the warm up I asked, "Step to the center if you've ever lost a friend or relative through gun violence," ALL OF US stepped into the circle. Slowly over the years I became accustomed to my students' need to talk about neighborhood violence, to write skits about it, to mourn.
Martin Luther King Jr, who exemplified peace making and was aware of the threats against his life, showed us the way we should live. I am grateful he has his own holiday for us to reflect on his dream and his reality. May both come to pass.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Invisible
We don't see a lot, in spite of social networking and instant Internet news. Sometimes a documentary or magazine article will reveal an invisible world, like say, rodeos, coin collecting or dog shows. The people and things within these worlds are a kind of closed circuit, revolving around outside our "trending now" everydayness.
The tragedy in Arizona suddenly brings to light one of these invisible worlds: mental illness. Clearly, the "suspect" shooter needed treatment years before the preventable disaster, but instead ended up isolated like so many in this mostly misunderstood world. We hide people with brain disorders in prisons, under freeway overpasses, residential hotels, a relative's spare room, or homes for the aging with dementia.
I spend most of my time in another invisible world: the arts. Sure, a few shining members of this world grace the front pages (of the Entertainment Section). But artists generally cycle unseen on two paths: 1) Create or perform work; 2) Work a "regular" job to pay off debts incurred in #1.
As an artist without a "regular" job, I've been keeping myself sane by engaging in various creative projects like radio drama with KPFA- Berkeley, writing poems and short stories, dancing, singing and actng. None of these activities pay even close to a living wage. Job listings in performing arts are - yes - invisible.
Seeking to become less invisible, I posted my performing artist resume on a popular online job site. Presto! I received three emails from various highly positioned employers. "I am impressed by your skills and think you're a perfect fit for our organization. Please contact me for an interview." Great! They saw on my resume that I can act, sing, direct plays and write poetry and will pay me to do these things! Or they want me full time as a drama professor at a college!
WRONG. The job openings for which I was asked to interview? An insurance company, a bank, a realty firm, full time data entry. Like Superman, we artists work undercover in such jobs. That man or woman in the cubicle next to you might even be one.
The tragedy in Arizona suddenly brings to light one of these invisible worlds: mental illness. Clearly, the "suspect" shooter needed treatment years before the preventable disaster, but instead ended up isolated like so many in this mostly misunderstood world. We hide people with brain disorders in prisons, under freeway overpasses, residential hotels, a relative's spare room, or homes for the aging with dementia.
I spend most of my time in another invisible world: the arts. Sure, a few shining members of this world grace the front pages (of the Entertainment Section). But artists generally cycle unseen on two paths: 1) Create or perform work; 2) Work a "regular" job to pay off debts incurred in #1.
As an artist without a "regular" job, I've been keeping myself sane by engaging in various creative projects like radio drama with KPFA- Berkeley, writing poems and short stories, dancing, singing and actng. None of these activities pay even close to a living wage. Job listings in performing arts are - yes - invisible.
Seeking to become less invisible, I posted my performing artist resume on a popular online job site. Presto! I received three emails from various highly positioned employers. "I am impressed by your skills and think you're a perfect fit for our organization. Please contact me for an interview." Great! They saw on my resume that I can act, sing, direct plays and write poetry and will pay me to do these things! Or they want me full time as a drama professor at a college!
WRONG. The job openings for which I was asked to interview? An insurance company, a bank, a realty firm, full time data entry. Like Superman, we artists work undercover in such jobs. That man or woman in the cubicle next to you might even be one.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
January
Happy New Year! New Year, new month, new beginnings. Resolved: meditate daily and be kind. I've already broken both resolutions. Add to version 4 of "final" New Year list: confront failure with grace.
The typical school year differs from the calendar year. In school, January is mid year; over five more months of getting up early, attending classes, studying for exams, writing papers, forgetting to bring an umbrella to school when it rains. "In the bleak mid winter, frosty wind made moan/ Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone," the carol goes. After the hype and anticipation of the holiday season, a bit of depression arrives, otherwise known as "seasonal affective disorder." Gone are the excuses to eat Grandma's fudge and Aunt Lucy's pecan pie (the fudge and pie are gone already anyway because we ate them all up). We're advised to exercise, lose weight, buy full spectrum light bulbs, volunteer at our local charities.
These ideas indeed work well. But sometimes I prefer the animal kingdom's solution: hibernate. In January I find taking naps and going to bed at 7 pm helps. Being someone who doesn't dream much (or remember my dreams), I'm amazed lately by the creativity of my unconscious world. I'm also more appreciative than ever before of the brilliant visions no doubt hiding behind the eyelids of my sleeping students in class.
Ah, well. It's California, and in another month the fluffy pink plum blossoms will come out on our block. Global warming will bring early spring, the days will get longer and I'll have to stay awake at work. I think I'll just.. yawn.. put my head down.. here.. a ... second... l..ong.....er... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
The typical school year differs from the calendar year. In school, January is mid year; over five more months of getting up early, attending classes, studying for exams, writing papers, forgetting to bring an umbrella to school when it rains. "In the bleak mid winter, frosty wind made moan/ Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone," the carol goes. After the hype and anticipation of the holiday season, a bit of depression arrives, otherwise known as "seasonal affective disorder." Gone are the excuses to eat Grandma's fudge and Aunt Lucy's pecan pie (the fudge and pie are gone already anyway because we ate them all up). We're advised to exercise, lose weight, buy full spectrum light bulbs, volunteer at our local charities.
These ideas indeed work well. But sometimes I prefer the animal kingdom's solution: hibernate. In January I find taking naps and going to bed at 7 pm helps. Being someone who doesn't dream much (or remember my dreams), I'm amazed lately by the creativity of my unconscious world. I'm also more appreciative than ever before of the brilliant visions no doubt hiding behind the eyelids of my sleeping students in class.
Ah, well. It's California, and in another month the fluffy pink plum blossoms will come out on our block. Global warming will bring early spring, the days will get longer and I'll have to stay awake at work. I think I'll just.. yawn.. put my head down.. here.. a ... second... l..ong.....er... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
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