Jazz Icarus. Henri Matisse. 1944

An article posted on the Times website yesterday was entitled:

The Value of Teachers.

I’ve been mistaken in life, (and on this blog) more often than I care to admit– yet I’m relatively certain society has a rough time understanding the value of a teacher.

I say “value” in the capitalist sense. Clearly teachers are valued in a philosophical context… like valuing unicorns or rainbows. The idea of loving them is so… wholesome. We love them during happy hour conversations and TED talks, in campaign speeches, and Hallmark movies. When Taylor Mali’s poetry slam “What Teachers Make” went viral… one couldn’t help wonder: “Who is the a-hole that would call out a teacher at a dinner party?”

***

Lauding teachers as valuable is surely a popular sentiment, but seems limited to banal platitudes found on coffee mugs and picture frames:

“TEACHERS SHAPE YOUNG MINDS!”

“TEACHERS BRING DREAMS TO LIFE!”

“IF YOU CAN READ THIS, THANK A TEACHER!”

Malcolm Gladwell wrote about this struggle to define teacher value in his New Yorker article “Most Likely to Succeed.” The article compared pro-football and public education, through a phenomena coined the ‘Quarterback Problem.’

The name originated when football coaches discovered a quarterback’s college performance was often a poor indicator of success in the pros. Players were going from “superstardom” to “nothing” so quickly and so often, it left coaches perplexed. How could guys with so much potential fizzle almost overnight?

According to Gladwell’s article, education has a quarterback problem as well. Success in college or fluency in good pedagogy and technique does not a good teacher make. Teachers who look and sound suave; get in front of a group of six year olds and choke.

No wonder we limit expressions of teacher value to pastel colored slogans about “planting seeds, and watering fruit.”

Let’s be honest, we are exceptional at measuring good technique, knowledge, and skill. No Child Left Behind and Race to the Top, baby! Our society rocks it out with the data and measurements. We are information machines, but there is a problem with grasping the measuring stick too tight.

Helen Keller said:

“The best things in life can’t be seen or touched, but are felt with the heart.”

The best teachers are not merely saying and doing things backed by empirically based research, and ideologically sound platforms.

Good teachers are “Real” in their hearts.

Well thanks… THANKS for that.

W T H is “Real?”

Am I the Velveteen Rabbit?

***

Yesterday walking from Bouldin Creek Cafe back to her car, my friend Kris said:

“I love how with some people, even if we do inconsequential things together like eat dinner or hang out in silence, I feel better just being in their space.”

“Real Teachers” do this.

When a student is in the presence of a “Real Teacher” they feel a desire to be around that teacher, with few or no words being exchanged.

Ralph Waldo Emerson talked about this when he said:

“Who you are screams so loudly, I cannot hear what you say to the contrary.”

“Real Teachers” communicate more with who they are, than they do with technique, lesson plans, or materials.

***

In a biography entitled “Last American Man,” Elizabeth Gilbert writes about Eustace Conway– a man who lives outside modern society in an entirely self-sustaining way. He survives completely off the natural world… think making your clothes from animal skins, and hunting your own food… rather than shopping at Whole Foods. The entire book is incredibly engaging, but the teacher in me loved Gilbert’s description of Eustace talking to high school students the most.

From the moment Eustace stepped onstage front of a large, loud group of teens… before he said one word… they quieted themselves. She watched astounded as his energy alone was enough to command total respect and attention. As he talked, they moved to the edges of their seats, when he was excited they were excited, and when he was somber, they grew serious. At the end they cheered, and begged for more time… burgeoning with questions and energy.

At the conclusion of the evening Gilbert asked Eustace:

“Hey about what happened tonight. Do you get that kind of response everywhere you speak?”

“Yes.”

“From all age groups; from all backgrounds?”

“Yes.”

I thought this over.

“So tell me specifically. Why do you think these particular teenagers were so hypnotized by you tonight?”

Eustace’s reply was so immediate, so uncompromising, and so coldly delivered that it sent a quick chill right through me.

“Because,” he said, “they recognized right away that I was a real person. And they’ve probably never met one before.”

***

One of my “Real Teachers” was Mr. Patten.

It was last class of the day– eighth period. I viewed it separate from the other seven periods– a reward for surviving the day. A dozen or so 13 year olds would file into his faded classroom– the only thing on one yellowing wall was a poster of the Gettysburg address and a clock– his desk was empty but for a grade book and briefcase. His lessons were as sparse as his classroom– there was little evidence of planning. No group activities. No projects. No interactive or interdisciplinary elements. No arts and crafts, books, or bulletin boards.

Instead he would pass out twenty page packets of dates and events to follow while he lectured. Indeed that’s what his classes were– all lecture. Our grades were entirely calculated from long, rigorous essay tests.

Singular modes of assessment, packets of rote information and lecture for consumption is a blasphemy in pedagogical circles. Advocates of “best practice” would have cringed.

That is– until they sat in on one of his classes.

When Mr. Patten lectured it was as if the whole world stopped. For forty minutes each day, I lost myself into past worlds… worlds he unlocked with tales of battle, heartache and struggle. He blew our tiny worlds open with those lectures… yet paradoxically it was not the lectures. I had plenty of teachers who lectured me to sleep.

Even in all my junior high naivety, I knew Mr. Patten was not like other adults. He didn’t talk at us, but to us. He was alive with an excitement that was natural and authentic. He was never afraid to be eccentric or odd. When he was angry, the sheer disappointment and darkness in his voice was enough to silence the most obstinate student.

His room was one of the few places in school I felt safe. The dangerous, judgmental, competitive culture of teenage strife was left outside– people I never talked to, and who never talked to me– magically became friends once we passed through his doors. He didn’t have rules explaining this on the wall. He did not explicitly state how we should treat each other. We just knew. 

These explanations are vague, and they should be.

I cannot tell you what he did so you might understand how to replicate it. What he did has been repeated by hundreds of teachers unsuccessfully.

He retired a few years ago, and has a fan page on Facebook set up by two former students. When you read the wall posts it’s astounding what is repeated over and over in a myriad of ways:

“Mr Patten was the best teacher I ever had.”

***

During the orientation for new teachers in Stow, Ohio- 2005… the High School football coach entered the library to give us a welcome speech. His advice was some of the most formative in my career.

Let me tell you what kids will ALWAYS notice.

Kids have radar for things that are invisible. 

They know when you love them. They know if you want to be there. They know when you love yourself. They know when you love your subject. You can’t fake kids. My best advice is to work on loving yourself. Kids learn a lot from teachers like that.”

***

The points in this post are not exhaustive. I do not mean to suggest a teacher that loves his or her students always equals a good teacher. I do not mean to suggest that if a child begins hating a subject, it’s the teacher’s fault. What I do mean to suggest… what I am confident to suggest, is that:

“What we teach is not separate from who we are.”  

Teachers who understand this are the most “Real.”

Teachers who understand this do more than transmit ideas and build skills, they touch hearts, ignite fires, and heal wounds.

And no, there’s no assessment tool for that kind of value.

“A dream we dream together is reality” ~ John Lennon

***

The other night while drinking Bloody Mary’s, and working on school-ish type pursuits, I was approached by a Tarot card reader. Would I like a reading? Mmmm… but to procrastinate schoolwork… and I’m behind from a not-so-wise decision to imbibe… well, okay sure!

While shuffling the deck, she shared a book by Deepak Chopra. She “felt I was supposed to see it for some reason.” She seemed awkward saying this, perhaps hesitation in expressing such a clearly mystical and illogical sentiment. However, her confidence swelled as she laid out the cards.

“You spent a good bit of your time the last five years building. The cards say it’s time to move beyond yourself, and try to find a team. You will find a team actually… there will be some fear involved… but all will work out, and you will work through your reservations. With these people, you will begin to accomplish dreams.”

A+ for vagueness!

I jotted down her words which amounted to a five-minute reading. I tipped her, she moved on, and I returned to lesson planning for a tour with fourth graders at my Art museum intership.

I didn’t think of it again until I began rereading old blog posts yesterday.

***

I stumbled across a June 2010 comment from Michael Doyle: 

“If grad school knocks out the brazen from your brazenness, re-read your posts this year….”

I recall being grateful for his support, but I certainly didn’t expect graduate school to knock out my brazenness. Oh Doyle. Please tell me sometime where your psychic powers come from.

So yesterday I took Michael’s advice. I walked forgotten paths of thought, revisited old ideas, and ignited a few old flames. It was like meeting a long-lost friend, only the friend was the long-lost me.

I liked her. I liked her spiciness, fire, and vigilant pursuit for individuality, authenticity and personal truth. She was a trail blazer in those days. She was a stranger in a foreign country whose language she stubbornly resisted fluency. In order to be heard she would make her own country… her own blog… with a brazen teacher as its president.

It wouldn’t matter what people thought of Brazen because she wouldn’t be a person, but rather an idea. Criticism of ideas are far easier to receive than criticism of personhood. In this safe space she created a refuge to be intensely herself. She could take risks, share funky ideas, screw up, say ridiculous, ignorant or downright wrong things. She could reflect on the way others responded to these words, and then recreate herself based on new conceptions of who she hoped to become next.

She had started blogging to find herself, and somewhere between late night reflections on Kindergartener musings, and mind-meanderings of her own, she learned one of life’s biggest lessons:

The blog wasn’t about finding herself, it was about creating herself.

Hadn’t she read this on a refrigerator magnet when she was 7?

***

There is an empirically based reason why Tarot works.

Tarot works because the human mind is always trying to create meaning from what is put before it. When you  look at a Tarot card, or when a card-reader shares an idea, your brain tries to make connections between what you are learning and seeing, with something in your current repertoire. These connections are important, because they are literally ideas and thoughts surfacing, that would have remained buried had it not been for the external suggestion.

In this way, the cards are not actually predicting magical unseen notions of the future, they are bringing out the truth which is already there, deep in your subconscious… a very handy tool for connecting to your deepest concerns, thoughts and wishes.

***

While having coffee with a friend today he said:

“I think being an artist reminds us the importance of many voices. It’s easy to get fixated on details, to block out alternate possibilities, and to suffer from ideological tunnel vision. Artists learn to step back away from a thing and invite others in… to kill their babies. Everyone contributes, and everyone subordinates. Together they create a more holistic truth than would have every been possible from one solitary ego.”

In the wake of Doyle’s comment and the Tarot card reading, it was like a cranial Rubix Cube snapping into place.

I created the blog to find comfort in creating myself.

Comfort in creating myself can lead to comfort in creating with others.

Groups of people who have comfort in self and collaborative creation do amazing shit.

Now… I gotta create me a group.

Takers?

I’ve learned tonight while writing at Spider House :

Bloody Mary’s, Portishead, and Christmas lights make schoolwork far more enjoyable. That being said, it was a poor decision to combine vodka with abstract thinking. Ah well… ordering iced coffee to save the day/ my attention span.

In the meantime, I stumbled across this video after my sister Facebook-shared last semester. It’s a great short film reminding the college and non-college bound what really matters when everything is stripped away. You’ll have to watch it twice to appreciate it.

While philosophizing over tomato juice and Absolute Peppar– with the impending “holiday of thanks” fast approaching– I began to reflect on what truly matters to me. There are quite a few things I’m grateful for. More than anything however, I’m grateful for the ability to be grateful.

Not that “regurgitated grateful.” Not the: “I love my family, I love Jesus, I love the children in Africa” now I’m going to go mow over Black Friday shoppers in a Best Buy parking lot with my Ford Expedition.

Truly, deeply, grateful.

Here’s the cliche Thanksgiving post/question:

What would matter most to you if all else was taken away?

My 2011 New Year’s Resolution was to link TBT to my personal Facebook. That was a neat experiment. In June I created my first iMovie post which was in effect, letting the first part of the cat out of the bag. Today’s post is the whole cat.

Regardless, I will always be Brazen. I have little desire to make this Rebecca Borrelli’s blog.

First AND last name. I feel so brave.

The era of anonymity is over and now is an appropriate time– I have been excited to link TBT to Longhorn Confidential– The University of Texas’ student blog. I was over the moon about being selected as their graduate student writer, and linking my school blog with this one has been a goal for a few months. It’s small beans, but I’m kind of proud and wanted to share.

A few changes will commence today.

First: One SMALL brazen post a week. No more novellas. The novella approach isn’t sustainable as is apparent by month long silent gaps.

Second: How to do the whole blog subscription thing? I’ve always manually visited blogs I liked. That’s not very conducive either. Any suggestions for keeping up with y’all better? Google Reader is Japanese to me.

It’s been a pleasure to write as Brazen for nearly five years. Now it’s a pleasure to write as me.

I’m excited to meet you.

Reading these reminds me we don’t live in a bankrupt world. Under the politics, paychecks and egos lies a shared goal:

Service to young people.

Service to oneself.

Bla bla bla… academic, schmacemdemic, insert big words here…

OK.

SO… for those who still read this blog (even after long unoccupied bouts of nothingness), I was inspired to ask YOU- the teachers whose wisdom has helped me during quite a few struggles- to consider reflecting on these questions:

“Why did you start/ still continue teaching?”

“What advice would you give your First-Year teacher self?”

Responses will be uploaded to a powerpoint that scrolls throughout the workshop. Your words will literally be utilized as an inspirational tool during our art making. This workshop is about building community among teachers. The blogosphere is overflowing with compassionate, wise, and incredibly talented teachers supporting one another. Please consider sharing your stories if for no other reason than you may potentially touch the life of a teacher you’ve never met.

Feel free to post answers in the comment bar, or email them to brazenteacher@gmail.com by noon on October 20th.

Love and Artsiness,

Brazen

Laylah Ali. "Illustration for MOMA, NY" 2002.

*** I was fortunate enough to be offered the position as graduate student writer for UT’s blog: Longhorn Confidential. The interface will be up in a few weeks, but I started drafting my first post today.

As I wrote, this beastly thing came out of me I think I’ve been wanting to write for some time (maybe since starting this blog), and I realized it would be better posted here on TBT.

Maya Angelou was quoted as saying that “there is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.” This is one of my untold stories. It’s long, it’s conceptual, and it felt really good to write. May or may not be your thang… but writing it sure made me feel awesome.

***

Dear Brazen,

How did you come to be here?

Well, the short answer is:

I moved to Austin from Ohio last August. I used to be an art teacher in an elementary school, and now I serve tables at the Four Seasons Hotel, while working on my M.A. in Art Education.

Of course it should be noted that behind every short answer is a long one. The best long answers usually require a bit of faith- in that unlike the short one above- the path is a mystery. Long answers require patience, but can be infinitely more interesting.

Have faith and walk with me here.

***

This particular long answer starts with a psychic reading I splurged on this past June with Joe Nicols- voted by the Chronicle as Austin’s “best psychic.” I admit the endorsement got me. Really? The best? I’ll bite.

Halfway through the reading, while looking at my palm he said:

 “Up until a few years ago you had no clue… but you’re coming out of your shell like a rocket now girl!”

A freaking rocket??

I would like to acknowledge the vagueness of his sentiment, as well as point out that any business model- psychic or otherwise- tries to avoid making the client feel like poo. I certainly wouldn’t be forking over more cash to discover I’m about to enter a period of cluelessness… which according to Joe… was the type of reading I might have gotten had I visited him at age 21.

Of COURSE I’m a rocket. Ninety dollars for 45 minutes means the news will be good.

Yet whether by psychic gifts, or economic considerations- Joe hit the nail on the head.

When I told others about this reading, most scoffed.

Everyone except my mother.

When I told her on the phone one day- I could practically hear her silent nod through the phone.

***

Most people thought Joe was mistaken, because practically speaking, I was (and am) far from clueless.

I was an elementary school art teacher in a respected Ohio school district. I was very proud to work with some incredibly talented and passionate educators. Name-dropping my place of employment automatically earned respect from strangers in happy hour conversations.

Aside from the prestige (or whatever that amounts to when you’re up to your elbows in plaster with five year olds), I also had enviable health insurance, a retirement package, a stable living environment and a savings. I had proximity to loving family and friends, participated in an array of hobbies- road biking, an art studio, and of course… blogging.

How was I clueless Joe?

Well for starters this enviable life was exhausting.

I wasn’t special. In fact, I was depressingly cliché. Nearly fifty percent of new teachers will not make it beyond five years in the field. This is a statistic colleges don’t share, but one you can find via a Google search quite easily.

I wasn’t just exhausted physically, I was a little very angry. Four years of undergraduate theory and practicum in art education had bestowed upon me some empirically sound ideas about what mini-humans need, and most days I felt like the kiddos could be served better. Much better.

I was exhausted from Ohio weather. I was exhausted from failed relationships one after another. I was exhausted working two jobs to compensate for my salary. But most of all I was exhausted from living a life that didn’t feel like my own.

Oh Lordy I’m like a bad Oprah episode.

***

As it turned out- I wasn’t clueless in my ability to create a sound life.

I was clueless in my ability to create a life that belonged to me.

I drank the adult koolaid passed around in childhood pretty heavily. Gallons people.

Degree… job… new car… gym membership… new apartment with Bed Bath and Beyond… find a husband… get a mortgage… have some babies…. I started to check off the list, and stopped after apartment shopping.

All of the above were things I hoped for- so feeling this nagging sense that I didn’t want them at the same time was baffling. At 31 I started asking myself questions like: Who was I? What did I want?

I once confided this to a friend and his response was bluntly:

“Aren’t you too old to be thinking about this?”

Crap.

And while this statement was inaccurate on so many levels, it stabbed into the heart of my fear:

“I am behind everyone else my age, and they are judging me for it.”

What does this sound like?

A school culture you say?

***

Last night working at Trio- the upscale little place I was fortunate to gain employment a few nights a week while in graduate school- I had a conversation with one of the bartenders.

She came to Austin- a town of flip flops and dreadlocks, from L.A.- a town of Louboutins and Botox. I appreciate her unique perspective on things.

“I never would have thought L.A. would have affected me… Living in a place changes you, even if you don’t mean for it to…. Like I knew a girl whose mother thought she was getting overweight, so at 15 she had her daughter get gastric bypass surgery…. Even now as I see the look on your face, I see how insane that is… but living there, it’s your reality you know? You just get used to it.”

I do know.

***

When I was a child, each day I went to a building that measured me against my peers. If I performed the right tasks, I was rewarded with high marks. If I failed at them, I was punished with low marks. If I displayed aptitude regarding school material, I was treated as complete. If I displayed failure I was treated as incomplete- in need of remedial work.

It is eerie how this transitions to my adult existence.

After all, I’m 31 years old, I live in a tiny apartment north of campus with a guy I just met a few months ago through the graduate school. My furniture is no nicer than the 19 year olds that live above us. My saving account no bigger. By material standards I am very far behind. My schooling taught me to look at my neighbors and try to figure out ways to catch up.

Why the f*#$ would you leave your stable life then Brazen??

“Even now as I write this I see how insane that is… but living there, it’s my reality you know?”

***

This answer is a long one, but also a happy one. Joe Nichols said I was a rocket. Ha ha…

I’m not ten years old anymore. I am free to leave L.A. anytime I want in order to find my Austin.

And so I did.

It has nothing short of transformed my life.

And that, imaginary readers, is the long answer of how I came to be here.

“Everybody can be great. Because anybody can serve. You don’t have to have a college degree to serve. You don’t have to make your subject and your verb agree to serve…. You don’t have to know the second theory of thermodynamics in physics to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love. ”

~Martin Luther King Jr.

This past Thursday- the first hour of my Community Art Programming course was devoted to a PBS special on the Green Movement. Refusing to be daunted that I was paying tuition to watch a movie accessible for free on you tube, I responded by launching into high cerebral mode. No zoning out for this girl. I would make use of class time with or without the professor.

I furiously jotted notes- disseminating the movie’s ideology into dozens of pieces. My mind swelled… my ego soared. By the time the dvd wrapped up I was ready… bursting… nearly exploding with excitement to share ideas with the class. Discussion time here I come.

Yet with each raise of my hand- like a slowly deflating balloon- I began to realize my ideas didn’t relate to the professor’s direction. With each blank stare it became clearer and clearer I had taken a trip down a pretty deep intellectual rabbit hole during that movie, and the rest of the class had been… well in the present moment.

With nowhere to put my excitement I stuffed it down. I had still come up with some pretty cool ideas, it wasn’t necessary to share them anyway right? You did the work, you don’t need the reward. Try as I might, I couldn’t convince myself.

Why was I paying for this? What was the point? What a waste of time.

As I biked home from class, my mood was black. The physical effect on my body was stunning. Fatigue washed over me- all I wanted to do was eat and take a nap.

What was going on?

Wasn’t the honing of my mental facilities one of the highest educational endeavors? Hadn’t I done that? Hadn’t I flexed my intellectual muscles to their max? If the answer was “yes,” than why did my spirit feel like an empty balloon… shriveled on the party room floor?

 ***

“Would you be interested in creating a workshop for Austin ISDteachers in a few weeks? We’re looking to do a workshop that incorporates Texas education standards with an artist we’re exhibiting in a few weeks,” asked the Director of Education for the Blanton Art Museum.

Was this a trick question?

Two weeks later, brainstorming sessions brought me to the drought parched Shoal Creek riverbed. Crouching on my heels, I picked up water worn stones and reverently placed them in a crate.

A man crossing the bridge above leaned over the edge:

“It’s an awfully hot day for rock collecting!”

I laughed as he made his way down towards my rock-picking site. He sat on the edge of a wall lining the riverbed, legs dangling above my head as I worked.

“Whatcha picking rocks for?” he asked.

I launched into an excited explanation.

 “Well you see I’m leading a workhop on this artist from Africa… you might not have heard of him, his name is El Anatsui… anyway he does art made from natural and recycled materials that tell stories about his culture, so I got this idea to do a collective artwork about the drought….oh yeah, I work at the Blanton… but I don’t really work there, I’m a graduate student at UT… this will be a workshop for teachers…”

In the middle of my rambling diatribe, he hopped down and began hunting for rocks with me. Amused, I watched as he eagerly approached with stones:

“Will this one work? How about this one?”

Up closer, I could see dirt on his face and under his finger nails… tell-tale signs of homelessness.

In spite of this realization, I was grateful for his company. We picked rocks in relative silence once I realized he didn’t have any interest in art history or discourse on pedagogy. When the crate was too heavy to carry- he lifted it without question and carried it to my car.

He grinned a partially toothless smile- his eyes sparkled as they locked with mine. “It sure was nice helping a pretty girl today- good luck on your workshop. “ No plea for money. No awkwardness. He waved, turned and walked away with- I kid you not- a light hop in his step.

And I would be lying if I didn’t say I had a light hop in mine too.

 …You don’t have to have a college degree to serve. You don’t have to make your subject and your verb agree to serve…. You don’t have to know the second theory of thermodynamics in physics to serve….

***

Dots connected on my walk home from campus last night.

Rocks… graduate school… a homeless man… heart… mind…

Why did picking rocks with a homeless man feel so much better than intellectual acrobatics in class? Walking down the busy drag of Guadalupe at the hottest time of day-sweat dripping down my face – my mind churned with questions:

 Which kind of school will give children that feeling I had in Shoal Creek?

A school intent on minds full of information, and energy generated by high grades is certainly what we’ve created so far. But a school intent on hearts full of grace, and souls generated by love? Isn’t that church-ish? Well, love and grace are bigger than dogma. How does one create that in school? It seems like there should be a balance… heart… mind… body… wow that sounds hippy… how would I convince others…?

As my mind churned, my brain disconnected from the beautiful present moment surrounding me. It was about this time serendipity decided to prove a point.

“Excuse me miss, do you have some spare change?”

The voice barely registered. My mind was clouded with ideas. I briskly walked by, eyes straight-forward, shoulders steely.

“Well God Bless… thanks for ignoring me…”

His passive jab cut through my cloud, I heard him then, five steps too late.

I should have spun around.

 “I’m sorry I seemed unfeeling towards you just now. You happened to ask while I was lost in thought about how I was going to save the world. Here’s five bucks.”

That would have thrown him.

Instead I kept walking, feeling a mix of embarrassment and amusement.

Still trying to save the world with your brain eh Brazen? Once again a homeless guy pops up to remind you a brain in the clouds feels best when balanced with a heart in the present.

***

I don’t know what schools need. Really I don’t. Maybe I have a better guess than someone who hasn’t worked in one… but I would never purport to have all the answers. I don’t know what the world needs either, although there have been moments on this blog when I sure talk like I do. Lucky you- you caught me in a humble moment.

What I do know is what feels right in my heart.

What I do know is that the thoughts, actions, and creations that make my life rich and blissful (picking stones in a riverbed with a homeless man)… aren’t things kids get to focus on in school:

Service to others, personal reflection, creative expression, conversations with friends, running around in nature, meditating in the moment, singing, dancing … all distant third and fourth places (if at all) to information consumption, test prep, and skill building.

In past posts I’ve blamed capitalism. I’ve blamed an economic mindset. I’ve blamed society. I don’t think the brazen blame thing works for me as well as it used to. After all, economies and societies are made up of all people… one of those people is me.

Why am I surprised to find schools don’t focus on art, dance, love, grace, and friendships… when I myself don’t focus on them? When I myself make material achievements, prestige, good grades, more money, a better job, and a higher degree… the places to focus my energy.

Who am I to preach on this blog, when I am part of the society I blame?

This… will of course be a post for another day.

Love and Grace,

Brazen

It started with a lesson I wrote on graphic design. I decided to use CD booklet art that was rapidly becoming retro, as a way to engage Third Graders. On the intro day I played a music video to initiate conversation on pairing images with lyrics. I wanted students to think about meaning behind words- nothing esoteric- just how words and images send messages, evoke feelings and make us think.

The main character in the video was a boy, showing various ages in his life when he was afraid or challenged. In hindsight the lesson was over their heads- I was a few months into my first real world teaching experience- I was overly ambitious.

Even still, the kids seemed to love it. I went home that day feeling like I had done something important, that I was exploring a vein of my teaching that was deeply meaningful to me and the students.

The next morning I received an email. The music video I showed had deeply upset one of the mothers. We scheduled a meeting.

***

There are cultural norms that take time to learn. The fear an American might feel being plopped down alone in Zimbabwe, was akin to the fear I felt my first year teaching. I didn’t know the school’s language yet, I wasn’t versed in the ways to carry myself, to interact with other teachers, parents or even the students. Unconscious norms can only be learned when immersed in a culture, and there hadn’t been time to embed these norms into my understanding. I hadn’t taken a university class: “Meeting with Mad Moms” to prepare me for this. Some things in life can’t be taught in a classroom.

I arrived at the meeting nervous but also hopeful- hopeful we would clarify misunderstandings and communicate- I would see her side, she would see mine. A few moments into the conversation, I began to realize our goals were different. Looking back, I can see at least 3 dozen ways I might have done better. Such is life. At the time I was a bull in a china shop, desperately trying to say the words to make her appreciate me and my work.

***

“One of my goals was to expose children to popular culture and have them think thoughtfully about it in the classroom setting, rather than be passive consumers as if they were casually watching at home.”

“This isn’t age appropriate. Eight year olds are too young to think thoughtfully on this type of thing.”

“Well… I think we have different opinions.”

“How old are you? Do you have children?”

“No…”

“Right… well then I think that might explain why you think this is appropriate.”

So the conversation continued like this. I realized early on she didn’t respect me. I was a child to her. To her credit, I certainly didn’t command respect. I had entered the meeting hopeful we would discuss her concerns, but over the course of our discussion, it seemed more and more about venting anger. Anger at my age. Anger at my inexperience. Anger at my ineptitude. Anger at my rampant liberalism. Anger that I had exposed her child to inexperience, ineptitude, and liberalism. It seemed that she wanted me to apologize for having the audacity to be someone she couldn’t understand…

Myself.

***

A few weeks later I approached one of my principals to tell her about the meeting. I was concerned other parents would view my lesson as inappropriate.

She listened as I unleashed pent up frustration. She said many things to me, most of which have long been forgotten. Yet I will always remember this one thing:

“Situations like this, compounded over a career, are what make teachers hard. They build up a shell to keep out the bad stuff. The problem of course is then the good stuff can’t get in either.”

I think about her advice to this day. I think about it when my posts get an angry edge. A sarcastic drone. A bitter snap. I think about it when I hear of teachers on anxiety medicine. I think about it when I read the raging battles between politicians and educators. I think about it when a student becomes an unfortunate victim of my frazzled nerves.

This is life. Faced with thousands of opportunities each day to become harder or softer- it seems modern society urges us toward the former. When I read articles on ed policy, when I read theory in practice for school, when I philosophize on the meaning of it all: mad mothers, Arne Duncan, or capitalism, I feel the shell thicken.

***

“I want you to meet someone” said my professor. “She was a student of mine five years ago, and she started her own art school.”

I email this student. She’s my age. She believes the things I believe… more than that, she started her own school. After two weeks of knowing each other I am helping write lessons for her summer camp, and formulating a fall class to teach. I am bewildered, excited and intensely happy.

It is during late night lesson writing- as I’m formulating my ideas to email her- that it hits me. When I do this work… When I think about the implications… when I think about getting in front of shining faces… When I think about listening to their ideas, and watching them create magic out of crayola… I feel a distinctive sensation…

My shell softening.