Category Archives: Blog

Timing

  By laurelfelt | August 10, 2011 - 10:44 pm | , , ,
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The clock and the calendar.

Are they the toughs, the bruiser henchmen, harassing on behalf of Big Bossman Life? Are they the It Couple, dominating our reality, occupying our fantasy, engaging our discourse? Do they deserve to be less — the lighting fixtures that came with the apartment? Simply the horsepower that each engine’s got?

At 1:55 am, Mom texted from Ireland that she and Dad could feel their 6-hour jetlag. 6 am, snooze. 6:09, snooze. 6:14… At 6:37 am, Vanessa texted that if she arrived after 7:30 am, I should ask Jackie for the keys. At 7:55 am, only three teachers had arrived. We started at 8:19 am, even though we’d planned to begin at 8. We decided at 10 am, which had been the session’s original stopping point, that we should continue until noon. At noon, Vanessa announced that our lunch break would be 30 minutes (originally 60 minutes, reduced at our 10 am powwow to 45, so where had she gotten 30?). After 40 minutes had passed, we decided to give it 60. The next activity took 15 minutes to explain — an unforeseen expenditure — and participants were to complete the bulk of the activity in 35 minutes, then present in the final 10. That didn’t happen.

As they collaborated to integrate various tools and toys into a new lesson plan for their discipline, I scuttled around the kitchen, covering food before it spoiled, cleaning to avoid staying (too) late. I didn’t address the revisions due on Monday.

I scheduled a conference call. If I can’t talk before 5, and Pat can’t Skype before 6, and Erin can’t talk after 6:30, and Pat is on vacation next week, and we have to know by next Friday, then when do we talk, observe, and do, since I’ll be driving to and from campus 30 minutes each way M-Th for appointments of 50-120 minutes daily (a fact I learned Monday night), as well as prepping for these obligations, and so cannot dedicate this time to the project?

In the car, Vanessa and I re-designed activities and time slots. If they start at 8:15, and each gives a five-minute overview, and we account for transition time, and then they give three 20-minute presentations, and then there’s a break and flex time for things going wrong, then we’ll have an hour before lunch…

I talked to Jenn, who uncannily brought our conversation to a close at precisely the right minute. I called Erin, who began talking about the week. “It’s 6:03,” I said. “Should I call Pat?” We talked past the appointed cut-off, discussing the nature of the commitment in terms of task and time, constructing a deadline by which to communicate.

Calling back Gramma (who had left a message while I’d been on the other line), I stepped outside to switch my laundry (well past the wash cycle’s culmination) at the exact same moment (7:19 pm) that the FedEx man wandered up, looking for apartment number-less me. What are the odds?

Gramma wished me a safe trip to New York, although I’m not leaving for another two weeks. She told me to ask Mom (Gramma would ask her herself but hasn’t the means since she’s “stuck in the 18th century”) whether Mom’s picked up an Irish brogue yet (Mom has been in-country for less than 24 hours). Finally, Gramma recommended that I let my hair return to its native state. Don’t you like curly hair? “Sure I do, Gramma. But it’s been 20 years. It’s time for a change.”

Malcolm Gladwell made much of hockey players’ birthdays. They’re self-fulfilling prophecies, you know. Tonight is Suzanne’s 30th. His is over the weekend. I am 31 and a half.

So many things to count; respectively: six months, a week and a half, 3 days, 30%.

10:43 pm. So much for going to sleep early.

Pilgrims

  By laurelfelt | July 21, 2011 - 10:30 am | ,
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Our plot points may differ but our story is the same: the incomprehensible is attributable to the Other, the Eternal, the Holy, the Unknowable… and so we’d best pay our respects.

From Hindus to Jews to Catholics to Muslims, all of whose houses of worship I visited in the past three days, this is the meaning that I’ve derived. Incidentally, meaning-making is another commonality that binds us all, this storytelling drive that provokes the fabrication of our superficially dissimilar, conceptually similar accounts in the first place.

On Sunday, I contemplated the ancient carvings of Hindu gods and illustrated miniatures of spiritual tales cached within the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalay(formerly known as the Prince of Wales Museum). I walked alone from Kenneseth Eliyahoo Synagogue to St. Thomas Cathedral, the streets between and rooms within nearly deserted on this predominantly Hindu/Muslim nation’s day of rest. That evening, the clanging of a Hindu temple’s bell disturbed my small talk with a stranger – an Iranian lawyer/PhD, liberal Muslim, would-be cassanova, who said that he and most of his countrymen had no beef with Israel.

On Monday, I trekked across a monsoon-swept footbridge to the Haji Ali Mosque, where the fallen prophet’s body legendarily washed up following his pilgrimage to Mecca. There, a Muslim woman accepted my donation for young, non-Muslim cancer patients and took it upon herself to escort me into the mosque. She handed me a rose petal, the eating of which, she said, would cure all that ails me. I shook her hand goodbye and revealed my religious heritage, drawing her laughter and remark that Jews and Muslims don’t often work together. “But we all care about children,” I said. From there, I puddle-plowed to Mahalaxmi Temple, a gem whose depth, breadth, norms, and geography I hadn’t yet grasped when I had first visited four weeks earlier. Once again, I looked upon Ganesh, remover of obstacles, god of new beginnings, and thought about all that had transpired in the past month, the prayers that had been answered, the issues that still preyed.

Imbued with adventure, I splashed on to unearth shrines of a different nature — first a children’s toy/crafts store, then an expansive corporate bookstore. Omens? Affirmations?

On Tuesday, I stumbled across another church, a few more mosques, another temple. So many spaces, in such close proximity, all established for similar purposes. Rising up from, towering above the commercial, there was the spiritual. I don’t mean to set up a false dichotomy – the spiritual is often commercialized and/or otherwise tied to mercenary matters. After all, the temple’s new roof won’t pay for itself, and dealing with infidels requires resources, doesn’t it? But my argument of universality remains intact. Across people and time, despite other competing interests, there has been this preoccupation with what it all means and how to stay safe. Similarly, religions and religious adherents have always indulged in morally questionable activities, often in the name of their faith, from fraud to violence – last week’s (allegedly) Muslim-designed terror against this Hindu city attests to that. Our common depravity irrefutably supports our humanity.

Monday night, an Indian Catholic woman named Rose offered me a photograph of an Indian-based Mother Mary statue. Something had just told her, she said, to get that photo copied. Her eyes widened and she pumped my hand with excitement when I answered her query about my religious identity. She told me about visiting a synagogue and Chabad House, participating in a Passover seder, talking with a rebbe. Rose asked that, when I’m back in the States, I light a candle for her passionately desired visit to Israel. I agreed, thinking about how to slide that into my (lapsed) religious practice, into a wider religion that doesn’t really light candles like that. Rose was under the impression that it does –she’d lit a menorah candle once, she disclosed proudly.

I climbed the steps to our eighth floor apartment, to send up my tofu/green pepper/basil offering to the deities of nutrition and drink in Mad Men‘s depiction of 1960’s American WASPs’ struggles with right and wrong.

We are all seekers. Always have been, always will be.

Decrescendo

  By laurelfelt | July 18, 2011 - 3:03 am | ,
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Our experience had begun with trumpeted fanfare, a cacophony of greeting and questioning and learning and exploring. The unknown — three weeks’ worth -– stood before us, whoever we were – the kids, my recently met colleagues, myself in this role, all of us together. The roar was deafening.

Our last day slipped away quietly, quiet and quieter still. Fewer children than usual attended the morning session due to one family’s vacation; the independent, engrossing activities were familiar to our group of young friends; exhaustion subtly subdued the volume of my speech. I supervised one aspect of the post-test, an assessment whose validity we doubted as paper airplane-folding was neither taught explicitly nor affected necessarily by enriched aerodynamic understandings. A different indicator should be used to demonstrate programmatic impact – but which? The children filled out pre- and post-intervention forms in which they were asked “how do things fly?” While this question is more apt, the data are murky. The younger children’s drawings require (subjective) coding and accounting for the difficulty with which children comprehended this query; the older children’s words were liberally shared amongst themselves – a tactful way to say plagiarized. What do we really want to know, anyway? Was the point of this program to deeply teach science, or to introduce the scientific process, or to stimulate curiosity, or to build community, or to entertain? What are we practicing, what are we preaching, and what are we measuring and passing off as proof?

As Emily and Malika prepared our room for this session’s final Open House, setting up stations where parents could examine the past week’s science experiments, I channeled the children’s energy through mellow imagination and music. We began with “Down by the Bay,” a song-game that requires volunteers to supply a silly rhyme. This led into a round of “Miss Laurel Says,” from which we transitioned into a guided imagery experience in which all of the children were instructed to array their bodies as though they were sleeping on the floor of the ocean. One-by-one, they were invited to recount their dreams. Then we sang “Little Cabin in the Wood,” a song-game that has children use their hands, hum verses progressively and, crucially, focus for at least five solid minutes. From there, we revisited “Aiken Drum,” a song-game in which volunteers suggest the composition of this man (e.g., his teeth were made of corn).

When the parents finally arrived, I spoke about our philosophy of learning through play and narrated the slideshow of classroom snapshots. Then their children shepherded them through our classroom, demonstrating experiments and explaining, to the extent that their comprehension allowed, why larger parachutes stayed aloft longer/bigger balloons shot forward faster and further/etc. I tried to speak to every parent in attendance, praising and sharing anecdotes about their children. They slipped away unobtrusively, as I struggled to rethread the balloon rocket or detach the balloon helicopter. And then they were gone. It was over.

Our lunchtime lull was placid – easy conversation over homemade favorites from Vasundhara’s mother, a trip to the nearby strip mall and return to our apartment to deposit Emily’s newly acquired purchase. I brushed my teeth. We walked back to the World Trade Center, no frantic setup required, no cramming of science lore, no drafting of a daily newsletter.

The afternoon was similar to the morning – more futile airplane folding, more focused concentration among the kids. I traded my soothing tones for slaphappy giggles and led the group in theater games – “What Are You Doing?” and “Dr. Know-It-All.” To my delight, the children let go of hesitation/overcogitation and let their words spontaneously flow. Trust.

With the parents’ arrival, I again rattled off my spiel about the value of learning through play, then facilitated the children’s narration of our slides. They raised their hands to answer my questions, fill in missing words, demystify photographs. I tried to call on them equally, all of us showing off in front of the parents. Masterful – that was the students’ command of scientific principles and vocabulary. How ’bout that?

Afterward, parents related their children’s enjoyment of the program, the extent to which they had brought their learning home for discussion and recreation. One child, a mother confided, had sent the maid out for plastic bags and strings so that he could build and drop parachutes off his upper bunkbed.

“Goodnight and thank you, miss,” one of our favorite students said for the last time. “Goodnight and thank you, sir,” I replied.

Shoeless, a team of laborers deconstructed our classroom and carted it all away. We teachers lamely offered to help, knowing that heavy lifting was forbidden and sophisticated organizing was illogical, for soon we would be carted away too, and then who would know where to find the pingpong balls? I’d documented our classroom’s emergence but let it dissolve anonymously. The room’s dividers were pushed back and the space that had defined 10 hours of my day, for 3 weeks of my life, was swallowed up by the expanse from which it had emerged.

Wearily, unceremoniously, we walked out, neither sentimental nor celebratory. But Emily observed, “It will take them years to get out the glitter.”

I hope so.

Anticipation

  By laurelfelt | July 14, 2011 - 8:24 pm |
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Terrorism struck Mumbai yesterday evening, first time since the November 2008 incident in which “10 terrorists laid siege to the city for 60 hours, targeting two luxury hotels, a Jewish center and a busy train station” (TNN, 2011). In this case, three IEDs were detonated, one in each of the following financial/commercial areas: Opera House; Dadar; Zaveri Bazaar. Officials report that the explosions occurred between 6:50 and 7 pm on Wednesday, July 13.

Blackberry messages alerted our coworkers of the incident as we concluded class around 7 pm. We scrapped our plans to catch a screening of “Delhi Belly” and instead walked home, wondering whether pedestrians’ behaviors seemed different, or if we were just regarding pedestrians’ behaviors with different eyes. Do people seem more on edge? Emily asked. Besides the inextricability of our own affected lenses, there was also the confounding variable of incipient rain, which could make anyone anxious. Impossible to tell, I concluded. And we continued heading for cover.

For a couple of Americans, going to work at the World Trade Center less than 24 hours after financially-targeted terrorism has rocked the city… well, it’s somewhat bizarre, to put it mildly. We dodged puddles as monsoon conditions (really just rain), for the first time since our arrival, complicated our morning commute. No time was lost in security, however — that is, no extra time. As always, we opened our bags for two security personnel upon entering the World Trade Center compound at Gate 4. Inside Center 1, we walked past security guards, put our bags on the metal detector’s conveyor belt, walked through the scanner, and continued on our way. No additional personnel were detailed, no extraordinary procedures were invoked. We waited for an up elevator amid an average-sized crowd of businessmen, and climbed aboard after an average-length interval had elapsed. Business as usual. First floor. Excuse us. We’ve got to go teach five-year-olds how to fly.

As we set up the classroom, Emily asked Malika what to expect from the kids. Will they be upset about the situation? she inquired. Malika assured us that this sort of thing was common enough, and parents wouldn’t be too shaken by it as to produce a tense atmosphere at home. How should we talk about all of this with them? Emily persisted. Malika recommended saying as little as possible. We braced ourselves for what was to come (and prepared our curriculum — it was still another day of demystifying lift and air pressure). Vasundhara had contacted parents the previous night, trying to ascertain whether enough parents would send their children today in order to justify our session. Only four children were definite No’s — but in the end, out of a class of 14 youngsters, only four children were definite Yes’s. With three teachers and a cleaning-oriented aide… those are some ratios.

And the first thing that those attendees did upon entry was head to the block area, talk of terrorism on their lips.

CHILD 1: There’s a bomb in India.
CHILD 2: In Opera House.
CHILD 1: Let’s build Opera House.
CHILD 3: I saw it on the news channel.
CHILD 2: All of the others are scared of the bomb. The three of us will go to a single table.

It was textbook.

I jotted their dialogue and supported their efforts to build Opera House, a fire brigade, a helipad, my house, a plane, and a birthday cake with candles. They talked about emergency rescue and superheroes, with mentions of the bomb periodically peppering their discourse. It was difficult to determine the extent to which the pretend phone calls reporting fire and simulated superhero combat was influenced by current events — both play scenarios are daily staples, especially for one special needs child. As a special treat, teachers delighted students with some chasing and full body tickling. Maybe we all needed to blow off a little steam.

We wrapped up our extended session in the block area and, once again, our students noticed that there were only four little pairs of hands to assist in classroom activities.

CHILD 2: All four of us, our mothers didn’t get scared.
CHILD 3: My mother got scared but my father didn’t get scared.

I read them a story during snack, a tale they found humorous (thank goodness, not ominous) about an inventor who creates robots that run amok and destroy his workshop. We showed them videos of flying creatures, which surprisingly failed to captivate their fascination. We hoped that our special needs friend would thrive in this less-stimulating environment but he still struggled to control his impulses and focus on curriculum. We charted the four forces and the relationship between airfoils and air pressure before singing the children goodbye, and it seemed as though at least two of the kids got it. Whether they’ll be able to speak about it to their parents (who may or not be product-oriented, may or may not be scared) I cannot say.

Malika ordered us McDonald’s for lunch and we waited for its delivery… and waited… and waited. Several phone calls to various managers didn’t seem to produce results. Only the language of financial violence — threat to not pay for the food — prompted a return call from a middleman who apologized and said, if Malika did not pay, the money would be pulled from his own shallow pocket. An hour and 15 minutes after its specified delivery time, the food arrived, and Malika got through to corporate, settling the matter so that neither she nor this poor, powerless employee would have to pay.

We weren’t sure what would manifest in the afternoon. Parents had said they were sending their kids but we’d heard a similar tune the previous night. The artist who had agreed to ply our hands with mehndi canceled. Malika left for her appointment. We planned an itinerary that would allow Emily and me to work together — more practical considering our staffing and possible low numbers.

Everyone showed.

The afternoon flowed smoothly, alternating between games and serious science. We’d made it through our last full day of instruction, as Friday is divided — one quarter curriculum, one quarter preparation, one half Open House. Emily and I bought snacks for our Bollywood movie night at home with Malika, who wound up canceling. We drank the wine ourselves and let the Gilmore Girls, well-known friends to Emily and me both, engage in their fast-talking banter as we wrote the final newsletter and commented on this week’s student journals.

Tomorrow is our last day of EMP, and not a city-wide holiday as yesterday’s unsubstantiated rumors had alleged. Emily has said that teaching is improv — you have to embrace the unexpected and adjust without getting bent out of shape. This time last week, I was recovering from a fever and stomach bug; this time next week, I’ll be back in Glenview — that is, if all goes according to plan.

I can’t conclusively know what’s coming next, and that’s the point of some of the education reform arguments I’ve read and happen to have made myself. Since we live in a world of constant change, all we can do is hone our agility, enhance our ability to react to what comes… and perhaps develop our serenity as we lie in anticipation, practice our acceptance of the (inevitable) unexpected.

Over-correction

  By laurelfelt | July 9, 2011 - 11:55 pm |
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You know what they say about too much of a good thing…

In my zeal to cure what ailed me, I over-dosed and broke out in hives. In my desire to keep it concise, I eliminated the essential. Typical. So now I’ve swung back the other way, going cold turkey on everybody’s drugs (except the anti-malarial, not to worry, Ma) and spewing the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me, pride.

You could still argue that I’m over-correcting. How’s about a compromise, kiddo? A few pills, a coupla paragraphs? Huh? Wouldn’t that be nice? It would… it would. But this state — chemical-free and soul-bare — is more natural. It’s more me.

Maybe sometimes, rather than seeking the middle path, it’s better for us to embrace our personal path. And love the idiosyncratic ride.