Forgive Me for No Posts in a Long While

December 7th was my last posting and that just won't do.


I will post something tomorrow.

In the meantime . . . Yosemite.

g

memoir

I was quite young, playing outside in my small home town in Mississippi. I don't recall what was at stake, or the friends I was with, but I suppose a choice had to be made so I sang, "Eeenie, meenie, miinie, mo, catch a . . . . "

But in Mississippi, little kids using this rhyme did not catch a "tiger." We caught a "n______." And so that's what I commanded. And just about the time I said it, my mother came running out of the kitchen.

"Gregory! Get in here. Right now!"

Now, I'd never seen my mother that angry and I had no idea what she was angry about.

"What’d I do?" I asked. And then her legs brought her 4'11'' frame to me quite quickly, whereupon she grabbed my arm and brought me inside with all the vigor she could muster.

Once in the kitchen, she turned and faced me, still holding my arm and with an authority I’d never heard in her voice she commanded, "Don't you ever let me hear you use that word again! We do NOT use that word in this family and I don't care who else uses it or how much. WE . . . DO . . . NOT! Do you understand me?"

Well, you know, I didn't really understand, but I sensed that admitting to that would just get me into more trouble. At the same time, I also figured out that the only word that she could be talking about was the one that I really didn't know the full meaning of. At that young age, I wasn't really clear as to what "n_________" meant. I surely didn't picture a human being when I said ". . . catch a n________ by the toe” though I knew that there were human beings to whom that word referred, but that reference was always confusing to me, perhaps because my parents called those people “negroes.”

Anyway, I wanted to placate my mother, so when she announced that "WE . . . DO . . . NOT" say a particular word, I made as if I understood.

But she must've known better. I must've had some quizzical look on my face because she visibly relaxed a bit, stood there looking at me like she'd just figured out something, and asked, "You don't really know what I'm talking about do you?"

Never having seen my mother so angry, not being aware of any transgression on my part, and absolutely relieved that she had calmed down with a more solicitous approach, I broke into tears. "Nooooooooooo!!!!" I cried. "Wha’did I do????!!!!!!?????"

Then she told me what, perhaps, she should have told me long before, but hadn’t. She told me, as best she could in order to make it clear to a little boy, about the problems between white and black people, about the bad treatment, and the bad words. That people who use the bad words might be mistaken for bad people who do bad things. She told me about "n_______" in particular and explained what she could. I realized I’d never heard her use that word before; nor had I heard my father use it. But I’d heard a lot of other mothers and fathers use it and so I was suddenly proud of my parents.

"So I know you didn't mean anything by it because you didn't know any better," she acknowledged.

"Uh-huh, I didn't know. I didn't mean nothin' by it!"

"Well, now you know."

And she was about to let me go back outside to play, but then she grabbed me again with as much force, but without malice as if, this time, she was pulling me away from the brink of some bad fall. Her eyes were just as big as before, but softer, as she added: “Don’t you dare tell anyone other than your father what I just told you. Not friends. Not their parents. You’re gonna hear that word and you will hear it . . . .”

“I have heard it . . . a lot,” I assured her.

“Yes, I know you have, but you will never correct them or tell them what I said. Do you understand?”

“But . . . .”

“It will get you into more trouble than you can possibly imagine . . . and me, too,” she said, firmly looking at me, riveting her face to mine, her eyes to mine, so that I understood, wordlessly, that the safety of my mother sat in my hands and so I shook my head gravely, too preemptively afraid for my mother to say a word.

Went back outside to my friends and this I remember well: I felt superior to them, more mature, and protective of my mother. They laughed as they asked what had come over my mother and whether I’d gotten the “whippin’” it looked like I was going to suffer. Even now I burn a little cold imagining, as I did then, that these so-called friends of mine might harm my mother.

I don’t recall how I responded to their teasing -- just the sort of rising-above-it-all sensation that comes with revelation amidst those to whom the profound thing has not yet been, could not be, revealed.


I haven't said or written "n__________" since. And the issue never found a voice again in the family. My mother’s sister used it once when I was about 14, causing my mother to visibly wince, embarrassing my aunt, but we didn’t discuss it. Should’ve, but felt like we didn’t have to. My mother had scandalized the word and any scenario involving it.

Indeed, it took me a long, long time, long after the family left Mississippi, and I was in my late teens or early 20s, until I confronted the word upon hearing it, forgetting, I’m sure, that I was breaking my promise to my mother, a promise that needed to be broken, a promise I’m sure she’d have me break.

Song of the Month or Week:

M.I.A. is a genius. I might've included "Bird Flu" here or the remix of "Paper Planes" because of the sound collage inventiveness and infectious beats, but instead here's a group of kids she must have found for this funky little bit of hip-hop.

My Life

Today is my father's 81st birthday and while I believe unhappiness has dragged at him for the better part of his adult life, despite a few triumphs of sorts, it's only this week that he's admitted to being unhappy. And scared. Jean, his partner off and on for 30 years, was diagnosed with lung cancer this past Monday. At some time today or tomorrow, she finds out if it's been invasive and, if so, how much. She's 68, and strong, and since her mother's looking at 100, we all just assumed Jean would take care of and outlive my dad. I know he's assumed it, too. But now she may pass before he does and my poor dad who's never had any practice or inclination at expressing his own turmoils doesn't know, really doesn't know what to say or how to say it if he knew.

But he's got to be scared. A cloud of confusion has been slowly settling on my father in the last year it seems. It's just another thing he won't speak to because it doesn't cloud his thinking all the time and he can take care of himself well. But that cloud is surely there. He couldn't, for example, understand the Father's Day card from my brother, Scott. On the cover of the card was a comic rendition of a golfer, but my dad kept saying to Jean, "That isn't Scott!"

He fakes comprehension with me sometimes by just saying, "Yeah" in a monotone to just about whatever I say or ask.

He just passed his driver's test. He has no friends, nothing to occupy him with other people. And though he plays golf most days, he always insists upon playing alone. He says, in front of Jean sometimes, that he misses my mother who died in 1985, about eight years after my dad left her. "We'd've gotten back together again if she'd lived," he says. He left her because he was bored. Boredom with her, he must figure, would not be as troubling as the constant tension and contentiousness with Jean.

But now Jean could die in months. And my dad would be left alone 3 hours from us.

My life could get more complicated quite soon. And that's as it should be, I suppose. I wonder, perhaps a bit selfishly, how my, how our freedom, Tina's and mine, will be inhibited by my dad's loneliness and needs. How will it effect our happiness? Because Tina and I are happy. We've been happy for a good 28 years or more. That's the care and gift I wish I could've given my dad: happiness. But it has eluded him.


Photo by tonyvel

Procrastination Animation to Animate Your Procrastination

Brilliant, riveting animation on procrastination . . . in case you got nothin' to do right now . . .

The List of Conservative Wrongheadednesses

See if you can add anything!!!

Here's the list of the ideas and efforts that Conser- vatives have gotten all wrong throughout the ages. Not in any particular order.

Heliocentric galaxy
Child labor laws
Jazz
Women's right to vote
The American Revolution (conservatives were loyal to King George)
Interracial marriage
Contraception
The Inquisition
Translating the Bible into common vernaculars
Role of women in . . . just about anything
Environmental regulations of industry
National Parks
Slavery
Ecumenicism
Seatbelts
Beethoven

. . . and these are just off the top of my head! Add to the list!

Big Breakthrough . . . "See" You at Blogocon!!!

Greg It's like a Brand now because of my big breakthrough!!!

Blogosphere demographers, "blogographers" to be precise, assure me, and other bloggers via statistical studies in Blogblog, a blog about blog demographics which I follow (it's not like I have any one-on-one access to blogographers) that for every posted "follower" there are 1,000,000 readers who for whatever reason do not wish to identify themselves as followers even though they, in fact, may be following more loyally (and I use "loyally" advisedly) than the "followers."

Now, with my blog I can be assured of followers-as-devotees insofar as I even hear of a little "Greg's blog" industry (see non-listed followers HP and KG) and competing blogs about my blog and, I daresay, speculative blogs about my life, a life I try to keep quite private if only for _________'s protection and, no, I'm not one of backup dancers in "Saturday Night Fever," just to dispel one of the more playful rumors springing up about my admittedly halcyon days of the 70s.

Anyway, with the addition of RLH to my followers, I can now be assured that I have somewhere in the vicinity of 20,000,000 readers! That's a breakthrough! Because, you know, whereas you might have thought 10,000,000 to be a breakthrough, the fact is that there are a great many prosaic blogs hovering around 10,000,000 including a blog about how to handle dust mites, a blog comparing dishwashing soaps, even a blog for Luddites which you'd think would have no followers at all, but there you go.

No, 20,000,000 is the mark of distinction, of "arrival," in the blogosphere; it's the level of readership necessary for an invitation to Blogocon, the virtual convention for bloggers (many of whom you'd think can't possibly have more than 5 million, but there's no accounting for taste, especially in the blogosphere) which I'll be "attending" next week! Hope to "see" all of you there because, after all, you need to "REPRESENT!" as the kids say.


Let's show all those blogs devoted to, I dunno, homemade crafts, self-esteem, and muscle cars that Greg's eclectic blog is "IN" THE HOUSE, so to speak, and moving up to that 30,000,000 mark before you know it. Thanks RLH for putting me over the top!

Dad's Batmobile

My father recently sold his Cadillac Eldorado. Spotless, that car, but what I most remember about it is some uncharacteristically sporty wheels. I first saw it nine years ago when he pulled into the parking lot of Francesco's restaurant near the Oakland Coliseum where we were about to see a Warrior's game. Here's what I thought at the time:

My father has always wanted a Cadillac and now, in his retirement, he has bought one and it's beautiful, if you like Cadillacs anyway. It's a dark, metallic blue with a black leather interior and the dashboard looks like something from a Star Wars cruiser. . . . but it has these really fancy wheels, wheels that look like the wheels on the Batmobile, really sporty chrome jobs that look like three big curving waves coming from the hub to the edges and that really don't seem to fit my 72 year old dad. In fact, even though my dad had told me to look for a dark blue Cadillac Eldorado, I didn't think this particular Eldorado was him because of the intensely sportorific wheels. So when he got out of the car all I could say was, "Nice ride, Dad, but what's up with the Batmobile wheels?"

He gave me "the look" (!!!!!) which he uses when he wants me to understand that he is not amused. The look looks like this: He closes his eyelids just a little while looking straight at me as if his eyes were big, black guns, and he takes a short breath and expels it forcefully while moving his tongue back and forth along and behind his bottom teeth.

"Car came with 'em, " he said. "I didn't choose 'em. They were just there. C'mon, we'll go for a ride. You drive."

So now I figure I better say something nice about the car so I put on my cheeriest smile and I say: "Wow, this is my first time in a Cadillac and it's just as comfortable as they say it would be." I had been in Cadillacs before, but I knew he'd be proud.

"Yeah, well not too many people get the opportunity to drive a Caddy" he says. Then he motioned to my left hand side by the door. "You see those controls at the edge of seat? You have 4 different settings there to make the seat exactly the way you like it."

"Really?" I enthused. So at that moment I started fooling with the controls to make the seat "exactly the way" I like it, but he says, "Hey, what're you doing there? I got it exactly the way I . . . hey, don't touch the button in front! You didn't touch the front button, did you?"

I told him I didn't know if I had touched the front button because I wasn't looking down at the buttons while I was driving, I was "just fooling around" with the buttons to make the seat more comfortable.

"I thought you said it was comfortable!" he says.

"Well, it was, but you said I could make it more comfortable," says I.

"What, by 'fooling around' with it?" he asks. And he gives me "the look" (!!!!!!).

"I wasn't really fooling around, I was 'experimenting,' trying to find the right fit."

"What do you need with the 'right fit?'" he asks. "We're just taking a little spin. I had the seat just the way I like it. If you didn't touch the front button then when I drive again I can push it and the seat will go back to the way I like it, but if you DID push the front button, then the seat will go back to some way that you had it after fooling around with it. Now I'm gonna have to readjust it again."

"Sorry," I offered. "Maybe I didn't touch the front button."

"Do you KNOW you didn't touch the front button?" he asked.

"No, I guess not."

"You just touched all the buttons you felt down there, right?"

"I suppose so," I admit.

"Well, you probably touched the front button. Hey, where are we anyway?"

At this point I was driving in downtown Oakland right around Jack London Square so my dad asked, "Do you know how to get back to the restaurant from here?" I said I did. Then he pushed a button on the dashboard and a computerized voice suddenly boomed in the car with "DESTINATION PLEASE."

My father then yelled, "FRANCESCO'S RESTAURANT, OAKLAND,CALIFORNIA, ON HEGENBERGER AVENUE!!!!"

The computer then asked, "Street address please," but I said, "Dad, I know how to get there," and the computer repeated, "Street address please," but Dad pressed the button again and the system stopped. "It's okay, Dad," I said. "I know how to get there."

"Eh, that' s not the point," he complained. "The navigation system can tell you the BEST way to get there."

"I know the best way," I said. "It's probably the only way."

"Oh yeah?," he said. He pressed the button again and again came the computer voice: "DESTINATION PLEASE."

Very quietly, Dad said to me, "give it your home address."

I whispered back, "I know how to get home, dad."

"Just give it . . . . "

"DESTINATION PLEASE."

"Just give it" . . . ( "the look." (!!!!!!!!!!) ) . . . "your address."

"Okay," I whispered and then more loudly I said, "Sixty-nine, twelve Balsam Way, Oakland."

There was a pause and then the computer said, "PLEASE REPEAT DESTINATION."

Before I could answer, my father screamed, "SIX NINE ONE TWO BALSAM WAY, OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA!" Then he whispered to me, "You gotta speak up and I don't think it understands 'sixty-nine twelve' anyway."

Then the computer said, in a more moderate tone, "take the second right from present location at Martin Luther King, Jr., Drive."

My father then asked for "FULL DIRECTIONS!" and the computer gave me directions that would surely have gotten me home, but they weren't what I would consider the best directions, so I said, "Well, that's not the way I'd go home from here."

"Why not," asked Dad.

"It's not the best way," I said.

"It's the best way according to the navigational system," he said.

"It'll get me home," I conceded, "but it's not the best way."

"Oh, so you know the BEST way," my dad says.

"I should know the best way to my own home. I've been living here ten years," I say and suddenly, suddenly!!!!! I realize that -- even though I've turned and looked away from my father -- I'm giving him "the look" (!!!!!!!!!!) I've inherited THE LOOK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Well, let's go eat," he says.

"Okay," I say.

Silence for minute.

"Handles nicely," I say.

"Yeah, she's smooth," he says.

"Must be the batwheels," I say.

"Yeah, right," he says. "The batwheels."

On Cynicism

I work with wonderful students. A few, a very few, affect a fashionable -- tiresome -- cynicism. Others proclaim a cynicism they never really exhibit. Cynicism takes some energy and a lot of it. Here’s what I’ve written to students striving toward or trying on some cynicism in my English classes:

You are very able students. You’re imaginative, insightful, and able. Regrettably, like many in America caught up with this fashion, you can also be quite cynical, cynicism being the province of smart teens and not-so-smart, but badly embittered elders.

Cynicism offers a form of intellectual and emotional independence to teens who find themselves hankering for the complete independence that awaits after high school. The resistance to intellectual or emotional engagement on any terms other than your own may feel like it's founded in a better wisdom, but experience indicates that cynicism is a rationalization for avoiding the effort that engagement requires.

As a result, it seems that you sometimes dismiss the material not because it's difficult, but because it's unworthy of your attention. But minds less gifted than yours, and less experienced (I've taught Hamlet to the 8th graders), have dived into these texts only to dive deeply and then rise to the surface with much appreciated pearls. Your resistance is not an original approach; it is a tired, defeatist approach, too common among too many, that denies you some pretty interesting things that are within your grasp.

I think that you instinctively sense that there's a much greater depth to these texts than you're prepared to plumb. It's true, you can get lost in them trying to dive after some motif, trying to dredge the author's intent, trying to see if your interpretation can be supported by the text. Maybe you'll want to do just that someday -- get lost in Shakespeare or some other author.

For purely aesthetic reasons, you're unwilling to suspend your cynicism. But that's what you must do in order to deal with these texts. Joyce’s and Woolf’s abilities, their knowledge, their imagination will remain beyond the grasp of any imagination stifled or bum-rushed by cynicism. But it is available to anyone who reaches for them. This goes for a great many other authors you'll come across in your lifetime, too. True, most authors write on the surface and may add a teaser a little bit below, but Shakespeare, Dostoyevsky, Homer, Allende, Siedelman, Vonnegut, Garcia Marques, Morrison, Tan, and countless others -- these people write not just on the surface, but deeply below the surface, too.

Because it is intellectual cowardice, cynicism is unworthy of you.

Don't be afraid of the water. Dive.

Cool Video -- and Short: "I Wanna Be Your Dog"

Came across this on Vimeo. Great take on the Iggy Pop classic, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" -- a title that unfortunately seems to fit the loss of innocence that too often follows on the heels of the aspirations of would-be actors:

I Wanna Be Your Dog from LEGS on Vimeo.

For Those New to the East Coast in Fall and Winter

Bare trees, especially symmetrical ones, have a stark, monochromatic beauty, especially on overcast days. True, this beauty fades into the background of an enervating gray after a while, a gray of short-lived compromised light existing between the two poles of darkness.

You can chase the fading Fall colors by heading south.

Or . . . and you might enjoy this: Choose a branch on a bare tree near your home. Preferably the branch closest to the ground. Look at a couple of particular spots on that branch, using binoculars or a magnifying glass if you must, for one minute each day. Look closely, recalling what you saw the day, the week before. Watch the branch sprout new buds and leaves. Watch them grow green and all photosynthesisy. And then watch the tree push them away, almost literally. Start again.

Just Some Photos

On Mt. Rigi, Switzerland:



Promenade atop the ramparts surrounding Lucca, Italy:



East Ridge Trail, Redwood Park, Oakland, California:



Wild turkeys in our backyard, Oakland, California:




At the Farmers' Market, Florence, Italy:



House and copy, Hedingen, Switzerland:


Half-dome, afternoon and early evening, October:

Song of the Month or Week:

A flawless rocking CD from a Chilean band singing in English. They go by the name "RH+" and tried to tell the world that "RH" stood for "Rock Hudson" until the Rock Hudson estate took issue. This comes from the CD "Quintano Roo."

More music . . . coming.

Why I Don't Have a Facebook Account

I don't have Facebook account; I'm not on Facebook; I don't have Facebook. I really don't even know the idioms around the use of Facebook. However, more and more people in my generation are getting it. And, if teens and twentysomethings are any indication, then Facebook may soon replace e-mail as the standard form of Internet communication. I hope not for the teens and twentysomethings. On the one hand, Facebook is a remarkable, attractive social networking site -- and social networking strikes me as generally positive.

But Facebook should remain the province of twenty and thirty-somethings. Kind of like a bar for twentysomethings or a club featuring small, emerging bands. I have a former student, about 32 now, and she has started a band. She always tells us when they are going to play at some bar or small venue and we happily go. The band is good. I really like it. But our presence spikes up the average age of the place by a factor of about 1 geezerillion. We get questions about the paleolithic age. So I just feel like I'm ruining the buzz of whomever I'm standing next to. This is especially true if I start to move to the music even gently, ever so slightly. There is just something so wrong about this fiftysomething relic even just being here, but does he have to dance too? Does he need viagra to dance?

Similarly, with Facebook, I shouldn't be there seeing the communications of my goddaughters, the pictures they send to their friends, etc. And it would be so lame if I asked them to friend me. It would be so sad if they felt obligated to friend me. Clearly, Facebook is their world. And when they continue with it into their own dotage, their kids will network on something else.

Do Teachers Say You "Talk Too Much" in Class? Look Who's Talking!

This "talks too much" notion has got me thinking about how teachers deal with talk. So, all you students out there, do you think you "talk too much"? Yes? No? What are teachers talking about? Maybe the teacher is talking too much when she says you talk too much.

So here's a little talk about talk.

First of all, nobody talks more than teachers. We become teachers because we like to talk . . . AND we can make kids listen. How many times have you wondered when the teacher would EVER . . . STOP. . . TALKING!!!!!!!!

So when a teacher tells you you talk too much just say to yourself, "Look who's talking!"

Then, there's you. You have a highly energized, very effective, wonderfully fun little mind and it's very, very, very close to your mouth. Your mind and mouth made friends a long time ago. So they're constantly talking. Of course, when your mind talks, it's very quiet. But boy does it talk a lot. So whenever the teacher says you talk too much, just say, "On the contrary, my mouth says a lot less than my mind because my mind is quite a blabbermouth."

Your mind is constantly discovering ideas and figuring out how things work and how things can work even better. When you suddenly come across a cool idea or just a cool way of expressing an idea it's as if you'd suddenly found a gold coin under a flower. "LOOK HERE!" you say. "Look at what I've found!" That's how you are with ideas.

Our mouths help our minds point to things because the mind alone can't say much of anything except to you alone so it needs the mouth. By comparison, the mouth can blah, blah, blah all day long, but if it's not hooked up to the mind, then the poor mouth is . . . well . . . mindless. There's an old expression that goes like this: "His mind is on vacation and his mouth is working overtime." Mind and mouth have to go out into the world together or they are clueless.

Now, you like discovering ideas and what's the use of discovering things if you can't share them like gifts with friends?

Some teachers will understand that and they become teachers because of the energy and joy of minds like yours. I hope I'm one of those teachers. I've had kids in my class who talk more than the usual kid, but a lot of what they have to say is interesting and wonderful, so . . . I let them talk. Usually. Yeah, sometimes in a friendly, laughing way I have to say, "Barbara, will you please give it a REST!"

But . . . some teachers just gotta have quiet. It's as if they have a terrible headache all the time and the noise of children drives them over the edge. "Arrrrrrggggghhhhh!!!" they yell.

And some teachers just feel embarrassed by the joy and energy of a mind like yours. It makes them look sour by comparison. "What makes ____________ so happy today?" they ask.

So your job is to use that remarkable mind of yours to figure out what kind of teacher you have at any given moment. Do you have a teacher who wants to hear what you have to say, or are you in a class where the teacher wants silence? Does your teacher DESERVE to hear your voice. Then maybe you have to make some decisions about how your mind and mouth will work in a given class.

But trust me: Most teachers will want to hear what you have to say about things. I'm telling you, that's why we become teachers -- so we can have remarkable kids like you in our lives.

Takes a Village? The Village Will Take the Opportunity

I’m not sure if it takes a village to raise a child, although I suspect it does, and that we should be grateful for the help, if help it is, but I do know that the village has a stake in the upbringing of your child and so the village will strive to insinuate itself into the rearing of your child. And not every element of the village is benign.

In our dollar-driven world, there are villagers who have a stake in raising a child who will buy their wares. That’s their sole concern. And whether we like it or not, our children are listening to the messages of the village.

I don’t have to cite studies to know that advertising works: Brilliant people run those ad firms and their clients wouldn’t be tossing around billions of overhead money for a scheme that hasn’t effectively proven itself. It’s not like advertising is a new stratagem to get us to spend foolishly.

The Power of "Um"!!!

I wrote to my friend TK thinking she was in Ashland, Oregon. She wrote back:

"Um . . . I'm in San Francisco now."

Ah, don't you just love the power and expressiveness of that "Um"?

It says, benignly: I believe you're under the impression that X when, in fact, Y .

Or:

Forgive me if I've given you the impressison that Y is X when, in fact, Y is Y.

Or it says a bit less benignly: Y is Y, not X, and, uh, you should kinda' know that . . . like everyone else, i.e., the people who aren't as oblivious to Y as you apparently are.

Or:

Earth to You, Y is Y and has been Y for quite some time now. (This is often accompanied by a quizzical look that appears to combine incredulity, vexation, and the backing away from a bad odor or an inability to translate what sounds like gibberish.)

On Seeing and Observing

From Going After Cacciato by Tim O’Brien: “ . . . [O]bservation requires inward-looking, a study of the very machinery of observation -- the mirrors and filters and wiring and circuits of the observor. Insight, vision. What you remember is determined by what you see, and what you see depends on what you remember.... A cycle that has to be broken. And this requires a fierce concentration on the process itself.”

Why I Seldom Assign "Creative" Writing

I’m occasionally asked, imploringly, by parents considering my school “if there are creative writing opportunities” in my English class. Kids ask, too.

My flippant response used to be: “All writing is creative.” And then I’d go on to admit that my colleagues in the English department do assign creative writing responses despite the emphasis on the analytical essay. I’d go on to note that there’s also a literary journal. But then, with firm but quiet conviction I’d aver that in my class I tend to shy away from conventional creative writing assignments.

I should be more forthcoming....

I’d guess that nearly every high school English teacher, in nearly every class, has at least one conventional creative writing assignment. Some of us find that a creative writing assignment can respond to texts quite effectively.

I will admit that I am more hesitant than some to assign conventional creative writing, but my misgivings about assigning it are not founded in some overriding College Preparatory ethic. So why don't I assign more? Why doesn't the whole department assign more? For my part -- and this is from someone who has written plays, short stories, and poems -- I have found the following problems:

First, creative writing, done well, is much harder, and far more time consuming, than expository writing. Done well, it requires more revisions. Yet, kids often think their creative writing is easier and better simply because they like it more.

Secondly, while I can teach how to structure a story, a play, or a poem and I can help with revisions, I am not particularly competent at helping kids recognize and create their best creative work. Nor do I have the time in the curriculum. Indeed, the kids who are gifted in creative writing find that they spend far more time on it than they expected to and sometimes don't finish.

So, thirdly, it creates assessment problems. How do I assess a student's creative work? By what criteria? When I assign creative work, I have some guidelines and perhaps a prompt or two which must be addressed, but a bad story can meet the guidelines.

Fourth, the expository essay is a good in itself, not just as a preparation for college. It is countercultural in that it compels us to slow down and sit quietly while observing and unpeeling something for an extended period of time. Multitasking interferes with it. Hurry is its enemy. It's a way of discovering what we really think and how we are capable of thinking more deeply about anything. I tell kids, "We don't write what we think; we write in order to figure out what we think." Expository writing, done well, helps us to learn how to see, discern, and express greater depths. Finally, I very much believe that an essay can be beautiful. I think of Lewis Thomas' Lives of a Cell, Primo Levi's The Periodic Table, Anne Fadiman's essays, Montaigne's, Richard Rorty's, John Updike on art, Jamaica Kincaid on gardening.

If a student is moved to write poems, stories, plays, etc., she will find many willing mentors in most high schools and in the community. Despite my ambivalence about assigning creative writing, I have mentored budding playwrights and two budding poets. And I’m very involved with college essays which can and should be creative and revelatory.

Yes, the expository essay "looms large” in independent schools, as JH says, but not necessarily in its "traditional form" over all four years and not merely because of college prep expectations. We believe in it because capable people can learn to open the world and their own minds with them. It's a good exercise for anyone expecting to use her intellect in text dissection in the future. It is true that some people see the world better through a conventionally creative approach, but I'm quite confident that my school does not blast that out of them. It does require that analysis be mastered, but not that the Muse be dismissed.

Kids and parents point to the unfettered freedom of creative writing. I don't believe that the best creative work is ever "unfettered." I believe that mastering any art form begins with some fettering. Even James Joyce, Ezra Pound, William Faulkner, Ornette Coleman, Mondrian, Pollack, Serra, et al, first had to master the more traditional techniques. Then, even after breaking past traditional boundaries, they still had some self-imposed boundaries.

So if you want more creative writing – don’t wait for a teacher to assign it.

Write.

Toaster 2 -- In the Garden with Thanks to AL

Joan and Ken are visited by Will, Ken's son, and Lynn, Will's wife. Will and Lynn are middle-aged. Joan is 66; Ken 79.

Modest home, backyard patio and garden.


JOAN: [looking in a home medical encyclopedia] Maybe it’s under “itch.”

WILL: Try under “rash.”

JOAN: Well, it’s not really a rash. It may be Shingles.

KEN: I thought Shingles was more of a pain.

JOAN: The only thing under “itch” is “anal.”

KEN: A-N-A-L?

JOAN: Yes, Ken.

KEN: That’s the word that means “rectum.”

JOAN: Well, now I think it means more a matter of being narrow-minded.

KEN: That’s the dictionary definition?

JOAN: Well, that’s how kids and lots of people use it.

KEN: I had a problem there once. Really more of an irritation than an itch . . .

JOAN: Well, Ken . . . I’m looking for an itch here.

KEN: I see . . .

JOAN: What’s that, Ken?

KEN: I see . . . you interrupted me again.

JOAN: Well, sometimes . . . .

LYNN [having finished trimming the garden] That’s done!

JOAN: Thank you, Lynn.

KEN: Yes, Lynn, that’s great!

[pause]

JOAN: Well, there’s one little thing. . . .

KEN: Oh, here we go.

JOAN: Those two little geraniums. I think they’re dead or dying.

LYNN [returns to garden] Here?

JOAN: See, Ken, I could say that I’m a little “anal” about my garden.

KEN: I would never say that.

JOAN: Well, that’s the popular term now.

KEN: I don’t give a damn what the teens are saying, I . . .

JOAN: Well, adults say it, too.

KEN: I see . . . .

JOAN: See? Now, YOU’RE being anal.

KEN: What the hell is ANAL about . . .

LYNN [returning from garden] It means “overly meticulous.”

JOAN: Well, yes . . . but it’s also “narrow-minded.”

Just Photos from Inverness and Pt. Reyes, California

Me in the Blogosphere of 9.4 Billion

If CR is correct and there are over 9.4 billion blogs in the world, and mine is ranked 9.4 billion in popularity, then let's try to get some perspective on that.

First, some people are creating or at least contributing to more than one blog . . . and hoping for readers. Or . . . every person on the planet has at least one blog.

Second, if the earth is made up of minds processing information in order to remain vital, then the blogosphere seems to be both rich with nutrients and choked by pollution. My blog, like a meringue or a round of Petit Basque cheese, while not entirely nutritious, certainly doesn't pollute.

Third, if there were an alphabetized written index of all blog titles, and you were asked to read one title per second, and you couldn't catch your breath before reading the first 9.4 billion titles, it would take you about 313 years before you could draw a breath . . . by which time blogs may no longer exist or, at least, they'll have a better name than "blog."

Fourth, if all the titles were about the length of mine, and you strung them end to end, in Helvetica 20 point font, they'd stretch from here to . . . the other side of our solar system!

The length of my title above x 9.4 billion = a lot!

Fifth, if mine is the 9,456,876,223th most read blog as CR indicates, well, just how many blogs are there out there? Maybe there are twice that many that even fewer people read. Or maybe friends of bloggers are offering to game the system, just as CR did when she wrote: "Do you want me to go to your blog and then shut the window many many times to boost your self esteem?" Of course, I said no to her because my integrity is more important than my blog. Perspective is everything.

Sixth, the third factoid is true. I was guessing, for dramatic effect, on the fourth.

Seventh, the sixth indicates that the fourth may be polluting the blogosphere.

Can Only Go Up!!!!!!!

From CR: "Your blog is rated as the 9,456,876,223th most read blog! Wow, you must feel special. Do you want me to go to your blog and then shut the window many many times to boost your self-esteem?"

Overheard in a Berkeley Bakery

Her: . . . and he also shops classes to see how many smart people are in it because, you know, he’s, like, gaming the curve.

Him: Yeah, I can see that with the kind of firms he’s looking at.

Her: He also handed in the same paper in four different classes.

Him: Yeah, why write more papers if you don’t have to? Besides, he told his professors, right?

Her: What?

Him: That he was handing in the same paper to four classes?

Her: That I don’t know.

CB and HP: “You must have a blog entry every day.” My response:

I don’t have that much to say, I don’t think.

I’m busy.

And because this is “The Eclectic Greg” it will offer my thoughts on a variety of topics, many of which may be of no concern to you. So check weekly, then read what you want.

You might argue that you don’t read for the topics, you read for my take on topics, because it’s me. That because it’s me, you’d read about whatever the topic might be: fly fishing, filaments, Philadelphia, landfill. If do you read me, and not the topics, I am humbled.

But I’m still busy.

Blog: Supply and Demand

Does my blog generate a demand among my legion of followers so that, in classical economic mode, demand generates a supply of my musings?

Or is there a different supply and demand dynamic to consider? Does the opportunity to blog, for which there is a relatively huge and inexpensive supply, arouse my demand to use the supply? I.e., if the opportunity to blog didn’t arise and tempt, would I have fewer thoughts demanding expression?

This is a chicken and egg conundrum.

I do know this: The demand of my followers, what there is of it, should not generate a greater supply of musings than the circumstances of my life evoke.

My principle should be: I shouldn’t write for writing’s sake, but only when I think I have something intriguing to share.

I have violated that principle with this entry.

Athletes Pointing to the Heavens

Did this start with Barry Bonds, or even before: A guy hits a homerun and upon arriving at home plate, he looks up reverentially and points with both hands to the heavens. Or to loved ones who’ve passed on. Does he then turn to a teammate and say, “I crushed the #!%$# outta that one. Thank you, Jesus.”

Or do heavy hitters do it before they start their homerun saunter?

If baseball stadiums are becoming megachurches with expressions of reverence every five minutes, then maybe American pro sports needs an Establishment Clause, a wall of separation between Church and game. Because it’s not just homeruns anymore. It’s singles, sacrifice flies, a stolen base, scoring on someone else’s hit! I can only imagine this is huge in football, too. Fortunately, there’s no time for thanking God in basketball or hockey. The guy hitting the three-pointer needs to get back on D . . . now! God can wait.

You might argue that pros pointing to heaven are giving credit where credit is due, the ultimate expression of humility. But I suspect that with a great many, it’s more a matter of the athlete imagining that he’s among the “chosen” – those watched over and blessed by God . . . even in the games they play. Or, worse, for some of those who’ve tainted the game with their chemical additives, perhaps it’s an attempt to deflect criticism: “The steroids aren’t responsible. God is!” Or: “My grandmother is watching from above, so, please, let’s not talk about steroids now.”

And now, of course, I imagine we’ll see little leaguers pointing, with proper gravitas, to the skies after every small success . . . just so they can do what the pros do.

We all follow the lead of athletes. What about those middle-aged guys who wear jerseys to football games and cheer profanities with a maniacal exertion that makes them look as if an alien were about to spawn from their eye-sockets? If their heroes point to the skies to credit the Divine, will the fans reconsider their spleen-busting, child-awing profanities and instead quietly point to the heavens while singing Gregorian chant? How can we cheer profanely while our hero is pointing to heaven? It’s unseemly. Let’s consider Jesus and the money changers in the Temple:

Scene: Jesus kicks the tables of the money changers in the Temple.

Jesus: (kicking stuff): My house shall be called the house of prayer; but you have made it a den of thieves. (Matthew 21:13)

Followers of Jesus: Yeah, yeah! He crushed the #!%$# outta that money changers’ #!%$#! . . . JEE-SUS! JEE-SUS! JEE-SUS! JEE-SUS! JEE-SUS!

Of course, it didn’t happen that way.

Will these affectations of reverence spillover into the workplace, too, like high-fives, sports parlance, and team-building games?

Bob: Nice job on stacking that hay, Dave.

Dave: (points to heaven): Yeah, I stacked the #!%$# out of that hay. Thank you Jesus.

Or:

Joan: They never saw that takeover coming Phyllis. Masterful.

Phyllis: (points to heaven). Yeah, that was one #!%$#ing hostile takeover. Thank you Jesus. (High-fives Joan. Joan offers Pyllis chewing tobacco.)

Does God care about the Tigers-Yankees game? If so, does He have a favorite? Do we blame Him if our team loses? Do we get in God’s face if He gives us the game-tying, late-inning homer only to have someone on the other infernal team hit a game winning homer . . . just before pointing to the heavens himself?

Or is it loved ones the athletes point to? Heaven may be, for some, the very best, most comprehensive cable-satellite-online hookup where every player’s grandparents are watching every game, even in Spring Training.

Whoever they’re pointing to, the athletes seem to abide by an unwritten code more than they abide by reverence for the Divine. After all, correct me if I’m wrong, but wouldn’t it be bad form for a pitcher to point gratefully to God after striking out a heavy hitter with men on base in a close late-inning game? Or for a shortstop to acknowledge heavenly grace after turning a double play cleanly? Frankly, I always hoped that a pitcher facing some heaven-pointer would point, quid pro quo, to the heavens after striking him out.

Of course, a pitcher is successful about 75% of the time against batters and it’s much easier to throw a ball to a sizeable target, even with juice, than it is to hit that curving, 90 mph sphere, squarely, with a cylinder. So a homerun might feel like divine intervention. But if athletes are thanking God for their dramatic successes, why not after every successful moment?

Doesn’t God care about strikeouts, especially strikeouts against the steroid-soaked, hubris-infected louts always seeking God’s attention? Is it true that inauthentic shows of reverence, bad as they are, fail to outrage athletes and fans as much as “showing up” an opposing team or player? There are even rules against it, right. Maybe that’s as it should be: Showing someone up would lead to a bench-clearing brawl. Chaos reigns. Satan wins.

I await your comments. In the meantime, I’m gazing, at this moment, toward heaven.

Email Messages That Begin with "Hahaha"

If I receive a response to an email and the responding message begins with "Hahaha" or something to that effect, and my original message is not quoted, does it mean that my original message was somehow amusing? Or does it mean that the respondent suspects that I intended my message to be funny and is therefore politely acknowledging what he or she presumes to be my attempt at humor? Or is "Hahaha" some form of exclamation or introduction like "Well . . ." or "You know . . ." or, well, you know, something to that effect.

And is this the kind of pointless blog that chases prospective followers and even casual readers away?

Some of you out there will be tempted to begin a comment with "Hahaha." Do so if you wish, but explain to me what it means. Yes, yes, I should anticipate that this particular blog will get a few laughs. But the fact of the matter remains that I get more emails that begin this way and . . . .

Okay, I could go back to the my original message to determine if something I wrote was funny or could be construed as such, but that seems oddly narcissistic (yes, perhaps that same could be said for blogs generally).

The College Essay: Who Are You and How Do You Know?

For High School Seniors:

Who are you and how do you know? That’s an essay you’re never asked to write in high school, or rarely anyway, and it’s a question you should ask and answer before you leave home. Write one essay that answers this question before you even see the questions from colleges. Fundamentall, each college asks the same question.

Some thoughts and advice:

The struggle to write a memorable essay:

Your essay will be one of 50-200 read on a weekend by an admissions officer who is not looking forward to this weekend.

Unless you really do exhibit some measure of uniqueness, your essay will not be memorable.

Nearly every essay the admissions officer will read will be well-organized, mechanically clean, and responsive to the question. So will yours. Some kids will be a little more literate than others, some offer a better combination of simple and complex sentences. Nice, but not sufficient to be memorable.
You become memorable -- your essay will be remembered 10 essays later -- not as a result of your mechanical proficiency.

Ideally, your essay moves the reader so that s/he wants to share parts or all of it with others who don't have to read it. Ideally, your essay compels your reader to put your essay forward to complement a great transcript or to replace a merely good one.

So . . . again: Unless you really do exhibit some measure of uniqueness, your essay will not be memorable. You can do this if you give yourself sufficient time and you allow yourself to examine who you are.

Don't turn a resume into an essay:

Nor will your essay be memorable if it is, in fact, a narrative of all your accomplishments that make the world a better place, i.e., resume as essay.

The opportunity to write this essay is a gift. The world does not give you many opportunities to sit for a while, a long while, to take stock of yourself, to examine yourself . . . not just sell yourself.

If you think of the essay as little more than an opportunity to sell yourself, to commodify yourself, it will not be memorable. It will sound like everyone elses.

Getting Started, Just Notes, Killing Your Babies:

Just write some notes, some lines, some phrases. Don't think about beginning, middle or end. Just write.

Don't get attached to anything you write. There will be some great lines that just won't be right for the essay. Gotta kill your babies.

The first really clean, well organized, draft is probably good, but . . . not nearly what it could be. It's good for a generic student; it's not good enough for you as a unique individual.

Writing is hard. You'll have taken stock of yourself as you introduce yourself to the greater world.

Where do you start? With what? Here are some ways in:

-- Find a moment in your life that, for whatever reason, you return to as something that resonates, something you can't help but keep returning to, something that maybe didn't tell you anything at the time, but you keep returning to it anyway, something that maybe sneaks up on you after months of not making an appearance. Often this involves a quandary in your life, a confusion, a struggle. We are who we are because of that with which we struggle.

-- Go deep, not broad. A list of attributes with a little explanation for each is tedious.

-- Show . . . and tell. A beautiful essay is different than most essays you've written. It has to include a measure of storytelling.

-- Flesh and blood. The essay is about a real, flesh and blood person. Don't write in abstractions.

-- Humans, especially teens, are messy things. Don't be afraid to share the mess. Socrates said, "The unexamined life is not worth living." But the examined life does not provide a whole of lot neat, no longer loose ends.

-- Does this mean that you have to write a depressing essay about a neurotic? No. It means you approach profundity without bathos. Yes, when you start to approach your core in writing, the writing may be really bad, but that's because language fails us initially when we approach something we've never written about that is complex, difficult, and stranger than you thought it would be.

-- Ideally, you should be a revelation to yourself.


Last Notes:

-- No cliches. Ever.

-- Don't try too hard to be poetic. Just get the tools off the shelf. The beauty of what you write will come last, arising organically out of the content, not imposed like flashy nothing on dross.

-- Have ONE editor -- a good listener: You would do well to hash ideas, notes, moments, stuff . . . with someone who listens well and doesn't know you extremely well. Like your college counselor or just about anyone who listens other than your parents. They know you too well and will be too anxious. The essay you send is the one you should share with them. It might prove to be a great gift to them, too. It will help them with their Rite of Passage, too . . . the one where they say goodbye to you.

-- However, you do need to work with one person on getting to the core of who you are. Don't work with several people. No more than 2 really. One ideally. You can definitely have too many cooks in that kitchen.

-- But DO work with someone who asks the hard questions and tells you when the writing is . . . not so good.

Is this daunting? Yes. Can it be done? Yes, if you commit yourself and your time to it.

Honoring My First Follower - Isa

English Teachers and Rough Drafts

Independent high school English teaching is a great gig without much in the way of drawbacks. The pay isn't really that bad. The kids are great. You can choose where you want to live. Colleagues are usually wonderful. The only drawback, as any English teacher will confirm, is . . . grading papers. By inviting or requiring kids to give us rough drafts, we double the misery.

If you're a student of mine out there, please don't take this as a denegration of your thinking and writing that may have meant so much to you for a variety of reasons. Of course, we enjoy, even delight in your progress as a writer and the revelations that young minds can share. We just don't like a stack of 45 papers to read over a weekend.

Of course, if good pedagogy deems it necessary, then we need to assign rough drafts. But what if good pedagogy doesn't compel it. What if, in fact, good pedagogy militates against it?

It's up to you if my argument is self-serving, but here goes:

We are teachers, not editors preparing essays for publication. Accordingly, no one paper is important. Rather, the progess from paper to paper is important.

As a teacher of writing, I have to help kids maximize their strengths while recognizing and attending to their challenges. That's the real skill, the independence, to be developed. The ethic of assigning rough drafts can be expressed as "now go back and try again given the comments and corrections I've added." But that same ethic applies to the next paper. Correcting what I circle or comment upon, doesn't require as much writerly attentiveness and problem-solving as does anticipating weaknesses in brand new efforts, finding them, and attending to them. This is why I generally assign no drafts, but there are lots of starts.

I'd also argue that when we correct rough drafts, the kids naturally attend to those corrections and comments almost exclusively. The result, I fear, is that they sense that the progress from rough draft to finished product need only be relatively superficial when, in fact, a second shot at a paper should be an opportunity for further, deepening thought, clearer prose, a more confident, supple voice, i.e., more beautiful writing.

So, sure, the students could benefit from rough drafts, but my involvement with them might actually stifle further thought.

Then there's the most unfortunate possible impact of assigning and marking up rough drafts: If a student attends to all the corrections and comments energetically, should she get an A on the paper? Not necessarily, but that may be a hard sell (except at my school where we don't have grades . . . I'll address this on another day). At its best, the rough draft may become a good, not a great paper. However, it may have become great had the student worked beyond the corrections and comments.

A compromise: I will occasionally invite a particularly challenged writer to show me any paragraph of their choosing. Whatever mistakes the student is making in that paragraph are likely to be exhibited in the others. And I tell them so. "Look out for that thing you do . . . " I might say . . . or something to that effect.

"Try again," means on the next assignment.

Toaster – a One-Act by Greg Monfils

Scene: Ken and Joan, retired couple at breakfast in their home with Will, Ken’s son, and Lynn, Will’s wife, both visiting. Joan stands looking at the toaster.

Joan: I hate this toaster.

Ken: Why do you “hate” the toaster, Joan?

Joan: It just takes forever.

Ken: It takes 4 minutes to toast. You should just accept the toaster the way it is.

Joan: I hate it.

Ken: That means you’re going to get a new one, I suppose.

Joan: Well, I don’t . . .

Ken: I’m perfectly happy with this one.

Joan: . . . know what I’m . . . I just . . . you SHOULD be happy with it, this is YOUR English muffin I’m waiting for.

Ken: Joan, why not sit down and go back when it’s ready?

Pause

Lynn: We don’t have a toaster. We use the broiler.

Joan: Uh-huh. . . . Here’s your muffin.

Ken: Thank you, Joan. It’s a perfectly good toaster, but get a new one if you want. That’s how it usually works.

Joan: Does anyone want anymore toast? I have potato bread, raisin bread, English muffins.

Will: How long will it take?

Joan: Will . . . . here just take a piece of mine if you’re in such a hurry.

Will: No, I don’t really want any.

Ken: The toaster is what it is, Joan. You can’t change the toaster. If it’s broken . . .

Joan: Yes, Ken. It’s not broken. I understand.

Pause:

Ken: Why is our new president vacationing in Hawaii?

Will: It’s Christmas. He’s not president yet. Hawaii’s his home.

Ken: I know it’s his home. [Pause] He should be with his team in Washington. Working.

Lynn: I’m pretty sure he’s working and in contact with his team.

Ken: He’s swimming seems to me. He needs to be in Washington. Working, not swimming. This English muffin is great, Joan. Thank you. Pause

Will: Obama will face some big problems.

Ken: He should be in Washington.

Lynn: I’m sure the technology available to him allows for some contact . . .

Ken: He shouldn’t be playing on the beach while . . .

Joan: HE’S WITH HIS FAMILY. IT’S CHRISTMAS. A CHRISTMAS VACATION LIKE THE WHOLE WORLD TAKES, KEN!!!!

Ken: I just wish he wouldn’t spend two weeks in Hawaii.

Joan: Oh, Ken!

Will: He’s not the President yet. He’s got his team in place. He’ll hit the ground running.

Ken: And I wish him well.

Joan: LIAR!!

Ken: Why am I a goddamn liar?

Joan: Oh . . . you know. [Pause] He’s on a family vacation for godsake.

Ken: We can’t wait for him to get moving on the country’s business.

Tina Working the Fish Over

Education and Tech -- Do We Need a Slow Ed Movement?

Okay, I'm reading stuff about tech and schools and all these tech guys are talking about blogs and podcasts and wikis and even online teachers as necessary components of my classroom if I "accept reality." Maybe so, but . . . like we always say, the education should direct the tech, not the other way around. Still, we do have to recognize a reality, i.e., the kids are more and more expecting that info, curriculum, skills, etc., will be or can be delivered to a great extent via tech. Do kids, for example, make a serious distinction between a chat room and a class discussion? And why settle for me as your teacher when you can access the recognized fabulous teacher online? Why go to my wonderful school, for that matter, when there's the Stanford online high school?

I know my school has been in the vanguard of tech ed, and we will most likely continue to be, but we all need to be on the vanguard of tech ed with a healthy perspective.

An anecdote: At a seminar for educators at the Stanford Design School, teachers were broken up into groups and given a problem to solve using the design process we'd been taught. Our problem to solve: American teenage obesity. I think there were about 8 groups and all but one attempted to solve this problem using iPhone apps that help with shopping, dieting, healthy choices, and cooking. To the extent that the tech educated consumers and families, the education consisted of very brief statements about nutritional components and comparisons with healthier choices. Everything was an app and a bar code and a wand. And it was fun!

And the folks in our group thought that these "solutions," taken by themselves, were actually indicative of the greater problem. These app "solutions" treat food -- I don't use the word "meals" here -- as little more than nutrition and calorie delivery systems. Worse, this app solution seems to be co-opted by a "food as fun!" ethic and the fun is more a matter of using the tech than eating food, though eating food is treated as a recreational activity, too. God forbid, however, that anyone should opt for a cake or even a piece of cake. The tech treats the human body as engine that can only ingest nutritionally optimal products. And worse still, this app promotes a celebration of speed.

My group took a different tack: We decided to ask foundations and other funders, perhaps even the gov't, to fund community organizations and elementary schools and churches, etc., to teach people how to eat. To teach that eating is not just a festive, quick, and often solitary visit to the fuel pump, but a profound moment when we should connect with the natural environment and share in it with others. There should be an element of ritual involved, a profound coming together. As I've said before, it was the Last Supper for a reason.

So we didn't have an app. We had a table set for a family dinner.

Sure, we were inspired by the Slow Food movement which, of course, doesn't denigrate technology. It simply asks that we recall what's truly important even to the point of asking us to ponder what is profound and mysterious about breaking bread.

So what is the Slow Ed movement? How do we make sure that tech doesn't become an info delivery system that treats education as a commodity, even a game, i.e., as a commodity that should be delivered quickly and with as much of a fun quotient as possible? Education should be a rewarding challenge that makes us more human.

Would have preferred sharing this concern over a meal.

g