The Lesson of the Day

This was originally written when most of you were about five years old. We've all done a lot of growing up since then, but some things remain the same.

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"Teacher! Teacher! Teach...I mean, Dad!"

"What d'ya mean Teacher? I'm not your teacher! Why'd you call me that?"

"Oh, I forgot for a minute. I thought you were my teacher...."

Elizabeth has been attending pre-school long enough that she knows most of the adults in her life as "Teacher," and at that particular moment, her desire to have an adult's attention was more important than which adult it was. After an eight-hour day at a pre-school that is run as part of a child care class within a high school, where teenage students come and go with the regularity of the bells, she was probably pretty used to calling, "Teacher!"

It's not the first time my daughter has addressed me as something other than Dad. In moments of high excitement, I've been called Mom; in times of silliness, I am referred to as Stinky Bum Stinkus; when crying or pleading, Papa is the epithet of choice; and if her request demands dire and immediate attention, she'll use the ominous Michael, which she learned from her mother. But Teacher is fast becoming the usual misnomer. It shouldn't bother me, really. I mean, I am a teacher! I suppose the off-putting part of it that natters at the back of my brain is the fact that she's seeing so much of other adults, that my position as father is no longer sacred. I am being lumped into a category of big people who take care of little people, and I become Daddy only when my job as "Teacher" is complete.

Then, in a moment of sublime clarity, it occurred to me that I am her teacher, and I ought to wear the title with pride! I'm the one who is supposed to be teaching her values, life skills, independence, and integrity. I shouldn't complain if she calls me what I am. Obviously my job as a teacher is different than the lessons I teach as a parent, but it's all a form of teaching. And she is learning all the time, whether I'm purposely teaching or not.

Some things she learns at school: days of the week, how flowers grow, songs and poems, socialization. Some things she gets from me: a fondness for the music of KISS, why you should never move when your dad is trying to trim your bangs, why you shouldn't customarily step on your dad's sore toe, and how to correctly use lie and lay. She is absorbing all this information all the time, and she views the people (mostly adults) who help her learn it, as teachers.

Elizabeth, however, is not growing up in a typical home. She is surrounded by schools! Everything she does, everywhere she goes, much of what we talk about, all have to do with school. I teach at a school. She goes to pre-school at a high school. I talk about my students, many of whom have gone on to become her "teachers" in the child care class, and she hears her teachers talk about their teachers. Two of Elizabeth's friends live across the street, and their mom teaches right next door to me, at my school, which is only a block away from our house! We go there every so often and visit the science lab animals and the other teachers (in that order). Elizabeth must think that everyone in the world is a teacher, and that all work takes place at a school. Even Elizabeth's mom, who works at the fire department, talks of classes the fire fighters must take. She proctors tests, coordinates community education programs, and, of course, she did go to school for nine months of training to prepare for the job she now has, so Elizabeth surely remembers the nights Mom would disappear into the bedroom for a couple hours with an armload of textbooks to study.

To my daughter, school is everywhere! Her entire vocabulary is education-based, and I've decided that should not bother me. Life is a great series of big and little lessons, and if you view everything you do as some sort of learning experience, you will probably succeed more often than you'll fail. And that is what I'm supposed to be teaching Elizabeth to do. So I guess she can keep calling me teacher.

That's what I am.

(1996)

Discipline

Discipline is simply the ability to follow. The problem is that many people seem to think that discipline is synonymous with punishment. Christ had disciples, but he didn't spank them. He taught by example. He lived the way He wanted them to live. As a school teacher, I have a volume's worth of opinions on discipline, but I see a strange paradox developing in our society. Some parents simply don't take enough responsibility for their children, and others take too much!

It's common knowledge that there are too many parents in the world who are not involved enough in what their kids do. They don't go to parent-teacher conferences. They don't ask their kids what happened at school. They don't check report cards, and they are willing to let the television become a twenty-four-hour-a-day baby-sitter. Anything that will occupy a child so that the parent doesn't have to becomes an acceptable (even welcome) addition to the household: TV games, an endless string of rental videos, unhealthy habits like smoking, or unhealthy alliances like gangs. This lack of parental involvement in children's lives sets a poor example, and the children have no expectations to meet, so it is no wonder that many of them fail at school and lead such unhappy lives. The uninvolved parent is a character in the sad story we always hear, but there are parents who are too involved, and this is an equally poor method of discipline.

When I grade a research paper that was turned in by an ninth grader but reads like a doctoral dissertation, I get suspicious. Sometimes it is plagiarism, but I have found (many times from the students themselves) that it is frequently because Mom and/or Dad wrote the paper. Many parents seem to believe that grades are more important than the learning those grades are supposed to reflect, and they teach their children (by example) that the end always justifies the means. It's okay to let your mom write the paper for you if it nets you an A. It's not cheating to copy a friend's homework as long as s/he lets you do it, especially if you get full credit by fooling the teacher. It's not wrong to be conveniently "sick" on the day the term project is due, so that you can stay home and finish it, despite the fact that you had all term to work on it but didn't. It's okay to act like a fool all term as long as we can intimidate your teachers into giving you citizenship marks that will get you on the team. Some parents are willing to let their children avoid the consequences of their actions, but it is a disservice to the kids to do so. This creates dependence, which is the opposite of discipline, and will only make later life lessons much harder.

As is the case with many things, moderation is the key to discipline. There must be some rules that are firmly enforced, and parents must be actively involved in their children's lives. However, parents can't live the lives and fight the battles of their children. Some things in life are difficult, and it's okay to let a kid deal with the consequences of his/her actions. A great part of discipline is experience, and an effective disciplinarian (like Christ) uses that experience to teach life lessons.

Discipline is not about punishment, although it sometimes might involve some. Discipline is teaching by example, learning from consequences, and taking responsibility for oneself. If you spare the rod do you spoil the child? Maybe. But you'll certainly ruin him if you offer him no guidance at all...or too much.

(December 1996)

Talent, Talent Everywhere!

As our class numbers dwindle, as they always do around this time of year, I've been thinking about posting a few thoughts on how good some of the remaining blogs have been lately. Those of you who have taken this seriously are becoming better writers (and better thinkers) whether you know it or not. I'm very pleased!

But before I had a chance to make that post, I saw the recent talent show, which many of you were involved in.

WOW!

The teacher impressions were fabulous! It's clear that you have been observing us in more ways than we can imagine. And Ragen's piano playing? What a way to close the show! I was blown away (even after seeing the performance three times)!

And then I started noticing how many of you I see involved in things like Science Olympiad, Honor Society, and Peer Support.

And how many of you I have seen at the Student of the Month breakfasts!

And in the band!

And the choir!

And the orchestra warming up in my room before the district solo & ensemble festival!

And the foreign language plays!

And the school musical!

And, yes Becca, even in NAL!

And then I read your blogs and see how much other stuff you are involved in outside of school, and I am amazed.

You are truly the movers and shakers of the school, and I am lucky to have this interaction with you.

Keep up the good work!

Why Do We Blog?

Grandma Rose

As Valentine's Day approaches, many of you are reflecting on candy and flowers and the other symbols of affection. It's at times like this I remember my own favorite flower. I wrote this to illustrate a character sketch for an 8th grade class in about 1998. A couple years later Grandma Rose passed away, but her legacy lives, not only in the flowers that share her name, but in the profound ways she influenced my life.

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A Rose

"Love is a red red rose...." So said Robert Burns, the eighteenth century poet. Given this metaphor, it is fitting that Rose also happens to be my grandma's name. Grandma Rose is a woman so full of love that it overflows into those around her. Born in 1899, she remains generous, kind, and deeply compassionate, but she still has never quite made the leap into this generation. Some people would say that Grandma Rose didn't "make the most of life," but her effect on the lives of those who know her proves otherwise. Although she doesn't seem to recognize it, Grandma Rose grows more interesting with age. Like a precious antique or a fine wine, she continues to gain value even as she approaches the day when she will have lived in three different centuries.

Grandma Rose is small and getting smaller. She has shrunk four inches in the last decade, the effect of walking around in the same body for 99 years. I once thought that maybe Grandma just appeared to be getting shorter because I was growing taller, but my last growth spurt ended 15 years ago. Standing straight, she's about 4'10" in her church shoes, which puts her at only a head taller than my six-year old daughter Elizabeth. Grandma's hair, which, according to ancient family photo albums, was once nearly black, is now snow white and beginning to thin. She still keeps it neatly curled, but if you catch her right after she wakes up, it sticks out in a kinky array like Einstein's. Grandma has never owned a pair of pants. Her entire weekday wardrobe consists of simple dresses, most of which she has owned since the '50s, and which have never gone out of style precisely because of their simplicity and plainness. When she leaves the house, which isn't often--usually only once a week for church--Grandma wears newer dresses (some only ten years old!) with more color or ruffles. Her gold watch (which still works as long as you wind it daily) is so old that the twist-o-flex band has begun to wear through in spots, and the back of the watch itself has been naturally polished to a perfect smoothness by fifty years of contact with her wrist. The wrinkled skin on Grandma's hands is like tanned leather with thick blue veins spidering through it. Her palms, which are always warm and dry, are calloused from a lifetime of labor in her house and in her garden. Although she hates it, Grandma now must use a walker to get around because a recent fall resulted in a fractured hip, which hospitalized her for a week and prompted a doctor to warn her that if she falls again she will surely break more than one fragile bone. Grandma's eyes are round, deep set, and dark, almost brooding. She wears bifocal lenses that might have been put together by Ben Franklin, if not for the splashes of lavender along the thin frames. To those who don't know her, Grandma is probably just another old lady. Other than the usual effects of age, she has no defining physical characteristic that sets her apart, but I see the character in her aged hands and the deep wrinkles of experience in her face, and I know that there's more to this little woman than her appearance indicates.

Everything Grandma Rose does somehow involves giving. When I was a child, she gave me treats and candy. When I was a teenager, she would slip money into my hand when my parents weren't looking. When I was in college, she bought me my first car. Now, she pours her generosity on my own children and offers me the advice and wisdom of a century's experience. "Even this shall pass away," she reminds me in times of stress. Grandma has an almost crippling sense of compassion, feeling other people's pain so deeply that it often moves her to tears. She cries at the images of starving children in other countries that they show on TV. She frets about whether her grandkids and great-grandkids will have any quality of life, living as we do in a world full of gangs and drugs and ignorance. She worries about wasting electricity and food, not because she is cheap, but because she is concerned that someone less well-off than herself may need it. Until recently, Grandma found the answer to every problem in self-sacrifice. If someone needed money, she would provide it and then go without things she wanted. If someone was hungry, she fed him from her own fridge. Although she has never been rich, she has donated thousands of dollars to church organizations that help people in third-world countries. When her 89-year-old sister suffered a series of paralyzing strokes, Grandma took care of her at home for a few years until she was no longer able; then, for the three years before her sister's death, Grandma spent eight hours a day with her in the rest home to keep her company. Grandma Rose is generous to a fault, if such a thing is possible. She really would give you the shirt off her back...if she wore shirts instead of dresses.

Although the years have shown Grandma Rose a great deal of pain, emotional as well as physical, that is not the reason she curses old age. Her greatest frustration about being 99 years old is that she can no longer care for people the way she used to. She cannot prepare the meals she once did, lift the children she once carried, or visit her friends in rest homes and hospitals. The week she spent in the hospital due to the recently fractured hip was almost more than she could bear. Not only can she no longer take care of others, but she also needs help with many basic activities. She can't walk well enough to go without a walker or a cane, and she frequently admits to being "absolutely disgusted" with herself, as though it's her fault. "Whoever said these were the 'Golden Years' ought to have his head examined!" she says of old age.
Because she is almost completely deaf, Grandma doesn't hear much of what is said to her, but she is too polite to ask anyone to repeat. Consequently, she frequently doesn't understand what is going on, and she sometimes appears confused, or she'll say something that doesn't relate to the conversation. Her hearing aid is the bane of her existence, whistling as it does when it is turned up too loud, or simply sitting uselessly in her ear when the battery runs out and she doesn't discover it until much later.

Grandma's old-world values make it impossible for her to understand much of the modern world. It is impossible for her to believe that my son James, who has long curly hair, is a boy. In her day, boys didn't have long hair. Conversely, my niece Hannah, who is bald as a cue ball at six months old, is, in Grandma's terms, "a handsome young man." It doesn't matter how many times we remind her that James is a boy and Hannah is a girl; to Grandma Rose, the hair is what determines the gender.

Technology scares Grandma. I'm not even referring to computers, but rather the things with which kids of this generation grew up: TV sets, microwave ovens, automobiles. She won't use a remote control to run the television set because she thinks it is like a laser gun, and she's afraid she'll start a fire. I was about ten when microwave ovens were just becoming the rage, and one night Grandma Rose was baby-sitting while my parents were out. She woke me up at about 11:30, worry creasing her face. "Mike," she said, "the temperature in that new oven keeps going up. I'm afraid it's going to explode." Confused, I followed her upstairs and looked at the microwave. Grandma pointed to the red LCD numbers on the front. "See, it just went up another degree!" "Grandma," I said, still too tired to laugh, "it's just a digital clock." Automatic doors are a constant source of amazement to Grandma, who remembers reading the fantastic stories of Ali Babba as a child. When I take her shopping, I call, "Open Sesame!" just as we pass under the sensor that tells the door to open. The look of utter surprise on her face is worth the angry stares of people we're holding up. And no matter how many times she sees them, doors that open automatically still amaze her. She never learned to drive a car and her only plane trip was at my mother's insistence. We took her to Denver once for Thanksgiving. Besides a car trip to Seattle, that's the farthest she's ever been from home.

Although she is the only surviving member of her immediate family and most of her friends died in the '70s, Grandma Rose is loved and respected by everyone who meets her. Through her church--she's unbelievably religious, having memorized most of the Bible--Grandma has met many people who have come to her aid in times of crisis. When my grandpa died ten years ago, Grandma had a constant stream of visitors baring meals and flowers for more than a month. Oddly, not all of Grandma's friends are old. In fact, the bulk of them are under 50, many of them in their twenties. I don't understand what they have in common, but I know that not many days go by when Grandma isn't visited by someone. It is because of this amazing loyalty and respect that Grandma inspires that she has been able to avoid entering the modern age: there is always someone around who will drive her where she needs to go, turn the TV on and off, and take care of any microwave cooking that may need to be done. She is a person who proves that it is not what you know, but who you know. And it is her personal relationships that have made her own life, as well as the lives of those who know her, richer.

Until she moved in with my dad, Grandma kept a rose garden in her yard that bloomed with a million colors every June. I see those roses that she cared for as symbols of the relationships she has maintained throughout her life. When she and Grandpa Bill moved into the little house in North Ogden in the 1930s, they planted a new rose bush every year. Like her relationships with friends and family, the rose garden continually grew larger and prettier, and like the garden that still remains in that yard, Grandma's influence on those of us who know her will go on even after she's gone.