“Between the Covers of the Book”

            The curly-haired, middle-aged man with the earring was an actor and playwright who once had a character observe that “All the world’s a stage,  // And all the men and women merely players . . . .” (As You Like It, II, vii, 147-148).  Like the actors who dressed to assume the roles Shakespeare wrote for them, everyone dresses for the “parts” they see themselves playing and may change those roles and costumes often.  High school students do this all the time, so it’s not a good idea to judge them immediately by the way they dress.

            Before the first bell at Lincoln High one morning in the late 1980’s, the students in the third-floor hallway were getting their books, discussing the previous night’s activities, and planning the day to come.  Suddenly a wave of laughter and incredulous exclamations rolled down the hall and the crowd parted to reveal an amazing sight:  a tall young man—about 6’ 6”—dressed in motorcycle leathers and chains, striding through the boisterous students, reveling in their astonishment and attention.  Outlandish as it was, what was truly unusual about his appearance was that atop his black leather frame protruded another 10 to 12 inches of hair, thirteen rigid spikes, to be exact, arranged in a row down the middle of his otherwise bald pate, and each gelled horn was a different, bright color.  Drug-crazed motorcycle gang member?  Rock star?  NBA forward?  Maybe.  Shortly after the bell rang to start class, he was asked by his 1^st period English teacher to read the poem he was to have written as an assignment for class that day.  In a clear, rich bass, he read to his peers, his teacher, a student teacher, and a visiting college professor a sensitive and word-rich description of how much he loved his mother.

            The petite girl so engrossed in her studies at the library table is easy to overlook.  She never draws attention to herself either by her actions or her dress.  In classes she is always prepared and—every teacher’s dream—participates without much coaxing in class discussions and projects.  Although she doesn’t volunteer right away, she can always be counted on to take part in projects and help enthusiastically.  Bright, sensitive, caring, almost meek in her demeanor, it would be safe to say that she’d “never hurt a fly.”  Talk to her soccer teammates or, even more telling, to her opponents.  They’ll describe a dynamo who flies down the field to deliver vicious tackles or blistering kicks, demoralizing any who would challenge her and charging her teammates to match her play.

            Watch in the halls at the local high school and question someone who knows the students passing by.  The skateboarder with the bowl-cut hair and baggy pants does computer technical support at a local business after school.  The clean-cut gentleman in button down shirt and chinos is a roadie for a local punk rock band.  The cheerleader is a black belt and her little brother, the one with the black lipstick and eye shadow, is the captain of the school’s chess team.

            Everyone dresses for the parts he or she plays in life, but those roles can change for any number of reasons.  More often than not, however, people dress the way they feel like dressing at the moment.  High school students are involved in many different activities as they negotiate that time in their lives when they’re trying to discover just which script fits them best.  Ask a teacher who keeps an eye on things, like the fellow in the suit and tie over there.  During his summer vacations he’s a rodeo clown.

“A Recipe for How to Make a Bully” [posted to Facebook 01-21-2014]

One of the writing prompts I used to use in my Creative Writing classes was to have students create "recipes" for abstract qualities like Love, Faith, Hate, etc.  I gave them this as an example.

“A Recipe for How to Make a Bully”

                                                      4 parts Ignorance

                                                      2 parts Brutality

                                                      1 part Mob Mentality (Peer Pressure)

                                                      Passion to taste

            Begin with a “clean,” uncorrupted container.  Do not add Education or Experience that would dilute the Ignorance.  Add to the Ignorance, 2 parts Brutality and 1 part Mob Mentality and stir, seasoning with Passion.

            This mixture creates one human Bully at any age above 2 years.  Starting early increases the yield; it grows with age.

            Serves one or a multitude; historically, has led to one-on-one playground battles, gang fights, lynchings, witch hunts, clan feuds, border wars, civil wars, and World Wars.

            Goes with all forms of Prejudice and is usually served any time opportunity arises, usually when something does not go as planned, and someone—other than oneself—is needed to Blame.

            Also known as Racism, Ageism, Sexism (all other “–isms” of this nature), Bias, Bigotry, and, sometimes, plain Stupidity.

            Taken in large doses, this mixture can produce Insanity, Torture, Capital Punishment, Coup d’Etats, Genocide, Cultural destruction and other forms of human perversions.

“Road Trip—Pt. I” [Facebook post from 01-20-2014]

A recent prompt for my writing group was to recall a road trip and write about some aspect of it.  One trip in particular stood out for me.  The following is a bit of a prelude, but also a preview.  More to come intermittently.

Newly graduated mid-year with my bachelor’s degree (December 1971), I couldn’t find a job.  My fiancée had decided we weren’t meant to be, so I returned the rings to the jeweler to have some spending money.  I celebrated my 21^st birthday just before Christmas curled up in the bedroom I was using in my parents’ home.  Probably goes without saying that I needed a change of scenery.  When I told my mother I was going to hitch to Georgia to see an old friend, she looked out the window at the newly fallen foot of snow and told me she’d buy me a bus ticket to Atlanta to at least get me out of the cold.

The heater on the bus didn’t work.  It was ten degrees in Atlanta when I got there the next day.  The girl I hadn’t seen in five years had written to tell me not to bother, but the letter most likely arrived in the mailbox as I was knocking on her door in a little town 60 miles south of Atlanta.  At least it was approaching 60° when I hefted my pack and headed back to Missouri.

I met all sorts of people on the trip home, and I made a significant life decision.  While camped in a downpour on the median of I-40 in eastern Tennessee after walking across the Appalachians at Rabun Gap in north Georgia, I vowed that as soon as I could return to school, I was going to get my teaching certificate.  Dad had often told me that teachers could always get jobs.

After I stood with my thumb out for an hour or so on the side of the road the next morning, the car that finally stopped was a neatly kept little sedan that exuded the spit and polish of its driver.  He turned out to be a terrific fellow who was doing some soul-searching of his own.  Although he was only in his early forties, he had just retired as the youngest commander of US forces in Korea.  He was driving home to a wife and daughter he hadn’t seen in several months, and he had no idea what he was going to do with himself.  We shared our stories and our hopes and encouraged one another.

Tennessee is a fairly long state from east to west, even at 70 miles an hour.  I think we both made the trip from past to future in those few hours together before he dropped me off outside of Memphis.  I’ve often wondered where his road took him.  Mine has not been as straight or smooth as that four-lane highway, but I’ve enjoyed the side trips—those blue highways of the everyday—more than any rest stop or tourist trap.  Most of all, I’ve appreciated the days when I have felt like I was out on the road again with my thumb in the air and nothing but promise ahead.

“Waterhole” [Facebook post from 01-16-2014]

It’s dusk, darkening quickly, and the herds are gathering at the local waterhole.  This is an important time in the lives of each separate herd and individual as well as for the entire ecology and biosphere.  Here is where most mating rituals begin (or end), where customs and traditions are passed on, where new information is passed along, where evolution continues.

Along one bank a group of young gazelles timidly approach, the does preening for the bucks who are jostling one another for the best vantage point to show off.  Nearby a group of old bulls sip casually while keeping watchful, wary eyes on the lurking predators, and secretly lusting in old memories.  Occasionally they snort in derision at the youthful antics.  Now and then a cow interrupts them all, bellowing her distaste of the overall foolishness.

As darkness descends, the process plays itself out.  A ready doe breaks from her sisters to claim a buck who believes he has claimed her.  The cow drives off one or two of the bulls.  Other herds have grown boisterous, creating a cacophony of unsuspecting ease.  Here and there sparring bucks draw crowds of rowdy hangers-on.  A pair of does scream briefly at one another.

Suddenly the muddied water explodes, and a monstrous ‘gator launches itself into the throat of a buck who has stumbled too deeply into the pool.  The herd recoils, backing thunderously away from the violence as the reptile thrashes from side to side and eventually rolls the buck to deeper, quickly reddening water that slowly calms once again.

The herds stay for a time, seeming to forget but learning all the same, returning to the rituals of survival.  They can’t waste time, for too soon they will hear,

“Last call,” and the bartender makes them pay up, grab their purses and coats, and head out the door.

DrDan

01/16/14

“Smoke Signals and Drumbeats” [Facebook post from 01-15-2014]

You’ve undoubtedly noticed that I’ve been posting these long diatribes regularly—well, the last few days, at least—and may have asked yourself, “What’s up with that?”  Good question.  I think I’m still trying to answer it for myself, however, and there are several possible explanations, a few that have even come up in responses to my comments.

I guess the most obvious is that I do fancy myself a writer, and writers write.  Inherent in that is publication.  I used to tell my students that even people who keep a “private” diary do so with the subconscious understanding that someone is probably going to read it one day.  That’s basic publication.  That’s why writers write, to share with others.  Whether or not what has been written needs to be shared, or is worth the effort for the reader, is ultimately up to the reader.  Some of you have already stopped reading this, and that’s fine with me.  I am a bit different from some writers in that I very much like feedback.  In fact, I used to share my writing with my students and not tell them I was the author until after they’d given their critiques.  I really like this with poetry, but it’s always good to know how an audience is reacting or what questions they have.  How has what you’ve read affected you?  Why?  So…write back J

Another explanation for my writing here is that I am, as a former student pointed out, still teaching.  (Calm down.  There won’t be a test.)  That’s why these facebook epistles have mostly been rather philosophical prompts for you to consider.  Most writing does that, too—presents an explanation, an observation, a question, or an experience for the reader to consider and maybe help him/her make (some) sense of the world.

Social media have changed a great deal in the last few years.  It’s been around since the first humanoid tried to communicate with his or her fellows.  Picture the Internet as a public smoke signal or big hollow log you can pound on to send a message to someone else…anyone within earshot!  I used to talk on the phone and write letters by the dozen (yep, real put-a-stamp-on-it snail mail).  I once wrote to a friend in Georgia I hadn’t seen in five years and told her I was coming to visit.  I was knocking on her door before her letter telling me not to come hit my mailbox.  We had a nice visit anyway…for about twenty minutes.  IM is much cheaper!

I used to write a blog.  Something tells me they’re not that popular any more, and I haven’t written anything and posted there in over a year…for numerous reasons.  Good ol’ facebook is much more popular and immediate, for good or ill.

I read the snippets posted here about what is going on in your lives, your celebrations and frustrations and simple observations about life and things in general, and I don’t read what doesn’t appeal to me (e.g., cats and games, politics and religion, on-going arguments that read like graffiti).  You do the same, I’m sure.  Feel free to come and go with these, too.

What I am trying to do, I suppose, is provide something more for you and for me.  Please feel free to comment, even just a “Like” is appreciated.  I know; I wish there was a “Dislike” button, too.  When the spirit moves you, I hope you respond with something more.  Ask questions, relate your own experiences and opinions, offer alternatives.  Some of you may have guessed this—it’s a teaching strategy.  Write On.

DrDan

01/15/14