“This Book Sucks!” and Other Premature Conclusions I’ve Come To.

For the past couple years, I’ve noticed something about every single book I read: the first 100 pages sucked. Some books made the miraculous transformation from shitty to good around page 85. Some took their time and didn’t morph until p. 112 or so. I thought at first I was on to some discovery about my reading or literature at large. Are today’s authors such navel-gazers that they take their sweet time getting to the gripping action while they meander through their self-indulgence before getting down to the real job of keeping my attention? Or was there…something else?

I’ve read a lot of books in my life. But I can’t remember a lot of them. I remember reading them, and I remember the feeling I had reading them – a mixture of shading, raw emotion, and intuition – but I often forget the basic plot, the character’s names, or even the major themes of the work. I sometimes read like a vampire, sucking what I need out of a book and tossing it aside for the next one. Those things that I should latch on to and that should latch on to me slip by in my frenzy to consume. I’m addicted to words, and I’m addicted to story, and when I read I want the uncut stuff right in my veins. Addicts don’t have time to sit back and reflect; they just want more. I want more. But I also want to carry more of what I read with me. I want to remember so I can articulate the beauty I see as it passes me by.

I’ve been told I have high expectations. I’ve always had a problem seeing that in the way others see it. I give credence to the fact that it’s difficult for us to see how we are to others; my reality is so much inside my head that the outside is like the outside wall of  a prison, something I never see. I think what others see as high expectations is my fixation on one thing. I get obsessed with one idea, and though I see the rest of the world during my obsession, it’s background. So when I read a work of fiction and I’m bored for the first 100 pages, and I read another work of fiction and become bored around the same area, and when this repeats over and over again…I’ve come to realize I haven’t discovered something about the world. I’ve discovered something about myself.

How skewed is that? That my opinion of something is so individualized that I fail to see any reality other than it. The first 100 pages of the last dozen or two books that I’ve read are not all crap. A novel needs time to establish itself, to build to something so that an epiphany can exist. It’s unreasonable, and silly, to expect a novel to be non-stop adrenaline. What boundary am I not respecting? I expect the lines of reality to blur to the contours in which I perceive them. I expect reality to bend to me.  I’ve stepped into the realm of demanding my wants be met in every area of my life, regardless of the reality of the situation. I want life without death; happiness without suffering; drunkenness without the hangover; gluttony without the weight gain. This is the dark side of dreaming, when one looks at the world, hopes and imagines it different, but instead of birthing something uplifting or something genius, it’s more of the old twisted ways, the self-serving, the blind.

I carry every book I’ve ever read with me. But not in titles and author names and plot lines. I carry them in feelings, emotions, and the nameless things that animate my world. I am an addict and I enjoy my addiction. Yet I still feel I must answer for it, to have something to say to someone else. To be able to articulate my experiences.

It’s funny. I like to write. I have some skill with it. But I struggle mightily with articulating the swirls and shifts of my perceptions. You know what I mean?

A Low Feeling’s Aspirations

I don’t fit in,
But I don’t feel bad.
You can’t miss a feeling that you never had.

“Normal People”
Fucked Up

I love the last line for the hope it gives. But I don’t think it’s true. You might not be able to miss something you never had, but you can see other people using what you don’t have, and you can want it. Missing and wanting sometimes feel like the same thing; emotions can’t tell time. Past, future; it’s all the same.

I see her laugh and I want that. I want something carefree. I want something so light. But I can’t read her heart. I can’t see the shadows and the dread. I can’t see how the laugh is a fist in the air, a rebellion that will soon die. It will resurrect again, but it lives and dies and lives and dies, and that’s just how it is.

Another thing I want: to ride the hope that’s in the lyric. To not run it through my logic machine. To not think, to not clamp my thoughts around a feeling like a rubber tube so they can bounce harmlessly off all the rocky surfaces. To raise my fist and make a decision, to not ride helplessly the swift tide of conformity and comparison-competition.

I don’t fit in.
I do feel bad.
I want that feeling that I never had.

I like Fucked Up’s version better…

 

The Outside World

I’ve dabbled with writing since I was a junior in high school. In college, writing took a backseat to reading since I showed up as an English major with major deficiencies in my literature experience. After college, writing took a backseat to partying and shaking off the shackles of my youth. As I entered my third decade on the planet, I began to see the end of the endless good times. Something substantial would have to replace the carefree since the carefree doesn’t stay so innocent for long.

I decided to become a writer. It took me a while to realize that this needed to be an overt decision. I already wrote (from time to time), I thought about writing all the time, and I read voraciously, paying attention to writers and their world. But it wasn’t my world. It was a hobby that I expected to be more than that.On its own. It’s taken me some time to learn that in order to become something, you have to be it; you have to do it. All the time. I’d never surrendered to anything; I’d never tried to become something. I had nebulous ideas about me being a writer that I believed to be concrete facts, even if they hadn’t had their time yet. I can write; I am good at it; therefore people will knock down the door to read and publish myself. How can that not be true?!?

Over the past seven years or so, I’ve been in training. I see it in the same way as a doctor’s path to opening a practice. A doctor-to-be goes to school, takes courses, and then rotates through different aspects of the medical field. Upon graduation, she then begins to practice medicine. I am at the point where I feel I’m ready to practice my craft. I have something to say and I now know how to say it.

This is what has been so difficult for me: in order to be a writer (really any artist), you have to put yourself out there. Art of any kind is a performance. You are placing yourself out in the world and presenting your creation. Actor, writer, painter; any artist is a performer. Even writers like me who’d rather hole up in their writing spot and never speak or hear or see another human being ever again. Maybe not at the heart of it, but some part of the reason I want to be a writer is to be read. I want to be seen.

When I see a performer I like – an actor or a musician – I think about what it takes to get up and do what they do. Imagine what it is like for a top-tier musician who sells out stadiums to get in front of that audience and sing and dance with thousands of eyes on their every move. Even if they’re a natural, even if they’ve been doing it for years, that person is opening themselves up in front of other people. Their success depends in large part on people accepting and liking the performance. That whole idea gives me the fantods.

I don’t want to perform because at the heart of any performance is expression, and I have a difficult time expressing myself. Sometimes it feels like people in the outside world have a better bead on who I am than I do myself. What kind of artist doesn’t want to express himself? This one. But maybe this gets into something deeper. Maybe it goes beyond wanting and gets more into needing. Maybe I balk at the idea of putting my true self out there, but there’s something inside that’s pushing it out, that’s demanding to be let out.

I can’t find it right now, but I remember reading a quote by Ray Bradbury in which he said that he didn’t know what he was doing when he wrote his books. He just did. I’ve always been amazed by that quote since it’s logical that someone who accomplished so much couldn’t have done it without some sort of future-seeing plan. But now I get what he was saying. When I decided to be a writer, I didn’t know what kind of writer I wanted to be. I had lofty ideas in my head, but me coming to the decision to become a writer was partly borne of frustration. I’m not Ray Bradbury. I’m not David Foster Wallace. I’m not Stephen King. I’m not any of the countless authors that have spoken to me, who have lit the way. So who am I? I still don’t know, but I did find the one thing missing that could answer that question: the work. Sure, I have tons and tons of things I’ve written. Pages upon pages, books upon books, files upon files. But I didn’t have anything complete, nothing that I could say to another person, even a friendly ear: Here, this is something I’ve written that you’ll enjoy.

So I put my head down and I worked. I carved out the time and I wrote and I wrote and soon the writing took over. Soon I was thinking about it more and more, which in turn pushed me to write, which in turn pushed me to write. I had invented a perpetual motion machine.

Three months ago today, I took the picture below. I was feeling the work I was doing was useless. I felt like I was churning and fighting and grinding and changing nothing. And then I compiled the notebooks. I’d had my head down, and when I looked up I  realized I’d done something. I’ve filled these notebooks since I’ve started taking writing seriously.

There’s a lot of drivel in those notebooks, but their value can’t be seen in the picture. These notebooks represent a no rules/no consequences space for me. I can write whatever I want. I can write something that will never sell. I can write something that sucks. I can write something that might be good. I can write something that is the seed of a thing. I can express myself.

Some people are at home in front of people. I am not. But I can get myself to the point where what I’m doing, what I want to write about is more powerful than my desire to live apart from the outside world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Sore Loser

Last night, my local writers group gathered in one member-couple’s house for a Halloween party in which we read a 1000 word or so scary story we wrote for the occasion. What I didn’t know beforehand was there’d be a vote for a winner.

I didn’t win. Not winning a fun contest between non-rivals shouldn’t be a big deal. But like people who play fantasy football and have limited determination over what players they have and no determination over how those players perform each week, I was pissed I didn’t win. Why does our ego bruise when we lose, even when winning is an arbitrary by-product?

I think there might’ve been a conspiracy afoot. Seven people in attendance. C1 and C; married. C2 and R; married. Then attending alone: A, M, and me. The two husbands didn’t write a story but still voted. And you could vote for yourself. One single attendee received 2 votes. One wife received two votes. And the other three attendees, including me, received one vote. This is what I think went down:

C1 (wife 1): voted for A.

C (husband 1): voted for C, his wife.

C2 (wife 2): voted for me

R (husband 2): voted for C2, his wife

A: voted for C (this is only one that doesn’t make sense to me)

M: voted for A

me: voted for M, the only vote I know to be true.

There was malfeasance present! Two people not writing and voting according to their conflict of interest. I was robbed!!

Or so I have to tell myself. Because I’ve been writing seriously for about 7 years now. I need things to start happening. I need to start receiving some recognition. And this little party would’ve been minor validation that I’m on my way. And I lost.

I don’t like losing. Anything. Is that why I’m here baking up thin conspiracy theories?

But seriously, I’d like to know how people voted, and I’d like to discuss the winner’s stories to see what worked and to see what mine didn’t have. That’s what I’m having trouble with. I write a story that I’m happy with and it doesn’t resonate like I want it to. Am I basing too much on people’s fickle taste? I’m not losing faith in my art; but it’d be nice to get some atta boys once in a while.

Maybe my story wasn’t what I thought it was. I’m ok with that idea, but I don’t know why. I need to know why.

I think sore losers get a bad rap. Is it so bad to be so heavily invested in something?

Running Someone Else’s Course

I oscillate between powerful and powerless. I am king of my domain and transient slave in another’s. I am the universe and I am a blip in its furious course.

My life is my kingdom that at times I rule with skill and wisdom. At other times it is a depressed city that’s been taken over by the state.

As I alternate my crown and my dunce hat, I think of a new kingdom. This new kingdom isn’t based on pushing outward, but circumscribing and staying put. It’s a plot of land. It has a fence. And I’m the source of energy and the impetus behind what happens behind the fence.

I am a teacher in my 16th year. I have an easier schedule this year than any other: no homeroom, and a duty period in which I can get other work done for 1st period. My days start off comfortably. There’s no rush. I am free to accomplish without the mean hand on my back. I am not the author of this good fortune; my power and abilities did nothing to bring about the good.

But I still create my own rush. I discomfit myself, push my own self from behind, blindly, ever on, ever on. To never ever quit is a value that needs to be devalued like an overpriced stock. To do blindly is to do dumbly. To do without a plan is to work like a mule.

I have started writing something that’s on my mind in the morning. Something short, something “easy.” My easier schedule allows it. But what happens next school year? What happens when I’m back to the oppressive schedule, when every minute of the day is spoken for by others, when what my school lacks devours my time in its demands placed on me instead of placed on adequate funding, adequate materials, etc?

I define success by accomplishing everything. I’ve failed to achieve my own defined success. As a teacher, I want to reach every student, teach every angle of every lesson; I want to do it all and I want to do it all well. Anything less is failure. But after 15 years, I’ve learned about failure, real failure. I’ve become intimate with it.

Even in trying to conclude this, I find myself thinking of everything. But the small something, the little thing I can put in my pocket and carry with me and make a part of me is this: I’m writing this morning. I won. But what happens when my life isn’t as advantageous to winning. What then is success?

I’m a Time Lord. Sort of.

Raising a child is time travel. As my son grows older and experiences so many firsts, I remember my own experience in the same circumstances as I observe him going through his. It’s living in the past and in the present in the same space. I am a powerful time lord!

I never thought I’d have children, and I certainly never thought I’d be the parent waiting outside the school building with all the other adults who have procreated. In various childhood memories, I remember a list of characters. Obviously I am the main character in my story-memory. Then come the other important characters, those directly involved in interactions with me or in my direct line of observation. Then there are the bit players, the person standing off to the side or walking by when something happened. Now, as a parent waiting for his son outside the school building with all the other parents and their pre-school-age children and the other students in other grades besides my son’s, I am a bit player in so many other kids’ experience. This is where the power comes from, the power to shape memories and tell stories that go beyond a selfish point-of-view. Before my son’s birth, I saw through that only-person perspective. I cared only about the construction of my own memories. Everyone was a bit player to my story. Now I’m a bit player to others. Maybe I’m able to time travel, but I’m not powerful. I’m no lord. If anyone holds the power, it’s my son. He doesn’t know it, and maybe he can’t know it. It’s the kind of power that maybe the one who owns it can’t wield. But he has it. The power to create memories. The power to draw me along with him as he establishes himself in this world, as he builds his memories and his stories. Maybe I’m not a time lord after all, but a time lord’s companion.

Cell Phones in Schools; or How Modern Schools are Anything But.

As a teacher, I often watch quality ideas and golden opportunities fly by like a $100 bill  blowing across a busy highway. For a number of years while teaching middle school, I was told to arrange students’ desks in groups of four rather than rows. I refused. I kept them in rows, and I intended to keep them in rows for the entire year. My plan was to teach my students the different modes in which they would learn: individually with their focus on me and/or their own work (rows); collectively as a whole class with their attention on me or another student in front of the class (rows); and collectively in small groups with their focus on their group’s objective. However, the mandate/command came down from on high with little thought to implementation. “Just do it” is as far as thinking about implementation went. I was told to get my desks in rows. The compromise was I had until the end of the week to get the desks in rows. I tried to explain, to show I was trying to implement the district’s wishes, that I in fact agreed with the push for collaborative work and group seating, but that our students did not sit quietly and work on their own. They needed to be taught. Even with threats of punishment, cajoling, and outright bribery, they very rarely sat down to work. Putting them in groups put the greatest temptation – another student – in front of students too young and ill-trained to deal with it. You don’t need an education degree to see the folly in that.

I was reminded of this wasted opportunity, and many others over the years, when I saw this headline:

Cellphones gaining acceptance inside US schools: https://apnews.com/28f7490db4af49ab81c38cf2f852aa87

My first reaction was “It’s about time!” My second reaction was despair over the participle form of “gain.” In a society in which cell phones have gained acceptance, our schools, a pillar of our society, have rejected them. If there’s any universal, timeless truth about schools, it’s that what’s in society will be present in the schools. Banning cellphones in schools is tantamount to banning cars in society.

This issue has got me thinking about rules, punishment, and those that decide them both. When I was a child, I remember things being referred to as “bad.” Not finishing your peas was bad. Not hustling on a ball field was bad. Some kids were referred to as bad and we full well knew what that meant. I grew up in a time when black and white still reigned, when good and bad didn’t bleed into one another, and people had a clear choice to make. Choose good over bad. Because bad was bad and there is no redemption from such a label. Growing up and on into early adulthood, I didn’t think much about this distinction. It wasn’t until I heard my parents refer to my son running like any 5-year-old will do around the vacation house they rent every year as “bad” that I saw that maybe this is a worldview and not just an introductory way to teach a young child about right and wrong. That maybe the childishness of “bad” remains in an adult even when they should be dealing with the complexities rather than the simplicities of “bad.”

Cellphones are a way of life. In such a short time, they’ve gone from novel, space-age magic toys to the thing you grab along with your keys and wallet before leaving the house. According to the Pew Research Center, 95% of American adults own a cell phone. 77% own a smart phone (that’s a lot of flip phones still out there) (http://www.pewinternet.org/fact-sheet/mobile/). That’s over 238 million adults in American who have a phone. Then there are the kids. Take a walk outside, pretty much anywhere in America, and you will see people with cell phones. I wouldn’t be surprised if you went to some remote national forest in America and found a person there on a cell phone. They’re everywhere. And we’re on them all the time. One statistic estimates that Americans spend 5 hours a day on their cell phones (https://techcrunch.com/2017/03/03/u-s-consumers-now-spend-5-hours-per-day-on-mobile-devices/). 5 hours. Besides sleep and work, what one activity do we do for that long? While what one can do on a cell phone varies, the fact remains that the devices are integral to our daily lives.

Unfortunately, many school leaders are blind to this. They’re blind to any complexities beyond a simple right/wrong. They are blind to the effects of their polices because they are more concerned about checking off a box and “doing” their job. They are no longer Toys R Us kids (I guess we all won’t be soon, but the point remains). When an adult grows up and forgets what it’s like to be a kid, they lose empathy and therefore view children as “bad” if they’re breaking the rules. Adults don’t think about the effects of the rules on kids; they’re concerned with creating and enforcing rules to fit only their version of the world. A principal is more concerned with meeting the requirements of the job than with meeting the needs of children. A teacher is more concerned with meeting the requirements of the job than with meeting the needs of children. This attitude is present in many other areas of life. In religion, we are sinners who must pay for our sins instead of receiving help with our weaknesses. In our society, “they” are addicts who willingly take the stupid risk of death to get high instead of people with different weaknesses who need help with them. Rules aside, if people don’t live to our expectations, then we condemn them. Maybe the problem isn’t kids determined to skirt rules, but rulers that create rules that accomplish unintended consequences.

The educators mentioned in the article, Superintendent Brian Garverick and Principal Jim Freund, are Captain Hook from Peter Pan, the disconnected adults who must punish those they don’t understand. Just look at their language. Garverick focuses on texting and cheating. Freund judges the students’ maturity level. They focus on what’s wrong with the kids. Kids. Kids who need to be taught what to do. Kids who are in schools run by people like this who look to people like this to teach them what they need to do to be successful in this world. While adults struggle with using phones in healthy, beneficial ways, the kids are immature. What then are the adults?

This is a dereliction of duty by those entrusted with our children’s education. It’s willful ignorance to not accept the ubiquity of cell phones. As the article mentions, even little kids have them. It is pure stupidity and abdication of authority to think banning them does anything to solve the “problem.” Banning abdicates responsibility because it assumes the ban is a self-sustaining solution. In fact, a ban requires repeated investment since a ban does not on it’s own contain the mechanism for enforcement. So when an administrator bans something, they’re merely checking off a box in a list of accomplishments that give the appearance of doing their job. In fact, they are undermining those under them and creating greater problems that go unchecked because they can show off their check-the-box ban as problem solved.
Just as adults need help with using their phones, so do children. I’d argue more so because they are children. If there’s an etiquette to cell phone usage – say don’t phub (an actual word combining phone and snub) someone while at a restaurant or don’t use it to cheat on a test or don’t show disrespect to the teacher by turning your attention to the more interesting phone- then teach it. What are Garverick and Freund doing in their schools to teach their students how to use this ubiquitous technology? Nothing. Instead, they are sending students into the world not with applicable skills but with missed opportunities.

There are countless ways in which cell phones could be used in the classroom. In districts like mine which struggle to pay the bills, having computers for each students is a wish that will never come true. The computers I have in my classroom, which are there for a special class meant to get kids reading on grade level, are old and slow. When a monitor recently broke, the IT guys said sorry, we don’t have any more. My district cannot provide computers for its students. But we have students providing computers for themselves. Nearly every student has a cell phone, a basic hand-held computer. A student could research and write an entire essay and turn it in to the teacher from their phone. The internet, so commonplace now, but a mind-blowing achievement of collected human knowledge, is available in a small, portable device. Textbooks, primary sources, videos, audio: the list is as endless as the internet is. I’m having trouble understanding why an educational leader would turn down such a godsend resource like the internet.

I can hear the response now. Cell phones are distractions. Kids just play on their phones. They use the camera, Air Drop, and various apps to communicate under the teacher’s radar. Did you know them younguns can take a picture of another student’s assignment and copy it!? Those terrible, evil children.

It takes time, effort, and human resources to craft, implement, and maintain a cell phone policy that utilizes phones in the classroom. An educational leader who forgoes the time, effort, and human resources needed to allow students to easily access information lacks intelligence, leadership qualities, originality, creativity, and courage. They are brainless cowards who because of their static ineptitude bar students from an educational opportunity. In our advanced, scientific, technological society, the main driver and sustainer of those things – schools –  is stuck in the grip of bad ideas, outmoded thinking, and fear.

Ready Player One: A Book Review

I am not obsessed with the 80s, and I liked this book.

I am not a big video game player, and I liked this book.

I do not enjoy someone explaining playing a game over playing it myself, and I liked this book.
In fact, I’m more critical of the 80s than most, and there’s a part of me (that I try not to listen to, too much) that thinks 80s freaks like Ernest Cline are a species of roach, at once interesting but at the same time discomfort-inducing. So what, you watched a lot of TV as a kid. I view people obsessed with pop culture from any time period as navel-gazers who need to expand their horizons much the same way a religious person who only reads the Bible.
But I liked this book.
I liked it because it was a page-turner. One of the greatest reading thrills of my life, now and since I was a kid, is buying a paperback at a supermarket or a drug store and flying through it. It’s cool water when I’m dehydrated. It’s a warm dinner when I skipped lunch. I can’t get enough and the actual ingestion is the reward. But what struck me as different about this page-turner is that Cline is essentially describing someone playing a video game. And I couldn’t get enough. It’s like going to a friend’s house to play video games and instead of playing, he tells you play-by-play how he beat the game last night. It shouldn’t be possible to make the telling just as exciting as the doing. But Cline pulled it off. As with any book, especially one as long, there were some slow parts and some parts where the action didn’t jump off the page. But these were the minority, and most were quickly swallowed up in a few pages by revitalized adventure.
I also liked this book because I like experiencing other people geek out. Even if it’s over something I’m not into. I enjoyed being overwhelmed with the references. As I read at breakneck speed, I had little time to consider just how difficult it is to integrate so much information into a story. Perhaps if I went back into the book and read it slower or read certain passages slower I’d see the strings or the exposed zipper on the costumes, but that’s not how one should read this kind of book. I dove in and swam luxuriously in the excessive 80s. I respect anyone with a lot of knowledge, and I feed off the energy that comes from someone geeking out over their vast store of knowledge. Even if that knowledge is useless (hence the irony of a story about gaining immense wealth and power by simply playing games).
There’s much to criticize with this book. A book about an all-pervasive internet that acts like a drug for the oppressed people of the world should include criticisms of that system that echo our own. Cline wasted a huge opportunity to craft his story to show the dangers of a far-reaching internet. He did, in a way, but that part of the story – the Sixers, etc. – didn’t have teeth. It wasn’t the point. The reader is swallowed up in 80s nostalgia, perhaps mimicking the stultification caused by Oasis in the book. That’s an interesting idea, but I don’t think it sticks. So much can be read into this book (a reason it’s so popular), but I’m not sure the book can sustain any stretching beyond what it is. It’s a book written in our time period for our time period, something meant to be quickly ingested, quickly digested, and quickly absorbed as a form of happiness. For what it is, it was a good book.

 

So, Teaching?

I’ve been sitting here staring at a blank post, searching desperately in my various databases – memory, emotion, intellect – for an entrance into writing about teaching. I’ve been teaching for almost 15 years; I have drafts and abandoned essays about my experience littered across notebooks and apps and flash drives; I have published pieces on this blog. There’s plenty to write about, but yet I’m stymied. And I’m mystified.

That’s one maxim of Teaching, in my experience: confusion. Do I sit here with writer’s block – which I don’t believe in – because I don’t care as much as I profess, to myself and others, about the job? Is my students’ apathy, lack of performance, and general struggle to perform my fault, and to what extent? I know the answer to that one, sort of. But that answer isn’t enough to counter the daily fresh evidence against it. That’s what it comes down to: dead ends and no clue how your meticulous plans got you there. Confusion clogs up thought and eats words like a black hole eats matter. Maybe I should just sum up my teaching career so far with the only response that comes easily to mind: WHAT THE FUCK?!?

Here’s what I want to do. In order to break down the whirling, ever-growing confusion, I want to write regularly, to create an ongoing record of my experience. I want to be right, and I want to be wrong, but most of all I want to do. I self-censor like the most enthusiastic totalitarian regime; and I’m more effective. I hand-wring so much that I don’t ever produce. I stifle myself, my thoughts, my emotions, and all I’m left with is the vapid WHAT THE FUCK?!? This sort of response is a nuclear bomb. The emotion bomb is destructive enough. It’s the fallout that lingers and continues the devastation.

Similarly, I want to write dispassionately about a subject/job that feels like carrying nitroglycerin on a high wire. There is a real need for reporting on what occurs in America’s classrooms, for the benefit of teachers and the general public alike. Teaching has become a cliche, and one of the worst kinds: the kind that invites no further perusal (more on that later). Worse, teaching is one of the neglected pillars of our society. Somehow, finally, I feel ready to open the door to my classroom, invite you in, and talk for a while. That’s much better than my daily tendency to flee campus as soon as I’m contractually allowed and seal behind a fortress wall the whirling insanity that is the daily life of a teacher.

Up next: I’ve read a bunch of Nathaniel Hawthorne lately. His voice is still relevant all these years later in an America that doesn’t, but needs to, come to grips with what we’ve created here in this “New” World. Like Janie in Their Eyes Were Watching God, we need a picture of ourselves to finally see who we really are.

What a politicized gun debate means.

The debate over guns in this country has become politicized. That’s no cliche. As a politized topic, there are two sides using rhetoric as weapons in a war for political power. Rhetoric is not fact. Rhetoric has no connection to what actually happens amongst humans on this earth. So if we discuss the topics that politics dictates, we are having a conversation about politics, not about the real-world solutions to real-world problems. It’s absurd that the ruts of division we’ve carved between and amongst us exist because we’ve allowed the terms of the debate to be set for us. Guns, like abortion, can no longer be talked about civilly without both sides retreating behind their ramparts and hurling sharpened rhetoric and personal insults. It’s not that you hold beliefs that I view as wrong; it’s that you’re a gun nut who cares more about bullets than people or a lefty sissy who doesn’t have the backbone to make touch decisions. Politics is an incredibly inefficient system, wasting energy on the demonization of the enemy rather than the solution to a problem.

Politics is akin to the now ubiquitous Monday morning quarterbacks who make a living off of talking about something they could never do. What politicians do in Washington is my business as an American citizen, but the games they play in order to be in and stay in power isn’t. Believing the right thing, speaking out for the right thing is useless when it’s done in the political arena. Why do Americans shortchange their power by believing in the ephemera surrounding the day-to-day business of living and dying in America? We have a gun problem in America. People with guns will continue to kill large amounts of people not because politicians won’t do anything about it, but because the American people are happy with the disconnect being “involved in the political process” allows us.

For an interesting look at what some other countries do regarding school safety and a jaunt outside our political system:
https://apnews.com/096fe65cf28640d481c641638eb89fc5

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