Attached to a Chair, Sitting Behind a Screen, Editing, and Planning #My Life

After a.m. dental procedures yesterday, I had most of Wednesday to get on top of the game. Sure, I took a short run before heading to work, but then it was time to 'make the donuts.'

As I saw my colleagues in the hallway, it was easy to see that they too are 'making these donuts." Late October is the time for teaching-heaviness...transitioning the responsibilities of the course to the students so they can complete projects and demonstrate their learning for the semester. I'd argue that this is the third lap around a football field in the mile-long race of a semester. Each move made in the classroom needs to be delicate, precise, pertinent, and helpful. The wrong one and the students flip out into anarchy, stress, and paranoia. When they see the end coming, they fall into angst. There's nothing worse than a room full of students freaking out.

And speaking of angst, a large portion of my day yesterday was spent copy-editing P.O.W.!, the summer anthology of young writers at Fairfield University. Although I did poetry a few weeks ago, yesterday I tacked the fiction. We're looking to publish a 170 page book and my eyes went batty. It's a lot of adolescent drama to peruse in one sitting: love, break-ups, imaginary worlds, and fights with the parents. One things for sure...our publication will showcase what it means to be a teenager.

When I finally got home last, I procrastinated by thinking of a strategic lesson to help my freshmen students with their research and the readings we did for class from the anthology Everyone's an Author. They read about arguments and so, curse my brain, I found an Op Ed that is relevant to each of my student's research interests. It took me 90-minutes, but I did it.

Wola! I have my objectives for today's class.

With this noted, my arse is tired of sitting. My back hates it, too. I'm ready for some good cheese to go with this Thursday whiiiiiiiiinnnnne.

Happy Halloween. I can't say mine will be eventful at all.

I love brilliant, creative ingenuity...

...and that's why I love teachers who work with first graders.

Each week, I have a graduate student 'open the curtain' with a 15-minute activity that we might steal for our own classrooms (I borrowed this from George Theoharis from Syracuse - the opening and closing events were a great way to build community and to learn from our colleagues).

Last night, a first grade teacher brought many show-n-tell items and walked us through the ways she gets her students to think about stories, characters, plots, and setting. In the materials she brought, however, I found this easter egg with the letters "die" on one side and phonemes on the right side: s, r br, h, sn, etc. As you twisted the egg, you had a fast and easy way to learn letter sounds and to practice reading them simply by holding one side still and twisting the other.

S P E C T A C U L A R !

She told the class that she read about this on Craig's List. Talk about bringing intelligence together with items lying around the house. I was thinking about this for math teachers - to have students practice multiplication tables or for high school teachers to teach greek root words. This is the brand of instruction I've never found in textbooks and why I'd much rather work with teachers in the classroom who do whatever it takes to dazzle students and keep their reading and writing in mind.

AND I realize I would have never witnessed this if I didn't pay attention to the teaching styles of my mentors. Teachers teaching teachers - it truly is the best model for learning!

Well, Dylan, I'm not quite sure what I'd rather do.

Ah, the memories of indecisiveness and eating dinner at the Isgars.

For several years in Louisville and Syracuse, I've used my little box of Zobmondo to spur entertainment and teach students beginning phases of constructing arguments.

Would you rather...have five bottles stuck on the fingers of one hand for a year -or- have a bucket stuck on your foot for a year?

For over a decade I've used this game in my classroom during conversations of writing argumentative essays and finding the succinct purpose for articulating exactly how you feel...and why.

Would you rather...wake up to find your neck has grown five inches longer -or- that your rear end has doubled in size?

My nephew, Dylan, internalized the game and for years he'd ask ethical questions while we ate dinner or simply while we were sitting around being brain dead.

Would you rather...be stuck with Nikki attached at your hip for a year -or- wake up every morning for the rest of your life and only seeing Nikki in the morning mirror?

The game has endless qualities and tonight in my graduate course we will play it to, once again, spawn a conversation for the best strategies for students to back up their opinions with researched and relevant information. My thinking is that any opinion is worthy if an individual can intelligently articulate (and write) the reasons they feel the way they do. This, I believe, is one quality of the Common Core State Standards that I stand behind with 100% conviction.

I would rather continuing teaching with this game as a tool than assigning my students to write solid arguments without fun, skill-focused assignments. Yep. 

"The Crickets Have Arthritis" by Shane Koyczan

Is it really Monday again, already? Oi Vay.

So, last week, I was helping a student with his research on rheumatoid arthritis when I tried to convince him that he might even find a poem that could help him articulate the points he hoped to make. When we did the pervasive Google Search, we came across this one. The two of us watched it together with complete admiration for the power of Koyczan's words. Neither one of us payed any attention if the poem would be useful for his paper, but we did feel the punch and impact of his voice.

I said, "I might be wrong, but this may be the poet that performed at the Winter games in Canada in 2010." I looked it up and, well, I was right. He made an impact on me then, too.

Note to self: learn more about Shane Koyczan. His prose is building a community that is captivating and moving. In my head, I surround myself with artists like this guy because I'd rather see performances like his than the traditional academic papers the university expects me to assign.

Here's to the week ahead!

Stealing an Ethnographic Move from Gerald Grant to Understand a School in Connecticut

Bassick High School Tennis Champions, 1949

That is, I've been glancing through photographs of what once was and reflecting on the very moments we have right now.

"Change is inevitable. Change for the better is a full-time job." Adlai E. Stevenson

When I was collecting data in Syracuse, New York, I read Gerald Grant's book Hope and Despair in the American City in which he revisited his study of "Hamilton High School" in Syracuse and reflected on the changes he saw in its demographics over time, especially with urban school districts today. His strategy was to thumb through stored yearbooks as a way to gain knowledge of the ways civil rights and equality affected student bodies in a period of twenty years. He noticed locations of testimony depicting a cultural thumbprint of the time (and when I read his work, I laughed - "Hamilton High" is more diverse now than he ever experienced during his research. In fact, the hallways are filled with languages from over 42 countries - refugee relocation has changed the fabric of what he once studied)

Last week, while working with Bassick High School, the principal and I looked at photographs he had hanging in his office - artifacts of Bridgeport's history and a small location of history. One photography from 1949 caught my attention. Why? It is a representation of a student body very unlike the demographics Bridgeport City Schools serves today. 1949 began the economic boom in many U.S., post World War II cities. 1949 was also the year that South Africa established Apartheid. (Interestingly, it was the year the song, "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" premiered and George Orwell's 1984 hit bookshelves). 

Driving through Bridgeport now, I can't help but see a forgotten city - one that is a shell of what it once was before industry moved in pursuit of cheaper labor.  I wonder what the 15 boys above would think about the state of education at their alma mater and what perspective they would take on the city they knew as young men. I wonder if they would feel a sense of responsibility to Bridgeport's history and/or a tinge of disgruntled embarrassment at the reality of Connecticut today. Maybe they would be proud. I would hope not.

Bridgeport, like many cities across the U.S., is a sign of the times - one I hope politicians will begin working to restore. Jobs would help. So would more support for educators and students in the public school system. We need real leadership locally, state-wide, and nationally that begins to reign and contain the vast economic gaps of our country. Too few have too much. Too many have too little. Then there are those in-between working too hard to make ends meet to have time to propose better solutions.

1949 - S. Africa

2013 - The United States

I wonder who is working to bring a change for the better. I hear a lot of rhetoric. I see very little action.

It's Crisp. The Skyline Seeks Winter.

I suppose this is the transition period. A year ago this time southern Connecticut was anticipating Hurricane Sandy. Today in Connecticut, it is just plain cold. I spent my day at home working on recommendation, readings, and downloading software updates that, although minor, means a day of reorganizing all my accounts. It is frustrating to see how digital our world and identity are, and as soon as one item changes, a domino effect on all other items occurs. Of course, remembering passwords and user names is not as easy as one would think.

Anyway, the skyline tonight was wonderful, although the air was crisp. I have amazing optimism for accomplishing the tasks on a tremendous checklist. Yet, with every item knocked off, four more pile up in emails. It's a never ending battle that, I suppose, is something I just need to get used to. It will not get easier, nor will it get more difficult.

I wonder, though, what luddites do in times like we live in now. Can they really get by with 100% anonymity without an online presence? If so, I am jealous. I see such people as 21st century ninjas able to maneuver beyond the radar of sign-ins and histories. They are those who resist the FEED. Good for them.

Happy weekend. I'm heading to my office to get on top of my game. I've been drawing up a plan and I need a productive day.

I write to be a big brother, forever and always. #NDOW #corewriting #siblings

I am writing this on the 24th, my sister's birthday, even though it will air the 25th, the day after. The video above was created in preparation for a package to be sent to my sister for her 40th. It's a big day and she deserves nothing but the best.

See, for 40+ years my little sister has had the irreplaceable privilege of having me as her older brother. The result of this familial tie is my absolute love, dedication, support, and encouragement of her. For years, I've found just the right gift to appease her picky palate and this year, yes, this year, I got it exactly right. I know this because the evidence was sent to me through the texts of Cynderballs.

No, I couldn't actually be with Casey to sing the traditional birthday song and, knowing this, I had the
foresight to think ahead. I've been holding this video for a few weeks in anticipation of writing this post today. Shopping for her 40th this year was a blast.

This is for Karyn Dee Barnwell Crandall in celebration of her existence, journey, and wonderful contributions as a daughter, sister, mother, wife, friend, and human being. You are loved and I believe everyone will recognize that with this present, you have never looked better. ORANGE IS YOUR COLOR. I had a hunch last Christmas that you would look spectacular in orange, but you resisted. Obviously, you needed more convincing

Here's to you, K dot C dot. Youngest of three. Class of 1991. Resident of Manlius. Mother of two brilliant young men.

I don't know where you will wear this get-up first, but I think if you pierce your ears again, don the butterfly earrings, this would look spectacular at Syracuse Stage when you go to see The Christmas Carol. If not that, perhaps trick or treating at the streets of your neighborhood.

And let it be known, my dear little Pain: I'm still the Great One!

Well I don't care if you're pretty at all...
And I don't care if I ever get tall...
I like what we look like
and you're nice small.

No, we don't have to change at all.

I Write 2 Teach, I Teach 2 Write #writing2connect #corewriting @CWPFairfield #NDOW

In the 4th day of my celebration for the National Day on Writing, I came to the revelation that I wear two hats in the story I tell myself.

When I am writing, I am thinking about what it means to teach. When I teach, I am thinking about what it means to be a writer.

When I work with students, like I did yesterday at Central High School in Bridgeport, however, I feel completely whole.

Shaun Mitchell, a Bridgeport Teacher of the Year, invited me to his classroom - yes, he inhabits the theater department with his own stage and stadium seating - and challenged me with the idea: what if we brought a 10-Minute Play Festival to southern Connecticut? Inspired by the Invitational Summer Institute in 2011 and then, reinvigorated by working with young writers on Fairfield's campus last summer, Mitchell thought it might be a powerful project to have his students compose short scripts that could then be performed by students at his school. Classes are less than an hour at Central, but not a second was wasted by the youth in his class. In fact, the aura quickly turned to the fact that these kids have much to say, to communicate, and to perform.

So, here's the challenge we offered them.

• Focus on a single moment in time
• Introduce a few characters who are together in this moment 
• Explore the dialogue that these characters might have with one another (draw from lived experiences, reading experiences, imagination, and eavesdropping - yes, eavesdropping)
• Write with performers and a director in mind - challenge their creativity
• Think about audiences and what they enjoy viewing
• Aim for originality (and clever scenarios)
• AND give voice to young people of Bridgeport

Mitchell, armed with energy and the heterogeneity of extremely diverse kids, sparked a project that has amazing potential. What will they write? What do they have to say? How can I, and perhaps my graduate students, guide Mitchell with helping the students to develop these short scripts? In other words, how can we best mentor them to create stellar mini-productions that voice their worlds in ways deserving to be heard?

Mitchell did his part. I did my part as a guest (and shared the money-making festivals hosted at the Brown School in Louisville). Now, it's up to them. 

Hilltoppers, you got it in you?

(PS: Happy Birthday, Sis. Your post is coming Friday morning)

I Write to Explore Impossible Possibilities #write2connect #corewriting @CWPfairfield

It's day 3 of Fairfield University's celebration of October 20th - The National Day on Writing. Last night, in a graduate class on teaching the composing processes, one of my students led a mini-lesson on starting a story through jumbling ideas. He gave us four lists of ten items and asked us to think of four #s, 1-10. The prompt was to begin a story that brought random ideas together. The four I chose: an expectant mother, the day after graduation, a wedding, and something that dies. Here's what I came up with.

Flipper

Andrea rubbed her tummy and wanted to curse her husband. She wasn't upset that he got her pregnant - this was, after all, a result of their intimacy. She was more upset that they just graduated high school the night before and here they were, a few hours after flipping tassels, at their wedding reception. 

Talk about moving fast.

She didn't have the heart to tell Rob that his gold fish died earlier that morning while he was taking a shower. He was singing and she didn't want to ruin his day.

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Halsell," her husband's best friend teased as he gave a roast with his half-empty glass of Doctor Pepper. "Here's to the newlyweds. May the rest of your life together be full of miracles and dreams."

Yet, Andrea's mind wasn't on miracles or dreams. She wasn't thinking about the wedding or the baby girl due any day now. She hadn't even begun to recall the many graduation parties that filled her calendar for the next two months. 

All Andrea could think about was the dead fish in her purse. She needed to talk to Rob, alone, soon. He needed to know.

I Write To Celebrate Tremendous Accomplishments #writing2connect @cwpfairfield #writingcore

I have not written a great American novel.

This is not poetic verse pontificating the brilliant epiphany I made yesterday when rescuing a bug from my bathroom sink.

Nope, this is not an article to be published in The Economist or GQ, either.

This is a blog post simply to celebrate a tremendous accomplishment and to let the world know, I AM FRICKN' PROUD OF MYSELF!

Why? It has to do with Violet Beuaregarde from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Actually, it only partially has to do with her and the fact that this is my year of chewing bubblegum and it reminds me of her character and how obnoxious she was. Yes, in 2013, I've been chewing more sugar free goo than in years past.

The trouble is, I often stick extra pieces in my pocket when I head out to work in the morning. This wouldn't be bad if I didn't also wash these shirts without checking the pockets. The result has been a horrific mess of several shirts. Truth be told, I ruined a brand new shirt this summer when Beauty Makinta, an educator from S. Africa, was visiting. She saw my mishap and, as a mother of a grown woman, stated,"Oh, Bryan. Let me take care of that for you." She took ice and headed upstairs. I forgot about that, until I slept upstairs this weekend when my parents were visiting. And guess what? I found my shirt still with the gum stain. Beauty must have failed and, crestfallen, stuffed it in the corner of the room.

I went on a frenzy on Sunday trying to remove it, too. I tried ice, ironing, scraping, and freezing the shirt. Nothing worked until I found the ultimate remedy.

Boiled vinegar.

I simply dipped the shirt in boiled vinegar and with a tooth brush, the gum came off like it was dust and I had a cloth to wipe it with. Brilliant.

I write to celebrate tremendous accomplishments like this. I have been on Cloud 9 for a few days now and totally attest that it is the littlest things in life that matter most. I'm stoked by this, so much so that I almost want to recommend you tangle gum in one of your shirts and give it a try. You won't regret it.

I Write to Stay Connected with Family #NDOW @cwpfairfield #corewriting #writetoconnect

Yesterday was the official National Day on Writing (October 20th) and this week at Fairfield University we are encouraging students to find time to reflect in tweets on why they write - a weeklong event. The invitation has been sent to the Connecticut Writing Project at Fairfield network, to neighboring schools, and to the world inhabited by friends of Facebook. The task, of course, is to encourage everyone to take a moment to reflect on why they write, what writing means to them, and where they find themselves writing most often.

Over the weekend, too, my niece sent me several videos of shenanigans in central New York and it helped me to realize that I write to stay connected with family. No, I don't send old-fashioned postal hugs like I used to, but I do frequent my Facebook page, this blog, and my Twitter account with familial updates and connectivity. Yes, writing keeps me in close proximity with those I love. Even though I'm not down the street or a regular at the dinner table, I can use platforms like this for writing that keeps the ties growing strong. I write to be the brother, uncle, and son to all I've grown to love in Syracuse (even though they hate when I write about them)

Exhibit A: Here is my nephew, Jacob, impersonating his father's incredible dance skills.

Exhibit B: Here is my niece trying to get out of my sister's sweatshirt after she stuck her leg through an arm and fell to the floor.

Exhibit C: for Cynde. Here is my sister, Cynde, asking my niece's friend a very important question - one she simply needs an answer to.

Yes, I write to make sense of my family, their videos, and the bond that we share. I use this space (at times) to share this world with others. I write to be a part of incredible kinship and brotherhood.

Family = Ubuntu. Ubuntu = Family.

Happy Birthday, Dopplegangers! 21! @abubility @lbility

Abu & Lossine, 2013

I didn't put two and two together until today. Lossine texted a few days ago with his idea about Syracuse/Duke tickets, but it didn't occur to me until this morning. I thought, "Hey, February tickets to the Dome would be great 21st birthday gifts for the twins!" I went online immediately to get them and, lo and behold, they were sold out. I snooze, they lose. My bad.

21 years old today. That's 21 in real-years and not national Refugee Birthday years (They've been 21 since January 1st). Not that it matters  (they don't drink), but now they can get into bars legally. 

C o n t i n u e.

It's hard to say or do anything that would top their visit to Connecticut last summer, so I will simply say, Happy Birthday. In 2007, I left Kentucky and didn't know what I'd find. Sure enough, I found a couple of imps who speak Mandinglish and who don't share Oreos with little kids.

Stuck in OSJL bathroom

And I will leave them with a short story that should make their day. I stopped with my parents at Ocean State Job Lots, a run-down/Big Lots-like store, and I really had to pee. I ran into the back of store and found an employee bathroom in their stock room. I noticed the door handle was loose, but I went in anyway. Guess what? The door handle was broke and I got stuck.  My parents were wandering the store wondering where I was and I was banging on the walls hoping someone would hear me and let me out. No one did.  I had to look up the store's number on my iPhone to call the front desk. 

"I'm stuck in your toilet," I screamed. "Your door handle is broken." 

The guy thought I was pranking the store. I continued, "No. Seriously. I am locked in your bathroom. 

When they came to the rescue, they brought all the employees with them, laughing at the fool who snuck in their bathroom. When they unlatched the door, I simply walked by them with a red face.

Abu and Lossine, have a great day today. I will be in touch.

Nothing like a good sandwich...

...day two of the parental units.

Connecticut leaves - 1
Butch - 0

The days started out with my father claiming he could get the massive amount of leaves removed from my yard with a leaf blower and I left him with that challenge. I went for a run. When I returned, he gave in. "You're right," he said. "Just as I made one path, another vat of leaves fell from the trees."

That's why I wait until they all come down.

We toured Fairfield's campus, ate delicious sandwiches at the Firehouse Deli in Fairfield, stopped by the campus bookstore, then went on a scurry run to find my father's misplaced debit card. We were not successful. At least we tried.

And I fed them spaghetti for dinner. No, it wasn't their famous sauce, but I have to say, I held my own and they enjoyed the kick of my sauce. I did learn, however, that tomato paste is what thickens up a sauce. Everyday I learn something. Now that I know this, I will be able to extend their cold-weather tradition with a thicker sauce in Connecticut. I look forward to mastering the recipe some more.

The Parental Units Have Arrived to Connecticut

Exhibit A. They have acclimated rather well. Mom's on her I-Pad and dad is "resting his eyes" underneath Lois and Luis's birthday painting, 2013. The t.v. is at a volume it rarely reaches and the relaxing has commenced.

In a whirlwind, day one, my friends had to get together tonight for a dinner, because everyone is booked for the weekend. I shut the shades so mom is protected from peeping Toms (she arrived with maple syrup staining her front shirt from lunch and a Tom might mistake her for a waffle).

The goal before sleep is to watch Scandal, which can't be found on the Internet - Days of Our Lives she can find tomorrow.

They arrived with all hands, feet, ears, noses, eyes, and elbows in tact. There poor car, however, is in shock for its prolonged used. The two of them, too, have to accommodate one another: there's a lot more proximity between them now that they left home. Dad can't retreat to his man-cave, and mom doesn't have her second floor oasis. Nope, they are together this weekend for the long haul. Wish all of us luck.

An Opportunity To Speak Out: Sharing in a Research Methods Class

I was invited by a colleague to discuss my dissertation research methods with Graduate students last night. Although she asked for 60-minutes, it quickly turned into a two-hour session and, cautiously, I kept looking for eye contact to tell me, "Oh, You should end here." It didn't come. Instead, the students and instructor graciously allowed me to reflect with them on the qualitative research I did with 8 African-born young men and their writing in and out-of school.

Although the research was set within a six-month parameter, it really was built from 15 years of work in public schools and two years of living with and around relocated populations of central New York. I got my title from Najm, a Somali-born youth, who noted that he wrote outside of school because he had a responsibility to speak out about his history and experiences with American schools. I addressed with the class, too, that I feel responsible for speaking about their stories, as well. I also am, however, cautious about being the one who shares what they invested with me. The work was ethnography and it was their worlds - complicated histories and global truths; I was a guest to their perspectives and privileged to have schooling behind me that allowed me to communicate what they entrusted in me.

I left the class really thinking about community and the strong relationships that we built over time. I continue to feel a tremendous responsibility to offer their insight to others, but I drove home wondering if I'm capable of honoring the work that took place between us and if I need to revisit my mission with all the data that I collected. There is a tremendous amount to be said and whenever I do an oral representation of the work, I realize how compelling the stories of these boys are. I carry much of it in my heart and they've made a tremendous impact on my teaching, career, and philosophy. I really am me because of who we were/are together.

I need to take their knowledge to another level. They deserve this. I need to wrestle more with Father Time and efficiently work harder. Presenting last night, I realized all the boys are four years older than the time when I collected wisdom from them. I'm four years older, too.

I owe them. They changed my life forever.

Midway, We are with Multiple Ways: Reviewing Writing Resources for 21st Century Classrooms

This semester I have a small, but mighty crew of graduate students at Fairfield University. They represent classrooms from 1st to 12th grade: pre-service, in-service, ELA, history, and ELL. Following the National Writing Project model, they have been encouraged to be writers, to think about writing processes, and to design instruction that best serves the heterogenous classrooms of today's schools.

The first half of the semester explored some of the genres they will likely teach in their careers and an introduced to the power of choice, the importance of personal experience and agency, and the necessity of designing instruction to supports all writers through a variety of models, mini-lessons, discussions, in-class exercises, and peer conferencing. In addition, we have been building a community of writers. Ubuntu matters, because community matters.

Last night, all nine  presented book reviews they composed independently and that, they felt, would benefit the larger projects they are undertaking in the course. Students could choose one book to read in addition to assigned books that would support their design of lessons. In lieu of the "review" as a written genre or a "traditional" academic paper, I assigned them to work with brochures. A good one we discovered through perusing samples: analyzes, reviews, reflects, informs, explains, entertains, and suggests. Ours, however, were designed with teachers in mind.

• How does a book add to what we already know?
• What features does the book offer fellow teachers?
• What take-aways are offered in the text?
• What memorable quotes lead us to further thinking?
• What does it say about the ways students learn?
• Who is the best audience for such a book, etc.

Students reviewed everything from Ralph Fletcher to Anne Lamott, Jessica Singer to Stephanie Harvey, and Maisha Fisher to Robert Probst to Gerald Campano. The choices made represented the diversity of our interests held by graduate students while they think ahead to designing lesson plans and units in support of 21st century writers.

At the end of the Writing in Rhythm review of Fisher's text, one student shared the above spoken word piece, "To This Day." Although the video was meant to highlight spoken word poetry, it allowed me the opportunity to pull all the books together with a discussion of mulitliteracies and the ever-changing modalities a classroom teacher can use to promote communication. The You-Tube genre uses visual, sonic, oral, and textual literacies in ways that the tradition textbook does not.

I love these midway midterms because they lay the foundation for us to discuss the choices teachers make when designing their own lessons. Luckily, Kelly Gallagher's text, Write Like This, pairs nicely with the purposes for writing we plan to promote. There's much more work to be done, but  I was extremely impressed last evening. Every student arrived with a familiarity with one book, but left with a wide range of resources to consider in the future. I can be me because of who we are together.

Wusah!

Yucka Yucka Yucka, Tuesday. The brain is fried.

Three day weekend (check).

Grading (check).

Need for a laugh (well, I try).

Earlier this semester, I asked students to send me a joke as a post-script in one my assignments. Only a few of them took me up on it, but I found that file last night when I was closing up shop.

• A baby seal walks into a club. *cymbal crash* 
• Two drums and a cymbal fall off a cliff *cymbal crash*
• knock knock. who’s there. Queen. Queen Who? Queen my dishes please!
• Wanna hear a joke about Sodium and Hydrogen? NaH
• Oxygen and potassium went on a date. It went OK
• What’s brown and sticky? A stick
• Q: If your wife is shouting at the front door and your dog is barking at the back door, who do you let in first? A: The dog, of course. At least he'll shut up after you let him in.”
• What did the fireman name his two sons? ...José and Hose B
• “I went to target one day and I missed.”

And that is my laugh for a Tuesday morning. My first meeting is set for 8 a.m. and my class ends at 7 p.m. - I'm holding my breath for sure!

Thinking about Detroit: Where did the halftime show, go America?

Last night, 60 Minutes ran a story on Detroit, Michigan, with an update on the city that filed bankruptcy and that has struggled since the big, auto industries fled Michigan to manufacture parts  in overseas locations. It's hard to imagine the blight in one location. The line that stuck with me from the report was spoken by a man trying to refurbish neighborhoods one day at a time with his own means. He said, and I paraphrase here, "If we were hit by a tsunami or a hurricane, the federal government would send its helicopters, rescue teams, and armies to help out. Our tragedy, however, took over 50 years to show its ugly head. The destruction was not over night. We receive nothing."

Detroit, like many American cities, continues to suffer from neglect. The shanty town that is left is disheartening and the images are not the America I've learned to pledge my allegiance to.

I can't help but think about the the 60 Minutes story and, even though I usually multitask when my television was on, I had to give it my total attention. To me, it is a window into something larger in American society -  our nation has forgotten the working people and the industry that boomed post World War II success in the United States to create a middle class, better schools, and hope. Obviously, the dilapidated homes across Detroit are a sign that history has forgotten the very people that helped to build the nation. Where did the opportunities go?

Of course, currently, our federal government is shut down - a privilege afforded because some labor in a game of rhetoric, wheeling and dealing, and posturing. Again and again, however, the people of Detroit (the wealthy included) have had to put forth labor to rectify how we've failed large portions of our society. Banks bailed. Other nations rescued. Our own? Hmmm.

I also think of Cherry Heights in Syracuse and the jobs that many of my neighbors once held at Carrier, New Process Gears, Magna International, etc. I think of the powerhouse of Syracuse University and the cost of attending (catering to particular clientele like most colleges do) - in this sense, like Detroit, Syracuse stands as a location stuck in post-industrial rust between the haves and have nots. Bridgeport, where I live now, is no different. The work for many no longer exists in the very location it once did. A drive through such urban centers quickly help one to realize it isn't NYC, LA, Miami, or Dallas. The  majority of cities in the U.S. are hurting and it is unlikely this will change any time soon, although many dedicated people are trying.

I, along with many, loved Clint Eastwood's It's Half-Time, America when it debuted during a Superbowl in 2012. As inspirational as that call to arms seemed, I'm afraid things have gotten worse and not better. The wealth is here, but it is not evenly contributed - that's for sure.

More importantly, I think about schools, teachers, and opportunities for youth in such locations and the likelihood they are being blamed for the problems in those locations. How do such spaces compete against communities where jobs are plentiful, educated-parents spend $1000s to provide their children the best that money can buy, and who reside within the iron safety net that keeps them protected from the poverty left to urban cores?

 It's frustrating, to say the least.

Yet, I am optimistic without the capital that at least one wealthy man, investing back into the city, has. There has to be a solution. Doesn't there? Or is it likely that more and more of our cities will soon follow in Detroits footsteps?

A Walk in Memory of a Spectacular Friend in Stratford

Yesterday was a gorgeous day. Friends and Family of Lois Minto gathered on the greens of Stratford to walk and raise funds for the Stratford Animal Shelter (S.T.A.R.S.) - a location that meant the world to Lois, and an event she helped establish as a tremendous fundraising activity in southern Connecticut.

Lois's niece, Hayley, and her husband, Anthony, began the day with a family breakfast and then we walked together to the party for pups hosted on the village greens.

The StarsFest was a tribute to all the time and energy given by Lois over several years and a wonderful celebration of her  spirit, humor and willingness to work hard for others.

Around a hundred booths were set up. Any and all canines were welcome to attend, including Lois's little sister, Pam - who wore the dog costume to the left in year's past.

I remember, too, when I first moved to Connecticut three years ago, it was the STARS event hosted by Lois that sold me to community of Stratford. I liked the way the town bonded and the diversity in the crowd. Months later, I would move there.

Here's to you, Lois. Today, we walked a mile in your honor and, without a doubt, your memory continues to linger in all of our minds. W.L.Y. 

A Flash of Fiction with Graduate students. "Seruya" by Arlette Johnson

Last week, I assigned my graduate students to write a piece of flash fiction in the tradition that for teachers to be better instructors of writing, they need to write themselves. I love reading the creativity of my students and this piece, written by Arlette Johnson, a first grade teach in Bridgeport, especially caught my attention.

SERUYA

Seruya knew it was going to be another sleepless night with her three young children. After sharing a dry piece of bread among her kids in the small dark room, they shared a long prayer, and she kissed each a good night.

Seruya quickly picked through the small window of her severely damaged apartment. and the full mom gave her an instant sense of happìness while she slowly sat on the concrete floor and started to cry. She knew she was not safe in her own home, her own country.

-      

Uncle Moussafi is here, mommy. It is time.

Seruya opened her eyes wide and could feel her heart beat fast. She scanned the room to ensure her kids were safe.

-We dont have much time! exclaimed Moussafi, with a sorrowful look in his face.

Without hesitation Seruya put on her mother´s white hijab, the hand made veil was her family’s last inheritance, and picked up her youngest child. The kids fell to sleep quickly and peacefully after the prayer, but now it was time to go. The other two children awoke, warily, and carried a few bags with food and clothing. Gunshots came from the mountains.

-Where is Jabhat? The children haven´t seen their father in ten days. They think he is dead too. Seruya whispered to Moussafi while he carefully opened the door to exit the apartment.

- He stayed back with the other rebels in Damascus. The rebels believe they have a good chance to fight the Assad regime there. He asked me to take your family as close as I can to the border.  He promised to find you in Jordan. You must be strong.

Without looking back, the small group of civilians walked quietly down the stairs of their abandoned, dark building. The streets were deserted. If there were any soul left in their small community, they did not want to be seen either.

Once, a lively neighborhood, now a lifeless place. Fear accompanied them with each step they took. They knew it was going to be a long night exiting their country to enter the unknown.  

Seruya wanted to scream. She was aware of protesters who were imprisoned, tortured and killed in the state prisons in Damascus.  She wanted her old life back. She wanted to teach again and wished to see Syrian kids running free in her neighborhood once again. Now all she saw was destruction, despair, and death.

-Uncle Mousaffi, are you bleeding?  Abbi, the oldest child, interrupted.  

Seruya felt selfish for dreaming about her past and not noticing Mousaffi´s large wound.

-Shhh... I am fine he replied as he looked down at the wound.

Without saying a word, Seruya removed her precious veil and wrapped it around the old man´s right leg.

-Thank you for saving us Mousaffi -she replied wiping her tears. 

It's Halftime, Fairfield...Otherwise known as Midterms.

I am an imp.

I continue to draw from the class of 2006 and how, at the end of the day and during their senioritis, they hated to work on anything. The only thing that proved to be a success for getting them talking, thinking, wondering, and learning, was bouncing a single balloon in the air for the entire period. I've since channeled that as an activity that works at the University level, too.

It's midterm time and my freshman are hosting that fried look. Actually, it's more like the yolk of a cracked egg. They're almost done with a rather substantial book, have written two drafts of a narrative and a significant letter, submitted weekly writing pieces, and attended 11 classes. We, at halftime, are transitioning to the next steps of our composing together - the research.

I decided to lighten the mood a little by providing midterm mentoring packages:

• an alien (because college is a new planet for them to explore)
• monster teeth (because it's time to bite into the research)
• a monster finger (to begin scratching beyond the surface)
• a bag of chips (because they have to sustain themselves)
• a bandaid (because I'm sure their first research attempts will cause boo boos)
• a tattoo (because it's time to mark territory)
• smarties (because we are what we eat)
• and an orange balloon (because it's time to begin bouncing around ideas)

The mentoring package was delivered as we answered a question a student posed about Outcast United. She wondered, "Do refugee mothers, like the mothers of the boys in the text, have adequate health insurance in the U.S.?" It was a timely question and I found a few supplemental materials. Together, we explored alien territory, bit into her question, scratched beneath the surface, snacked, took chances, marked territory, grew smarter, and collaborated on our thinking. 

The audio is probably not good above, but the students were bouncing the balloons while having serious conversations about healthcare, their opinions of it, and how they could defend their position given the supplemental reading. They then posited a statement they could defend. 

I teach a Cornerstone course for the University and in addition to developing writing skills, its aim is to build community. Today, I feel, community was further built. And for somer reason, they were too embarrassed of their orange balloons to carry them out of the room and across campus. Now, I have 20 balloons for another event. Hmmmmm.

Throwback to Whitley Strieber

Two days ago sucked. Then yesterday turned out okay. Miraculously, after a prayer for more time, I suddenly had a cancellation and four hours given back to me. This was remarkable, and I got so much accomplished.

Then, via Facebook, an ol' friend from when I was 19 years old contacted me and updated me on his life, which prompted me to reach out to another friend from that time. We all lived on Wigmore Place in London together (pre-The Real World, but definitely a season of it).

Long, long, epic stories short, I had to laugh. Earlier, I had purchased several aliens for a workshop I'm doing tomorrow with students. Then, becoming reacquainted with an old friend from my youth, I remembered a bonding moment for us. There was a night we started talking about UFOs and most thought the whole ordeal of them as preposterous. I had read Whitley Strieber's Communion before arriving to the United Kingdom, and I had concocted in my brain this brilliant idea that one day, I too, would be abducted by aliens.

Now, this was an insane premise, but one of my roommates pulled me to the side and confessed that she, too, had this premonition that there would be a day when she would be taken to another planet. The confession bonded us and, now 20+ years later, we are still connected by this bizarre interest that there is alien life amongst us and there's a chance we might be kidnapped for a magnificent, intergalactic experiment.

I hadn't thought about that oddity until yesterday when we got in touch. She asked if I remembered that confession and I did. Stranger was that I had just purchased aliens (and she had just watched Reality Bites again, thinking about our young lives).

Perhaps October is the month for it to finally occur. I know my mom and Aunt Jackie saw UFOs in Hamilton, New York. I'm thinking that they came prematurely for me and I wasn't even born yet.
If I turn up missing, let this post be a testimony that I'm probably no longer of this world. I'm talking and visiting with Abu's people.

It's Too Early For This, But There's A Metaphor I Need Right Now

I will be brief. I am not even sure if I grabbed the right clip. But, I'm posting this last minute and reflecting on the drama of Rudolph trying to find Baby New Year before Eon, the vulture, gets him. Why does Eon want Baby New Year? He needs to stop another year from passing so he, as a bird, won't pass himself.

In other words, he's trying to stop time.

Um, Eon is sort of scary, but I need to stop time, too. I simply need to freeze 24 hours so I can catch up and get work done before its due day. This also requires me to meet with the people that need to help me to get it done. This, of course, can't be done because I'm pulled in other directions for meetings. Of course, this is in addition to the courses that need to be taught, the grading, the planning, and finding time to eat.

Welcome to Academia! Actually, Welcome to Teaching, Period!

Still, I can draw on an ol' animated story, can't I? I don't want to be Rudolph today or Baby New Year. I want to be Eon and to have the power to peck the eyes out of both.

This too shall pass.

A Few Days Before the Memorial Walk for Lois Minto

Yesterday, when I sat in my office, my knee scraped against a souvenir left by Lois. It used to be on a popsicle stick - one she gave to me a couple of days before she passed. I didn't know what it was for until months later when I went through her office and found her folder of recent faxes. With every fax she sent from me, I learned, she included a copy of this image.

That was her sense of humor and I loved her for it.

Byron Pigley Krudell.

When my knee hit the paper doll (I taped it to the inside of my desk), I tore its shoulder. My instinct was to throw it away, but I couldn't do it. It's too precious. Therefore, I glued it in a writer's notebook and left it on my shelf. I'm sure, in years to come, I will come to this page again and it will put a tremendous smile across my face.

The leaves are changing and it feels about right for the annual dog walk in Stratford this weekend. October is an honest month and warns us that winter is on its way. I'm closing the page on this image she left behind, but not on the hours and hours of laughter we had together while trying to figure out what our jobs were and what we were supposed to be doing. Busy, yes. But with a clue? No. I think that is why we bonded and became good friends. Eventually, we became neighbors. It was last year during the winter months we really bonded and she will be missed (as will her texts that came from 8:30 pm. to 10 pm. every night)

We take the good, we take the bad, we take them all and there we have:
The Fax of Life. The Fax of Life.

"It’s not about being equal, necessarily. It’s about being equitable." @FairfieldU @StagsMensBball

Sydney Johnson and Kyle Koncz, EN 11-Fairfield University

Coaches Sydney Johnson and Kyle Koncz, stellar mentors and leaders for the Fairfield University Men's Basketball team, granted a request to visit my section of EN 11: Texts and Contexts - a required course for all first-year students, on October 3rd. The goals for this course are to develop effective writing and to begin thinking like a researcher who asks good questions, seeks relevant information, and communicates with an audience about new findings and learning. Both men were a tremendous bonus to the semester's class and, to be honest, a complete testimony to their dedication to academics, community, and sports.

            

My students are reading Warren St. John’s Outcast United, the story of a refugee soccer team in Clarkston, Georgia, who is coached by a woman named Luma Mufleh. We've recently received funding so that we can attend a home basketball game in support of the Stags at Webster Arena with several relocated refugee guests currently residing in southern Connecticut (we will be running a 5K for refugees in New Haven this February, too). 

            

While reading Outcasts United as a mentor text, we've been discussing how Warren St. John chooses to share his knowledge in a book composed from interviews, observations, and research. The text tells much more than the story of a soccer team. It is an exploration of globalization, super-diversity, and history. 

Producing athletes for the game of soccer is akin to guiding writers to compose for life. The best writers work on new skills, draft, scrimmage, are pulled in by the coach for mentoring and reflection, get sent out to play again, and return to discuss what works and doesn't work. For these reasons, Coach Johnson's philosophy on coaching basketball resonated with me and my approach with teaching writing.

I don’t coach all kids the same. For me, it’s not about being equal, necessarily. It’s about being equitable. I think certain guys need more or less. I think that some guys respond to tough love. Other guys need an arm around them - a pat on the back.  I think it’s about giving folks what they need within their comfort zone. It’s not babying them.

Lev Vygotsky, in teaching terms, would call this the  Zone of Proximal Development. The best instruction comes from building a relationship with students and guiding them to achieve their next level of excellence. In the words of Johnson, "You don't turn it off if you really care." The best teachers  (coaches/mentors) work on relationships.

Johnson & Koncz, Writing Our Lives'13

Johnson and Koncz agreed to be interviewed by my class about their experiences as players and coaches and I transcribed the interview as a model so my students would see how interviewing is rewarding.  It provides irreplaceable information and data. Earlier this year, the coaches made an appearance at the Writing Our Lives-Bridgeport conference on campus and showed their dedication to work ethic. During the event, they met with my cousin, Mark Crandall, who oversees international change through Hoops for Hope, a non-profit dedicated to young people around the world. 

  

Coach Johnson arrived to Fairfield from Princeton University in 2011. At Princeton, he was a player, then coach, and mentored Kyle Koncz during his senior year. Although that season wasn't full of accolades, Koncz's drive became a legend in the eyes of Coach Johnson.

Even though we sucked during his senior year - we were really bad - he and his teammate were both captains and showed toughness. They kept working and we would get beat badly, yet they would come in the next day and keep working. They inspired their teammates and they inspired me. The younger guys on the team saw that. And they tried to model that the next year. And then the next year. And clearly, we recruited better players. The talent started to match the work ethic that he and his teammate helped put into place.

Johnson asked Koncz to assist him with an aim for recreating excellence at Fairfield University. According to Konz, this means one thing - the opportunity to play during the 2014 NCAA tournament and beyond.

I would say that the goal for the basketball program is to make it to the NCAA tournament. As a program, that is our ultimate level of achievement. Win the MAAC tournament and then go to the NCAA tournament.  If we’re talking about a long term goal that is #1

Coach Johnson felt same.

We just want to go to the NCAA tournament and nothing else is good enough, to be quite honest. It’s not enough to win. We want to win our class to gain respect. We want to be a program of intelligence. We want great men. 

Students and I have been reading in Outcasts United about the physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual side of leading a team towards success. For these reasons, the willingness of Johnson and Koncz to share their coaching experiences were extremely valuable. It was a rare opportunity to hear two coaches discuss their intrinsic drive to build a better world. In the words of Sydney Johnson,

For me, it’s all about being a part of the community, to be honest. It’s to be an incredible example, being a leader and a student athlete. I want very good basketball players that work hard, who love to compete – those things contribute to the sport of basketball, but I also want them to be fantastic students. I want them to be engaged in class, I want them to sit up in the front row, to take notes, to talk to the professor.  I want them to be engaged with the different things that are going on around campus. I think being a part of the community is more than just being over at a table with the basketball guys and never developing great relationships.    

Coaches Johnson and Koncz demonstrated this belief by visiting our section of EN 11. While they spoke, they offered insight on their vision, lived experiences, and goals. A particular piece of advice offered by Sydney Johnson has been on my mind for the last couple of days. While reflecting on the great advice he received from coaches during his career he recalled,

I remember when I was a freshman, and we were playing against Providence. It was a higher level game for us and I was exhausted. As a freshman I was playing a lot of minutes, and I came to the courtside for a time out. “Coach, I need one. I need a breather.” And the assistant coach yelled back. “Don’t get tired. You’re not allowed to get tired.” And it just (he snap[ed his finger) clicked. I was like, “A’ight." I stayed on the court.

I replayed these words over the weekend while I hit mile three, four, and five on my daily run. I couldn't help but think of Luma Mufleh in Outcasts United, too. Most coaches would likely throw in the towel while coaching a team of newcomers in the United States, but she stayed on the field with them. In fact, she completely altered her life and built a community in support of their success. Instead of giving in to the lack of proper playing fields, the young men with post-traumatic stress, the impoverished conditions new arrivals were placed in, and the ubiquitous violence of the local community, Luma Mufleh gained strength and inspiration.

This, I believe, is what Sydney Johnson and Kyle Koncz are doing at Fairfield University, albeit under completely different conditions. Even so, the community of Fairfield can become part of his plan. Sydney Johnson told the class, "We need students to come to the games" and reflected on the days when his Princeton team used to play in empty stadiums.

Really it was amazing. No one came to our games. No one. You could hear both coaches on each side of the court calling out the plays and you could hear any time a teammate would jump up and support a teammate. Then, three or four years later when we walked out for games, you couldn’t hear anything. I mean it was just crazy. Packed. It was awesome. 

It is his hope that the Stags Men's team will recreate this in Connecticut. If the players are paying attention, their coaches are acting on what they believe in - they are modeling the dedication it takes to be successful. Syndey Johnson and Kyle Koncz didn't need to visit a section EN 11, but they did. They also didn't need to open the arena to young people of Newtown last season, but they did. They are dedicated to southern Connecticut.

I think we all were touched in some way in terms of the tragedy and complete heartbreak.There is no way to fix, I mean it’s just incredible. It was the least we could do. We were already going to be there playing ball, but to be there having these kids and their parents, and the kids mourning their loss that this community went through, opening the doors to a basketball game was not a really big gesture to do on our part. I was happy that for a few hours we could take their minds off of what happened.” 

 And I am a better man because of them. I believe Connecticut is, too. It is my hope that my students are, as well.

Here's to the 2013-2014 basketball season, including the game against Louisville on November 23rd at Mohegan Sun. A student asked coach Johnson about his game plan:

How much time do you have?  I wonder who Bryan is going to be cheering for [I have two masters degrees from the University of Louisville]. It’s going to be tough. We haven’t quite come up with a game plan yet. We’re going to figure it out. Those are fun games for us. Obviously we want to win. Either way, we are playing the defending champions. It’s a pretty big thrill. 

Hosting Johnson and Koncz in class last Thursday was also a thrill. I definitely will be cheering for them this season. Ubuntu.