Sweet Laughter

I've been thinking about Aristotle lately. 

He was born in the 4th century in Greece, but the perspectives and philosophical beliefs he proffered resonate in today's world as much as ever. He was one of the world's most impressive lateral thinkers, finding inspiration in all that he did and thought, and seeking to better understand his world--the world--at every step, turn, and conversation. His life was ripe with OPPORTUNITY (as all of our lives are), and he plucked chances as though they were exotic fruits to be tasted and devoured, seeds and all.

Whether it was epistemology, geology, physics, psychology, biology, ethics, or any other variation of conceptual consideration, Aristotle wanted to feel everything and to understand more. He was insatiably curious in the ways we hope our students become. He valued thinking (and questioning) in ways we need our world's leaders (and "followers") to be. He operated in a world devoid of silos and safety, dwelling instead in conversations with those who disagreed with him and pushed him to better understand truth.

I've discussed Aristotle's theories of human nature with my 8th graders this week as we continue to navigate William Golding's Lord of the Flies. Aristotle believed that humans were naturally-inclined to be conjugal, political, and mimetic. He felt this was our human destiny and that it separated us from most other species in the animal kingdom. 

Still, he recognized that there were animals that partnered for life and developed clan-like relationships, gathering in flocks, or herds, or packs. There are also animals that form elaborate hierarchies and systems of self-governing organization. There are even animals that can be creative and innovative in moments of necessity. While survival tends to limit opportunities for creativity and imaginative thinking, it still happens.

But here's the thing: After all of his work, observation, research, conversation, meditation, and pontificating, Aristotle ended up ascribing human's unique nature to their propensity to laugh.

A baby, Aristotle claimed, does not have a soul, until the moment it laughs for the first time.

This week, in the midst of floundering alongside my students in a punchbowl of emotions, my students reminded me to laugh. They produced videos and presentations about the Five Pillars of Islam that were highly informative; that showcased both their creativity and their intellectual depth, and that pushed their understandings deeper toward the realm of being culturally competent.

Yet they also relished in the bloopers. They highlighted the moments where they'd cut each other off, where they'd dabbed, tripped, spilled, squealed, shrieked, heard their voices crack, seen their wardrobes malfunction. They'd had their computer stepped on by an excited fifth grader, their filming had ben interrupted, their lines had been forgotten. And it was the best. It was the moment their souls were revealed, and it brought lightness to the room.

We talked about how good it felt to laugh--to lose control of our ability to look cool. But it was so much better when we did it together. Of course, we talked about memes and gifs and YouTube, about the danger of resorting to humor when real action is required....but we also recognized that laughter might, in fact, be the best medicine.

Yes, we laugh when we're nervous.
Yes, we laugh at people when we're insecure.
And yes, we laugh when we've contrived a sinister masterplan.

But those are different types of laughter. I know, because we laugh the sweetest laughter when we forget--for just an instant--about who we are and how we're supposed to act, and we return to the gleeful moment when, as Aristotle remarked, we first squealed in delight at the nonsensical folly of a world filled with joy.

Here's to laughing that sweet brand of laughter, and finding those people with whom we can do it well.

Lifting our hearts from the dirt

It is a Wednesday and my students are beginning a new book.

It is a Wednesday and my students are beginning Lord of the Flies.

It is a Wednesday and I will teach them about allegory, and about the origins of human conflict.

It is a Wednesday and my students are beginning the day with the knowledge that the freshly-minted president-elect of their country--the person who will be president when they turn 18 and earn their own right to vote--has uttered phrases that fill them with horror. They are phrases the singe them, choke them, drown them, and single many of them out as being worthless, dispensable, filthy, unattractive, undignified...and worse.

It is a Wednesday and I talk to them. I try to hold space. To allow for openings, for connection, for confusion, and for pain. But I'm grasping for something hopeful...where is the light?

I decide, halfway through class, that I want to scrap my lesson. It's the one where we discuss William Golding and how "writer's write what they know." Instead, I want to show them an allegory. I want to share with them Plato's Allegory of the Cave. 

I tell the story.

I draw for them.

(They smile at my fumbling whiteboard failures)

I ask them what it all means.

I don't tell them what to feel. 

I don't tell them what I feel.

I let them teach me.

I embrace silence.

They tell me that we're the ones chained in the cave.

That we owe it to the world to explore, 

to reject passivity, 

to question authority.

They impress me and they inspire me.

I am hopeful that this experience of being alive, of existing, in 2016 is one that shapes my students into something greater than the status quo. I hope they will heed the mission of my school which ends, by stating that we aspire to equip our students"...to have the courage and confidence to make a positive contribution to the world."

I found an old poem I wrote once. I wanted to find it because I knew I'd had these thoughts before...these thoughts about being human.

I wonder now, as I reread it, how I can revise it. How I can rewrite it in such a way that begins, "How we unite tells us lots about ourselves..." I don't know how that poem begins, or middles, or ends because I haven't seen it yet. I don't yet know how we unite, or what it will tell us about ourselves. Poetry puts words to what can't be said, but in moving on, I don't even know where to begin. I've lifted my heart from the dirt, yes. But now, alongside my students, comes the noble venture of joining hearts in such a way as to ensure that their collective, resonating thunder will drown out the cries of fear, mistrust, and hatred.

Humans

How we fight tells us lots about ourselves;

about the ways we crumble,

spill, and fall apart.

And when we fight in groups

where unity and cohesion are paramount

and predicated on the drawing of our souls

like water into that vast shared bucket we call consensus,

we fail.

We fail to hear,

to coat ourselves in sufficient enough a lacquer

as to protect our gentle selves from being dented.

We fume. We pace. We eat.

Because, in our fury,

we know not what to do.

Or be.

Or how to do or be it.

We fail ourselves again.

And again. And again.

Overcome with tremors, we clamor to understand

whether we want to put something into ourselves

or get something out.

And so, instead, we lift our hearts from the dirt,

ground to pulp and left in pulsing piles

and mash them back inside our chests

where their burger shapes beat our blood thick

just for the sake of being boiled again.

Pitchers or batters?

As I watched the World Series last night, I got to thinking...baseball is intense. It's beautiful, with it's moments of glory and celebration, and awful in its moments of defeat and error. Someone comes up short while someone else rises to the occasion. It's never both.

It reminds me of a conversation I had out in Texas with another teacher as we watched the Cubs play in their first game of the playoffs last month.

As teachers, do we treat our students more like pitchers or like hitters?

Let's start by looking at the differences.

Pitchers
In baseball, the pitcher begins with an Earned Run Average (ERA) of 0.00. This is perfection. Every batter the pitcher faces, however, poses an opportunity to make a mistake. For a pitcher, perfection is expected and once they make enough mistakes, they get pulled from the game.

Batters
In baseball, the batter begins with a batting average of .000. This is the opposite of perfection. It is a number representing an inability to effectively do that thing that the game asks you to do: hit the ball. Every time the batter steps to the plate (and they get a turn once every nine times) there is an opportunity for success. The hope of glory. For a batter, batting below .200 represents futility and nobody has hit .400 since Ted Williams did so in 1941. Everybody else is somewhere in between. Success is getting three hits for every ten at bats.


So there it is. Both pitchers and batters are called upon to play defense, of course, and sometimes to run bases. And they also need to high five one another and add to the clubhouse chemistry. But my question is this: When we work with students, they come to our classes with an opportunity. Is each assessment, however, a chance to succeed and praise, or a chance to drop them down from perfection?


In my class this week my students are beginning to write essays about Prajwal Parajuly's collection of short stories, The Gurkha's Daughter. I am working with each of them to learn from the recommendations I made on their last essay (in response to Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men) and to set some goals for themselves. For some students this means working on developing their narrative voice; for others it means using stronger verbs and avoiding the verb "to be"; still other students are working on comma usage, or transitions, or a crafting a more universally-relevant conclusion.

This is kind of like a pitcher honing his/her craft. Can a student throw a perfect academic game? Yeah, sure they can. A+ grades happen and so do perfect scores on assignments. Students thrive and sometimes the pressure gets to them and they struggle mightily...just like a pitcher giving up a home run at the worst possible time.

Pitchers can close the gap toward perfection, lowering their ERA with each pitch. It can never get back to 0.00, but what is a teacher if they tell their students that they expect perfection?

Are there times, though, when batters are the apt comparison? Those same English students in my 8th grade class are required to choose three vocabulary words (from anything they read) that they want to learn each night. Of those three words, they then set one singular goal for themselves (e.g. "I want to understand the meaning of the word aesthetically" or "I want to use the word wrought in my essays." In essence, by asking them to choose one of their three words and add it to their accessible vocabulary I'm trying to dissuade them from the rote memorization of 100 vocabulary words that they'll forget moments after the test. 

Instead, I want to send the message that batting .333 is good enough, and if you can actually embed one word each night in your "useable" vocabulary, that would be awesome, it would be Hall of Fame worthy, and it would be so much more valuable than earning a 97% on a vocab quiz.

So maybe this metaphor is broken. Maybe I ask my students to be both pitchers and batters. At the end of each game, though, ballplayers leave the ballpark at the end of the day and go back to being human. And that's the same for my students, too. My hope, as a teacher, is that their performance in the classroom does not define them, no matter their batting average or ERA. My hope is that they feel whole and that their understanding of themselves stretches beyond the statistics and sabermetrics. I hope my students don't dwell on the numbers on the back of their baseball card, but instead that they each get to feel like the little kid who takes their first swing and feels the satisfaction of connecting bat with ball and says, I love this game because it's fun.