Something About Daisy

Daisy at risk of a Winterbourne frost

Yesterday I had the very best discussion of Daisy Miller, the novella by Henry James, that I have ever had with a class of juniors.   I have had this book on my reading list six times, and it was this year that the discussion was lively, honest, funny, and unlimited.

Why?

I can think of a couple of different reasons why this year was different.  Immediately prior to assigning the James we read another nineteenth century text, Ragged Dick: or Street Life in New York with the Boot-Blacks by Horatio Alger.  We are going to read The Great Gatsby next, so you can see my drift here – Crossing Social boundaries: how’s that working for you?

My students loved the Alger and felt just a bit cheated when Dick’s success comes not from his hard work and ingenuity but from a chance occurrence and his reaction to it.  And now they have read three of four chapters in the James.  It was clear from the discussion that no one had read to the end (one more chapter!) .  One young man asked if this was a cautionary tale and did Daisy end up in bordello somewhere.  Cautionary?  Probably.  Bordello?  No.

The big reason this year, I think

My class is made up of twelve boys and three girls.  Yes, that’s right.  Twelve very different thinkers and learners with lots of different strengths, but definitely male.  We were talking about idioms and euphemisms the other day, and one brought up the Bud Light “cut the cheese” commercial – which he enacted for me as I am television-challenged.  I laughed so hard I looked like Tammy Faye Baker, and he, of course, had to find it on YouTube to show me.  That’s my boys!  Well, I guess I’ve always thought that Daisy was a Chick Story because it is all about social mores and this girl who either doesn’t get or won’t try to get how she is scandalizing the American ex-pat community.  There is a lot more to the book than that, but that is usually where the class starts. Two years ago, in a class made up of thirteen über-smart girls and four boys, the girls all decided that Winterbourne was “a creeper.”

But it’s not a Chick Book.

It’s a Guy Book.  They totally identified with Winterbourne.  They completely got how baffled he was by Daisy – how attracted and repelled, how teased and unsatisfied, how jealous yet unwilling to pay the social cost to secure her affection.

I had the best time in class, and who would have thought it possible at 2:00 pm on a freezing Friday afternoon at the end of the first week of the new semester?

Daisy photo by flickr member aussiegall

40 years ago -1969

Wordle of Obama's Speech on Race - Philadelphia 2008

I was in the 5th grade. Things seemed pretty scary.  We had survived 1968. Assassinations, marches, the Chicago Convention.  We had yet to experience the horror of Kent State.

On Jan. 20, Richard Milhous Nixon was sworn in as the nation’s 37th President.   I had the same out of body feeling years ago that I had today watching the 2009 Inauguration. That feeling came on the day I watched Nixon resign; we huddled around a generator powered black and white television in a cabin in the Black Hills National Forest. Hope is a thing with feathers that perches on the soul.

In March the U.S. Air Force began secret bombings of Cambodia.

July 18 Sen. Edward Kennedy drove his car off a bridge on Chappaquiddick Island, off Martha’s Vineyard, MA killing Mary Jo Kopeke, his passenger.  I heard it on the news.

July 20 Astronaut Neil Armstrong was the first human to walk on the moon. He said: “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”  – I watched on television at Mary Beth Stewart’s house in Yankton, SD.

Aug. 16 About half a million people gathered on Max Yasgur’s 600-acre farm near Woodstock, N.Y., to hear rock music for four days.   I was not there.

October 8 The Days of Rage: the Weather Underground’s first public demonstration was a riot in Chicago coordinated with the trial of the Chicago Seven.

Oct. 15 Millions of Americans demonstrated in their towns and cities against the Vietnam War. – Demonstrations were in my living room every night via Walter Cronkite.

Nov. 15 Over 250,000 people gathered in Washington to protest the war in Vietnam.  I felt small and scared to grow up.

Nov. 16 The first reports of the My Lai massacre were published.  Again, the television.

Dec. 4 Chicago Black Panther leader Fred Hampton was shot to death by police while he lay asleep in his bed.

And today I watched in the Gym with the whole school assembled as Barack Obama was inaugurated president.  Not a black and white television, but a huge projection on the screen from an HD antenna.  We applauded along with all the people on the mall.  I was not there.  But I sat next to Dan, I had my (essential) box of tissues, and I felt connected.

I hate dioramas.

I’m just saying. My daughters in the sixth grade are on their third set of dioramas for the year in Social Studies. As a modality – once – I’m okay, but this is crazy! And they come back from school like boomerangs in just a few short days. How does this teacher even begin to look these things over? No one mentioned that important school supplies for sixth grade are:

• a hot glue gun
• colored sand
• Popsicle sticks
• Model Magic
• shoe boxes
• corrugated cardboard
• twenty sheets of tag board
• pipecleaners
• “dries in 24 hours” clay in multiple colors

Not that I mind a non-essay to demonstrate understanding.  I’m just running out of shoe-boxes and  cotton balls.

photo by flickr member doubledareyaa

7 things meme

Like Kelly Christopherson I haven’t officially been tagged on this one, but with two open invitations from plurk friends, I’m guessing that I shouldn’t worry and just jump in. So, seven things that you don’t know about me:

1. I love to sing. If I could just figure out how to wrap it into my day every day, I would, but when I had my daughters, they kept asking me to stop singing. So I did for a time. Now I’m itching to sing again.
2. I played the cello in school. I started when I was 10 and I played into college, but I’m a terrible cello player. I think that I am a viola player. When my eldest daughter was taking viola lessons I couldn’t seem to put it down. I found the size and tone incredibly satisfying. And I can “fiddle” on a viola.
3. My dad left when I was two years old. It has taken me a long time to be able to say that. I has taken me even longer to use the word ‘abandoned’ in terms of his behavior toward us, his children. I credit a class I teach on autobiography and memoir that has allowed me to think, talk, and write about those feelings. Teachers learn from their students; I learn from mine everyday.
4. I love to cook, and I have always wanted a mandoline. No, not the musical instrument, but the amazing julienne-ing device for my kitchen. That and an AGA cooker that I would figure out how to use here.
5. I would like to retire somewhere with a boat and have the freedom to sail it wherever. Dream boat? Nautor Swan 47 – or a slightly smaller Swan (37 was it? There was this beautiful boat called the Thistle that I used to see ). But, here’s what you really don’t know about me. I lived for a year on a boat and sailed to Croatia, but I don’t really know how to sail. I know a bunch about ‘running’ a boat, and I’d like to learn how to sail one. Of course, I would have to have my house and garden, too.
6. I have twins.  They will be 12 on Groundhog Day or Imbolc, the festival of the return of the light on the ancient Celtic calendar or wheel of the year.  They were not diagnosed until 36 hours before they were born (at 41 weeks gestation), although I spent the usual time in a OB/Gyn waiting room for the requisite 36 weeks.  It’s a great story, one that I’ve told many times, but just not in this space.  I have three daughters; the twins (fraternal – or sororal as we call them) and a 15 year old.  Our life is never dull.
7. I reread Pride and Prejudice all the time.  My husband says that it is like watching M*A*SH* reruns for me; I can pick the book up, open it to any page, and read for a while without being confused.   I love to read series mystery novels.  I can’t have them in the house if I have student work to read; I have NO self control.  Favorite authors are: Dana Stabenow, David Skibbins, Margaret Maron, Laurie R. King (the Marry Russell- Sherlock Holmes pastiche novels) and Peter Tremayne.  I also love kickin’ it old school with Rex Stout.

So that’s it – I’m leaving this open as a free tag – if you want to share, consider this your invitation.

journal photo by flickr member doortoriver

Cross Posting – Pie Wisdom

This was originally posted on my family food blog, but I thought that I should have it here as well. If you’ve already read this there, please pardon the redundancy:
Paul C over at quoteflections asks:

What is your skill which has been developed through practice and experience? You have respect for this skill and are always open to refinements.

I make pies. And in a nod to Garr Reynolds at Presentation Zen and his reflection on the artistry of jazz, my reflection on Pie Crusts.

Twenty-one things I’ve learned from pie crust

Plenty of Pie for all

• A good recipe is the best road map.
• Never try to double a batch. It makes sense to stay small.
• The harder you work it, the worse it tastes.
• Enjoy getting messy.
• Simple is best, but flashy has its moments.
• It’s about the fruit.
• Create for more than the taste. It should smell and look amazing, too.
• Too many pies and they are no longer special.
• It’s possible to make a classic with a twist.
• It doesn’t matter if your pie crust isn’t perfect; don’t be afraid to just roll one out.
• Broken pie crust tastes delicious, too.
• You have a taste for a pie? Make one!
• Sure, it’s cool if you don’t need a recipe, but those that eat the pie can’t tell the difference.
• Pretentious pie might as well have come from Baker’s Square.
• Enjoy the process – eat a slice of apple coated in cinnamon and sugar if you want.
• Invite someone to share the pie with you – it tastes better when you share.
• Simplicity is supremely delicious; avoid the lure of too many flavors.
• Empty pan means a full stomach.
• Fruit, sugar, flour, heat.
• If you think you have mastered the crust, you’ve probably begun to compromise.
• Bake, bake, bake.
• Generosity and curiosity are your greatest gifts; nurture them in yourself and in those who share your table.

Should I stay or should I go now…

Lucky Seventh?

I’ve been wrestling with a question this last week. The teacher who took my position as seventh grade English teacher is leaving for points east, Boston specifically. She’s been a delightful colleague and we will miss her. At the end of the break my old boss, the head of the middle school, asked me to consider returning to my old position. This on the heels of a former colleague returning to school for a visit and telling me that he was surprised that I was teaching in the upper school. “I always thought you were one of those teachers that really got and enjoyed teaching middle school,” he told me. I do so I’m torn.

Seventh Grade

I love teaching seventh graders. It’s a time of constant change, both physical and cognitive, and I love being there to challenge and support them. What a wild ride that year is, and universally unpleasant in most people’s memories. I love the books we can read, the things we can explore, and the joy in discovery and mastery that can be a part of the seventh grade year. One prepare taught four times every day. Seventy two kids (on average).

Upper School

In the Upper School I teach mostly upperclassmen. I’ve been there three years and I really love the kids and the books. I have four prepares: American Lit, an Elective (Autobiography and Memoir in the 1st sem and Science Fiction and Fantasy in the 2nd), Journalism, and Yearbook. I am adviser to the school newspaper and the technical adviser to the literary magazine. I am gradehead for the 11th grade (twice weekly meetings with the whole grade and special event/retreat planning). I am also on the soul satisfying/sucking Community Connections team that I have blogged about. I feel like I’ve made positive change with the relationship between the newspaper and its adviser and the yearbook and the school. I’m not sure I’m done there.

Ups and Downs

There are positives and negatives to both positions. Both divisions have teachers that are “personalities” that appear to defecate gold (though they seem to me to be more flash than substance), both have generally effective administrators with quirky management styles, and both have demands on their time that do not appear on the schedule.

So, not sure what is in store, but this is why there have been no new posts. I can’t really think about anything else outside of this. Here are my questions:
* Why do middle and lower school teachers get so little respect at our school?
* Why do people look at you with pity in their eyes when you tell them that you teach seventh grade?
* Why is it that allowing students in the upper school to respond to literature in more than one modality (not just “You will write an analytic essay, 4-5 pages long…”) makes me the “easy” teacher?
* Why do upper school teachers seem to fail to “see” every student, especially the quiet ones?

Image by flickr member Kevin Collins – Seven

Provisioning in Bermuda

This post is the first in a series about the year I spent (fall 1985-August 1986) as the cook/stewardess/deckhand on the Jubliee, a 75″ sloop.

"Get on the bus that takes me to you"

When you shop for food, supplies, and stores on a boat it is called provisioning.  Provisioning is a snap, really, when you are traveling shorter passages (three to five days), though it gets complicated when you are going to be at sea for a longer period of time.  Other things that complicate the process are currencies, availability, storage, and picky eaters.

How much is this coin worth?

Local currency was always different from island to island in the Caribbean, in fact on St. Martin/Maarten you have both Dutch guilder and French francs.  It might be Euros now, but in 1985/86 it was a handful of different coins and colored bills.  I could pay for anything with the US Dollar, but I would get change in the local currency.  That meant planning ahead.  The exchange rate was usually very good in stores, and I was able to get things that the boat needed for reasonable prices (like good knives – as all Surf Ninjas know, “Money can’t buy knives.”)  As cook I was following behind one amazing woman (Annie – moved on to Ioranna, a Swan 57 that could outsail us any day) and a woman (Kathy) who as cook was scuttled and sent back to the Newport Boat Basin with her apron in her hand after one week at sea.  More on her later – but what that meant for me as chief food and stuff purchaser was that I had a lot of ground to make up to get the boat back to where Annie left it.

I flew back into Bermuda from Boston (I had rushed home to quit my waitress job, set up a power of attorney for my cousin, find health insurance, tell everyone I was going away for a year, and cry).  First tasks involved getting a sense of what Kathy had left us with.  Inventory revealed enormous quantities of canned tuna and not much else.  I had to provision for the next leg of the delivery – Bermuda to Antigua – and I was expecting five days and planning for seven.  My instructions were to take the bus to the grocery store, buy everything I needed, and take a taxi back to the boat at the St. George’s Dinghy and Sports Club.

Bermuda

Bermuda is the place where I realized that there were people who made a lot less money than I did but smiled more.  In April 1985 I had flown to Bermuda to meet Jim on the Corviglia II, a Swan 47 that he was delivering after Antigua Race week.  I met him that day at the White Horse Tavern.  I was worried that they would have to wait for me, but I waited, briefly, as they finished clearing customs and moved the boat to the Dingy Club.  The club had showers and laundry, a second floor bar, and a snooker table.  I smiled a lot, got tanned, ate fish chowder, skinny dipped, met Roger (surely a pirate in another life), tried to play snooker, and went home and quit my job as manager at a corporate restaurant in Quincy Market.  I sense a theme: a boat makes me quit my job, but I digress… back to provisioning.

My Job

Step one.  Make a list – oh, I’m good with lists, so that one was easy.

Step two: Get the bus.  A Bostonian without a car I was comfortable with buses, but still I was so worried.  Really nervous about not getting the right bus, having the right fare, not finding the store, not having enough cash to get the groceries…  I think that I invented every neurotic worst case scenario possible.  As I waited by myself at the bus stop I was joined by another boatie.  He had all the classic signs.  Sunburned nose, shorts and a polo shirt with a boat name on the left breast.  He was very nice (also quite handsome), although I am embarrassed that I don’t remember his name.  His destination was groceries as well, and this was not his first trip.  He was captain of the boat he was on and would make sure that I got off at the right stop and knew what the fare was.

Expensive

Bermuda is not an economical place to buy food.  I remember being careful to get what I needed and to not be extravagant.  Some things I passed on as too pricey.  It was not until I successfully returned to the boat and gave Øle the receipt that I realized economy mattered but only so much.  He never flinched when I gave him receipts.  Ever.  (Oh, except that one time when I could only find a piece laundry service in Porto Cervo, Sardinia-  another story I think.)

I often looked for the captain that helped me whenever we made it to a port with a lot of activity.  I saw him a few times.  He remembered me and it was like seeing the beginning, and recognizing how much I had learned.  Øle was never much for instructions, just jobs to do and “Oh, I wouldn’t have done it that way”s.  That other captain, he was mine.  I know that sounds odd, but everything else in that world was the province of Øle and Jim from snooker to sails, and there was very little that I could claim past the galley doorway.   That solo voyage on the bus to the grocery store launched me.  And soon we would leave for Antigua and there was no turning back.

Photo of the Bermuda Bus Barn in Hamilton by flickr member Andrew Currie