Pro plastic

We watch Hollywood actors just as much as we watch their shows and movies. Often, they are hired for their beauty or musculature, which makes sense because we do like our eye candy when we binge-fest the Boob Tube. But the vagaries of time are unavoidable, even for the stars about whom we revolve. Skin as smooth as alabaster becomes furrowed by the plough of Father Time, breasts eventually depreciate the gravity of their experience, and streaks of grey become a hair-razing disaster.

Many of these actors will ultimately submit themselves to the knife, becoming living dolls to talented plastic surgeons. Skin is stretched smooth, boobs are elevated to youthful proportions, and great hair is firmly implanted in dry soil, and once again, these starlets are forever young and relevant.

They often do this in secret, participating in the ultimate charade of agelessness, but what they do not realize is that we are watching them with magnifying glasses, scouring their bodies for any signs of imperfections. We cannot help ourselves. And when we see the telltale signs of “having work done” – skin stretched so tight that a smile is the rictus of death, jet black hair on a stooped and wizened frame of mummified tissue – we tend to mock them for such transparent and desperate attempts to fight back against the ravages of time.

But no longer for me. I am a new man, with a newfound respect for those in Hollywood who strive to remain young. I say to them, “Get thee to a cuttery and fashion yourself in the image of a perpetual teenager.” I am pro plastic.

Why? Could it be because I too am getting to the advanced stages of life and I can better appreciate this desire to turn back the clock, to restore some grains back in the attic of the hourglass? Possibly.

But it is more than that. You see, lately my wife and I have been watching movies with our favourite actors of old, and we are noticing that they are looking so much older. Tom Hanks is grey and wrinkly, Morgan Freeman has become frail (but his voice is still so sexy!), and Arnold and Sylvester have shown clear signs of muscle atrophy, and they have lost much of their agility. They are playing the roles of older people, and often (gulp!), grandparents.

And this has really stirred up great sadness within us. We had always suspected that we are getting older, but we are still pretty active and energetic in our endeavours, so we often still feel like we are in our 30’s. But not when we see the great actors revealing their dilapidated frames and leathery faces on the silver (or is it grey?) screen. When we are faced with such irrefutable evidence of decay, then the reality of our own age becomes undeniable. Which sucks!

So, please, all elder statesmen and women of the Academy, I give you my blessing to nip and tuck, to stretch and infuse with collagen, and to stuff bags of silicone into whatever body parts you think they’re needed. Drink deeply of the fountain of youth, so that we can feast our eyes on your ever-young visage. You be our Dorian Gray, and we promise that we will never try to look under the cover of thick makeup.

Comment-ary

Many people out there think that teaching is a pretty easy profession, with the long holidays, and every weekend off. Now, I could spend this entire blog defending the profession, showing how the workload could cripple a man or woman – and in fact, there are many first-year teachers who do collapse under the weight – but I want to focus on one of the compulsory tasks: making report card comments.

Being a parent of two boys (I mean, young men), I understand the need for comments. We want to know how our kids are doing in the class, we want to know if there are things the kids need to work on to improve, and we would like to get advance notice of any issues that could hold them back from their desired future.

Ideally, a teacher should make a unique comment for each student. In fact, my best friend worked in a private school where that was the expectation. He would observe the students through the course of the first month of classes, making small notes about each student, and when it came to reporting “season”, he would have a huge amount of anecdotal and assessment evidence to back up his conclusions. It was ideal, and considering that this was a school that catered to the richest people in Vancouver, nothing less would have been tolerated.

But the reality is that in public school, we have nearly 200 students sometimes, and making unique comments for each would take us an incredible number of hours. We would have no rest at all, especially considering that we have a ton of other marking and extra-curricular demands that must be taken care of as well. It is an impossible task, and might be something mentioned in Dante’s Inferno as one of the tasks conducted within the depths of hell.

So, being realists, we teachers create a diverse bank of comments that strive to find a balance between individuality and efficiency, between exhaustive detail and avoiding debilitating exhaustion, between accuracy and teacher sanity. The comments range across the spectrum of attributes, including ability, motivation, and skills. If created properly and with true attention to detail, then there should be a wonderful palette of choices to make, and with appropriate choices, we can paint a unique picture of each student within the class.

I have to admit that when I assign each student a variety of different numbers, each corresponding to a different student attribute, it feels a bit mechanistic and artificial. I love to write poetry and … blogs, and a personal touch with a certain flair is my ultimate objective in my writing. So, it would seem that I am resigning myself to an emotionless, robotic assessment procedure, allowing the heart of the process to rule the day, with the price being my very own humanity. Yeah, sometimes it can feel this way.

But, once the wave of depression passes, I realize that I need to focus my attention and energies in such a way that the greatest good results. And the truth is that the comments are not the be-all, end-all for parental communication. Often, the comment comes far too late. When a student is neglecting their homework, or acting out in class, or doing something particularly wonderful, like showing dramatic improvement in the class, then I find it is in everybody’s best interest to inform the parents immediately. A quick email is all it takes, and the parents are often very gratified that a teacher could care this much as to provide timely feedback, allowing them to respond appropriately and effectively.

I started this blog, wanting to communicate my desire to have someone make an AI interface that could make comments for teachers, thus reducing our workload. But now that I think about it, it is not about report card comments at all. If the parents are finding out only when the report cards come out, then it is likely too late to do anything about it.

Any comments?

Wonder-full teaching

Is it any wonder that I am a teacher?

When I was in my 20’s, I really had no idea what I wanted to do for a living. I tossed around ideas of being a professional athlete (pipe dream) or a professor with 3 PhD’s (obvious ego validation), but deep down, I was at a loss. Looking back on this, it seems a quaint problem … but when I lived through it, this was the Great Wall of China, and all I had were my fingers and toes to surmount it.

I remember hating those kids around me who seemed to have it all figured out, who knew exactly what they were doing for the rest of their days. I remember envying the older people (I hesitate to say “old”, since I am at that age right now) who had solid careers, complete families, and days without stressing about the future. Their houses had white picket fences, and their lawns were so green – much greener than on my side.

Well, I am now the person I once hated and envied.

Today was a beautiful affirmation of this. We are in the midst of final exams, and usually, this is a time of mind-numbing supervision, grading, making comments, and fraternizing with fellow colleagues, reminiscing about the highs and lows of the past semester. But not for me. Today, I was back in the saddle, and it was a sweet ride.

My classroom, once barren of desks (since they are all in the gym for exams), received a sudden influx of large plastic tables and a stack of chairs. Then, in the early afternoon, the door was opened and the students trickled in. Why were they here, when classes were over? Last year, I developed a new course at the school that combined physics and calculus – essentially a dream course that combines two of my favourite things in education. The kids were here to receive some preliminary instruction, and then afterwards, they would be able to study the material independently, using my workbook as a resource.

So, there they were, sitting in the cheap plastic chairs, waiting with looks on their faces that ranged from exhaustion to apathy to curiosity. They had no idea what was coming … no idea whatsoever.

Honestly, the subsequent lesson should have been a lackluster affair. They were voluntarily giving up their free time, time with which they could have used to study for exams or play video games, and I had woken up at 4 a.m. that morning, so I was pretty bloody exhausted. These are the ingredients for a disaster.

But this is a good story, and all good stories need a hero. Well, the hero in this case was the child living inside of me. Because when I came into that room and began speaking the calculus, I underwent the most magical transformation. My energy level surpassed that of a nuclear facility, my enthusiasm rivalled that of a cheerleading squad, and my joy was that of parents who first see their newborn.

In fact, it was a bit out of control at the start. So swept up was I in this hyper-emotional state that I found myself talking far too quickly and being a bit scatter-brained. But soon enough, my teacher instincts and training came to the fore and I settled down, talked more slowly, and moved through the lesson in a systematic and clear fashion – all the while, my eyes were glowing from the raging furnace of passion that was burning away within me.

Two hours later, the lesson was over and I was still on Mount Olympus, one with the physics and calculus gods, feeling so very blessed.

Now think about it … I did not have to do this. I could easily have said no to this course in the first place, claiming that it was an additional burden on my already heavy-laden shoulders, with no monetary remuneration to ease the pain. I mean, what idiot chooses to add more to their workload when there is absolutely no reason to do so?

This idiot.

The fact is, I love teaching. It is in my DNA, it is my raison d’etre, it is what gets me leaping out of bed in the morning, and it gives meaning to my every day. It is my very identity. I don’t simply enjoy teaching … I AM A TEACHER.

So, I have become the person that I once hated. I know exactly what I am to do in this life, and I am living it right now. I cannot imagine doing any other profession.

If anyone reading this blog is struggling with their profession, or does not know what they want to do as a career, well, feel free to hate me, since I felt the same way about such people. And I hope that in time, you will find that special vocation that you were meant to do and you eventually become a hate-worthy person as well.

Positive pain

Today, I was talking to a colleague who was going through a tough day. She was being challenged on how she conducted her teaching and it was causing her stress. It made her day a bit of a living hell and I know that she wished it had never happened. She was tempted to simply give in so that the pain would stop and things would go back to being smooth.

But is this what we really want? I know that when we are in the midst of a painful situation, we would like nothing more than to have it stop, but would this be to our benefit?

Life is strange in this way. It turns out that those challenging moments, as tough as they are to endure, are some of the most important in our lives. In my view, we are defined by how we live through and respond to such challenges. We don’t really know ourselves until we have been tested, and in fact, we will never live up to our potential unless we are pushed beyond our current capabilities.

Of course I have a cycling analogy. Imagine you restrict yourself to short rides on level paths. The ride would certainly be relaxing, and you might be able to really enjoy the scenery in the process. But would it be powerful? Could it be life-changing? Is there room for pride in this ride?

Absolutely not. I know from personal experience that my most memorable rides were the ones where I pushed myself past what I thought I was capable of, where I ignored the growing pain and exhaustion and endured right to the end. Or, when I was faced with a sudden change in weather and my very life was at risk, and I somehow managed to get back home, frozen, wet, but still intact and stronger for it. Even when I cracked my rib and managed to complete the near 2 hour ride back home, full of pain.

These moments were extremely painful, and I would certainly not choose to have them occur to me. But I am grateful they did, because in such a gruelling situation I discovered my ability to tolerate agony, to persist when all seemed hopeless, and to remain stolid in the most difficult of situations. Because of this, I am not daunted by what life throws at me. I know that in the end, I can handle it and come out of it swinging.

If I lived a life without pain, I would be a spoiled brat who was incredibly weak and susceptible to the trials that life will inevitably offer. I would live a life in fear of what might come to pass, worrying that I might not be able to handle it and crumple under the strain.

So,  bring on the pain … for only then will I gain resilience, courage, and a steadfast spirit. Only with pain will I truly live.

TV Training

I come from Hicksville, B.C. Now before you head for your atlas, or digital equivalent, the town does not exist … in name. But it represents the many small towns nestled between the Coastal and Rocky Mountains, filled with loggers, miners, and hunters. In short, hicks.

So, as a child, I was surrounded by a community of racists and machismos. Each day was a never-ending litany of Ukrainian jokes, racial slurs, and demeaning comments about our fairer sex. I did not know any better at the time, and although I did not often participate in such slander – more likely due to timidity than the moral steadfastness preached by the church – I did not attempt to stop it. I did not see it as ugly or reprehensible, only ordinary.

My family then endured a divorce, and one consequence of this was a transition from a rooted lifestyle to a nomadic existence, which had us sampling the many versions of Hicksville that B.C. had to offer. Ordinarily, I do not recommend such an itinerant upbringing, and I am certain that I suffer many scars from the sheer impermanence of my life at the time. But one positive that it gave me was that it forced me way from the narrow-minded, antisocial delinquents – and likely future wife-beaters and bar-fighting losers.

Since my mother had to work many jobs to keep us afloat, I was left pretty much on my own. So, as I navigated the potentially treacherous waters of adolescence, the only guide that I had was the television. Now, I know the reputation that TV has, and I agree that it is not the best babysitter or friend. But as I look back on that time, I am now discovering that TV had a very positive impact on my worldview.

I read a lot of science fiction and fantasy books where the male was the dominant protagonist and hero, and the woman was weak and helpless, in full need of the male’s protection. This seemed right to me at the time. But then came along “Family Ties”, and I was presented with a father who was more of a nurturer and a mother who was the successful professional, with a strong mind of her own. At first, I recoiled at this concept, and I may have mocked it for being so unrealistic. I figured that only TV could concoct something so unnatural and make it look natural. What was next? A dog that walks on its hind legs and is part of corporate America?

But over time, I came to love that family and I started to really believe the roles that they were playing. The mother was indeed very strong, and it opened my mind to the fact that this could … and really, should … be the case. The father presented me with the possibility that a man could be strong without punching others in the face or carrying a gun. In fact, his strength was in his restraint and in his ability to sacrifice anything for his family.

Over the next 30 years or so, TV stations made it a priority to offer shows that challenged the traditional male/female roles and our views on subjugated groups, whether it be black people or gay people who had come out of the closet. It was not always easy for me, and I felt some resistance within me at times, since I was comfortable in my simple prejudices and my black and white view of the world. But as I moved into the big city and I attended universities, I slowly came to see such perceptions for the frauds that they were and (almost subconsciously) began to adopt the attitudes that were more consistent with a logical, compassionate, and worldly person.

So, thank you, TV. You may have had flaws, but you proved to be a vital part of my social development as I grew up. And I am truly a changed man. I can now watch Wonder Woman and not scoff at the possibility of a kick-ass heroine. I can watch Steel Magnolias and cry unashamedly with the women, knowing that in so doing I am showing a subtle strength and an extra dose of humanity.

I pride myself on being a good husband and father. I have no doubt that my capacity for caring, my motivation for spending quality time with them, and my quiet restraint in times of challenge can be partially attributed to the best TV shows and movies that I have witnessed.

I wonder what’s on next?

Critical mess

I am rather surprised that I am willing to write blogs.

The internet is a two-edge sword with very sharp edges. It is one of the greatest inventions of all time, giving us near-instant access to a world of ideas and people. When it first came out, I really thought it was going to be a flash-in-the-pan fad that would soon fade out, along with bell-bottom pants, mullet hair styles, and doing the twist. Well, I certainly won’t quit my job as a teacher and become the new Nostradamus, because the flash became a supernova and it led to a digital pan-spermia, spreading new life to every end of the globe. It is the biggest thing since microwaves.

But it is also a very deadly weapon, when put in the wrong hands. I could construct a long list of its dangers, but I will focus on one item in particular – criticism. Much like a politician handing out guns to every voter, the internet allows all people – regardless of education, ability, insight, or tact … especially tact – to put in their two cents in the form of criticism, shooting down any other person they choose. Whether it is through likes, blogs, or comments, to name a few, all people have an avenue to criticize the words and ideas of others.

In some ways, this is no different than at any other time in history. We have always had a mouth to speak with or hands to write with, or for those who are most oppressed, a mind to think with, and so we always had an avenue to issue forth our ideas. But back then, our ideas were limited to those who were in earshot. What was good about this was that if the content of our diatribe was complete nonsense, or even worse, was an attempt at hate-mongering and malicious abuse, its impact was typically limited to our home, neighbourhood, or town. And if it was particularly bad, we would likely have been beat up by the outraged listeners.

But we have now been given the world’s largest and clearest megaphone, the internet, through which we can shout our ideas across the world. And what is worse, it is a faceless, anonymous environment, and so many feel no compunction about unleashing the most lethal of verbal (written) attacks. Criticism is a plague of our modern age.

This is particularly terrifying to a person like me. I’d like to think that I am a good teacher, and one of the reasons for this is because I am highly sensitive to others around me. I really care about what they think and how they feel, and it is very important to me to give them the best education possible and to do so in the most entertaining, fulfilling manner possible.

So, it follows that the opinions of my students matter a great deal to me, and I find myself constantly scanning the room for any cues which might help me interpret their mood. If I see some of them distracted by their phone, with their head on the table, or with a seriously negative expression on their face, it shakes me to the core and I instantly wonder how I might change what I am doing to address this educational apathy. And if I receive a direct complaint about my teaching, whether from a student or a parent, I am mortified and devastated. I cannot get it out of my head, no matter how successful I have been in the past and no matter how positive the attitudes of all the rest of the students in the class.

So, why in the world would I ever be willing to write a blog on the internet? By writing this prose and sending it forth into the digital abyss, am I not setting myself up to receive criticism? I have read some of the comments that are out there, and let me tell you, some people can be really cruel. How would I feel if someone decided to target me and stab me with their digital knife until my very soul is bleeding? And it is not lost on me that by writing on this very topic, I might be tempting fate and establishing a self-fulfilling prophecy.

My only security here is my own anonymity. I am a complete unknown in the cloud and so I am immune to such terrible attacks because no one is aware of my presence. I am a small mosquito in the corner of a vast room, buzzing quietly in my own little world, practically invisible. And I like it this way. People often wish that they were celebrities, with fame and fortune, but that is the last thing I would ever want. I am comfortable in my smallness, content to speak softly through this blog for the sheer joy of communication.

So, if you happen to be reading this, I certainly hope you are enjoying it. But if you are not, and you wish to write a comment, I ask you to be gentle, dear reader. My ego is fragile, my self-esteem is delicate, and I would hate to have this little Eden shattered. Thank you for your consideration.

Playground lesson

Most kids Johnny’s age loved to watch TV or watch YouTube on the computer. But Johnny was different because he loved to spend his time looking out the window. Across the street was the most amazing playground, and he envied all the kids who were lucky enough to play there. Johnny had never been on a playground before, and so he did not know how to slide down a slide, how to climb monkey bars, or how to swing very high. But he really wanted to learn.

So, one day, Johnny gathered his courage and asked his parents if he could go to the playground. Now, his parents were very careful people, and they took a long time to consider all the pros and cons of such an escapade. But, in the end, they said, “Johnny, we are here for you. Whatever you need, we will get it for you.” And indeed, this made Johnny very happy, which made his parents very happy.

The next day was warm and bright, a perfect day for going to the playground. The parents gathered food in case they got hungry, umbrellas if it started to rain, and a large blanket they could rest on. Then, they proceeded down the sidewalk together, hand in hand in hand. As they walked, the parents pointed out the different signs and explained how these were important to keep everyone safe. They obeyed all of the signs and after crossing the street, they arrived safely at the park.

Johnny was eager to play, but before he could, the parents sat him down on the large blanket and explained how to remain safe on the playground equipment. They pointed out appropriate and inappropriate behaviour, and they even tested Johnny, asking him questions and making sure he understood. When he answered the questions to the parents’ satisfaction, he was given the nod and joined the other kids on the equipment, a big smile on his face.

At first, Johnny struggled to do what the other children could do, but he was so excited that this did not bother him. And the more he tried, keeping in mind all of the safety rules taught by his parents, the better he became. Before long, he was quite the little expert, climbing and swinging and jumping like an expert. It was a perfect day, and when it was all done, they walked back home as a family, laughing and talking about the many wonderful things that had happened in the park.

For many weeks, Johnny and his family enjoyed the park together whenever possible. But one day, something frightening happened. While the parents were talking together, both sitting on the large blanket and enjoying the sunshine of each other’s company, Johnny decided to do something risky. Urged on by the kids around him, he climbed to the very top of the playground equipment, much higher than any kid was allowed to climb, and he was sitting on the roof in triumph.

When the parents looked up and saw their son at such an alarming height, they cried out in fear and shouted to Johnny that he must come down immediately. At first, Johnny did not want to do so, but after many threats of no dessert and no TV time, he finally relented and came down to the big blanket, much to the relief of the parents.

The parents were also very angry, and asked him why he would do such a thing, why he would break the rules that were made so clear to him before. Johnny thought for a while, and then he told them that being up very high made him feel so very happy, happier than he had ever been in his life. It was like he was meant to live in the clouds, and if he could not do so, then he would never be happy again.

The parents looked at each other, quite troubled. But then they nodded in unison. “Johnny, we are here for you. Whatever you need, we will get it for you.” So, they let Johnny climb to his heart’s content, even though deep down, they were very afraid of what might become of such dangerous behaviour.

Things went back to normal for a few weeks, but in time, Johnny became sad once again. The parents did not like to see their son unhappy, and so they asked what the problem was. He told them that all of the other kids were able to go to the park on their own, without the parents being with them. In fact, the other kids were mocking Johnny because he always had his parents with him.

The parents looked at each other, feeling troubled. But again, they nodded in unison and said, “Johnny, we are here for you. Whatever you need, we will get it for you.” So, from that day hence, they allowed Johnny to go to the park alone. But they made sure he was aware of all the rules, testing him until he could answer all the questions properly. Only then did they allow him to venture out on his own. But deep down, they were quite worried about what might result from this turn of events.

Their fears eased over the ensuing weeks. Johnny was happy once again and it seemed like he was able to make the journey to and from the park without incident. But in time, some disturbing things began to happen. Johnny would come back bruised or scratched, and when the parents asked him what happened, he would laugh it off and say that it came from playing with the other kids. It happened to them all, he claimed, and it was nothing to worry about.

But worry they did, especially because the injuries got more and more serious. His nose was blooded on day, and his shirt was torn the next, with plenty of scrapes on knees and elbows. Johnny still claimed that it was all fun, but the parents noticed that he was not the same. He did not talk to them as much as he once did, and when they did talk, Johnny would often snap at them, complaining that they kept treating him like a child.

The parents were saddened by this, because they had devoted themselves to Johnny’s happiness. So, one day, they gathered their courage and went to his room. When Johnny let them in, the parents asked if there was anything they could do to help make his life better.  Johnny thought for a moment, and then with a slight smile, he said that he hated the curfew they gave him. The parents had made it a rule that Johnny must be home before 5 p.m., since this would make sure that he would be home for dinner, and Johnny felt that this rule took away all of his freedom. He claimed that the other kids could stay out all night if they wanted, and they were so much happier than him. Why did he have to suffer, when the others didn’t?

The parents looked at each other with tired eyes, and before long, they nodded slowly. They said, “Johnny, we are here for you. Whatever you need, we will get it for you.” So, they allowed Johnny to come and go as he wanted. This made him so happy, and when he smiled, he briefly became the boy they remembered and it made the parents smile as well.

But they did not see his smile very often after that. Every day, Johnny was out very late with his friends, sometimes well after dark. The parents would anxiously wait in the living room, and when Johnny did eventually arrive, he was often dirty, scratched head to toe, and he acted quite mean to them when they asked where he had been. When the boy went upstairs, the parents could only cling to each other in helpless sorrow.

One terrible day, Johnny did not return from the playground at all. The parents sat in the living room for hours on end, silent and fearful of what this could mean. Then, at a late hour, the phone rang. The mother answered the phone, and after a few moments, she simply collapsed on the floor, the phone falling beside her, unnoticed. The father ran to her and after speaking to her over and over again, without response, helplessly put his arms around her and feared for the worst.

And the worst had happened. Johnny had been playing on the busy, dangerous streets with his friends, ignoring all of the signs that were posted for his safety. When he attempted to catch a ball that his friend had thrown, he did not notice the large truck that was travelling very fast towards him. The driver had no chance to brake or swerve, and on that fateful evening, he struck Johnny down.

At the hospital, the parents came to Johnny’s room and after knocking, they let themselves in. Johnny was sitting in a wheelchair, all bruised and broken, and with the saddest expression on his face. The parents came to him, and with tears in their eyes, they said, “Johnny, we are here for you. Whatever you need, we will get it for you.”

 

Let any who has ears, hear.

Joy is complimentary

In the Christmas holiday season, I make it a priority to write emails to colleagues who I no longer work with, friends that I want to remain connected to. These are no one- or two-line thoughtless constructions. They can often take an hour of contemplation, and the product is more poetry than communication. They are no less than gifts.

Often, the gift is in the giving, but sometimes, the receiving can be quite overwhelming as well. Case in point. One of my letters went unanswered for 3 weeks or so, but then today, I finally got a response. I didn’t read it right away, since it was a treasure and I don’t squander these by reading them in the midst of a typical overwhelmingly busy day of teaching. I waited until I had a spare, and after preparing myself mentally, making sure I was in the right mood and my mind was receptive, I then opened the email.

By the way, when you open your gifts, is it like a made race to the finish, a big rush to discover the gift’s identity? Or, do you remove each piece of transparent tape with utmost delicacy and precision, prolonging the moment for as long as possible, and then opening the box in a manner befitting a sloth, trying the patience of all those who are around you?

Well, I definitely belong to the latter group, and this approach to gifts extends to special emails. So, when I opened the email from my old friend and former colleague, I read the contents slowly and carefully, much like I was in the presence of holy text and my very salvation was predicated on an accurate understanding of its meaning.

And it was certainly worth the wait, let me tell you. Within the confines of the text, this respected colleague told me that I was the greatest teacher he had ever known. I had to read the sentence over a few times to make sure I interpreted it properly … then a few more times to indulge the amazing sentiment. What a powerful thing to say! And boy, did it ever have an impact on me. Two impacts, actually.

First, I was infused with a surge of joy. It was life- and career-affirming, and it put enough spring in my step to launch me straight through the ceiling tiles and heavenward. I practically skipped down the hallways and danced across the front of the classroom while teaching. I swear the birds were chirping, despite them all having gone south for the winter, and the choirs were singing. Oh, the power of positive feedback!

Speaking of power, the second impact was a burgeoning drive within me to live up to these words. I am under no illusions that I am truly the greatest teacher, for I have witnessed in the media the miraculous efforts that some of my fellow practitioners have put into their profession – buying books for their students when the budget is low, tutoring kids for hours on end each week with no recognition, coaching with such passion and dedication that it is a second full-time job, and even providing food and shelter for those in need … not to mention actually teaching at such a high level as to bring the children to unheard of levels of competence and delight. But it does not matter if the words are true. I want to teach in such a way as to make them true. It is the best kind of self-fulfilling prophecy.

So, I am very thankful for my colleague’s kind words. I can only hope I live up to them.

Body (but not heart) broken

I had such a great biking season this past year: I rode more km than at any other time in my life, and I experienced a large variety of riding experiences, including trail, road, gravel, and paved path. And what was cool was that I remained strong throughout the season, with my back feeling stronger than ever.

So, I felt it a safe assumption that I would remain strong as I came into the school year. As such, I decided to add a new feature to my winter workouts. In addition to the upper body exercises in the gym and the sweat-fests on the stationary bike, I thought I would introduce more exercises that worked my legs and core in unique ways.

Two days a week, I did squat jumps, single leg crouches, and thigh-burning leg extensions on the Bowflex. I also inserted core routines like scissor kicks, straight-leg toe-touch crunches, weighted torso twists, and dynamic plank moves involving sliding my feet along the floor using a towel. I finished this all off with some medicine ball work, doing chest passes into the air and onto the wall, as well as full-on body ball slams. This workout really kicked my butt and I loved it.

But, over time, I found that my lower back began getting weaker and weaker. At first I thought this was because I was sitting more often, which is definitely an occupational hazard and a natural hazard of cold winter living, and I have no doubt that there is some truth to this being a central factor in my growing debilitation. But my back was particularly sensitive after doing my new workouts, and in fact, I felt I was injuring it while doing the exercises themselves.

Now I am true scientist, and a bit of a mule, so I did not want to jump to any hasty conclusions. I kept doing this workout for at least 4 months, and the weakness in my back remained pretty steady throughout this time. And in fact, it came to a head this past week. When I came back to the school after holidays, I had to lift some heavy dumbbells for bench press, and in the process, my back finally gave in and was injured. Again! I was hoping that all of those exercises would prevent such a catastrophe, but they failed.

I have spent the last week riding the bike every morning and avoiding doing any exercises that could have a negative impact on my lower back. It has healed up quite nicely, but as delighted as I am about my recovery, I have to face the truth. As cool as those leg and core exercises are, as fit as they are capable of making me, as appropriate as they seem to get me prepared for an upcoming ski trip, I think I am going to have to say goodbye to them.

On the one hand, this is very hard for me to do. I think that I define myself a little bit based on how much pain I can tolerate over an extended period of time, and I was quite proud of my achievements with my leg and ab blasters. I was giving the youngsters a run for their money. At times, I feel like I am giving up on yet another fun masochistic activity due to my age and periodic disability. The future just seems to narrow more and more. How narrow will the range of acceptable activities become? I shudder at the prospect.

Yet, on the other hand, I am letting go of activities that are so difficult that they make me a little fearful before I start them. They are pure, distilled agony all compressed within a 1.5 hour time period. Is it really such a disaster that this will be absent from my future life? Should I not celebrate that my life might have a bit more joy in it? Do I really need to suffer such extremes for me to be happy?

Time will tell.

Teaching lemonade

In the last blog, I was inspired to write about humility, but funnily enough, the very reason I wrote it did not even get mentioned. As can often happen, the writing took off on its own, much like it was writing itself, and I felt a bit like a spectator. I typically allot only a certain small period of time for my blogs, since I have many other things that need to be done in the spare time that I have, and so I did not have the ability to address this oversight.

Until now …

Lately, I have been teaching some AP topics that are not in my sweet spot of knowledge. I don’t think many of my students know this, but physics is not my specialty. I am a math and physical education major, and I came to love physics near the end of my educational journey (if that journey ever truly ends). So, when the AP course arrived at some of the more esoteric, off-the-beaten path topics, I was not the confident, relaxed teaching specimen that I usually present. Rather, I informed the students that the ensuing topics were more challenging for me, and that the students should not be discouraged if their questions do not get answered.

Again, my first instincts react in horror to this kind of pronouncement. Am I not showing weakness in front of the students? Will they not respond by riddling me with a barrage of unanswerable questions, thus laying my ignorance bare and leaving me a husk of a pathetic pedagogue? Am I risking a subtle riot within my classroom, with all of the students shutting down and ignoring the vapid phrasings of an ignorant impostor?

But this is an unnecessary overreaction. I have already established my competence in the subject based on the months and months of earlier instruction, and so I have a solid foundation of trustworthiness and reliability. It is allowed, and I would argue necessary, for me to reveal my inadequacies in these scientific areas.

Why? Because something marvelous happens. When the students realize that I do not have all the answers, that my explanations may lack the spit and polish that comes from teaching an area hundreds of times, then they need to rely on themselves a bit more for achieving mastery. And really, isn’t that what we want from our students when they reach their last year of high school? They are one step away from university and independence, and it would certainly be a disservice if they relied on me entirely for their education.

This was wonderfully illustrated over the past couple of days. I taught a particularly challenging area in physics, and although it went well on the whole, it did not address all of the inherent challenges and mysteries within the concepts. So, a few of my most talented students began to ponder these things outside of class. In fact, in some of their other classes, they began arguing the content in earnest, contriving examples and counterexamples to test and deepen their understanding. At times, they would come to me and share their struggles, and I did not have an answer for them at the time – because they were challenging questions for me as well. So, they returned to it and explored it even further. In fact, they have now gone home for the weekend to continue this battle with the nuances of the material, and for some, they will enlist the help of the their parents, who happen to be experts in this area.

How can I not be excited and proud of what happened here? Are they not doing exactly what future scientists and engineers should be doing? They are wrestling earnestly with the topic, bringing all that they know to bear on the problem, and they are seeking out every form of instruction and expert they can to achieve their goals. What better training could they get?

Which leads me to an interesting question. What if I did know this area intimately and could answer all of their questions without fail and hesitation? Would they not have missed out on this arduous but wonderful journey of self-exploration?

It gets me thinking about how I teach the other areas of physics, the ones I know so much better. When should I provide an answer to a student’s question, and when should I encourage them to pursue their own answers, with me as a helpful but necessarily ambiguous guide?

These are questions I will need to pursue on my own, and when I can, I will seek out advice from the experts around me. Which makes me just like my students, a fellow sojourner down this pathway of discovery.