Election Day in the United States: for once, columnists and pundits are correct in reporting an undercurrent of excitement, although that may be too weak of a word--it's an overcurrent. We have survived months of nasty conspiracy-thinking mental viruses unleashed upon friends and foes alike. The only despair I have felt about the political process this year has been the awful fearfulness some of my friends now display. As Barry Glassner wrote some time ago in The Culture of Fear, we too often are afraid of things that we should not be, and are distracted entirely from those things that, though difficult and nearly intractable, require our vigilance.
The actual topic today is relevant to our elections, since it concerns the very meaning of political. For the Romans and Greeks (to generalize a bit), one's public character was everything--the idea of a separate "private" one would have made little since. The downside of such a view is its sanctioning of private horribleness--one could be a monster at home, as long as one's actions never leaked out to the public. But the strength of this view is its focus on actions for which one is accountable. Ones actions can be tallied up and tracked.
For much of recorded history, humans lived in small groupings: villages or towns where many people knew your business. Highly mobile, industrialized societies are quite recent, but supposedly such mobility has led to social disconnection and a general loss of community. I suggest that the Web and other recent developments are returning us to a permanent era of accountability, though often of the phantom sort (that is, people can know a great deal about your supposed actions, though the information may be erroneous). We will need to care about--and for--our reputations from a much earlier age. No more reinventing ourselves in high school or college or our second or third jobs. Such a change is big, but we can handle it by aiming for consistency in our actions across platforms, communities, and virtual environments.
Critics of the Internet and game technology worry that the line between reality and fantasy is being blurred. If we follow out the reasoning, however, we might conclude that one should start to act as though a virtual environment, at least when it is not an obvious game or role-playing situation, is an authentic political arena that affects our reputations, and therefore the constitution of our characters.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
At the FCTE Conference, Orlando, Florida
I'm a bit early to a conference, for once. Today (Thursday) the conference opens, but I must have caught the registration people at lunch--this is the middle of the "pre-conference," actually. So after walking around looking quite confused, I am sure, I have given in. While a crowd of seemingly two hundred troop into a ballroom for a pre-paid lunch, I'm sitting in the New American cuisine-style hotel cafe (this is a Renaissance--quite nice, but too rich for my blood right now. So I am staying at a much cheaper, somewhat down-at-the-heels conference hotel exactly four minutes away by Mapquest claim). Internet access is a steep $10 per day--fortunately, I seem to be riding on some kind person's open access WiFi.
(Score so far for those who expect bloggers to notate the minutae of the day: nice service, undrinkable espresso. I view the latter as nothing artsy or special, just real coffee. The server--Tracy, by the way, has maintained her cheer nicely. She even said that she would be "honored" to be mentioned in this blog--a nice choice of words, given the very name of this blog!)
I last presented at an FTCE conference when I taught in an inner-city high school. I have returned as a business owner, but one who still believes in the fundamental principles underlying my approach to creating a miniature culture of honor in the classroom, whether high school or college. Tomorrow, I'll be leading a workshop for high school teachers that provides concrete strategies that build the dignity of teachers and students. I have no doubt that we can improve the situation in schools so that teachers (and students) don't burn out.
My friends who still are teaching in Florida public schools--most of them veteran, award-winning teachers--are showing signs of complete exhaustion. Principles have had to make do with less and less money while suffering a barrage of new "intiatives." But these initiatives drain people, rather than inspire them.
When people outside the school system hear about bureacracy, they may imagine complex documentation. Sure, that's part of the burden. But what I found while working for the public school system went beyond complexity: the forms seemed cramped and out-of-date, with no uniformity. No one had the time to update procedures so that teachers and administrators struggle with a bizarre, ugly chimera of online and hard-copy forms. If you have known the (relative) satisifaction of completing a paperwork task cleanly and precisely, then invert that feeling and you will have a sense of the ugly, lumbering educational bureacracy that provides a mental environment at odds with any sense of professionalism, let alone beauty or quiet control.
(Score so far for those who expect bloggers to notate the minutae of the day: nice service, undrinkable espresso. I view the latter as nothing artsy or special, just real coffee. The server--Tracy, by the way, has maintained her cheer nicely. She even said that she would be "honored" to be mentioned in this blog--a nice choice of words, given the very name of this blog!)
I last presented at an FTCE conference when I taught in an inner-city high school. I have returned as a business owner, but one who still believes in the fundamental principles underlying my approach to creating a miniature culture of honor in the classroom, whether high school or college. Tomorrow, I'll be leading a workshop for high school teachers that provides concrete strategies that build the dignity of teachers and students. I have no doubt that we can improve the situation in schools so that teachers (and students) don't burn out.
My friends who still are teaching in Florida public schools--most of them veteran, award-winning teachers--are showing signs of complete exhaustion. Principles have had to make do with less and less money while suffering a barrage of new "intiatives." But these initiatives drain people, rather than inspire them.
When people outside the school system hear about bureacracy, they may imagine complex documentation. Sure, that's part of the burden. But what I found while working for the public school system went beyond complexity: the forms seemed cramped and out-of-date, with no uniformity. No one had the time to update procedures so that teachers and administrators struggle with a bizarre, ugly chimera of online and hard-copy forms. If you have known the (relative) satisifaction of completing a paperwork task cleanly and precisely, then invert that feeling and you will have a sense of the ugly, lumbering educational bureacracy that provides a mental environment at odds with any sense of professionalism, let alone beauty or quiet control.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Apologies that Work
Theodore Dalrymple's "False Apology Syndrome--I'm Sorry for Your Sins" (http://www.incharacter.org/article.php?article=119) often hits the right tone. He moves beyond the insincere-sounding "I'm sorry if you were insulted" and its ilk to the public apologies for past transgressions by long-dead people. So the Pope apologizes for the Crusades, and Tony Blair apologizes for the potato famine. Dalrymple claims that such pseudo-apologies actually have a corrosive effect on virtue. It increases pride without any real responsibility--virtue becomes a matter of loud proclamation, rather than painful self-examination.
He also suggests that shame--that often ignored emotion (no one is supposed to feel ashamed these days)--is an appropriate moral emotion for past transgressions, at least horrible ones. His article is consistent with others that place such emotions at the center of our moral lives.
Dalrymple is concerned with the effect of sham apologies on the giver and recipient. So how should we apologize? The guidelines should include the preservation of the recipient's dignity. For many transgressions of the daily variety, they should in some way preserve the giver's dignity, too. That is, by facing those to whom you are apologizing in a dignified (but not arrogant) manner, you actually are demonstrating respect. And such apologies transmit the indirect message that you will be good for something after the apology, including action to make things better.
He also suggests that shame--that often ignored emotion (no one is supposed to feel ashamed these days)--is an appropriate moral emotion for past transgressions, at least horrible ones. His article is consistent with others that place such emotions at the center of our moral lives.
Dalrymple is concerned with the effect of sham apologies on the giver and recipient. So how should we apologize? The guidelines should include the preservation of the recipient's dignity. For many transgressions of the daily variety, they should in some way preserve the giver's dignity, too. That is, by facing those to whom you are apologizing in a dignified (but not arrogant) manner, you actually are demonstrating respect. And such apologies transmit the indirect message that you will be good for something after the apology, including action to make things better.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
The Mountains Have Severed My Exo-Cortex
I write this from a vacation home (not mine) perched near the top of a mountain in Otto, North Carolina, a small, picturesque town near the westernmost tip of the state. The only internet connection available is a slow 28.8 dial-up, a circumstance that has rendered any work dependent on the Web relative misery (and yes, I do remember when such a modem speed seemed blazingly fast).
My main problem right now is work, not entertainment—the lack of bandwidth is an inconvenience. Still, I feel the nagging lack of access, as though part of my cortex—my exocortex, I suppose—has been cut off. I have sufficient internal resources so that I can function comfortably within my own skull. Surely, though, the day is not far off when many people will distribute more of their identities in fragments spread throughout the net, keeping records, files, and preferences in many places. Or rather, represent themselves as clouds of preferences, drawing in data only when and as needed.
I think that we may well be the last generation to insist that our personal libraries be housed in one room, one house, one hard drive, or one head. I like being able to house such a personal collection, but my likes and dislikes will not affect the shift to a different world. But to accept wide distribution of information and data does not mean that we should accept a loss of control. Psychologists developed the term locus of control, but we might use it in a less technical way to emphasize our need to maintain a sense that we can identify some place or location that represents what we fundamentally are.
I notice that this post is a bit fragmented.
My main problem right now is work, not entertainment—the lack of bandwidth is an inconvenience. Still, I feel the nagging lack of access, as though part of my cortex—my exocortex, I suppose—has been cut off. I have sufficient internal resources so that I can function comfortably within my own skull. Surely, though, the day is not far off when many people will distribute more of their identities in fragments spread throughout the net, keeping records, files, and preferences in many places. Or rather, represent themselves as clouds of preferences, drawing in data only when and as needed.
I think that we may well be the last generation to insist that our personal libraries be housed in one room, one house, one hard drive, or one head. I like being able to house such a personal collection, but my likes and dislikes will not affect the shift to a different world. But to accept wide distribution of information and data does not mean that we should accept a loss of control. Psychologists developed the term locus of control, but we might use it in a less technical way to emphasize our need to maintain a sense that we can identify some place or location that represents what we fundamentally are.
I notice that this post is a bit fragmented.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Can We Focus through All the Phog?
An onslaught of books and articles confirms what many of us have known for some time: multi-tasking, in any meaningful sense, is a mirage. Particularly for the daily tasks of the office commuter, one simply cannot email and phone, phone and drive, and so on, without degrading each individual task. The behavioral deficit may be abetted by a nasty side-effect: “rewiring” our brains in a way that cannot be undone.
The latest entry is Brian Appleyard’s deftly written “Stoooopid .... Why the Google Generation Isn’t as Smart as It Thinks: The Digital Age is Destroying Us by Ruining Our Ability to Concentrate"
http://technology.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/tech_and_web/the_web/article4362950.ece --I especially that he mentions that all the worry may be the usual hand-wringing of this generation’s older generation. Still, he comes down firmly on the pessimist’s side.
If we really are caught up in a “phog,” what should we do? I suggest that it is not enough to tell people to disconnect, even though such advice makes sense to those of us who existed before the Web. We need to be strategic: if you want, say, a teenager to learn the importance of single focus, then you must demonstrate its value. Doing so is not so hard. For example, if teachers asked students to memorize short quotes, then slip them strategically into conversations throughout their days (and this is the sort of lesson taught in Antiquity), then teenagers—and young adults—understand immediately the benefits of deep focus. I realize that this focus is not the same as that required for artistic, mathematical, scientific, and other like immersions, but it is a start.
While technological consumer clutter partly got us into this mess, I do suspect that the very same may help us out of it a bit. For example, it won’t be long before we can create online avatars to handle low-level inquiries, presences that are programmed with our usual responses. We may well come to see these as extensions of ourselves. I strongly believe that we will do so someday, even if it is long after I am gone.
In the meantime, we need strengthened “out-of-office” replies that allow us to engage in off-line thinking. Some cognitive psychologists and linguists claim that language, particularly written language, offered us the ability to download some mental tasks into the environment (for example, ones that require remembering locations and directions), thus freeing more room for thinking other thoughts. In addition, language itself helps build a cognitive space for that off-line thinking, detached from immediate action—thus, we can conceive alternative futures.
It is perverse that our tools are reclaiming our online thinking, but we can build new ones that wall it off, too.
The latest entry is Brian Appleyard’s deftly written “Stoooopid .... Why the Google Generation Isn’t as Smart as It Thinks: The Digital Age is Destroying Us by Ruining Our Ability to Concentrate"
http://technology.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/tech_and_web/the_web/article4362950.ece --I especially that he mentions that all the worry may be the usual hand-wringing of this generation’s older generation. Still, he comes down firmly on the pessimist’s side.
If we really are caught up in a “phog,” what should we do? I suggest that it is not enough to tell people to disconnect, even though such advice makes sense to those of us who existed before the Web. We need to be strategic: if you want, say, a teenager to learn the importance of single focus, then you must demonstrate its value. Doing so is not so hard. For example, if teachers asked students to memorize short quotes, then slip them strategically into conversations throughout their days (and this is the sort of lesson taught in Antiquity), then teenagers—and young adults—understand immediately the benefits of deep focus. I realize that this focus is not the same as that required for artistic, mathematical, scientific, and other like immersions, but it is a start.
While technological consumer clutter partly got us into this mess, I do suspect that the very same may help us out of it a bit. For example, it won’t be long before we can create online avatars to handle low-level inquiries, presences that are programmed with our usual responses. We may well come to see these as extensions of ourselves. I strongly believe that we will do so someday, even if it is long after I am gone.
In the meantime, we need strengthened “out-of-office” replies that allow us to engage in off-line thinking. Some cognitive psychologists and linguists claim that language, particularly written language, offered us the ability to download some mental tasks into the environment (for example, ones that require remembering locations and directions), thus freeing more room for thinking other thoughts. In addition, language itself helps build a cognitive space for that off-line thinking, detached from immediate action—thus, we can conceive alternative futures.
It is perverse that our tools are reclaiming our online thinking, but we can build new ones that wall it off, too.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Strategies for College-Bound Students: Strategy #1
In July, I will be giving some talks on "Secret" strategies for college-bound students. They are not secret because of some organized conspiracy--they just are not widely known or practiced by new students.
Strategy #1: Greeting. Learn how to greet others as adults. There's no substitute, at least in the United States, for being able to walk up to a person, extend your hand, and say, "Hello, Professor/Dr./Ms./Mr. so-and-so, I'm ___ and will be in your class on differential equations." Don't, on second meetings, say "Do you remember me?" Instead, lead out again with your name, then move to some positive statement.
My own default statement is, "It's good to see you." I say it directly while looking into the eyes of the recipient. It never has failed to receive a positive response; often, the other person says, "It's good to see you, too." I don't favor, "How are you?" or "How is it going?" (I especially dislike the latter). I suppose that these questions are a matter of taste, but I still insist that statements (that don't require responses) are more reliable, more likely to put others at ease.
As a strategy, this one would be classed under the concept of Engagement. Rather than engaging an enemy though, or even an opponent, one is engaging a possible ally.
An extension of the strong physical greeting is the email greeting. One should default to "Dear ___," even in an email. Eventually, a more casual "Hello, Professor so-and-so" can work, but one should be wary of sliding too much into flabby, casual greetings. Friendly, informal even, but not flabby.
Emails will not be effective if they fail to engage properly. Before the actual greeting, one must write a targeted, clear subject line. But that is another subject.
A thought for training: One must be relentless in practicing greetings.
Strategy #1: Greeting. Learn how to greet others as adults. There's no substitute, at least in the United States, for being able to walk up to a person, extend your hand, and say, "Hello, Professor/Dr./Ms./Mr. so-and-so, I'm ___ and will be in your class on differential equations." Don't, on second meetings, say "Do you remember me?" Instead, lead out again with your name, then move to some positive statement.
My own default statement is, "It's good to see you." I say it directly while looking into the eyes of the recipient. It never has failed to receive a positive response; often, the other person says, "It's good to see you, too." I don't favor, "How are you?" or "How is it going?" (I especially dislike the latter). I suppose that these questions are a matter of taste, but I still insist that statements (that don't require responses) are more reliable, more likely to put others at ease.
As a strategy, this one would be classed under the concept of Engagement. Rather than engaging an enemy though, or even an opponent, one is engaging a possible ally.
An extension of the strong physical greeting is the email greeting. One should default to "Dear ___," even in an email. Eventually, a more casual "Hello, Professor so-and-so" can work, but one should be wary of sliding too much into flabby, casual greetings. Friendly, informal even, but not flabby.
Emails will not be effective if they fail to engage properly. Before the actual greeting, one must write a targeted, clear subject line. But that is another subject.
A thought for training: One must be relentless in practicing greetings.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
The Millennials and the Changing Workplace
I'm still reacting to reports on the so-called Millennials and their difficulties adjusting to workplace conventions.
There always will be some tension between conformity and the gradual change of standards (after all, our "conservative" workplace would not be recognizable to someone from the 30s, for example. Do you think that it's bad that a man can unbutton his jacket now?). What appeals to this generation is what really appeals to all young generations: the explicit invoking of strategy. Believe me, females and males equally like thinking of themselves as some sort of warriors, even if they never have seen physical combat (and the video game/movie industry has encouraged this mythology). So a company can make great headway by putting everything in terms of strategy (which is what you tend to do), rather than "values," which any younger generation is ready to reject, no matter how worthy those values seem to the oldsters.
I guess that you can tell that, when I was a college teacher, I tired of all the other teachers who moaned about their slacker students. Instead, I finally told them, they should teach students proper strategy from the beginning. The teachers needed to model excellence.
If one change is in the making, maybe it is a good one: perhaps companies should train their supervisors so that the new employees see excellence in action immediately. It's hard to believe that one should work hard when a company is filled with mid-level mediocre managers. If today's new employees more readily detect this mediocrity, then we can hardly fault them for being analytical and perceptive. But young whiners--I have no time for them.
There always will be some tension between conformity and the gradual change of standards (after all, our "conservative" workplace would not be recognizable to someone from the 30s, for example. Do you think that it's bad that a man can unbutton his jacket now?). What appeals to this generation is what really appeals to all young generations: the explicit invoking of strategy. Believe me, females and males equally like thinking of themselves as some sort of warriors, even if they never have seen physical combat (and the video game/movie industry has encouraged this mythology). So a company can make great headway by putting everything in terms of strategy (which is what you tend to do), rather than "values," which any younger generation is ready to reject, no matter how worthy those values seem to the oldsters.
I guess that you can tell that, when I was a college teacher, I tired of all the other teachers who moaned about their slacker students. Instead, I finally told them, they should teach students proper strategy from the beginning. The teachers needed to model excellence.
If one change is in the making, maybe it is a good one: perhaps companies should train their supervisors so that the new employees see excellence in action immediately. It's hard to believe that one should work hard when a company is filled with mid-level mediocre managers. If today's new employees more readily detect this mediocrity, then we can hardly fault them for being analytical and perceptive. But young whiners--I have no time for them.
Myths about the "Millenials"
A good friend sent me this link to a "60 Minutes" report on the so-called generation of Millenials who just now are reaching the workplace. The video and accompanying article bash this generation as having been coddled to the point that its members require that their self-esteem be boosted constantly. The complaints about these young men and women are served up in worried, outraged tones:
http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2007/11/08/60minutes/main3475200.shtml
A rather more measured piece is by Joseph Epstein in the Weekly Standard ("The Kindergarchy: Every Child a Dauphin"):
http://www.weeklystandard.com/Utilities/printer_preview.asp?idArticle=15161&R=13A93125C3
Here is my answer:
(1) Though there may be real cultural shifts at work, we should remember that such complaints go back at least to the ancient Greeks and Romans: many writers worried that the "younger generation" lacked respect and focus, and was interested only in momentary pleasures (sound familiar?). Also, it's easy to typecast a whole generation, but harder to deal with the complex reality.
(2) Human nature probably hasn't changed in thousands of years. People still react in the same ways.
(3) I have taught many, many of these Millennials, and currently tutor those who will be the post-Millenials, I suppose. I'm not nearly so negative about their demeanors.
(4) All those consultants who are described in the article are barking up the wrong tree, so to speak. Rather than worrying about the Millennials' beliefs or internal motivation, do what coaches and trainers in other disciplines have been doing for centuries: focus only on external behavior. Compliment the strong behavior (acting, speaking, writing), then correct the weak behavior by pointing to a model for the employees to emulate.
If a business asked me to talk about these new employees (which I can do as authoritatively as anyone), I would focus less on their supposed internal constitutions, and more on what they are capable of doing. Pinpoint their weaknesses, then provide concrete strategies for overcoming those weaknesses. Their managers should not compliment the person ("You are a great person, but . . . "); instead, compliment a real accomplishment, then move to the weakness. Research shows that coddling or complimenting the person directly leads to inferior performance.
But coaches always have known that.
http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2007/11/08/60minutes/main3475200.shtml
A rather more measured piece is by Joseph Epstein in the Weekly Standard ("The Kindergarchy: Every Child a Dauphin"):
http://www.weeklystandard.com/Utilities/printer_preview.asp?idArticle=15161&R=13A93125C3
Here is my answer:
(1) Though there may be real cultural shifts at work, we should remember that such complaints go back at least to the ancient Greeks and Romans: many writers worried that the "younger generation" lacked respect and focus, and was interested only in momentary pleasures (sound familiar?). Also, it's easy to typecast a whole generation, but harder to deal with the complex reality.
(2) Human nature probably hasn't changed in thousands of years. People still react in the same ways.
(3) I have taught many, many of these Millennials, and currently tutor those who will be the post-Millenials, I suppose. I'm not nearly so negative about their demeanors.
(4) All those consultants who are described in the article are barking up the wrong tree, so to speak. Rather than worrying about the Millennials' beliefs or internal motivation, do what coaches and trainers in other disciplines have been doing for centuries: focus only on external behavior. Compliment the strong behavior (acting, speaking, writing), then correct the weak behavior by pointing to a model for the employees to emulate.
If a business asked me to talk about these new employees (which I can do as authoritatively as anyone), I would focus less on their supposed internal constitutions, and more on what they are capable of doing. Pinpoint their weaknesses, then provide concrete strategies for overcoming those weaknesses. Their managers should not compliment the person ("You are a great person, but . . . "); instead, compliment a real accomplishment, then move to the weakness. Research shows that coddling or complimenting the person directly leads to inferior performance.
But coaches always have known that.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Is There a Doctor in the School System?
A School Diary, Part I
My non-tenure contract as an assistant professor had run out (with no college job in sight), so I am grateful when a Tampa, Florida high school principal calls one day with an offer to run a reading lab for struggling students. When I accept, pay-cut and all, I do not plan to stay for an additional year to teach English—but that is another very bumpy story.
I spend a few days lining up my paperwork so that I can move to the in-person "in-take" days. The process is a crash-course in how new teachers, rather than being courted, are dumped into a stressful culture where no one seems to be having a good time.
July 12, Monday. Today, I drive to Doctor’s Walk-In Clinic for my required physical and drug test. A young—possibly teenaged—aide asks if I can urinate. Yes, I reply, I probably can. So she and another (older) woman stand close outside the bathroom, both of them giving me directions on where to place the sample. Inside, a prominent stainless shutter is marked "Place urine sample inside." My first high school teaching inbox.
They run me through the standard examination until the young woman looks up from some papers: “So, you’re still not diabetic?” I wonder what my chart could possibly indicate. I never learn more about the matter.
Before I leave, a kindly nurse asks whether I have the correct form for them to sign. No one has mentioned any form. Fortunately, she locates an extra one—“As long as they haven’t been changed.” My stomach begins to churn.
During the next year, I learn that most forms just linger in files, rarely if ever read. No one has the time.
July 13, Tuesday. I try to leave the house early so that I can take my place in the dreaded processing center in Ybor City. Already I’ve been warned that most people spend at least four hours there, while some spend all day. To prevent a wasted trip, I need several certified documents such as my Social Security card, original college transcripts, medical certification, and loyalty oath. The District does not hire disloyal citizens.
I’m dressed and ready—but one of my car’s tires is flat. And I can’t get the over-torqued lug nuts off. My wife, after unsuccessfully trying to calm me down, jumps in her car, then speeds to a neighbor’s to borrow an extension pipe—it works. I towel off the sweat and grime, get dressed all over again, then drive to the center only to find that all the processing times are filled. A piece of paper taped to the information counter identifies Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays for teacher processing, with Tuesdays and Thursdays for other positions. It’s Tuesday, so the people standing around are not even here for teaching jobs—I work all this out in about twenty minutes. The woman at the counter, speaking with a slight tremor, politely sets out the difficulties: every morning when she arrives, a few dozen people already are waiting outside. Thus, I should arrive before 7 a.m. if I want to have a good chance (not a certainty) of being processed. They don’t take appointments.
June 14, Wednesday. I arrive at the processing center well before 7 a.m. to find several other worried teachers waiting. An hour and a half later, we begin the official in-take process, which includes a stern speech about the pitfalls ahead. Nearly everyone looks glazed over already.
I snag one of the few seats scattered around the narrow hall, but then insist that a pregnant woman take the bench instead. Several times today I shuttle back and forth from chipped, dirty conference tables where I struggle with some bureaucratic tangle to the dirty hallway where I wash up again in this same grungy spot. The cycle prefigures many of my interactions with District paperwork over the next school year.
An acquaintance, a school psychologist, hails me as I sit on the floor. She gives me her office phone number in case I have any problems, or need food or drink (how right she would be about that warning!). I’m not sure that she can really help, but that isn’t the point: she picks me out as an individual, as a person, as someone who might actually need to drink, eat, and rest. One woman knows to bring a knapsack with lunch. The rest of us do not dare leave for fear of losing our place. I am starving.
During the morning, we shuffle in and out of meetings, then slowly disperse as some invisible triage is performed. By the afternoon, we occasionally meet up in twos or threes (more waiting)—the discussions invariably center on inferior job assignments, or whether someone will be qualified at all. The tension, already high, continues to ratchet up.
At no time does anyone in charge ever say, "Thank you for coming today," or "Good to see you," or even "Thanks for your patience today." A different message is crystal clear: if you don't like it, you can lump it.
I learn that in order to work past the present academic year I will have to take at least six college courses over the next three years. In order to teach past the three-year mark, I will need, in addition to those six courses (in Education), fifteen more credits in Reading (probably about five courses). If I select the right option at processing (the tension ratchets up again since I am unsure), I could opt for the $600 set of reading courses, rather than a higher total price if I pay as I go. I also must pass the CLAST test (for college undergraduates) in three subject areas.
Already I’ve spent $55 on a physical (including the urine test), $62 on fingerprinting (all digital, so I am not sure how that figure is calculated), and $112 on my temporary certificates (good for three years—after that, if I have not completed all the courses and other certification requirements, I’m out). Most of this is not refundable should I not be hired. So far, I have lost money.
Many of the other applicants are young and fresh out of college. Throughout the day, they worry about paying fees before they have drawn paychecks.
I am overwhelmed since I have spent nine years obtaining my Ph.D. in English (not counting the years long before when I was a philosophy graduate student). I have years of experience teaching at the college and university levels, including the past four years as an assistant professor. But no one at the processing center cares about my education and experience; instead, three people sniff that it is practically irrelevant, even for teaching English. I try to picture myself sitting in another classroom.
I imagine how someone might communicate: "I know that these rules seem like hoops to jump through, but they are necessary ones. Let's see how we can map out the most efficient path." Instead, a woman shoves a form across to me: I must swear that I will complete all requirements if I work for the District. If I don’t sign right now, I can hit the road. I sign.
July 21, Wednesday. For Day One of new teacher training and induction, I drive to a distant high school with plenty of time to spare, but once there, get stuck in a long, snaking line of cars. No one is directing traffic.
I’m one of only three men wearing a business jacket today, not counting the district administrators or insurance salesmen. The salesmen have much better fitting suits. I am surprised by the number of flip-flops. There must be more than 1,200 new hires today.
Assembled in our first whole-group auditorium meeting (attendees trickle in throughout), we are instructed to memorize the names of the top district administrators, right up to the superintendent. I do not try to do so, since I calculate that my chances of running across one of them casually in the next year are miniscule. And if the setting is more formal, then my lawyer will make sure that I know everyone’s names.
The staff member emphasizes that the superintendent, as well as a few other administrators, are "Doctors.” We must keep this in mind. Later I learn that most administrators have doctorates in Education, rather than Ph.D.s, which is fine by me. What is not fine is the claim that we should be hushed and impressed. No one seems impressed by my Ph.D., which also is fine as far as it goes. I never, for the rest of my tenure while teaching high school, have an opportunity to call one of the administrators "Doctor So-and-So" anyway.
We listen to a staff member’s earnest directions. During the coming year, many District trainers emphasize that we should engage in “active teaching” to match the “active learning styles” of our students—that is, instead of lecturing, we should encourage hands-on activities and presentations. Every meeting I attend, including this one, requires that we sit still and listen to a lecture.
Later in the morning, I attend our individual school breakout training run by a grade school teacher who forces us to replicate the grade school classroom, even though a number of us will be placed in high schools. The "getting-to-know-each-other" exercises are tailored expertly to the six or seven year-old. I’ll soon find out that these approaches don’t work at all with high school students. However, I still demonstrate my can-do attitude, undertaking every exercise with as much gusto as I can muster.
I’m puzzled that so many future colleagues sit back and disengage. I realize later that several of them are veterans from other districts or states, and thus already understand how the day will go. One particularly tough-while-laid-back-looking man, who never removes his fashionable sunglasses, will turn out to be a colleague teaching across the hall from my Reading Lab. A gifted teacher and highly ranked wrestling coach, he will be one of my partners in a promising, but ultimately futile attempt to instill discipline and respect in the student body.
A large spider skitters across the floor. The women squeal. In another month of actual teaching, they won’t be disturbed if the monster from the movie Alien dashes into their classrooms. The men sit paralyzed. I grab an envelop from the desk, scoop up the spider, and deposit it outside in the bushes. The session leader calls me to her desk, where I expect she will thank me for my no-fuss action. She pauses, stony-faced, then says, “I’ll need that envelop back.”
I skip the second training day. In a couple of weeks, classes will begin.
A School Diary, Part I
My non-tenure contract as an assistant professor had run out (with no college job in sight), so I am grateful when a Tampa, Florida high school principal calls one day with an offer to run a reading lab for struggling students. When I accept, pay-cut and all, I do not plan to stay for an additional year to teach English—but that is another very bumpy story.
I spend a few days lining up my paperwork so that I can move to the in-person "in-take" days. The process is a crash-course in how new teachers, rather than being courted, are dumped into a stressful culture where no one seems to be having a good time.
July 12, Monday. Today, I drive to Doctor’s Walk-In Clinic for my required physical and drug test. A young—possibly teenaged—aide asks if I can urinate. Yes, I reply, I probably can. So she and another (older) woman stand close outside the bathroom, both of them giving me directions on where to place the sample. Inside, a prominent stainless shutter is marked "Place urine sample inside." My first high school teaching inbox.
They run me through the standard examination until the young woman looks up from some papers: “So, you’re still not diabetic?” I wonder what my chart could possibly indicate. I never learn more about the matter.
Before I leave, a kindly nurse asks whether I have the correct form for them to sign. No one has mentioned any form. Fortunately, she locates an extra one—“As long as they haven’t been changed.” My stomach begins to churn.
During the next year, I learn that most forms just linger in files, rarely if ever read. No one has the time.
July 13, Tuesday. I try to leave the house early so that I can take my place in the dreaded processing center in Ybor City. Already I’ve been warned that most people spend at least four hours there, while some spend all day. To prevent a wasted trip, I need several certified documents such as my Social Security card, original college transcripts, medical certification, and loyalty oath. The District does not hire disloyal citizens.
I’m dressed and ready—but one of my car’s tires is flat. And I can’t get the over-torqued lug nuts off. My wife, after unsuccessfully trying to calm me down, jumps in her car, then speeds to a neighbor’s to borrow an extension pipe—it works. I towel off the sweat and grime, get dressed all over again, then drive to the center only to find that all the processing times are filled. A piece of paper taped to the information counter identifies Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays for teacher processing, with Tuesdays and Thursdays for other positions. It’s Tuesday, so the people standing around are not even here for teaching jobs—I work all this out in about twenty minutes. The woman at the counter, speaking with a slight tremor, politely sets out the difficulties: every morning when she arrives, a few dozen people already are waiting outside. Thus, I should arrive before 7 a.m. if I want to have a good chance (not a certainty) of being processed. They don’t take appointments.
June 14, Wednesday. I arrive at the processing center well before 7 a.m. to find several other worried teachers waiting. An hour and a half later, we begin the official in-take process, which includes a stern speech about the pitfalls ahead. Nearly everyone looks glazed over already.
I snag one of the few seats scattered around the narrow hall, but then insist that a pregnant woman take the bench instead. Several times today I shuttle back and forth from chipped, dirty conference tables where I struggle with some bureaucratic tangle to the dirty hallway where I wash up again in this same grungy spot. The cycle prefigures many of my interactions with District paperwork over the next school year.
An acquaintance, a school psychologist, hails me as I sit on the floor. She gives me her office phone number in case I have any problems, or need food or drink (how right she would be about that warning!). I’m not sure that she can really help, but that isn’t the point: she picks me out as an individual, as a person, as someone who might actually need to drink, eat, and rest. One woman knows to bring a knapsack with lunch. The rest of us do not dare leave for fear of losing our place. I am starving.
During the morning, we shuffle in and out of meetings, then slowly disperse as some invisible triage is performed. By the afternoon, we occasionally meet up in twos or threes (more waiting)—the discussions invariably center on inferior job assignments, or whether someone will be qualified at all. The tension, already high, continues to ratchet up.
At no time does anyone in charge ever say, "Thank you for coming today," or "Good to see you," or even "Thanks for your patience today." A different message is crystal clear: if you don't like it, you can lump it.
I learn that in order to work past the present academic year I will have to take at least six college courses over the next three years. In order to teach past the three-year mark, I will need, in addition to those six courses (in Education), fifteen more credits in Reading (probably about five courses). If I select the right option at processing (the tension ratchets up again since I am unsure), I could opt for the $600 set of reading courses, rather than a higher total price if I pay as I go. I also must pass the CLAST test (for college undergraduates) in three subject areas.
Already I’ve spent $55 on a physical (including the urine test), $62 on fingerprinting (all digital, so I am not sure how that figure is calculated), and $112 on my temporary certificates (good for three years—after that, if I have not completed all the courses and other certification requirements, I’m out). Most of this is not refundable should I not be hired. So far, I have lost money.
Many of the other applicants are young and fresh out of college. Throughout the day, they worry about paying fees before they have drawn paychecks.
I am overwhelmed since I have spent nine years obtaining my Ph.D. in English (not counting the years long before when I was a philosophy graduate student). I have years of experience teaching at the college and university levels, including the past four years as an assistant professor. But no one at the processing center cares about my education and experience; instead, three people sniff that it is practically irrelevant, even for teaching English. I try to picture myself sitting in another classroom.
I imagine how someone might communicate: "I know that these rules seem like hoops to jump through, but they are necessary ones. Let's see how we can map out the most efficient path." Instead, a woman shoves a form across to me: I must swear that I will complete all requirements if I work for the District. If I don’t sign right now, I can hit the road. I sign.
July 21, Wednesday. For Day One of new teacher training and induction, I drive to a distant high school with plenty of time to spare, but once there, get stuck in a long, snaking line of cars. No one is directing traffic.
I’m one of only three men wearing a business jacket today, not counting the district administrators or insurance salesmen. The salesmen have much better fitting suits. I am surprised by the number of flip-flops. There must be more than 1,200 new hires today.
Assembled in our first whole-group auditorium meeting (attendees trickle in throughout), we are instructed to memorize the names of the top district administrators, right up to the superintendent. I do not try to do so, since I calculate that my chances of running across one of them casually in the next year are miniscule. And if the setting is more formal, then my lawyer will make sure that I know everyone’s names.
The staff member emphasizes that the superintendent, as well as a few other administrators, are "Doctors.” We must keep this in mind. Later I learn that most administrators have doctorates in Education, rather than Ph.D.s, which is fine by me. What is not fine is the claim that we should be hushed and impressed. No one seems impressed by my Ph.D., which also is fine as far as it goes. I never, for the rest of my tenure while teaching high school, have an opportunity to call one of the administrators "Doctor So-and-So" anyway.
We listen to a staff member’s earnest directions. During the coming year, many District trainers emphasize that we should engage in “active teaching” to match the “active learning styles” of our students—that is, instead of lecturing, we should encourage hands-on activities and presentations. Every meeting I attend, including this one, requires that we sit still and listen to a lecture.
Later in the morning, I attend our individual school breakout training run by a grade school teacher who forces us to replicate the grade school classroom, even though a number of us will be placed in high schools. The "getting-to-know-each-other" exercises are tailored expertly to the six or seven year-old. I’ll soon find out that these approaches don’t work at all with high school students. However, I still demonstrate my can-do attitude, undertaking every exercise with as much gusto as I can muster.
I’m puzzled that so many future colleagues sit back and disengage. I realize later that several of them are veterans from other districts or states, and thus already understand how the day will go. One particularly tough-while-laid-back-looking man, who never removes his fashionable sunglasses, will turn out to be a colleague teaching across the hall from my Reading Lab. A gifted teacher and highly ranked wrestling coach, he will be one of my partners in a promising, but ultimately futile attempt to instill discipline and respect in the student body.
A large spider skitters across the floor. The women squeal. In another month of actual teaching, they won’t be disturbed if the monster from the movie Alien dashes into their classrooms. The men sit paralyzed. I grab an envelop from the desk, scoop up the spider, and deposit it outside in the bushes. The session leader calls me to her desk, where I expect she will thank me for my no-fuss action. She pauses, stony-faced, then says, “I’ll need that envelop back.”
I skip the second training day. In a couple of weeks, classes will begin.
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