Well, as most have assumed, the school year is over and I'm filling you in with fun things that are going on post-munchkins.
As I was going through and organizing my lesson plans and files, I found these videos from the two-year religious mission I served in northern Italy from August 2006-August 2008. A couple might interest you for the mere sake of being interesting, but others might not be funny and/or make sense, so just pass over those.
1. I found an old suit jacket in the closet of one of the apartment in which I lived. It was some type of greenish-yellowish-tanish-all-sorts-of-"ish" and it was tweed and itchy. The person who left it in the apartment is probably dead or dying by now because it was bleeding 1962. I put it on and all of the sudden felt like a 1960s missionary, so I decided to act the part. I also was making jokes about zealous missionaries from ALL religions - mine included - who automatically assume that you're a terrible person just because you're a member of another faith. This was all done on the spot while a camera was running, so it's a bit choppy at times. Enjoy the 1962 Trent Lowe.
2. In a tiny city called Merate, there is a woman who defies all logic, meaning, she's crazy. She has a long, hot-pink rat tail surrounding by really short hair that doesn't lend itself generally to females. Every time we would go there, she would shout for her son Massimo. And when I say "shout," I mean she would scream at the top of her lungs for her son, Massimo, and her other twin sons to stop playing video games and come say hi to us. I never actually saw Massimo until my last visit when he came out dressed all in black with eyeliner and a Playstation controller in his hand. He had long black hair that went over his eyes and he just mumbled that he didn't want to see us. But...before we actually met the kid, we had only heard his voice yelling back that he "didn't care about" us. We kind of imagined him being a hunchback that was allergic to sunlight and would hobble around yelling at people when he wasn't playing his Playstation or XBox.
3. The other companionship in our apartment met these two guys at the hospital in Bergamo. The guitarist is an Italian hippie who was just along for the ride. Apparently, he had an infection and was at the hospital to get it checked out. If you know anything about Italian healthcare, it's that a simple infection can take you a VEERRRRYYYY long time to fix. Socialists. The fiddler is an American kid who lives in Oregon and was, at the time, applying to world-renowned Juilliard School of Music in New York City. He goes to Europe each summer to just roam and be a street performer for money. Go Mr. Oregon.
Just a few years in Italy.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
A Brief Tour of Miss-iss-ippi
This past week, I had the chance to visit, for the first time, the Deep South, and let me be the first to tell you that it sure is awfully deep down there. It's nearly a different country. I went as a leader for the 14-18 year old boys in my ward and probably had more fun than they did. We left Wednesday and headed to Enid Lake, which is about an hour south of Memphis. We wakeboarded and tubed on the boat for seven hours, then headed down to Biloxi, Mississippi, which, up until this trip, I had only heard of briefly in a Limp Bizkit song in 7th grade (don't even bother asking about that section of my life).
When we got to the beach in Biloxi, I found this historical marker that I thought was pretty interesting.
Apparently the beach was the setting for what they called "Wade-ins" during the Civil Rights Movement, very similar to the "Sit-ins" that were organized in diners and restaurants throughout the South. In the book, Black Like Me, the author, John Howard Griffin, mentions arriving in Biloxi and begins talking to a man about how beautiful the beach is, only to be told that "Negroes weren't permitted to use the beaches" despite the taxes paid by everyone for the upkeep of the waterfront. John Griffin arrived in Biloxi on November 19, 1959, a little over six months after the first wade-in. I realized that I was at the exact same beach where Griffin had been 52 years earlier. I found this photo from the actual wade-in from April 24, 1960.
It was a cool experience to be on the very beach where so many people had risked emotional and bodily harm a half-century earlier in the name of equal rights. It definitely gave some weight to the occasion.
On a lighter note, apparently turtles are protected wildlife in Mississippi.
Once we had stayed in Biloxi a couple of days, we headed over to Mobile, Alabama to tour the USS Alabama, which fought in the Pacific during World War II.
It was gigantic and, actually, really awesome. They have a program where scout troops can stay overnight on the ship to experience it as much as possible, so we grabbed our bags and headed aboard. We had a rude awakening when we got to where we were supposed to sleep. Apparently, they really wanted us to have the real deal because the beds were the exact same as they were in 1943.
The kid on the left (from the other ward) didn't wear sunscreen the first day when we were at the lake for seven hours, so he woke up the next day and his face was swollen so much that he could barely see......and then he didn't wear sunscreen again that day (defying the advice of his leaders), so, sure enough, his face swelled up even more the next day. Needless to say, he was miserable for a good portion of the next three days.
We hit up the lake again on our way back on Saturday. But, as usual, all good things must come to an end. As we were crossing the Mississippi-Tennessee border, a torrential rainstorm hit and we realized immediately that we were no longer on the beach.
Welcome (back) to Memphis.
When we got to the beach in Biloxi, I found this historical marker that I thought was pretty interesting.
Apparently the beach was the setting for what they called "Wade-ins" during the Civil Rights Movement, very similar to the "Sit-ins" that were organized in diners and restaurants throughout the South. In the book, Black Like Me, the author, John Howard Griffin, mentions arriving in Biloxi and begins talking to a man about how beautiful the beach is, only to be told that "Negroes weren't permitted to use the beaches" despite the taxes paid by everyone for the upkeep of the waterfront. John Griffin arrived in Biloxi on November 19, 1959, a little over six months after the first wade-in. I realized that I was at the exact same beach where Griffin had been 52 years earlier. I found this photo from the actual wade-in from April 24, 1960.
It was a cool experience to be on the very beach where so many people had risked emotional and bodily harm a half-century earlier in the name of equal rights. It definitely gave some weight to the occasion.
On a lighter note, apparently turtles are protected wildlife in Mississippi.
Once we had stayed in Biloxi a couple of days, we headed over to Mobile, Alabama to tour the USS Alabama, which fought in the Pacific during World War II.
It was gigantic and, actually, really awesome. They have a program where scout troops can stay overnight on the ship to experience it as much as possible, so we grabbed our bags and headed aboard. We had a rude awakening when we got to where we were supposed to sleep. Apparently, they really wanted us to have the real deal because the beds were the exact same as they were in 1943.
The kid on the left (from the other ward) didn't wear sunscreen the first day when we were at the lake for seven hours, so he woke up the next day and his face was swollen so much that he could barely see......and then he didn't wear sunscreen again that day (defying the advice of his leaders), so, sure enough, his face swelled up even more the next day. Needless to say, he was miserable for a good portion of the next three days.
We hit up the lake again on our way back on Saturday. But, as usual, all good things must come to an end. As we were crossing the Mississippi-Tennessee border, a torrential rainstorm hit and we realized immediately that we were no longer on the beach.
Welcome (back) to Memphis.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Busses, Masons and Trey 3
Summer Day 2:
I'm going camping tomorrow. I needed my sleeping bag. UPS was $110. Greyhound charged $29 for my parents to throw it on a bus headed for Memphis. Boom. Great deal.
Everyone knows Masons are huge in Memphis. But, who knew that Scottish Masons were huge in Memphis? Boom. Great info.
I wear cotton. You wear cotton. We all wear cotton. Thanks to Front Street. For those cotton enthusiasts among you, the Cotton Museum. Boom, great clothes.
I once drove a Buick. But, I never drove a Buick that belong to Trey 3. Boom. Great ride.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Graduation
Graduation - or, more appropriately, Promotion - has arrived. The kids look great. I missed the memo for all teachers to wear black and white because I was barbecuing for all the 8th graders yesterday when the announcement was given. Ask me if I care.
It's crazy to be done with my first year of teaching. It's been a total blur with great highs and terrible lows, but I've survived and I feel great about it. My kids have taught me so much and I'm sad to see them go, but excited for their opportunity in high school and I pray that they stay on the path that I've tried to set them on.
2010-2011 school year - peace.
It's crazy to be done with my first year of teaching. It's been a total blur with great highs and terrible lows, but I've survived and I feel great about it. My kids have taught me so much and I'm sad to see them go, but excited for their opportunity in high school and I pray that they stay on the path that I've tried to set them on.
2010-2011 school year - peace.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Roller Rink Romance
8th Grade Week has begun. In all its fury.
First stop: Roller skating.
When I was 10-ish, I totally had a summer pass to Classic Skating, and, consequently, I also totally had a Classic Skating girlfriend. Her name was Tana and we were in Classic Skating love. Every time the DJ would announce a "Couple Skate," we only had eyes for each other. It didn't go past that at all; we exchanged numbers once and I was too chicken to call and so that whole night, whenever the phone would ring, I would tense up, terrified that it was her and A) that I might pee my pants at the prospect of a girl calling, and B) that my family would kill and/or make fun of me until I had some serious issues. The summer ended up so did our Classic Skating Romance (well, until I moved to that neck of the woods after 8th grade and on the first day of 9th grade our Geometry teacher called for her name, I glanced at her and realized my long-lost love had jumped back into my life. I knew it. She knew it. But were either of us going to acknowledge it? Uh, hells no. And it was terrible for the awkward moments thereafter).
All of those feelings were re-ignited yesterday when I chaperoned our kids to Sk8land to do some major roller-skating. I walked in expecting it to be Memphis's incarnation of Classic Skating, but what I found was a carbon copy of Classic Skating (there must be only one vendor of skating rink supplies and carpet in the entire world because everything was identical).
Notice the carpet that looks eerily similar to EVERY SINGLE roller rink in the world. Also, note that my skates look like they were manufactured when FDR was suffering from polio. All in all, it was an extreme success, but a success I wouldn't mind not repeating for another bunch of years.
First stop: Roller skating.
When I was 10-ish, I totally had a summer pass to Classic Skating, and, consequently, I also totally had a Classic Skating girlfriend. Her name was Tana and we were in Classic Skating love. Every time the DJ would announce a "Couple Skate," we only had eyes for each other. It didn't go past that at all; we exchanged numbers once and I was too chicken to call and so that whole night, whenever the phone would ring, I would tense up, terrified that it was her and A) that I might pee my pants at the prospect of a girl calling, and B) that my family would kill and/or make fun of me until I had some serious issues. The summer ended up so did our Classic Skating Romance (well, until I moved to that neck of the woods after 8th grade and on the first day of 9th grade our Geometry teacher called for her name, I glanced at her and realized my long-lost love had jumped back into my life. I knew it. She knew it. But were either of us going to acknowledge it? Uh, hells no. And it was terrible for the awkward moments thereafter).
All of those feelings were re-ignited yesterday when I chaperoned our kids to Sk8land to do some major roller-skating. I walked in expecting it to be Memphis's incarnation of Classic Skating, but what I found was a carbon copy of Classic Skating (there must be only one vendor of skating rink supplies and carpet in the entire world because everything was identical).
Dreams are made on that hardwood right there.
It was a blast, I had a lot of fun roller-skating - yes, I roller-skated because apparently roller-blades aren't cool here - with the kiddos and showed them that I can keep up with them, even though they think I'm in my late-30s. I'm 23.
Notice the carpet that looks eerily similar to EVERY SINGLE roller rink in the world. Also, note that my skates look like they were manufactured when FDR was suffering from polio. All in all, it was an extreme success, but a success I wouldn't mind not repeating for another bunch of years.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Molecular, Middle-Aged Aristocracy of Christendom
This quarter has been pretty crazy because of our state tests and district-mandated service project. We did each of these in our homerooms and so for about three weeks, I didn't work with any of my students from my other classes. As a result, I have very few scores in my gradebook for them. As we began reading our end-of-year novel, Black Like Me, I decided to give each student five points for just showing up and bringing their text with them so that they could participate in class. Well, that proved pretty difficult for a couple of the kids.
One boy in particular forgot his book a few of the days and was absent another couple, so he missed out on those free points. However, when I asked what had occurred in the section of the book they were supposed to read for homework, his hand always shot up, proving to me that he had done his required reading. He approached me Friday and asked what he could do to make up those lost participation points; I told him that he had to write me a one-page summary of what had happened thus far in the text (an easy task for him I thought because he had read every page and explained it in class).
Yesterday, I get his paper and he asks me to give him some feedback. He tells me that he wrote it, but his mom and cousin edited it for punctuation and spelling. I was able to read over it during lunch and this is what I saw:
"John Howard Griffin, the author and main character of Black Like Me, is a middle-aged white man living in Mansfield, Texas in 1959."
"Great," I'm thinking, he's really understood the premise of the book and used great words to explain it...but then it starts to get fishy.
"Deeply committed to the cause of racial justice and frustrated by his inability as a white man to understand the black experience..."
That sounds absolutely nothing like anything he's ever written before. The vocabulary alone tipped me off that something was amiss (hence the title of this post). I wondered if his mom or cousin had actually written it and he just turned it in. Plagiarism to a mild degree. But then I wondered if he found this summary somewhere online.
So, thanks to my good friends at Google.com, I typed that second phrase into the search engine and was routed to http://www.sparknotes.com/lit/blacklikeme/summary.html, where, strangely, I found his one-page summary, word-for-word. Plagiarism to the millionth degree.
"John Howard Griffin, the author and main character of Black Like Me, is a middle-aged white man living in Mansfield, Texas in 1959. Deeply committed to the cause of racial justice and frustrated by his inability as a white man to understand the black experience..."
About an hour later, he came to my class and asked if I liked his paper. I pulled him aside and told him what I had found and he denied it. He stuck to his story that he wrote it and his family helped him. I explained what he had done and that he would be kicked out of most schools, but he wouldn't budge on his story.
This is the first time I've had to deal with this and it's killing me. This kid has read the book. This kid is smart. This kid just didn't try and thought he could get away with it. I absolutely didn't give him the points, but I need him to realize that this is not okay; if he does this in college, he'll be kicked out immediately with no warning and no rebuttal.
Moral dilemmas.
One boy in particular forgot his book a few of the days and was absent another couple, so he missed out on those free points. However, when I asked what had occurred in the section of the book they were supposed to read for homework, his hand always shot up, proving to me that he had done his required reading. He approached me Friday and asked what he could do to make up those lost participation points; I told him that he had to write me a one-page summary of what had happened thus far in the text (an easy task for him I thought because he had read every page and explained it in class).
Yesterday, I get his paper and he asks me to give him some feedback. He tells me that he wrote it, but his mom and cousin edited it for punctuation and spelling. I was able to read over it during lunch and this is what I saw:
"John Howard Griffin, the author and main character of Black Like Me, is a middle-aged white man living in Mansfield, Texas in 1959."
"Great," I'm thinking, he's really understood the premise of the book and used great words to explain it...but then it starts to get fishy.
"Deeply committed to the cause of racial justice and frustrated by his inability as a white man to understand the black experience..."
That sounds absolutely nothing like anything he's ever written before. The vocabulary alone tipped me off that something was amiss (hence the title of this post). I wondered if his mom or cousin had actually written it and he just turned it in. Plagiarism to a mild degree. But then I wondered if he found this summary somewhere online.
So, thanks to my good friends at Google.com, I typed that second phrase into the search engine and was routed to http://www.sparknotes.com/lit/blacklikeme/summary.html, where, strangely, I found his one-page summary, word-for-word. Plagiarism to the millionth degree.
"John Howard Griffin, the author and main character of Black Like Me, is a middle-aged white man living in Mansfield, Texas in 1959. Deeply committed to the cause of racial justice and frustrated by his inability as a white man to understand the black experience..."
About an hour later, he came to my class and asked if I liked his paper. I pulled him aside and told him what I had found and he denied it. He stuck to his story that he wrote it and his family helped him. I explained what he had done and that he would be kicked out of most schools, but he wouldn't budge on his story.
This is the first time I've had to deal with this and it's killing me. This kid has read the book. This kid is smart. This kid just didn't try and thought he could get away with it. I absolutely didn't give him the points, but I need him to realize that this is not okay; if he does this in college, he'll be kicked out immediately with no warning and no rebuttal.
Moral dilemmas.
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