The End of an Era

Yesterday morning, a stack of ungraded essays in front of me, I finished watching “Frost / Nixon,” a fascinating account of the television interviews that planted the disgraced president firmly in the camp of the forgotten. As the credits started to roll, I punched the eject button and slid the DVD into a plastic sleeve, then into the signature red envelope, and padded downstairs and outside to plunk it in the mailbox.

This is a scenario I’ve repeated hundreds of times since we joined Netflix in 2003, soon after we were married. I convinced Rob that it was a more economical solution than paying for cable; plus, I argued, we would be able to watch movies of greater diversity and intellectual caliber than the drivel on HBO. And although my first pick was, ironically, Top Gun, we did watch many more unusual gems over the years.  Nearly half of my rated films (which number 1954) were watched via Netflix, and we were happy and loyal customers.

And now they’re screwing it all up.  First, by raising their prices an inordinate amount (our service went from $10 per month to $16.)  Second, by backtracking to explain that they are really splitting the company in half to capture both the DVD-by-mail and the instant-watch markets.  Third, by choosing the name Qwikster for their new DVD service: it’s trite, juvenile and comes with its own set of problems.

Like everyone else, I’ve grumbled about having to choose between two services, both of which are useful (on principle, I refuse to accept a 60% price hike.)  We’ve rented 503 discs from Netflix over the last 8 years, but we’ve watched 490 on-demand movies, and in all likelihood that number would rise much faster if we’d kept both.  (As an example, the last two discs I had to return yesterday shipped in mid-July and late August, and I only just got around to watching them both; meanwhile, we watched dozens of movies and TV shows on the website.)  But part of me feels like canceling the membership altogether, simply out of protest.

So I’m taking the coward’s way out — that is to say, I’m postponing my decision.  We’ve placed our account on hold for three months.  The semester is usually too busy to watch many movies anyway, and in the meantime we’re holding out hope that a better option will present itself.  (Blockbuster has proven itself incompetent during two trial periods, but I’m hearing good things about Hulu Plus.)

I don’t mean to romanticize a business merger, but truthfully, I am a little sad that they’re changing.  This was a company that was really, really good at one thing: you could get almost any DVD from or to their warehouse in one day, so that you could almost watch a different movie every night.  Customer service was streamlined and simple (no questions asked if a DVD never arrived or wouldn’t play correctly — they simply shipped another one.)  I can’t imagine they’ll be as successful doing what everyone else is already doing — putting free or low-cost content on the Internet for all the world to see.  But, for old time’s sake, I wish them luck.

Keeping a Sense of Humor

Asking questions always relaxes me. In fact, I sometimes think that my secret profession is that I’m a private investigator, a detective. I always enjoy finding out about people. Even if they are in absolute agony, I always find it very interesting. 

Wally Shawn, My Dinner with Andre

One of my favorite questions to ask, after I know someone’s profession, is about their strangest or funniest experiences in their line of work.  Some people (priests, for instance) are off-limits, but most are very willing to share.  This is how I got to find out about the grant applicant who wanted a new grant for a new car after he wrecked the one the first grant purchased.  And the substitute teacher who came home for lunch and fell asleep in front of the woodstove, waking only when the principal called to ask if she was coming back for her afternoon classes.  And the trail guide who had to patiently explain to a rider that the bears in the woods weren’t out of their cages; they actually lived in the forest full-time.  And the customer who wanted a pizza delivered uncut because of her daughter’s religion, which forbade anything that had been “premeditated by another person.” (And actually, the friend who told me that last story is now a priest!)

My classroom and studio are a mine of great stories, as you well know, but here are two other sources of good material.  First, a blog I occasionally read, because too-frequent exposure would probably cause an abdominal rupture from hysterical laughter, is Dr. Grumpy.  He’s an anonymous neurologist who deals with his work stress by posting story after story of ridiculous patient interactions:

Dr. Grumpy: “At your last visit you tried Feelbetter. Has it helped?”

Mrs. Shootme: “No. The first pill made me horribly sick. I had every side effect I read about, so I threw it away.”

Dr. Grumpy: “But, according to our records, you had me call a refill into the pharmacy?”

Mrs. Shootme: “I was afraid you’d get angry if you thought I’d stopped it.”

Second, Bruce Buschel, the aforementioned contributor to You’re the Boss, has posted a laugh-out-loud list of his favorite “helpful comments” from customers of his restaurant, Southfork Kitchen:

Guest: Why don’t you have wild salmon?
Owner: It comes from Alaska.
Guest: But it fits your profile.
Owner: Large carbon footprint.
Guest: Salmon have feet?

Hey, if we can all laugh about it, it can’t be that bad.

Modern Love

So a couple of nights ago, instead of grading papers or cleaning the kitchen, I went to the movies.  Ever since I read in The Week that the *average* rating of Drive was four stars, I had wanted to see it — even though I enjoy cars less than probably anyone else I know.

It was just as fantastic as everyone says it is: gripping and understated at the same time.  I don’t want to go into a lot of detail (I’m certainly not a qualified film critic) but I think what got under my skin the most, and has stayed with me in the days since, was the depiction of the side-note love story between the two main characters.

(Possible spoilers ahead, depending on your pickiness; continue at your own risk.)

They meet honorably: he holds the elevator door for her and watches with an eager, shy smile as she enters her apartment on the same floor.  Later, he listens in on a sweet, intimate conversation between her and her son, and he helps fix her ailing car in the parking lot.  As their relationship deepens, we watch as they watch each other, laugh together, care for her son.  They spend a lot of time just smiling, bashful in each other’s presence but unable to shake the wide-eyed adoration they feel for one another.  Physical contact is limited to a squeeze of the hand and one glorious, passionate kiss in the elevator just before they are separated forever.

The things they love about each other are apparent.  She is a nurturing mother with a sense of adventure; he is protective, dependable and comfortable in almost every situation.  They are both beautiful (hey, it’s Hollywood.)  But it’s not their physical attractiveness we see; it’s the strength of their character, strength that’s reinforced as they grow closer together and help each other cope with problems and celebrate victories. And, despite their love for each other, they each choose something even higher — she, her marriage; he, her family’s safety — in the end.

Is there anything that’s more beautiful than this?  And, basking in the warmth and purity of it, how can we stand to be confronted by the sheer drivel of Sex in the City and its counterparts in film, the relentless stream of romantic comedies that washes over us every summer?

I realize a movie is just a story.  But I don’t think it’s too much to ask that it use that hour or two to say something meaningful.  A movie like that can just take your breath away.

Closure

I’ve been a fan of the “You’re the Boss” blog ever since Bruce Buschel (of 100 Rules for Servers fame) joined several years ago.  Maybe the more accurate thing to say would be that I’m a fan of Bruce Buschel, so I occasionally read the blog.  

Last week, though, I accidentally clicked on a piece by another contributor, and it floored me:

One person has stuck with me all of these years. About 10 years to be exact. I almost never talk about him; I can barely stand to think about him. It is not that he was the worst employee I ever had. He wasn’t. It wasn’t that he caused me the most grief. He didn’t. It isn’t that I am mad at him. I’m not. Actually, I have been mad at myself — or embarrassed with myself — for getting into a situation that ended badly. 

[Later:]

From what I remember, there was no ugly screaming (maybe a little). It was more like a sad divorce where the parties just go their separate ways … What seemed like a good idea wasn’t. 

I have been on the other side of this kind of parting before, and though (unlike the young man in question) I still believe I didn’t deserve it, I can sure sympathize with what Goltz says about the person being “stuck” with you.  There’s something unsettling about a relationship that ends in this way, whether or not it was fair or expected.

Another interesting side note: the offending party’s ability to apologize figured prominently in the closure of this situation.  This test provides some great examples of phrases NOT to use when trying to make things right.

True Grit, and Other Virtues

The recent education issue of the New York Times had lots of great fodder for discussion and / or blogging. After the Russian pieces, I read an excellent feature that brings together two highly-rated headmasters — one from a charter school in low-income Harlem, one from a staggeringly expensive country school in Riverdale — to discuss the difference between great students and great people.

The difference, of course (of course!) is character.  And they have admirably narrowed down that nebulous category to eight key ideas like zest (enthusiasm,) grit (perseverence,) and my favority, curiosity (wanting to know just for the sake of knowing.)  They promote these virtues with posters, lessons and even a character report card on which each student is ranked by all of his teachers.

Can you teach virtue, as such? It’s a perplexing question, one I’m sure every parent would love to be able to answer.  Children need to see examples of it in action, of course, but they also need to learn what “it” is and why it is not only honorable, but useful (the charter program first began studying character in an effort to learn why more of their students didn’t go on to finish college.)  Maybe this is the way, or the way to the way.

Going to Extremes

Next time you’re looking to kill half an hour, read this fascinating trilogy of pieces about an American family who placed their three children in a Russian-language school in Moscow.  They first floundered, but finally found their footing and flourished.  (Accidental alliteration?  Never.)

My thoughts about their experience were very strong, but also very conflicted:

1. Good for them!  Not enough kids get to have an experience like that.
2. Would the kids have wanted that experience, though, if they had asked them?
3. Of course not.  Left to their own devices, most kids won’t even brush their teeth.
4. Is education supposed to be stressful to the point at which kids don’t have enough energy to have fun on the weekends — only to recover?
5. That kind of attitude has landed our country at the bottom of the test-score pile.
6. Who cares about test scores?  Are they really learning?
7. They’re learning a foreign language, and fluently!  You know you would have loved to do that as a kid.
8. Yes, but I would have wanted it to be my decision, and I would have wanted it to be in a less insular and pampered environment.  For $10,000 in yearly tuition, they should be flying to the moon by now.
9. Your own school costs more than that.  So does the school where you teach.
10. My school’s not in Moscow.
11. Moscow has the fourth-highest cost of living in the world.  Baltimore isn’t even ranked.
12. Are you actually doing Internet research to support your argument against yourself?
13.  … 

It disintegrated further from there, but I’m not settled, even if the odds seem to have won the day.  Anyway, it’s a pretty interesting story.

Teachers vs. Parents

The same semester I read Whitaker’s What Great Teachers Do Differently, I also read Ron Clark’s Excellent 11. Yet another reference to that class in this piece by Clark for CNN, in which he sternly admonishes helicopter parents to let teachers do what they do best:

Trust us. At times when I tell parents that their child has been a behavior problem, I can almost see the hairs rise on their backs. They are ready to fight and defend their child, and it is exhausting. One of my biggest pet peeves is when I tell a mom something her son did and she turns, looks at him and asks, “Is that true?” Well, of course it’s true. I just told you. 

My friend Melanie sent it to me several weeks ago, but I finally had enough time to read it yesterday, and I can only say AMEN!  Because, in the end, it’s all about the students.  And even they are not served well by indulgence.  They need to learn the rules of the classroom, and sometimes, their parents do too.

Ten Years and a Day

It’s hard to say what kind of a day it was, ten years after the most horrific tragedy I have ever known.  Two years ago I wrote about my experience on that day and the way it has never left my consciousness; yesterday was no exception.  It was a day of remembrance, tears and bleak thoughts.

It was also, in many ways, a day like all others.  Liturgy in the morning, bracketed by baptism and memorial services.  Two baby boys joined our family, neither of whom had waited for the hospital.  One was born on the bathroom floor, the other on the apartment steps — they were that eager to begin their earthly lives.  After communion I held the more placid of the two; he was a warm, firm lump in my arms, stirring every now and then to nurse an imaginary breast in dreamland.

The memorial was for all those who had died in the terrorist attacks and recovery efforts.  We did not read this prayer by Bishop BASIL (although I have visited the church Rod discusses in the introduction — a remarkable place); it was a memorial service like all the others we have served for parents, friends, cousins and co-workers who have left us, from our point of view, too soon.

We often spend time with friends on Sunday, and yesterday was no exception.  My high-school best friend had a baby shower and surprised me with two guests I hadn’t seen since our graduation; we spent time catching up and looking forward.  On the way home, I stopped to see the friends I had made ten years earlier when, in desperation, I fled my school’s campus in search of a safe place.  My goddaughter brought us peanut butter crackers as we talked over the noise of the football game.  We had dinner with our church family: melt-in-your-mouth pulled pork, velvety rice pudding, and laughter until our stomachs hurt.

But in between, and often during, these rituals of faith and friendship, I couldn’t shake the thought that this was a sad day.  During my hours in the car, I listened to the dedication ceremony at the United 93 memorial, which I was lucky enough to visit this past summer.  The speakers, each eloquent in their own way, gave messages of hope and inspiration, but also of grief.  One disagreed with the conventional wisdom about recovery — to recover, he said, would be to lose the bonds that linked us to those we had loved and lost.  The pain helps us remember, and in its own way, it is sweet.

Later, I heard the names at Ground Zero: two people read about a dozen names each, and ended with personal tributes to their own relatives.  It was almost too painful to hear, but it would have been harder to turn it off.  I listened, tears in my eyes, in rapt attention.

That night, I opened (for the first time in three months of delivery) a copy of the New York Times and read, cover to cover, a special section about the decade of rebuilding in the city.  Fiances who had not married. Children who had not recovered.  Buildings that had not been built — and some that had.  Photos of the moving memorial at Ground Zero, where waterfalls mark the footprints of the missing towers, framed by names of the dead.

Between rainshowers I drove home; I pulled over to take the above photo of a tribute on the roadside.  It would have to represent all the groups I had seen waving on overpasses, the flags flying at homes and churches, and the thoughts in my own heart about this ordinary, iconic day.

Scenes from the First Day

I awake well rested.  I get ready in a quiet house, make the bed.  Morning prayers: I read the name of each student, wondering what they will look like, what they will say, what they will think of me.

They are huge classes: last year my largest class was 15, and this year my smallest is 17.  Every chair is filled, even the ones by the windows.  Rain blows in and soaks their backs.  They squeal and run for cover, kicking their backpacks in front of them.

They enter to index cards — one on each desk.  The assignment is on the projector: name, interests, English history (grade, most and least favorite part) and the clincher: a 10-word summary of a story they heard recently.  “Anything that caught your attention,” I say.  “It could be funny, gross, sad, or just strange.”  They hem and haw and whine.  “I can’t think of anything!  My life is so boring!” I remind them that they’ve lived through a hurricane and an earthquake in the last week, and a flood is forming in the streets outside as we speak.

It’s uncomfortably warm; I quickly pin up my hair and am glad I wore a black shirt.

We pass out textbooks — as many as ten per student.  Their groaning turns to laughter as I ask, “Raise your hand if you have TOO MANY books on your desk!”  They ask if they have to bring every book to every class. “Yes,” I say solemnly, “And you have to carry them on your head, too.”  I don’t care what Todd Whitaker says about sarcasm; it works if you know how to use it properly.

The opening exercise is a huge hit.  They highlight dutifully and enjoy reading their selected phrases along with me (this is one of the most powerful ways to begin analysis of any piece of writing, and yes, I stole it from another teacher.)  They have lots of questions, lots of ideas.  They talk about parents and friends who have lost jobs and houses.  They demonstrate how much they learned and overheard during the last presidential campaign, and during the last year of school — referencing simile, climax and conflict as elements of the “story” the author is telling.

“Mrs. Lowe,” one student pipes up, smiling.  “Can I be your favorite student?”  I ask about her cooking skills. “That’s a high priority if you’re considering the position.”  Now they all want to tell me about their cooking skills.  “I can make cheesecake!”  “I make the BEST cookies!”  

I spend as little time on the syllabus as possible, but because I am organized, I don’t need to.  They read and sign the class policies, which include expectations for both students and teacher — “I expect you to hold me to these as I will hold you to them,” I say, without a trace of a smile this time, meeting and holding each gaze in turn.  “I will demonstrate respect, responsibility and passion in this classroom.  You will do the same.”

So thirsty.  I always forget how much talking there is in teaching.  I will not leave the room to get a drink, even though it would be easy.  This is my classroom.  I am in charge.  End of story.

Every ten minutes or so, to lighten the mood as much as to learn their names, I reshuffle the stack of cards in my hand and call on another student to tell her story.  A little brother who has an imaginary friend.  A dream about red turtles and a shooting star.  A dog who went out for her last walk, came home and dropped down dead.  After the laughter and murmurs of sympathy, we address the story itself: why is it memorable? What do we love about it? How does it compare to what we will read this year?

Gently, I hold their collective hand through the quarter syllabi that show each and every assignment.  Next class: vocabulary and an oral quiz on summer reading.  After that, they’re on their own to remember and complete their work.  But I know you can handle it, I say.  

“I have to say,” says one student as I leave the room, “That was a fun class.”  As I enter the next: “I’ve heard great things about you, Mrs. Lowe.”

Of course every day won’t be like this.  But thank you, Lord, for letting this be the first.

Public Speaking 101

Thanks to our fearless governor for providing the following stellar examples of what NOT to say at a press conference:

Repeat Yourself

“It is the height of stupidity and the height of selfishness for any citizen to stay in Ocean City and put a burden on and risk the lives of first responders by being foolish, being stupid, or being selfish,” O’Malley said.

Run On … and On

“This is a mandatory evacuation order. It is not something that the mayor of Ocean City or I have ordered lightly. It has not been done in modern times and people need to get off the island of Ocean City and not be a burden to their fellow citizens or to first responders who are going to have plenty of other important work to do.” 

Meanwhile, my wise and selfless in-laws are safely inland, dreading their next trip to the beach.  In Baltimore, we’re preparing for several days of rain, some heavy winds and possible loss of power — nothing like what the coastal population will face.  Our thoughts and prayers are with them.