Where Modern Schools Fail: Two Views

Following are two interesting articles I've been sitting on for a week. I can't figure out how to relate them to each other, and they come dangerously close to breaking my Lenten vow, but they are both very well-written and thought-provoking (and technically not *my* words, so I can skate by on a technicality.)

First, a lament to which I can relate very closely, published anonymously on Daily Kos: although I haven't had to deal much with the results-oriented, tests-driven attitude in a private school, thank God, I know it's prevalent in the public sector and I've encountered it quite a bit in my graduate work.

So again, I'm compelled to revisit the idea I posted some time ago in a diary - the people attempting to "reform" education are not focusing on what truly matters: the students, as human beings learning to reach their potential, and teachers as educated, professional human beings capable of making appropriate judgments in their own classrooms. They're focused instead on the "Return on Investment" testing potential in a kid that, according to Teach 4 Success and other companies that attempt to "fix" education, learns the same way as every other kid in the room, and teachers who are supposed to teach them as if that were the case.

Second, an op-ed from the Mormon Times, which is not normally at the top of my reading list, but lands there when one of my favorite authors needs a forum to sound off.  He begins with a chilling anecdote about an awards assembly at which the sports prizes are accompanied by long speeches and the academic honors are read off in a hurry at the very end.  Then he thinks seriously about the effects of such a system on the kids who have chosen to succeed in school -- and the church that has effectively refused them sanctuary:

The kids who slide into drugs or sex or drinking or petty crime — we do a good job of keeping doors open for them because all these sins have consequences and sooner or later they realize their mistake and want to repent and return.

But you can't repent of being studious and smart and skeptical and questioning and unconcerned with style because these are all strengths. It's no surprise that middle- and high-school culture usually treats young people with these virtues as if there is something wrong with them for not being like the "normal" kids — but LDS culture should be a haven for them.

Instead, it's at college where many of them are first treated as if being studious and thoughtful is actually cool. When they finally have peers who respect them and the eye-rolling is replaced with rapt attention, it's so flattering that too many are seduced into abandoning the gospel in favor of the contradictory and unfounded ideas that pass for "intellectual opinion" in the world today.

"LDS" could be "church," or even "school," really.  This attitude is disturbingly prevalent -- so many extracurriculars seem to get promoted ahead of academics, and the consequences are real and dire.

Happy Monday, everyone!

Who Are You?

You know I am not a football fan, but I did sit in front of the TV last night with a book and look up during commercials.  I also watched the halftime show, about which I mostly agree with Rod and others: clearly, The Who was not in its prime last night.  I was disappointed at their choice of a medley; for a band that excels at dynamic, nail-biting musical interludes, they could easily have rocked the house with one or two full tracks.  Their choice was predictable, too (we had guessed every one but the few bars of "See Me, Feel Me,") which was a little disappointing.  The only song on our list that we didn't hear, fittingly: "My Generation," with its eerily applicable line, "I hope I die before I get old."

I'm glad they didn't, and I can forgive this display of mediocrity, but only because I know better.  Rob and I saw The Who live in 2002, a month after the original bassist died from a cocaine overdose.  (At 57.  These guys party hard.)  Daltrey's voice was a little thinner than on their records, but the range was still there -- he could perform most, if not all, of the vocal acrobatics for which he was known.  Townshend was as strong as ever, and both exuded an energy that sustained the crowd for a show that lasted more than two hours, with no breaks, and included every single hit we could remember.

The fun part: we brought my dad, who claims that at no time did "Who's Next" ever cease to play on the record player in his college dormitory suite.  He knew all the songs by heart, of course, but was shocked that we did, too.  It was a little weird to be belting out power ballads (and occasionally smelling pot) with your dad, but my dad is comfortable with just about any crowd, so we all just enjoyed ourselves.  The memory of that concert is a lot bigger than the few pitiful minutes onscreen in Miami.

Unrelated rant about why else I hate football: at the end of the game, the Saints' QB had his little baby on the field.  The child looked utterly bewildered and was wearing noise-canceling headphones, so undoubtedly missed this gem: one of the announcers said something like, "This is it.  This is THE most important and precious moment a father could possibly share with his son."  Gales of laughter erupted from our living room at this, but I'm sure there were plenty of fans out there nodding in tearful agreement.  The same fans, I'm sure, who were touched by the earlier commercial in which the NFL thanked them for watching with open mouths and painted faces all season long.  People, please.  IT'S A GAME.

"You Cannot Have an Experience of God Without Humility."

It's nice to know there are people like Troy Polamalu in the commercialized and injurious world of professional football:

Football is, for me, it's something I do. It's like for you, you're a reporter. It's what you do, not who you are. Football does not define me. How I am with my faith and how I treat my wife is what truly defines [me] as a man. That is my goal in life: to live that way and believe in it.

I'm glad it doesn't matter to me that he doesn't play for Baltimore; it's so rare to see a professional who's so open about his liturgical faith and places it at the center of his life.  I especially love the fact that he's open about attending services at a monastery -- a place with which far too few people are comfortable.

Lesson Time Roulette

Every year, I ask my piano parents to get back to me with their preferred lesson times by mid-August so that I can make up the schedule.  It comes together like a charm.  I print copies and mail them out.  Then I can start counting, "One Mississippi, two Mississippi," and by the time I reach five, the phone is ringing.  This is where the fun starts!

"George wants to play badminton, and his practice is at the same time as his lesson.  Can we switch?"  One week later: "George didn't make the badminton team but now wants to be on the stage crew, which is the same time as his new lesson time.  Can we switch back?"

"Kayla has soccer on Tuesdays."  "No, wait, on Wednesdays."  "No, wait, on Tuesdays, but the games are Wednesday in the afternoon, so we can still have a lesson in the evening.  Can you fit us in then?"

"Jeffrey is really no good in the evenings.  Can he come in the afternoon?"  "Amy is a wreck right after school; can she come in the evening?"  "James has to have a snack before working, so if we stop at Chik-Fil-A on the way, we should be able to be at your house by 4:45, and I don't want to waste any time, so can we start then?"

To be fair, most of these parents are innocent; the tyranny of organized sports is mostly to blame.  But sometimes the excuses can be pretty draining.  So far, this year my favorite has been, "I have a full-time job, so I'm really busy."  John Cleese says the appropriate response here is to "wait for a suitable pause, and then applaud enthusiastically."  I confess I was too incredulous to even do that.  A full-time JOB?!  You mean, you don't just sit around all day?  Why that's . . . exactly the same responsibility held by every other contributing member of society!

One of the smartest things I ever did was to stop printing and mailing my schedule.  Now I just e-mail it out.  So when someone calls with a change, I take a calming breath and wait for the wheel to stop turning, thinking frantically, "No whammies . . . "

The Not-So-Super Bowl

Today is the Superbowl, and the Baltimore Ravens aren't playing after another inexplicable loss to their arch-rivals (I won't mention their names here, but they're the current AFC champions.)  But that's not why I won't be watching the Super Bowl (except for the commercials, of course.)  I really hate football, and I have some actual reasons.

1) There are way too many rules. When I expressed frustration about this last week, while trying to follow the game, my dad mentioned that the number of rules governing play has probably doubled in the past 10 years.  I get the basic system, but from a logical perspective, it seems like at times they stop the clock, carefully set up the play and restart it only after the ball is in the air -- and at others, the clock is running while they're all standing around looking at each other.  My mom was confused by the play clock, which apparently debuted just a couple of years ago.  And that thing about ending the game when there are several minutes left, while one team stalls for the remaining time?  That's cowardly and lame.  Give me baseball any day.

2) It's all about making money. Despite my love for baseball (in my view, it and basketball and soccer are the only real sports -- sorry, George Carlin) I don't follow the Orioles either.  I used to be the kind of fan that could spout statistics about every player, but after the extended baseball strike of 1994 (I was thirteen when it began) I lost interest.  It occurred to me that everyone involved with professional sports has an ulterior motive, and many of them are also just jerks.  College is a little better; I love to watch high school sports, or better yet, Little League.  Those kids are enjoying themselves for sheer love of the game, and I'm rooting for them to stave off the rabid scout-hunting coaches and parents for as long as they can.

3) Football is synonymous with injury. The average career?  Three and a half seasons.  Unlike other sports, which produce injuries as an unintended consequence, football seems designed to produce as many as possible.  The object of the game is to get the ball, and if getting the ball means you have to jump on top of another guy's head to do so, then jump on his head already!  They basically put on as much equipment as possible to protect themselves, and then dive into a pile of bodies with their fingers crossed.  Last week when Willis McGahee was driven off the field strapped to a board, I saw a number of other players -- from both teams -- kneeling, heads bowed in prayer.  It was touching to see how concerned they were, and I have to assume that part of the prayer went, "Please, God.  Not me."

4) The NFL could care less. A pension is available beginning at three years, but a full pension doesn't kick in until age 55 -- by which time the majority of ex-players are dead, to say nothing of the aimless, foggy lives they lead until then.  After suffering multiple concussions, fractures and other injuries that are patched up with quick-fix solutions designed to get as much use out of the players as possible, most ex-players can't even concentrate through a full episode of the Simpsons, much less hold down a steady job.  Their massive salaries pay their medical bills for a few years, and after that, the player's union might grudgingly help out from time to time, but they're largely forgotten as soon as they cease to bring in viewers and ad revenue.   (I didn't make this up; most of it came from an article originally published in Men's Journal about a year ago, which I can't find online, but get a copy if you can.)

That's where I'm coming from. Consumerist, barbaric and disrespectful of humanity.  Enjoy the Hot Wings, though!  And if you claim to love the game, think about a donation to a charity like like Mike Ditka's Gridiron Greats that will help support the players you're cheering for today, after they're worn out and disabled.

I am still celebrating today; it's the feast day of my patron saint, St. Brigid of Kildare.  She's known for founding several monasteries in Ireland and helping to spread St. Patrick's influence -- and once, according to legend, turned an entire bathtub of water into beer.  So, in honor of that miracle, I plan to have a few this afternoon.

Slainte!