On NPR this morning the anchor happily reported that Minnesota Police have started their own YouTube channel to show how well they do their job. In response to a video that showed peaceful protesters "getting roughed up" before being charged with "impeding the flow of traffic," Minnesota's finest posted a video that shows them first yelling at the peaceful protesters over a bullhorn. The story was presented as great news. They made it sound like accurate information shows that the police in question are not bad people, and according to our cultural norms this may almost be true, but according to the ideals of our constitution and our legal system it's a long way off.
Aside from the obvious and irrefutable argument about the rights to peaceably assemble, speak freely and petition the government that are guaranteed to all Americans in the Constitution, which make any law against impeding the flow of traffic inherently illegal and un-American, we have another constitutional doctrine against cruel and unusual punishment.
This doctrine is often summed up by a belief that "the punishment has to fit the crime." I would like to argue as a substitute teacher that if someone stands in someone else's way, there is no reason for anyone in that situation to yell over a bullhorn, let alone "rough them up." These are two of the biggest misconceptions I face when I teach in kindergarten and first grade classes, so I know they exist, and I also know how to clear them up. I could counter it with an enlightened Gandhi quote like, "your right to move your arm ends where my nose begins," but this is really too dignified a refutation for such a patently silly and immature justification for bullying.
A school bully is not justified in "roughing up" any of his classmates for being in his way or for saying how they feel. My young students learn that instead of solving problems with violence they need to talk things through and, if that fails, go find a teacher to help calmly talk things through to a mutually agreeable solution that respects the rights of both parties. When they do go get a teacher, the teacher's job is just that: to talk things through. That's also the Minnesota policemen's job if they are brought in to a trafficky, frustrated situation by a democratic government which disagrees with its people.
If a teacher came in to a disordered, frustrated, trafficky classroom and started "roughing up" defenseless children, that teacher would go to jail. More than that, they'd be completely ridiculous, as a different YouTube phenomenon has pointed out. They'd be ridiculous because we know teachers, as authority figures, are supposed to serve as behavioral models to show children how not to act as bullies. They'd be ridiculous because once they start acting like bullies, teachers lose their moral authority. A teacher who hits students is not only a physical danger to those she teaches, but a moral danger to those her students may encounter later in life, who have been taught that grown ups respond to bullying by simply becoming bigger bullies.
This Minnesota nonsense pits the Constitution of the United States of America against the Bully Doctrine of Move Because I Said So Very Loudly. It is ridiculous that our public radio system, with a moral obligation to defend and explain the former, should glibly endorse the latter. It's bad enough that many parts of America are policed by grown-up, heavily-armed people who believe more powerfully in Because I Said So than in the god-given right of all people to peaceably assemble. It's bad enough that this can be presented as "News." However, when bully policing is presented as good news, on the grounds that at least the bully said so very loudly before "roughing up" his fellow citizens, we have before our nation a teachable moment.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Check Your Fart Rate!
After my work is done I'm going to start a nonprofit that helps people understand their carbon footprint in terms of a more comprehensible greenhouse emission. I mean, when everyone you know is releasing tons of carbon emissions through their driving, shopping and eating choices, it must be hard to see that as the mistake that it is. But if you could hear the sounds of those emissions, you'd understand what's really going on. So, without farther adoo, let's calculate our carbon fartprints!
Sheet1
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| First, calculate your carbon footprint in tons/year at: | Let's convert that into tiny 35mL farts. | That's still such a big number that it's kind of abstract. | Still having a hard time understanding your greenhouse emisisons rate? No problem! Let's convert it to Seconds Per Fart. | ||
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| http://www.nature.org/greenliving/carboncalculator/index.htm | We'll just multiply by the 48138639 mililiters in a ton, and then divide by 35. | Let's divide it by the 525 948.766 minutes in a year. | We'll just divide the sixty seconds in a minute by your FPM rate, to get your SPF. | ||
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| ||||||
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| Let's say your score is: | Now your farts/year equivalency is*: | Here's your external farts/minute rate. | Note that even though we're calling this rate, SPF, greenhouse gases are not a sunscreen. They're actually the exact opposite! | ||
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| 1 | 1375389.68571429 | 2.61506400361872 | 22.9439891019769 | ||
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| 2 | 2750779.37142857 | 5.23012800723744 | 11.4719945509884 | ||
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| 3 | 4126169.05714286 | 7.84519201085616 | 7.64799636732563 | ||
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| 4 | 5501558.74285714 | 10.4602560144749 | 5.73599727549422 | ||
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| 5 | 6876948.42857143 | 13.0753200180936 | 4.58879782039538 | The average person on earth should say "excuse me" once every four and a half seconds. | |
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| 6 | 8252338.11428571 | 15.6903840217123 | 3.82399818366282 | ||
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| 7 | 9627727.8 | 18.305448025331 | 3.27771272885384 | ||
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| 8 | 11003117.4857143 | 20.9205120289498 | 2.86799863774711 | ||
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| 9 | 12378507.1714286 | 23.5355760325685 | 2.54933212244188 | ||
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| 10 | 13753896.8571429 | 26.1506400361872 | 2.29439891019769 | ||
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| 11 | 15129286.5428571 | 28.7657040398059 | 2.08581719108881 | ||
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| 12 | 16504676.2285714 | 31.3807680434246 | 1.91199909183141 | ||
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| 13 | 17880065.9142857 | 33.9958320470434 | 1.76492223861361 | ||
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| 14 | 19255455.6 | 36.6108960506621 | 1.63885636442692 | ||
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| 15 | 20630845.2857143 | 39.2259600542808 | 1.52959927346513 | ||
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| 16 | 22006234.9714286 | 41.8410240578995 | 1.43399931887356 | ||
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| 17 | 23381624.6571429 | 44.4560880615183 | 1.34964641776335 | ||
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| 18 | 24757014.3428571 | 47.071152065137 | 1.27466606122094 | ||
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| 19 | 26132404.0285714 | 49.6862160687557 | 1.20757837378826 | ||
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| 20 | 27507793.7142857 | 52.3012800723744 | 1.14719945509884 | ||
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| 21 | 28883183.4 | 54.9163440759931 | 1.09257090961795 | ||
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| 22 | 30258573.0857143 | 57.5314080796119 | 1.0429085955444 | ||
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| 23 | 31633962.7714286 | 60.1464720832306 | 0.997564743564213 | ||
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| 24 | 33009352.4571429 | 62.7615360868493 | 0.955999545915704 | ||
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| 25 | 34384742.1428571 | 65.376600090468 | 0.917759564079076 | ||
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| 26 | 35760131.8285714 | 67.9916640940868 | 0.882461119306804 | ||
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| 27 | 37135521.5142857 | 70.6067280977055 | 0.849777374147292 | The average American should say "excuse me" five times in every four seconds. | |
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| 28 | 38510911.2 | 73.2217921013242 | 0.81942818221346 | ||
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| 29 | 39886300.8857143 | 75.8368561049429 | 0.791172037999203 | ||
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| 30 | 41261690.5714286 | 78.4519201085616 | 0.764799636732563 | ||
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| 31 | 42637080.2571429 | 81.0669841121804 | 0.740128680708932 | ||
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| 32 | 44012469.9428571 | 83.6820481157991 | 0.716999659436778 | ||
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| 33 | 45387859.6285714 | 86.2971121194178 | 0.695272397029603 | ||
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| 34 | 46763249.3142857 | 88.9121761230365 | 0.674823208881673 | ||
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| 35 | 48138639 | 91.5272401266552 | 0.655542545770768 | ||
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| 36 | 49514028.6857143 | 94.142304130274 | 0.637333030610469 | If you're up here, you must be very wealthy, and unlike most Americans, you have the ability to change where many people score. Not just yourself. | |
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| 37 | 50889418.3714286 | 96.7573681338927 | 0.620107813566943 | Let your employees work from home a few days. Improve the vegetarian options in their cafeteria. Subsidize public transportation. Reduce mandatory travel. Etc. | |
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| *note that this doesn't count your actual farts. But you're welcome to add those in. The average is 500mL/day, or 182,500 ml/year. |
| Actually, the most interesting comparison might be hidden in that asterisk. If an ordinary person passes 182,500mL of greenhouse gas per year, then each ton of emissions represents the FartStrength of seven men. If you emit around 7 tons of greenhouse gas per year, you can congratulate yourself that your emissions are way lower than those of most Americans. You can also congratulate yourself that you fart with the strength of fifty men (or two over-crowded classrooms). If your emissions total 14 tons per year, you fart with the strength of a hundred men (you don't go to the assembly. You are the assembly). At that point, you might want to stop congratulating yourself and take a look at how to change your behavior. | That's all. | Happy Belated Earth Day! |
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Hardcore Fail
After my work is done I'm going to start an awards show that gives awards to other awards shows for the things they do well. It'll be great to recognize the way that positive reinforcement and publicity can help spur creativity, innovation and growth in almost any field.
One awards show I'll have a hard time recognizing might be the Washington Area Music Awards. What could I recognize about their 2012 ballot? Maybe I could give them an award for Most Bourgeois? Most Noise-Free? Most Generic?
How else do you honor an awards show dedicated to music in Washington D.C. that doesn't mention punk? In last fifty years, DC has been on the national music map for two things: hardcore punk rock, which developed its straight edge movement in DC and gogo, which was invented entirely in DC.
Yes, it's great that the ballot has two categories devoted to a capella music, and that these categories gave Sweet Honey in the Rock their due. Yes, it's marvellous that there are still three categories devoted to big band jazz, in case Duke Ellington should rise from the grave, but for some reason I can't help wondering if nominee "Natty Beaux" isn't even from D.C. at all...
It's good that there are four different awards given to bluegrass musicians in the area because, as much as no one here listens to or plays bluegrass music, people really don't listen to or play bluegrass anywhere else. This is cultural preservation at work. And that's great, even if the culture comes from Appalachia.
But while we're at it, let's preserve the culture for which DC is internationally known and respected. Let's recognize that there's more to the local rock scene is not actually divided into "modern rock," "pop rock," and "roots rock." The last time I saw any of those LA-generic terms in a local concert review was... well... never.
The reason we need a local awards show isn't to show how everything in DC is just like everything in LA, only not half as plentiful, popular, organized or publicized. The reason for a local awards show should be to show what's unique about a location.
Thankfully, although I had to scroll down almost the entire ballot to find it, there is a GOGO section, with awards for the best talker, group and instrumentalist in the genre. The fact that the ballot goes to the trouble of saying "talker" instead of "vocalist" is an example of exactly how an awards show should go about understanding the mess it seeks to categorize.
I'm happy to see some old friends and acquaintances nominated for awards--and am certainly excited to vote for Lucky Dub, Justin Trawick, Flo Anito, Niki Barr, Bio Ritmo, Edie Sedgwick, and Gabin Assouramou--but I'm also perplexed because, while these are all terrific musicians who contribute to the multicultural patchwork of the D.C. scene, none of them really sums up what D.C. music means to people in and outside of D.C.
For that you need to recognize not just Go Go, but also Hardcore. Bad Brains put this town on the map. Fugazi put this town on the map. There's still a scene today, all over town, and that's recognized with Dischord Records' nomination as Washington Area Record Company of the year.
But who am I telling? You know all of this stuff, Wammies. It's all in your history of the DC Music scene. In fact, in the late nineties, you even gave out awards in a lumped together category called "hardcore/punk/underground." Yes, that's fifteen years after the rest of the world started to associate DC with, as you correctly put it, harDCore, but still, better late then never.
But since then, Wammies, what's happened to you? Your rock awards are so vague and arbitrary that they don't seem to mean anything. They certainly don't rock.
Once you put together a few hardcore categories (Best Band; Best Singer, Intelligible; Best Singer, Unintelligible), it might be time to add a few nods to the avant garde scene and then, if you're feeling really brave, you might even update some of the other rock categories. Interview some rock bands. Talk to some club owners. I would bet that there are more "post-punk" bands and "indie" bands in DC right now than self-described "pop rock" bands in the entire country. I know the word "pop" is short for popular, but among rock musicians it's rather short on popularity.
Still, everybody wants an award. Nobody's going to say no to a Wammie just because it says "pop rock." If I were to one day win a wammie in "pop rock," I would do my best to feel proud and be happy I had it, and not spend the rest of my life envying Ian Svenonious for winning a real one. But seriously, by that same inconsiderate logic, Wammies, you should be proud of all the awards I've offered you above. Please comment to let me know where I can send the certificates.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Valuing Education
This month one of America's largest school districts emailed all of its thousands of substitute teachers a link to a great opportunity. They could get raises of $2.07 per hour, regular hours and great new benefits including health insurance, sick leave a retirement account if chosen for this promotion. The title of this exciting new position: bus driver.Upon reading this I called up my favorite scholar of health-care inequalities in a controlled outrage. "Does this really mean," I simmered, "that for all those times I got pulled over for speeding on the way to college classes, I was hurting my career both ways?"
"Well that's just it," I said. "There are studies of data about bus drivers, because they have insurance. The insurance company has hard-drives full of data about how unhealthy bus drivers are, and how stressed they tell their doctors they are every time they drop by just to take off their shirt for another check-up. Nobody studies substitute teachers because we don't have health insurance and we don't visit doctors. No data exist."
And upon that analysis, I decided not to grade chemistry quizzes over the weekend this weekend, saving them instead for my paid planning time on Monday. Last weekend I was so excited by the opportunity to teach something interesting that I was grading in my downtime at my other job. After reading what the Human Resources department thinks of me, though, I think I need a couple days off. My favorite scholar was right about one thing, though: no matter how hard my job is, I really am glad I don't have to do it in traffic.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
They Can But They Don't*
After my work is done I'm going to write a book about why Capitalism doesn't feed everybody. There seems to be a consensus among my Republican friends that if we just eliminate all social welfare programs designed to keep human beings from starving to death in the streets, everybody will suddenly find great jobs and thank us for taking away all of the handouts that had been keeping them from achieving their full earning potential.
Obviously it's easy to criticize the people at the bottom, themselves, and to point out that many of our homeless, unemployed and elderly are not in great shape to work. Many of our poorest are pretty out of touch with reality and do indeed have a hard time with many simple, basic tasks. I don't think this explains everything, though, because whenever I see interviews with CEOs, they have their fair share of weaknesses as well.
I could try from the outset to explain the math of how capitalism works in individual cases to help individuals collect money from others. I could try to compare capitalism as it's currently played in the US to a game of checkers, where once you get a king the rest is just cleanup. I could try to find statistics on the number of successful capitalists who start nonprofits that feed people vs. the number of successful capitalists who start nonprofits to increase the profitability of their for-profit corporations. But ultimately, these approaches would only show why I think capitalism isn't intended to feed everybody.
There are plenty of people who still believe Ronald Reagan's trite rallying cry that a fully de-regulated capitalism should provide everything for everybody at the best possible price. So I'd like to interview them and find out what they're doing, through capitalism, to create opportunities. I'd like to find out what CEOs believe they are doing to help create jobs each day and meet needs for those who have the least. I'd like to find out how small business owners are leveraging their savings to uplift their communities and promote equal opportunities.
Now, to be fair, I am not a communist. Communists come from poor countries and don't respect democracy or competition. I love competition, because it lets me show how smart America has made me. I just think that the American way, as it has succeeded since the Great Depression, is still the best way to keep this country the greatest in the world. I believe that we should keep providing opportunity for all our children if we want them to grow up to provide prosperity for us.
But that's all been said. What I'd like to write are just the stories of CEOs about how pure capitalism is supposed to provide an alternative means to the unprecedented success of the mixture of capitalist competition and socialist safeguards that has made us the greatest superpower in the history of mankind.
*"They Can But They Don't" is also the title of a book about teaching students with learning disabilities. I would like to reuse that title, because I think the comparison is appropriate. Given extra time, a dyselxic child is entirely capable of reading Moby Dick. But they need special attention, incentives, encouragement and supervision. Similarly, given extra money, Warren Buffett is capable of feeding us all. His heart is in the right place. He'd like to help. That's just not what he does on his own, so he'd rather work together with everybody else, through the government to get it done.
Obviously it's easy to criticize the people at the bottom, themselves, and to point out that many of our homeless, unemployed and elderly are not in great shape to work. Many of our poorest are pretty out of touch with reality and do indeed have a hard time with many simple, basic tasks. I don't think this explains everything, though, because whenever I see interviews with CEOs, they have their fair share of weaknesses as well.
I could try from the outset to explain the math of how capitalism works in individual cases to help individuals collect money from others. I could try to compare capitalism as it's currently played in the US to a game of checkers, where once you get a king the rest is just cleanup. I could try to find statistics on the number of successful capitalists who start nonprofits that feed people vs. the number of successful capitalists who start nonprofits to increase the profitability of their for-profit corporations. But ultimately, these approaches would only show why I think capitalism isn't intended to feed everybody.
There are plenty of people who still believe Ronald Reagan's trite rallying cry that a fully de-regulated capitalism should provide everything for everybody at the best possible price. So I'd like to interview them and find out what they're doing, through capitalism, to create opportunities. I'd like to find out what CEOs believe they are doing to help create jobs each day and meet needs for those who have the least. I'd like to find out how small business owners are leveraging their savings to uplift their communities and promote equal opportunities.
Now, to be fair, I am not a communist. Communists come from poor countries and don't respect democracy or competition. I love competition, because it lets me show how smart America has made me. I just think that the American way, as it has succeeded since the Great Depression, is still the best way to keep this country the greatest in the world. I believe that we should keep providing opportunity for all our children if we want them to grow up to provide prosperity for us.
But that's all been said. What I'd like to write are just the stories of CEOs about how pure capitalism is supposed to provide an alternative means to the unprecedented success of the mixture of capitalist competition and socialist safeguards that has made us the greatest superpower in the history of mankind.
*"They Can But They Don't" is also the title of a book about teaching students with learning disabilities. I would like to reuse that title, because I think the comparison is appropriate. Given extra time, a dyselxic child is entirely capable of reading Moby Dick. But they need special attention, incentives, encouragement and supervision. Similarly, given extra money, Warren Buffett is capable of feeding us all. His heart is in the right place. He'd like to help. That's just not what he does on his own, so he'd rather work together with everybody else, through the government to get it done.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Faster, Higher, Stronger
After my work is done I'm going to start a blog about success. Not how to get it, but about what it is. I think the American dreamer is too focused on how to find success to know it when he's got it. Take my Grandfather--God did.
Grandpa Resnick was a Jewish cavalry doctor in the US Army. He rode horses with a small bag of surgical supplies to fight Nazis. That's pretty much success, right there. Am I right? What could be more awesome for a Jewish kid from a poor immigrant family than not only becoming a doctor but becoming a cavalry doctor fighting Nazis with the best fighting force in the history of the world?
I'll tell you what: becoming a doctor who fought Nazis on skis in the greatest fighting force in the world. So, the American Dream being the uncatchable, impish sprite that it is, Grandpa Resnick did that too. And was he happy?
Of course not! Americans are never satisfied with who we are. If we are computer scientists at Harvard or MIT, we want to drop out and start Microsoft. If we are astrophysicists who discover new stars, we want to get arrested in solidarity with teacher's unions. If we are the first Black President, we want to provide health care for all Americans, solve the immigration dilemma, end two unnecessary wars, start and finish two more and keep our approval ratings up. Of course Grandpa Resnick wasn't satisfied with being a skiing, horseback-riding, gun-toting, Nazi-fighting, Jewish doctor in the U.S. Army.
And what's cooler than all that? Obviously, a ski-jumping, spying one.
Grandpa didn't like to talk about the war. But when I was three and I asked him about it, he didn't tell me that. He didn't say, "I don't like to talk about that." He didn't say, "who wants to bring up a fight I'm lucky to have survived two generations ago." He didn't even say, "war is complicated. I've been more of a hero by saving lives at home than taking them abroad."
Instead, probably because he knew that I was three, and that I wouldn't stop asking until I got an answer, or maybe just as much because I was three and I would believe anything, but probably never remember it, Grandpa told me, "the war was exciting. We used to ski through the alps, spying on the Germans to find out where they were. One day we saw a whole company of them up ahead, in a valley, and we were going so fast that we couldn't stop. The only thing we could do was jump over them. But the Sergeant was worried that if we jumped over forwards, they might shoot us in the back, so he made us ski-jump the valley going backwards. When I was in the air, I heard the German commander say, 'don't shoot. Save your bullets. They'll kill themselves just trying to land.'"
From the age of three until about twelve, that was what war meant to me. A quick, death-defying, impossible acrobatic feat, coupled with mutual understanding and mutual respect between nations. Yes, I knew that at other times in a war, soldiers on different sides shot at each other. But they didn't shoot each other in the middle of a backwards ski-jump. Even in a war, some things were still sacred.
When I was twelve I told the story to my father, who looked at me for a long time, and probably thought about why my grandfather had told it to me that way. He thought about a father who never talked about the war, and had a hard time talking about anything else emotional. He thought about a father whose accomplishments he had struggled to live up to. He realized for maybe the first time that his own father must have felt some of the same inadequacies, in spite of being, by all appearances, incredibly great at everything. He didn't want to fight the perfected image of a man he knew was closer to perfection than anybody had any business being anyway.
I think as soon as he heard that story, he loved it even more than he loved his own memories of his father, because it was a rare chance to see his father as Grandpa wished he could be. So my father didn't point out that Grandpa only skied in basic training, and probably not enough to jump at all, or that Grandpa didn't speak German and couldn't possibly have understood a German commander, even if he could have heard him with the wind rushing through his ears in the middle of what would have had to have been a sixty mile per hour ski jump to clear an entire German force. My dad just said, "Wow. He never told me that story."
A lot of people tell me I'm lucky to have the family I have, and know that I can grow up to be anything. But I know the truth. I know that I'm American, and that I am blessed and cursed to spend my life pulling upwards, white-knuckled on my own bootstraps. I know that whatever I accomplish in this world, I will always wish I could have achieved it faster, backwards and on skis.
Grandpa Resnick was a Jewish cavalry doctor in the US Army. He rode horses with a small bag of surgical supplies to fight Nazis. That's pretty much success, right there. Am I right? What could be more awesome for a Jewish kid from a poor immigrant family than not only becoming a doctor but becoming a cavalry doctor fighting Nazis with the best fighting force in the history of the world?
I'll tell you what: becoming a doctor who fought Nazis on skis in the greatest fighting force in the world. So, the American Dream being the uncatchable, impish sprite that it is, Grandpa Resnick did that too. And was he happy?
Of course not! Americans are never satisfied with who we are. If we are computer scientists at Harvard or MIT, we want to drop out and start Microsoft. If we are astrophysicists who discover new stars, we want to get arrested in solidarity with teacher's unions. If we are the first Black President, we want to provide health care for all Americans, solve the immigration dilemma, end two unnecessary wars, start and finish two more and keep our approval ratings up. Of course Grandpa Resnick wasn't satisfied with being a skiing, horseback-riding, gun-toting, Nazi-fighting, Jewish doctor in the U.S. Army.
And what's cooler than all that? Obviously, a ski-jumping, spying one.
Grandpa didn't like to talk about the war. But when I was three and I asked him about it, he didn't tell me that. He didn't say, "I don't like to talk about that." He didn't say, "who wants to bring up a fight I'm lucky to have survived two generations ago." He didn't even say, "war is complicated. I've been more of a hero by saving lives at home than taking them abroad."
Instead, probably because he knew that I was three, and that I wouldn't stop asking until I got an answer, or maybe just as much because I was three and I would believe anything, but probably never remember it, Grandpa told me, "the war was exciting. We used to ski through the alps, spying on the Germans to find out where they were. One day we saw a whole company of them up ahead, in a valley, and we were going so fast that we couldn't stop. The only thing we could do was jump over them. But the Sergeant was worried that if we jumped over forwards, they might shoot us in the back, so he made us ski-jump the valley going backwards. When I was in the air, I heard the German commander say, 'don't shoot. Save your bullets. They'll kill themselves just trying to land.'"
From the age of three until about twelve, that was what war meant to me. A quick, death-defying, impossible acrobatic feat, coupled with mutual understanding and mutual respect between nations. Yes, I knew that at other times in a war, soldiers on different sides shot at each other. But they didn't shoot each other in the middle of a backwards ski-jump. Even in a war, some things were still sacred.
When I was twelve I told the story to my father, who looked at me for a long time, and probably thought about why my grandfather had told it to me that way. He thought about a father who never talked about the war, and had a hard time talking about anything else emotional. He thought about a father whose accomplishments he had struggled to live up to. He realized for maybe the first time that his own father must have felt some of the same inadequacies, in spite of being, by all appearances, incredibly great at everything. He didn't want to fight the perfected image of a man he knew was closer to perfection than anybody had any business being anyway.
I think as soon as he heard that story, he loved it even more than he loved his own memories of his father, because it was a rare chance to see his father as Grandpa wished he could be. So my father didn't point out that Grandpa only skied in basic training, and probably not enough to jump at all, or that Grandpa didn't speak German and couldn't possibly have understood a German commander, even if he could have heard him with the wind rushing through his ears in the middle of what would have had to have been a sixty mile per hour ski jump to clear an entire German force. My dad just said, "Wow. He never told me that story."
A lot of people tell me I'm lucky to have the family I have, and know that I can grow up to be anything. But I know the truth. I know that I'm American, and that I am blessed and cursed to spend my life pulling upwards, white-knuckled on my own bootstraps. I know that whatever I accomplish in this world, I will always wish I could have achieved it faster, backwards and on skis.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Educational Reform
After my work is done I'm going to start a blog about educational reform. Politicians on both sides of the aisle talk about the need for an educational system that truly prepares kids for the workplace.
Delusionally and embarrassingly, they all tend to agree that this means giving kids more tests of their ability to analyze logical statements, solve math problems and bubble in circles with a number two pencil.
Ladies and Gentlemen of the Intertubules, I have been to the work-place, and they did not ask me to solve any calculus problems. What they did ask me were a lot of banal questions about the weather, about my weekend, about how long I had been working there, not counting today....
Having a job doesn't start with a timed test in a crowded room and no talking. Having a job starts with a hand-shake and a conversation. You sit down with someone who already has a job and you make friends with them. If they like you, then you get to have a job, too.
Then you spend some time making friends with the other people who have that job, and vaguely, while you're at it, doing something you all agree is "work." If you don't do the work very well, the other people tell you how you're supposed to do it. This is okay. If you stop being friendly, though, and start being mean to everybody there, you won't have a job.
So when I reform our education system, I'm going to help our kids spend more time hanging out. They're going to practice smiling through boring, meaningless meetings. They'll practice answering questions in ways that couldn't possibly offend anybody. They may even go out for pageants.
The students of my reformed educational system won't cure cancer. They won't go to space. Heck, they won't even know how to unclog a drain. But they will know how to succeed in the American workplace. And isn't that our goal?
Delusionally and embarrassingly, they all tend to agree that this means giving kids more tests of their ability to analyze logical statements, solve math problems and bubble in circles with a number two pencil.
Ladies and Gentlemen of the Intertubules, I have been to the work-place, and they did not ask me to solve any calculus problems. What they did ask me were a lot of banal questions about the weather, about my weekend, about how long I had been working there, not counting today....
Having a job doesn't start with a timed test in a crowded room and no talking. Having a job starts with a hand-shake and a conversation. You sit down with someone who already has a job and you make friends with them. If they like you, then you get to have a job, too.
Then you spend some time making friends with the other people who have that job, and vaguely, while you're at it, doing something you all agree is "work." If you don't do the work very well, the other people tell you how you're supposed to do it. This is okay. If you stop being friendly, though, and start being mean to everybody there, you won't have a job.
So when I reform our education system, I'm going to help our kids spend more time hanging out. They're going to practice smiling through boring, meaningless meetings. They'll practice answering questions in ways that couldn't possibly offend anybody. They may even go out for pageants.
The students of my reformed educational system won't cure cancer. They won't go to space. Heck, they won't even know how to unclog a drain. But they will know how to succeed in the American workplace. And isn't that our goal?
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