writing with ease

On the best day & in my wildest dreams:

Today I am full of thoughts and can write what I please. I see no reason why I should not have the same thought, the same power of expression tomorrow. What I write, whist I write it, seems the most natural thing in the world; but yesterday I saw a dreary vacuity in this direction in which now I see so much; and a month hence, I doubt not, I shall wonder who he was that wrote so many continuous pages. Alas for this infirm faith, this will not be strenuous, this vast ebb of a vast flow!

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1841, from Circles

craft as vessel

This whole craft thing intrigues me and apparently it can catch others, too. For example, Octavia Paz once wrote:

Made by hand, the craft object bears the fingerprints, real or metaphorical, of the person who fashioned it. These fingerprints are not the equivalent of the artist’s signature, for they are not a name. Nor are they a mark or a brand. They are a sign: the almost invisible scar commemorating our original brotherhood or sisterhood. Made by hand, the craft object is made for hands. Not only can we see it, we can also finger it, feel it.

Craft then is tangible and bears the sign of the craftsperson as if a signature was attached. And so it is with the master bricklayer. He can see his work as well notice the flaws of other workers whose standards are not so high. Further, an expert can watch laborers and decide by their movements and efficiency whether craft is being executed.

A craft also refers to a boat. But not just any boat: the boat as used by someone who is plying their craft. It's not just for seafaring or transportation. Instead, as a tool of an expert fisherman, the boat is an essential component of the craftsman's repertoire -- hence, the vessel is a craft.

These uses [of "craft"] were probably colloquial with watermen, fishers, and seamen some time before they appeared in print, so that the history is not evidenced; but the expression is probably elliptical, … [with the sense of vessels of small craft, i.e. small trading vessels, or of small seaman's art, and … requisites of the fisherman's craft. Oxford English Dictionary

Interesting that a boat was "requisite" for doing the work and came to bear the label that was also affixed to the work and worker. Not only was the expertise, fluidity and efficiency of the master fisherman labeled as "craft" but so too was the dinghy in which he did his stuff.

proper attire

Too much time in the ivory tower and not enough in the real world. Yesterday was the exception. Along with one of my recently graduated elementary education majors, we did some hands-on activities about sound. The last time I taught this topic with 3rd graders, it didn't go so well. The concepts of pitch seemed too far removed from their observations about vibrations. This time, the 5th graders seem to catch on. It wasn't until later that I discovered that the curriculum the district is using was actually written for use in third grade.

My host teacher was less than delighted by the children's behavior. While they were less than angelic, they were no more rowdy than one should expect on the day before a predicted snow day and less than a week from Christmas. Most of the kids were able to fashion "musical" instruments out of drinking straws. The moment of pure teaching brilliance was when we made the students put down their tooters and write down the steps involved in making these devices. They were focused and diligent. Here was what Andrew created:

procedure

Step 1: yous scizors to stratin straw and on a edge cut small triangles on It.

Step 2: If you want a claranet take the hole puncher and stratin the stem and punch holes and you have a clerenet.

Step 3: If you want a trambone you take the small straw and a big straw yous the infromation from Step one and just put the small one into the big one and pull it in andout and you have a trumbone.

That pretty much captured the essence in terms of what was done during the activity. That morning as I was preparing to depart for the school, the joke about prerequisite clothing was tossed around the house. From now on, I have a command I can issue for future excursions: "It's time to do some science: Bring me my pants!"

crossing generations

The Culture of Science Education: Its History in Person was edited by Tobin & Wolf (2007) and issued by Sense Publishers. It makes the effort to describe changes within science education research through autobiographies of notable individuals in the field. It arrived through interlibrary loan but it has enough nuggets from various people that it might be worth buying a paperback edition. Although I won't take on the task, it might be interesting for someone to do a content analysis of the editors' sections because they make frequent use of words like "attack" and "violence" -- at least with greater frequency than is common in academic texts.

What was striking was the juxtaposition of stories from the past with a pending talk about challenges and opportunities in the field. For example, Jim Gallagher mentioned a NARST session where he was strongly criticized for his use of qualitative "research" methods. First, it's helpful to know that the field has changed even though one might suggest that they have been almost imperceptibly slow. The other intriguing idea is to wonder how our current times will be viewed in the future. Will future science educators recognize themselves in our works? Or are we going to seem quaint and quirky?

Today I discovered the blues singer Son House who is said to have inspired Robert Johnson of crossroads fame. Through the magic of YouTube, I was able to watch a b&w film of Son House performing "Death Letter Blues". It's really a sad song because the letter tells him his gal is dead and when he finally reaches her she's already laid out on the cooling board. Despite how upsetting the tale, the guitar performance is stunning. With just the audio, it seems rather calm but when you watch him tear at the strings, you can't help but wonder how much physical pain the song caused his fingers. And the music is classic and timeless. In fact, more than I realized.

YouTube provided a link to a more recent rendition -- by the White Stripes! It's an amazing performance and reveals not only the genius of guitarist Jack and drummer-extraordinaire Meg (I am now under her spell). This video echoes the genius of the original blues musician. So while Jack is amazing on the guitar, he clearly owes his performance to Son House. So there it is -- across generations one man can influence others even as they take the earlier efforts to a higher level.

Bill Ayers, unplugged

With very little fanfare and no dissent, Bill Ayers visited UConn yesterday. He was exactly as I had hoped he would be: genuine, warm, and inspiring. Although many of us were pacing, he arrived only a few minutes late for an open forum with the faculty. While our Director wanted him to assist in the redesign of our teacher education program, he adeptly turned the conversation back onto us. As the conversation evolved, he found many opportunities to add his own stories that often connected to the topic but more often forged connections between the speaker and the audience.

He was just the same with his students. My favorite moment was when we walked into the auditorium about an hour before his talk. Ultimately, there would be 200 people in this room. But at 5 o'clock, there were four future teachers, all sitting in the second row, eagerly awaiting his presentation. So he sat on the edge of the stage and started chatting with them. As more students trickled in, I pushed them his direction, he would introduce himself to each, and the talk about movies and life and teaching would continue. Clearly, this was a man in his element.

At the end of the evening, not surprisingly, many students went forward to have their books signed. I was in the hall speaking with some other students so didn't witness how it developed. But when I came back into the auditorium, Bill was sitting on the edge of the stage again and students were seated all around him. The scene was only missing a guitar and the smell of weed. This may sound like a mockery of the 1960s but it captures the beauty of that era. People were speaking their hearts and feeling as if they were being heard. One of my advisees happened to be there and asked Bill's advice about a "life problem" about bigotry within his family. As was his way, Bill began with a story of his own struggles with his father's biases in a fashion that seemed loving yet insistent. The take-away message was that we shouldn't allow our relationships with others to pivot around a singular issue, now matter how painful. I do believe he was preaching love.

At this moment, I am forced to recognize the hate and evil behind the attempts to associate Ayers with the President. Do I know who Bill Ayers is? Not from just by being with him for six hours. And yet, his regard for every person (including secretarial staff) could not have been more gracious. While he had many stories he was liberal in sharing (in a sense that's what we were paying for and why people came to hear him) these did not overshadow the voices of others. In truth, I don't know that many people who are so good at listening to preservice teachers. The domestic terrorist imagery was more than a caricature: it was harmful and hateful. Goodness seems to have prevailed this time but it reminds us of the need to be vigilant. As an aside, my introduction of Bill was that educators often use timelines as a pedagogical tool In terms of a professional timeline, at that instant, each of us was at the moment that differentiated "Before William Ayers" from "After Bill Ayers." In part, this was meant to make the undergrads sit up and pay attention. On the morning after, I realize this is more true than I knew.

a spectrum of courage

On Monday, I had lunch at a just-off-campus tavern with a doctoral advisee. The occasion was a pending job interview. -- for him, not me. A phone interview the previous week went very well and the work seems closely aligned with what he was looking for: smaller institution, high premium place on teaching, and a good place to raise a family. The downside is that the campus is in Texas rather than the mid-Atlantic area (Maryland to Georgia) that had been the dream. Next Monday he flies down for a day and a half of chats and school visits and a classroom presentation (no "research" talk). Lots of good signs and many reasons for optimism. To a certain extent, this is exactly what we've been working toward; it also seems to have snuck up on us.

He is fully prepared for the job. Despite being in a doctoral program with essentially one faculty member, he has done everything he should, in large part because that's his nature. His concerns about the phone interview dissipated as he listed all the things he's accomplished in the past few years. The break from Boston, the place of his upbringing, career and family roots, in order to come to Connecticut was quite a daring transition. But now I see courage in big bold letters because a crucial decision may need to be made.

Courage comes in many forms and one feature of courage is that it amazes those who witness it, especially in those who are in our care. For me, the prospect of going to San Antonio seems like it would be a calculated and reasonable risk. But then again, I wouldn't be moving two school-aged kids, and creating considerable distance between them and their grandparents (truth be told: the distance created by the previous move was a welcome relief to the adults). Nevertheless, the stakes are much higher than they would be for me.

There are other jobs posted that are within the geographic target. But only one of those called and it was clearly not a good match. In a nutshell, the prospective job seems to be a perfect match -- were it not for the location. Consequently, the visit for the interview becomes an important opportunity to look for flaws. If the work is perfect but the living is less so, then a tough decision will be made. What if there's an offer forthcoming but nothing else is very far along? Up until this point, I could base almost all of my advising on my own experiences. Suddenly, I feel inadequately suited to offer advice. The courage required will be something I will have to watch.

If I Knew

This is one of those "aren't kids crazy" entries. One of my most tech'd out advisees was spilling some crazy information on me yesterday. The guy builds his own computers, knows all the chemistry behind scone-making, and is turning into a pissed-off, jacked-up, urban teacher ... unless he goes into the Peace Corps. He drives me insane (e.g., "I was up late") but I love him like the Sun. He gets this huge glow when he's spilling arcane information.

I have no idea how we got onto the topic (but this is par when Ryan's around) but somehow Linux programming and The Craftsman book came up. I gave him my one last copy of that book. He in turn shared the term T3H with me. Apparently, I'm one of the last ones to know about this language where gamers and coders use numbers instead of letters: 4 for A, 3 for E, that sort of thing. And the character | is called the pipe. He also told me about sites where people attempt to post the most disturbing images -- so disturbing that you can't erase them from your mind. He said "there's no such thing as eye bleach." What a wonderful world he lives in.

I spent a little time looking this stuff up. Clearly some of this is "code" that keeps others (i.e., adults) from knowing what's being communicated. Another is that it produces an arms race in which one has to be heavily engaged to not be left behind. I suppose this is akin to knowledge of fashion that separates the hip from the not-so hip. One texting abbreviation I found on an urban (?) dictionary was IYKWIM ... AITYD. It translates to If You Know What I Mean & I Think You Do. What a liberating phrase. Don't you suppose that having the knowledge required to send, receive and translate this code would cause the brain to be wiree in different ways. I think I'm coming to grips with the notion of the Digital Natives. And just like Italian, I despair at the realization that I am never going to fully catch on to this way of interacting. But as long as I can check the weather online and point to the gelato flavor I need when in Florence, I don't suppose I'm going to suffer ... IMHO.

father of meta-analysis

Gene Glass, the father of meta-analysis, gave a talk on campus yesterday. I went mainly so I could say I had laid eyes upon this icon. He was the advisor for a good colleague in the Ed Leadership department. I was inspired and moved, something I had not expected to happen.

He began by describe his intellectual forefathers of the 1950s. Those psychometric specialists believe they had won World War II. They designed the assessments used for sorting enlistees into pilots or cooks or infantrymen. Since those young men went forth and defeated the was all the evidence the nerds needed. After the war, they were confident that their brilliance could be used for improving education. Gene Glass not only sees the foolishness of this, but he confessed that his expectation that meta-analysis would save the day was naive. His word: naive.

He was adamant about the dangers of attaching ourselves to manufactured crises in education. He also gave very well reasoned critiques of international comparisons based upon standardized tests. He also decried the super-secrecy of the items used to compare children, cities, and nations. He once asked for six sample items so he could compare the German vs. English versions of reading passages. He is bilingual and wanted to see whether those were comparably difficult questions. Not only did the testing company refuse, but it was a former advisee who made that decision.

Now he had me. Standing before us was a pillar of educational research excellence -- confessing that we were stuck. He asked why 50 years of educational research has not produced COMMANDING ANSWERS – which he described as answers that were so powerful that they commanded implementation. He did not answer this question. I audaciously asked him to bring his talk back around to educational research. He was contrite but never did. When pressed, he revealed that there are two things that he believes are the crucial and maybe only true influences upon students’ learning. What would you expect from someone who edits a policy journal and was elected president of AERA when he was just 35 years old? Get this: teachers and curriculum. I was stunned and uplifted.

Because I didn’t RSVP to the talk (just showed up), I was not the beneficiary of a free copy of his new book. I stopped at a bookstore last night but they didn’t have a copy. Since his talk was based upon that material, and it is somewhat the a memoir of a man nearing the end of a distinguished career, I looked it up online. Here’s the blurb:

In Fertilizers, Pills, and Magnetic Strips, Gene V Glass analyzes how a few key technological inventions changed culture in America and how public education has changed as a result. Driving these changes are material self-interest and the desire for comfort and security, both of which have transformed American culture into a hyper-consuming, xenophobic society that is systematically degrading public education.

Since blogs tap into narcissistic behavior, now that I have also discovered that Dr. Glass had his book published by the same company with which we have a contract, not only am I proud to have ours appear in the same catalog, but I even wonder how simple it would be to extract a jacket blurb. Perhaps I need to make another effort to write even one new ¶ for that project.

a whole lotta love

Since "love" was so prevalent in term and tone at Crossroads IV, I wondered how much love there was in my daily soundtrack. This was something I did a few days ago but the essay about a personal theme music obliged me to create this posting. On the one hand, I did find a lot of love. What remains unclear is whether that is typical.

I searched my iTunes library for songs including "love" in the title. I deleted the poems and Lyle Lovett -- except for his four titles that contained love. Grand total: 90. That is equal to 6 hours and 20 minutes of love. That'd be love for a long time. Not bad, I'd say. But in terms of my entire library, that's only 3%. Okay, a life that contains only three percent love hardly seems like a live worth living. Is that typical? I guess I've turned the question of love into an empirical study. I'll have to ask others. Meanwhile, other tallies:

• 28 "heart" titles,
• 12 "God" titles (I guess I'm a musical pantheist?),
• 18 "angels" (4 orginating in Montgomery),
  
• 11 "mind" titles,
• 5 "hand" titles (dig the horns and bass line on Keep Your Hands to Yourself),
• 8 "sugar" titles,
• 6 "beers" (3 of which also include 1 bourbon and 1 scotch),
• 57 "baby" titles,
• and just the 1 "Lo Mein."

all that matters

Back in the 1970s we had a complete set of beige c0lored World Book Encyclopedias in our living room. I remember thinking how cool it would be if my name might appear in there someday. It wasn't as if I had an inkling about what was required to have an entry. Now I realize I might be able to pull that off if I was a reviewer or consultant. One line -- not exactly a dream realized. This childhood recollection came to mind as I thought about celebrity and the appeal of being known.

I believe that life would be good if I was occasionally the recipient of applause and recognition, especially if each time it caught me by surprise. And I think that these moments provide assurance that I matter, even if just as the cause of a smile. While I don't aspire to the form of celebrity that requires running a gauntlet of photographers just to go out and buy cat food, it is important to have scraps of evidence that my existence matters. Perhaps that is why encourages and entices our merry band of colleagues -- the ambition to leave a mark that makes others' lives a small measure better. The was the message of It's A Wonderful Life and to be reminded of this other than during the winter holidays is reassuring. My favorite biology professor once quipped during a lecture that maybe being remembered beyond the days in which we are alive is as close as we can get to immortality.

Last evening as I made the transition from the computer to the bed, I sat down to read the interview of Billy Collins. It was startling how familiar it was until I reminded myself that I'd heard the actual recording of the exchanges. Yet there was something magical about having it all appear in black and white (photos too!). When I reached the section where teaching was being discussed, especially the statement "that would be interesting to hear, too" I had to shut the magazine and press it to my chest. I did this subconsciously. I report it here, not to be theatrical, because my mind was awash in amazement and delight and awe. These sensations were so powerful that I could not continue reading.

The brightness of this morning helps identify the cause for the emotional rush (part can be attributed to the generous inscription to me by the article's author). I felt I was being transported to the extra chair just beyond the camera's scope. The transcendence came about because I was witnessing a genuine connection between two important individuals. Not just because one was a laureled poet and the other a purveyor of physics to local schoolchildren. Instead, it was the authenticity of the exchange that had the give and take, the lead and follow, of a good jazz duo. I stopped reading in part because I was overwhelmed by witnessing people working toward the utopian groove that Stanley Crouch describes. Yes, I was feeling that level of astonishment. Beyond being stunned by the jamming repartee, my hands closed the volume because I was not ready to follow it until it was over. I want to savor the moment.

There were two celebrities involved -- three since I ought to include the photographer. What they were doing, what was being made, what was being captured for all time -- all of those mattered. More than a ripple, this interview and accompanying article are real. In addition, the article itself matters because it captured a magical moment, to say nothing about the content of the exchange. It feels like sunshine in a bottle. It waits for me to return. This is not some obscure literary effort in minor college publication. Instead, it is an object and an event that truly matters. Immortality or maybe as close to perfection as I should reasonably expect to witness.

a little flare up

My Tuesday, once-a-month class is going really well. This week, I had 6 teachers who came in and discussed with small groups two chapters of Bill Ayers' latest book and engaged my future teachers in a consideration of their identity. Pretty heady stuff. I capped the evening off by reading Like Lily Like Wilson which ended the class with applause. Not bad for a class of 100 juniors.

This afternoon I was flipping through Derrick Bell's Ethical Ambition which I knew would resonate with our other adventures. After all, the chapters include "The Power in Passion," "Courage and Risk Taking" and "Advancing Relationships." Not bad from the same guy who coined "critical race theory" as a legal scholar. I am sure more will come of this. But that's for another day.

In his introduction, he describes situations in which he walked away from positions because his institution would not respond in moral ways to hiring qualified minorities. I wondered whether I would have his fortitude. But I also questioned whether I have been putting myself in situations that might even raise those as possibilities. Then tonight, I received an email from one of my junior questioning the decision to bring Bill Ayers to campus.

She correctly describes his hi-jinks during the Viet Nam Era. I have replied explaining that universities are places where many perspectives are examined but without necessarily endorsing any particular view. But I think there's more to her concern than appears on the surface. I suspect she's being coached or influenced by someone she admires who has right-wing leanings. Maybe it will all fizzle between now and our next class which will occur after the election. If my email was not enough to soothe the situation then it will be interesting to see where this goes. And by that, I mean the "leadership" might decide to rescind the Ayers lecture in December. I'm not itching for trouble and yet I wonder if this is the flare up that might be my test.

sometimes we're alone

There are so many ways to "be" in this world. Of course, there are ways to be just like everyone else. For those who step outside of the norms in terms of tastes and talents, there are countless ways to be unique. One way this is accomplished within the circle of people I know is that they reside at the overlap and intersection of otherwise disconnected ways of being. One example is a multicultural scholar who plays competitive baseball on weekends. Another is a software designer and physicist who is also a concert cellist. Such individuals are also great story-tellers. Or maybe they just intrigue me because they have interesting experiences that I receive as good stories.

Here's a short biography that popped up when I was listening to last.fm this morning:

Jim White is a Southern Gothic alt-country singer-songwriter. He has released three albums as a solo artist.

It's no surprise that he's a solo artist: "Southern" and "Gothic"? It is remarkable that he has released three albums. Amazon.com demonstrates that these are commercial releases. And more gold -- check out these titles:

Drill A Hole In That Substrate and Tell Me What You See
Wrong Eyed Jesus
Transnormal Skiperoo

I don't know whether I like or don't like his voice or songs. But he has won my deep admiration for forming a new genre at the crossroads of an unimaginable confluence of styles. I hope his non-work life is more socially rich and that he takes some comfort in watching The Simpsons and eating at Pizza Hut. There has to be a way for him to find some balance.

bento conference

Advice I would offer to those entering the profession: do not go to your main conference each year. There is reason to believe that many would welcome someone granting this permission. On the other hand, others might be startled to hear that the annual conference is not the be-all and end-all of career advancement. Decrying tradition is simple — offering a reasonable substitute is the challenge. After all, Dewey wrote in Experience & Education:

In short, the point I am making is that rejection of the philosophy and practice of traditional education [or conference] sets a new type of difficult educational problems for those who believe in the new type of education [or conference].

Having imagined that one might skip a year, the next step is knowing what should fill that void. To assuage guilt, my suggestion is to engage in a parallel experience. Those of us who have played hooky have done so by NOT doing what occurs during the formal conference. I worry that this outright rejection and defiance neglects the tangible benefits of being in conference mode. On an "off" year, individuals could still be conferencing even if they are not on-site. The idea is to put them in that mode by shutting themselves off from others during a Friday afternoon or even going to their campus office on a Saturday morning. My proposal is to create something tangible to assist this transition: a Conference-in-a-Box.

What I am imagining is an academic equivalent of a bento box. Inside would be a complete kit that would be artfully arranged. As you read through this list, you'll see I haven't worked this all the way through. If I were a graphic designer, I would build an online image wherein each compartment was a clickable link to the bulleted items. Or there would be a physical box that individuals could order online. I like the latter especialy with the idea that the participant would not actually dive in until the appointed time of their alt-conference. Below I list the components of a traditional conference with links to the substitutes.

• Conference Website: Although someone has already purchased rights to alt-conference.org one could secure alt-conference.net for a small fee. Or maybe just append it to an existing site. Not sure how this is done but it wouldn't seem to be an outrageous task.
  
• Keynote Speaker. I am tempted to provide a link to a Crossroads presentation. But instead, I believe some fresh alternative could be worthwhile: (a) minimally invasive education with Sugata Mitra, (b) the Harlem Children's Zone with Geoff Canada, and/or (c) algebra as a civil rights matter according to Bob Moses.
  
• Conference Banquet: The meal seems to be a signature of the annual conference. One could buy or make a device so you could see yourself within a large kaleidoscope -- creating the effecting of eating with others. And of course the meal would be included.
• Conference Pencil: Even though it might seem difficult to imagine five gross of golf pencils, the price per item makes it seem less than outrageous to include these in the box. And if you really wanted to wear a name badge, there has to be some of the cheap stick-on types in your department's office supply cabinet.

At this moment, I sense that an appropriate cycle would be two years on and one year off. Many logical reasons could be offered that would encourage people to not attend the annual conference: expense, time, ratio of wasted time (esp. travel) relative to benefits, carbon footprint, etc. My suspicion is that many go ahead and make the annual trek out of fear or obligation. Perhaps with the help of a modest fee and a modicum of legitimacy, the concept of an alt-conference would not only kick the big conference in the shins but would also provide the inspiration and support that would actually make a difference.

Is it too much to imagine creating a prototype by April 2009?

j- is the next thing

It's one thing to stay up with the latest trends. To be ahead of the curve is an entirely different breed of genius -- and something to which I aspire. Let it be known that in the near future, the prefix "j" will be at the front of the next generation of super-cool devices. Just as "e" was the hot prefix in the recent past and "i" seems to announce the best gadgets in 2008, the era of "j" is around the corner. That this is the first letter of this author's first name may or may not be a coincidence. Regardless, when the current obsession with iPod and iMac and iPhone is shoved aside by the "j" one shouldn't be startled.

Long ago steam was the most wicked cool new technology. Everything that amazed and astonished was connected to this wet water vapor. Choo-choo trains and other steam powered equipment, now clunky and oversized, were modern marvels in their time. Part of this may have been the mult-sensory features of steam power: the thick vapor, the intense heat, and the still distinctive whistle (see a winsome reminder in this short video clip). And although I cannot find a credible citation, somewhere I read that the disputed meaning behind steam beer was a signal that it was being brewed witih modern methods. The implication is that "steam" in the late 1890s was equivalent to "digital" in the 1990s. Will it be the jMobile or the jTube or jWeb? I suspect it shant be long before we find out.

from Sputnik to 2061

The modern era of science education can be bracketed by two space events. On the left side of the timeline was the launch of Sputnik. Less than two feet in diameter, this man-made satellite shook the world in October of 1957. At the right-hand end of our timeline is the July return of Halley's Comet in 2061, the year in which the famous AAAS reform is to have reached fruition. What an astonishing amount of time falls between these two events. An online calculator revealed that there will be 37,918 days between the two. While we might recognize that this covers more than a century, when reduced to days the time seems unimaginable.

Over such a considerable span of time, one would expect that great improvements in science education would have occurred. Even with incremental changes, the passage of years should reveal advances that would be worth celebrating. At what point in the stream of time would we expect to dip in to observe the improvements? Surely not just a few years after Sputnik's orbit even though that was an era of profound activity. Perhaps the halfway point would be the right moment, exactly 18,959 days after Sputnik's flight and exactly 18,959 days prior to Halley's closest approach to our planet. Wouldn't that be a wondrous time to see how far we've come?

The sad news is that this midway point coincides with the start of the next school year -- August 31, 2009 to be exact. It's a Monday, one week before Labor Day. School will probably be in session. For the more fortunate children, they may experience some science that day. But wouldn't one think we would have made greater advances by now? The theme of this spring's science education research conference is Grand Challenges and Great Opportunities in Science Education. So I suppose, all hope is not lost. The grand challenges remain and the great opportunity sits between now and the next school year. One question is what would be required to make genuine progress that is more than a slogan.

Years ago I was taught a trick to find the center of gravity for a long stick. I start with my index fingers at opposite ends and gradually slide them toward the center. When one finger is sufficiently centralized, the unbalanced weight allows the further out finger to slide in. Eventually, my fingers will meet at the center and that pivot point is where everything hangs in the balance. The talk I'm imagining would have the title "Between Sputnik's Launch and Halley's Return: Grand Challenges at the Crossroads." Perhaps others will be startled by how fast time has gone by and how little progress has been made. Not that 2061 is a magical date. But since modern science education reform is halfway to that way-station, it seems imperative to renew our commitments.

running low

Among all who attended the recent meeting, a common thread was the challenges associated with balancing myriad demands. Perhaps this is because life in general is busy. Or maybe the world of education and/or academia is sufficiently demanding. If the latter is true, it is probably because we have some many opportunities along with so much control over that which we choose. A friend at work nominated this as "agency." I have had other jobs where the pressure was low and the boredom was high. Now, on the busiest of days, I wish I was back in Missouri holding a hose and watering trees -- even though I remember standing there dying to be done so I can finally take my place at the front of a classroom.

I have begun to wonder whether those at the meeting were from a special segment of the population that finds itself over-extended. In noble moments it may be that we are among those whose dedication and devotion is so strong that we have a difficult time being complacent because some task needs to be completed. On the other hand, maybe it is hard to sit still and enjoy what surrounds us. It's almost as if we treat relaxation as a curse or a sign of immorality.

In the relative calm and peace of a darkened house, even as my body gives in, first to a virus and now to NyQuil, I realize that I have run out of steam and ink. Intellectually I recognize when my peers have over-extended themselves and emotionally I feel torn about not knowing how to help. But for now, the micro-biological part of my life has taken control.

genetic genius

Brother Bill rose through the retail ranks to a very respectable position as a store manager. This is no small task as he is responsible for everything related to keeping a store functioning. Even more impressive is that his store is one of the more profitable in his district. While I have troubles keeping ahead of my 3 graduate assistants, Bill is doing hiring and firing, running security, and even coordinating responses to the flooding in Cedar Rapids this summer. There is nothing in our family tree that would predict such business acumen. I suspect he takes some heat for not putting his college degree (not in business) to good use. To me he is just amazing. On top of all this he's a great dad for his four kids -- who personify the best part of what it means to be a Settlage.

While my profession sends me to conferences, Bill gets to go to regional meetings with all the other store managers. I think the purposes of the two gatherings are similar: only superficially related to the work and, for those who are bold, a chance to have fun with colleagues. In essence, they and we do the same basic work as our conference peers -- we just inhabit buildings that are located at different nodes. Apparently they do some goofy stuff: spirit building, lip synch contests, and that sort of thing. At their upcoming meeting in Milwaukee or Chicago will be a time when different districts teams will compete dressed as gangsters. Bill was not the originator of this idea but he's more than happy to go along.

I learned about all of this during a midday phone call. I was making copies for my Tuesday night class and the cell phone rings. He owes me phone calls but I was puzzled by the timing. After sharing the above circumstances, he explained that he and his buddy Vern had been unsuccessful in their search for costumes. I thought it was strange that they couldn't find something mobster-like at a thrift store in the Midwest. Turns out, he and Vern want to stand out from the others at the district party. That was where I came in: I have shipped my lobster costume to him and it should arrive a day before he leaves for the meeting. Imagine the photograph of a crowd of pseudo-mobsters — dark suits, jaunty hats, plastic machine guns — surrounding a dejected giant lobster: the guy dressed in red misinterpreted the voice mail. Apparently comic genius can cross institutional borders. Aside from my curiosity about how it will be received the other enduring question is whether Bill's outlook is due to nature or nurture.

stirring it up

On Monday evenings I have a class of 15 graduate preservice teachers in an "advanced" teaching methods course. About half are elementary education majors and the rest are future science teachers. This latter group are my advisees and were in my basic methods class last fall. This creates an interesting dynamic because it comes close to having an in-group and out-group arrangment. But we seem to be navigating it okay. As we finished class last night, I read a poem from Pablo Neruda, an excerpt of which appears below:

He or she who abandons a project before starting it,
who fail to ask questions on subjects he or she doesn’t know,
he or she who don’t reply when they are asked something they do know,
dies slowly.

~ from Pablo Neruda's "Die Slowly"

I explained as I prefaced this poem that I would also be using it with the Intro to Teaching juniors the following night. A secondary major joked that I should be careful what I was doing. By reading this poem I might create more like them. I interpreted this to mean individuals who advocate for themselves and aren't afraid to disclose their ambitions. The spirit of her comment was that I might have to suffer from additional strong-willed future teachers. My retort was that not only might that create problems for me but I would be sharing such problem-makers with my colleagues. They seemed delighted by the prospects. Not only would there be more in the pipeline like them but that the current group's spirit would leak out and soak into other classrooms beyond the ones in which I was the instructor.

Part of this shows is what happens when a teacher is explicit about the decision-making. I continue to find that when I describe the reasons, or even the thought processes, I use when thinking about teaching, it strikes a resonant chord with my students. Furthermore, when I confess to my uncertainties those are received with relief and joy. This situation also illustrates not only the power of poetry to inform and inspire but also that the use of poems can become a thread that ties together people and becomes a defining feature of ongoing conversations. If someone in my past had encouraged me to use poetry within a graduate class, I would never have believed it. It still is not a natural part of my work … but without my being fully aware, it has become a defining feature.

a set of people

Elementary math textbooks of the 1960s always began with a discussion of sets. To this day, I cannot figure out the logic that caused those post-Sputnik reformers to think that asking kids to identify the name for a set of geese or goldfish or giraffes (i.e., gaggle, school and herd) was a valuable way to enter mathematics each autumn. Yet it was so common that I recall opening the math book (maybe in fifth grade) and groaning that there was that exercise again: "A set of crows is called a ___ ." Maybe set theory was a wonderful unifying principle. Perhaps linking it to literary flourishes was viewed as clever. At least I can attest that it was memorable.

The ways we might describe a set of people reflects our regard for them. A posse or syndicate suggests an organization that is more threatening (but more purposeful) then an association or delegation. Congregations and flocks are contemplative while teams and crowds are rowdy. I suppose the way we label a group of people is further evidence that we are social beings.

At the inaugural assemblage of education professors, each department chair had been asked to offer quick summaries of the activities of their respective faculty over the summer. Grants, workshops, and so on. Some lists seemed to promote the bigger names in our small pond. Other reports seem to have been excerpted from monthly grant budget reports. One report confirmed for me that my mind inhabits a very different universe. It was reported that "a gang of Hartford teachers" had been to campus. Not a team or collection or even a group. A gang.

stuff on a shelf

There is a distinctive feel when remnants of hurricanes stroll through New England. At 9 a.m. the relative humidity is 90% (temperature 74°F and dew point 71°F). We run window air conditioners to dry the inside air. A perfect opportunity to empty files and straighten piles in the home office. It will be a chore not because I am disorganized but because I always have so many projects going on, many of which have their roots in scraps of paper and obscure journal articles. Before beginning, I viewed a day in the life and was inspired. To prove how hard this cleaning task will be, I will describe stuff on a shelf next to my desk.

1. Digital camera. It is on this shelf because last Thursday night, people rummaged through our trash (searching for treasures) and left garbage that had been in the can out on the lawn. If they had returned this week, I was going to take flash pictures and explain that I was going to sell the images to the local paper. No visitors. But the camera still sits where I could grab it.
2. Cosmos seeds. They are the fourth generation. These are great little plants because they tolerate neglect and produce happily bright blossoms. After the petals fall away they leave a brittle brown starburst consisting of oddly shaped seeds. All that is required to harvest them is to strip them off with a gentle pull. I feel like the seeds should dry before I put in an envelope until next spring. For some reason the brown seeds are drying on top of a …
3. Dissertation proposal. This document by someone else's advisee is a dissertation that is now over. It started out so well, but over time the sample size shrunk, not through attrition but because of the volume of data. The worst part was that the advisor, whose project the dissertator was researching, ended up answering more of the questions than the student during the defence. This a good example of the detritus that needs to be recycled today.
4. Lobster-shaped cookie cutter. We don’t make use cookie cutters at the holidays. We have the kind that are either round or rectangles cut out of a thick sheet. But in the event that I do need to cut something out of dough that is shaped liked a lobster, I’m all set.
5. Boat whistle. Sunday morning we took the canoe to a nearby fishing lake just to paddle around. As we were unloading from the car, a guy approached us from the Coast Guard Auxiliary. He asked to inspect our water craft, if we had life vests (we do), and whether we had a noise-making device. I thought maybe this meant I should buy an air horn in the event we overturned and couldn’t wade to shore. He provided us with two flat plastic whistles on lanyards.
6. Half-pint ilk bottle. Thick-walled glass with raised lettering that identified it as from the University of Connecticut. Apparently, this was a novelty sold in the 1970s for 75 cents. At least that’s what the yellowed newspaper clipping says that is rolled up inside. A gift from a friend who was cleaning her attic or garage.
7. A Guinness coin bank. This held a pair of pajama bottoms that my brother gave me. That he works at Kohl’s and the gift came from there is not an issue. The pj’s were stunningly ugly, far too tight and overly warm if you like to sleep under a blanket. But the container had a slot in the top and is now heavy with spare change.
8. A bowling trophy. I never won a trophy. This was a gag gift from a duckpin bowling/ surprise birthday party. The brass plaque reads “The Best Bowler With Small Balls, 2006.” It is too spectacular to put anywhere but where it now sits.
9. Old batteries. I never know what to do with these. One is a 9-volt the other AA. Do I save them to recycle next time we go to Ikea (every 12 months)? Or, as I have heard is safe, throw them out with the regular trash? Perhaps I should try to recharge them with one of two or three Radio Shack rechargers that are in the office somewhere. I know they get hot and that they can explode. But the economics, along with delaying the disposal question dilemma, is why they sit there. Today they will go in the trash. Starting now.

chivalry

It can be quite difficult to distinguish between chivalry and a person covering for someone else's odd behavior.

three grand ideas

This is not a trio of inspiring messages. Instead, the "grand" refers to "thousand." As part of the process of having something I wrote appear in print, I received an email directing me to the publisher's website. There I had the opportunity to order extra hard copies of the final product. They offered me the chance to pay a little extra if I had any figures I wished to appear in color (not a worry with this piece). But the Open Choice option was one that struck a nerve.

The premise behind Open Choice is an author can make his material freely available for a small fee. Yes: three thousand dollars. Now I'm not opposed to people and businesses making money when the customer has the option to make a purchase. For example, a Rockport Triathlon t-shirt listed the events as "Lobstah, Chowday & Bee-ah." I chuckled each time I walked past the display window … and chose to not buy that shirt. I am also not troubled that my writing could fetch $3000. What bugs me is that this is the price I am charged to let others read our writing. Not only do I do all the work with conceptualizing and composing this piece (well, this time my co-author did most) but if someone wants to read it they must pay, be employed by an institution that pays, or the author has to pay.

What the Company prohibits is posting the PDF version of the editorial (that I helped write) on my own website. At best, the agreement is that "An author may self-archive an author-created version." Hey, wait a second. I am pretty good at formatting. And I can generate a PDF that looks at least as good as what this company subcontracts to have done. Maybe I can make this work available for free. In fact, according to the agreement the other stipulation is that I tell how to link to the publisher's version. So in effect, they are promoting our stuff. Plus it will pop up when people search for it -- without having to be indexed by a paid service. Okay, it's just now 8 a.m. and I already have had one grand idea. Just 2 more and this entry has come full circle.

soapbox craftsmanship

The garbage can during vacation was in side an old two-room shed. It was all wood and very rough. There were shutters on some of the windows and the door hardware was rugged and functional. On an uncommonly warm day when I was transferring kitchen trash into the shed and the place was swarming with sluggish flies. Many were stupidly and slowly bumping into a six-paned window that was unshuttered. I found an old Frisbee and pressed it against the pain so I could squash several bugs at the same time. Then the pane jumped free of its frame without breaking. But a corner broke off when it hit the ground. The next day I went to the hardware store to buy a replacement pane ($2.99) and a jar of white putty. It was a simple fix. When I checked it just as we were leaving for the last time, I took comfort that the job wasn’t so expertly done that it seemed unconventional compared to the other five panes. If there was a difference it was that the new glass was much cleaner.

Here is evidence that my aspirations for handiness far outpace the realities. This was a tool-less repair (the guy at the hardware store cut the pane to size) and so the semi-neatness can be attributed not to poor tools but to bad tool use. I can fix things around the house but they are never done craftily. Beer brewing is the closest I come to doing something that qualifies as a crafted product. And yet, when I think about my teaching (not possible in the moment most of the time) I believe that we can count that work as a craft. I don’t mean that I am great at the craft of teaching – although I think I do a damn good job. Instead, I would submit that being a really good teacher would qualify a person to be a craftsman. In preparing to make this claim, I consult Sennet’s The Craftsman to see if he would agree. I believe that he does. But don’t buy the book since NSF will gladly cover the cost and a University will deal with the postage.

In one of many delightful digressions the author charts glass-making as it makes the transition to being an industrialized process. While the glass rolling makes great flat sheets that can be used when repairing windows, the glassblower remains important. The former is great for replicability and consistency while the latter creates items that are unique and inspire. In a similar fashion, the author talks about different ways of being a parent. He writes:

The real issue is the self-image that parents hold up to their children: rather than convey “be like me,” better parental advice should be more indirect. “This is how I lived” invites the child to reason about the example. Such advice omits, “Therefore you should ….” Find your own way; innovate rather than imitate (p. 102)

As I prepare to teach students who are just entering the teacher education program, I am not too concerned about theories and techniques. My expressed purpose is to help them connect with the heart and soul of the profession. In my mind, I am crafting a conversation. This includes setting the expectations, establishing the climate, and supplying the materials to inform the discussions. I stir, I encourage, I am patient. One statement I want to make is that even though students enter this program knowing it will take three years to finish, as of the first night of class in three years they will be meeting their own students for the first time in their own classrooms. In that moment, are they going to think back about how to write a lesson plan or what standard is being addressed? No. Instead they will be remembering the deeper purposes and possibilities by becoming a teacher. This remembrance may not be evidence at the surface. But if I am a craftsman who is earning is taxpayer-funded salary, then what I set into motion from my soapbox should continue to reverberate when that novice teacher meets his or her students for the very first time. Surely it is not necessary to build a bookcase or gazebo to qualify as a craftsman. I feel we can inspire as we teach and be comfortable with the notion that we are filling our duties as craftspersons.

connectivity

It wasn't that walking to the public library during vacation to connect to the web was a vacation burden. But now that I'm at home and fully connected, I am reminded about the technology's benefits. Just now I made a discovery that is impossible to have imagined not so long ago. In fact, many years ago when I was helping a colleague move her apartment contents into storage for her sabbatical, I discovered that the building across the street was the Acme Company of Looney-Tunes fame. It never occurred to me to investigate how many products they manufacture. The web has revealed that nugget to me.

I confess being ignorant of the scope of Acme. I suspected they sold Rocket Powered Roller Skates. Perhaps others will share my amazement that they also had a Mexican lab. Further, they also produced matches and mouse snares. Their product line is truly amazing and I encourage others to uncover the marvels that bear the Acme label. Were I still secluded away in a cabin, while it's true that there would be left-over cups of lobster butter in the fridge, I would not know that there was even such a device as an Anti-Nightmare Machine.

matches and mice

Halfway through our vacation in Rockport, Mass. we were awakened by odd sounds. At first it seemed like someone was jiggling the front doorknob. A heart-pounding sweep with a flashlight turned up nothing. One of us went back to bed, the other watched the Olympics on t.v. A half hour later, noises returned but not as loud. Instead of coming from the front door, it sounded like tiny rodent claws on a shelf. Again with the flashlight and, since the shelves held old apothecary jars, it was transparently clear that mice were not running the shelves.

With less panicked listeniing it seemed that the mouse was behind a large wooden beam. Instead of just clawing, the noise was more of a chewing as if the wood doorjamb between the the bedroom and the other half of the cabin was a tasty treat. Because the beam was sheathed with a board, I couldn't actually see the critter. But I could detect exactly where he was. So with a vicious slap that comes from being awakened from sleep, my hand made such a boom when it struck the wood that the gnawing instantly stopped. And because the sounds stopped and never returned, sleeping should have been restful for the balance of our visit.

Except for the lingering fear induced by Billy Collins. In addition to all of the old stuff displayed in this country hourse, there was a container that appeared to be a match dispenser. I deduced this becaause Matches" is emboseed on it. Old and made of tin, it likely held strike-anywhere matches. It's only a small comfort that it is empty. If it is here purely for display, that's okay. But if it did once hold matches, where did they go? Just around the corner from this match dispenser in a kitchen drawer is a box of matches. Unlike the poem "The Country" these are red-tipped (not blue) and must be struck against the box (rather than anywhere) in order to flare. Nevertheless, these matches are not in a metal container with a lid that can be tightly screwed. I am quite relieved that if there is to be a torch-bearing, brown druid at this address that tonight is the last night in which we will be here.

chicken and clams

Wandering the back roads of coastal Massachusetts, I pulled into an unlikely looking food joint. Unlike the place pictured here (which we taste tested on another day), the Clam House of Ipswich looked as if it specialized in pizza and grinders. I asked the kid at the counter what was good and he, with an eastern European accent, recommended the baked haddock dinner. After I ordered it, I noticed it was not only the top of the four items on the specials board., it was also the most expensive.

It proved to be an amazingly good meal. And it prompted a conversation about our good fortune. We discussed the fact that seafood (esp. clam strips) is consistently good in this area in a fashion that parallels fried chicken quality in the Midwest and the South. One causative agent must be the locally fresh ingredients. But that does not seem sufficient. While fresh clams are regional, chickens are not. High quality beginnings are very important. And yet there is more involved. Otherwise, why aren’t chicken shacks legendary eateries in the northeast?

Currently we have two working hypotheses. The first is the consumer selection hypothesis. Basically, the reason area restaurants are the best among those that have been in existence. The relatively crummy restaurants have gone out of business. They have become extinct. This would apply to chicken, barbeque and sushi places. The reason why seafood places are so good in New England is because the competition is so strong. But do not look for good fried chicken: the competition is likely insufficient to make those restaurants a safe bet.

The other hypothesis is the local expertise explanation. Less contentious than the previous hypothesis, the reason particular restaurants are exceptional in certain regions is because there is shared wisdom within the community. This may not be an explicitly shared knowledge. But somehow the pieces and process leading to crisp chicken coating, buttery clam strips, and vibrant sushi flesh are dispersed among the food preparers. Bad clam strips in Missouri? Perhaps it’s because the wisdom does not reside there. Much like craft knowledge passed from person to person, this hypothesis explains regional expertise as a consequence of distributed smarts.

I vow to continue this investigation in whichever regions I find myself. I understand the fish tacos in San Diego are to die for. Anything good to eat in Anaheim?

products

My father recently confessed that he is bearded because he is too lazy to shave. One could argue that there are no limits to where he applies that rationale. The evidence is legion and probably not worth sharing without making me seem petty -- perhaps I am past that point already. The facts remain: he sports a beard and I rarely go more than a day without scraping the stubble from my chin, jaw, throat and cheeks. I like how it feels after a good shave. But it is a somewhat tedious routine. Not only is it less intellectually generative than a shower, the penalty for inattentiveness can be measured in blood.

Sue brought home a small bottle of shaving oil the other day from a shopping spree. Now I was aware of shaving oil -- I think I read about it years ago in an Esquire article about shaving. The stuff from Walgreen's worked okay. The new stuff though smells like I'm perched above a bowl of potpourri. And the shave isn't bad either.

Interestingly, I have to pay more attention to the work. Unlike foam or soap, there is no track left behind after the razor has passed through shaving oil. I suppose this suggests that bad shaves I've done to myself in the past may have occurred because I was scraping away the suds rather than concentrating on the stubble. I am reminded that foam, oil or suds are there not to show which areas have been cleared. Instead, the purpose is to help the blade slide across (not into) the skin so that the tiny forest can be cleared away. Now that those hair stumps have turned appreciably lighter, it makes the morning ritual (ablation or ablution) more of a challenge. For the next few weeks, that exertion will be accompanied by the smell of eucalyptus and clove oil. No nicks so far.

to write

Many hours have been spent this summer reading the raw writings of others. In many ways, it's a great resource toclarify what is good and bad about writing. Within a review of the literature by a someone else's doc student I recognize the practice of walking through a list of published works. What strikes me about the lack of sophistication was the overemphasis upon names without focusing upon ideas. In addition, the doc student was very reliant upon the direct quotes of others. I must confess that I have not read this manuscript completely. It is such a chore. I suspect that lack of pleasure for me by the reader equates with the sense of this being a writing task that must be completed.

Writers are often urged to attend to voice and audience. It becomes clear what these recommendations mean when the writer fails to keep these adages in mind. Now I feel as if I can spot the problem and turn it into a concrete recommendation for novice writers. If the emphasis of the writing is upon who said something, then the writing is probably not academic. Instead, it is an homage to others -- and neglects the opportunity to provide fresh insights. Ideas should come first; the sources are acknowledged as an aside. The narrator is telling the story of ideas: which begat what, where one contradicts another, how one might find similarities where no one else had done so before. But if each ¶ break signals the transition to another article or author, then the problem (and the reader) will suffer.

The purpose of a literature review is not to lead the reader from one article to the next. I can accomplish that by flipping through journals. What I am interested in reading is a thoughtful discussion about ideas. Further, my mind drifts rather easily (even now I'm watching the Red Sox beat the Yankees within another browser window). Explain the ideas and their significance. Show how your thinking is reflected within other sources. But don't allow the other writers to take center stage while you peak out from the curtains. Instead, the writer must ALWAYS be on stage in order to explain the storyline. Bringing in others from the wings lends interest to the tale. And yet as the writer, you should also usher others off of the stage as soon as you've extracted their ideas for your own use. In fact, it's not always necessary to know the exact source of ideas. At the end of it all, the synthesis of ideas (and not the parade of personalities) is the key to an effective literature review.

connections

I was at a meeting including people from several different universities. In trying to distribute copies of curriculum materials (hundreds of pages in length), it became apparent that burning CDs for a dozen people was a losing battle. A large part of the struggle was that the materials were in progress and constantly being updated. Several folks had flash drives. And at one point, one guy held his laptop to his brain to indicate the need to transfer all of his thoughts to his laptop.

While there is very little likelihood I will ever get a tattoo, I did wonder what it would be like to have a USB port inked into my wrist or just behind my ear. I did not spend much time looking online, but the only example I found was this image. But it does not give the sense of a physical connection. I was imagining what looked like a port … and hot chicks would ask if they could download my thoughts onto their drive. Clearly my mind has been addled by two full days of curriculum meetings.

mentoring future faculty

Helping others learn to take my place (figuratively speaking) seems to be a central component of working with doctoral students. It takes a careful hand and well timed advice to do this well. There is no instruction booklet so I have to learn through trial-and-error. And I feel I am getting better with each new advisee. Here is an example.

I just finished teaching a six-week Methods of Teaching summer course. I taught one of three sections and I had a blend of people who will student teach in math, science, history or English starting in August. They get the weekend off and then take more classes for the second half of the summer. The students are reconfigured on Wednesdays to attend their Subject Area Methods course. However, these classes only meet for five weeks.

The instructor for science methods, a doctoral advisee of mine, sought my input about the program director's concern:

John,We just got an email about class time for the second summer session (9-3 or 9-4:15). Mike seems to be concerned about having 36 "contact" hours. So I began trying to think what I did for lunch last year. SO, what did you do for lunch this year?

Recognizing this as a teachable moment, I offered the kind of advice that might not have occurred to me when I first entered the profession:

Usually I made myself a sandwich and carrots. And I brought iced coffee. One week I brought a bowl of fresh fruit.

to be of use

Let me begin by acknowledging then inherent dangers when a blog entry comments upon a poem. But that is what I am about to do. This is a love poem that I would hope to share with my industrious friends. It reminds me that love and delight can (or should) be part-and-parcel of work. However, this isn't the old-fashioned Protestant work ethic. It's something perhaps less spiritual and more aesthetically pleasing.

Below I excerpt the beginning, and later the end, of Marge Piercy's poem "To Be of Use"…

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half submerged balls.

One thing about the preceding passage is the sense that I could rapidly be left behind. Others have made the leap and are moving forward. It seems what they are doing is natural and purposeful. If I hesitate, the moment will be lost.

But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

This took a few readings to appreciate. I recall seeing a vessel in a museum that was shielded by glass from my curious fingers. It seemed odd that this very practical container had no purpose except as something on display. I wondered if the object was embarrassed by the attention it received and ashamed that it was prohibited from the purpose for which it was designed. And I imagined the exhiliration it might feel if was allowed to once again be put to use.

serial loves

Complete devotion is so uncommon that I wonder whether it is humanly impossible. For example, it isn’t all that odd to learn of European men who retain mistresses. Other cultures have their own variations: harems, polygamist communities, and so on. Having one’s desires directed into multiple repositories is not restricted to sexual drives. It seems that even those who engage in monogamy in their personal lives juxtapose those arrangements with multiple love interests in their work lives.

By all criteria, someone with whom I am reasonably well-acquainted person is unwaveringly and unquestionably devoted to a life partner. Does this evince a counter-example of humans having polygamist tendencies? No. In fact, the level of marital devotion seems in direct contrast to his propensity to pursue multiple heady projects. Here is reinforcement of my point. On balance, where devotion is the rule within one realm it is within another realm that faithlessness is the default action. Further, such tendencies seem to dominate within our working social circle. Of one mind at home, of too many hearts in the field.

None of this is news, especially with the confession of being a scholar activitist of polygamist proportions. Such tendencies are, I would argue, representative of a cosmic balance. In other settings, where an individual’s sexual attentions are widely dispersed he or she can only focus upon one career option. Those with the wandering eyes and genitalia are also the people who see nothing wrong with keeping in the same job forever. The only thing needed to strengthen this point is to coin a new term. Polygamy or polyandry are too biological as is polygynandry (what it lacks in pronouncability it compensates for in its imagery). Polyamory? Polyfidelitous? Regardless, we must agree it is not polymer.

what's the story

What is the story we tell ourselves within science education? For at least fifty years, this story has been about America's economic and geopolitical superiority. Long after we beat the Soviets to the moon there are continued calls to improve the science and engineering pipeline. The deceptiveness of such assertions seems undiluted by evidence to the contrary (see recent RAND report). But because of the theme of USA vs. the world, such claims work so well because they align with the the long-standing narrative.

Colleagues who express dissatisfaction with the science education are frustrated by the current story. They (and I) desire a different direction — and I am suggesting this requires a new story to guide us. But we are waiting for it to be written. It has become increasingly evident that until this story can be told and retold that a “movement” is unlikely to get underway. I am not offering to be the author of such a story. Instead, I believe we will remain mired in the same conditions until a new story captures our collective ambitions.

Essayist Charles Johnson typifies the power of narrative He suggests that narratives can lose their power and impeded growth, change and improvement. His recent essay "The End of the Black American Narrative" offers insights about the storylines people work and live by. What rings so true is not only his stance about Black America but also the utility or burden of narratives:

A good story has a meaning (and sometimes layers of meaning); it also has an epistemological mission: namely, to show us something. It is an effort to make the best sense we can of the human experience, and I believe that we base our lives, actions, and judgments as often on the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves (even when they are less than empirically sound or verifiable) as we do on the severe rigor of reason.

Johnson, and others like Glaude, have proffered new narratives to guide members of their community. I wonder what would be contained within a new story of science education that has layers of meaning as well as an epistemological mission. How could we build a place where such a story might emerge, crystallize, and grow?