craft in training

An unexpected delight during vacation was a tour of the Culinary Institution of America in Hyde Park, New York. The individual giving the tour was in the bakery program which requires a total of 21 months, broken up into 3 week classes that meet for 6 or 7 hours a day. They have 16 or so cohorts moving through the training with a graduation held every 3 weeks. There is a banquet each time, prepared and served by students earlier in their program. But our first exposure was at a fine French meal.

The CIA has multiple restaurants at which these aspiring chefs and bakers learn the "front of the house." Our trip coincided with the start of a fresh rotation so almost everyone was new to their jobs. For example, the bottle of champagne I ordered was the first our waitress had ever opened table side. What I found so fascinating and delightful as an educator was that an expert was literally at the student's elbow to work her through the process. This guy wasn't simply the maitre d' or the most experienced: he was the lecturing instructor in table service. We also saw him instructing uncertain waitresses as they sliced and served Châteaubriand. And Bananes Flambées. But beyond the drama of the performance, I wa caught up in the gentle presence of instructors.

Back to the tour. We were able to look into maybe 4 to 6 classrooms in which young cooks were learning to make pastries, decorate cookies, etc. There was no joking around as everyone was very intent upon their work. They didn't cower from the instructor but they obviously had great regard for the Chef. Our tour guide pointed to one older gentleman ... who she credited with bringing creme brulee to America. Wow! I'm still trying to sort out the possible parallels to teacher preparation and/or educational researcher development. The meal was fantastic on the palate and in the belly. The environment continues to tantalize my mind.

small state university

The following song parody was performed at the last FARSE in San Francisco. The reason it is being posted now is that I just stumbled across the lyrics. I can still hear Juanita Jo laughing at the new lines.

Small State University (to the tune "Me and Bobby McGee")
Getting fat and sleeping good, I hardly use my brain.
All I wear to work are comfy jeans.
Most my ambition’s gone, it’s swirling down the drain.
My life’s someone else’s jealous dream.

My colleagues are real friendly and our students all are sweet
I’m set cause I’m not at a Research One
Teaching’s all I have to do and keep my desktop neat
A tenured prof’s life certainly is fun

Tenure’s just another word for nothin’ left to do.
Nothin’ means nothin’ now that I’m free
Getting tenure feels so great, Lord, yes I’ve paid my dues.
Where I’m at is good enough for me
At a small state university.

La-da-da La-da-da-da La-da-da da-da da-da
La-da-da da-la-da la-da, State University
La-da-la-da-la-da La-da-la-da-da
Small State University
La-da-da La-da-da La da-da La da-da
La-da-da La da-da La da-da

like riding a bike

In order for this summer to be a success, it will be necessary for me to engage in activities for which metaphors and similes are useless — like riding a bike. It is its own action and there really is no need to compare it to anything else. To not create metaphors will be difficult, were it not for the fact that I am relearning that I truly like riding a bike. In so much of what I do professionally, having metaphors to rely upon is helpful: diving into the wreck, serving as a day laborer, striving to create a craftsmen's workshop. But gloriously plain tasks don't require further explanation. Creating time with the day to do non-metaphorical activities is a noble goal.

This morning's ride was another out-and-back trip along a segment of a rails-to-trails project. I am setting no records and might be totaling 15 miles on each trek. There were lots of things to notice today:

• The refreshing coolness when the trail cut through rock outcroppings covered in moss and ferns.
• An abandoned ball cap perched on a trailside fencepost.
• The remnants of old railroad ties, also under vegetation, that seemed to pass by as I huffed my way up a gentle slope.
• A guy in black, wearing sunglasses, walking on an overcast day, in the woods, smoking a cigarette.
• Noticing the change in grade, not by the incline, but by shifts in the amount of leg muscle exertion and the pace of my heartbeats.
  

I was tempted to think about what else I do that is like riding a bike or how the things I saw reminded me of other things. Instead, I kept reminding myself that it was just the riding of the bike that was enough on its own. I don't need to compare it to anything else. In the same way, I don't need to extract deeper meaning out of making a damn good batch of sangria with red wine from a box. Nothing inspiring must come from spreading cedar mulch around bushed and perennials. My goal is not to avoid metaphors because there are times where they can be really helpful, such as when I'm inspired to contemplate my surroundings as if I'm inside a whale. I know I should exhibit restraint. When I go backpacking, it is not important that I find ways to use that experience to represent anything else. In the future, more abstract experiences may refer back to such fundamental and unmediated endeavors.
I appreciate the benefits of being in the moment and not trying to read something profound into activities that are important because of their simplicity — like riding a bike.

guiding hand

Going through old documents to decide what to store or discard revealed some lost treasures. This morning, I found notes from a January mentoring conversation with The Hand about Crossroads, the essence of which was attempting to capture the impact of this endeavor. One obvious category is to inquire about the publications that have emerged as a consequence of Crossroads and while refereed publications would be an important type, so too would be the letters to newspaper editors, drafts of grant proposals, and contributions to district and state policy documents. But there are other possible influences we could assess that are tangible even though less concrete than an article.

One important notion was to ask attendees how they operate within their professional lives once they returned home. The pragmatic philosopher in me is drawn to this because it goes beyond asking how people think and feel as a result of Crossroads. Instead, rather than rely upon self-reports of confidence and centeredness, they are asked to provide testimonials about their actions. However, this is not just about what a person does but it also could access the rationales they apply when they move through their work. Such questions get at the activity of individuals rather than their mental or transcendent states of being (cerebro-spiritual?). Rather than rely upon claims of the impact, the emphasis is upon changed practices attibutable to Crossroads.

But the suggestion I liked the most was a clever reversal of this type of question. In many ways, it gets at the same need to capture impacts. It does so in a fashion that has great potential for revealing perspectives that might otherwise pass unnoticed:

WHAT DO YOU DO LESS OF AS A CONSEQUENCE OF CROSSROADS?

The idea of growth and development and advancement too often emphasizes accumulation. Children grow bigger, institutions develop in complexity, and civilizations advance by acquiring wealth. But this ignores the associated process of discarding unneeded materials. Conceptual change theory is a great example wherein a learner endorses a new explanation, such as why it gets cold in the winter, even as they discard a previous explanatory mechanism. As an instructor, I develop new ways of thinking and doing my work but also dispose of old materials that are no longer of use. For example, I do a much better job of specifying my expectations in graduate courses and, as a result, know that if students meet those expectations then there are no worries about justifying the granting of A's to an entire group.

Now I'm increasingly intrigued by the development of expertise and craftsmanship in relation to disposing of strategies and supports that are no longer needed. What indeed might be uncovered by asking people, not what they do differently, but target what they do less of as a result of their experiences? How are you different because of what you chose to leave behind? Now I'm going to need to search for my copy of Tim O'Brien's "The Things They Carried" to see whether there are hints about what might be revealed by what the US soldiers in Viet Nam opted to not carry. Perhaps as a result, I can better understand how this sort of question might be applied in a variety of contexts.

when I am old(er)

There is a "poem" out there that old ladies really enjoy ... at least if enjoyment is measured in the frequency with which it is forwarded in emails and posted to webpages. It pains me to add to it so suffice it to say that it warns others that the elderly will don red hats and purple clothes ... that don't match and doesn't suit anyone. This is all well and good except for the collateral damage such goings-on induce for others. These images of a recent gift that was intended as a thank you for a Mother's Day gift.

The gift was Sue's discovery: a bracelet made from a bicycle spoke. The recipient enjoys it and reports that she is wearing it into the over-chlorinated public pool where she participates in geriatric, foam-making activities. I am not a jewelry person so I don't understand how difficult it might be to remove bracelets before splashing around in toxic water. So even though a silver bracelet (probably an heirloom) lost its shine and patina when it was worn into the pool, the new gift is not spared from similarly perilous exposure. There's a parenting metaphor in there somewhere I am declining to unpack.

The accompanying note reports other news including the discovery of a font wherein letters are riddle with holes. The rationale is that such a font would save ink. This discovery was made during preparations for a computer class for senior citizens, presumably at the local library or vo-tech school. Our correspondent writes: "Silly, but maybe worthwhile." More opportunities for psychological interpretation that will also be avoided.

A stand-alone paragraph states: "Printing out knitting patterns doesn't seem to make it more difficult to read." Cryptic to be sure especially with no prelude to knitting other than the enclosed fabric creation. But in the midst of a later paragraph about saffron (purchased in Spain and enclosed in the same recycled box) we read:

One of the knitting patterns was kinda' like stained glass windows. Had some more lavender colored yarn, so "invented" a new color scheme. Hope it works as well as the other washcloth.

I don't recall a previous washcloth but expect a sibling would ... if she or he had received this handiwork.

To be honest, I'm not sure what to make of all this. Maybe the enigmatic nature of the object and note is because it is an art-form open to interpretation. In addition, I'm not sure what to do with the washcloth. I can't describe how it feels except to offer that it causes the exact opposite response to touching cashmere. Nerves and fingers jump away. Even when looking at it, my hands alternately freeze or convulse.

I realize that choosing to not have children will preclude me from passing along such gifts to my offspring. Even if we "adopt" friends' children as our own, the effect of notes and gifts will not create as strong of an effect. Phrases such as "Looking forward to our anniversary with everyone back together again. It's been a long twenty years" will not have the same impact. I guess that will be my gift to the next generation — not sending such gifts.

poem reading professor

To read a poem has gradually become part of my professor persona. It started with "What Teachers Make" that Doctor 0th Draft sent to me six summers ago. The class was a general teaching methods course for students who already held a subject area Master's degree. Something about the group or my mood induced me to read/perform that poem. Later, I added a few more Taylor Mali's. And then when I saw him in person, from the front row no less, I was ready to perform more of his works. To subsequently see him live in NYC alongside some older guy named Billy Collins changed me forever.

On Monday I was the afternoon session for non-education doctoral students from across campus as part of a two-week institute about becoming an effective instructor. It's nice program that fills a vital need. My topic: Learning Theories. And on their first day. So I rolled out about a ten different theories and we discussed them and considered how we might apply different theories to help us better understand teaching we've done or experienced. With two minutes remaining, I closed with Schoolsville by Billy Collins (and without giving a quiz on the material). They enjoyed it and maybe I'll be that professor on the first day who talked about learning theory and read a poem.

Along the way, I am learning more about poetry and appreciating its power. Here is an excerpt from an exceptional essay by Jane Hirschfield about poetry:

Before reading a good poem, we are one kind of person, after reading it, we are another. Poetry is description, catalogue, memory, but it is also an instrument of discovery and transformation. It is telescope, magnet, well bucket, radar, and smelting furnace at once: a means for the self to arrive at its own fullest being and its own fullest meaning. This is true for the individual and true for the species, the culture.

I am too much of a novice to fully appreciate the significance of her claims. After all, I am acquainted with all of twenty-some poets. Nevertheless, I admire the qualities of a force that transforms people. I appreciate the utility of something that is both catalogue and tool for discovery. In these ways, poetry is so much like science — and yet also so different. At best, I know enough about poetry to notice the joking references, having long believed that catching the humor in a situation is a good indication of being relatively well-informed about a topic.

Today has started out well: I read a Science News article that reveals that primates who dig in the sand are ambidextrous: the holes are symmetrical. This suggests that their brains are not yet differentiated by hemispheres. However, there are indications that there is handedness among apes when performing fine motor skills. That adds to the scientific catalogue and demonstrates inquiry as a tool for discovery. Meanwhile, I realize I need to dig more into Jane Hirschfield's poetry ... and along the way have already discovered that Salon offers "Poetry for the Rest of Us" which leads me to George Evans and his poem about a comet. More cataloging, more discovery. Moving closer to achieving fullest meaning and fullest being.

nomadic professor

Although it has not been sudden, I have been caught off-guard by our building (re)arrangements. Though some process I cannot fathom, the funding was obtained to remodel the older half of the Ed School building. Through an odd chain of events for which I admittedly am somewhat culpable, I am vacating my office. And like many others, including some untenured faculty, there is no substitute space for us. We are told to work from home and the only support has been that they have supplied boxes to us for the purpose.

When it was my option to not go in to campus, it seemed well within my rights to work elsewhere. As long as I fulfilled my service and teaching assignments, I wanted to have control over when I had to be in my office. But I'm a little distraught that they have in effect granted my wish: work from home and only come to campus to teach classes. On one level this changes nothing since I am often in contact with students via email as much as through face-to-face appointments. And yet that it is so easy for administration to announce that there is no physical space to call home at the workplace makes me feel untethered. The nomadic life sounds so romantic until it is forced upon me. Nobody who "knows" me via email, chats, phone calls and conferences will be any wiser. It's not that I'm going to miss any of my comrades -- because we could easily rendezvous with the smallest amount of planning. However, it feels "off."

Perhaps it's just the uncomfortable transition I'm feeling at the end of an especially good semester. Folks are moving on to new jobs and adventures. I stand at the dock, waving my hankie and give my best wishes. I recognize it's a golden opportunity and I have to find the discipline to finish some texts and initiate some big and funded projects. But as I sit in my campus office one last time and prepare to fetch the Element to cart the final load of boxes to my basement, it seems as if my footing is unreliable, my head is a little vertiginous, and my social network is fraying and flimsy.