why educators make for bad epidemiologists

I have had the flu for about a week and I am ready to be done with it. Admittedly, I ignored plenty of opportunities to be vaccinated. I should know better. But then again, I am more of an educator than a scientist. It is quite comical that I rely upon the former as a resource to deal with the mess in my body.

When I google immune response flu virus, the scientific sites are full of useful information. For example, the flu virus causes cells in the respiratory tract to die which in turn causes “impaired function of the mucus elevator.” I will allow the reader to imagine taking that elevator to the conference space.

Many of us know the fallacy of the four humor theory of health. No, this isn’t a taxonomy of ways to be funny. But if it was, I would nominate the following: sarcasm, self-deprecation, word play and pratfalls. Instead, this ancient theory suggest that our bodies consist of four liquids that must be in balance. When they are not, that is when we are sick. Not sure why the Greeks were so into two forms of bile, phlegm and blood. All I can say is that using Nyquil to balance out the green humor is not really a cure.

My strategy has been to use educational principles to rid my body of this illness. In the process, I ignore the fact that viruses exist. Instead my own body is the student body. Yesterday, my strategy was to create stimuli that would make my body believe it was healthy. Rather than drag out of bed and mope about, I arose, promptly took a shower, got dressed and began typing. My intent was to switch off my body’s ill-behavior (including that cursed mucus elevator) by re-booting with a healthful, working routine. I was back in bed by 10:30 a.m.

Today, I went for the workingman lesson plan. First, breakfast: an egg and toast, orange juice, coffee, and a flip through the first section of the paper. Then, composing feedback and sending emails. It is working a little better since it’s almost 11 a.m. and I haven’t gone back to bed. Then again, I haven’t shaved and I’m still wearing the same clothes I put on after yesterday’s shower.

I expect I will continue with the line of treatment. This afternoon, I will venture out for the first time since last Friday. I’m going to the university to retrieve an interlibrary loan book. Maybe that will make my body believe it is ready to act like a professor on sabbatical. If nothing else, by keeping at this I am confident that eventually my educationalist ways will beat this illness.

Time tensions

A place with such ancient human history promotes reflective thinking. Walking among stone walls and thatch-roofed buildings stirs certain realizations that abrade against an American "can do" attitude. The ruins on the Aran Islands have names in a language that almost dissappeared. Those labels are certainly not what the structures were called by their original builders. This is because we are unsure who laid that first course or when that occured. To be in this place makes it obvious that this will be here long after I depart having already been here for millenia.

Meanwhile among my closest professional friends are individuals striving to improve the world. How strange it is to aspire to make lasting changes when the very ground I walked upon today indicates my pesence is barely detected. This produces a genuine tension ; the cliffs towering over the sea exist because those that were once adjacent have fallen and cushed into sand. In addition to a fear of losing footing and tumbling 100 meters into the surf, I should also accept the inevitability that this stone face will let go.

And yet there have been individuals whose actions have indelibly shape Ireland including St Patrick for his benevolence and Cromwell for his destructiveness. Maybe centuries is too clumsy of a measure of a persom's worth. Admittedly, a lifetime photographing pints of coder or stout might be inadequate. Yet somehow it feels both daring and proper to attempt to alter conditions for the betterment of those who will survive us.

a most clever technology

It is not necessary to describe the inherent limits of technology — its potential to dehumanize and disconnect us from one another. And others probably have already spoken about the fact that the most ingenious technologies are those that call the very least attention to their presence. This is not the place or time for such diatribes and depositions. Instead, it's a quick intro to a very clever site I came across. If you have five minutes of interrupted time to spare, then open your Chrome browser and experience The Wilderness Downtown.

Since I have nothing pressing to accomplish today, I played on this site for quite some time. Here are some suggestions for you to consider:

• You will be prompted to enter your childhood home address. I tried but it was a too obscure address. There is an artistic reason for providing that info. But if you receive this message then I would recommend entering a different address (your current residence) and imagine that is the place where you grew up: Your address doesn't contain enough Street-View and/or Google Maps data to 100% enjoy this experience
• Don't click on windows. During the presentation, a bunch will pop up and cascade over each other. Let them be. The artists know better than you. Don't screw it up.
• Lastly, DO engage in typing and doodling when prompted on the "postcard" page. Especially doodle. I became lost in throwing ink around the screen. And doing so gives others a place to roost.

Make your own interpretations of the message. Reject it or use it to re-direct you life's purpose. Me: I'm just amazed that I became part of the story.

maybe this is "the one" -- uh, no

As is the routine for innumerable academics (existing and expecting), I receive email updates from The Chronicle about job postings. Honestly, I am not actively looking and rationalize that I signed up for the notifications just to keep abreast of what's happening in and around my goofy community. And so I was grading student papers when the automated alert came in. Although I'm typically as distractible as a dog among woodland critters, I tried to not chase the link as soon as it boinged.

In that pause, I began to feel the exhilaration. I wondered if perhaps this was THE job posting. While I don't have a specific place or position in mind, I can't help but fantasize. Maybe it would be a richly funded, endowed professorship. Not that the fame would be that great but to have a pool of money for grad assistants and travel (esp. for international destinations) would be a sweet deal. And to be situated in a dynamic community, both from a campus standpoint and located in a hip yet gritty locale, is also a possibility that quickens my pulse. Once again, I take a breath, click the link, and wait to see what new adventure awaits. This week there were two postings.

The first was for Augstana College in South Dakota which is associated with the Evangelical Lutheran Church. I don't see much alignment with my background there. The other is for a community college campus in the northwest with all of 25 full-time faculty. It's an administrative position and the title would be Healthy People Associate Dean. The central responsibility for the person who wins this plum assignment would be "lead accreditation and licensure requirements including reporting requirements for various internal and external reviews." Makes what I'm doing right now feel not quite so bad.

blowfly postscript

For those who cannot never hear too many gross biology stories:

Maggots usually move away from the corpse into a somewhat drier area, and for them "drier" usually means "up." But moving up is not always a successful strategy. Once while working a very wet habitat, my students and I arrived early in the morning to find that maggots were leaving our dead pigs [proxies for human bodies] in search of a drier place to pupate. There was no dry area for several miles, but maggots have limited perceptions. They climbed trees. They crawled up the trunk, moved along the branches to their tips, and then fell back to the ground. Since there were three pigs in the area, each with thousands of maggots leaving to climb trees and eventually fall back down, it was quite literally raining maggots. The deluge was so bad that we had to return to the laboratory for umbrellas so that we could finish our sampling.

~ care of M. Lee Goff
A Fly for the Prosecution: How Insect Evidence Helps Solve Crimes

a culture of killers

I've been unpleasant lately and a large part is due to the oppressive weather. The heat and humidity are more characteristic of the southernishness of my youth. New England is unaccustomed to multiple days in excess of 90°F — let along nuzzling up to 100°F. And it's sticky. The window air conditioners work great except that the rooms become stale and noisy. I know it could be worse because I've opened the drywall hatch to the attic a couple of times and the blast of hot air is powerful. Good to know the ceiling insulation is doing its work.

Last night, I'm trying to do some work before going to bed. I'm tired of the purr of the air conditioner but I have yet to become sleepy. But irritable I was — and then a fly shows up in my office. Of course, it loves the only light sources which include the desk lamp and the computer monitor. It is a sizable fly but quick. I covered my just-poured Guinness with a camping catalog and tried to knock it down and out with a flyswatter. Yes, a disaster in the making: glass, books, suds, electronics — I showed some reserve. But had no luck. The killer in me wanted this thing dead and I needed to know it was no longer living anywhere in my house. Yes, this insecticidal rage is more common than we might want to believe.

Cleverly, I turned on another lamp that had a very alluring incandescent bulb. In moments, the fly alighted on the stem of the lamp — and I whomped it with the fly swatter. It wasn't a smash job but more of a "set to stun" attack. Curious, I scooped it up with the swatter (not about to touch the bastard!) and inspected with a handy-dandy magnifier. It was iridescent green with big eyes. Not a standard housefly as far as I could tell. But then i's legs twitched and there was a sudden transition in form from three- to two-dimensions. Totally dead.

Turns out there are several online resources available for identifying insects. I went forward using my memory rather than searching for a "flattened fauna" field guide for bugs. In very short order (sorry: bad biology joke there) I discovered that my invading insect was a blowfly. Pretty? Perhaps. But why was it flying around upstairs at night? Gulp. Killer confession. It was because of me.

Last year, I swore I heard little paws scampering in the attic. Even though my well-rested companion claimed it was the sound of the ceiling fan, I would not be deterred. I bought a pair of standard mousetraps at the hardware store, baited one with peanut butter, and placed in in the attic. And forgot about it. Then, sometime in winter, I checked (no oven blast of hot air by then) — and the trap was upside down. I flipped it over to reveal the mouse corpse. Who knows how long it had been there. Long enough to leave a body oil corpse stain on the beam.

This spring, I thought I was hearing little claws running above and re-set the trap. A couple of nights later, there was some weird snapping and bumping above — but I was half-awake and brushed it off. When I checked the next day, the trap ... was gone! There were little poop pellets. But the trap must have been carried away. And because the house's original pitched and shingled roof still shows in the attic, I surmised that the unfortunate rodent got trapped, flopped away, and fell into a deep recess of the walls. I could not see it. For good measure, I set the second trap (this time on a larger piece of old drywall) and caught a mouse and disposed of it they way one is supposed to — unlike it's poor kindred whose skeleton will be discovered decades from now. Except for the fly.

Turns out the blowfly is infamous for finding carrion. It can detect the smell of a carcass from several miles away. Was my late night visitor looking for the mouse in the house? Or was this the offspring from the eggs laid in the body several weeks ago? What have I begun and when (or how) will it end? Good luck with your bug invaders!

to soon be going nowither

July 12 is a good day to being born by virtue of the company. According to the Writer's Almanac, today was born Pablo Neruda (1904) and Julius Caesar (100 BC). Also, in 1817, Henry David Thoreau was born. His parents named him David Henry; hence, we share the day of birth and a middle name. As my trip to the mountains is just nearing two weeks away, Thoreau's dreams of open roads and trails resonate.

Now I yearn for one of those old, meandering, dry, uninhabited roads which lead away from towns, which lead us away from temptation, which conduct to the outside of earth, or its uppermost crust; … along which you may travel like a pilgrim, going nowhither; … where your head is more in heaven than your feet are on earth; … where you can walk and think with the least obstruction, there being nothing to measure progress by; … by which you may go to the uttermost parts of the earth.

To a certain extent, the trek will be purposeful. We will measure how much trail we have covered and how far we have left to go. But the openness is what I am eager to experience. All the more, I realize the need to make the best of preparations so I not only have what I require for the hike but also can leave behind those matters which will be beyond my influence while I am away. That is how this expedition becomes a pilgrimage. It is an opportunity to re-learn how to live in the moment and release what is not within my control.

old timer stories

In a land where frog gigging was not all that uncommon and where fireworks tents added color to the July landscape, my parents were not too keen on firecrackers. Sparklers? Yes. But nothing that exploded. Not even cap guns. But my buddy Tim, who lived a bike ride away on the other side of town, had less restrictive parents. I don't know that we did fireworks at his house every year. And I am puzzled by how two geeky junior high kids arranged any of this given that it was summer time and all we had for crosstown communication were landlines connected to hulking plastic wall-mounted telephones. Somehow we managed.

Tim just posted photos from his most recent July Fourth celebration. It was a very similar backyard to the one in which he and I lit fireworks. I remember his chocolate Lab named Justice being displeased by our pyrotechnics. I remember the satisfying sound and sight of a large coffee can bumping off the turf from a tiny explosion. The concrete pad of his patio was charred and stained by the small smoke bombs. When we were done, there were teeny scraps of paper in little red, white and blue clumps all over the grass. The air was thickened by the humidity and black powder smoke. I recall cicadas sawing out their songs and the enviable lumbering noise of his central air conditioning unit.

Since I was the guest and a little bit scared of the punks and fire and so on, my memory was that Tim did most of the lighting of fuses. Not every firecracker exploded as it should and those were opportunities for ingenuity. A couple of times, we joined a dud and an unlit firecracker with the same fuse and sometimes they would rip themselves apart in quick succession. While not especially dangerous, there was enough uncertainty and volume to keep two 13 year olds entertained.

As Tim retrieved one dud, he inspected the fuse end just in time to see that a small glow inside. He flung the firecracker and it exploded in mid-air halfway between us. The detonation was enough to make our ears ring. No fingers torn open, no flesh burned, no lasting evidence of this near miss. However, that brief incident not only gave us our story for the day, but became embedded in our minds.

I didn’t remember this event until I saw Tim’s pictures. I have been around plenty of fireworks since then so it must have been my association of Tim and July Fourth. I wrote a quick comment to his online photos just to see if he shared that memory. He does. He reported that he tells that story every July 4th to his children. And grandchildren. I know that math makes perfectly good sense as the years have rolled by: Tim married young and hurriedly, he later lost his wife in a car accident, and has since re-married and (I’m guessing here) is a trusted physician in the Midwest. But while I so busy doing other stuff, how did my firecracker memory become an annual mini-lecture my boyhood friend now gives to those who can hardly wait to tear open the cellophane and put heat to explosives?

my writing stimulus package

Sometimes, my efforts to write go well. Those moments are fleeting, so sweet and brief that I wonder if they are imagined. More often, or more memorable, is when the writing gets tough. I know I am not alone in feeling I have slid off the road into a ditch. And bloggers are especially adept at compiling quotations by genuine writers about their struggles. But this isn’t about not feeling alone. It’s about not feeling like I cannot write.

Years ago when we would occasionally drive to the next state to visit a sibling and his young family, I would return home on Sunday fully invigorated for the work week. On such visits, the conversations were flat and dull. There was some fun, but it often was about babies tipping over or watching the kids evacuate the TV room during the scary scenes of a Disney movie. I was as if I was parked facing uphill and could see a in my review mirror a gray and cold town that would engulf me if I rolled backward. The light would turn green, I’d pop the clutch, and accelerate so my stomach rose when I crested the hill.

My inspiration comes from a fear of the dank maw of mediocrity. When I encounter writing that is deft and delightful, I feel inadequate. For example, the sentence below made be chuckle out loud. And the awe it creates would debilitate me if I followed the maxim of reading a great deal for inspiration:

Each resident was required to tie his or her dog up in the yard until it barked itself cross-eyed, presumably to frighten off coyotes.

I am humbled by great writing such as this. In contrast, I feel primed to write because of exposure to counter-examples. My inspiration then is not to reach the expert level but to distance myself from the worst. My writing is stimulated by a drive to move away from the chaff and dross. Here have been my recent sources of inspiration.

First, campfire conversations do not need to be deep existential discussions. I appreciate a good fart joke as much as any boy. But re-enactments of scenes from multiple Will Farrell movies just isn’t quite the same. I just looked at this clip and discovered that the version I witnessed in the Minnesota wilderness had been rendered with astonishing accuracy: sequence, scene, script -- all of it. Similarly, reading someone else’s former doc student’s writing encourages me to write. The force-fit of a theory, the data that reads like random snatches of conversation, the unsubstantiated findings -- it all makes me shudder as a consumer. But it inspires me to show how writing might be done. Third, I read a grant proposal written by a guy whose last name was the same as that of the small Floridian business college. He had started his own college and named it after himself. And it was accredited. The grant was not badly written although not especially academic in style. But it was audacious in its conceptualization, especially in wanting to receive federal dollars to improve science literacy of business college students. Again: inspiring.

Finally, perhaps this very writing sample will incite others to write in ways that place a heavy, muddy boot on this crummy essay. To write well is more a matter of writing a little better than the next guy. It’s akin to doing well enough to not be eliminated in the first round. Most nations will not win the World Cup. To even be there is better than watching from home. Write back!

that which goes unrecognized

Using another computer for reviewing research proposals, there were several features of the hardware and software that did not come automatically. On my own computers, I can unthinkingly change text size, call up search features, and check the spelling. But on an unfamiliar device, it took me a couple of minutes to even figure out how to open it. I do like the stubby red button in the middle of the keyboard that allows me to steer the cursor all around the screen. On the other hand, there was a trackpad and a mouse that made the joystick more than redundant aside from its novelty.

One automated featured I take as a given on my own computers are the custom dictionaries. Of course my own last name is unquestioned on familiar word processors but raises hackles on the foreign computer. What is most intriguing is that the following words are identifed as improper on the foundation's unusual reviewing software. Most notable were these "errors" that arose repeatedly because they are central aspects of the stated mission:

• underrepresented
• transformative
• mentoring
• generalizability

What might this mean? Is underrepresentation by certain populations, in reality, unimportant? Is transformative not an actual goal? Mentoring: not recognized and hence not valued? And, at the end of the day, perhaps the lack of much that is generalizable should come as no surprise.

PEBCAC postscript

Supposedly tech support people are challenged to identify the source of difficulties reported by customers. When the user is the cause then PEBCAC (or PEBKAC) summarizes the issue. Translation: Problem Exists Between Computer (or Keyboard) and Chair. Despite a previous posting about the delights of having gadgets that create few problems because of their familiarity, other issues persist that deserve the same label.

When the coffeemaker beeped signaling me (pure Pavlov!) to retrieve my first cup of the morning, I glanced at the pot before I began the pour. Apparently there can also be a PEBCAC that refers to the problem between the coffeemaker and the cup. Seems I forgot to spoon in the grounds so I ran 6 cups of water through a paper filter.

Rebooting.

alt coffee maker

enough with the stuff

While not opposed to gadgets, I have realized I am approaching a certain comfort level with my amount of stuff. That might be an admirable realization except that it arises out of concern that things won't last. In a little over one hundred miles, my trusty Element will have accumulated 100,000 miles. I took it into a local shop for a careful going over. The few hundred dollars they charged to replace parts that were flabby, wrinkled or cracked was a great investment. And with their recommendation, I had 4 new tires added at another joint -- all for less than $1K in total.

It isn't that I don't like new stuff. A box of equipment from CampMor arrived earlier this week. There was Christmas-like exhilaration as I pulled each item from the box, even though I had been quite deliberative in selecting in which before ordering them online. I now own a mismatched rainsuit (blue top, black bottom, both discounted!), an equally unstylish broad-brimmed hat, a frightfully sharp knife, a too-cute set of eating ware, a bottle of nature friendly camp soap, and a vial of pest-unfriendly bug juice. Oh the joy this stuff brings me!

But I may have believed that one day I will no longer be bothered by needing to master a new gadget. For example, in my favorite mug I can reheat coffee to the perfect temperature by setting the microwave to power up for 2:22. The coffeemaker, in turn, produces perfectly strong brew with 6 heaping scoops from a wooden spoon and with the device set to slow brew (the 1-4 cup feature). Unfortunately, the plastic lid on the coffee mill is acting up. When I press it down to activate the grinding mechanism, the lid snaps as if it has a crack in it. True, this was a castoff appliance from my mother-in-law a few years ago when she realized she did not need to grind spices. But if the lid fails, the rest of the device is rendered useless. This, in turn, destroys a vital link in the coffee production process that has worked so well for me.

Maybe this is a companion to the sense of needing a makeover. Certainly there are times when things need to be upgraded. But for very basic life functions, which includes coffee brewing and basic transportation, I would be perfectly content to allow objects and actions to continue operating as they have up until now. No, I don't want to learn how to make a new printer do its thing. Yes, I was actually quite content with the previous version of MS Office because it did all the statistics the new version has eliminated. No, I do not enjoying trying to make the new module play nicely with Excel -- it is only a simple ANOVA: why can't you do the calculations in your microprocessor that I once did with a calculator back in grad school?! No, I don't think this all sounds cranky and stodgy -- everything was going just fine until some idiot thought they could make some improvements. Bah! But wait. This looks cool. All I need to do is a Händler suchen and then this could be mine. I think I have an app for that.

turning philosophical

A colleague asked advice about whether it would be appropriate to write something like, “What kind of jackass would continue to teach in selfish ways after hearing about the sources of inequity among students?” The uncertainty was whether jackass was too strong (we concluded it was) but the point being made was that at some point, individuals ought to take a stand. Injustices cannot be waved off as if problems are someone else’s responsibility.

This issue reminded me about the question about the kind of legacy we might like to leave. I suppose this an issue many people face at turning points in their lives and careers. There are even organizations such as Encore that assist professionals to find post-retirement ways to contributed to society. Their use of a semi-colon is pure marketing brilliance.

My colleague endeavors to use her influence and access to push others to change their beliefs and associated actions. Ideally, after reading her essay, the jackass would see the errors in his ways and turn his life, and his legacy, around. Others might be convinced to consider the long-term implications for their work through humor. The following scenario is a good reminder for me:

Three friends are killed in a car accident and meet up at an orientation session in Heaven. The celestial facilitator asks them what they would most like to hear said about them as friends and relatives walked past their casket.

The first man says, “I hope people will say I was a wonderful doctor and a good family man.”

The second man says, “I would like to hear people say that as a schoolteacher I made a big difference in the lives of children.”

The third may says, “I’d like to hear someone say: ‘Hey look! He’s moving!’”

The source of this joke is a chapter about existentialism within a broader effort to teach about philosophy via humor. At a very basic level, the jokes are really good and I may use this venue to share more of those in the future. In addition, the book really works. I believe that philosophy can help us make sense of our world(s). Or at least learn to laugh about it all.

nice weather out here

The meteorologists claimed there was a good chance of thunderstorms today. Multicolored swirls marched across our tiny state on the interwebs all day long. Warm, humid but not a lick of precipitation — until 7:30 this evening. I saw the indications on Wunderground before I heard the splattering raindrops on the roof outside my office window. To get closer to the rain without getting wet myself, I made my way to our wrap-around porch.

We are fortuante to have a couple of very large maples bracketing our house. They provide a playground for squirrels, offer substantial shade during summer, and produce interesting rain shadows. Once again, the pavement in front was damp while the circles directly under the trees' canopies were dry. As I stood there waiting for the water to find its way through the leaves, I glanced up as a sedan drove by. I'm beginning to realize I should always tote my camera with me in Willimantic. Here is what I witnessed.

Atop the car was a mattress. I'm guessing it wasn't tied down because the passenger was sitting through his open window holding the mattress down. He had a crew-cut and wore one of those shirts my nephew calls "wife beaters " — a white, thin tank top. I don't believe this endeavor was being conducted by academics. The driver was presumably trying to maintain the right speed: not so slow the mattress got rained on too much but not so fast that the wind separated the furniture from the automobile. I also have the hunch he was steering with one hand and holding onto his edge of the mattress with the other. Just past our house, the holder of the mattress leaned down and reported to the driver, in a somewhat pleasant tone, "It's fucking nice out here." Apparently I wasn't the only one appreciating the cool drizzle and the refreshing breeze. Hope they all have a good night's sleep.

pitiable

There has been a stretch of unsupportive feedback over the past few weeks. First, I lost a modest grant proposal – and it received a low rating. Second, a piece being revised for a major journal did not meet with their expectations — the final disposition is in and it is a clear rejection. Third, I thought I was just one correction away from IRB approval — but just days before the summer session begins, they want a complete and un-exempted proposal. Each of these negative decisions directly targets the quality of my writing. By extension, these also bring into doubt the strengths of my thought processes.

The little distance created by the passage of time reveals the germ of truth under these three instances of thumbs-down judgments. I had told myself the grant application was a long-shot and that persistence and pugnaciousness appeared to be the formula for success. There was only so much I could provide to the journal editor and reviewers and it was fundamentally impossible to demonstrate that the five young women who provided such compelling stories were not special. Maybe I do have to concede, as indicated by one reviewer, that this was simply an exploratory study. And the IRB review was accurate but badly timed. Their care was appreciated but not at the eleventh hour.

One after the other, the erosion of ego accumulated. Not taking any of personally is the logical approach. To be fair, the rejections were kindly worded and all acknowledged the effort expended on all of the tasks. But in the final calculations, no matter how admirable my exertions, the work products were not sufficient. No funding this time, no publication in the targeted journal, and a scramble to re-cast the IRB application onto a new form. All manageable and none of it dire. More than just annoying though because I stumbled on three hurdles in quick succession.

Then I received a most conscientious message that has helped immeasurably with the healing process. It spoke admirably of my constitution. But it also offered sage and cautious advice about what lies ahead on our path. Exertion, altitude, and equipment in considerable quantities offer challenges that cannot be avoided. The key: proper preparation. Truth is, I had purchased a replacement pair of trail shoes. Like their predecessors, they are low, light and dependable. But against high-altitude, rocky passes and a long haul, I realized that my new treads might be better as my post-hiking footwear each day. In my closet are two pair of decent hiking boots. Both sets are broken in but not in the least bit old. The dilemma is that one pair is clunky and best for heavy wet snow — and trudges from a parking garage to an office. The other pair is preferred because it is less like wearing bricks. The question is not whether the selected, Sol Fun endorsed trail runners will suffice — because they won't. The question, is which of the existing footwear options is as supportive of the ankles as my buddy is of my well-being. Right now, the ego is intact and there is no need to continue with my personal pity party.

first, Third Thursday of 2010

The monthly street festival in our mill town is held on the third Thursday of each summer month. It is probably one of the very best things about living in this oddball town. We were eager to visit the Puerto Rican church ladies tent. We bought a plate of 4 empanadas and another combo plate: pork, taco and rice with pigeon peas. Rather than sit on the curb, or try to manage standing up and eating, we went to the nearby beer garden.

I bought a wooden nickel, showed my identification, got a wrist band, and finally secured a cold beer. We sat listening to a local, three-piece mariachi band. The weather was spectacular: the sky was blue (although the buzzards always seem to be circling) and the air had suddenly lost the cold damp chill of the previous few days. Three amigos resplendent in black suits and somberos facing off against a pasty swarm of stiff New Englanders. At first there were only few of us listening but the crowd grew to about a hundred by the time our food and drink were gone.

The musicians were really good and for a moment I contemplated how to organize a conference such that the evening artist would expand beyond our tradition of poetry (indigenous music as craft?). I was pulled out of my reverie by the four little white girls, maybe 3 to 4 years old, dancing with abandon. They were dressed in combinations of pink, light green and baby blue outfits. The mostly hopped as individuals or held hands in pairs and spun about. Javier showed up and did his best to recruit a partner. He was not especially lucky and we saw him throw his hands up at one point as if to say, "Hey, chicas! Don't you have heard about the Latin man?!" When one girl did begin to spin with him, it was too fast for his taste so he returned to bouncing on his own.

A dad arrived with pizza slices and the dancing took a new twist. The girls would run a couple of laps around the concrete pad and then peel off to take a bite from an upside-down pepperoni slice. Then, back into the circuit. It was an imaginative blend of interpretive dance and auto racing: moving to music interrupted with refueling stops. When my partner demonstrated that she could sing along to "Ring of Fire" then it all just became too weird. I stood up and proposed we begin a search for ice cream. And now our summer has unofficially begun.

sunglasses

Yes, this is the "oh my he just realized he's getting old" entry. During an otherwise exhilarating bike ride around the rock and sand of south/west Utah, our guide commented upon my sunglasses. Having worn prescription eyeglasses since I was three years old, I never really get into the groove of buying sunglasses. The clip-on type, even with the strong magnets, were about as satisfying as clip-on ties. When a national fishing and hunting store advertised sportsman sunglasses that fit around eyeglasses, I was intrigued. Once I learned they could be outfitted with polarized lenses, I was ready to buy.

The Cocoons have to be larger than the cool sunglasses most people wear. Quite obviously, they must accommodate the size of the eyeglasses that remain underneath (see picture). My brother (only 5 years my junior but refusing to believe he is aging, loves to mock these frames. But dammit, they do a great job of both shielding my sensitive eyes from painful glare AND letting me focus upon my surroundings.

Back to our guide: she was trying to be sweet and complementary by remarking upon my sunglasses. But then she bumbled and said it might be worth telling her father about them. I caught her: "Why, because he's old, too?" Before she could repair her comment, the young couple stepped in — actually stepping into it — by suggesting that they've seen lots of people on in Florida wearing such sunglasses.

Doctor Zero would have been a complete gentleman had he kept his opinion to himself. The old guy was already wheezing from the altitude and exertion. And yet, even though he let this moment pass, he couldn't resist patting himself on the back a couple of days later. He recounted the whole incident and proudly explained that he avoided the obvious opportunity to pile more insult onto the humiliation. So in the end, he couldn't completely let it go. We'll see who gets the last laugh when senior discounts are offered at the local brewhouse. I just hitched up my long pants and pedaled away.

full disclosure

Welcome to session 17C in the Ukulele Room. I know it’s late in the day and as the discussant, I join with our 3 presenters in thanking you for making your way to this session. Rather than simply read out loud their names and institutions, I would like to introduce our speakers to you by way of explaining my relationship to them.

First is Dr. A who I knew of when I was a graduate student. At the time, he was the editor of a modest journal. My advisor suggested I do an analysis of the educational backgrounds of the authors of the dominant textbooks on the market. It was the kind of simplistic study we’ve all done and neither remarkable or completely without merit. Dr. A, and I’m not sure you remember this, refused to send our manuscript out for review. Instead, he delayed it for nine months by deciding instead to share it with organization’s Board of Directors. Now this is all second-hand and circumstantial, but it is pretty obvious to me today that Dr. A was fearful that this study would attract the attention of big names in the field. After nearly three years, by which time I was then a tenure-track assistant professor, the sanitized and outdated study finally saw the light of day. Three years and only 10 pages long. But that was many years ago and Dr. A has now completely ruined his liver and his color is almost as bad in sunlight as here under these fluorescent lights. I know I recognize his title from previous meetings but somehow he made it onto the program. So in a little while, and with the assistance of his orderly — I’m sorry, "doc student" — we will hear from Dr. A.

Next, we have Professor B who works at a well-funded private foundation. Again, I’ve known this individual for many years but under different conditions. She was a familiar and encouraging face at almost all my presentations when I first attended this conference. After each talk, she would push her way to me and offer warm congratulations. Once, I think it was in Atlanta, I was getting on an elevator late in the evening — and Professor B rushed on just as the doors were closing. It was an awkward moment when we simultaneously reached to push the buttons for our respective floors, and doubly awkward because our name badges became entangled. Before I knew it, and once she stands up you’ll understand the circumstance, Professor B was able to use her body to leverage and steer me into the corner. Even though she was saying something about untangling our badges, her pelvis was sending very different messages to my knee. As I recall, there were numerous plastic swords in her bouffant, presumably lofted there by her drinking buddies. Just as her pudgy hands were reaching for my ears, the elevator doors opened and I was able to fall backwards toward my room. The elastic string on my name badge gave way at the moment and the flying plastic holder lodged between her spectacles and her gray tangle of eyebrow. It’s interesting to see her again today under somewhat different circumstances and I must confess relief that others are here at the same time.

Finally, Dr C has come to us all the way from New Zealand. It’s great to see her here. I became aware of Dr C several years ago because one of my colleagues claimed she looked like a Midge or Skipper doll. I played along until I heard Dr C speak. There’s something about the accent of those from the former British colonies that accelerates my pulse. It's convenient to be here today so I can obtain a fresh manuscript directly from her delicate hands. I can report that she makes good use of her time at this conference: she turns off the lights in her hotel room around 10:30 pm, spends about 45 minutes each morning in the hotel workout room, and has a pretty good singing voice when she showers afterwards. She likes milk in her coffee but not sugar. I don’t want to embarrass her but she wore that same skirt a few days ago at the Michigan State reception, but I think this is the first time I’ve seen her wearing those pumps. Her hair is about the same length as when I first became aware of her — but I cannot confirm or deny whether it smells of eucalyptus oil. Sometimes, it can be fun just to imagine the possibilities. I hope we have time to ask questions about her research since she is scheduled on a 7 a.m. airport shuttle tomorrow in order to make her connections back to her brick condo on Blacksheep Lane in Christchurch. Please give a warm welcome to Dr C.

Who would like to present first?

choosing bottles

Four weeks from now, I will be on an adventure. First off, in the morning I present the research I have been doing for two years to the Administrative and Leadership division of the American Educational Research Association. True to form, the background material, theoretical framework and research methods are solid. The data are all in and mostly coded -- and yet I am unsure exactly what findings I will report. But by noon of that same day, I can remove my tie and begin making the transition for an outdoor trek. Part writing retreat, part desert expedition, the subsequent several days will be about as different as the preceding days as almost anything I could imagine.

The entire trip involves ten days from home. All the tickets are purchased (but need to be printed out and compiled), lodging arrangements have been made, and an initial directory of drinking establishments have been mapped. What is puzzling to me is what to include in the large suitcase. The first four days, I’ll need to look presentable to fellow academics: nice shirts, pretty ties, maybe a jacket, shiny shoes. The balance of the trip would surely ruin these. Instead, I’m envisioning t-shirts for daytime, denim shirts for night, and a pair of trail shoes that may give up their tread due to the abuse I plan to give them.For the first few days of the trip, I could spend daylight hours almost entirely under artificial lighting. The following segment of the travel will be the opposite.

Ten days is a long time and comes with the need to haul my belongings. Digging through cosmetic supplies under the bathroom sink, I am cautious about packing every single thing I may need. I need to make choices. For example, I have a sizable bottle of sunburn gel. It’s blue-green, thick gel (because of the aloe), smells fruity, and is always cold. It’s the perfect antidote for burned skin. Or I could bring a supply of high-SPF lotions that would effectively preserve my winter skin tone. I do not need both because the availability of one eliminates the need for the other. It’s a choice: one preventative and the other curative.

How do parents deal with this when hauling around 2 or more kids? I don’t expect one can really anticipate preventing every problem (rain, dirt, hunger, cold, boredom, exhaustion). But on the other hand, one probably ought to pack expecting problems (extra diaper, spare shirt, small book, a chew toy). What criteria do you parents use when choosing between a bottle of formula versus a juice box? Thinking about my conference responsibilities, I probably should post my presentations to an online resource in case my laptop goes out or goes bye-bye. And even though I’ll use Keynote, I need to have a version in PowerPoint and QuickTime. Also, a thumb drive and a power cord. More broadly, how should we go about packing for life? For a long time, I have accepted that there is only so much I can prepare for in advance. Others operate with the fear that the unanticipated might occur. (You can either sense the tension this creates or bear witness to it.) Blue cooling gel or opaque white lotion? I might could (a southernism I picked up from Peaches) take both of them. But where’s the adventure in that? Local liquor or flask from home? Okay, that's not choosing: that is simply being smart and prepared.

all about the data

Data provides the fuel to drive the current educational reform movement. Perhaps that is what distinguishes this era from reforms in the past. Sure we could lament the imposition of standardized testing. For me, despite misgivings about the quality of some tests, I am in many ways pleased by the attention to evidence. Rather than argue via emotional appeals or political exhortations, discussions and decisions are grounded in numbers. This trend has even caught the attention of columnists:

"This is the age of research, so there’s data to back this up."
~ David Brooks, NY Times, March 29, 2009, The Sandra Bullock Trade

The Sandra Bullock comment was in reference to happiness indices and whether she is foolishly trading fame for contentedness. What fascinates me is the notion that it doesn't seem wacky to measure happiness. Or trust. And to then use those measures to inform decisions. A local study documented the positive associations between reciprocity among neighbors and a family's sense of food security. To me, this is serious stuff and informed and advanced by data.

Within his comments about reforming schools, one panelist at Yale's Education Leadership Conference, an entrepreneur, offered that schools spend $25 billion on the Four Ts: textbooks, tutoring, testing and technology. Until that moment, I had envisioned technology as an instructional resource: computers, simulation software, smart boards, etc. (but no longer overhead projectors). But what I have just begun to realize is that technology includes data gathering and analysis. More data, more interpreting, more "drilling down" and more graphical displays. That's what happens in the business world as comparisons are made between stores along with within store comparisons made about years, quarters, and days. And adjustments are influenced by the interpretations of data.

Meanwhile, the educational purists lament the loss of innocence, as if the shift to empiricism will be the ruin of our schools. From where I sit, it appears too many schools are in ruins. We are not sure what should be done. I hope we can begin the conversation by agreeing that something ought to be done. While the use of data might not be the solution, I believe the thoughtful and deliberate use is imperative if we hope to make progress.

leadership as dance

As I continue to puzzle over social entrepreneurship, it becomes apparent that business is at the center and "social" is a slight modifier. In my search, I discovered that PBS has materials in this realm. Within their Resources section, all of the research organizations based in universities are housed within Bizness Schools: Harvard, Duke, Columbia & Stanford. All wonderful places but also not where one would expect a strong advocacy and social consciousness to pervade and inform the work. I'm not yet ready to abandon social entrepreneurship just yet, but I need to develop some financial savvy first.

One should recall that much of this thinking (by me) was prompted by the Yale SOM Education Leadership Conference on Friday, March 25. What I have discovered is an interesting conceptualization of leadership. In this scenario, it isn't so much the first individual who starts something new but the first and second people who follow. Metaphorically speaking, a good leader is the first guy to start dancing. You don't have to be especially good at dancing (done!). But you must be easy to follow. There are risks involved with attempting to lead as well as risks in deciding to be the first few who elect to follow. This might sound very familiar. Seeing it represented as a dance at Sasquatch, complete with leadership narrative, really drives this home. Perhaps millions of dollars are required to be a social entrepreneur. But good timing and a sense for what the people can do is all it takes to lead.

the party goes on without us

On Friday I drove to New Haven to attend an Education Leadership Conference. My motivation was to learn more about leadership given my recent research in schools as well as my ongoing puzzles about leadership within my work life. It only dawned on me slowly that this was not an ordinary education conference. Somehow I didn’t catch that our host, the Yale SOM Education Club, had deep roots in the business world. In fact, MBAs are offered in the School of Management and there is little cause to wonder why they don’t call themselves a School of Business given the associated acronym.

Many big names were in attendance including key people from several activist reform organizations: Achievement First and Teach for America. Also, several government folks including a guy who was on the Obama transition team for education along with local superintendents. If Lara Smetana had not gotten off the wait-list at the last minute, I believe I would have been the only university educator in the crowd. Everyone else was very energetic and it appeared that many were selling (e.g., promoting their little projects) while others were trying to buy (i.e., recruiting soon-to-graduate Yalies for their companies). Nevertheless, the discussions were about reducing achievement gaps, elevating school success, improving equitable access, and other educational movements I have come to admire.

I attended a panel about “creating a financially-sustainable education venture” because I was curious how to think about tapping into a revenue stream to keep things like Crossroads going. But the session was much more than that. The guys were all heavy hitters who fund social entrepreneurs and I was struck by their attention to returns on investment. This sometimes occurs through revenue streams (e.g., fees for service) whereas many philanthropists and investors are interested in impacts resulting from their money. It reminded me that any source of support is contingent upon results and while I cannot imagine making money for somebody else, I recognized the importance of thinking about our work beyond the delight brought about by an annual gathering.

Independent of one’s regard for those who seek to make money from education, I came to recognize that many of the biggest initiatives in contemporary education reform are fueled by substantial revenue streams. Alternatively, district and state leaders are being propelled and compelled to produce results on standardized assessments. Less than a month ago, a superintendent in Rhode Island announced that an entire high school’s staff would be dismissed at the year’s end. She was supported by the state commissioner of education and even Arne Duncan applauded the move. Truly, the school had been doing very badly by its students for many years which makes it difficult to dispute. And yet, this all adds to my feeling that educational reform is charging forward and we in the academy are being left behind. I didn’t know how funny that last bit was until I typed it.

There were hundreds of people at the sold-out Yale meeting who are moving ahead with great purpose and energy to change schools. They speak about charter schools. They mention “proof points” as indicators about how to proceed. They rely upon metrics to shape decisions. In many ways, they are doing what educators have always said needed to be done. But they do not feel the need to check in with us in the academy (Panelist: “All they give us R when we need R&D!”). Then again, I am not sure who I would recommend they quick in with given how little we appear to know about effective teaching and how slowly we have gone about our work. I remain very conflicted because I've seen the lack of action by most of our peers as despicable. And yet all this interest in schools by business types makes me uneasy. Action vs. inaction vs. reaction.

back to the wall

Poetry comes in many forms and from a variety of sources. I have been repeatedly listening to Steve Earle with the following lines from his song "Guitar Town." It's on the iPod, Pandora, Last.fm and a CD in the Element. As a song, the rhymes and the meter work really well — especially when punctuated by shouts of "Hey!" And since I'm not a good memorizer, I played the following several times on the way home from school today to force me to learn the lyrics. I wondered how it would play without the music:

Hey pretty baby don't you know it ain't my fault
I love to hear the steel belts hummin' on the asphalt
Wake up in the middle of the night in a truck stop
Stumble in the restaurant wonderin' why I don't stop

Gotta keep rockin' why I still can
I gotta two pack habit and a motel tan
But when my boots hit the boards I'm a brand new man
With my back to the riser I make my stand

What first caught my ear were the last two lines. Each time, I envision pair of scuffed cowboy boots slamming down on the oak floorboards, kicking up dust. In superhero fashion, the guitar player comes to life — jolted out of limbo. He rises. Fiercesome and powerful. A warrior demanding to be heard. Stomping and shouting, confessing to the urgency and daring others to respond to the internal call: "you know it ain't my fault." In a way, he's out of control but in other ways, he is in complete control. Damn!

snowman comics

I have a working hypothesis that any comic involving a snowman is automatically funny. My earliest recollection of this phenomenon was a cartoon from National Lampoon showing a snowman police officer lifting a sheet to reveal a puddle as a very sad snow person looked at the mess underneath. No words but huge hilarity. Of course Calvin & Hobbes make use of snowmen to great effect. There are probably a few snowman comics that are not all that funny. But here's another one that landed in my lap and it made me LOL. Not sure I even want to dissect the reason as I am content to accept it as is.

exertion

A few years back, we did a study of future teachers and about their view about teaching science as well as being effective with students of color. Most striking was how strong their confidence was about their competence -- on the first day of their only course about how to teach science. Since then, I have valued the potential for self-doubt and uncertainty as powerful mechanisms to promote learning and change. I am usually untroubled when someone expresses frustration because I have a tendency to believe that such discomfort is the very force that will propel them forward. On the other hand, I recognize that confidence and persistence have great power and this power comes from successful experiences. Therein stands the tantalizing tension somewhere between the already-done and the yet-to-know.

Yesterday this became especially clear as we prepared to hike a section of the Appalachian trail on snowshoes. It was an out-and-back trip of about an hour but the temperature was really cold. Plus, we had not been able to do genuine backcountry snowshoeing in five or more years. We had all the necessary equipment and believed we were sufficiently fit. Plus, the altitude was about 10% of what we had flourished in when we kicked powder in the Wasatch Range. Nevertheless, the bindings were awfully cold, our first attempt to ascend was far too steep, and snow was creeping into gaps in my clothing. One finger was especially cold and I was sure that if I removed that glove, it would be the color and consistency of lead. But we found a trail going the opposite direction that was open to hikers, skiers and snowshoers. Someone (and it looked like only one) had blazed a trail. Because the blaze markings on trees were white, our unknown guide must have been familiar with the route.

We were finally underway having established a comfortable stride. The sky was overcast at 10 a.m. and there were no large breaks through which we could absorb spectacular views. Now we’d found our groove which coincided with the path cut into the deep snow. Toes and fingers warmed. It became fun and comfortable. However, because of the conditions, the cold could begin to creep in if we dallied in place. While the gloves were almost too warm, taking the off was not an option because of the recent memory of dull metallic flesh. As long as we pushed forward, we could deal with the elements. Having hiked far enough uphill, we broke new trails coming back down. There were several moments where the platform of the snowshoe floated on the snow’s surface so I many steps were more like glides that clomps. And I did get moving too fast, once grabbing to a tree trunk that noted my presence with a heavy dumping of snow on my head and into my collar.

It occurred to me that what made this excursion so fun was a combination of boldness and caution. First, rather than become too worried about my cold extremities I literally plowed forward. The excursion itself, in the face of bitter and indifferent surroundings, generated the heat to keep me going. And yet when there was insufficient exertion, the cold and emptiness and gray pressed in on me. All of which suggests that we have to keep moving to stay warm and alive. The trick, I suppose, is to not exert so heavily that we exhaust ourselves. But moving at the right pace is necessary to remind and ensure us that we are living.

dave brubeck (sob)

Because there was nothing else better to do and since I knew most of the people being awarded, we watched the Kennedy Center Honors the other night. The one awardee I didn't know was an opera star, Grace Bumbry. The others were an actor (Robt De Niro), a comedian (Mel Brooks), a rocker (Bruce Springsteen) and a jazz musician: Dave Brubeck. All the tributes were great even though no one was quite able to cause any of the mega-stars to tear up. Carl Reiner and Mel Brooks look really old but they are still poking at each other in ways that only long-time friends can. Makes me long for an outlet to perform the 2000 Year Old Education Researcher.

I was surprised by how much praise they heaped onto Dave Brubeck. In my brief and immature jazz appreciation history, Brubeck followed Vince Guaraldi who I will always associate with Christmas-time and dancing with abandon. But I never imagined Brubeck was such a trailblazer and innovator. I thought he was playing "nice" jazz with a regular beat (except for Take Five) and with a melody I could follow. But in his day, he was breaking all kinds of new ground -- even as a white guy who walked the Earth when other magnificent jazz musicians were around.

It was interesting to see who they paraded out for each honoree. For Bruce, Ron Kovic literally rolled out as the author of Born on the Fourth of July. Ben Stiller was among those going at De NIro and Jon Stewart was unable to conceal his adoration for Springsteen. But again, those who were at the center of attention seemed content but not overwhelmed. Maybe being adored that much just gets to be normal after awhile?

However, there was a moment I won't soon forget (and if I do, it's now forever on the InterWeb). It starts nicely enough when Dave Brubeck's band is performing. Great medley of very familiar tunes. Then the US Army Jazz Band joins the quintet on stage. They are in uniform and although good musicians, they are stiff as ... well, soldiers. There are some glorious cuts away to the Obamas (Michelle and her hubby) who are clearly enjoying the music. Dave Brubeck is having a pretty good time, too. But the moment is when a piece of the stage set slides back to reveal who the announcer indicates are the four sons of Dave Brubeck. The old guy is blown away. Anybody can read his lips. If you watch carefully, he almost forgets to breathe and is unsure what to do with his hands.

There is pure delight when the first son gives a jazz trombone solo, utter pride when Son #2 has a piano solo. And when the cellist's solo begins, even Dave Brubeck leans forward to take it all in: jazz cello?! As it continues, his grin becomes so large his cheeks all but squeeze his eyes shut. They conclude with a rendition of Happy Birthday because, as Herbie Hancock earlier revealed, it was Dave's birthday. The performance was really good -- but Dave Brubeck had the most fun of anyone. THAT is how to recognize someone's accomplishments!