Monthly Archives: November 2013

Astronomy Campout in Yosemite

Posted on November 18, 2013 | Leave a comment

Every summer, my husband and I (both of us being high school teachers) pack tent and camp gear and head to state or national parks. When our children were young (starting as early as 6 weeks), we roamed from park to park, with our favorite sites in Yellowstone, Yosemite, Grover Hot Springs, Hendy Woods, Big Sur, and Big Basin. In fall, we camped most often in Yosemite, when the crowds are gone and the weather is not yet winter. At times, a smoky haze hovered over the pine trees from controlled burns in the valley. Other Novembers, we camped in crisp, clean air, our tents on the light snow covering pine needles. I recently returned from Yosemite, this time with high school students, some of whom had never camped.
At the start, this trip did not bode well as everyone was sick from whatever virus was spreading through the high school. We were a band of barking dogs, hacking all the way to the mountains, but Yosemite was calling. Nothing, no insidious virus, would stand in the way of this trip. Immediately after school on Friday afternoon, my colleague and I packed the school vans for the four-hour trek to Yosemite Valley. Stuffed into a decrepit, public school extended van, with no functioning radio (Imagine this with high school kids–really?), filled with camp food and supplies for two days plus behemoth telescope, as this was the astronomy club trip, we pulled into the campsite by 8:00 p.m. and managed to set up tents within the half hour—truly a challenge in the dark and with unfamiliar tents.
We fired up the Coleman stove for hot chocolate, a necessity before sleep. Everyone was out by 10:00 and truly, I mean asleep. No sounds from adjoining tents I was monitoring, until my cough medicine took over and I began to drift off. However, it was a fretful night as I darn near froze, too cold to find the car key to find my other jacket, so I huddled deep inside the length of the down sleeping bag. Even woolen cap, long underwear, fleece pants, down jacket were insufficient, so I shivered out the night until morning. On the other hand, freezing cold is part of the entire experience. The next morning after breakfast, we hiked the John Muir trail to Vernal-Nevada Falls and returned via the horse trail. The hacking, coughing, wheezing, and sneezing teenagers and chaperons pushed up the steep trail, but not sick enough to enjoy the vibrant colors, Sienna, Indian Reds, Orange Red to Maroon and every shade in between. The colors were practically therapeutic.
Following the day’s hike and dinner by campfire, we held an obligatory stroll to the open meadows at 10:00 p.m. This was an astronomy club outing after all, so we sprawled in the meadow gazing at the celestial heavens, as my colleague pointed out constellations, circumpolar stars, and the faint Andromeda galaxy. Returning to site, everyone finished off the hot chocolate while I swigged my NyQuil, determined to get a better night’s sleep than the evening before. That is, of course, when disaster hit. My colleague with an absolute stricken look on his face confessed that he had misplaced the single school van key. I immediately began to think of possible scenarios—ranging from AAA rescue to a-most-pissed-off administrator-driving-the-four-hours to our site. None of the scenarios was especially pleasant. And, that is how I fell asleep, as the second night of camping is always the soundest in terms of sleep. Something about figuring out the best sleeping position in a bag, or adjusting to the surrounding sounds and dim lights, or relaxing to the campfire smells, but this particular night it was the double dose of cough medicine that did it.
My poor partner, Philip, scoured the campsite, then retraced our steps, and trekked through the meadow disturbing lovers and wild beasts for the small key attached to nothing at all. Whoever hands a single key without even a twist-tie? School districts, apparently. As Philip informed me the next morning, I was “unconscious” by the time he returned to our campsite. True. If a black bear had decided to sample my cough medicine, I never would have known. In fact, if a black bear sampled me, I would not have noticed. Philip found the singular key in the bottom of a jacket, which he never took off after that moment.
The next morning after a heavy night of needed sleep and my cough finally dissipating, I drove back, and the sole sound in the van was snoring from all the students and Philip.

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Priceless Work

Posted on November 15, 2013 | Leave a comment

Every so often, I get the opportunity to be a counselor to my students, a role I relish beyond that of teacher. In a school of 2600 students, it is inevitable that some students do not land where they should without additional direction or support.  I remember Christine, a level 10 state champion, whose counselor never mentioned the NCAA registration because he did not know she was a gymnast.  Then Christine’s gymnastics coach never mentioned the NCAA either because he assumed the counselor at the high school would. Being Christine’s biology teacher and mother to a fellow gymnast, I assumed either coach or counselor directed the NCAA registration, until I asked her how the scouting was going.

“Terrible,” Christine replied, “I made videos of my routines, and no one has contacted me, but I have the grades and SAT scores to qualify at the Division I schools.”

“You know that NCAA coaches cannot approach you until that recruitment time of year and you registered, right?”

“Huh?” I still recall the blank expression on her face as I discussed this with her.

“Oh, you are not registered with NCAA. Forget biology for today,” (which I would never say but did on this day) and sent Christine to the library with instructions on NCAA registration.  Two weeks later, Christine had numerous recruitment letters and within one month, scholarship offers at Division I schools. She is now in her third year of competing in college.

Christine’s story does not happen often, thankfully, as we succeed with more students than not. This year, however, I scored another opportunity to be a counselor.  R., in my period six class, is a brilliant young man with spectacular talent on a stage.  A stellar grade point average (3.8), a budding playwright, and winner of Thespian awards at the state level, yet R., just as with Christine, somehow did not get the message that college is an option. R. did not get this message because he is different—not a team sport player or NHS member or CSF member, but a Thespian—creative but often not college material.

This afternoon, I directed R. to explore CSU Mentor, choosing from different options—location in California, school size, subject major—to R.’s overwhelming delight he is a perfect match for San Francisco State. Smiling as though he won the Super Lotto, R. stated repeatedly in a theatrical voice over (again repeatedly), “I am in the top 1% of all applicants.” He could not believe the online calculations, as though if he told me enough, he might eventually believe himself.  R. is now applying to SFSU, even U.C.L.A. is an option. Shooting for the moon and the stars, it is a good thing R. finished his personal statement. Tomorrow night is the opening of the play he wrote about Sherlock Holmes and performed by the repertory theatre. As R. left my class today, he turned to me and promised, “You will get a signed copy of the script.” I will be there. I will be ecstatic for him next spring when acceptance letters arrive. I know that R. is on his way to outer space and to where the stars shine. He belongs there.

Some people collect yachts or mansions or fancy cars or famous artwork or signed sculptures. I collect student work. Some day my work will be priceless.

Oh, yeah. It already is.

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Doc Martin and His Troops

Posted on November 12, 2013 | 2 comments

This is not my story. This belongs to Martin and the troops he served, the 3d Battalion 4th Marines. This is in honor of all veterans.

Nearly a decade ago, Martin enrolled in my general biology class at the high school, and later he became my teacher’s assistant for my  A.P. (Advanced Placement or college level) biology. He was a stellar student, yet typically inconsistent as are many adolescents.  Martin frequently wandered in at 8:30 for the 8:00 class, looking as though he just rolled out of bed, no time to comb his hair or to eat. Starbucks, as I recall, was his breakfast—most mornings.  In spite of his lack of punctuality and the fact that he missed half of my lectures, Martin scored well in labs and on tests.  His exams were off-the-charts superior, and in labs, he took charge, as though practicing for a future career as a scientist or physician or surgeon.  Martin only lost points in citizenship, but he did not care. Martin knew what he was going to be—a Navy surgeon and high school was a minor hurdle to get there—while, I was merely a conduit for his humor, a vector for his future.

In the spring, the ubiquitous pig dissections begin. This is often the final lab of the year, which lasts for two or three weeks, depending on the smells and conditions of the fetal pigs. I order the alcohol-based, less-toxic preserved pigs, but this means we dissect at “hyper-speed” since the pigs do not last that long before decaying. I supplement the labs with meat—fresh from the butcher shop. Most students, even the queasiest of the bunch, tolerate the “meat” labs because fresh meat is odorless. One quick day of dissection and the body parts are discarded.  Since our high school is in an agricultural area, it is easy to order beef hearts, lungs, kidneys, and brains. The hearts are the size of large basketballs; one kidney is the size and shape of a football. It is the plucks, however, that command the most attention. A team of high school “surgeons” tackle a pluck, which is the heart, lungs, trachea, esophagus, and larynx intact and connected; one pluck fits on a dissection table—forget the trays. I drape tables and floors in plastic.

Martin took charge of the plucks. He filled them with water to watch the lungs inflate, separated the individual parts, carefully studyed the connective tissue, valves, nerves, arteries, and veins. I watched Martin that day, knowing someday he would use this knowledge, since I believe no knowledge is ever wasted. Despite his poor attendance record and his borderline grades in his other classes, I agreed to let Martin stay through the entire day, assisting my other biology classes with the same labs. It certainly made my life easier, not having to wipe counters and floors all day long.

Finally, during the last period of the day, we tossed the completely disarticulated and destroyed hearts, plucks, and lungs in the trash. I pulled over the lab cart, instructed Martin and several of his big classmates to return the bloody messes into the original cardboard boxes, lined with plastic and butcher paper from the grocery store. This required some heavy lifting as the plucks alone weighed in excess of forty pounds.  I held open the elevator doors, told my students to move quickly to the trash bins, as the leaking mess was dripping over the hallway floor. My last reminder to the disposal crew was to secure the trash bin lid, as we did not want neighborhood cats climbing in that mess. Martin and his classmates returned a few minutes later, confirming that the task was complete, but Martin’s smile left me wondering.

The next morning, Jesse, our custodian stopped by my classroom for a chat. He casually mentioned that he received an early, frantic call from B.F.I., our local cardboard recycling agency. Did I happen to notice into which bin the students dropped the beef? The recycling attendants must have wondered what crime had been committed at the high school, when they saw the blood dripping down cardboard boxes, and then to open the containers and find massive hearts, kidneys, lungs, etc. in an array. Thankfully, the attendants halted the cardboard shredder just in time.

Martin became known as Doc for his troops and served tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. He is a Navy nurse and first responder and saved many Marines. The best gift I ever received came Memorial Day, 2010, when Martin stopped by with an American flag and a certificate signed by his commanding officer. They flew the flag over the Headquarters of 3d Battalion 4th Marines at FOB Delaram, Afghanistan and dedicated the flag to me. I cried when I read the parchment, heck, even now. Martin, back at you! Thank you for your service.

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Fall of my Life and Yard

Posted on November 11, 2013 | Leave a comment

Fall is beautiful in my backyard—my favorite time of year. I love the changing leaves and stormy weather, the crisp, not quite biting air. I enjoy the one night we “gain back” an hour.  I sacrifice my early runs and long workouts; in exchange, I embrace a warm fire and thick blankets of fleece.  I admire nearly neon yellows, oranges, reds, and light remaining greens on our apricot trees. In my yard, the fig leaves, golden brown are like flags so heavy they need strong winds to fly, but the apricot leaves are light and tiny they flutter with gentle breezes.

This should be the favorite time of my life, the autumn years, but I find myself meditative. Is this what fall is about? Do I stop making memories and spend my quiet nights reflective and melancholy? I assumed that would be the winter of my life, when I would be frail or infirm that I would sit and reflect for hours. Instead, I find myself at the computer reconnecting with former friends and lovers and I reminisce. I talk with my daughters, their comments open the floodgates, and my memories pour out.

I recall eternal study sessions and late-night donut-runs at UCLA , where I spent evenings reading until my dorm-mates needed a break at 11:45 pm, when we strolled down Hilgard Ave. to the Donut Shop on Westwood Blvd. The tiny, three-bar stool bakery, made amazing donuts, not the heavy Crispy Crème donuts, but light and flakey, yet substantial.  At midnight, any unsold donuts went for two dollars, stuffed into a waxy paper bag and devoured before we wandered back to the dorm. I sampled the donuts, but my dorm-mates were three guys who inhaled the sack. This, along with the ever-present coffee available for students, was enough to keep us going for another two or three hours of studying. This was the time in my life when I paid no attention to how much caffeine (or donuts) I ingested. Coffee at midnight? No problem. Today, seriously? I cut myself off at 3 pm.

On alternate weeknights, I ran. Less smog, less traffic, and fresh air (rare in L.A.), as I jogged the perimeter of the campus with any available friend, who could stand a break from the all-encompassing studying. We ran a course up Hilgard to Sunset, weaving through the campus, dodging the sprinklers that would randomly erupt on the field, past parties on fraternity row, and back home past the hospital and botanical gardens.  Funny, I found my route here—of course, everything is available online. http://magazine.ucla.edu/depts/happenings/ucla_running_routes.pdf

Some nights, particularly on Friday or Saturday, I buried myself in the anatomy lab—who would ever do that? However, it was quiet and peaceful—just a 150 dead bodies and me. I concentrated on video clips and no one (save a few crazed medical students) visited there on Friday nights. My evening out was a weeknight at Royce Hall for the senior music or dance recitals. I attended weekly concerts by a vocalist, organist, pianist, flutist, dancer, or actor or whatever poor senior soul needed to perform for an hour to graduate, and they provided me grounding and serenity that I needed to cope with an insane school of 40,000+ students.

So, my youngest daughter, now a music major about the age I was, describes her weekends—study sessions that begin at 8 or 9 in the evening which last until the early hours of the morning, followed by early morning classes. Weekends spent at the school in a practice room, weekend shifts working as a concert assistant, parties with other music majors, bike rides and workouts around the campus, regular haunts for coffee and vegetarian food, I smile at the springtime of her life, while I cry at the fall of my own. Samantha is making magnificent memories. She will have much to describe on her computer in the future.

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Fourth Period Football Players

Posted on November 9, 2013 | Leave a comment

My fourth period lumbers in, knocking furniture and trash cans out-of-the-way. They are large football players, so big that they cannot help bumping each other and desks and classmates and me. Most of my class are 17 – 18 year olds, 200+ pound kids, muscular, and now with facial hair (thanks to Movember), students with eyes on a moving target, a football (or basketball or volleyball…), but not on a goal of college or career. These students want to play games— preferably all day long. What drives many is a ball in the air, a tackle, a drive, any physical exertion. As an example, R. climbed the top of a 60 foot rock wall four times and belayed his classmates for two hours, but has yet to submit his essay two weeks past due. College personal statements are imminent and graduation is nearing—less than a year away—but these students are in essence young boys (and girls, of which, are quiet, overwhelmed by the large, looming majority) and deadlines only have significance when on a time clock. Play by-play, week by week, game by game decides their lives.
I bring in as much football into my classroom as legally possible. I print each new article by ESPN. Naturally, this week, my articles concerned the controversy of Richie Incognito and Jonathon Martin. To keep this academic, my classes wrote a précis on an op-ed piece by ESPN and then held a Socratic seminar on the central topics—hazing, bullying, and policing of locker rooms. I did not bring in the original text by Incognito, but my students willingly offered their versions:
V—Ms. H., Do you know what Incognito said? Can I tell you?
Me—Well, V., if ESPN and other networks do not use the exact language, you will not in this classroom, either.
V—He said, “You, N…, Mother F’ng, I am going to slap your mother and kill her. You are a rookie. I will kill you.”
Me—Okay, then. I think we established what was said in the locker room.
Of course, V. avoided the precise words (and an office referral), and with his exquisite enunciation of the letters N, M, and F, we understood the missing words. The authentic text by Incognito is similar and is readily available online.
My awakening is that to my class the “N” word is insignificant to them, less offensive after generations, because it is not “their” word. This current generation, just as in previous decades, has other highly offensive words and delight in using them, especially when adults are out of earshot. They think that words spoken by Richie Incognito were meant to be “inflammatory” and “fun”—and my students suggested that, no way would Incognito truly mean what he said. One student’s point, who also volunteered to recite Incognito’s words with strong intonation, is that no one would do that to a mother. No one would risk losing that much money to kill someone. Threats to my players, such as “kill someone” are not serious, but meant to rile someone up.
My point is there is no place for hazing, bullying, or name-calling in any sport. Play with force, not vocabulary. Save rhetoric for the page. Finally, at least one thing has not changed through generations, mothers of the world, you have more power than you realize.

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Best Halloween Trick Ever

Posted on November 3, 2013 | 2 comments

My Catholic schoolmates can relate to this. I both enjoyed and endured twelve years of Catholic education taught by nuns, who wore long, black dresses with strange contraptions attached to their heads. Some of these “habits” or “uniforms” (for non-Catholic readers) seemed like black wedding veils worn close to the head; other headpieces resembled halos, as though the nuns from this order were especially saintly. These same wonderful sisters pulled anything a child needed from the copious pockets hidden within the million folds of their voluminous skirts. Need a band-aid? Scissors? Brush? Hammer? File? Hole punch? Stapler? Crayons? Ruler? Sister Mary Whatshername could sew on a button with the needle and thread pulled from her pockets. Messy? Sister Mary Whoevershewas could wipe a face with a wet washcloth and dry tears with a clean towel, taken from within the tucks of her clothes. Hungry? Sister Alwayssmiling unearthed jellybeans, chocolate, and licorice from her pleats.

By the time, I began my teaching career, the long black dresses of the religious sisters had given way to sedate, plain A-line dresses, adorned with a simple cross. The nuns no longer stood out in a crowd of schoolchildren. Until “Sister Act,” an entire generation of both Catholic and non-Catholic students had no clue what the traditional sister-attire was, nor what a “real nun” looked like historically. Whoopi Goldberg cleared that up for the children of the 90s, who watched Whoopi perform as a rocking sister, who wore a slightly, shorter version of the black uniforms of yore.

It is ironic that after my extensive Catholic education—taught in straight rows and working in quiet classrooms—that my career would be in urban public high schools, with students seated in tables and working in large groups. One Halloween morning, I stared at my closet. What to wear? Costume or no? Which decade to resurrect—50s, 60s, 70s? I spent most of the 80s alternatively pregnant or nursing; therefore, I did not consider that decade. Then I found it—a simple gray-pleated and A-line dress, used for at least two pregnancies, and with a sweet Peter-Pan collar. I would be a nun for a day! Mind you, not a pregnant nun, either. No, I would be Sister Theresa for my heathen public high school teenagers.

A crystalline rosary anchored to the plain rope that I tied around my waist, obscured the maternity style of the dress. I would look very plain, very dowdy, and very not pregnant. I secured plain gray fabric around my head, complete with white trim that I quickly sewed. My hair tucked inside, no make-up, and the austere uniform, I was ready to meet my students for the day. I walked into my usual classroom and wrote my name clearly on the board—Sister Theresa. I was certain my students would recognize me, despite my change of appearance and the obvious connection with Halloween. How mistaken I was.

First period class entered and took one glance at my habit and quietly took their seats. No one talked. I realized they had never really studied my face and my outfit was truly masterful. I introduced myself, thinking at this time, they would surely recognize my voice, but these were high school sophomores—15 years of age, somewhere between 8 and 18 years in maturity, and they never really listened to adults. Therefore, of course, they would not recognize my voice. I celebrated!
Me—“Good morning, class. I am your substitute teacher for the day. My name is Sister Theresa. Ms. Harrison will return tomorrow. I expect complete silence when I am speaking. When you wish to speak, you will raise your hand. When I call upon you, you will answer by standing at attention by your desk. You will answer me by replying, ‘Yes, Sister Theresa.’ When you finish replying, you may sit down. Is this clear?”
Class—Nearly in unison, “Yes, Sister Theresa.”

And so it went, for the entire day—class after class filed in, and I began the same way. It was a marvelous day attended by silent, studious, and respectful students. Minimal whispering occurred during lessons. When I returned the next day, and my students filed in their usual relaxed manner, hordes of kids ran to tell me that they had met a religious sister who substituted for me. She was strict, required things—such as standing by the desk and responding formally to Sister Theresa.

Best Halloween trick ever.
And, on those days, such as Homecoming week, before vacation, etc. when my classes are particularly unruly and I need a break, I might call on Sister Theresa to substitute again.

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Aside

Quackers earned the family respect and admiration by winning the titles of Monterey County Fair Champion Water Fowl and Best of Show in Poultry Division awards. He gave us excitement (chased children and wild animals from our yard), money (won … Continue reading →

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Posted on November 1, 2013