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You told me that I had wasted my vote by casting my ballot for the person I actually believed was best able to run the country. Because that person wasn’t from one of the two political parties, I had, you said, only helped someone else win. A little research proved you were right. So I stopped believing, stopped seeing a reason to vote.
Before that I looked to political leaders who shared my religious ideals and values. Turns out that they didn’t believe in the same Jesus as me, and that if they really did stand for what I stood for (and I have my doubts), they couldn’t really do much about it. But the Jesus they believed in turns its back on the poor, denies education for anyone not in his fraternity, and says that killing foreigners is God’s work. We quote the same Bible, but my Jesus isn’t in theirs.
So after you told me I was wasting my time, I quit voting. Any energy put toward politics was spent in proving that both sides were the same devil in different suits. I believed that there were good people in the world, people who made a difference in their neighborhoods, but that none of these people could serve in government, because no one in governments served the people without expecting a hundredfold return on their investment.
And then a few came along who caused me to question. Just when I thought all was lost, that it was only a matter of time before I had to learn the language of those who conquered our land, a handful came across the sea of fear with a boat. A freaking boat. Your guys had boats, but they were throwing anchors to the drowning and life jackets to those already on their yachts. Some of your guys stood on the shore, told the crowd to get baptized in the sea of fear while their deacons held hoses making sure that sea stayed full.
While politicians were dismantling education, you called me a fool for having an education and supporting someone many other educated people supported. Education has not only been hurt by lack of funding and poor policy and broken promises from all sides of the political spectrum. It has been demonized.
And so I’m back to wondering why I should bother. You see, hate starts all the conversations now. Hate doesn’t disagree or engage in debate. It spews itself violently and dares anyone to stand up against its bile. I’ve spoken out, but having ideas only leads to me be accused of not loving my country. You’ll never know, in fact, how much I do love America. But I for now, I can no longer stand up to the bullies. It’s futile. Keep your damn playground. Nobody plays there anymore.
Take Hope too. You are going to need it.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Sunday, August 07, 2011
A Conversation about F Words
My other self said, “You shouldn’t use the F word so much.”
My regular self asked, “Which F word? Fuck? Why not? It is a perfectly fine and useful word.”
Other Self made a face and said, “There are other words you can use. Words that are not so offensive.”
“There are other words,” Regular Self replied. “But what is offensive may be in the ear of the listener. I am offended, for example, at the use of some words that others see as perfectly fit.”
“For example?”
“For example, the way some people use the word freedom. Funny it is an F-word too.”
The eyes of Other Self went wide in dismay. “The word freedom offends you.”
“No. The word does not offend me.”
“But you just said—“
“That the use of the word offends me.”
Other Self pretended to look confused. “You mean you feel just fine about the word, as long as someone doesn’t use it?”
“Sometimes you are a dufus,” I told my other self.
“As are you,” he replied.
“As am I. But more to the point, I am offended when the word is used improperly. Well, that is not true. It rankles when it is used improperly. It offends me when the word is used to manipulate others, often to coerce, through fear –“
“Another F word.”
Regular Self sighed, “Yes, another F word. And often the misuse of the word freedom involves the misuse of the word fear. Shall I continue, or do we plan to interrupt all day?”
“Do go on,” Other Self said.
“The word freedom is often bandied about wildly and used to take away freedom. Actual freedom.”
“And this offends you?” Other Self asked.
“It does,” Regular Self said. “Does it not offend you?”
“The word does not offend me. But I can see how using it this way would offend you, and perhaps, I should be offended also, loving language as I do, and wishing it to be used well and wisely.”
Regular Self knew the Other Self would not give in so easily. He crossed his arms and waited for the next play.
After a moment, Other Self asked: “Would you then agree that many times the word fuck is used improperly, probably most times?”
“Yes. The word is used way too much.”
“By you?”
“By me and others. On the other hand, could it be that the word fuck has many uses?”
“I cannot see that it has any use at all, except to offend.”
“That is a use. And I contend that it is offensive mostly because it is vulgar, and for that reason may be the right word in some occasions. Perhaps you assume that people should not, from time to time, be offended.”
“Why should people be offended?” Other Self asked, bristling at the thought.
“They should not be offended just for offense sake. It seems silly to just throw fucks everywhere in conversation and in dialogue if all you want to do is piss people off. If one gets nothing but a kick out of vexing others, then that person is sick.”
“I think I can agree with that. But I still do not seen why or when people need to be offended.”
“We are offended when we hear or see something distasteful to use, or which insults something about who we are or what we stand for. Hence my offense at the use of freedom to manipulate me into giving up my freedoms. But we are often offended when we hear or see something that goes against even the bad parts of ourselves or the world we live it, and we are made to see that bad in all its ugliness and filth.”
Other Self asked for an example.
“The Bible,” Regular Self said, “states that the cross of Christ is an offense to those who are perishing.”
“To those who do not believe, the crucifixion may be distasteful, offensive,” Other Self responded, trying to take in the idea.
“And go further. The idea of that redemption, that first of all people need to be redeemed, is offensive to some. Second, that it takes the act of God Himself doing all the work, instead of people figuring it out for themselves and doing it themselves, well that is offensive to many as well.”
Other Self smiled. “Alright. I can, sort of, understand this. But the word, fuck, just sounds wrong on the ear.”
“And that may be one reason it should not be used as often as it is. But that the word doesn’t ‘sound right’ or makes polite people uncomfortable is not sufficient reason to say it should never be used.”
“But you are a Christian,” Other Self stated. “Don’t you think that other Christians are due consideration and should not have to hear a word they do not want to hear?”
“No more than others. I do not condone the use of the word in church, in general, because saying fuck in church is not likely to accomplish much. But maybe it could. But this is all beside the point. You beg the question when you imply that once a person is redeemed that she or he has no need, from time to time, to be offended so that they are turned abruptly toward the truth.”
“You know,” Other Self chided, “People won’t say fuck in Heaven.”
Regular Self smiled, “In Heaven no one will be fucked out of their freedom or forced to live in a fearful, fucked up world.”
My regular self asked, “Which F word? Fuck? Why not? It is a perfectly fine and useful word.”
Other Self made a face and said, “There are other words you can use. Words that are not so offensive.”
“There are other words,” Regular Self replied. “But what is offensive may be in the ear of the listener. I am offended, for example, at the use of some words that others see as perfectly fit.”
“For example?”
“For example, the way some people use the word freedom. Funny it is an F-word too.”
The eyes of Other Self went wide in dismay. “The word freedom offends you.”
“No. The word does not offend me.”
“But you just said—“
“That the use of the word offends me.”
Other Self pretended to look confused. “You mean you feel just fine about the word, as long as someone doesn’t use it?”
“Sometimes you are a dufus,” I told my other self.
“As are you,” he replied.
“As am I. But more to the point, I am offended when the word is used improperly. Well, that is not true. It rankles when it is used improperly. It offends me when the word is used to manipulate others, often to coerce, through fear –“
“Another F word.”
Regular Self sighed, “Yes, another F word. And often the misuse of the word freedom involves the misuse of the word fear. Shall I continue, or do we plan to interrupt all day?”
“Do go on,” Other Self said.
“The word freedom is often bandied about wildly and used to take away freedom. Actual freedom.”
“And this offends you?” Other Self asked.
“It does,” Regular Self said. “Does it not offend you?”
“The word does not offend me. But I can see how using it this way would offend you, and perhaps, I should be offended also, loving language as I do, and wishing it to be used well and wisely.”
Regular Self knew the Other Self would not give in so easily. He crossed his arms and waited for the next play.
After a moment, Other Self asked: “Would you then agree that many times the word fuck is used improperly, probably most times?”
“Yes. The word is used way too much.”
“By you?”
“By me and others. On the other hand, could it be that the word fuck has many uses?”
“I cannot see that it has any use at all, except to offend.”
“That is a use. And I contend that it is offensive mostly because it is vulgar, and for that reason may be the right word in some occasions. Perhaps you assume that people should not, from time to time, be offended.”
“Why should people be offended?” Other Self asked, bristling at the thought.
“They should not be offended just for offense sake. It seems silly to just throw fucks everywhere in conversation and in dialogue if all you want to do is piss people off. If one gets nothing but a kick out of vexing others, then that person is sick.”
“I think I can agree with that. But I still do not seen why or when people need to be offended.”
“We are offended when we hear or see something distasteful to use, or which insults something about who we are or what we stand for. Hence my offense at the use of freedom to manipulate me into giving up my freedoms. But we are often offended when we hear or see something that goes against even the bad parts of ourselves or the world we live it, and we are made to see that bad in all its ugliness and filth.”
Other Self asked for an example.
“The Bible,” Regular Self said, “states that the cross of Christ is an offense to those who are perishing.”
“To those who do not believe, the crucifixion may be distasteful, offensive,” Other Self responded, trying to take in the idea.
“And go further. The idea of that redemption, that first of all people need to be redeemed, is offensive to some. Second, that it takes the act of God Himself doing all the work, instead of people figuring it out for themselves and doing it themselves, well that is offensive to many as well.”
Other Self smiled. “Alright. I can, sort of, understand this. But the word, fuck, just sounds wrong on the ear.”
“And that may be one reason it should not be used as often as it is. But that the word doesn’t ‘sound right’ or makes polite people uncomfortable is not sufficient reason to say it should never be used.”
“But you are a Christian,” Other Self stated. “Don’t you think that other Christians are due consideration and should not have to hear a word they do not want to hear?”
“No more than others. I do not condone the use of the word in church, in general, because saying fuck in church is not likely to accomplish much. But maybe it could. But this is all beside the point. You beg the question when you imply that once a person is redeemed that she or he has no need, from time to time, to be offended so that they are turned abruptly toward the truth.”
“You know,” Other Self chided, “People won’t say fuck in Heaven.”
Regular Self smiled, “In Heaven no one will be fucked out of their freedom or forced to live in a fearful, fucked up world.”
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Bachman Lake
Newly married and newly employed, I once came here to pray, to strum my guitar, to find a bit of peace to start the day, to start what was my new life. The sun was usually just getting up and I was alone except for the joggers on the path behind me or the fishermen minding their business yards away.
Sure there were cars not far away, with unhappy people going down Northwest Highway toward dreaded jobs. I was putting off going to mine. Yes, there were planes going over every few minutes, drowning out the honking ducks, squawking grackles, and the occasional flopping fish.
They all had somewhere to be. I was trying to be somewhere.
Here began my fear of the juxtaposition of nature and the city, or perhaps my fascination with the construction of a kind of nature in the city.
Some twenty-five years later, I’m at Bachman Lake again, killing time. Trying to enjoy the quiet. I read a little at a picnic table, sipping ice tea as young mothers and fathers enjoyed their children at a playground situated
between my seat and the parking lot. A squirrel, clearly irritated by my presence, clambered up and down the tree shading me. A duck tried to go under the table. I nervously shooed it away.
I took to a bench near the water’s edge and tried to look at the lake, drink in the peace of its slow movement. I noticed an old Moscovy pretending to hide in the rushes nearby. His red, bumpy face gave him away, but I was not interested in him. I heard young, yellow grasshoppers snapping the short blades behind me and smiled at their play. I heard splashes, but when I turned toward them, all I could see were the ripples.
No doubt there were snakes. Somewhere. Near the bank, in the grass, perhaps on the other side of the tree. I did not see them, and I am glad. I’d like to think God, knowing my fears, would have warned me. That I did not see one of them may mean God protected them.
I tried to look at the water. But I could not keep my eyes away from the houses on the other side, or the businesses, stone silent, but in my mind buzzing and hissing with activity. I couldn’t stop watching the airplanes nosily descend. Sometimes I thought of my father, who worked on planes. Sometimes I thought of my first job at Love Field. I tried, dear Lord, to just look at the lake and not think at all.
I should have talked to You. Or at least made an effort to listen.
After all these years, I’ve still got somewhere (new now) to be. I have still got someone to be.
Sure there were cars not far away, with unhappy people going down Northwest Highway toward dreaded jobs. I was putting off going to mine. Yes, there were planes going over every few minutes, drowning out the honking ducks, squawking grackles, and the occasional flopping fish.They all had somewhere to be. I was trying to be somewhere.
Here began my fear of the juxtaposition of nature and the city, or perhaps my fascination with the construction of a kind of nature in the city.
Some twenty-five years later, I’m at Bachman Lake again, killing time. Trying to enjoy the quiet. I read a little at a picnic table, sipping ice tea as young mothers and fathers enjoyed their children at a playground situated
between my seat and the parking lot. A squirrel, clearly irritated by my presence, clambered up and down the tree shading me. A duck tried to go under the table. I nervously shooed it away.I took to a bench near the water’s edge and tried to look at the lake, drink in the peace of its slow movement. I noticed an old Moscovy pretending to hide in the rushes nearby. His red, bumpy face gave him away, but I was not interested in him. I heard young, yellow grasshoppers snapping the short blades behind me and smiled at their play. I heard splashes, but when I turned toward them, all I could see were the ripples.
No doubt there were snakes. Somewhere. Near the bank, in the grass, perhaps on the other side of the tree. I did not see them, and I am glad. I’d like to think God, knowing my fears, would have warned me. That I did not see one of them may mean God protected them.I tried to look at the water. But I could not keep my eyes away from the houses on the other side, or the businesses, stone silent, but in my mind buzzing and hissing with activity. I couldn’t stop watching the airplanes nosily descend. Sometimes I thought of my father, who worked on planes. Sometimes I thought of my first job at Love Field. I tried, dear Lord, to just look at the lake and not think at all.
I should have talked to You. Or at least made an effort to listen.
After all these years, I’ve still got somewhere (new now) to be. I have still got someone to be.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Class of ‘81
1981 was a long time ago, but I have not forgotten several things. I have not forgotten what it was like to go to high school. I have not forgotten the things that happened to me there.
I have not forgotten the few teachers who dared to make an impact on me. I have tried to forget the rest. I have not forgotten the "counselor" who told me I should not go to college. I have not forgotten not being allowed to join clubs because I wasn't the right religion or because I didn’t play the right sport.
I have not forgotten the friends I made. I have not forgotten the sports I tried to play. I have not forgotten the good times I did have.
I have tried to remember, now that years have past, that everyone feels awkward and out of place in high school, that even those kids that are popular sometimes feel they don't "fit in." Everyone has rough times.
What I cannot remember is what I did or didn't do that would ensure that I would never be invited to a class reunion.
I have not forgotten the few teachers who dared to make an impact on me. I have tried to forget the rest. I have not forgotten the "counselor" who told me I should not go to college. I have not forgotten not being allowed to join clubs because I wasn't the right religion or because I didn’t play the right sport.
I have not forgotten the friends I made. I have not forgotten the sports I tried to play. I have not forgotten the good times I did have.
I have tried to remember, now that years have past, that everyone feels awkward and out of place in high school, that even those kids that are popular sometimes feel they don't "fit in." Everyone has rough times.
What I cannot remember is what I did or didn't do that would ensure that I would never be invited to a class reunion.
Friday, July 08, 2011
Music Notes – One More Angel
John Patitucci is one of the most gifted and expressive bassists I have ever heard, and lately I’ve been listening to a lot of bass players. In addition to his solo work, Patitucci has played with legends like Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter, Michael Brecker and Chick Corea. I recently found One More Angel in the clearance bin, and after listening to it several times, I am happy for the bargain, but sad that such fine music was relegated to a price of two dollars.
Probably my favorite tracks are “Arrival,” “San Michele,” “One More Angel,” and “Snowbound.” On the title piece, the late Michael Brecker plays a such languid, delicious tenor that one might be tempted to forget the overwhelming sadness that informs the tune. Pianist Alan Pasqua and drummer extraordinaire Paul Motian provide timbre for this and everything on the album that is near perfect. There is not one song that failed to make me smile.
The album is also a family affair with Patitucci’s brother on acoustic guitar for two songs and his wife Sachi playing cello on the tender cut “Romance.” Of course it is John Patitucci’s playing and compositions which pull this project together and make it unforgettable. Listen to the solo piece “Sachi’s Eyes” and you should be amazed and delighted.
One More Angel is an intensely personal album. Patitucci writes in his notes about songs which are dedicated to his wife and to two children the couple had lost prior to this project. But though most of the tunes are ballads, none are lethargic or dirge like. There is a good deal of wonder in these songs, and more hope and joy than I have found on even the most recent vocal albums I have listened to lately.
Probably my favorite tracks are “Arrival,” “San Michele,” “One More Angel,” and “Snowbound.” On the title piece, the late Michael Brecker plays a such languid, delicious tenor that one might be tempted to forget the overwhelming sadness that informs the tune. Pianist Alan Pasqua and drummer extraordinaire Paul Motian provide timbre for this and everything on the album that is near perfect. There is not one song that failed to make me smile.
The album is also a family affair with Patitucci’s brother on acoustic guitar for two songs and his wife Sachi playing cello on the tender cut “Romance.” Of course it is John Patitucci’s playing and compositions which pull this project together and make it unforgettable. Listen to the solo piece “Sachi’s Eyes” and you should be amazed and delighted.
One More Angel is an intensely personal album. Patitucci writes in his notes about songs which are dedicated to his wife and to two children the couple had lost prior to this project. But though most of the tunes are ballads, none are lethargic or dirge like. There is a good deal of wonder in these songs, and more hope and joy than I have found on even the most recent vocal albums I have listened to lately.
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
July 4th: A Reflection
I’m sure several of you out there are going to see me as anti-patriotic, and if so, so be it. However, I think something about what we say and what we do on Independence Day, a very important holiday, needs to be reconsidered.
I keep wondering when July Fourth became a holiday to celebrate and honor only those who served in our military. I am not saying we should not honor them, should not be grateful for what they have done, should not ruminate on what it means to have men and women willing to die in our stead. But I do not understand how a holiday about independence became a holiday about the armed forces. That and grilling hot dogs and hamburgers.
Our freedom is unique. However it is not safeguarded only by military might. We should see that it takes a nation of people to make that freedom happen and for that freedom to work.
Consider, for example, that group of men (sorry ladies) we tend to refer to as the Founding Fathers. We have a tendency these days to think of them as a bunch of guys who just sat down and put together the Bill of Rights and Declaration of Independence in one quick, easy draft. But they argued amongst themselves, and worked with and despite many huge differences, to try to forge the documents that would not only define a fledgling nation, but keep that nation from making the mistakes that other countries had made in suppressing freedom. Was the result perfect? No. Did these men have their own agendas? You bet. Did they get it completely right and protect the freedom for all? No, but they helped make it possible for those that did not then have that freedom to eventually obtain it.
And what about the churches, laity and ministers, who work in their communities to help those who have lost a measure of freedom? Sure, there are some zealots out there who have confused the Constitution with the Word of God. But people of faith all over America do a great deal to help feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, and defend those who cannot defend themselves. I believe a great measure of my freedom is protected and ensured by those people, most of whom I will never meet, even though I may not be one of the hungry, homeless, or defenseless. And what about those with no religious affiliation or creed to move them to good works, but who are making the world better by volunteering instead of staying at home watching television, or by working jobs far beneath their ability to earn so that the principles that define this country continue to matter.
Can we also think about the police, firefighters, and medical workers who take care of us, even when we do not know it? When the police catch a criminal, we can certainly see that she/he is protecting my freedom from the “bad guy” who might try to take it away from me or someone I love. But when they do their jobs well, they also help restore faith in the community as a whole, and that faith is a very important component in freedom. When my neighbor’s house is saved from fire or natural disaster, mine is too. When someone is helped by an EMT or paramedic, I am reminded that those who began this nation were fleeing and fighting against the oppression that said you had to be somebody with money or power to be considered worthy of life.
Shouldn’t we also consider teachers as playing an important role in the defense and protection of liberty? While education in the United States does continue to decline, the reasons for that decline are mostly political and financial. It is not as much due to the teachers themselves, most of whom earn a pittance, especially when compared to football coaches, and who often do take their lives in their hands every day in order to bring to the quite unwilling the tools they will need to make democracy work, tools and information that will provide more choices for them in the future. I would say that the promise of those choice is an avenue of freedom worth fighting for. Hopefully, your children are challenged and encouraged to use their brains in ways that go beyond standardized tests and rote answers. It is those kinds of thinkers our country needs for freedom to be worth anything. Otherwise we are training generations of slaves.
These are just a few of the people that come to mind for me today. I’ve left out too many others. And again, I don’t want to give the impression that we should not honor our past and present servicemen and women. But they are not the only ones who are and have been on the front lines for freedom. If they were, we would have been conquered long ago.
I keep wondering when July Fourth became a holiday to celebrate and honor only those who served in our military. I am not saying we should not honor them, should not be grateful for what they have done, should not ruminate on what it means to have men and women willing to die in our stead. But I do not understand how a holiday about independence became a holiday about the armed forces. That and grilling hot dogs and hamburgers.
Our freedom is unique. However it is not safeguarded only by military might. We should see that it takes a nation of people to make that freedom happen and for that freedom to work.
Consider, for example, that group of men (sorry ladies) we tend to refer to as the Founding Fathers. We have a tendency these days to think of them as a bunch of guys who just sat down and put together the Bill of Rights and Declaration of Independence in one quick, easy draft. But they argued amongst themselves, and worked with and despite many huge differences, to try to forge the documents that would not only define a fledgling nation, but keep that nation from making the mistakes that other countries had made in suppressing freedom. Was the result perfect? No. Did these men have their own agendas? You bet. Did they get it completely right and protect the freedom for all? No, but they helped make it possible for those that did not then have that freedom to eventually obtain it.
And what about the churches, laity and ministers, who work in their communities to help those who have lost a measure of freedom? Sure, there are some zealots out there who have confused the Constitution with the Word of God. But people of faith all over America do a great deal to help feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, and defend those who cannot defend themselves. I believe a great measure of my freedom is protected and ensured by those people, most of whom I will never meet, even though I may not be one of the hungry, homeless, or defenseless. And what about those with no religious affiliation or creed to move them to good works, but who are making the world better by volunteering instead of staying at home watching television, or by working jobs far beneath their ability to earn so that the principles that define this country continue to matter.
Can we also think about the police, firefighters, and medical workers who take care of us, even when we do not know it? When the police catch a criminal, we can certainly see that she/he is protecting my freedom from the “bad guy” who might try to take it away from me or someone I love. But when they do their jobs well, they also help restore faith in the community as a whole, and that faith is a very important component in freedom. When my neighbor’s house is saved from fire or natural disaster, mine is too. When someone is helped by an EMT or paramedic, I am reminded that those who began this nation were fleeing and fighting against the oppression that said you had to be somebody with money or power to be considered worthy of life.
Shouldn’t we also consider teachers as playing an important role in the defense and protection of liberty? While education in the United States does continue to decline, the reasons for that decline are mostly political and financial. It is not as much due to the teachers themselves, most of whom earn a pittance, especially when compared to football coaches, and who often do take their lives in their hands every day in order to bring to the quite unwilling the tools they will need to make democracy work, tools and information that will provide more choices for them in the future. I would say that the promise of those choice is an avenue of freedom worth fighting for. Hopefully, your children are challenged and encouraged to use their brains in ways that go beyond standardized tests and rote answers. It is those kinds of thinkers our country needs for freedom to be worth anything. Otherwise we are training generations of slaves.
These are just a few of the people that come to mind for me today. I’ve left out too many others. And again, I don’t want to give the impression that we should not honor our past and present servicemen and women. But they are not the only ones who are and have been on the front lines for freedom. If they were, we would have been conquered long ago.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Bookmarks – St. John of the Cross: The Poems
I have often been drawn to the poetry of mystics, and my first foray into the world of St. John of the Cross came when I was writing about T.S. Eliot’s “Ash Wednesday” in my long ago undergraduate days. Then I found a handful of poems which were beautiful and nice, but was focused on the “teaching” and “theology” parts, as I was trying to get a paper done.
A few years later, I came across John Michael Talbot’s stark and moving The Lover and the Beloved album. As I was working late shifts during this time, and facing my own “dark nights,” the album and the words brought great comfort and a measure of peace, or at least helped me to focus on the source of that peace.
Recently, I found this book in my local Half Price Books, and felt it needed to be in my library. I am glad I did.
I know so little Spanish, I feel quite unqualified to speak on the accuracy of Roy Campbell’s translation. I like that this edition is bilingual, so when I do learn more of the poet/mystic’s language, I can read his words as he wrote them.
That said, readers are likely to find the poems speak to the desire for connection with God (or God as one might think of Him, for non-believers) in a way that is accessible and, mostly, artful. Even if the reader is not Catholic, the verses communicate that one’s most significant actions are those in search of and union with the Beloved Lord. The verses, however, are not didactic. We are looking, most often, at what seems deeply personal and universal at the same time.
I do have two criticisms. First, the nine “Romances",” did not do much for me. Perhaps the translation is a bit stale (or too formal). Maybe the poems are too sing-songy. Maybe I didn’t get to these at the right time of my life or in the right frame of mind. But I did not find these nearly as poignant as the other poems. I do think, however, many readers have enjoyed and are going to enjoy these more than I did.
Second, I am not too keen on the titles. P.J. Kavanagh, in his fine and enlightening introduction, notes that one “beautiful poem” is “entitled, unfortunately ‘Verses written after an ecstasy of high exaltation.’ How unlike the humility of the poem is the claim of the title.” I think this might be said for several pieces in the volume.
However, this should not distract from what is, largely, a meaningful collection. It was, and shall be, a stirring read.
Though not from Mr. Campbell’s translation, this link will take you to several of the poet’s best and well known verses.
A few years later, I came across John Michael Talbot’s stark and moving The Lover and the Beloved album. As I was working late shifts during this time, and facing my own “dark nights,” the album and the words brought great comfort and a measure of peace, or at least helped me to focus on the source of that peace.
Recently, I found this book in my local Half Price Books, and felt it needed to be in my library. I am glad I did.
I know so little Spanish, I feel quite unqualified to speak on the accuracy of Roy Campbell’s translation. I like that this edition is bilingual, so when I do learn more of the poet/mystic’s language, I can read his words as he wrote them.
That said, readers are likely to find the poems speak to the desire for connection with God (or God as one might think of Him, for non-believers) in a way that is accessible and, mostly, artful. Even if the reader is not Catholic, the verses communicate that one’s most significant actions are those in search of and union with the Beloved Lord. The verses, however, are not didactic. We are looking, most often, at what seems deeply personal and universal at the same time.
I do have two criticisms. First, the nine “Romances",” did not do much for me. Perhaps the translation is a bit stale (or too formal). Maybe the poems are too sing-songy. Maybe I didn’t get to these at the right time of my life or in the right frame of mind. But I did not find these nearly as poignant as the other poems. I do think, however, many readers have enjoyed and are going to enjoy these more than I did.
Second, I am not too keen on the titles. P.J. Kavanagh, in his fine and enlightening introduction, notes that one “beautiful poem” is “entitled, unfortunately ‘Verses written after an ecstasy of high exaltation.’ How unlike the humility of the poem is the claim of the title.” I think this might be said for several pieces in the volume.
However, this should not distract from what is, largely, a meaningful collection. It was, and shall be, a stirring read.
Music Notes – What’s It All About
Pat Metheny’s One Quiet Night
won the Grammy Award for Best New Age album the year it was released. While most people who listen to Metheny’s music, heck, most people who listen to music, would not see him as a New Age performer, I can see why the disc was classified there. The songs were, as many extended extemporary improvisations are, mostly reflective, meditative in mood.
One disappointment for me is Metheny’s treatment of “Garota de Ipanema” (“The Girl from Ipanema”). I like the idea of taking it out of its traditional bossa nova setting, and I don’t mind putting some space between phrases, but this version is so slow that I barely recognized the tune. That doesn’t keep the result from being pretty and listenable, however.
Those who download the album from iTunes get a couple of bonuses worth noting. First, there is the digital booklet providing some information about the album. Second and more important, one gets two extra songs: “’Round Midnight” and “This Was Nearly Mine.” I was not familiar with the latter, but Metheny’s rendition of the Thelonious Monk classic is one of the most interesting and haunting I have heard in a very long time.
If you come to What’s It All About looking for elevator music or new age versions of some familiar old songs, expect to be pleasantly disappointed. If you are looking for something tasty and cool for your summer listening, this is perhaps the best album for your needs.
won the Grammy Award for Best New Age album the year it was released. While most people who listen to Metheny’s music, heck, most people who listen to music, would not see him as a New Age performer, I can see why the disc was classified there. The songs were, as many extended extemporary improvisations are, mostly reflective, meditative in mood.
I say this to contrast that project with Metheny’s latest: What’s It All About, the great guitarist and composer’s first album of all “cover tunes.” Here, while the mood and tone may seem to the same to some listeners, this sucker is pure jazz.
Most of the tunes are played with the baritone guitar used on One Quiet Night, but a handful are not. The opening track, Paul Simon’s “The Sound of Silence,” is performed with Metheny’s 42-string Pikkaso, and sounds so good, I keep wanting a whole album of songs devoted just to that instrument. A nylon string guitar is used on what is probably my favorite piece on the album, the Beatles’ classic “And I Love Her.”
What makes this disc so interesting, listen after delicious listen, is that we actually have Metheny’s voice, for lack of a better word, on these classic, mostly pop songs. Tunes like “Rainy Days and Mondays” and “That’s the Way I Always Heard It Should Be” retain the longing and angst of the original melodies, but seem brighter, warmer, like that second cup of coffee. And with songs like “Cherish,” “Alfie,” and “Betcha By Golly, Wow,” Metheny solos so well around the main melody that the listener gets more than the same old sandwich with garnish on the plate to make it seem pretty. These are seasoned tunes made fresh with ingredients that could only be found in Pat Metheny’s musical kitchen.One disappointment for me is Metheny’s treatment of “Garota de Ipanema” (“The Girl from Ipanema”). I like the idea of taking it out of its traditional bossa nova setting, and I don’t mind putting some space between phrases, but this version is so slow that I barely recognized the tune. That doesn’t keep the result from being pretty and listenable, however.
Those who download the album from iTunes get a couple of bonuses worth noting. First, there is the digital booklet providing some information about the album. Second and more important, one gets two extra songs: “’Round Midnight” and “This Was Nearly Mine.” I was not familiar with the latter, but Metheny’s rendition of the Thelonious Monk classic is one of the most interesting and haunting I have heard in a very long time.
If you come to What’s It All About looking for elevator music or new age versions of some familiar old songs, expect to be pleasantly disappointed. If you are looking for something tasty and cool for your summer listening, this is perhaps the best album for your needs.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Why does it take so long for you to grade my paper, Mr. Morris?
From time to time, I have to answer this question from a student. It isn’t always worded this way. Sometimes the student is more polite; sometimes the student is not. And I do understand the oftentimes crippling desire to know, not whether one has done well or poorly, but just to know the results of a test or a paper.
Few students really want my feedback. Many say they do, but most don’t. They want the score. For some, it is as if they cannot move on with life until they get it.
I say this also knowing that each semester I have a larger percentage of students who do not even bother to look at their scores, much less feedback. But for now, I want to focus on those that want that number. A number that they often read as having some sort of meaning I did not intend. But that problem also is for another time.
Some students are rather, shall we say, self-absorbed, and some students have very little willingness to use actual reasoning. They argue that since I put deadlines on them, I should have a deadline for returning their work. Some of these students, when reminded that I may have as many as 150 students to grade work from, fail to see the relevance to their lives. Again, that feeling that they need to know the score is so strong, that they are blind to rational argument. And math.
I could list the usual reasons that I rarely can return a set of papers the very next class period. But I won’t. It would not be helpful. However, I thought I should list, in no particular order, a few answers to the question that seem to have been added recently.
But then my students would be out in the workplace, and making babies, and running for office without at least one person telling them that despite their sterling qualities, there is room for improvement. And I’d have to get a job doing something that paid more and gave me time to really help the community: like serving on the school board.
Few students really want my feedback. Many say they do, but most don’t. They want the score. For some, it is as if they cannot move on with life until they get it.
I say this also knowing that each semester I have a larger percentage of students who do not even bother to look at their scores, much less feedback. But for now, I want to focus on those that want that number. A number that they often read as having some sort of meaning I did not intend. But that problem also is for another time.
Some students are rather, shall we say, self-absorbed, and some students have very little willingness to use actual reasoning. They argue that since I put deadlines on them, I should have a deadline for returning their work. Some of these students, when reminded that I may have as many as 150 students to grade work from, fail to see the relevance to their lives. Again, that feeling that they need to know the score is so strong, that they are blind to rational argument. And math.
I could list the usual reasons that I rarely can return a set of papers the very next class period. But I won’t. It would not be helpful. However, I thought I should list, in no particular order, a few answers to the question that seem to have been added recently.
- Plagiarism, part I. While I have more tools at my disposal to catch cheaters, I have more people cheating, and I cannot just check the papers of those I suspect of getting unauthorized help. In addition, depending on the course and the circumstances, I need to take different actions with plagiarism, so that I am not just some sort of academic policeman, but still teaching. That means I have to spend time not only checking for plagiarism, but determining whether the incident is a matter of real dishonesty, or a matter of ignorance, or somewhere in between. Wilful ignorance is a very strong force.
- Plagiarism, part II. As noted before, I have more students cheating. For some assignments, I now need to check every single student in the class, not just those papers that look hinky. At least once a year now, I find a student who has plagiarized that no one would suspect of wrongdoing. In addition, I have found students who cheat on minor assignments as well as major ones. For example, in my American Literature class, I routinely find answers on reading quizzes have been taken from some site on the web, when reading the story might well have been easier. In the past couple of days, I have caught two students who submitted plagiarized posts to online discussion boards, an assignment that requires very little work to pass.
- I have a life too. While many a teacher, years ago, would eat a quick bite at dinner and disappear to a quiet room to grade stacks of papers while the rest of the family relaxed, or would bring a sheaf of tests to soccer practices and ballet rehearsals, many of us teachers have decided to actually be more involved in the lives of our children, and spend a few minutes each day with our spouses. So call me a hypocrite when I lament that the world spends too much time watching television. Some days, the only time I am going to get to sit next to my wife is during an episode of Law and Order, Criminal Intent. And guess what? Many of us go to church, join clubs, play sports, and even hassle our siblings on Facebook.
- We did not go to school to learn how to write numbers in boxes. That means our jobs require more of us than looking through the paper than marking or typing a couple of digits that will inflate your self-esteem (another topic for another time). Especially that paper you spent a whole two hours writing. Most of us do more than ramble stuff you don’t plan to remember for three hours a week. We go to meetings, workshops, and sometimes classes of our own. We talk to others in the profession. We make plans and tweak them so that we can do our jobs even better.
- Plagiarism, part III. When I catch someone cheating, I have to do something about it. Call it an odd tick in my nervous personality. But I actually have to write something to the student involved. I can’t just say, “Here’s an F for cheating. See ya next semester!” For legal reasons, I have to show how I know the material doesn’t belong to the student. I also may have to provide my own boss with something in writing in case that student wishes to take his or her cheating to a high level and go over my head. All that takes time, so the one student who doesn’t write his own paper or who gets her test answers from sources outside the proper channels of study is taking that time from the rest of the class who chose to suck it up and do the best they could with whatever they managed to learn.
- Email. Sometimes I try to convince myself to schedule email reading times, so that it doesn’t interrupt other parts of my job. But since many of my classes are online, and all my courses have some sort of online component, and since it is 2011, not 1911, I feel I must read and answer every email sent to me by every student. That is how we communicate. And I’d say that nine times out of ten it is what I would call “reasonable communication.” A student asks a question or makes a simple request, and I respond, hopefully with something that helps that student. After all, that is what I am here for, right? But that tenth person uses email for a multitude of personal attacks, complaints about the reading or the due dates, arguments about how I can’t really grade an opinion because an opinion can’t be wrong, arguments about how lifting something from Wikipedia is not plagiarism, and so forth and such forth. Some students carry on lengthy, days long conversations with me. And heaven forbid I fail to answer the tenth student quickly enough to suit them.
- Bad writing. Sometimes, even though I do not mark every single error in a paper, the writing is so devastatingly poor that I have to work very hard and long to decipher what is being said. I’ve instituted a five error rule where I stop reading papers with more than five sentence-level mistakes that a student (depending on level) should not make, and then return the essay to be revised before I will grade it. But that has only helped me a little bit (and actually requires a rather long set of instructions to be sent to the student). Much of the poor writing comes in emails. And those cheeky monkeys really want me to respond. Apparently, a note that says, “Your email is incomprehensible. Please rewrite it so that I’ll understand what you mean” is a blow to their self-esteem (another topic for another time).
But then my students would be out in the workplace, and making babies, and running for office without at least one person telling them that despite their sterling qualities, there is room for improvement. And I’d have to get a job doing something that paid more and gave me time to really help the community: like serving on the school board.
Friday, June 03, 2011
Reading Response – Of Kings, Villains, and Haters
I must take issue with Robert Weintraub and his article “Heat Sensitive: Why I’m rooting for LeBron James – and you should too,” published today at Slate. Mr. Weintraub seems to think he is going against most in America in trying to build a case for liking the Heat and the man most demonized during their run of success. But he’s not. He’s echoing what almost every broadcaster on the ESPN/Disney/ABC network (outside of those in Dallas and possibly Cleveland) says and his argument misses some very key facts.
Weintraub states that he “winced” at James’ The Decision program. Most of us didn’t wince. Real sports fans shuddered that sports had sunk to such a low level as to market and endorse (even after the fact, Mr. Wilbon!) a television show where a single player lifts himself above the sport (with the support of ESPN), and holds the basketball world hostage, all the while trying to portray himself as not merely a great basketball player, but the essence of the game itself. Repeat: we did not wince; we shuddered.
Michael Wilbon and others claim that people either have or will forget The Decision. Some will. I won’t. For me, though, it has been about how Mr. James (a player I very much supported in the past) has handled himself since that point. He calls people who criticized him “haters,” and refuses to admit that the show was childish and self-serving. So LeBron, what is it when you criticize someone’s actions? Loving? Grow up.
But what really gets me riled is when people like Weintraub assume that the criticism LeBron James has received is because of his actual decision to leave the Cavaliers and play in Miami. Weintraub writes, “LeBron put in his time in Cleveland, played out his contract, and chose to go elsewhere, just like millions of other careerists out there. End of story.”
But it isn’t the end of the story. I didn’t hear a lot of noise when Chris Bosh left Toronto. Sure, he’s not the caliber of player of James, but he did it for the same reason: the opportunity to play on a high caliber team and win a championship. The issue, Weintraub and so many miss, is not just in the way James left, but what he has done with himself since then. Had he made the move to Miami, most likely the only people on James’ little “list” would be the people of Cleveland.
Had all this happened when James was still 18 or 19, I think many people would give the guy a pass. Maybe we’d all think, “Hey, he’s just a kid.” But LeBron James isn’t a child star anymore. He’s a grown man, an adult punk.
In a recent column, Rick Reilly gives several reasons fans should root for the Mavericks in these Finals. One of my favorites is this: “Pull for Dallas because Nowitzki stayed with his team, never took his talents anywhere but to the damn gym every day.” Amen to that and Go MAVS!
Weintraub states that he “winced” at James’ The Decision program. Most of us didn’t wince. Real sports fans shuddered that sports had sunk to such a low level as to market and endorse (even after the fact, Mr. Wilbon!) a television show where a single player lifts himself above the sport (with the support of ESPN), and holds the basketball world hostage, all the while trying to portray himself as not merely a great basketball player, but the essence of the game itself. Repeat: we did not wince; we shuddered.
Michael Wilbon and others claim that people either have or will forget The Decision. Some will. I won’t. For me, though, it has been about how Mr. James (a player I very much supported in the past) has handled himself since that point. He calls people who criticized him “haters,” and refuses to admit that the show was childish and self-serving. So LeBron, what is it when you criticize someone’s actions? Loving? Grow up.
But what really gets me riled is when people like Weintraub assume that the criticism LeBron James has received is because of his actual decision to leave the Cavaliers and play in Miami. Weintraub writes, “LeBron put in his time in Cleveland, played out his contract, and chose to go elsewhere, just like millions of other careerists out there. End of story.”
But it isn’t the end of the story. I didn’t hear a lot of noise when Chris Bosh left Toronto. Sure, he’s not the caliber of player of James, but he did it for the same reason: the opportunity to play on a high caliber team and win a championship. The issue, Weintraub and so many miss, is not just in the way James left, but what he has done with himself since then. Had he made the move to Miami, most likely the only people on James’ little “list” would be the people of Cleveland.
Had all this happened when James was still 18 or 19, I think many people would give the guy a pass. Maybe we’d all think, “Hey, he’s just a kid.” But LeBron James isn’t a child star anymore. He’s a grown man, an adult punk.
In a recent column, Rick Reilly gives several reasons fans should root for the Mavericks in these Finals. One of my favorites is this: “Pull for Dallas because Nowitzki stayed with his team, never took his talents anywhere but to the damn gym every day.” Amen to that and Go MAVS!
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Music Notes – Frio Suite
Phil Keaggy is one of the finest guitar players most of you have never heard of, and Jeff Johnson is a keyboardist and producer extraordinaire. I have long found their music, particularly the instrumental albums, uplifting. When I found that they had collaborated on a project, I had to give it a listen.
Frio Suite is a beautiful sounding album, meant to evoke the wonder of the Frio River in Texas. The two had met at a retreat at Laity Lodge. Though I have never been here, the music certainly does make me want to take the trip. Each song brings a sense of peace and communion to mind.
While there are plenty of tasty moments by both performers, fans should not expect the kind of fireworks one usually hears from Keaggy’s guitar or the ballad/hymn like runs from Johnson’s keyboard. These can be found, but they are more subtle, perhaps. The album is more about texture. That said, the music does not disappoint.
What is disappointing, as least for me, is that I paid more for this project than is usual for digital albums, and got nothing extra. The CD supposedly comes with images from artist Kathy Hastings (who did the cover), but nothing comes to the purchaser of the album in digital format.
Frio Suite is a beautiful sounding album, meant to evoke the wonder of the Frio River in Texas. The two had met at a retreat at Laity Lodge. Though I have never been here, the music certainly does make me want to take the trip. Each song brings a sense of peace and communion to mind.
While there are plenty of tasty moments by both performers, fans should not expect the kind of fireworks one usually hears from Keaggy’s guitar or the ballad/hymn like runs from Johnson’s keyboard. These can be found, but they are more subtle, perhaps. The album is more about texture. That said, the music does not disappoint.
Music Notes – The Prayer Closet, Volume I
Hopefully it is not insulting to say this project is perfect for times of prayer and meditation. Many albums designed for such are either dull and only fill dead space so that the pilgrim can avoid silence, or they are so overblown as to artificially heighten the experience. Richard Souther's phenomenal record, I think, brings listeners to a state where distractions melt away.
That is not to say this isn't fine art. It is. I love the melding if acoustic and electronic, and the way the music uses silence and space. This is good, necessary, music for the spiritual being in all of us.
That is not to say this isn't fine art. It is. I love the melding if acoustic and electronic, and the way the music uses silence and space. This is good, necessary, music for the spiritual being in all of us.
Gagaville
Some people tell me that if I don’t like what is on the radio to just change the station. When it comes to Lady Gaga, that shouldn’t be a problem. I avoid any station that might play her music. At first it wasn’t so much about her controversies or her music. I simply wasn’t interested. To each his own, right?
But I still get Ms. Gaga from time to time. It can’t be helped. She’s very popular. Now and then I am next to some guy at a red light that turns up “Born This Way” with evangelistic fervor. I have gone through my living room and seen her on my television, which I have allowed my children to watch. Pictures of her appear in ads sometimes where I may read the news on the Internet.
I don’t like it, but I generally chalk it up to being on the wrong side of forty in a world ruled by teenagers. Live and let live, right?
Wrong. Now, Gagamania has invaded two of my favorite games: Farmville and Words With Friends.
On Farmville, not only is one able to plant Chrome Roses and Spiky Black Tress and purchase Purple Disco Sheep, one is inundated with offers to download music from her new album. The game, which now runs more slowly and has glitches galore, will not start without some grotesque add with Lady Gaga’s face on a motorcycle glaring at everyone who tries to play the game.
I have to suffer from Gaga madness when I try to play my other game: Words With Friends. At any time, I may have up to a dozen games going at once. And not only is the woman’s upcoming album being advertised, but I have to deal with the Gaga word of the day.
Look, I can deal with a few ads if I’m going to be cheap enough to stick with the free versions of my games. But just how long will the game itself be altered to fit a marketing campaign I have no interest in? There is no opt in, or opt out.
And that is where I think that it has all crossed the line. Lady Gaga has the right to make her money and market her product, but when the games, the programs themselves are changed, and not just for a brief time, then someone has as much as forced his or her way into my car and turned my radio from the station I have a right to listen to. No. They have broken into the office of my favorite station and crammed her stuff on the airwaves at the same time he or she seals me into my car.
So I’m sorry neighbors. Until Gaga gets off my farm, I can’t play. Nothing personal. I’m just born this way: to despise what is shoved down my throat.
Monday, February 21, 2011
A Few Counter Proposals
People said it would never happen, but here it comes. You too will have to right to bring a gun on campus to “protect” yourself from those smarmy professors who give you assignments and to help heighten the culture of fear that drives America.
Scott Lewis,Texas director of Students for Concealed Carry on Campus, states that there won’t be many students who are of the right age and have clean enough records and have to resources to get the CHL so they can carry guns on college campuses. First of all, he’s dead wrong about the age. While the image of the college student is someone who is 18-19, in community colleges, the average age is between 27 and 29 (depending on the state). Second, if only a few could obtain the permit, then why are so many people working so hard and spending so much money to get it passed. You know the answer is because they do not expect this lunacy to stop here. Third, if the measure is so we can protect people, why should only those we “squeaky clean” records (his words, not mine) be allowed to defend themselves?
When asked to respond to the charge that such legislation is emotion fueled and reactive. Scott Lewis responded, “Well, yeah, there’s got to be some emotion involved.” That is supposed to be an argument?
There has been no proof, none whatsoever, to demonstrate that people involved in the mass shootings Lewis and Representative Van Taylor often cite would have been able to defend themselves. None. Zero. In fact, most of the data points the other direction, which is why few police officers working college campuses support the bill.
What evidence, proof, will administrators and the trustees of Dallas County Community College provide me that will make me feel safe? You see, I deal with angry people every day. From near-illiterates who feel entitled to an A on papers they either didn’t write or wrote badly, to stressed nursing students trying to hold a high GPA in order to get into the right school, to spoiled athletes who think my job is to stroke their egos, to bullies who don’t follow procedures and are surprised when they fail courses they didn’t turn work in for, to the wanna be rap star who has decided that outside the door of my classroom is where he must give his impromptu concert. And don’t get me started on their parents. I have seen many students go from zero to raging hate in a matter of minutes. Most of these can pass a background check and get on the campus and blow me away. Who will guarantee my safety from them?
There is also a problem concerning what is called a “hostile workplace.” All employees in this country have a right, already safeguarded by law, to a safe and non-threatening work environment. Allowing just anyone who passes a check and takes a course to carry something whose only purpose is to take life to walk into my classroom and or to expect me to be comfortable with that person in my office, is hardly reasonable.
Many teachers are already working in fear. They don’t talk about it. They need their jobs.
So here are a few proposals, I’d like to offer to counter this wrongheaded idea:
Let the State (or district) pay for my CHL training, license, and weapon. Give me a list of all students in my classes with CHL and allow me to make sure they sit where I can get a good shot off without hurting anyone else should one of them get angry about a grade.
Reinforce a special classroom that cannot be entered without armed guard and let me lock weapons up during class. I’ll be safe from the shooter that could be in the class room, and we will all be safe from those outside too.
Put all classes online. That way potential victims can be home instead of in a dangerous school. (Of course, they are more likely to be killed at home by someone they know, but I don’t think that Misters Taylor and Lewis are willing to address that.)
Just let me teach online. Put all the gun toting people you want in a big classroom, and if they kill each other then, well, I’ll be safe. Surely, with all the budget cuts coming, Mr. Perry can afford special equipment for me to be in constant communication with my students who are not busy worrying about some jerk flying off and popping a cap in them.
Rick Perry has promised to sign this bill into law. Not just in the past few weeks of budget wrangling, but his whole life in office, Perry has proven that his interest in education is negligible, non-existent, zero. So what can we do in the face of such a boldface liar?
Maybe there is another idea to consider. All of us teachers should just stop. I don’t mean a strike, because, of course, that is illegal. But just all of us, all at the same time, stop teaching. Let the little gunslingers take their shootin’ irons some other place. Let those who want to learn go to the library (until Perry shuts those down too). After all, Texas consistently ranks at the bottom in education. Maybe things will get better if we just leave these students alone and keep them from the burdens of actually having to learn.
Scott Lewis,Texas director of Students for Concealed Carry on Campus, states that there won’t be many students who are of the right age and have clean enough records and have to resources to get the CHL so they can carry guns on college campuses. First of all, he’s dead wrong about the age. While the image of the college student is someone who is 18-19, in community colleges, the average age is between 27 and 29 (depending on the state). Second, if only a few could obtain the permit, then why are so many people working so hard and spending so much money to get it passed. You know the answer is because they do not expect this lunacy to stop here. Third, if the measure is so we can protect people, why should only those we “squeaky clean” records (his words, not mine) be allowed to defend themselves?
When asked to respond to the charge that such legislation is emotion fueled and reactive. Scott Lewis responded, “Well, yeah, there’s got to be some emotion involved.” That is supposed to be an argument?
There has been no proof, none whatsoever, to demonstrate that people involved in the mass shootings Lewis and Representative Van Taylor often cite would have been able to defend themselves. None. Zero. In fact, most of the data points the other direction, which is why few police officers working college campuses support the bill.
What evidence, proof, will administrators and the trustees of Dallas County Community College provide me that will make me feel safe? You see, I deal with angry people every day. From near-illiterates who feel entitled to an A on papers they either didn’t write or wrote badly, to stressed nursing students trying to hold a high GPA in order to get into the right school, to spoiled athletes who think my job is to stroke their egos, to bullies who don’t follow procedures and are surprised when they fail courses they didn’t turn work in for, to the wanna be rap star who has decided that outside the door of my classroom is where he must give his impromptu concert. And don’t get me started on their parents. I have seen many students go from zero to raging hate in a matter of minutes. Most of these can pass a background check and get on the campus and blow me away. Who will guarantee my safety from them?
There is also a problem concerning what is called a “hostile workplace.” All employees in this country have a right, already safeguarded by law, to a safe and non-threatening work environment. Allowing just anyone who passes a check and takes a course to carry something whose only purpose is to take life to walk into my classroom and or to expect me to be comfortable with that person in my office, is hardly reasonable.
Many teachers are already working in fear. They don’t talk about it. They need their jobs.
So here are a few proposals, I’d like to offer to counter this wrongheaded idea:
Let the State (or district) pay for my CHL training, license, and weapon. Give me a list of all students in my classes with CHL and allow me to make sure they sit where I can get a good shot off without hurting anyone else should one of them get angry about a grade.
Reinforce a special classroom that cannot be entered without armed guard and let me lock weapons up during class. I’ll be safe from the shooter that could be in the class room, and we will all be safe from those outside too.
Put all classes online. That way potential victims can be home instead of in a dangerous school. (Of course, they are more likely to be killed at home by someone they know, but I don’t think that Misters Taylor and Lewis are willing to address that.)
Just let me teach online. Put all the gun toting people you want in a big classroom, and if they kill each other then, well, I’ll be safe. Surely, with all the budget cuts coming, Mr. Perry can afford special equipment for me to be in constant communication with my students who are not busy worrying about some jerk flying off and popping a cap in them.
Rick Perry has promised to sign this bill into law. Not just in the past few weeks of budget wrangling, but his whole life in office, Perry has proven that his interest in education is negligible, non-existent, zero. So what can we do in the face of such a boldface liar?
Maybe there is another idea to consider. All of us teachers should just stop. I don’t mean a strike, because, of course, that is illegal. But just all of us, all at the same time, stop teaching. Let the little gunslingers take their shootin’ irons some other place. Let those who want to learn go to the library (until Perry shuts those down too). After all, Texas consistently ranks at the bottom in education. Maybe things will get better if we just leave these students alone and keep them from the burdens of actually having to learn.
Thursday, February 03, 2011
Music Notes – Bolero (Stanley Jordan)
Recently found Stanley Jordan’s Bolero in the clearance bin at a Half Price bookstore. It does make me a little sad to see work by such a talent in the sit- on-the-floor-and-sift section of a store, but I suppose that is all to my gain. Well, mostly.
Jordan’s take on the classic R&B song “Always and Forever” doesn’t work for me. The vocal chorus makes the tune sound too much like smooth jazz despite some tasty licks. I much prefer the solo reprise version that closes the disc. There Jordan makes the most of the melody, making it his own.
The Herbie Hancock gem “Chameleon” comes off better, despite the programmed drums and synths. (I know such was all the rage when this was made, but jazz artists who used them well didn’t always have songs that sounded programmed.) Here Jordan takes the tune into his own atmosphere, especially on the solos.
Next, Mr. Jordan takes on another R&B hit, “Betcha By Golly Wow.” This sounds more like a Stanley Jordan song than the treatment of “Always and Forever,” but it is a little lush for my taste in places. Again, the vocals don’t improve or add anything to the song, but are distracting.
I enjoyed “Drifting” quite a bit though it also feels a bit lush with the supporting keyboards. Here Jordan almost rises above the programming with some delicious solos.
In “Plato’s Blues” Jordan takes his layered approach to solo guitar on the low end of the sonic spectrum and comes up with a nice tromp through a genre he doesn’t get into often enough. It begins slow and builds to a rocking crescendo which should please any lover of the guitar.
Of course the centerpiece of the project is the title song, a 22 1/2 minute rendition of Ravel’s masterpiece. There are some moments where the piece suffers from the same flaws noted above (especially from about the 11 minute mark to 15 minutes in), but overall, Jordan’s version is beautifully crafted, and never dull. Jordan solos in all the right spots, returns to the main melody with flair, and brings joyous life to what easily could become boring after three minutes or a vehicle for pretension.
Bolero is not Stanley Jordan’s best album. It sounds too dated in places and does not make the most of his skills as an improviser. However, it hardly deserves relegation to the bargain bin.
Saturday, January 01, 2011
TV Notes -- Heading into 2011
HGTV's coverage of the Rose Bowl parade was pretty bad. The hosts talked over everything of interest. The goofball at street level was shown yapping with an inset taking up a quarter of the screen, often covering the float he was talking about. The camera rarely showed some of the most beautiful features of the floats. The only bright spot was the guy talking about some of the scientific and artistic elements of the floats, and the other hosts spent a lot of air time making fun of him.
I do not watch a lot of college football for reasons already chronicled in the this blog. But today, I have great interest in two games. First, I want to see Joe Paterno send Urban Meyer into retirement with a loss. I admire no person in college sports as much as Joe Pa. And may he live forever as one of the only pictures of integrity left in college sports.
The other game I am watching is the Rose Bowl, where TCU should not be. Again the BSC bishops in the Church of Football have avoided the truth by not only making moves to keep a playoff from happening, but put in a team led by a criminal whose journeyman career clearly demonstrates that education is a facade in college football. I have no particular ill feeling for Wisconsin, but the world needs to see a badger beating, sadly, to take TCU seriously.
As for the "championship" game, I am sure my little boycott won't make a difference, except to my soul.
I do not watch a lot of college football for reasons already chronicled in the this blog. But today, I have great interest in two games. First, I want to see Joe Paterno send Urban Meyer into retirement with a loss. I admire no person in college sports as much as Joe Pa. And may he live forever as one of the only pictures of integrity left in college sports.
The other game I am watching is the Rose Bowl, where TCU should not be. Again the BSC bishops in the Church of Football have avoided the truth by not only making moves to keep a playoff from happening, but put in a team led by a criminal whose journeyman career clearly demonstrates that education is a facade in college football. I have no particular ill feeling for Wisconsin, but the world needs to see a badger beating, sadly, to take TCU seriously.
As for the "championship" game, I am sure my little boycott won't make a difference, except to my soul.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Music Notes – The Quiltmaster
Imagine Pat Metheny, Robert Fripp, John Scofield, and Bill Frisell all had children and sent them to the University of North Texas to study. Then think about those kids meeting and deciding to form a band. Once they found a bassist and drummer and started to record, the L5 Electric Guitar Ensemble would be what it sounded like and The Quiltmaster would be the project they would create.
Tunes here were composed by Fred Hamilton, instructor at UNT and others with Hamilton also directing the project. I haven’t the foggiest notion what the title track is about (or any of the others on the disc).
Possibly because this is a student project, The Quiltmaster does not seem to have gotten much attention. But it is a really fine recording that deserves greater notice.
By the way, the disc is not available on iTunes or Amazon which is a darn shame. You have to go to the UNT website to find it unless you happen to run across it in a used store somewhere. I can't even remember where I got my copy.
Tunes here were composed by Fred Hamilton, instructor at UNT and others with Hamilton also directing the project. I haven’t the foggiest notion what the title track is about (or any of the others on the disc).
Possibly because this is a student project, The Quiltmaster does not seem to have gotten much attention. But it is a really fine recording that deserves greater notice.
By the way, the disc is not available on iTunes or Amazon which is a darn shame. You have to go to the UNT website to find it unless you happen to run across it in a used store somewhere. I can't even remember where I got my copy.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Music Notes – The Choir online concert
While the majority of my music time has been spent listening to jazz, I haven’t forgotten some of the rock bands that have shaped me in some way. So today, because on Facebook, I was able to find out about a special acoustic concert The Choir played online for their fans.
The group’s core is drummer and lyricist Steve Hindalong and Derri Daughtery on guitars and lead vocals. In this set, long time sax/lyricon player Dan Michaels did join them for a few of their classic tunes. The acoustic format really does suit The Choir, demonstrating in particular Hindalong’s percussion chops. Daughtery does not get to layer his guitar as he does on their studio releases, but his voice is a gorgeous as ever, providing the empathetic thrust that drives many Choir songs.
Of course the acoustic setting (Mr. Michaels’ living room) is also appropriate for other reasons. First, the group recently released de-plumed' target=_blank>de-plumed, a disc of re-recorded, stripped down versions of songs from each of the band’s twelve studio releases. Second, The Choir has always made music with a kind of intimate, emotional and spiritual intensity, and their God-given gifts cannot be hidden by studio trickery.
Of course I’m biased. But since rock music has not been part of my day to day listening the past few years, I have noticed that only really great groups have any staying power with me, still knock me off my feet. And The Choir is one of those bands. Listen, they didn’t even play two of my favorite tunes, “Restore My Soul' target=_blank>Restore My Soul” and “Chase The Kangaroo' target=_blank>Chase the Kangaroo,” but they still managed to fill the set with some mighty, mighty good music.
The show appears to have been archived at The Choir’s website and can be seen here.
The group’s core is drummer and lyricist Steve Hindalong and Derri Daughtery on guitars and lead vocals. In this set, long time sax/lyricon player Dan Michaels did join them for a few of their classic tunes. The acoustic format really does suit The Choir, demonstrating in particular Hindalong’s percussion chops. Daughtery does not get to layer his guitar as he does on their studio releases, but his voice is a gorgeous as ever, providing the empathetic thrust that drives many Choir songs.Of course the acoustic setting (Mr. Michaels’ living room) is also appropriate for other reasons. First, the group recently released de-plumed' target=_blank>de-plumed, a disc of re-recorded, stripped down versions of songs from each of the band’s twelve studio releases. Second, The Choir has always made music with a kind of intimate, emotional and spiritual intensity, and their God-given gifts cannot be hidden by studio trickery.
Of course I’m biased. But since rock music has not been part of my day to day listening the past few years, I have noticed that only really great groups have any staying power with me, still knock me off my feet. And The Choir is one of those bands. Listen, they didn’t even play two of my favorite tunes, “Restore My Soul' target=_blank>Restore My Soul” and “Chase The Kangaroo' target=_blank>Chase the Kangaroo,” but they still managed to fill the set with some mighty, mighty good music.
The show appears to have been archived at The Choir’s website and can be seen here.
Saturday, October 09, 2010
Music Notes – Healing Waters
If you have heard of Dean Evenson, it is probably because you have spent time listening to one of the more atmospheric new age satellite broadcasts like Moodscapes. On the other hand, you likely did not catch the name because you were too busy doing yoga or meditating or sleeping to see it. Healing Waters is the first album I have listened to with a warning that said one should not listen to it while driving. And such a warning is probably a good idea.
Mr. Evenson plays some flutes and keyboards (the latter for background tone, not accompaniment). With the addition of acoustic guitar and ocean noises (waves, gulls, and whales I think), the disc is certainly relaxing. There are other instruments on the project, but the pieces with guitar are the ones that stand out for me. Healing Waters reminds me a lot of the music I hear in my favorite Chinese restaurant. It's not art, but does the job of setting a quiet mood.
Friday, October 01, 2010
Music Notes – Saturn Sings
Mary Halvorson’s Saturn Sings is a little on the avant garde side for my tastes, but not so much so that it would turn off everyone. Some of it actually grew on me. Halvorson is a good player, and the group behind her is intriguing to me, if not so for the casual jazz listener. I think I prefer the trio pieces a little more than those with the full quintet, but maybe because I'm not used to as many people going is so many directions.
The disc reminds me a bit of Bill Frisell without the Americana or well thought out effects. Some spots have me thinking of the late Derek Bailey, but just when I think a piece is too far in space to be retrieved, it seems to settle, hover around a snippet of melody, and then take off, not always beautifully, but most often strikingly. As Lars Gotrich writes, "each of these inspirations is an abstract cliff-dive, and...there's much to take in."
The disc reminds me a bit of Bill Frisell without the Americana or well thought out effects. Some spots have me thinking of the late Derek Bailey, but just when I think a piece is too far in space to be retrieved, it seems to settle, hover around a snippet of melody, and then take off, not always beautifully, but most often strikingly. As Lars Gotrich writes, "each of these inspirations is an abstract cliff-dive, and...there's much to take in."
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