P Is for Pedagogy

I’m grading final papers.  I take my time and write a lot of comments. I always write comments, maybe too many, but I am determined my presence will help someone become a better writer.

Because to write is to think. As historian David McCullough says, “Good writing is good thinking.”

Boy, is that a hard concept to teach. Yet, as one who made a living stringing words together, I know this. I think of it every time I write one of these posts.  Sometimes I reread a draft and think, “I didn’t know I thought that.” But writing – crafting – each of these essays requires thought and order and research and review.

Good writing is good thinking.  How do you teach that?

With the final speeches stacked on my table I know I’m at the end of my time with these 23 young souls. Have I made a difference? Would the stars have been stars whether or not I drove to Boone two times a week? What about the others? Have my admonishments and guidelines made a difference?

Will they remember my personally minted mnemonic?  SEEOAT. An effective speech needs Structure, Evidence, writing for the Ear, an Objective, to be targeted to the Audience, and have a Theme (which can be stated in one sentence). 

I’m fairly new to classroom instruction. I learn something every session, every student. I know now, three semesters in, that teaching is an act of faith. Faith that my commitment, time, preparation, and belief in the next generation are worth the effort.

I also know, as I tell my students when stressing the importance of attendance, that, as Woody Allen allegedly said, “80 percent of life is showing up."

So, after showing up in Appalachian State’s Walker Hall 28 times this semester, we’re at the end of our time together. I’m worried. Did I teach? Did they learn?

Will my fledgling speechwriters who are about to fly away ever understand the absolute importance of structure? Did I stress enough that not using an outline is not optional? If reading John McPhee on structure couldn’t convince them, what possibly could? Maybe a hammer.

I close the computer on my Excel grade book and go outside to attack the weeds in our neglected garden. I need a task where I can see tangible results of my efforts. Yet, the disarray in the garden plot reminds me of their speeches.  

Weeds. Things that don’t belong. All over the place.

           

I attack the weeds with the same fervor I attack my students’ writing. One big clump is using “that” and not “who” when referring to a person.  Pokeweed is random apostrophes where there is no possessive. The endless use of they, a plural, when referring to an individual or single entity is pigweed. Yet more garden invaders represent run-on sentences and endless paragraphs.

When will the speaker ever catch her breath? Oh, and then there are sections that, like Superman, leap tall thoughts in a single bound. Where are the transitions? On what wild ride are you taking the audience?

Good writing is good thinking. What are they thinking? Are they thinking?

So much to teach. So little time. Use concrete details. Show me, don’t tell me. Cite a source for a big statement. Use active voice.  Delete unnecessary words.  Make every word count.

Good writing is good thinking. If you can organize your thoughts, back it up with solid and convincing evidence, and make it come alive with story, you can change minds, hell, maybe even lives.

My first job was copy editor and proofreader. I loved being a “comma chaser.” But, in grading student work I choose my battles. I’ve given up on persuading them to use “more than” rather than “over,” but for who and not that, I am relentless. Even Frank Bruni, an opinion writer for The New York Times, pitched into battle with me. I use his April 8, 2017, column on “What Happened to Who?” as an extra credit assignment. Still, the “that” surplus persists.

The weed attack was the day before I was to travel to Boone for the last class meeting – hear one final speech, hand back papers, and introduce the class to Pauli, the class mascot.

Pauli is our six-month-old German Shorthaired Pointer. At the first class meeting I had supplemented my introduction with a projected photo of our new puppy. I told the class that if I ever didn’t return one of their assignments, well, it would be because my dog ate their homework. And she did. But it was only once.

Our dog helps make me more human. Over the course of the semester, my photo updates of my canine companion helped me connect with the dog-loving students. In my short teaching career, I’ve learned to be effective I must be real. It is not all about subject matter. Like most things, teaching is about relationships.

And, I work to form relationships. For the first half of the semester I fear I will never learn all their names. Okay, only seven guys, I can do that. Except, once I learn the name of the guy with the beard, the beard disappears. Then, the guy who always wears a ball cap comes hatless. And the women, why must the brunettes all sit together? The first year, the blondes all blended together. For months.

Somehow, by about Week 7 I know their names. Then, through their speeches I learn more, far more, about them as individuals: their backgrounds, hopes, interests, dreams, fears, and losses.

As I record the grades for the final speeches, I am impressed with the topics and themes. Several wrote about the college experience, but their remarks offered refreshing insights and personal perspectives that would be helpful for incoming freshmen. One student’s final speech made us laugh out loud. Still more had the class riveted. One delivered remarks on mental health and depression and cited compelling evidence – the four-times higher rate of suicide attempts for LGBTQ youth.

We were spellbound as students gave speeches with stories of child abuse, of the experience of being a brown child in a white media culture, of parents devoted to  helping a sick child, and more. I witnessed much mature self-awareness from such young people.

Okay, there’s work to do on sentence length, paragraph breaks, and who and that, but, wow, they sure get it about the power of story. Facts are important. Story brings it home. And, good thinking makes good writing.

Pauli and I walk to meet the students. We hear the final talk – the speaker rises to the occasion. Pauli is a hit, as is to be expected from such a sweet gal.  I receive flowers and two cards, which I’ll read later, and students linger to talk. I haven’t been teaching for long, but, to me, lingering on the last day is a clear sign that the prep-time, the grading, the driving, and all my efforts are worth it.

Maybe I do make a difference.

P.S.  One student wrote about me for HerCampus. That was sweet. I had told her about how my retirement planning had targeted the letter P – prose, pedaling, paddling, puppies, politics, and pedagogy.

These are sea oats. SEEOAT is a mnemonic.

Accidental Activist

It’s a mandatory training session. On April 1 at 8:00 a.m. in Fayetteville, which is more than three hours away. I know what mandatory means, so I arrange lodging for the dog here and lodging for me there.

With my favorite Arlington activist

After a night on what is arguably the world’s worst hotel mattress (you’ve been warned, do not stay at Holiday Inn Express), I check in early at the meeting facility. As a first-timer I am a little nervous, but eager to hear Rev. Dr. William J. Barber II speak.

The moral voice of our time, Rev. Barber is the electrifying leader of North Carolina’s Forward Together Movement, President of the NorthCarolina NAACP, educator, minister, and so much more.

I’ve heard him speak twice before – in 2014 at Asheville’s Moral Monday in the Mountains and at a July 2015 march at the start of the federal voting rights trial in Winston-Salem. But, I’m in Fayetteville for training, not marching. I’m the recently elected secretary of the Catawba County NAACP branch and Fayetteville is the site of the annual training.

Last summer, I’d gone to my first NAACP branch meeting after seeing a notice in the newspaper. I kept going.  It felt right; I felt welcome. The branch president asked me to be on the nominating committee. Okay. I can do that. Then, I raised my hand and offered to be secretary. I’m a writer. A secretary takes minutes, how hard could that be?

Fast forward to Fayettevile. I’m sitting at a table I’ve staked out for our chapter in a cavernous room with about 300 other people. After a press conference and introductions, the training begins. At my age, I’ve been to a lot of training sessions. Who knew that learning bylaws could be so lively and interesting? Our trainer-in-chief, the eloquent Rev. Barber, has lots of stories that he uses to punctuate the bylaws discussion much as a conductor uses percussion to punctuate a movement.

He goes through a portion of the bylaws, line by line, with a voice that can move mountains. After another story, he gets to the role of branch officers. President: Check. Not my problem. Secretary:  Geesh, no mention of minutes, my strongpoint, but a list of other duties and the importance of the position. Heck, Rosa Parks was a branch secretary.  No pressure or big shoes to fill there.

I pull myself from hanging on every word of our trainer-in-chief’s discussion of policies and politics (my favorite) and retreat to the training for secretaries (um, not so favorite). There are lots of us, and lots of questions. The ladies who run this training know their stuff, inside and out. But, nothing is clear. I am so right-brained. The woman seated next to me, from the neighboring county, looks at me as if to say, “There, there, dear.” She gives me her name and number. Then, I remember that before lunch my chapter mates told me they’d have my back. Whew. My breathing returns to normal.

As I begin my drive home how I came to this new role reminds me of how I became president of the Democratic Women of Catawba County. I showed up. At the early 2014 meeting to elect officers for the brand-new chapter there were seven women in the room. No one wanted to be president. Okay, I’ll do it. How hard can it be?

Driving north on U.S. 421, I muse on my retirement path. None of this – president and now secretary – was planned. My involvement was a byproduct of wanting to meet people, and people with whom I share values. That’s why I went to the Catawba County Democratic Party meetings and the meetings about the women’s group. I decide somewhere between Fuqay-Varina and Winston-Salem that maybe I’m an accidental activist.

Yet, it’s my fourth year as president of our women’s group. I kept showing up. I stood for reelection. Okay, it was not a coveted position. Leading is getting a little easier, but offers new challenges because we’ve grown from the founding few to more than 60.

Dem Women founders portraying legends

The good news about the now-crowded meeting rooms is that instead of a handful with their hands full, we have more people doing more. We’ve got a strong issues group working to educate and advocate on our priority issues -- public education, access to health care, and voting rights. We’ve got a great group for events – with a signature fundraiser set for May 6. And, we’ve got a team of communicators, including our youngest member, a teen-aged Instagram and Snapchat maven.

The founding few cannot take all the credit for this growth.  Do you think there might be a link between who got inaugurated on Jan. 20, 2017, and 70 people showing up at our meeting eight days later?

And, yes, that is a rhetorical question. 

Timothy Egan, among others, points out the silver lining of this era of orange-haired government, of having a national leader who has never been in government at any level or in any capacity. As Egan wrote in The New York Times, “… we may be experiencing a great awakening for the humane values that are under siege by a dark-side presidency. People are going inward, to find something bigger than Trump, and outward, to limit the damage he inflicts on the country.”

Yes, we are waking up.

One hundred and ninety three miles later, I arrive home and retrieve the newspaper. Turns out, I’m on page one, pictured talking with one of the participants at the previous day’s Transgender Day of Visibility.

Okay, perhaps my activism is not so accidental. Maybe it’s accidentally on purpose.

There is purpose and a lot of work to be done. Our state and nation need so much work – on justice, equality, education, and the environment, to name just a few. And, I’ve already got something to show for my involvement -- my picture with Rev. Barber. 

Sweet.

Now to live up to it.

In Fayetteville with Rev. Dr. William J. Barber II

Mr. Adams's Horrible Idea

One of the nation’s leading proponents for common-sense gun laws is Gabrielle Giffords, former U.S. congressman from Tucson, AZ. She learned about gun safety the hard way. A man carrying a concealed weapon shot her in the head.

Arizona is one of ten states that do not require a permit for carrying a concealed weapon. Rep. Jay Adams wants our state to join that list. He has sponsored legislation – HB 69, The Constitutional Carry Act – to eliminate North Carolina’s ability to regulate carrying concealed weapons.

There are two bills on this topic at the 2017 regular session of the General Assembly. “These are horrible ideas,” says Guilford County Sheriff BJ Barnes, co-chair of the NC Sheriff’s Association legislative committee.

I agree. These are horrible ideas. Recently, I wrote Rep. Adams to ask him what benefits could outweigh the risks to justify sponsoring this legislation. Here’s what he said:  “…the very possibility that a law-abiding citizens (sic) might be armed has had the desired and predicted effect on the calculation criminals make as they contemplate their illicit activity, thus chilling that behavior. This bill expands the probability in the minds of criminals that a law-abiding citizen may intervene in their actions.”

Adams cited no research, no statistics. If you start to look into this – it doesn’t take long, Rep. Adams – you will find that research shows, according to the Law Center to Prevent Gun Violence, that, “Weak permitting systems allow dangerous people to carry guns.”

Here’s more on that – again based on research. Concealed carry weapon holders threaten public safety. They can threaten public safety even if they are trying to assist in a dangerous situation.

Did you know that in the 2011 shooting that injured Congressman Giffords, where the shooter killed six people and injured 12 others – a man carrying a concealed weapon almost drew his weapon against another man, who had wrestled the shooter’s gun away, mistakenly thinking that the man was actually the shooter, but he wasn’t.

Study after study shows that carrying concealed weapons does not reduce crime. It only adds opportunities for more harm. Rep. Adams, I will feel safer in my hometown knowing that anyone carrying a concealed weapon has been trained in gun safety and gone through our state’s rigorous and highly regarded permitting process. Please focus your legislative efforts on ways to improve our quality of life.

Note:  Check out the organization -- Americans for Responsible Solutions -- that Giffords and her husband, former Navy captain and astronaut Mark Kelly launched to prevent gun violence and protect responsible gun ownership.  

Numb

Election results are in. The short-fused man with the red face and orange hair and no experience or sense of governing is the president-elect. My husband reminds me that it is good news that I am no longer a federal employee. That is one silver lining in this orange mess.

I hope it is true that God loves idiots, drunks, and the United States of America.

I need sleep, restorative rest, to be calm and ready to be open to keep working for my -- and many others' -- ideals of a fair and equitable nation that is open to all.

Yes, to sleep, perchance to dream, of a nation based on our founding principles of all men/people created equal.

Dream, yes, then back to work.

Confessions of a Poll Greeter

The good news:  For the hours I stood greeting voters at early voting locations in North Carolina’s Catawba County, where just a little over one-fourth of the registered voters share my “D” designation, was that the sun was shining.

Too late did I realize I should have invested in a proper hat to shield my face from the sun and proper armor to shield my soul from the deplorable – yes, deplorable – negativity.

As my skin darkened from hours in the sun, it never thickened from nasty comments. Early on – day 2, I believe – it was clear the life of a Democratic poll greeter in Western North Carolina wasn’t going to be easy. A woman who reminded me of a defensive lineman got into the faces of my coworker and me. She insisted on provoking us, yet we quickly saw no point in discussing anything with her. We ended up moving to opposite ends of the greeting area while she stubbornly stood her acquired ground near the Democratic Party Information Station sign.

This election reminds me a lot of 5^th grade and bullies.

One voter in battle wear 

Another day I asked a woman walking to the voting site if she’d like a sample Democratic ballot. She told the two teen girls with her, “Now, that’s what I don’t want you to go up to be.”

Oh, boy, do I hope those girls rebel, and not with drugs or drink.

Another day at the voting site where political foot soldiers are inches apart, a Republican stalwart asked about my accent. I can be so naïve. I replied, honestly, Texas, California, and Virginia. Later, I learned that he likely cared less about my pronunciation and vocal patterns and more about my activism.  A longtime union organizer explained his inquiry was code for, “You’re an outside agitator.”

Yes, I am. I care about public education, equal rights, and equity.

Next, that individual addressed my candidate for school board. “I hear she’s an atheist.”

“What does that have to do with being qualified for school board?”

Again with the naiveté.

After falling for the bait, twice, I got quicker with my response. Slipping slightly into my native Texas drawl I pronounced, “My grandfather said ‘I heard’ and ‘They say’ are the two biggest liars in the world.”

Later, I realized he was using the same tactic as Trump, smearing others, not with fact, but with innuendo by saying things like “I hear crooked Hillary is …” 

I started out my 2016 poll experience hopeful. Fivethirtyeight.com had our state light blue. I was enthusiastic about our chances to get a new governor who cares about public education and doesn’t discriminate against the LGBTQ community. I thought we could elect a strong and principled woman to the U.S. Senate and send the NRA-financed fellow packing. I want to elect fair judges, not ones who sanction outlandish gerrymandering and voter suppression. Oh, and maybe, just maybe, we could get a new congressman with integrity, and elect someone to the school board who wants to put ALL students first.

By the last day, my adopted state was pink on fivethirtyeight.com and a car emblazoned with hate, notably a “Lock Her Up” sticker, pulled into the polling place. 

That car left me dumbfounded. Was I a fool to think we could take steps, even teeny tiny ones to help our county and state be more supportive, more open, and more fair?

Yet, minutes after that angry car, I gave a sample ballot to a 70-something African- American who was voting for the first time. A young African-American, also voting for the first time, came out smiling. His parents and I applauded. Then, a middle-aged white woman returned her voter guide after her first-ever vote. She gave a thumbs-up for our “blue” guidance.

I scanned the parking lot to find my colleague. The all-time high point of my time in the sun was volunteering alongside this African-American man. He grew up in the Jim Crow era and knows what it is like to be marginalized, disenfranchised, suspected, and hated. He knows the importance of voting and how hard-won and fragile that right has been, and remains.

Of his long hours at the polls, this gentle man says, “I have to be here.”

It’s people like him, my other fellow volunteers, those first-time voters, and the thumbs-up and smiles that lift my spirits and give me hope.

May I offer you a blue ballot?

On Civility and Campaign 2016

When I was growing up in the South, I called grownups sir and ma’am. I called the parents of my friends Mr. or Mrs. So-and-so. I also got my mouth washed out with soap for saying “shut-up.”

On matters of manners, my mother ran a tight ship. We had to say “please” and “thank you.” Writing thank-you notes was the 11^th commandment, or maybe the 6^th, right after “Honour thy father and mother.” We children were more often seen than heard.

Of course, that was in the bucolic 1950s. Then, my family left the South and went West just in time for the 1960s and to be near the epicenter of flower children, free speech, and the counterculture.

I wore tie-dye and bell bottom jeans and protested Vietnam, but I still said “please” and “thank you.”

Yet, after watching a candidate for the highest office in the land on the stage of Hofstra University interrupting, sputtering, and spewing “Not!” and “Wrong!” before a national, even global, audience, I have to ask where in the world has civility gone?  Did my generation of protestors, hippies, and flower children flouting authority start us down the slope to where we are today?

As Professor Walter E. Williams of George Mason University writes, “Starting in the 1960s, the values that made for civility came under attack.” Dr. Williams talks about banning corporal punishment half a century ago as being a forerunner for today’s lack of civility.

I was smacked with a ruler by my 2^nd grade teacher for not putting my pencil down and sent to the office for chewing gum in 7^th grade. Yes, I was quite the wild child.

Not!

The point is there were consequences for bad behavior – whether it was a soapy mouth or a ruler swatting or being sent to the office. So, how did someone of my generation – just a few years older – grow up to be so unruly, surly, and rude?

Enter “Donald Trump” and “grade school” on Google and you’re quickly led to descriptions of an incorrigible child at Kew-Forest School in Queens, NY.  If only Donald Trump had had my parents or my teachers.  

I suspect class and privilege played a big part in young Donny getting a pass from those teachers and administrators. The little rich child got away with big talk, swagger, and bullying.

But, he was abruptly sent to military boarding school when he was 13, TheWashington Post reports. 

To me, it looks like he needed a much stronger institution than the New York Military Academy where instead of military order the emphasis was on fighting, hazing, and male dominance.

He learned those lessons well.

Here’s what’s worrying and it takes me back to the ‘60s again to the Graham Nash song “Teach Your Children Well.”

Election 2016 is not teaching our children well. With the Republican candidate we are telling our children that cruelty, crudity, and lying is okay. We are saying it’s acceptable to be racist, intolerant, and bigoted and still be a candidate to be the leader of the free world. We are tacitly admitting that being bellicose and belligerent is admirable.

Not!

Those are bad lessons. They are the direct opposite of the misogynist candidate’s favorite adjective. Those lessons are terrible, not terrific.

As developmental psychologist Dr. Roberta Michnick told Vanity Fair,  “Our children are being exposed to a role model that is horrendous… And he’s already had an impact. There are examples in which he has disinhibited people, and children, from saying negative and racist things about others.”

  

With this fellow – he’s no gentlemen – on the national stage consuming so much airtime and so much of our finite genteel oxygen I’m worried about civility, about kindness, and about empathy.

That’s worries me a lot.  But, the future of our country worries me even more.  

This bully must be stopped.

And it is up to us. All of us. That’s my message on National Voter Registration Day.

Woman's Best Friend, Piper, Oct. 5, 2001 - July 22, 2016