(so this is a teaching blog, right? Well actually yes. I am in the middle of writing a piece on the esl/eap schism. It was getting a little hard-edged, though, so I decided to spend some time in the relatively tranquil waters of world politics)
I’m not a very politically active person, but I did go to Oka during the crisis — twice.
The first time was like a slightly gritty summer camp. After all, it is beautiful there; we fell asleep in a pile around a campfire, and there was probably drumming.
When we went back a week later, the visitors had left. It was still beautiful, but there were lines of soldiers on the tops of the hills.
We were not quite sure what to do: we weren’t really making ourselves useful, but we had a feeling of obligation, that we could not turn away from what was happening. The air buzzed with foreboding…
And then, a confrontation broke out between the soldiers and a couple in a car. The two were arrested, and the soldiers moved to take the car away.
But we knew there was a child in the car. We rushed forward to intercede with the soldiers and they pushed us back.
And then we just, well, fell apart. In our defence, we were youngish and sleep-deprived, and we’d never had that many guns trained on us before.
While we were sobbing and shivering, a woman appeared out of one of the dells. Her calm presence made me think she was a clan mother, but she was a visitor too, a Quaker lady* from Nova Scotia. She had emerged not out of the woods, but out of the Oka cheese outlet, which was, amazingly, still open.
She spoke calmly with the soldiers , and they agreed to release the child into her care.
Later on there was a hearing — we are white and middle class, and one of us was hit by a solider. This meant I had the chance to meet the Quaker lady again. She told me about how she had spent her day with the little girl. Little mundane details like how they had a picnic. I remember being a touch impatient: I wanted drama; I wanted her to shake her fist at the sky and curse the military imperialist complex, but she just wanted to talk about Oka cheese.
It was only much later that I realized that she didn’t need the grandiose statements because she had moulded her whole life into an act of resistance. Her faith and political beliefs were embodied in everything she did. Even her choice of residence was an act of resistance: she had moved to Canada in protest against the military actions of the US government.
I’ve been thinking about the Quaker lady lately, in these unmoored times when I’m wondering how to be. How to navigate this world where frightening things are happening on our borders. How to be of use; how to make my life a useful one. I think it’s time to cultivate some of her patience and humility, to practise waiting and listening. Sometimes the act that we need to perform is not a grand gesture, but something as simple as taking responsibility for a frightened child, or providing transportation somewhere — or not providing transportation — or passing on a message, or moving a file to another folder, or sitting on the floor in some airport. The thing about these Boschian times is that we just don’t know. Part of that is that we don’t know how we will be able to make ourselves useful. Just that it probably won’t be at the head of a march.
This is not a post against the marching. I went to the Toronto march last weekend, and it was wonderful in ways I can’t yet put into words. What I want to say is that the marching was almost certainly the easy part…
At the time, I read it and dismissed it, preoccupied by all the other demons swirling around that hectic night. And yes, perhaps there was also a little bit of denial there.
When I woke up in the morning, though, my body hurt as if I had been drinking and I knew that on some visceral level, I had accepted it : that Hillary’s loss had at least in part been due to misogyny. I was crying — the kind of crying where tears just appear on your cheeks out of nowhere — and I couldn’t stop.
It felt different from the other fears and regrets and betrayals that I was dealing with — it felt personal — It’s not that I ever wanted to be president of the United States, but the message: people like you shouldn’t even think of doing this — it shook me to the core. It’s an unbidden reaction to injustice and discrimination, and it is running through my body like a disease.
And then the concession speech. I was so worried — when she didn’t speak that night, when she was behind schedule the next morning.
I mean what do you when you lose a presidential election after 50 years of campaigning for the job? Was she lying on some hotel floor somewhere pounding her fists into the baseboard?
Sure that would have been me — and most of us –and she’d certainly earned the right. But for her sake, I wanted that dignity at the finish, to show her as the stateswoman she’d always been.
And she did it. She stood there and smiled and made eye contact and was presidential even in defeat; and she held it together, which is what Hills has always done best.
The speech was strong, a subtle balance of grace, anger and gratitude. And it hit its mark. I could see the Facebook responses proliferating, sound bites lining up beside the images on the screen, spinning off into their own separate existences.
I think that of all the excellent speeches of this campaign, this is one whose words will resound, will be repeated, on college walls, in graduation addresses, on motivational posters, repeated until the words are so well known that they become trite. And when that happens, when her words have become part of our cultural wallpaper, Hillary Clinton will have become the legend she deserves to be.
It’s already started — on Wednesday, my friend Cate posted this photo of one of the walls of Toronto Western Hospital.
And I think: well okay then. She’s not quitting, so neither should we.
We knew this would be hard row to hoe, and now we see exactly how hard. But hasn’t that always been the case? — backwards and in high heels, as they used to say. Now we know, and when we come back, we’ll work even harder. Some will be daunted or disgusted by the Boschian absurdity of the past 16 months, but for some this will be a gauntlet thrown down.
Those girls in the gallery with the tear-splotched faces — they’ll remember this moment. And they’ll be back, and so will this one, and so will the rest of us, all the way back to the women who were there from the beginning.
I love the poem Ulysses,* the driving rhythm of the poetry, the solitary courage of the speaker — even the arrogance speaks to me at a certain level. I hear its lines in my head many times throughout my day. I guess in a way, we all want to be Ulysses.
But it wasn’t always like this. When we were learning the poem in high school English class, the teacher asked us whom we identified more with, Tennyson’s hero or The Lotos Eaters.(She was the cool teacher.)** Full disclosure here, I hadn’t actually read the latter poem; I was going totally on my memory of that section of Little Town on the Prairie where Laura finds the Tennyson book hidden away in her mother’s sewing.
Even so, I was firmly in the camp of The Lotus Eaters, even if it was a little tl;dr. Now it was the 70s, so slacker culture was in full swing, but it was more than that — I actively hated Ulysses.
When I was younger, the question had been easy: “Where are the girl characters in this book?” Now, my cool girl persona didn’t permit me to ask the question out loud, but I had an awkward feeling when I read the third line, the only mention of any woman in the poem. “Matched with an aged wife I mete and dole” –I felt embarrassed and uncomfortable when I heard these words, but there was no accessible way to articulate or even make sense to myself of what I felt.
It’s like when I studied Anglo Saxon in second year university. Again I wanted to ask, “Where are the girl characters?” but nobody was asking that question at U of T in the early 80s.* ** I dealt with my anger by avoidance, and getting an extremely poor grade in my Old English course.
In those days, I didn’t consider myself a feminist: I was a cool girl and I didn’t need women’s rights. I could keep pace with the boys around me. I would rather get a C in an English course than admit what was bothering me.
All this changed when I had my first child. Suddenly equality was not a given: it became something I had to fight for. And I realized that feminism was simply that.
So there’s a whole chunk of the story that deserves its own blogpost, or even its own blog, but here I am, 47/50 on the Buzzfeed Feminist Scale. **** It’s been a journey through feminism, and also through reading, and I’m not sure how it happened, but now I love Ulysses. It’s become part of the fabric of my life as I age. *****
As for Anglo Saxon, I haven’t quite reconciled myself to it completely. But that year when two Beowulf movies came out, I saw both of them. I hope that counts.
*Tennyson here as opposed to Joyce. The latter work is the source of its own dysfunctional relationship, but I’ll save that for another post.
*** and yes I know now that the Angelina Jolie monster does actually play quite a large role in Beowulf. In university, though, I never made it far enough through the thorns and swords to find out.
**** Well who can honestly say that she has never criticized another woman’s clothes or makeup?
***** (I just had to squeeze this in because it makes me so happy.) For my parents’ 50 th anniversary, my father wrote this poem, which recuperates and reclaims the original Ulysses in a true love song.
There’s a kind of watershed when it comes to memory. Too close to an event, you can’t really process it; too far, and you start to lose the nuance of the experience. I feel that I’ve come to that point in my memories of Overland. I’m finding ways to articulate things better than I could when I was immersed in that world, but I sense that if I wait any longer, I will no longer be able to truly capture the experience. It’s already starting to happen with the Overland Heyday stories. My semantic memory of that time is pretty good, but the episodic is becoming vague and generalized. I can write about how Overland made me feel, and I have done so here and here and here and this whole series. However, I can’t really capture what it felt like to teach a particular class. That teacher is so different from the person I am now that we can’t even talk to each other.
I became aware of the fading of these memories as I wrote this article. The story is set in the Later Overland era, but even so, I realized that the scene was already slipping away from me, and that if I was going to write this, it should be now.
This originally started as a set piece that I was working on for a very pragmatic reason: I needed something halfway serious to do while I was supervising a test. In other words, I didn’t want the students to see that telltale shade of blue radiating from my screen. It’s a response to the imagined prompt: Talk about a lesson that you are particularly proud of. This is actually a series of lessons leading up to a pizza lunch, although the pizza lunch itself was distinctly underwhelming.
Two events precipitated this series. There was a famine in East Africa, and schools around the city were raising funds for relief efforts The TDSB had offered to match any funds raised. Around the same time, TIFF screened the documentary Pink Ribbons, Inc , which articulated the first quiet suggestion of criticism of the breast cancer awareness campaign.
I used an audio clip from a radio interview with the producers of the film and located some print background material. The class compared the different resources and discussed the ethics and practice of charitable donation. I was so impressed with the interaction, the level of sophistication and engagement, that I decided to extend the conversation. It seemed like an ideal lead-in to a fundraising activity.
So I devised a series of lessons in the course of which the students would to choose a charity to donate to, publicize the cause and the event, and then perform the actual fund-raiser.
Students worked in groups. The first task was to identify a cause that they considered important. They then researched the aid groups that targeted that particular group or problem.** Students worked together to prepare an information sheet on their chosen organization and its mission.Through discussion, they identified the arguments for and against choosing the organization as the recipient of our funds.
Each group shared their information with the class. We then discussed the relative merits of the different programs. There was a real range of knowledge and experience: some students were thinking critically about these issues for the first time; others had experienced directly the situations at which the aid was directed; still others had worked with the NGOs we were discussing**.
The students worked hard to determine the group that best matched their values, and ended up choosing MSF. Key factors were the effectiveness of their programs, the absence of geographical restrictions, and the transparency of their mission.
The next step was to create the print publicity. We discussed the basics of poster making and the need for balance between attracting attention and relaying information. We talked about how to make the content appealing and accessible, and about why it was a bad idea to copy and paste chunks of material from the internet. We then negotiated the logistics of getting access to the only colour printer in the school, and posted the documents.
In the week before the actual day we broadcast the information over the PA system. Normally strong, confident speakers volunteer to read an English script. It is challenging, but it is very valuable experience, especially for students who plan to undergo the ordeal of the TOEFL Speaking Test.
Earlier that term, however, one of the other teachers, Glenn, had experimented with bilingual broadcasts (Spanish and English) for soccer team announcements. We decided to take it one step further and provide announcements in languages that reflected the school population. There was a discussion as to which languages should be used; then strong speakers were chosen from each of the dominant language groups. They decided on the key details of the message and then wrote out two versions, in English and translated. They worked with a partner from the same country to make sure that the translated version was smooth and accurate.
Watching the delivery of these PA messages was fascinating. When the students switched into their native languages, it was as if they had slipped on new clothes. Their voices were stronger; even their body language became more assured: it was yet one more reminder that these students had really been persons of stature in their original countries. I enjoyed watching the reactions of the students from other classes: that slight double take when they realized they were hearing their mother tongue. The announcements generated inter-class discussions: comparisons of the sounds of the different languages, and the dialects and accents within individual languages, and suggestions that other languages be included.***
The pizza lunch itself was, as I said, anticlimactic. The scheduling made it difficult for the students to be involved in the actual serving; other events had made the day unusually chaotic; and well nobody really likes pizza that much anyway. Later on, I was told that we had missed the deadline for the fund matching, but ours would not have been matched anyway because we had not chosen to earmark the funds for East Africa.****
So as an actual fundraising event, this was not an amazing success. However, it’s one of those moments I come back to when I want to remind myself of the enormous wealth of talent, intelligence and experience that I encountered every day in the Overland classroom. It keeps me humble , at the same time as it strengthens my belief in the benefits of an open immigration policy.
When I look back on that, and notice what year it was, I realize that I was already halfway out the door at Overland, but I didn’t see it at the time. Sometimes a peak experience like this gives us renewed vigour for our job, but it can also be bittersweet. When you realize that yes this is as good as it gets, no matter how good that good is, it may be a signal that it’s time to move on.
* Students often became aware of an asymmetry between need and services, sometimes because a problem did not have a clear and coherent solution, sometimes because the cause just was not as media friendly. The essential unfairness of the marketing of the more glamorous causes at the expense of others became a key consideration in our discussions. This was one of the factors in our decision not to choose an event-specific charity: we wanted the organization to spend the money where it was most needed, not where the media attention was most focussed.
***There was an interesting contrast among the language groups. Some students were quite eager to have their language represented. In contrast, one language was fairly widely featured at Overland, but its speakers were hesitant to present it as one of the school languages. There was no obvious political reason for this: it was more a matter of the particular character of the country in question. If you speak the language yourself, you might be able to guess which one I’m talking about.
**** As part of our decision was based on avoiding ear-marked charities, I can’t say I really regret this.
And yes, I did hear of the attack on Beirut. When I read the story on the 12th, I remember thinking, “That’s an awfully high casualty figure for a country that’s not technically at war.’ And I wondered whether our refugee family was ok.
And yes, we mourn the loss of life in both places. But how can one truly grieve death in such numbers when comprehending the loss of a single human life is enough to tear one’s soul apart? How can a person do that and still get up in the morning, hug one’s children, open one’s heart to strangers, fight to spread light amidst the darkness?
So we do our best, but we grieve imperfectly.
But this is not that. This is the same gutshot feeling that swept over me as I read about the destruction of Palmyra.
Paris is our city.
I’m sure that 3 million still-feisty Frenchmen and women just bristled at that, but as I watch the Facebook profiles of my Canadian friends flicker into red, white, and blue, I know it is so.
As much as Mesopotamia or the Yellow River, Paris is a cradle of civilization.
Cradle of civilization — we bandy around the cliché so carelessly, but we forget that a cradle is a sacred space. A cradle is where we place what is most precious to us — a newly created life.
In cradles we shelter these beings that are entirely powerless. Under our care, they become autonomous and eventually outstrip us.
A cradle of civilization is a human location that has created an environment capable of nurturing a new spirit. At first, this idea is new and vulnerable, but it grows into a spirit that spreads across countries and civilizations, a spirit that survives long after the human bodies have perished.
At so many times in history, Paris has been a nursery for these spirits, spirits of beauty and creativity, but also spirits of freedom and democracy.
These spirits have become part of who we are, even those of us who have never opened a French book or travelled to France.
These spirits are present in the stories I tell and the language I use, but they also determine how I hear a piece of music, how I see colours, how I taste a cookie, how I perceive my body as I move through space.
Paris is part of who I am and Friday’s massacre was an attack on the essence of Paris itself.
A human force deliberately set out to erase these spirits, just as deliberately as it erased the human lives.
in which the blogger shamelessly appropriates a trope from a popular movie to help explain why the blog looks different
So there was a point when I actually had a little too much free time.
Coincidentally, this was the time when WordPress’s Blogging 201 online course started. I signed up, thinking that this could be a way to make the blog better, and at the same time give me something to blog about. After each online lesson, I would write a post in which I both commented on the new information and implemented it.
And yeah that didn’t happen. I started a couple, but they are still floating around in the drafts folder.*
It’s partly that the free time evaporated, but I think there was a little bit more going on. I just wasn’t comfortable with that degree of self-examination in a public forum. This might sound strange to some, as self-examination seems to be the whole theme of Teacherpants, but I guess there is a limit; it’s also important that this self-revelation be on my own terms.
One thing did stick, as you can see. One part of the course was a blog audit lesson. I realized that it had been a long time since I had done anything with the visuals, so I decided to do my homework and take a critical look at the physical aspect of Teacherpants. I actually hadn’t looked at the blog that much, as I spent most of my time on the Edit Post pages. So when I switched to the public site and looked at it honestly, I was a little perturbed.
It was painful. Not in the sense that it was embarrassing or naive, but literally: it hurt my eyes to read it. The dense text was surrounded by black borders, and the background image featured horizontal black and white slashes representing the branches of an ice-covered tree. The harshness of the image and the way the lines clashed with the rows of type did not make it easy to get through the long narrow paragraphs of educational exploration.
My blog didn’t always looks like that. My first background was a green Japanese print that I stole off Google Image. It was soothing and unobtrusive, but it gave the blog its own feel. The problem was that the image wasn’t particularly personal to me, and I wasn’t even sure where it came from.
Then the icestorm of 2013 happened, bringing with it amazing photographic opportunities. I ..um … adopted the new background image from a friend’s photograph**. I found the consistent colour scheme and wintry feel somehow satisfying. And perhaps it was.
But then I kind of forgot about it, and it stayed there, for a year and a half. In fact, it’s probably the only background image that most of my readers have seen. Maybe it was time to acknowledge that the ice storm was over.
So now, I thought, it was really time for a change. Once I decided to remove the background image, I thought about changing the theme altogether. The black borders were kind of oppressive, especially when they surrounded posts of over 600 words. I wanted people to read my pieces thoroughly, right? Why was I making it so hard for them?
A lot of the best blogs that I read are quite minimalist, Spartan, even. I wanted to move in that direction, but I wasn’t quite ready for that degree of simplicity. For one thing, I like a bit of flash, and for another, I don’t have the typographic skills to make that 0-style thing work.
So I’ve chosen the new theme that you see now. It’s simple, but it has its own character. The layout suits the way I’m feeling right now. For one thing, there’s a nostalgic element. It looks a lot like an old broadsheet, and, even more, like a student newspaper. I spent some time working on my college newspaper — not long, but I remember those hours fondly. For another, the busy-ness on the page somehow mimics the slightly attention deficit way my mind works — I like the way everything is laid out together, making it possible to flit from story to story.
I’m not 100% sure about this theme. For one thing, this open layout makes tracking difficult. One click to the homepage reveals so many posts. How can I tell which ones they are actually reading? I can always put in a “Read More” tag. This would be good for metrics, but it feels a little coy and mean-spirited. It seems to say, “Okay, if you want anything more, you have to do this for me.”
Also, I’m missing the menu features from the old theme. I spent quite a few hours this spring painstakingly dividing my posts up into different categories. Now the category listings are gone. What if you want an Overland story and you end up with a conference review? How will you find your way? Maybe that’s something I can tweak.
Anyway, welcome to the new Teacherpants. May you will find it more accessible. On the other hand, perhaps you really liked the icy shards that seemed to stab into your eyes as you tried to read. Either way, please let me know in the comments.
* Interestingly, this great post by Anna appeared in my reader just after I finished the first draft of this. We can learn a lot about ourselves by looking at the posts that didn’t make it.
Check out the link below! I did an interview with local clothing store Fresh Collective. They do great work supporting local designers and sustainable manufacturing processes. Plus they feature clothes that actually fit real people. And let’s get real here, I’m always happy to get myself in the media.
Watch this space, there’s a new Teacherpants post coming up really soon.