I'm usually the type of guy who submits a day or two early. There are deadlines, but I like to be ahead of the game. I want to move on. This time, however, I was 24 hours past the due date...not because I didn't have it done, but because I couldn't clean up what I wanted to before I hit send. There just hasn't been enough time, even though I seem to be working non-stop. I've had a sloppy week and needed more time. Sloppy, that is, because the back-to-a-new-semester insanity of work demands (ZOOM this, and ZOOM that) kept me from the ebb and flow I was able to maintain while on sabbatical.
Saturday morning I gave myself time.
When I woke up, I immediately wrapped my head in a scarf, because that is a writing ritual that works for me - when I need to focus, I find ways to hold my crazy, manic, always-firing mind still. In my brain, the logic goes, 'if something is containing my thoughts, and wrapped roundly head, I'm more capable of focusing on getting the tasks done'. That's what happened yesterday morning. Scarf to head. Containment. Lots of writing. Hit send. Presented at conference soon after, and moved on. Love the NCTEAR family and was super happy that I found time to shower before I joined Tracey Flores for the presentation.
As soon as that gathering ended, I went for a walk, only because I hate to know that Glamis doesn't get much attention during my zanier days. It was freezing cold, but it was okay. A few years back, I purchased several knitted, bearded masks to keep my face warm on the coldest days. They were perfect for the ass-chilling day like we had. My face was kept warm from the winds, and I could go 5 miles rather than 3.
In the evening, Chitunga and I met Tom, Melanie, and Mikayla Carrol for dinner in Southport at the Grey Goose. They stayed at the Del Amar across the street, and the Grey Goose, has always been one of my favorite CT restaurants. It's where I took Kelly Gallagher in 2011 - an introduction to my job as an NWP Director. The Carrols were dropping off their daughter at Fairfield, and we gathered to have an incredible three-course meal and outstanding conversation. Of course, they drove 5 hours, followed the University instruction for returning their daughter, only to be told they didn't follow the directions correctly, so their daughter couldn't return. It was Covid-related and a tremendous miscommunication. Kids from out-of-state everywhere were denied entry to campus. They tested, and expected to quarantine for two weeks in their dorms. Apparently the University wanted students tested in a window of a few days (which wasn't communicated to families) and those that were tested a day before those days were told to leave.
They were not happy people. I wouldn't be either.
Tom picked up the check and it was pretty hefty. I am shaking my fist at you, Tom...I'll get you, you bastard. I'll get you. Tunga said, "That meal must have cost a fortune. Bottles of wine, three courses...it felt rather festive and eventful." It was.
Seriously, it was wonderful to hear all the connections Melanie and I have between one another. I am simply dumbfounded for how many crossovers we have had within our academic work. It is pretty remarkable. Her Syracuse people are my Syracuse people.
I am waking up today, however, exhausted from the week that just was. I need sleep, but there are classes to teach so I cannot rest. Bridgeport Public Schools is likely to have a snow day tomorrow, so I have to figure out another plan for the 8 a.m. class. I can't imagine the University would call a snow day...not with our online capabilities. We shall see.
Great to take the evening off. Today, however, much to get done.
I remember thinking around the time that video cameras became available to most Western society individuals, "But what will this do for childhood? Adolescents? Early Adulthood?" There's something Psychological about memory, ego, and identity building that I assumed would shift in the late 90s to early 2000s. What was that? The ability to record. To have visual memory of everything.
For my generation, taking photographs, waiting a week to get them from CVS or Rite Aid or Fay's Drugs (does Fay's Drugs even exist any more) was part of the process. In my case, perhaps only 4 to 6 pictures taken actually turned out okay. The rest were blurry. But, suddenly I had a moment of time taken beyond a Yearbook to remember who I was, who we were, and what we thought we knew about ourselves. I realize, in terms of egotistical nostalgia, this isn't quite as sufficient as what new generations have.
For most kids (humans) born in the 2000s and beyond a chronology of video footage and weekly memorabilia exists as a chronicle of their every move - technology has made it so. I know, even as a teacher, that from 2001 on, I was able to document everyday maneuvers with a camera in my room and this was well before IPhones of the later 2000s. My point...
...some only know life as its been documented for them. I'm not sure if this is a good or bad thing...to have physical footage of the everyday. I imagine it must be eerie, as I only have boxes of still photographs to look at, and must go to my parents to find evidence of childhood and adolescence. Today, I imagine kids have video footage of who they once were for every year they've been alive.
That's creepy. Like looking at ghosts of their old selves. The awkwardness. The cringes. I know photographs freak me out. I can't imagine having footage of Crandall in action as a 4-year old (or even to be able to see my 18-year old self existing). I remember feeling this same way when the Class of 1991, a year after I graduated, opened a time capsule and shared a video of their last day of school - senior day. My class didn't have that, but I knew all those faces and kids, butt hey were experiencing what we did the year before. Same location. Same scenes. And all of them trapped at the same space and time as how I remembered them. This was 25 years later. It gave me the heebie jeebies.
I began thinking about this last night simply because Apple upgraded its desktop, it can pull from my IPhoto libraries and put together still frames of my life that cascade whenever my computer sits idle (lucky for me, that is rare). I am hyper-nostalgic and I love paraphernalia of the past. I've loved that every moment I stop typing the images from 20+ years of life come across the screen, but it also freaks me out...
...triggers emotions and memories...
So I wonder, "What is it like for a generation who has watched over and over and over again, live footage of their past...their milestones...their moments...simply because that is how we've documented time?"
What does that do to a psyche? An ego? and the heaviness that comes from nostalgia? Does it mess with the truer meaning to life and who we actually think we are?
I am pretty used to 14-hour days, and I've learned to shift the direction of what I'm doing so they are logical, sensical, and fluid. Trust me, I hate the amount of time it takes to keep my head above water, but I've figured out pacing, meditation, walking, time-outs, and rhythm so that I can be extra-productive.
I admit here, however, that back-to-back ZOOM meetings from 8 a.m. until 10 p.m. is a little too much. It's actually severe. When I went to sleep late last night, I couldn't get the glowing glare out of my eyes. I also had a sore butt and aching back. I was sitting for 13-hours, with only one of the hours, walking Glamis The Wonder Dog (in the subarctic temperatures, which we had to cut short because it actually hurt to be outside),
One of the meetings yesterday was predicted to be cantankerous, but ended up being productive, smooth, and strategic. I worry at times that my honesty and willingness to speak the truth will totally throw others off course. You catch me at the right time, and I can flood you in a tsunami of frustration, aggravation, anger, and stress. I try to be diplomatic and logical, and I hate when I'm on edge and explode. That's all a matter of timing, thought. Yesterday, I was focused. My intent was to be zip-lipped and aloof, but I was triggered into being inquisitive, purposeful, and smart. I was crafty in how I did this, because in previous conversations, I was ostracized, scape-goated, and made out to be a fool. I actually had steam coming out of my ears and this ongoing fire inside my blood ever since.
Oh, well. I can believe full-heartedly in my ethics and sense of doing the right thing. Others can believe the total opposite. At the impasse, all I have is the serenity prayer.
I spoke from the heart yesterday, and was surprised when my cell-phone blew up with thank-you's, appreciation, and respect from many of my colleagues who have been silent. I guess I was speaking truth to power in a kind, methodical, and professional way. Behind the scenes, it's ugly. They don't want to hear it. They want to do what they want to do. I tried to get them to hear what I had to say, and I was ignored. In fact, I was made to look like the rebel-rouser and obstacle to all that is great in the world.
In yesterday's meeting, however, I played a role of diplomacy, inquisitiveness, teamwork, and wonder. I posited the same concerns I had before, but put them into question forms that all of us need to think about. Rather than speak from emotion, I realized I have no power and forces that be will always be what they are. Forceful. Instead, I wanted to be a collaborator who thought out loud about what may be missing. I didn't realize it, but it came across smooth and friendly...
...charming...(Um, that's an adjective meant for a Prince, not Crandall)
That is far from what I've felt in my heart and mind. My closest friends know exactly my frustrations since 2021 kicked off and my anger that I've expressed to them. They say, "This isn't good. This is not like you. I'm glad you are fighting for what you believe in, but don't let it burn you out.'
My horoscope is not that of Capricorns, so I'm interested that someone would send me there horoscope while thinking, "Here. This should be your horoscope for today" (picture above). Mine is actually, "It might be time to release or let go of a relationship even if it might feel too scary to do so. Be mindful of seeing only what you want to see in the situation. Trust yourself."
I'm pretty good about trusting myself, and I've been keeping my eyes on the future and the moves I might need to make. Yet, the text messages and affirmation I received from the majority, simply made me realize that I'm not alone. In fact, I'm among the majority. It's just that too many people don't like to speak against an authority pushing their agendas, and if they want to articulate their concerns, they don't know how to put it in a politically savvy way.
I don't know either. I do know that a level-headed approach works better than a non-level-headed approach. Of course, it's impossible to be level headed when one is at their breaking point...
I am usually a Raisin Bran kind-of guy. It's ritualistic, healthy, and great sustenance. Raisin Bran and coffee. Every once and a while, usually for others, I will make a bigger breakfast. I'll occasionally do a bagel and when the mood strikes me, I'll make toast.
No, I don't do mornings well. But I can do toast.
Today, I made toast. I have so much jam-packed in the next 14-hours (nice pun there, Crandall...you didn't even mean it), and several deadlines tomorrow. This, and national ZOOM calls, too, to plot out potential projects for 2022, 8 a.m. - 10 p.m.. I should have known that Glamis the Wonder Dog would have me up at 5 a.m. this morning, after I gave into her whining. I got up, so she could take over the bed. I came downstairs to make toast.
Of course, then Glamis the Wonder Dog jumped out of the bed so she could sit at my side whining that she wants a piece. I blame my mom for this. Every dog that's ever been in her house has received corners of her toast. It is the morning ritual. When I return to my own home, they expect the same treatment. I share a morning mood of misery with my mother, but I do not share the toast-sharing routine.
Now, Raisin Bran, eggs, waffles, and pancakes aren't worth getting up for. Glamis the Wonder Dog, however, leaps to her four paws when she hears a toaster oven beep. She distinguishes that beep from the coffee pot beep, the microwave beep, and the refrigerator beep, because they never seem to arouse her. It's the toaster beep that perks her ears....and tongue...and drool.
I'm not my mom, though, and Glamis only gets table scraps occasionally. I tell her, "You don't see me staring at you and whimpering while you eat your Purina, do you?"
Anyway, I'm eating toast and tapping my inner hope that today will be okay. I spread butter and elderberry jam across its crisp layers. There wasn't a sunrise to join us, just gray, gray clouds. Still, I'm holding the last piece to my mouth and saying, "Hello, Day. Let's get this thing going,"
And I'm off.
The candle is still lit, although it is barely flickering. I refuse to let it die out completely. Toast, and this morning writing ritual for another year of blogging, is my reminder to always look to the light...always look to the joy...always keep the integrity.
It is a tradition to kick off most my classes with a free-thinking letter to my students with the assignment that for next week, I want them to respond back to not only me, but the entire class. I will always love the epistolary genre and I'm excited to used Ann E. Burg's Flooded as one of the shared readings this semester. Her work is stellar for thinking about content-area literacies, and allow places and spaces to put K. Hinchman and H. Sheridan-Thomas's Best Practices in Adolescent Literacy Instruction in conversation with the work of Beers and Probst. They don't know it, but they're helping me think through a grant-proposal my friends at Weir Farm National Historic Site and teacher leader, Dr. Rich Novack, are helping me to write. The first night of class? Simply to flood everyone with possibilities.
26. January, 2021
Dear You,
Welcome to your first assignment. Some of you may remember this from other classes you’ve taken with me, but it’s another way for me to encourage us all to simply join hands and run off the dock into the water together. I started this epistolary tradition several years ago while I still taught high school English in Louisville, Kentucky. I taught at the J. Graham Brown School on the corner of 1st and Muhammad Ali. It was the only K-12 school in the district and only one of two in the State. Although public, we had a mission of super diversity and to see that representation of all communities were in our classrooms. We shared a value that differences are a bridge, rather than a barrier to human achievement.
It was at Brown that I read Stephen Chbosky’s The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I loved how the narrator wrote the book to me, as a reader….Dear You. I felt like I was getting insight in how this kid’s mind worked and I decided I’d kick off every school year with a letter to my students, asking them to write me a letter in return. It helped me to learn who I had in my room, but also where I might want to start with instruction for the year. Why not dip our fingers in the bathwater right away and gage the temperatures?
I apologize for the water metaphors likely to come this semester. This summer, I will be leading a workshop on teaching about watersheds through the use of young adult fiction within a special partnership between the Connecticut Writing Project and Weir Farm National Historical Site. I have been very fluid in my thinking and after reading All the Broken Pieces - a story about the Vietnam War, PTSD, adoption, and parenting, I decided to keep Ann E. Burg on my radar. After she read my blog about reading her book, she mailed me a copy of Flooded, her latest release. I’m a sucker for novels written in verse, as my mind tends to think rhythmically….in the ebb and flow of waves, if you will. I knew I wanted to teach Flooded in this course because its interdisciplinary potential is out of this world. It’s perfected for exploring content-area literacy, because there’s something for every subject area teacher. I can’t wait. History. Science. Sociology. English. Math. Language. Art. It covers it all.
My water story is dull, actually. I’m an Aquarian, so I don’t really live without water. Growing up in Upstate, New York, I remember my sisters and I were always swimming. We had a little pool, and our grandparents lived by a lake, and a Great Aunt lived by a river, and my other relatives lived by the oceans and bays of Long Island. I never really thought about water, because water was a way of life: swimming, fishing, boating, skiing, and watching the stars taking their baths every morning after a night of dancing with the moon (I can thank my Grannie Annie for that).
I didn’t begin flipping like a fish out of water, until the days I felt super land-locked in Kentucky. Yes, I had the Ohio River, and I was definitely schooled by the Beargrass Creek watershed of the region - in fact, I was an intern for a task force, and eventually went on to write environmental curriculum for English/Language Arts teachers. In my bedroom, too, I still have one of the signs made for identifying Beargrass Creek that stand throughout the city. Why? Because that was one of my jobs while an intern - to design a sign. The Black-crowned Night Heron won the day. At the time, before teaching English, I would also take school groups out on rafts to show the ways pollution dumped into the larger Ohio. I moved to southern Indiana, in fact, just so I could see a large body of water every day. I began my day entering the city of Louisville and crossing the Ohio, and finished it by crossing it again back home. (I recognize I’m jumping here, but I am afraid I’ll run out of space)
As a man heading to his last year in his 40s, and as one always looking for new ways to start anew, I thought teaching The Literate Learner with a focus on watersheds, might be the perfect way to highlight what I also understand about reading, writing, and thinking communities. Every student is parallel to the raindrop. They are destined to move, trickle, and drip to larger pools of water and into an ocean of adult life. If we think as a community, that kid…that drop of water…can be offered the most pristine journey possible. This will make sense when we do an activity next week. For now…it’s just words that may or may not make sense to you.
This is, however, the first Think Piece. I write a letter to you, and you write a letter to the rest of us (which we’ll share next week in breakout rooms). We are a small cohort this year, but that’s okay, because I have confidence in the brilliance we’ll all experience together.
And I offer the following questions to get you writing, so that you may respond back to all of us next week. There’s no need to respond to any of these at all…they are written simply to get you putting words to the page.
How was your break? How are you doing with the realities of Covid?
What’s been on your mind lately? What have you found yourself thinking a lot about?
What’s the last book you read for pleasure? Would you recommend it? Why?
What are some of the goals you’ve been most focused on this year? What are some larger goals you may have for yourself down the future?
Where are you from? Any water there? Have you ever been caught in a rainstorm that was just magical? Or did you simply get wet?
Mountains or Oceans? (Believe it or not, there’s debate on this)?
What grade(s) do you teach…want to teach? Is there a particular reason for this? Did you have influence from educators in your own life?
Favorite class, workshop, lesson you ever experienced. Why?
One thing I’ve definitely learned over the last year is….because….
What do you want others to know about you, your world, and what you bring to this particular class?
What questions do you have for them?
Reading these letters is my favorite activity to kick off a new season of learning together. I use responses to help me think strategically for all the learning yet to come.
And I should point out that I’m usually not so water-focused, but that’s sort of where I’m going this semester….maybe pointing out the fact, too, that water leaks from our eyes on two occasions (well, three): when we are laughing hysterically, when we are feeling great pain, and when we suffer from allergies.
What kind of rocks are never under water? Dry ones. What did one ocean say to the other ocean? Nothing. It just waved.
I am full of dad jokes. They get worse as I get older. I apologize up front.
Yesterday I was up by 6:30 a.m. and teaching by 8. From there, I worked for a couple of hours, then took a mental break and walked Glamis for an hour. I then proceeded to work until 11 p.m. when I said, "Crandall, this is enough. You can't get back into those normal habits again." Thank the Great Whatever I prepared meals over the weekend in anticipation of the schedule ahead. I told Chitunga, "There should be food until Wednesday, but then we have to make a plan. Get ready to order out, because I don't have it in me to cook, too."
Light edits were sent my way on one project (which I took care of quickly), and then I received news about another project that is highly intriguing. I'm on it as soon as I can get on it. Actually, I got on part of it right away, just because the challenge offered was beautifully delicious in a complicated, almost-impossible, but-gosh-darn-it-I'll-try kind of way. I'm always fascinated by having to do something new. It excites me in ways the predictable and routine makes me want to run and hide.
Returning to the realities of ZOOM-teaching was okay...but after success last Spring and over the summer, then having no responsibilities to teach in the Fall, I sort of grew sad for continuing the online interaction. At least for the first class, I want to hand out items, gifts, warm-fuzzies, kits-for-success, and writer's notebooks. I want to do team building, to have laughter, to cut cake and have candy galore. Alas, I could only have the crew click coffee mugs to their screens.
Obviously, teaching is a passion. But I've thoroughly enjoyed full-time writing, creating, networking, and dreaming, too. It is not my nature to say that teaching gets in the way of what I'm doing, but it definitely take a tremendous amount of time to do it with integrity and care. I'm strategic about keeping my writing/project focus very closely tied with the courses I'm teaching, too. I wrote a lot over the last 5 months and had great success. I don't want that to end. I want to do more of it, in fact.
I don't have the summers off from teaching and advising like most faculty, as that is my busy season with the youth programs and teaching institutes I run. That is my happy season, as I'm able to build youth and teacher leaders within the National Writing Project tradition. It's also work that requires grant-writing and reporting...with "We regret to inform you," at a much higher percentage than, "Congratulations. On behalf of...."
I do know, though, that I need to be more strategic with my commitments, my time, the direction I take with my own leadership, and the belief system I use to make professional decisions. It's not the teaching, research, or service that does me in....I love that ebb & flow. It's the excess that comes from others that filter into the every day work teachers and I do that distracts...that is, doing the work created by others for purposes that don't help the teachers, students, or young people I work with...
...it was the same in K-12 teaching. The best leaders protect you from it...others pile it on without any reason or explanation why it's needed.
Ah, the quicksand feeling is already here, and it is only Week 1. But I have another day of planning and teaching, so I'd better blog early and quit my belly-aching.
I asked mom to find a photo of my 4th grade self and she sent me this beauty, which I think is 5th grade, but maybe not. Definitely have the awkward hair, big-crooked teeth, and 80s clothing, and I spent most of yesterday trying to remember what it was like to be in 4th grade. Why? Because my students and I have a special arrangement with a 4th grade classroom in Bridgeport this semester and throughout the next fifteen weeks we are going to be applying what we learn in collaboration with what they're learning in 4th grade.
Of course, I have Kwame Alexander and James Patterson to thank. They debuted Becoming Muhammad Ali last year, and I knew I'd find a way to put it in one of my courses. It turns out the book is semi-perfect for the curriculum being offered at the school, especially with a focus of non-fiction and poetry in the months to come. Yes, Becoming Muhammad Ali is fiction, but it's based on truth. These writers do their homework and that is the point. My goal is to model ways to expand literacy 3rd-5th, while they set out to design their own reading and writing projects for their partners. I think one of my first tasks is to get all the 4th graders to make fun of my elementary school picture. Well, not in a cruel way, but a guessing what life was like before cell phones, flat-screen television sets, and the Internet.
I have vivid memories from 3rd and 5th grade, but struggled more with the specifics of 4th. I do remember there were two grade-level teams, and one spent the year planning and going to Boston, while the other (mine) spent the year working towards a trip to Cooperstown, New York, to the Little League Hall of Fame and a pioneer village of sorts. I remember reading How to Eat Fried Worms and making myself sick imagining that this is something Peter Boy, Bobby, Mike M., Jimmy and I would do. Yuck. Still makes me sick to think about it. I think we also read Judy Blume's Super Fudge. I need to revisit that, though.
4th grade was a time of Atari, skake-boarding, riding bikes, and playing baseball. Seems like most of our time was at the Cicero Little League fields, where my dad coached, I played baseball, and Casey began her softball career. I remember all the swampiness of those fields (it was Cicero, after all). Perhaps this is the year I tried to slide into 2nd base but made that decision half-way from 1st, so had to crawl on my hands and knees the rest of the way. That's Crandall, for you.
It's a 6:30 a.m. wake-up call this morning, so I got coffee in my blood before the students arrive in an hour or so. It's always fun to teach a new course, because I'm on my toes with curiosity about what will and won't work.
I also have to get my gimmicks out, because something has to keep us awake. My graduate courses are always well into the evenings, so this graduate course (designed for seniors about to enter their 5th-year Masters) is going to test my grogginess, indeed.
When I lived in Louisville, a break-in to my Old Louisville apartment resulted from much stolen, including checks, and then a day of seeing the thieves writing them from my account within just a few hours. I closed the account immediately, but it was too late. They move fast.
Welcome to the smear of 2020, that's still wiping its rear-end upon my 2021 carpet. Ugh.
Friday, I was checking to see what checks cleared and I noticed one that was large and that I didn't write. I called the bank immediately and they hooked me up with their fraud unit. I should note that waiting to get to the right person wasn't immediate, but I was patient. After being transferred quite a few times, I got to a man who said I should wait 24 hours to see if the check goes through. All I could see was a pending check. I kept looking until late at night, but didn't see it clear.
When I awoke yesterday morning, I immediately checked to see if it was posted and it was. Someone recreated a fake check from my account and wrote a check to another individual with my savings account. It was extremely alarming to see this, so I called Chase again, waited awhile and finally got someone who checked into it and declared, "Why, yes. That looks to be true." She suspended the account temporarily, then suggested I get to a Chase Bank immediately. I went to my local branch, sat patiently for an hour, when finally a teller came by to ask me if I needed help. I told her my ordeal and she said she had to take my number and would call if they had any availability.
I drove to the Milford branch. I sat there, too, and was told I needed an appointment. I said, "I will sit until someone has time to help me." Perhaps I was in shock, but I wasn't going anywhere until the ordeal was resolved.
I am very thankful to Elijah, the considerate, sympathizing, very human banker who immediately approached me when he had a no-show on his appointment list. He was great, understanding, and very helpful. The account was suspended, new ChasePay was established under a new account, and he laid out very clearly what I needed to do next.
As I had a December dealing with medical facilities as a result of Covid-infected parental units, I became very accustomed to phone automation systems, waiting, and frustration. It's like trying to get in touch with cable representatives or even phone service companies (ironic, I know). It's a labyrinth of "press" this and "press" that, often with being disconnected and having to start all over again. I realize, too, that bigger corporations outsource phone operations and this is a 20th to 21st century reality. It is alarming and sad, but it is what it is. Nothing, however, beats an in-person, customer-conscious employee.
Elijah was that man and I was thankful for him. It didn't settle my nerves completely...I kept thinking, "How do people get away with creating fake checks with other peoples' names and accounts? Do they ever get caught? Are there agencies to look into it?"
With advice from many, I went to my local police station and filled out a report, where I was told that there's an agency that works between police departments and banks on this very issue. I just hope it gives them enough information to stop what probably is a larger operation. I'll never understand why people choose crime over civility, but that is the nature of being human. My Saturday was pretty much robbed from me and when I sat down to work, my mind was simply numb from, not frustration and anger, but sadness that people do this to other people.
I didn't look away from my computer until 6 p.m.. Tunga texted, "I think we should order food from here...no here...what about here?" and I simply said, "I'm going to jump in the shower and let you know when I'm out."
I perused the numerous suggestions he had, but was sort of grumpy and said, "What about the Sitting Duck?" We can walk there. We decided we'd just order take out. I was craving a good piece of fish. He gave me his selection and I went to their online menu, but his choice wasn't there. So I called and asked if it could be ordered by phone. The young lady said it could, but warned it'd be an hour before it'd be ready. That was okay. I found an hour project to work on.
When I arrived, there were people waiting outside so I knew it was busy. Actually, it was a madhouse. The owner said, "Oh my God. We've been caught with our pants down."
It wasn't that people were dining in, it was they couldn't keep up with the takeout orders. They are an in-person facility and the number of calls and online orders were overwhelming. They were happy about the numbers, but totally not staffed enough for that kind of volume. I told him, "I'm just glad you're in business."
Long story short, my order via the phone never made it to the kitchen. The owner sat me at the bar and had the bartender make me drinks. Dang. I hate it when that happens. He kept coming by and checking on me, bringing me a gift card for the next time I go there. I told him, "It's all good. You set me up with Old-Fashions, and I can watch y'all with your heads cut off all night if you keep making me drinks." The bartender was gracious, too. I left her a VERY generous tip.
Pick-up set for 7:15...but I didn't get home with dinner until 8:45. And I was buzzed. And my fish and chips were delicious. Chitunga and I talked abut the week, caught up on goals and hopes, then decided to watch a movie, since the night was sort of wonky already. It took us a while to settle on one, but we opted for Mulan, which is one of my favorite stories (first learned from Maxine Hong Kingston's Woman Warrior). I sat back, looked down at my feet (Saucony sent me new sneakers after I blogged about stitching on the other ones I bought - so yesterday was two wins...a sneaker replacement and a cocktail or two....all on others), and we started the movie. I was, however, falling asleep within 10 minutes and had to say to Chitunga, "I'm out. I can't do it. I need my pillow," and went to bed for a solid 10-hour sleep.
I needed it.
Dang, I think the country needs it. And now it's time to tackle a Saturday. Skies blue, suns out, but I have a game-plan (including U of L/Duke at 3:30). After a year without college basketball, I've been slow to jump back in. I can't take another year with it all shut down. It is worth it, however, to cheer against Duke. So, I'm on it.
Exhibit A. A couple of years ago while presenting with Liz Lewis, Dickinson College, and Kelly Chandler Olcott, Syracuse University, at the Literacy Research Association, I found a background that had birds taking flight over three waves. I chose it as our presentation background because I thought it brought forth a happy tone, something summer-like, that would be a nice backdrop for our iterative, collaborative research on summer writing programs. As we presented, I realized that one of the pieces of data, an essay written by a girl with dyslexia and ADHD, described her thinking processes as an ability to weather a storm, especially as she tried to position herself as a high school senior.
Fast forward. After the conference I contacted the artist, Annemieka Hopps Davidson, to see if she had prints for sale - Sunny Days, Three Waves. She was beyond gracious and impressed by the story I told. I bought three: one for Kelly, one for Liz, and one for the student so she could hang it in her room as a reminder of how inspirational her writing was to me and my colleagues.
Thursday morning, the image of the print appeared in my photo-memory log and I sent it Liz and Kelly to celebrate our recent publication, Iterating for Inclusion: A Cross-Case Analysis of Three Summer Writing Programs for Youth, that appeared in Reading & Writing Quarterly. Within minutes, Liz sent me a photo of where it sits in her office as inspiration. A few minutes later, Kelly sent a photo from her home office.
Exhibit B. Kelly's home office. Something about the story of art chosen as a metaphor for the scholarship put a smile on my face early in the morning, and I moved on with my day. In the evening, however, the three of us heard back from editors reading another piece we collaborated on (more to come on that later in the year). They are choosing to let it go in print with only minor edits.
I wrote them both to say, "Wow. Isn't that a coincidence? Today, when I texted Davidson's art work early this morning?"
I spent a portion of my day yesterday making the slight changes requested and, as always, tweaking the visuals (table and figures) included in what we wrote so that it matched the slight revisions.
2020 was the darkest 365 days I've ever experienced, but I was born in 1972 in the United States, so my blessings are plentiful (dark in our privileged, Western world, is only a slight gray). Still, the last year casted multiple doubts about humanity, purpose, knowledge, truth, and vision. The yellow skies, blue waves, and movement by birds in Davidson's print remind me of the rhythm and flow of the work many of us do in higher education, especially when the goal is to build better teacher leadership and to advocate for best practices for all youth.
Exhibit C. This is the thing about art and why it is so necessary for critical thinking. I'm a visual learner and need to sketch out my ideas with imagery. For me, art anchors the thinking, even when I don't exactly know why I choose what I choose. Davidson's print was perfect for our collaboration and should the three of us ever turn our partnered work into a book, I'd definitely want it as the cover. Sunny Days - Three Waves tells the story in color that matches the one we tell in research (usually in black and white).
A presentation in 2019 which tracked several iterations of collaboration turned into what appears to be two solid publications for 2021 (fingers crossed on the 2nd...perhaps it will go to print in 2022). I'm proud. Knowledge building, fact-checking, and truth-identifying takes scrutiny, hard work, critical skepticism of what we are seeing, and a need to put evidence to the assertions we're making. Iterating like we have can't be a tsunami or flash flood from the rains of the everyday - both, of which, cause instant fear, paranoia, and hardship. Rather, the work we do arrives only through following the rhythm of birds and waves...a belief that the sun will shine again and the work continues.
Here's to the sunny days (and even the not so sunny ones). Here's to the birds. But more importantly, here's to the predictability of moon cycles, water patterns, waves, and flight that bring us meaning and purpose. I am, once again, fortunate to paddle board with my colleagues, even as we navigate the waters in different states.
I am continuing my tradition of staying away from the television, unless I have control of what is being shown. I read the texts, the tweets, and the posts as they came across my media-feeds all the while I created syllabi, attended meetings, wrote a grant, and answered emails. I promised myself, after a walk, I would read Amanda Gorman's inaugural poem, "The Hill We Climb," that she read yesterday at the 2021 inauguration of a United States President. As I watched it on YouTube, then found the text in its entirety, I had to lay it out in the rhythm I hear in my head.
I recognize beautiful when I see beautiful. I recognize teachable, when I see teachable. I recognize hope, when I see hope. And I am forever thankful to Don Tate who quickly inked this portrait of Amanda Gorman (last night he gave me permission to share it - all of us in the literacy community should acknowledge and celebrate such wonderful awesomeness. I hope young artists everywhere were inspired to create art today, too). I've been telling CWP teachers, don't "tie this poem to a chair, forcing a confession out of it" in the ways poet Billy Collins warns in "Introduction to Poetry." Today, I told them, just let the gift be the gift and let kids make from it what they will.
For other poems written for inaugurations, go here: Literary Hub (Gosh, I love the Internet and the fact that organizations have been collecting and curating knowledge for us all and loading digitally for days like today).
I'm sharing Amanda Gorman's inaugural poem, "The Hill We Climb," as a way to continue my 14th year of daily, blogging and reflection. Because she mentors us all with with her thinking, I want it to marinate and beautify this space. I typed it in the ways it flowed across the pages of my head. I would love to see the choices, however, she made with her spacing.
When day comes, we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never-ending shade?
The loss we carry. A sea we must wade.
We braved the belly of the beast.
We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace,
and the norms and notions of what “just” is
isn’t always justice.
And yet the dawn is ours before we knew it.
Somehow we do it.
Somehow we weathered and witnessed a nation
that isn’t broken, but simply unfinished.
We, the successors of a country and a time
where a skinny Black girl descended from slaves
and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president,
only to find herself reciting for one.
And, yes, we are far from polished, far from pristine,
but that doesn’t mean we are striving to form a union that is perfect.
We are striving to forge our union with purpose.
To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and conditions of man.
And so we lift our gaze, not to what stands between us,
but what stands before us.
We close the divide because we know to put our future first,
we must first put our differences aside.
We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another.
We seek harm to none and harmony for all.
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true.
That even as we grieved, we grew.
That even as we hurt, we hoped.
That even as we tired, we tried.
That we’ll forever be tied together, victorious.
Not because we will never again know defeat,
but because we will never again sow division.
Scripture tells us to envision that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree,
and no one shall make them afraid.
If we’re to live up to our own time,
then victory won’t lie in the blade,
but in all the bridges we’ve made.
That is the promise to glade, the hill we climb, if only we dare.
It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit.
It’s the past we step into and how we repair it.
We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation, rather than share it.
Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy.
And this effort very nearly succeeded.
But while democracy can be periodically delayed,
it can never be permanently defeated.
In this truth, in this faith we trust, for while we have our eyes on the
future …. history has its eyes on us.
This is the era of just redemption.
We feared at its inception.
We did not feel prepared to be the heirs of such a terrifying hour.
But within it we found the power to author a new chapter,
to offer hope and laughter to ourselves.
So, while once we asked, how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe, now we assert,
how could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?
We will not march back to what was, but move to what shall be:
a country that is bruised but whole,
benevolent but bold, fierce and free.
We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation
because we know our inaction and inertia
will be the inheritance of the next generation,
become the future.
Our blunders become their burdens.
But one thing is certain.
If we merge mercy with might, and might with right,
then love becomes our legacy
and change our children’s birthright.
So let us leave behind a country better than the one we were left.
Every breath from my bronze-pounded chest,
we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one.
We will rise from the golden hills of the West.
We will rise from the windswept Northeast
where our forefathers first realized revolution.
We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the Midwestern states.
We will rise from the sun-baked South.
We will rebuild, reconcile, and recover.
And every known nook of our nation
and every corner called our country,
our people diverse and beautiful,
will emerge battered and beautiful.
When day comes, we step out of the shade of flame
and unafraid.
The new dawn balloons as we free it.
For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it.
If only we’re brave enough to be it.
I will be a better educator, a better human being, and a better man as a result of listening to this poem over and over again. In the tradition of Walt Whitman, Maya Angelou, and so many others....still it rises and rises and rises, only to make the song that much more spectacular.
I've been waiting for just the right time to make this post, and last night I set all the materials into action. My older sister bought me "Chicken Shit" for Christmas, as well as "Bad-Ass Shit," but until last night, I didn't have an opportunity to try them out. They are both seasonings she found online and she couldn't wait for me to try them. She wanted to know if they tasted good. Since Christmas, I've held onto the note my sister wrote that came with the gift. I put it on the fridge with a magnet.
This is a gift I bought with your humor in mind (and love of grilling). If it is actually good, the jokes could be endless. I was not expecting that the joke was going to be on me. This purchase arrived while I was staying at mom and dad's [note: the Covid phase - they both beat it] and was not anywhere on my radar. Apparently, I paid no attention to where I purchased it from.
Well, while at mom and dad's I was balancing my banking and there was a charge from Big Cock Ranch. I was pissed, thinking that Mike and Dylan had ordered porn or something, but at the same time I was thinking, "Wait. Why would they order anything from a place called Big Cock Ranch? All I knew was I was being charged from this place for God knows what. I was embarrassed that this was on my bank statement.
Once I figured it out I laughed so hard. I was crying. This charge from Big Cock Ranch was a gift for my baby brother.
Enjoy,
Cynderballz
Cynderballz is my older sister's name, and I am thankful for the gift and laugh. The spices came in very generic looking containers, and yesterday I gave Chicken Shit a try. I bought several boneless thighs and threw them in the crock pot with black and red beans, barbecue sauce, brown sugar, Worchester sauce, a few Asian spices, Sriracha sauce, and (of course) Chicken Shit. I slow-cooked the thighs for 4 hours before I added the beans. I didn't know what it was going to taste like, so prepared rice and fresh coleslaw to offset the flavor if it was a dud.
Honestly, it was delicious. Because it was slow cooked, the meat basically melted into butter, and the flavor of the sauce was truly outstanding. I know my success with sauces (hint: when in upstate NY, find a Wegman's and clean out their ASIAN BBQ sauce. There's nothing like it. I cook with it almost weekly).
I was at my desk for most of the day, so it was nice to take a break and see that the meal pretty much made itself. I finished and went onto Facebook to view THE WRITE TIME with Christopher Rogers and Gholdy Muhammad. After the show ended, I joined Chitunga in the kitchen to do the dishes. I told him I had 3 things to discuss with him, the 3rd being, "How'd you like the Chicken Shit?"
He responded, "Oh, my God. That chicken melted in your mouth and the flavor was amazing. That was definitely delicious."
So, Cynderballz, eating Chicken Shit is a success story! You didn't purchase The Whole Shit and Kaboodle but what you got me was simply amazing. I can't wait to do some seasoning on the grill when it gets warmer, but for now, I'm totally using Chicken Shitfor all my indoor, poultry needs.
Very appreciative. It's Good Shit, actually, and I see they have that for sale, too.
No shit. This IS what I am writing about this morning. I shit you not.
Good day. I've been a loyal Saucony customer since 1988. In fact, if I stray, it is only because of convenience of being at a store when something else "feels" right. I am concerned about stitching coming off the left shoe only after a couple of runs. I don't have any other "kicks" to wear, however, as I replaced them with this pair for the season. I would return them via mail;, but that would mean I'd have to go a month or so without being able to run (which is not worth the physical and psychological effects - I need to be on the pavement for mental health and stability....it is my therapy).
Not sure what to do, as there's obviously a flaw in this pair of sneakers. In a normal world, I'd return them at the store, and get another pair immediately..instant gratification. In the online world, it's too long of a wait. So, I'm seeking your advice as to what to do. ~Dr. Bryan Ripley Crandall
That is a note I left on Saucony's website yesterday because, well, that's customer service in the 21st century. Shoot. That's shopping in the 21st century. For sneaker-people, it's rough, especially when you know what you want and need, but often in-store merchandise doesn't hit the mark. Because of Covid, I've stayed inside (besides, in-store selections are down everywhere). I bought these for myself in November as an early Christmas gift to myself. It took a while for delivery, but they've been my joy since they arrived.
Alas, that left foot, pinky-toe stitch unraveling. Why? It's only been a couple of weeks. And, if history is destined to repeat itself, it's just a matter of time before it blows a hole in the sneaker.
I've never sat down to do the math, but being a Saucony loyalist since 1988, with two pairs a year, I'd say I've invested quite a bit in their company. I'm somewhat of a Saucony snob, too (gave up on Nike a looooooonnnngggg time ago). I advocate for the sturdiness, funk, and comfort of Sauconys almost on a weekly basis. People talk sneakers when they put sneakers to use. Some of us talk smack. It's Saucony all the way.
The dilemma becomes, "Do I send them back and go for a long while without a pair of sneakers or do I suck it up and let the faulty stitching do what it will do?" I mean, I'm willing to send them back once they replace the ones I have, but I don't want to sacrifice time to wait for the new pair. I can't imagine how miserable I'd be if I didn't get outside daily to move.
And this is a modern reality, now that we are shifting away from local stores carrying the products we love and need. If I bought them locally, you bet I'd be returning them as soon as the stitching started to give away. That's the way good businesses run. Alas, now with this online reality....order on Saucony...ship through Amazon...wait patiently for the arrival...hope they are a perfect fit (these were a perfect fit by the way)....and take off.
But the stitching. Had I ever learned how to cobble my own shoes, I'd take care of it myself. So, what's to be done now? We shall see.
I wish I shot video. 60-minutes of video. I grilled salmon and steak to accompany the mashed potatoes and green beans, and Chitunga picked up a couple of Sam Adams winter ales. I haven't been drinking much beer, although I love it, typically by the fire outside. We've both noticed that when a beer is open, Glamis becomes a new dog. It's not the cans. It's the bottles. She needs the bottles. She needs the ale in these bottles. Something takes over her body and psyche. It's eerie, but also comical.
While watching New Orleans and Tampa Bay, this was my view. A mono-focused dog watching me take occasional sips of the bottled beer in my hand. Beluga whale noises gargling in whimpers of despair and desire. Chitunga is like, "Glamis, chill out. You ate. Leave him alone."
But she stares. It's creepy. It's desperate. She wants a sip.
When I finished the bottle, I held it to the side of the chair. Glamis came over to feed on it like she was a baby cow and Sam Adams was her mother's utter. She spent all the energy she could muster trying to get her tongue into the bottle neck, and when I'd pull it away from her, she'd bite the bottle and try to pull it away from me.
I keep saying, "I don't know which relative you are, but you definitely are intense about getting to my beer. Who was reincarnated into you?"
No matter how much I tried to pry her off my chair, she'd find new ways to climb on top of me. She simply wanted to get at the bottle. This isn't new. It just happens when we throw back a couple of beers...bottled beers. She becomes a new creature.
This is Glamis as halftime was nearing. I held the bottle to my left when she climbed on my lap, and this was her face staring at the booze...the same, non-blinking, hypnotic stare. That, and the high pitched begging.
I want that beer. That beer will be mine. You have no idea how much I loved beer before I was reincarnated into a dog. I don't like water alone. All that dog food. Blech. But you have beer. Beer, I tell you. I must have that beer. I will not relent until you give me a taste of the beer.
It's comical, if not annoying, especially when she tries to take the bottle away from you with her teeth. You can't look away because she's a monomaniac. It isn't until the bottle is in the recycling bin that she finally gives up and returns to her normal, laid back, shedding self.
Glamis is a great dog, and the beer behavior is not like her at all. Even when I eat, she'll somewhat beg, but she knows I don't give her much so she usually leaves me alone. Maybe she'll sit at my side hoping I do a Mom Crandall and drop food out of my mouth so it falls to the floor.
With beer, however. Oi Vay. It's such a longing...such a desire. I know there are memories in that doggie brain of hers that recall a time I've never known. Drunk nights at the bar. Relaxing with good friends at the campground. An addiction that one had to fix in the afterlife, but never did.
We got Chinese last night. Well, I ordered Spicy Shrimp for the kid (well, adult now) and I got orange chicken. Leo got fried shrimp, Bev Lo Mein, and Pam picked off of everyone's plates (Weight Watchers. It does that to you). All of us were gungho about Chitunga's shrimp, especially the onions, and the aftertaste that was amazing. I'm still licking my lips.
Later, while watching the Bills/Ravens game, however, Chitunga says, "I don't get it. Everyone was so excited about the shrimp, and I thought it was gross, especially the onions. I couldn't stand the taste." I was like, "huh?" It doesn't make sense. I would think it would be the perfect meal for him. He ate my orange chicken instead. It's a matter of taste. But it doesn't matter...
But it does. Olives. I rest my case. Celery. They shouldn't exist. Yuck.
I will eat his spicy shrimp with a smile.
Congratulations to the Buffalo Bills, although the way the winds were blowing the flags brought too many memories of the frigid air that I know surrounded that stadium. It hurt to watch them play. Brrrrr.
And now it is Sunday. Day of rest. Work, but rest. If I am smart, it will be a day of cooking so I can get through the week without too much stress each night.
I woke up wanting more of Chitunga's shrimp and onions, and he wanted bacon and eggs. Bacon and eggs it will be.
If anyone was to tell me as a K-12 teacher in Ky that I'd one day be on a CNY Reading Council trivia team with Kelly Chandler Olcott and Kathy Hinchman and star doctoral scholar Elizabeth Lewis, from their program, I would simply respond, "huh?'
What a tremendous, fun experience to share with West Genesee High School sage, Keith Newvine - a gathering of trivia knowledge, Friday night fun warm-fuzzies, and humorous chin-scratching trivia. We didn't win the Gold - we aren't independent book sellers - but we did hold our own. I think we ended with a silver or bronze, or maybe even honorable mention. Believe it or not, it was the CNY writer trivia that got us in the end. Our ties are to Syracuse University, not Cornell (although we did know the glorious Laurie Halse Anderson as an answer in a different category; of course she's the author of Speak.
More, now than ever before, it is important to offer locations for colleagues, readers, educators, and writers to simply gather in digital spaces to have fun. To laugh. To have a drink. Keith Newvine was a master at the ceremony - the Caeser Flickerman of CNY (by the way, we were close with that one...I think we said Cesar Flame-Thrower...but we may have chiseled it down to Flickman). Keith's humor, dedication to the profession, knowledge, and willingness to lead was exactly what so many us in K-12 schools, higher education, and bookstores needed right now. Kudos to him and the CNY Reading Council for hosting the event, and proving that a 3-hour space away from the ordinary to celebrate book nerds in the region was a good way to go. Okay, I admit, I am more kin to my Brooklyn ladies than Syracuse, but we represented!
Funniest to me was to be in a space with my mentors as a teammate, rather than a co-author (or student). I think we could make a sitcom out of the four of us figuring out a way to come up with some sort of answer. At times we guessed right or very near the correct answer. Then there were the times we talked ourselves out of the correct one and got it wrong. And then there were those we totally botched and made up a response.
This is all to say, "I love my CNY reading mentors and all they do for the community." Go Reading and Language Arts at Syracuse University.
And go, go, go Keith Newvine. These are complicated time, but you are taking the helm and finding a way to make everyone unite. This does not go unnoticed.
When we all chose to gather to enter a team, we laughed, "Phew. Here's where our Ph.Ds will make us look foolish." Ah, but we held our own. The Boogie Down Booksters!
Hip Hip Hooray for Kelly Chandler Olcott and Kathy Hinchman. Your influence on so many of us cannot be measured. Hip Hip Hooray for Liz Lewis (I'm still waiting to have lunch with you on Marshall Street).
Now, for the real debate. How is 1984 young adult literature? It's taught in high schools, yes...but YA? Sounds like a conference presentation. I look forward to reading your dissertation, Keith.
