music: John Coltrane- The Prestige Sessions, d.16
There was this guy I knew marginally in college named Kent. We gave each other the noncommital nod as we walked past each other on the Main Green. We played pool at the GCB every now and then. He was something of a campus character, as in everyone knew who he was and that he was completely rediculous but didn’t know him really. And by all measures he was completely rediculous. Kent used to publish his own newspaper called The Kent and illegally distribute it at the dining hall and post office. He used to arrange for and announce events featuring himself. He used to hold contests whose prize was a date with Kent. He slid his way to the front of commencement ceremonies one year (feigning a physical handicap I think) and proceeded to whip out a bullhorn and make a speech to all assembled for such a solemn and dignified event about how he was having a graduation party or something. He was carted off by school police for that one. Kent was by all rights “that guy,” somewhat of a villiage idiot on campus. He was a fringe acquaintance of mine, probably of a lot of people, and after he and I left college I all but forgot about the delightful slice of irreverence he brought to campus. I knew he’d moved to NYC and still was in touch with my buddy Jordan, I’d heard something about trying to make it onto Saturday Night Live, and stand-up comedy, and this-and-that.
Today I found out that Kent has written a book, a full-length book, and to my complete shock it’s been published by Random House. The topic: Yo Mama. Apparently Kent has successfully written and published an entire book that makes fun, busts on, and denigrates Yo Mama. What we at Brown knew is now for the world to read: Kent Roberts’ A Portrait of Yo Mama as a Young Man. Apparently Kent is also working on a solo show and writing for the Onion. Not too shabby for the villiage idiot.
What was so striking to me is that Kent was more often than not written off as a crackpot in college. He was followed with a roll of the eyes and a There-He-Goes-Again. But Kent kept going, and it’s clear now that the irreverence and wierdness were part of a larger scheme for him, a carefully crafted master plan, all those little stunts really resume builders and rehearsal. Kent has actually made a career out of it. Most people at school didn’t think of him as much more than a novelty, Kent was earnest and serious about his performances the whole time. It paid off; now he’s getting paid to pull the same crap on a much larger scale. And good for him. We all have to do something with our time. If anything I’m glad that he didn’t buckle under pressure to conform and didn’t give in to the need for a steady paycheck at a traditional job. And no matter how many people misunderstood his humor and wrote him off, Kent continued to pursue his dream. He’s now making it happen. And it’s not just him; I’m hearing about a bunch of people I knew in college making a name for themselves out there. This article in the New York Times not only is written by someone I knew in college but it also features Jordan and my roommate Evan. Wildness. Maybe one day soon we will all be able to read about my friends’ successes in a real newspaper like The Kent.
music: Keith Jarrett- The Moth and the Flame
I was lucky enough to be invited over to Jojo’s and (new anize’er) Nick’s for a dinner tonight. It was a welcome relief from the rest of the weekend, which was largely spent inside my own head recording music and grading papers. After plans fell through on both Friday and Saturday nights a couple hours with friends for Sunday dinner couldn’t have been better timed. They do it up right: full-out sit-down home-cooked meal. It’s a great practice in remembering the important things: one’s friends and food. Too often we are so busy with frivolous engagements and piles of paper to appreciate what really sustains us; I know I can count on Jojo and Nick to re-teach me the basics.
Dinner conversation (at a table full of do-gooders, go figure) turned to the state of the world these days. I, to be honest, wasn’t in the mood to really get into any of that on a Sunday night but didn’t have the mental fortitude to steer the conversational ship out of such choppy waters. We decided over glazed ham, asparagus, and vegetable soup that things look bleak for the hominids and that we are approaching crisis stages as a species on several fronts, if we are not already there. The specifics here aren’t as important. My first thought sitting at that table was that we well-educated, financially stable individuals have the luxury of treating the topic as an intellectual pursuit and are well insulated from the majority of its implications for the time being. The second thought I had was it is precisely people like us who are (often unwittingly) contributing to the problem.
The question of global sustainability on any front comes down to a more simple question for any individual: what are you willing to do without so there will be enough to go around? It’s a tough one to answer. I apparently haven’t gotten it yet. The way that I live my life, it seems, is not good enough. I recall the results of that ecological footprint survey I took a couple weeks ago: if everyone lived like you, we would need 2.8 planets. I own a car. I shop at a supermarket. I just noticed that there are lights on in rooms I’m not currently using. I own multiple plastic jackets that aid me in my pursuit of being closer to nature. And by our society’s standards, I weigh in on the treehugger side of things.
2.8 planets.
I said at some point that I feel a sense of shame at all this, that while I can raise my voice against that which with I do not agree, I am still in many ways as guilty as the next person in terms of greedily gobbling up our 1.0 planet’s resources. If we are to make it as a species (and never mind the argument that maybe, for the sake of the rest of the world, we shouldn’t make it as a species) those that have will need to make sacrifices. But there’s that seemingly unavoidable question again: what are you willing to give up? If you really want global sustainability to happen and are willing to walk the line for it, you stand to give up quite a lot. Nature’s checks and balances seem to be ineffectual given our species’ technological advancements. Peet so astutely said a couple weeks back that “we’ve basically Heisenberged our way out of Natural Selection.” No, in order for this whole thing to work we who enjoy privilege will have to move the discussion beyond discussion, we will have to very concsiously sacrifice certain aspects of our lives and not expect anything in return. It’s an overwhelming proposition if taken seriously, but some of the thiking has already been done. Brad has been hard at work on this one and has pointed us towards a decent starting point: David Suzuki’s Nature Challenge.
Today is Easter Sunday. Today is the day that the majority of this affluent country recognizes Jesus’ choice to sacrifice his very life for the sake of others, billions of others, apparently, with whom his spirit has a meaningful personal connection. Today, above all other days for the majority of this country, is the day to think about sacrifice. I wonder how much of the 2,000 year old message has actually been received. Ask not what your diety can do for you…
What am I willing to give up so that others may live a better life and the future of our species is encouraged? I am still in the process of answering that question, but I realize that I’m not yet in a place where my day-to-day existence is in concert with a satisfactory solution. Better than most, fine, but not good enough. 2.8 planets. While I do have the luxury of leaving this sort of self-sacrifice to the realm of dinner conversation, I need to understand that it is a privilege that the vast majority of humans do not share, and I need to do something about it. Leadership by example. There is so much that is not necessary, so much I could do without. But when push comes to shove, what will I sacrifice? What will you?
music: Buddy Guy- Feels Like Rain
It’s not that nothing has been happening, and it certainly is not that I’ve been mentally stagnant. It’s the end of March and things are in transition, often moving faster than that which I can keep pace. The snow’s melted, the days have lengthened, the trees have even begun to perk up. Things are in motion in several directions at the 1-2, I’m back on my bike, music is coming along nicely, I’ve been getting out more. Daylight Savings in one week, Utah in three, summer vacation in about 15. Stuff has been happening and I certainly have been thinking, but I, uncharacteristly, have not had the desire to ruminate on it or document much of it. It’s not that nothing has been happening; it’s that time is sliding past me almost too quickly.
I happened upon an email I shot off a couple months back as I was looking for an old message about tax preparation. The underlying question was something like this: if my life were a performance (well…arguably…um…never mind), and this weblog is a representation of my public self, then what would it look like backstage? It seems to be a nice summary of the state of things these days. I’m told I’m pretty good at summarizing things.
12/28/04
this funny image is materializing: backstage at the david show. i think you’d find a bunch of people drinking herbal tea and talking about camping gear, someone picking at a guitar in the corner, a small group reading books in beanbag chairs, two people rooting through the dumpster out back to see if there is anything usable, someone cooking and someone else doing their dishes before they are done with them, at least three people staring precisely into nowhere, a trash can and bucket percussion jam session, three people throwing a frisbee the length of the room to everyone else’s annoyance, someone operating a smoothie machine and a deep fryer, two people mixing chemicals and pouring them on stuff to see what happens, someone consulting a map, a group of people fast asleep and drooling on themselves and the furniture, someone keeping things organized with the help of a giant whiteboard, and a team of chimpanzees dutifully typing on laptops as to transcribe all such events onto anize.org for the world to read.
music: Talking Heads- Stop Making Sense
I bought an amp this weekend. The old Crate was hitting the upper reaches of its capabilities and the new band setup demanded a little more headroom. Up comes an all-tube, 60-watt, 2×10 amp on craigslist for $300 and anticipating a decent tax refund this year I jumped at it.
The thing is a beast. An absolute beast. The highs are piercing and the lows are rattling. It’s way too much to deal with, more than I’m prepared to handle at this point. Louder than I’ll ever need it to be in our studio space downstairs, but plenty of headroom to entertain the possibility of playing an actual room one day. I spent about an hour each yesterday and today playing around with it, trying out its built-in lead channel, tweaking and balancing levels on it as it runs through my stompboxes. The increase in power will allow me to get a more full sound out of my axe with less finger strain, but also increases the likelihood of feedback, especially considering my guitar is semi-hollow. Probably doesn’t help things that I’ve got my guitar running through two tubescreamers, along with a flanger, crybaby, and compression sustainer. The compressor helps some but my rig is now an unruly 1,000 lb. angry gorilla ready to rage at a moment’s notice.
I worry a little bit that I’ve sacrificed the finesse and soft touch that the Crate allowed for, that I’ll go way over the top when I plug in with the band on Wednesday. New gear always takes some getting used to, and this will be a bit of an adjustment. Amps are curious things to use; they are often overlooked and money is spent on the actual guitar, but the amplifier (and all accessories) is part of the instrument in a larger sense. It is arguably the most important part-it’s where the sound comes out. I’m not completely set on the Fender, and there’s no way I’m getting rid of that little Crate, so there’s room for growing pains and experimentation. There’s also an incredible amount of headroom for me to crank the thing up and literally shake the house to its foundations.
music: Tortise- It’s All Around You
This one was shelved for a couple years for some reason but came back with a fury this past weekend when Patrick rolled through town. It’s quite simple: toast two waffles until golden brown and slightly brittle, then slather generous amounts of ice cream between them, compress, and eat sandwich style. Whipped cream is optional. You now hold the secret to the singlemost positive midnight snack known to modern civilization: the Sandwich of Doom. We’ve already made it a staple item here at the 1-2.
I’m not sure why it’s called the Sandwich of Doom but I do know that it’s damn good. In all fairness, credit is due to my college roommate Rami for this one but I’m sure you can go ahead and try it out for yourself without worrying about copyright infringement. Be ready to eat quickly though, and don’t be ashamed about licking your plate or tabletop or floor or pants or whatever happens to be directly below your Sandwich of Doom. Gross, you say? Far from it. You won’t think twice. You might actually toast up another waffle to mop up the fallen ice cream. The Sandwich of Doom is that good. I promise.
music: Bill Evans- The Secret Sessions d.7
Teachers have to dip into their own pockets a great deal in order to stock their classrooms. This generally takes the form of pens, pencils, markers, folders, and the like, but science teachers have a quirky, different set of needs altogether. I’ve found myself at the grocery and hardware stores with some pretty strange shopping lists this past year. I once bought four gallons of vinegar, one gallon of bleach, and one gallon of ammonia. The checkout girl thought I was going to build a bomb or something. I inevitably bring the stuff home and do some prep at the 1-2. My roommates have been more than cool about all the wierdness a high school science class requires. Besides the infamous dissection stir-fry, my roommates have suffered through a long weekend with 36 raw eggs soaking in vinegar in the back stairwell, a night or two of earthworms in the refrigerator, and now an onslaught of canned goods. The experiment du jour is to build a calorimeter out of a tin can, so during my trip to the grocery store I made a point to pick up 25 different canned goods. Not for the food, but for the can. They did come with food inside, so we now have our fridge stocked with collard greens, stewed and diced tomatoes, creamed corn, fruit cocktail, and four different kinds of beans. I bought generic spaghetti-o’s as well but after heating them up and literally gagging on the smell they went out with the Sunday night trash. I spent a good hour tonight removing food from the cans, putting them in tupperware, cleaning and drying the cans, and cleaning up the awful mess it made. But now Boston’s youth have their cans, the fiber content is high here at the 1-2, and we have the Boston Public School system to thank.
Back to the business of girding myself for the school week to come.
music: Bjork- Homogenic
It’s a quiet Saturday morning at the 1-2. I woke up around 8:30 and lied in bed for about an hour this morning before getting up, listening to the trickle of cold rain and snow just feet from my head and trying to flush the week out of my head. Then a shower, some food, a mug of teccino, and here I am. The Day Of Rest. I’m almost there.
The insides of my head are almost quiet for the first time all week. I spent last night plowing through the last dozen or so papers my students handed in last Monday and despite feeling completely hollow for grading papers on a Friday night it was good to finally put them to bed. It, admittedly, was a horrible assignment: instructions were ambiguous at best and content was low. I’m sure it was a wrenching experience to crank them out, but guaranteed, kids, it was even worse to read 60 of them and see the same omissions and errors every single time. A glaring indicator that I messed up somewhere. The papers were only one of the factors that contributed to a strained existence this week. It didn’t help that the band (err…not a band really…those guys I’m making music with) bagged on our Wednesday night and our Sunday afternoon jams this week. Or that I missed the window of opportunity for Spring Hat League. So trickles away my weekly meditation exercises. The weather was also brutal-slush freezing and bitter cold. To think we are only 10 days away from the equinox…
The strain this week was really no different than other weeks, perhaps less so, but for some reason I was rubbed raw by the nuances of teenage struggle. This week I glimpsed some pretty fresh wounds covering one kid’s lower arms and wrists. I participated in a team meeting that was to decide the future course of a kid’s life in which he was there but spoken about as if he were not. I squelched a venomous exchange (which later, I’m told, turned threatening and violent) in which cases of unwavering homophobia reared their ugly heads. I watched a couple kids realize the odds stacked against them and more or less give up on themselves. I caught a case of plagiarism and handed out 0’s, which will most likely bury students mathematically and psychologically for the rest of the term. I returned work to a student who put more than everything they could into something that wasn’t good enough and watched their eyes water and lip tremble. I talked a kid down from a panic attack and/or a respiratory arrest as the paramedics came. I witnessed a kid reveal that they were bipolar to their class. I witnessed another kid reveal that they were abandoned when they were two and have gone through three families since. I excused absences because of court dates, I did not excuse absences because of oversleeping. I tried to do some educating somewhere in there. Public school: the last great urban social service.
More than anything else, I want these kids to become good people one day. I want them to be able to provide basic needs for themselves, I want them to have an open mind, I want them to be able to solve problems without violent thoughts or action, I want them to give a damn about something other than themselves. If that can happen I’ll be happy with what I’m doing regardless of their understanding of evolution or homeostasis. Sometimes I think that given a backpack, sleeping bag, tent, some gorp, and two weeks on trail I would have a much easier time accomplishing these goals but somewhere along the line I decided that I have to bring the water to the horse. I’d also like to thicken my own skin to it all a little more, to be able to spend those two minutes in between bed and sleep not thinking about the incredible struggle in which these teenagers are engaged. David: please forgive if Missa Toss doesn’t have it in him to function normally on a Friday night.
Now, however, it’s Saturday. The rain has slid into snow. The world is dripping. I’ve slept a good 8 hours but could probably sleep another 8 and not feel rested. I have aspirations to pick up my guitar for the first time in a week and play a little, possibly do some recording. St. Patrick is in town from NYC; perhaps the good graces will lead him to my door some time this afternoon. In the meantime, I have a stack of quizzes to grade and a week of lessons to plan.
music: Atmosphere- Seven’s Travels
I got my external hard drive back today from TiMO, filled with his and Volker’s music collections. Included in this treasure trove is my new favorite hip hop tune, something that Jojo played for me a while back. This one is an acquired taste, and I’m happy to say that anyone who grew up within a couple miles of an ocean in this country wouldn’t understand. C-Geezey and his boys in Tha 446 keep it real, but Atmosphere has really put Midwestern hip hop on the map. This one goes out to everyone in that vast expanse of land where most people stop in order to change planes on their way to the other coast but never stay. Any song that shouts out Milwaukee is OK by me.
music: Bela Fleck and the Flecktones- 4/6/2004
Teenagers are rarely regarded as selfless, industrious, resourceful, or caring people these days. It’s hard enough for teenagers to take care of themselves, never mind someone else. Having to spend most of my time in the direct company of a mob of teenagers can sometimes be a test of my belief in the inherent kindness of humanity. It’s tough being a teenager in an adult world: never being taken completely seriously, rarely being trusted, constantly being told what to do, having more responsibility than power. Teenagers learn that they are but a small whisper in the torrent of humanity all too often, that they have to take what’s given to them, that they can’t really have an impact. Earlier today, however, word came through that a group of teenagers went out and fought for what they believed in…and won. And as shocking as it may sound, their cause, their reason for taking up a fight with the federal government, was their schoolteacher.
About five years ago, Obain Attouoman misread a handwritten note and appeared in court to review his immigration status on the wrong day. It was an honest mistake, but in the xenophobic wake of September 11, he was ordered deported. This is a man who came to the United States in order to escape political persecution, this is a man who has never had a legal infraction (besides the missed court date), this is a man who has dedicated the past 10 years of his life to serving the children of Boston. To deport someone like Obain in the name of national security is laughable. He is one of the good guys. He is one of the brave souls that is eager to work with groups of American teenagers (the despicable lot that, let us not forget, will one day become adults, the people in charge), a job that almost nobody else wants. Forcefully removing Obain from his community here would do nothing for national security. If anything, it would disrupt the lives of a community of citizens who are glad to have him as a mentor, role model, and math teacher.
Obain was saved from deportation (and certain incarceration) by a group of teenagers. Yesterday six students from Fenway High School travelled to Washington D.C. and paid visits to Senator Kerry and Michael Chertoff, Director of Homeland Security. They convinced these two adults that their teacher was too important a figure in their lives to have him deported, and as the sun rose today, Obain’s deportation was delayed, put under review by two of the most infulential and powerful adults in our society. This was only possible because of the good will and hard work of a group of teenagers, the students of the Boston Public Schools.
It’s an important lesson: even teenagers have the power to change the world if they set their mind to it. It’s something I hope I can impart on those 65 souls who sit in my class every day, that what they believe and do matters, that they can have impact, that they can make a difference. Whether students knew Obain is largely irrelevant, whether they believed in his case or not matters less; that they marched, demonstrated, voiced their opinions, and were heard matters. My best wishes and congratulations go out to the students of Fenway, BAA, and their teachers. As someone who has the same job as Obain (and as someone who worked in the Fenway/BAA building last year), I am inspired by my community. The experience of fighting for one’s beliefs, fighting for a member of one’s community, securing some small justice, and succeeding in making the world a little bit better is the most important sort of education a young person could hope to give themselves.
music: Spearhead- Chocolate Supa Highway
March 1. Another snow day. I’m already dreading that last week in June.
I decided to make the best of it and headed out to the Someday for a day of lesson planning, dabbling in some school-wide initiatives, and attempting to finally finish the book I’ve been reading since September Rolled in, parked my stuff on the green couch, put on my chinatown slippers, and set myself up with a pot of tea. Did some planning, did some writing for a school handbook, did some thinking about what to do with the kids who are probably going to fail for the year, and pounded the last 80 pages of the Krakauer book. All the while, I became aware of people around me with similar binders and textbooks filled with content far too simple for adults. I slowly realized that the Someday was filled with teachers-about 3/4 of the people in there were teachers. Teachers of all sorts working on some stuff during the snow day. We all sort of picked up on it after a while and made some small talk about the snow day phenomenon. Then I finished up as quickly as I could and got the hell out of there. Teachers are generally good people, but I spend far too much of my time with them. I need to be around regular people every now and then.
No, teachers aren’t regular people. People who willfully choose to spend their day with dozens of teenagers that aren’t theirs are not regular people.
The Someday is a great little spot to lounge and work, although it’s almost too comfortable. I kick back with my slippers and a mug of tea, put my feet up on the furniture, the music in the background…it might as well be my living room. If I really have to get stuff done I should start going to Diesel. There’s a good productive vibe there, and you can find a corner way in the back and really get down to stuff. But can someone really walk into Diesel and order a pot of herbal tea?