Yes, No, Maybe

For twenty-two years I taught; I manage technology now. After "No Child Left Behind" the children began to disappear and teaching became increasingly less fun. Think of all the ideas about humanity and the curious things that humans do that can be explored through literature. Gone. Vanished. Replaced by the era of standardized testing. The tests, we were assured, measured mastery of the curriculum and slowly but unalterably became the curriculum.

Students became data. I spent one year with a principal who insisted we submit annotated class rosters every few weeks. Students were labeled yes, no, maybe based on our judgment of whether or not they would pass the state test. Students labeled no and maybe required additional information about what we were doing to insure that they came up to speed by the testing date. Students who were excellent human beings, but unable to pass exit tests in English, math, science and social studies were denied diplomas. The question became not, "What can you do well, " but "What can you not do?" Perfectly good humans were cast out of the system because they could write an excellent essay but couldn't factor.

Now, place a new layer called "value-added" on top of this system of measure. Value-added is the idea that each student must grow one year's worth each year. If a ninth grade student comes into class with a score of 9.0 and leaves with a score of 10.0, then that student has grown one grade level during one year of education. Label that student yellow. If the student grows less, place a red label and if more, a green label. All students labeled green are judged to have had a value-added experience because each one has grown more than one educational year during the educational year. Next, start devaluing all teachers who have yellow or (shudder) red students. Take this idea and extend it backward to Kindergarten (Yes, standardized tests in Kindergarten) Kindergarten teacher brings students 1.1 years. First grade teacher must take 1.1 and make at least 2.1 or better. . . say 2.2. Second grows the children to 3.3. Third to 4.4. Fourth to 5.5. Fifth to 6.6, sixth to 7.7, seventh to 8.8, eighth to 9.9, ninth to 10.10. Because the school year is 10 months long, 10.10 is really 11 (math you know). In the end, the expectation is that if a student enters a fifth grade class with ninth grade skills, he or she will exit with 10th grade skills and that the average high school graduate will walk across the stage with college level skills.

My question is where did the students go? In my classes all the students were reduced to red, yellow, green yes, no, maybe. It's as if they had become pieces in some engineering puzzle, each one built to exact specification and designed to function identically. I even had one principal who announced to proud parents at graduation, "You sent them to us as works in progress and we return them to you now as finished products."

The individuals are gone both from teaching and among the students. Education has become a factory built upon the best business models and in the colleges the professors are complaining that students are coming to them without thinking skills, without ideas and opinions, wanting only to know what they need to do to pass the test. The question no longer is whether one agrees or disagrees with the main idea, but only can the main idea be identified along with its supporting details. The issue of whether the supporting details actually support is moot. Can you spot them? Now, that's important.

Imagine a world where there are all these colors and the only requirement is to know red from blue, but not to think of passion, heat or danger when confronted with red or cool, weary, down-in-the-dumps malaise when blue.

Look at all those footprints -- imagine that all first graders have size one feet, all second graders, size two. . . Heaven forbid that some children should grow faster and others slower than some predetermined rate. And, imagine all those poor souls out there who are abandoned by our educational system because they cannot fit into some predetermined set of boxes. Abandoned because they are late bloomers or abandoned because it takes them a little longer than average to wrap their minds around some concept or other.

Look at all those students around you. Who cares whether they are kind or what their favorite activity is or what they secretly want to do when they grow up. . . None of that is important. Are they red, yellow, green? Yes, no, maybe?

Hand II

Still thinking about hands.

Three Rivers is a petroglyph site near Alamogordo, New Mexico. Nearly half the stone surfaces have some Jornada Style rock art of the Mogollon Culture. Archaeologists estimate these examples are between 600 to1000 years old. Unlike the previous example which was created from paint and stamped on the shelter surface, this hand was pecked into the rock.

Again, though, I'm struck by the power of this symbol. The petroglyph to the right is a geometric design and has it's own beauty; the hand, however, is personal. I guess that's what attracts me. Stop a minute and think of all the purely human actions associated with the hand. We wave greetings, solemnize commitments, comfort, insult, express joys and frustrations and talk. We build every imaginable thing, create art, buildings, cars. We clap, pat and slap with them. We beat drums and play the most amazingly complex music with hands. Hands express the most intimate connection between one human and the next. There are hands which heal and hands which harm. Creation and destruction emanate from our hands.

Hands can represent nearly everything that makes us human. Is it a wonder that hands are such a powerful and attractive symbol of what it means to be human? There's this idea that it's not what's in us, but what comes out of us that makes us what we are. What kind of person do your hands reveal you to be?

Hands

There's something very powerful and immediate about hands.

One of my favorite places to escape is Seminole Canyon State Historical Park in south Texas. The park is west of Del Rio between the Rio Grande and Hwy 90 and it contains a number of Pecos River style examples of rock art. On one tour, because the day was overcast, these hands which are usually difficult to see, stood out. Our guide explained that unlike other art in the area, these hands were not painted. Rather, the artist or artists painted their hands and stamped them on the wall. So, here for all to see were hand prints, several thousand years old. Here is an immediacy not mitigated by brushes and the temptation was to put my hand on one of these hands and to create a physical connection with a soul from the distant past.

So what is so special about hands. As I study my own I see evidence in scars -- there's a long one where I stuck my hand through a piece of glass when I was 17. Oddly, I find it on my right hand while I was sure it was on my left -- memory. There are callouses on my fingers from years of guitar and even one on the pad under my wedding ring. Almost every knuckle bears scars from that old Camaro I had which needed some kind of repair each weekend. It seems like I couldn't do anything on that engine without cutting or bruising myself. In other words, I can read a lot of my personal history by studying these hands of mine.

Also in these hands are memories of a more gentle nature -- touching those I loved whether spouse, children, friends.

It's hard to imagine any part of myself that is so reflective of who I am.

So, when I look at these ancient hands on a shelter wall in Seminole Canyon, I wonder about the individual(s) who created them. What scars are there to see; what message was attempted?

Ambiguity

Sometimes I find I don't know just how to react and it takes time to sort out my overwhelmed-at-a-loss-for-words response.

I passed the Santa Rita Mine on the way to the Gila Cliff Dwellings. Here along the roadside was a pull-out to allow travelers a better opportunity to stop and stare at this gigantic gash in the earth. To get a mind-boggling sense of just how massive this operation is, pull it up on Google Earth.

From the observation point I could see dump trucks moving through the mine. I later discovered they were built specially for mines like this and that they stood three stories tall; they looked like matchbox trucks from where I stood.

Those mountains in the background are talus heaps -- the copper has been extracted and the remainder returned to stand barren. Nearby mountains are covered with trees (as this land once was) and I can't help but wonder what will happen to them and if these will ever recover.

The talus heaps with their various turquoise, tan and gray strata are stunningly beautiful to look at

Here in Houston, the unscrupulous steal air conditioners, small electric motors and wiring to sell the copper to recyclers for a few dollars.

Beauty and horror mix, the mouth hangs open and I can't escape the thought that we are paying too great a price for the copper that is fundamental to so much of our lives. Coming face-to-face with a consequence of how we (I) live creates dis-ease and causes me to wonder just what the effect of other choices I make might be.

Don't Fence Me In

Some aspects of growing up as a military brat on base housing left me unprepared for life in "the real world." For example, all my ever-changing neighbors lived in nearly identical houses. To know your way around your own home was to know your way around the home of your friends; internal differences represented personal choices.

The primary difference between base neighborhoods and civilian neighborhoods, however, was fences. I don't remember any. If I wanted to visit a friend three blocks away, I didn't have to walk down the sidewalk to the head of the street. . . I could just run between the houses. In the city, neighbors three blocks away are three blocks away while on the base those same neighbors would be just three houses away. Another feature I most appreciated was that back yards were not enclosed with tall privacy fences but wide open. Our backyard joined with that of our neighbors on all sides created large open fields. If my brother and I went out back to play catch, others would join us and before too long we'd have some kind of game going. In the winter, we'd run a dozen hoses to the middle of this open back yard and create a community ice rink.

Here in the city, everything is private and mine and anyone in my backyard is either invited through a locked gate or an interloper of some kind. Because of the tall wooden fences protecting every house in my neighborhood, I have no idea who those people on the street behind me are or what they look like. The same barriers we set up to protect ourselves and possessions help foster distrust and grow a sense of dis-ease. We live in neighborhoods without neighbors, in our own alarm-protected castles with a growing sense of distrust and fear.

Masks

Another school year is beginning and soon new students will arrive at my door. Who will they see and who will they pretend to be? I'd like to think I could look back to those days when I was a student myself and be amused by all the fronts I put up, the pretenses to impress and the masks I wore to disguise. I'd like to think I'm past that now and am free to be my unvarnished self. . .

So, where is the line between who we are and who we portray? Do we ever become transparent to the world or even another individual? I'm wondering if we ever become transparent to ourselves. (or perhaps I should say, I'm wondering if I ever become transparent to myself). Have you ever excused something you've done that would outrage you had it been someone else? It's too easy to do. Perhaps one purpose of masks is to hide ourselves from ourselves (me from me).

In theology, one idea of masks is that they represent the different faces of God; different faces presented to different people in different cultures. These masks serve as a kind of bridge to connect individuals with God in a way that decreases tension and increases comfort.

So, why do we wear masks? Here's another idea presented in poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar.

We Wear the Mask

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes, --
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask.

Reaction

So how do people react when they see you. As a young man, I remember being particularly impressed with the Dylan lyrics from Positively 4th Street, “I wish that for just one time / you could stand inside my shoes / and just for that one moment / I could be you. / Yes, I wish that for just one time / You could stand inside my shoes / You'd know what a drag it is / to see you.”

My thought was, whoa, I never want anyone to say that about me. As I grow older I don't care as much what people think about me in terms of earning their approval, but at the same time, I don't want to become such a pain-in-the-ass that people dread to see me coming. Some kind of balance has to be maintained that allows living with integrity without at the same time alienating others. Some years ago, I was made (for a grade) to memorize these lines by Robert Ingersol:

Happiness is the only good.
The time to be happy is now.
The place to be happy is here.
The way to be happy is to make others so.

It's something to think about. . .