Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
What do we do after church while waiting for dad?
Wednesday, April 04, 2012
How the Zero got its name
I am now in my fifth year of full-time teaching. And in that time, I have learned that a professor's survival depends on learning one immutable lesson:
Don't piss off the students.
In order to coexist with the finest minds of the next generation, I've made several adjustments to my classroom shtick. Sarcasm is out. Never jokingly complain about anything related to the occupation - not colleagues, administrators, salary, tenure, and especially not the students. Correcting students, or somehow insinuating they are less smart than you, is always a bad idea. And I've taken all the jokes out of my lectures.
You have to eliminate any potential for a misunderstanding. If it's at all possible for anyone to ever take offense, someone in your class will. Then you can look forward to a phone call from a parent, or a conversation with the Dean.
The result is a fairly drab, straightforward, uninspiring presentation. But it's safe.
I was reminded of this bedrock principle during a recent lecture in my course on the History of World War II.
I should say from the outset that I love this class. I get paid to talk about World War II in front of people who have to listen. I get excited preparing for it and thinking about the possible photos, audio, maps, and video I could integrate in to the lecture. I have excellent students who have studied the war. They pay attention and ask good questions.
And because it was going so well, I've become a bit complacent. Once I accidentally slipped and made a sarcastic remark. The students actually understood the reference and laughed. Soon I was telling an occasional joke, even parodying a student's comment. It was becoming a lot of fun.
Eventually, I got careless.
In a lecture on the war in the Pacific, we were discussing how the Japanese pioneered the use of aircraft carriers and naval aerial combat strategy. Discussion centered on Japanese aircraft, and I projected the following image up onto the screen:
I explained that the Mitsubishi A6M plane was one of the fastest, most maneuverable planes in the world at the start of the war. It made quick work of the early American planes it met in the dogfights of 1941. Then, like a smoker desperately scrounging through the trash for a cigarette butt, I paused for a moment and said:
"American servicemen nicknamed this plane the 'Zero.' To be honest, I've never been able to figure out why."
I then turned back to the photo on the screen, shook my head, and said, "I suppose some mysteries just weren't meant to be solved."
Reaction was muted. I quickly raced on to the next topic, but as I looked up I could see some that some student had smiled knowingly, but others were genuinely perplexed. No problem. I could fill a warehouse with joke-salvos that failed detonate.
And then I saw it.
At the back of the class one of the more earnest students had raised his hand. I called on him, inwardly pleading for him not to ask what I knew he was going to ask.
But he did.
"Um...don't you think that it was probably because of those big zeros painted all over the plane? Don't you think that's why they called it the 'zero'?"
And now we were both stuck - trapped inexorably in this web of attempted humor. The only way out was for one of us to look stupid. I decided it should be me. I deserved it. I'd ignore the basic rule of teaching.
ME: (looking again at the photo) No, I don't think so. Those aren't zeros, they're rising suns.
STUDENT: But don't you think they would look like zeros to Americans?
ME: (pausing) Well now, that's something I hadn't thought of. That's an interesting theory. I'll have to read up on that.
By this point, even those who realized I had been joking were confused. The student who asked the question gave me this quizzical look like, "How can you not see how obvious this is?"
I have not doubt that several students left that lecture laughing about their professor who couldn't figure out how the 'zero' got its name even after it had been explained to him. No matter. I can handle a few of the more gullible students believing that I'm an idiot.
It turns out that's not a category on the student evaluations.
Don't piss off the students.
In order to coexist with the finest minds of the next generation, I've made several adjustments to my classroom shtick. Sarcasm is out. Never jokingly complain about anything related to the occupation - not colleagues, administrators, salary, tenure, and especially not the students. Correcting students, or somehow insinuating they are less smart than you, is always a bad idea. And I've taken all the jokes out of my lectures.
You have to eliminate any potential for a misunderstanding. If it's at all possible for anyone to ever take offense, someone in your class will. Then you can look forward to a phone call from a parent, or a conversation with the Dean.
The result is a fairly drab, straightforward, uninspiring presentation. But it's safe.
I was reminded of this bedrock principle during a recent lecture in my course on the History of World War II.
I should say from the outset that I love this class. I get paid to talk about World War II in front of people who have to listen. I get excited preparing for it and thinking about the possible photos, audio, maps, and video I could integrate in to the lecture. I have excellent students who have studied the war. They pay attention and ask good questions.
And because it was going so well, I've become a bit complacent. Once I accidentally slipped and made a sarcastic remark. The students actually understood the reference and laughed. Soon I was telling an occasional joke, even parodying a student's comment. It was becoming a lot of fun.
Eventually, I got careless.
In a lecture on the war in the Pacific, we were discussing how the Japanese pioneered the use of aircraft carriers and naval aerial combat strategy. Discussion centered on Japanese aircraft, and I projected the following image up onto the screen:
I explained that the Mitsubishi A6M plane was one of the fastest, most maneuverable planes in the world at the start of the war. It made quick work of the early American planes it met in the dogfights of 1941. Then, like a smoker desperately scrounging through the trash for a cigarette butt, I paused for a moment and said:
"American servicemen nicknamed this plane the 'Zero.' To be honest, I've never been able to figure out why."
I then turned back to the photo on the screen, shook my head, and said, "I suppose some mysteries just weren't meant to be solved."
Reaction was muted. I quickly raced on to the next topic, but as I looked up I could see some that some student had smiled knowingly, but others were genuinely perplexed. No problem. I could fill a warehouse with joke-salvos that failed detonate.
And then I saw it.
At the back of the class one of the more earnest students had raised his hand. I called on him, inwardly pleading for him not to ask what I knew he was going to ask.
But he did.
"Um...don't you think that it was probably because of those big zeros painted all over the plane? Don't you think that's why they called it the 'zero'?"
And now we were both stuck - trapped inexorably in this web of attempted humor. The only way out was for one of us to look stupid. I decided it should be me. I deserved it. I'd ignore the basic rule of teaching.
ME: (looking again at the photo) No, I don't think so. Those aren't zeros, they're rising suns.
STUDENT: But don't you think they would look like zeros to Americans?
ME: (pausing) Well now, that's something I hadn't thought of. That's an interesting theory. I'll have to read up on that.
By this point, even those who realized I had been joking were confused. The student who asked the question gave me this quizzical look like, "How can you not see how obvious this is?"
I have not doubt that several students left that lecture laughing about their professor who couldn't figure out how the 'zero' got its name even after it had been explained to him. No matter. I can handle a few of the more gullible students believing that I'm an idiot.
It turns out that's not a category on the student evaluations.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Friday, March 16, 2012
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Small town living
Last year Kaddi bought me a beautiful black winter overcoat for Christmas. I've been wearing it to church and even to the college on occasion. It makes me happy.
So I was very concerned as first one, then a second button came loose and fell off. I still wore the coat, but could no longer button it. Even then, the sight of dangling threads ruined the experience for me.
I knew it must be repaired. But how?
Our fair town has limited services. Even if I made a special trip to Norfolk, I didn't know of a place that could mend my coat. We drive to Sioux City once every other month. Was my beautiful overcoat forever doomed to a state of disrepair?
One day while driving down Main Street, I thought I'd found the answer. I passed a residential home that had been transformed into a business. The sign in the parking lot said, "Just Sew." This was the answer to my problem.
I went home, retrieved my black beauty, and drove back to the store. It was dark and musty inside, and smelled like my grandma's basement. There was no one around, but I could hear someone talking upstairs. It wasn't a business conversation. As I waited I looked around. There were radio parts on the floor, dust-covered crafts on the shelves, and bolts of fabric stacked everywhere.
I turned around to see an elderly man coming down stairs. He wore a trucker's hat and a white sweatshirt that said, 'Chicken Days' on it and was tucked into his jeans. I held my coat a little tighter and walked to the counter.
ME: I was hoping you could mend my coat for me. It just needs two buttons...
Chicken Days: No, no...we don't do that here.
ME: You don't do sewing here?
Chicken Days: Nope.
I turned around and looked through the window at the sign in the parking lot. Next to the 'Just Sew', there was a picture of a needle next to a spool of thread.
ME: (turning back) Then what do you do?
Chicken Days: (pointing around the store) Fabric.
ME: You just sell fabric?
Chicken Days: Yep.
ME: (long pause) Then why don't you change the name to, "Just Fabric"?
At this point he gave me that wry smile that says, 'You must not be from around here.' I get that smile a lot. Like when I asked for Smoked Salmon cream cheese at the grocery store, or when I mentioned that I played volleyball in high school.
I decided not to press the issue. After all, this guy probably had the entire northeast Nebraska fabric market cornered. I might need fabric one day, then where would I be?
Instead, I asked if there was another business in town that did tailoring or mending. There wasn't. But, he did recommend the name of woman who repaired clothes out of her home. No business card, no phone number, no address. Just a name.
I went home and used the internet to find this lady's phone number and placed a call. After conducting a brief interview, she agreed to take on my clothing project.
"Do you know where I live?" she asked.
I read the address from the computer screen.
"Please park on the street across from park and come to the door inside the chimney," she instructed and said good-bye.
As I drove across town I imagined that the 'door in the chimney' was one of those giant metal doors with the narrow slot that opened after you give the secret knock. I would have to give a secret password like, "The human torch was denied a bank loan," and the door would open into an elevator that descended down into a secret lair where dozens of Chinese immigrants worked at sewing machines.
So amused was I with my fictitious scenario that I forgot her instructions and parked opposite her house. After opening the door she looked at my van and said, "You should know you're parked illegally."
I looked out at the street. This was not exactly downtown Manhattan. There wasn't another car anywhere in sight and probably wouldn't be for another four hours when people began coming home from work.
"Oh yeah," I said smiling, "I forgot."
She remained in the doorway, not smiling.
"Would you like me to move it?" I asked.
"That would be wise," she said.
I moved the car over by the park. As I walked back towards her house I reflected on how I could probably have saved time if I just driven to Sioux City.
Content that she had now single-handedly saved the neighborhood from a traffic snarl, she began inquiring about the coat. I gave her the buttons. She asked me how I got her name, and I recounted my experience at 'Just Sew'. I even mentioned my 'Just fabric' remark in an attempt to relieve the awkward tension through humor.
Instead of a laugh I got a concerned stare, the kind of look that says, 'Are you on drugs? I'll bet you smoke that crystal meth, don't you?' I thought she might ask me to walk a straight line or repeat the alphabet. But she turned back to her notepad.
"What number would you like me to call when this is finished? she asked.
"You can call me at my office," I said. "I teach in the history department over at the college."
While I realized this information would not impress, I thought it might at least convince her that I was not some kind of drifter that goes across the Midwest asking people to mend overcoats and then skips town without paying.
"Oh," she said. "The history department? Do you know Don Hickey."
There are only four history professor at the college. The only way I could not know Don was if I taught class between 10 PM and 2 AM.
"Yes," I responded, hoping we had finally made a connection. "Don's office is right across from mine."
"Well," she said, "I've been friends with Don for years."
Normally, that statement would express growing trust and familiarity. But in this case I understood quite clearly that it meant, "...and the minute you leave I'm calling Don up. So your story better check out...."
I left her house feeling like I'd just spent the past ten minutes in the principal's office trying to explain why I'd been throwing snowballs at my teacher's window.
After all of that, I'm happy to report that she did a wonderful job mending my coat, which I now frequently wear in spit of the unseasonable warm spring temperatures.
A week later I lost a button off my suit coat.
I just threw it away.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Death of a basket
Last night Kaddi and I attempted to leave the house. Baby Kate was asleep. The other kids were downstairs. We left specific instructions that they should be very quiet to avoid waking up the baby. Before we even had our coats on, Luke came up the stairs screaming with someone else chasing him. So, I went downstairs again to calmly repeat my earlier instructions.
The following videos are re-enactments of what followed.
The following videos are re-enactments of what followed.
Monday, February 06, 2012
No such thing as bad student. Only bad teacher
Last week I received copies of my student evaluations from last semester. At my current college, student still have to fill in bubble sheets and write in the comments box, rather than being able to type them on the computer.
The student comments here are not as loquacious, nor as mean-spirited, as ones I received at a previous institution. But when I first arrived here the gist of the comments was exactly the same, "the professor is arrogant, rude, condescending, he doesn't respect the students."
But after three semesters, I've learned my lesson. I no longer ask students to show up on time, or to refrain from talking or texting in class. I allow them to re-take tests for any reason. When they make inaccurate comments in class, I praise them for their insight. When they miss deadlines, I give them a second chance. And then a third. When they don't want to purchase the reading or check it out from the library, I scan it and make it available online for their convenience.
And by doing all these things, I've shown how much I care about the students and the learning process.
The student comments here are not as loquacious, nor as mean-spirited, as ones I received at a previous institution. But when I first arrived here the gist of the comments was exactly the same, "the professor is arrogant, rude, condescending, he doesn't respect the students."
But after three semesters, I've learned my lesson. I no longer ask students to show up on time, or to refrain from talking or texting in class. I allow them to re-take tests for any reason. When they make inaccurate comments in class, I praise them for their insight. When they miss deadlines, I give them a second chance. And then a third. When they don't want to purchase the reading or check it out from the library, I scan it and make it available online for their convenience.
And by doing all these things, I've shown how much I care about the students and the learning process.
The following comments are response to the prompt:
What were the strengths and/or weaknesses of this course?
He seems better than what I've heard about him in the past.
(The Professor) is very knowledgeable on the material, but can be intimidating.
The course is very difficult. The instructor struggles to offer help to those who need it. Attitude effects everything for both student and instructor.
Strengths - the teacher make the subjects very interesting and is easy to pay attention too.
He really talked at us didn't really seem to care if we understand or want to input our own thought in class. Because of this class I hate history a lot more. There was no interactions and too many students in class.
A lot of discussion learning and note-taking.
Strengths - notes were based on what we needed to know for the tests.
Tests are not over class material.
He is one of the best teachers I have had here because he challenges me to do good and I am always engaged in class.
I think as a lower level class, he treats it as an upper level class. Maybe to slow down a bit and explain things a bit more.
No strengths.
The best instructor/class I have this year. I have no qualms about the class.
Very hard class.
He is my favorite instructor because his lectures are helpful and intelligent.
It was the most boring History class I have ever been in.
(The Professor) is very knowledgable and structures his class in a way that makes sense to students. Compared to what I've heard from other students, he seems like the best World History teacher on campus.
The lectures got really boring after 30 mins so if you could break up the class with some activities that go along with content.
He was able to make this class very interesting and held my attention for a long period of time.
Learn history.
Strength - a lot of information, interesting stories, learn a lot in this class.
I didn't feel I learned anything relevant in this class, even thought its a gen ed.
Always learned something new.
Strengths are you learn a lot. Weakness is it's super-hard and you ask a lot of students.
Give books that students are into so then they will like the class. Also get to know your students. I felt like you didn't care about us.
My strengths were the tests and my weaknesses were the reading quizzes.
It was a great class and I learned a lot. It's challenging, but good.
The teacher should do more than just stand in front of class and talk. NO body learns well that way.
Keep on keepin on (professor.)
He seems better than what I've heard about him in the past.
(The Professor) is very knowledgeable on the material, but can be intimidating.
The course is very difficult. The instructor struggles to offer help to those who need it. Attitude effects everything for both student and instructor.
Strengths - the teacher make the subjects very interesting and is easy to pay attention too.
He really talked at us didn't really seem to care if we understand or want to input our own thought in class. Because of this class I hate history a lot more. There was no interactions and too many students in class.
A lot of discussion learning and note-taking.
Strengths - notes were based on what we needed to know for the tests.
Tests are not over class material.
He is one of the best teachers I have had here because he challenges me to do good and I am always engaged in class.
I think as a lower level class, he treats it as an upper level class. Maybe to slow down a bit and explain things a bit more.
No strengths.
The best instructor/class I have this year. I have no qualms about the class.
Very hard class.
He is my favorite instructor because his lectures are helpful and intelligent.
It was the most boring History class I have ever been in.
(The Professor) is very knowledgable and structures his class in a way that makes sense to students. Compared to what I've heard from other students, he seems like the best World History teacher on campus.
The lectures got really boring after 30 mins so if you could break up the class with some activities that go along with content.
He was able to make this class very interesting and held my attention for a long period of time.
Learn history.
Strength - a lot of information, interesting stories, learn a lot in this class.
I didn't feel I learned anything relevant in this class, even thought its a gen ed.
Always learned something new.
Strengths are you learn a lot. Weakness is it's super-hard and you ask a lot of students.
Give books that students are into so then they will like the class. Also get to know your students. I felt like you didn't care about us.
My strengths were the tests and my weaknesses were the reading quizzes.
It was a great class and I learned a lot. It's challenging, but good.
The teacher should do more than just stand in front of class and talk. NO body learns well that way.
Keep on keepin on (professor.)
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
December 2011
Since Luke's birthday was the same day as Merissa's wedding, we celebrated a week early. 
The nieces and nephews all lined up outside the Sacramento temple, waiting for Merissa and her husband to emerge after the wedding.
Merrisa holds Kate at the wedding reception.
The family right after blessing Kate at Suzi's house.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Celebrate Canadian-American Heritage month
Here is my latest submission to the student newspaper, which will run as a guest column next week:
Remember to celebrate Canadian-American Heritage Month
There is a shadow rising in the Northeast.
Like a dark cloud it looms on the horizon, threatening to engulf our fair campus and blot out every shred of decency and humanity here at the college.
It is the spectre of Anti-Canadian intolerance.
As a Canadian immigrant, I have watched this growing trend with concern. It began with Professor Pamela Everett’s vitriolic Wayne Stater article, which expressed her irrational prejudice against the great sport of hockey. As part of her nonsensical ramblings, Everret claimed that Canadians have lower IQ’s due to under-age consumption of Moosehead Beer. How absurd.
(Mmmmm….Moosehead).
More recently, protests over the proposed TransCanada pipeline have negatively affected local perceptions of Canadian-Americans.
For those of you unfamiliar with the issue, it’s really a simple misunderstanding. Canada is a nation with a small population and large oil reserves. We simply wanted to construct a pipeline that would allow us to share this abundance of natural resources with our American friends, thereby reducing your country’s dependence on foreign oil.
In return for this humanitarian gesture we’ve been labeled heartless corporate titans intent on destroying the environment.
Has the world gone mad?
The Anti-Canadian trend is a disturbing one, but together we can work to eliminate these hurtful stereotypes. Education is the Key.
It begins with a campus-wide effort to recognize October as Canadian-American heritage month.
You say you’ve never heard of Canadian-American heritage month? I’m not surprised. It was inaugurated in 1975 by President Ford, who apparently thought his home-state of Michigan was part of Canada.
Since then it has gone largely un-recognized, like the achievements of Canadian immigrants themselves. Canadian-Americans are all around you – we star in your movies, import your cheap pharmaceuticals, and pass the ball to your power-forwards.
The fact that we go un-noticed is largely due to our unique ability to integrate ourselves into your culture. It’s not as easy as it looks. Every Canadian that comes to this country has to learn to spell words like ‘colour’ withou a ‘u’, watch NASCAR, and figure out why Ryan Seacrest is famous.
As our two peoples have lived side-by-side, our histories have become inter-twined. It is a rich tapestry of international cooperation. Here are a few highlights of from the historical timeline of Canadian-American relations.
1755: The government of Lower Canada punishes disloyal Acadians by exiling them to Louisiana.
1776: The first United Empire Loyalists depart for Canada after Jefferson declares the birth of a new society, founded on the ideals of, “life, liberty, and watered-down beer.”
1812: Canadian troops invade Washington D.C. and capture the White House. James Madison makes a daring escape attempt, but is intercepted by Rear Admiral George Cockburn, who bodychecks the President into Dolly Madison’s favorite china hutch.
1876: Alexander Graham Bell, a Canadian inventor based in Boston, patents an early version of the telephone. The next day, he and his assistant Thomas Watson also call in the first fake traffic report to a local radio station.
1891: Canadian-American teacher James Naismith invents the game of basketball at Springfield College in Massachusetts. The sport was an instant hit with American children who lacked the dexterity necessary to play hockey.
1961: After losing a bet to Canadian Prime Minister John Diefenbaker, President Kennedy signs an executive order requiring all Americans to refer to ham as, “Canadian Bacon.”
2015: In recognition of the outstanding contributions of a fine Canadian-American, President Curt Frye re-names his fine institution, “Wayne Gretzky State College.”
Thursday, August 04, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Do you know any Mormons? (Part III of III)
Gradually, over the course of the week, I became aware that Manhattan had very strong opinions on nutrition.
This became apparent due to the massive amounts of food available to readers each day. The company’s strategy for keeping readers awake and alert was to ply us with large amounts of sugar and caffeine. Each day at the center of the table there were bowls of treats – licorice, pretzels, hard candy, fun-size chocolate bars, and assorted nuts.
During the fifteen-minute morning and afternoon breaks, we would march down to a food court area and select from a variety of treats: muffins, donuts, granola bars, fruits, even hard-boiled eggs. There were also large coolers of fruit drinks, bottled waters, and pop to choose from. Quite often we’d grab something extra at break and take it with us back to the table.
One day as I returned from break and set my pop down on the table, I noticed Manhattan staring at the drink with disgust. Naturally, I pressed the issue:
ME: Would you like one?
MANHATTAN: No way – why do you put that poison in your body?
ME: Because I like to party.
MANHATTAN: Do you know how much corn syrup is in that soda? I never drink or eat anything with corn syrup in it.
ME: I don’t think your body can tell the difference between corn syrup and cane sugar.
MANHATTAN: There’s a big difference. Corn syrup tricks your body into wanting more and more of it. It’s more difficult for the body to digest, so it just becomes fat. And it’s in everything, most chocolate is made with it, it’s in most candy, and pastries. If you start reading labels you’ll be shocked – it’s used as a sweetener in almost everything.
ME: As a person from Nebraska, I find your anti-corn rhetoric very offensive. You’re creating a hostile work environment that’s affecting my ability to grade effectively.
MANHATTAN: It’s not a joke. And don’t get me started on ethanol subsidies. We’re all forced to buy ethanol, which is bad for the environment and bad for our vehicles, just so farmers have an excuse to grow more corn. I thought this was America.
ME: (confused now that this Eastern Liberal sounds like a member of a Montana militia.) Uh…
At this point we both realized that the break had been over several minutes and everyone else was grading and waiting for us to be quiet. This would happen several times over the course of the week. Most of the graders there were high school teachers who took pride in finishing a set quota of exams every hour. Me? Not so much. Put me next to an extremely chatty person like Manhattan, and production suffers.
Once, as I was trapped into listening to Manhattan’s ideas on fitness, the guy next to me (a former marine from Florida) whisper-yelled at both of us, “Why don’t you two talk outside?! The rest of us don’t care if you’re here or not!”
A few minutes later he left the room. When he came back he apologized for talking to us like children. Manhattan was fine, but I couldn't stop crying.
At the end of the afternoon break someone from another table brought by a huge container of Red Vine licorice and invited each of us to take a few pieces. I took my share, but Manhattan declined.
ME: Let me guess, corn syrup?
MANHATTAN: Did you know that human beings now eat so much corn, scientists are starting to find traces of corn in our DNA?
ME: That’s bad. I don’t even like finding traces of corn in my kid’s diapers.
MANHATTAN: If this pattern continues, in a few thousand generations we will have turned ourselves into corn.
ME: Those are some convincing arguments.
MANHATTAN: I know I’m going on and on about this…but I try to convert people whenever I have the chance.
ME: (seeing an opening) Convert – that’s an interesting choice of words.
MANHATTAN: Not in a religious sense. I just think everyone would be a lot better off if they lived life the way I do.
(long awkward pause)
ME: I guess we’ve found your belief system.
MANHATTAN: It’s not a belief system, it’s just exercise and nutrition. It makes me feel better.
ME: Would you say that it gives you a sense of fulfillment?
MANHATTAN: It’s different.
ME: No, it’s exactly the same. Your nutritional requirements provide you with a basic code of behavior. It creates a sense of community by separating believers from non-believers. You take the gym as your place of worship, where you follow the teachings of your personal trainer-prophet to keep you on the path to salvation.(grabbing a piece of licorice)….
MANHATTAN: You’re really going to eat that?
ME: Why? Is it a sin according to your belief system? (shoving five pieces of licorice in my mouth) Am I sinning right now? Are you trying to save me?
MANHATTAN: No, it’s not like that.
ME: It’s okay. Just admit that rational intelligent people can have a belief system like the rest of us. You’re a fitness fundamentalist. You’re a fit-mentalist!
MANHATTAN: I am not a fit-mentalist.
ME: (feeling really smart) Not that it matters to me. Mormons are generally very accepting of other’s beliefs – just remember you can’t force the rest of us to believe in your god. Everyone has to choose their own path to salvation.
MANHATTAN: You’re Mormon? No….you’re not.
ME: Oh yeah. I even served a mission.
MANHATTAN: Why didn’t you say anything earlier?
ME: Well, once I realized you were an Eastern Liberal elitist, I didn’t know how you’d react. I was expecting a little blowback from the Prop 8 episode.
MANHATTAN: I’m actually more of a conservative.
ME: No…you’re not.
MANHATTAN: Oh yeah. I’m a die-hard capitalist. I voted for McCain in 2008.
ME: (Suddenly feeling less smart) I see.
Thankfully, Manhattan took it all pretty well. In our few remaining conversations, I tried to point out that the Mormon community did have some variation within it, even if most of us do look like IBM corporate clones. I also mentioned how the Church had changed since its founding – abolishing polygamy and reversing racist policies – and that it would continue to adapt in the future.
Since leaving the conference, I doubt that Manhattan has given much serious thought to either Mormons or Fit-mentalism, but who knows?
I, on the other hand, find myself constantly checking the ingredients of various food items, looking for high-fructose corn syrup.
It’s in everything.
This became apparent due to the massive amounts of food available to readers each day. The company’s strategy for keeping readers awake and alert was to ply us with large amounts of sugar and caffeine. Each day at the center of the table there were bowls of treats – licorice, pretzels, hard candy, fun-size chocolate bars, and assorted nuts.
During the fifteen-minute morning and afternoon breaks, we would march down to a food court area and select from a variety of treats: muffins, donuts, granola bars, fruits, even hard-boiled eggs. There were also large coolers of fruit drinks, bottled waters, and pop to choose from. Quite often we’d grab something extra at break and take it with us back to the table.
One day as I returned from break and set my pop down on the table, I noticed Manhattan staring at the drink with disgust. Naturally, I pressed the issue:
ME: Would you like one?
MANHATTAN: No way – why do you put that poison in your body?
ME: Because I like to party.
MANHATTAN: Do you know how much corn syrup is in that soda? I never drink or eat anything with corn syrup in it.
ME: I don’t think your body can tell the difference between corn syrup and cane sugar.
MANHATTAN: There’s a big difference. Corn syrup tricks your body into wanting more and more of it. It’s more difficult for the body to digest, so it just becomes fat. And it’s in everything, most chocolate is made with it, it’s in most candy, and pastries. If you start reading labels you’ll be shocked – it’s used as a sweetener in almost everything.
ME: As a person from Nebraska, I find your anti-corn rhetoric very offensive. You’re creating a hostile work environment that’s affecting my ability to grade effectively.
MANHATTAN: It’s not a joke. And don’t get me started on ethanol subsidies. We’re all forced to buy ethanol, which is bad for the environment and bad for our vehicles, just so farmers have an excuse to grow more corn. I thought this was America.
ME: (confused now that this Eastern Liberal sounds like a member of a Montana militia.) Uh…
At this point we both realized that the break had been over several minutes and everyone else was grading and waiting for us to be quiet. This would happen several times over the course of the week. Most of the graders there were high school teachers who took pride in finishing a set quota of exams every hour. Me? Not so much. Put me next to an extremely chatty person like Manhattan, and production suffers.
Once, as I was trapped into listening to Manhattan’s ideas on fitness, the guy next to me (a former marine from Florida) whisper-yelled at both of us, “Why don’t you two talk outside?! The rest of us don’t care if you’re here or not!”
A few minutes later he left the room. When he came back he apologized for talking to us like children. Manhattan was fine, but I couldn't stop crying.
At the end of the afternoon break someone from another table brought by a huge container of Red Vine licorice and invited each of us to take a few pieces. I took my share, but Manhattan declined.
ME: Let me guess, corn syrup?
MANHATTAN: Did you know that human beings now eat so much corn, scientists are starting to find traces of corn in our DNA?
ME: That’s bad. I don’t even like finding traces of corn in my kid’s diapers.
MANHATTAN: If this pattern continues, in a few thousand generations we will have turned ourselves into corn.
ME: Those are some convincing arguments.
MANHATTAN: I know I’m going on and on about this…but I try to convert people whenever I have the chance.
ME: (seeing an opening) Convert – that’s an interesting choice of words.
MANHATTAN: Not in a religious sense. I just think everyone would be a lot better off if they lived life the way I do.
(long awkward pause)
ME: I guess we’ve found your belief system.
MANHATTAN: It’s not a belief system, it’s just exercise and nutrition. It makes me feel better.
ME: Would you say that it gives you a sense of fulfillment?
MANHATTAN: It’s different.
ME: No, it’s exactly the same. Your nutritional requirements provide you with a basic code of behavior. It creates a sense of community by separating believers from non-believers. You take the gym as your place of worship, where you follow the teachings of your personal trainer-prophet to keep you on the path to salvation.(grabbing a piece of licorice)….
MANHATTAN: You’re really going to eat that?
ME: Why? Is it a sin according to your belief system? (shoving five pieces of licorice in my mouth) Am I sinning right now? Are you trying to save me?
MANHATTAN: No, it’s not like that.
ME: It’s okay. Just admit that rational intelligent people can have a belief system like the rest of us. You’re a fitness fundamentalist. You’re a fit-mentalist!
MANHATTAN: I am not a fit-mentalist.
ME: (feeling really smart) Not that it matters to me. Mormons are generally very accepting of other’s beliefs – just remember you can’t force the rest of us to believe in your god. Everyone has to choose their own path to salvation.
MANHATTAN: You’re Mormon? No….you’re not.
ME: Oh yeah. I even served a mission.
MANHATTAN: Why didn’t you say anything earlier?
ME: Well, once I realized you were an Eastern Liberal elitist, I didn’t know how you’d react. I was expecting a little blowback from the Prop 8 episode.
MANHATTAN: I’m actually more of a conservative.
ME: No…you’re not.
MANHATTAN: Oh yeah. I’m a die-hard capitalist. I voted for McCain in 2008.
ME: (Suddenly feeling less smart) I see.
Thankfully, Manhattan took it all pretty well. In our few remaining conversations, I tried to point out that the Mormon community did have some variation within it, even if most of us do look like IBM corporate clones. I also mentioned how the Church had changed since its founding – abolishing polygamy and reversing racist policies – and that it would continue to adapt in the future.
Since leaving the conference, I doubt that Manhattan has given much serious thought to either Mormons or Fit-mentalism, but who knows?
I, on the other hand, find myself constantly checking the ingredients of various food items, looking for high-fructose corn syrup.
It’s in everything.
Do you know any Mormons? (Part II of III)
For two days I thought about how to re-visit the topic of religion, in part because I wanted to know if Manhattan had any real experiences with the Church, but mainly because I wanted to see if I could get her to spout more Anti-Mormon rhetoric.
Finally, an opportunity presented itself when there was a temporary breakdown in the supply chain that delivered boxes of exam booklets to each of the tables. We found ourselves sitting around with nothing to do for several minutes. While I was elated to have a break from deciphering the handwriting of fifteen year-olds, Manhattan seemed quite annoyed at the interruption.
MANHATTAN: I can’t believe we’re out of booklets. What’s going on back there?
ME: I don’t know, but I’ll bet the Mormons are behind it.
MANHATTAN: (rolling her eyes) I’m not prejudiced against Mormons. I think all religions are weird.
ME: So you’re not a religious person at all.
MANHATTAN: No, I don’t need some fake prophet to teach me the fictitious words of a god that doesn’t exist. Most of the world’s problems trace back to some form of religious belief.
ME: But doesn’t history also show that man is an inherently spiritual being? Humans have always sought out religion because it helps define us, give us purpose. We crave understanding about our place in the universe and our relationship with an Almighty. That need is as basic as food and shelter, and religion helps fulfill it.
MANHATTAN: I don’t agree. Rational thinking human beings should make decisions based on empirical evidence. I’m not going to organize my life around the precepts of an imaginary god. I’m only interested in things I can see, ideas that can be proven. The rest is all myth.
ME: Okay, so religion isn’t for you. But everyone needs a type of belief system that they use to make value judgments or set goals or measure success. So what have you developed to replace religion in that role?
MANHATTAN: I don’t have a belief system because I don’t need one. Like I said, any intelligent person should be able to make their own decisions without having to constantly wear some ideological strait-jacket.
It was all very disappointing. I had engaged the topic hoping for a diatribe against polygamy, discrimination against blacks, or perhaps even a fiery polemic on prop 8.
Instead, I had to endure a lecture on the Secular vs. Religious binary that you can get from NPR. Secularists are enlightened, intelligent, modern, tolerant, rational, and most of all – independent thinkers. Religious adherents (especially Christians) are backward, traditional, bigoted, emotional, irrational, and dependent on some form of televangelist (or conservative radio personality) to tell them what to think.
It was even more irritating coming from Manhattan, a proto-typical member of the Eastern liberal elite. After all, these are the people who constantly lecture the rest of us about every form of profiling and discrimination – against ethnic minorities, women, and especially the LGBT community.
Yet, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with dismissing anyone with strong religious beliefs as ‘stupid,’ or ‘weird,’ things you would never say about other groups.
(I should mention that I later learned Manhattan was not, in fact, a member of the Easter Liberal Elite that Glenn Beck has warned me about. Actually, she was an uber-capitalist, an Ayn Rand disciple who voted for McCain in 2008. Shame on me for stereotyping.)
But as I soon realized, Manhattan did have a belief system. It was far more rigid and confining than my own. And exposing it would be much more enjoyable than simply revealing to her that she had been making fun of Mormons while talking to one.
Finally, an opportunity presented itself when there was a temporary breakdown in the supply chain that delivered boxes of exam booklets to each of the tables. We found ourselves sitting around with nothing to do for several minutes. While I was elated to have a break from deciphering the handwriting of fifteen year-olds, Manhattan seemed quite annoyed at the interruption.
MANHATTAN: I can’t believe we’re out of booklets. What’s going on back there?
ME: I don’t know, but I’ll bet the Mormons are behind it.
MANHATTAN: (rolling her eyes) I’m not prejudiced against Mormons. I think all religions are weird.
ME: So you’re not a religious person at all.
MANHATTAN: No, I don’t need some fake prophet to teach me the fictitious words of a god that doesn’t exist. Most of the world’s problems trace back to some form of religious belief.
ME: But doesn’t history also show that man is an inherently spiritual being? Humans have always sought out religion because it helps define us, give us purpose. We crave understanding about our place in the universe and our relationship with an Almighty. That need is as basic as food and shelter, and religion helps fulfill it.
MANHATTAN: I don’t agree. Rational thinking human beings should make decisions based on empirical evidence. I’m not going to organize my life around the precepts of an imaginary god. I’m only interested in things I can see, ideas that can be proven. The rest is all myth.
ME: Okay, so religion isn’t for you. But everyone needs a type of belief system that they use to make value judgments or set goals or measure success. So what have you developed to replace religion in that role?
MANHATTAN: I don’t have a belief system because I don’t need one. Like I said, any intelligent person should be able to make their own decisions without having to constantly wear some ideological strait-jacket.
It was all very disappointing. I had engaged the topic hoping for a diatribe against polygamy, discrimination against blacks, or perhaps even a fiery polemic on prop 8.
Instead, I had to endure a lecture on the Secular vs. Religious binary that you can get from NPR. Secularists are enlightened, intelligent, modern, tolerant, rational, and most of all – independent thinkers. Religious adherents (especially Christians) are backward, traditional, bigoted, emotional, irrational, and dependent on some form of televangelist (or conservative radio personality) to tell them what to think.
It was even more irritating coming from Manhattan, a proto-typical member of the Eastern liberal elite. After all, these are the people who constantly lecture the rest of us about every form of profiling and discrimination – against ethnic minorities, women, and especially the LGBT community.
Yet, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with dismissing anyone with strong religious beliefs as ‘stupid,’ or ‘weird,’ things you would never say about other groups.
(I should mention that I later learned Manhattan was not, in fact, a member of the Easter Liberal Elite that Glenn Beck has warned me about. Actually, she was an uber-capitalist, an Ayn Rand disciple who voted for McCain in 2008. Shame on me for stereotyping.)
But as I soon realized, Manhattan did have a belief system. It was far more rigid and confining than my own. And exposing it would be much more enjoyable than simply revealing to her that she had been making fun of Mormons while talking to one.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Do you know any Mormons? (Part I of III)
Two weeks ago I went the AP world history conference in Colorado. This involved spending a week grading essays written by high school students hoping to accumulate college credit by passing the Advanced Placement exam.
For seven straight days I sat in a conference room with several hundred people, at a table with seven other graders, and read through essays about the Green Revolution for eight hours each day. In order to familiarize graders with the rubric and establish a universal benchmark, the testing company organizes you into partners. You each read the same essay, grade it, then discuss any variation in an effort to properly understand the test criteria.
Since you know you’re going to be spending the next seven days sitting next to this person, there’s a very good incentive to be civil and establish a working relationship. I tried my best to prevent myself from going into jerk mode, which is in fact my default setting.
My partner was a high school teacher from New York. Although she now lives somewhere in the suburbs, she was eager to associate herself with Manhattan by pointing out that she had been a student at NYU. Without any prompting from me, she unabashedly declared that she lived in the financial, intellectual, and cultural center of the universe, just as you would expect from any good New Yorker.
Fortunately, she also had sense of humor about herself and didn’t take offense at my initial sarcastic quips, or when I would refer to her as, ‘Manhattan.’ My experience with people from the Northeast suggested they are a little more verbose, but still I was a little shocked when she turned to me on the second day and asked,
“Do you know any Mormons?”
At first it seemed like too much of a coincidence. How often will someone that you just met ask you this type of question? On the other hand, it seemed unlikely that she could have figured me out so quickly. As I was hesitating on how best to answer, Manhattan hit me again:
MANHATTAN: I just read that Mitt Romney announced his candidacy for President, which started me thinking about Mormons. So, do you know any or not?
ME: Well, there aren’t very many where I live now. But yeah, I know a few.
MANHATTAN: They’re just so weird! Don’t you think they’re weird?
ME: No, they don’t seem that weird to me. How are they weird?
MANHATTAN: The whole ‘magic underwear’ thing. That’s not weird to you?
ME: (effectively suppressing a laugh) I don’t think that’s true. They don’t really think their underwear is magic.
MANHATTAN: Oh, yes they do! We have a Mormon teacher at our high school. She explained to me all about the underwear because some of the students had asked questions. She really believed it had special powers.
ME: Okay, but that’s not an unusual belief. Buddhists wear amulets that they believe radiate spiritual influence. Sikhs wear special loincloths that they believe offer certain protections.
MANHATTAN: Well, there are lots of other weird things about them. There’s a big Mormon church in my neighbourhood. I call it the ‘Mothership.’ They all flock there every Sunday.
ME: What's weird about that? Most Christians go to Church on Sunday. It happens all over the world.
MANHATTAN: They are not like normal Christians. They all look the same. They’re all blonde, and the men all wear white shirts and the women wear these flower-print dresses.
At this point it was very difficult not to burst out laughing. First, because Mormons DO all look the same. How many times have you been on vacation, seen a family and thought, “They have to be Mormon.” Pick up a copy of the May Ensign and look at the pictures of people who attended General Conference. Every one of them look like families that somehow time-warped out of a fifties television show.
But the most entertaining element was the hushed, conspiratorial tone Manhattan used to talk about Mormons. As though she was afraid that her son might accidentally bounce his ball into the church parking lot, wander over to retrieve it, and come home wearing a dark suit, carrying a copy of the Book of Mormon, and announce he was leaving on a mission to Bolivia
So I couldn’t resist any longer. I leaned over to her, and in a very quiet, serious, tone said:
ME: (looking carefully around the conference room) Do you think there are any Mormons here right now?
MANHATTAN: (shrugging) I don’t know. I suppose there could be.
ME: Well, they all look the same, right? We should be able to pick them out.
MANHATTAN: (annoyed now that she realizes I’m making fun of her) I said they all look the same where I live. The ones out here might look different, I don’t know.
At that point our table leader came by and we both felt like students who’d been caught talking when we were supposed to be reading about the New Deal. At lunch, I shared the conversation with an LDS friend. We tried to concoct several scenarios that would allow me to re-visit the topic and the most entertaining method for revealing to Manhattan that I was Mormon.
It would be a couple days before the subject came up again. When it did, it would go a direction I had not anticipated.
For seven straight days I sat in a conference room with several hundred people, at a table with seven other graders, and read through essays about the Green Revolution for eight hours each day. In order to familiarize graders with the rubric and establish a universal benchmark, the testing company organizes you into partners. You each read the same essay, grade it, then discuss any variation in an effort to properly understand the test criteria.
Since you know you’re going to be spending the next seven days sitting next to this person, there’s a very good incentive to be civil and establish a working relationship. I tried my best to prevent myself from going into jerk mode, which is in fact my default setting.
My partner was a high school teacher from New York. Although she now lives somewhere in the suburbs, she was eager to associate herself with Manhattan by pointing out that she had been a student at NYU. Without any prompting from me, she unabashedly declared that she lived in the financial, intellectual, and cultural center of the universe, just as you would expect from any good New Yorker.
Fortunately, she also had sense of humor about herself and didn’t take offense at my initial sarcastic quips, or when I would refer to her as, ‘Manhattan.’ My experience with people from the Northeast suggested they are a little more verbose, but still I was a little shocked when she turned to me on the second day and asked,
“Do you know any Mormons?”
At first it seemed like too much of a coincidence. How often will someone that you just met ask you this type of question? On the other hand, it seemed unlikely that she could have figured me out so quickly. As I was hesitating on how best to answer, Manhattan hit me again:
MANHATTAN: I just read that Mitt Romney announced his candidacy for President, which started me thinking about Mormons. So, do you know any or not?
ME: Well, there aren’t very many where I live now. But yeah, I know a few.
MANHATTAN: They’re just so weird! Don’t you think they’re weird?
ME: No, they don’t seem that weird to me. How are they weird?
MANHATTAN: The whole ‘magic underwear’ thing. That’s not weird to you?
ME: (effectively suppressing a laugh) I don’t think that’s true. They don’t really think their underwear is magic.
MANHATTAN: Oh, yes they do! We have a Mormon teacher at our high school. She explained to me all about the underwear because some of the students had asked questions. She really believed it had special powers.
ME: Okay, but that’s not an unusual belief. Buddhists wear amulets that they believe radiate spiritual influence. Sikhs wear special loincloths that they believe offer certain protections.
MANHATTAN: Well, there are lots of other weird things about them. There’s a big Mormon church in my neighbourhood. I call it the ‘Mothership.’ They all flock there every Sunday.
ME: What's weird about that? Most Christians go to Church on Sunday. It happens all over the world.
MANHATTAN: They are not like normal Christians. They all look the same. They’re all blonde, and the men all wear white shirts and the women wear these flower-print dresses.
At this point it was very difficult not to burst out laughing. First, because Mormons DO all look the same. How many times have you been on vacation, seen a family and thought, “They have to be Mormon.” Pick up a copy of the May Ensign and look at the pictures of people who attended General Conference. Every one of them look like families that somehow time-warped out of a fifties television show.
But the most entertaining element was the hushed, conspiratorial tone Manhattan used to talk about Mormons. As though she was afraid that her son might accidentally bounce his ball into the church parking lot, wander over to retrieve it, and come home wearing a dark suit, carrying a copy of the Book of Mormon, and announce he was leaving on a mission to Bolivia
So I couldn’t resist any longer. I leaned over to her, and in a very quiet, serious, tone said:
ME: (looking carefully around the conference room) Do you think there are any Mormons here right now?
MANHATTAN: (shrugging) I don’t know. I suppose there could be.
ME: Well, they all look the same, right? We should be able to pick them out.
MANHATTAN: (annoyed now that she realizes I’m making fun of her) I said they all look the same where I live. The ones out here might look different, I don’t know.
At that point our table leader came by and we both felt like students who’d been caught talking when we were supposed to be reading about the New Deal. At lunch, I shared the conversation with an LDS friend. We tried to concoct several scenarios that would allow me to re-visit the topic and the most entertaining method for revealing to Manhattan that I was Mormon.
It would be a couple days before the subject came up again. When it did, it would go a direction I had not anticipated.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
Legroom
I just attended a conference in Hawaii, which involved a grueling five and a half hour flight from Los Angeles to Honolulu. Every time I get on an airplane I run into the same issue. My legs are so long that I constantly have to adjust my posture in order to make them fit in between my seat and the seat in front of me.
On every flight the person seated in front of me attempts to recline, only to find that this is impossible because it would involve their seat occupying the same space as my kneecaps. They try to lean back a few times, check the reclining mechanism of their chair, and try two or three more times. Every time, the passenger eventually acknowledges the laws of space and time, and then gives up.
Until this latest trip.
On the LA-Honolulu flight I ran into the most determined individual yet. This passenger, we'll call him Golf-hat guy, since all I could see of him was his golf hat, decided to recline his seat. He tried, and tried, and tried, and - bless his little heart - he kept trying. I kept my knees firmly planted in the back of his seat and waited for him to experience enlightenment.
But he didn't.
Instead, he turns his body half-way round and says to me, "You need to get your legs out of the way so I can recline my seat."
After recovering from my initial surprise (this had never happened before) I felt a slight thrill. This wasn't a threat - it was an invitation.
Golf hat guy was taking it up a notch. He was saying, "I'm going to get what I want by being a jerk. I use this strategy all the time, because I don't have any social skills and so people give into my demands so they don't have to deal with me. That's how I go through life - I out-jerk people."
And while he was thinking that, I was thinking, "You think you can out-jerk me? Nobody can out-jerk me. I was elected as mayor of Jerk-town, but got recalled because the electorate realized I was a jerk."
You see, I spend most of my life fighting my natural tendency to be a jerk, suppressing it into a tiny ball of rage, which I carry around until I encounter someone like golf-hat guy. Then I release it.
So we had the following exchange:
Golf-hat guy: You need to move so I can recline my seat.
ME: Sure, just give me a minute and I'll detach my legs and store them in the overhead compartment.
Golf-hat guy: Well, I paid for my seat too and it's going to recline.
ME: We'll see.
Golf-hat guy: Yeah we will, because I'm going to call a stewardess and see what she has to say about this.
Then there was an awkward silence of a few minutes. I use this time to extend my legs so that now, not only can GHG not recline, but his seat has actually begun to lean forward a little. His threat of calling a stewardess continued to hang in the air, where it echoed like a threat to call a teacher, or the principal, or his mom. Perhaps it was this embarrassing realization that prompted the following attempt at reconciliation:
Golf-hat guy: You know, I'm not trying to be an a**hole here.
ME: I know. You probably don't need to try.
Golf-hat guy: This is a long flight and I paid for this seat and I want to be comfortable so I can go to sleep.
ME: Well then why don't I just punch you in the back of the head and then you'll be unconscious. I'll even wake you up when we land.
Okay, I didn't actually say that last part. I'm not the kind of jerk that threatens violence. Instead, I said:
ME: You think you're the only one who's uncomfortable? This is an economy flight - we're all miserable here. Deal with it.
But of course, he couldn't. Because jerks think they're special and want everyone to accommodate them all the time. He was upset, and so he was going to upset everyone in his vicinity until he got what he wanted.
So he complained to a stewardess. And he got upset when she told him she wasn't going to force me to move my legs. And he kept arguing until finally a woman in his aisle got so tired of his whining that she agreed to switch places with him so he would be quiet.
And when she sat down in front of me, I moved my feet under the chair so she could recline.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
WGSC
I'm considering sending this in as a guest column for the campus newspaper here. But first, I want to run it by some colleagues to make sure it won't result in an administrative order to attend a sensitivity training workshop.
A MODEST PROPOSAL
As a new faculty member, I'm constantly confronted with the same reaction when I proudly inform friends and relatives that I'm now an assistant professor of history at Wayne State College.
"Oh," they say. " I've heard of that school - it's in Detroit, right?"
I realize that WSC confronts many important challenges. The administration is working to improve infrastructure, bolster academic standards, increase enrollment, and deal with ongoing budgetary constraints. I feel strongly, however, that is time to put those secondary concerns aside in order to deal with the much more pressing issue - the fact that we are constantly confused with the much larger (and therefore less prestigious) Wayne State University. I also want to offer a solution - one that will help individualize our hallowed institution and also honour a hockey icon.
I propose that we change the name of our great school to "Wayne Gretzky State College."
The benefits of adopting this new moniker are obvious. First, it improves the brand without radically altering it - we just insert the word 'Gretzky' into the existing title. It could be the most successful marketing campaign since Kentucky Friend Chicken morphed into the younger, hipper, 'KFC'.
Second, it would undoubtedly improve our ability to recruit students from the Edmonton, Alberta region.
Most importantly, it increases our visiblity by linking WSC (soon to be WGSC) with the greatest hockey player of all time. After twenty seasons in the NHL, Gretzky claims sixty-one league records, including most career goals, assists, points, and most goals in a season. He won four Stanley Cups and eight Hart trophies as the league's most valuable player. The man scored fifty goals in thirty-nine games. In 39 games!!! The real question is not "should we rename the college after him", but "why haven't we done this already?"
Despite the tremendous advantages of such a move, I accept that there will be resistance from certain corners of the campus. Naysayers will point out the lack of a historical connection between Gretzky and the college.
Others might object on the basis that WGSC does not have a hockey team. Or an arena capable of hosting hockey. Some might go even further, arguing that northeast Nebraska has no significant in interest in hockey at all.
In actuality, each of these arguments are little more than a smokescreen for those people who don't want this college named after a Canadian. As an immigrant from the Great White North, I've faced similar instances of Anti-Canadian sentiment since leaving friends, family, and affordable health care back in my homeland.
Some of you will no doubt respond, "There's no discrimination against Canadians here at Wayne Gretzky State College. I treat Canadians just the same as I would treat anyone else."
But when was the last time you approached one of your Canadian-American professors and thanked them for an excellent lecture? Or offered to help with their photocopies? Or even just purchased a Snickers from the candy machine and delivered it to their office at 242 Connell Hall?
The first step towards correcting a problem is admitting that one exists. Let's be honest, renaming our college won't erase the suffering Canadian-Americans have endured for generations. It may be only one small step, but it's a step towards equality.
So if you believe America can one again live up to its founding principles, contact the administration and let them know that you want your voice to be heard. Send in a vote for Wayne Gretzky State College.
You'll be sending a vote for freedom.
A MODEST PROPOSAL
As a new faculty member, I'm constantly confronted with the same reaction when I proudly inform friends and relatives that I'm now an assistant professor of history at Wayne State College.
"Oh," they say. " I've heard of that school - it's in Detroit, right?"
I realize that WSC confronts many important challenges. The administration is working to improve infrastructure, bolster academic standards, increase enrollment, and deal with ongoing budgetary constraints. I feel strongly, however, that is time to put those secondary concerns aside in order to deal with the much more pressing issue - the fact that we are constantly confused with the much larger (and therefore less prestigious) Wayne State University. I also want to offer a solution - one that will help individualize our hallowed institution and also honour a hockey icon.
I propose that we change the name of our great school to "Wayne Gretzky State College."
The benefits of adopting this new moniker are obvious. First, it improves the brand without radically altering it - we just insert the word 'Gretzky' into the existing title. It could be the most successful marketing campaign since Kentucky Friend Chicken morphed into the younger, hipper, 'KFC'.
Second, it would undoubtedly improve our ability to recruit students from the Edmonton, Alberta region.
Most importantly, it increases our visiblity by linking WSC (soon to be WGSC) with the greatest hockey player of all time. After twenty seasons in the NHL, Gretzky claims sixty-one league records, including most career goals, assists, points, and most goals in a season. He won four Stanley Cups and eight Hart trophies as the league's most valuable player. The man scored fifty goals in thirty-nine games. In 39 games!!! The real question is not "should we rename the college after him", but "why haven't we done this already?"
Despite the tremendous advantages of such a move, I accept that there will be resistance from certain corners of the campus. Naysayers will point out the lack of a historical connection between Gretzky and the college.
Others might object on the basis that WGSC does not have a hockey team. Or an arena capable of hosting hockey. Some might go even further, arguing that northeast Nebraska has no significant in interest in hockey at all.
In actuality, each of these arguments are little more than a smokescreen for those people who don't want this college named after a Canadian. As an immigrant from the Great White North, I've faced similar instances of Anti-Canadian sentiment since leaving friends, family, and affordable health care back in my homeland.
Some of you will no doubt respond, "There's no discrimination against Canadians here at Wayne Gretzky State College. I treat Canadians just the same as I would treat anyone else."
But when was the last time you approached one of your Canadian-American professors and thanked them for an excellent lecture? Or offered to help with their photocopies? Or even just purchased a Snickers from the candy machine and delivered it to their office at 242 Connell Hall?
The first step towards correcting a problem is admitting that one exists. Let's be honest, renaming our college won't erase the suffering Canadian-Americans have endured for generations. It may be only one small step, but it's a step towards equality.
So if you believe America can one again live up to its founding principles, contact the administration and let them know that you want your voice to be heard. Send in a vote for Wayne Gretzky State College.
You'll be sending a vote for freedom.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Goodbye terrible two's?
It's been awhile since I've posted but as most of you know life gets crazy sometimes and we can't all be great at keeping up with it. Hopefully this new year will give me a knew found desire to be totally organized and get everything done that is always waiting to get done. I can hope, can't I?
Our wild, adorable, determined, and amazing little Luke turned 3 on Dec. 17th. I know it's hard to believe but Luke has been waiting for his birthday since September. Jake and Meg both have birthdays in Sept. the 9th and 10, back to back. So Luke watched as they both got breakfast in bed, special dinners, special desserts and presents. After their birthdays were over you could just see the wheels turning inside his head, "o.k. it's my turn next, any day now." Day after day he proclaimed that it was his birthday, "where are my presents." Sadly this little boy had to wait a whole 3 months in agony until it was actually his birthday.
On Dec. 17th we woke LUke up by singing Happy Birthday! He was very excited. I had told him earlier that I was going to make him a special cake and he couldn't stop talking about it all day. He kept calling it his "special puppy cake."
Luke couldn't wait to eat it.
All through dinner Luke kept saying, "I'm done." and then he would try to open his presents. Of course everyone but 3 year olds know that there is a certain order to birthday dinners, dinner, cake, PRESENTS! After months of waiting it was now Lukes turn for presents. My parents got Luke a gift card to Target and we thought he would love an easle. Chalkboard on oneside and whiteboard on the other. He loved it alright, he loved writing on our leather couch with the chalk and he loved writing on our couches in the basement with the markers.
What kid doesn't want an awesome potatoe with accessories. If there's one out there I don't want to know them.
Along with the new Toy Story 3 DVD and Don't Break the Ice game, Luke got something he has been wanting for, for quite some time. Everytime we'd go to Target and see a BUZZ LIGHTYEAR Luke would say, "Can I have Buzz if I go poo poo in the toilet?" (no, of course we don't bribe our kids to get them to do what we want) But if everyone must know Luke did get BUZZ, and it was just a coincidence that he finally pooped in the toilet and had a birthday at the same time.
We are so blessed to have Luke in our family. He keeps us on our toes that's for sure. As for those terrible two's disappearing I think they feel at home here and may stick around for another year. Luke is a fireball and the most persistent out of our 3 kids.(Shane and I are hoping that his persistent nature will be a strong attribute later in life, right now it's Lukes tool for wearing mom and dad down). Luke is full of life, fun and laughs, even at 3 he loves to be funny. He loves to read books, play games, be outside and wrestle.It's one of my favorite things to come home and have Luke run up, wrap his arms around my legs and say, "mommy, mommy I missed you." Life is good. We love you LUKE.
p.s. Here is a sample of Luke via video clip of the things he is capable of on a daily basis.
Our wild, adorable, determined, and amazing little Luke turned 3 on Dec. 17th. I know it's hard to believe but Luke has been waiting for his birthday since September. Jake and Meg both have birthdays in Sept. the 9th and 10, back to back. So Luke watched as they both got breakfast in bed, special dinners, special desserts and presents. After their birthdays were over you could just see the wheels turning inside his head, "o.k. it's my turn next, any day now." Day after day he proclaimed that it was his birthday, "where are my presents." Sadly this little boy had to wait a whole 3 months in agony until it was actually his birthday.
On Dec. 17th we woke LUke up by singing Happy Birthday! He was very excited. I had told him earlier that I was going to make him a special cake and he couldn't stop talking about it all day. He kept calling it his "special puppy cake."
Luke couldn't wait to eat it.
All through dinner Luke kept saying, "I'm done." and then he would try to open his presents. Of course everyone but 3 year olds know that there is a certain order to birthday dinners, dinner, cake, PRESENTS! After months of waiting it was now Lukes turn for presents. My parents got Luke a gift card to Target and we thought he would love an easle. Chalkboard on oneside and whiteboard on the other. He loved it alright, he loved writing on our leather couch with the chalk and he loved writing on our couches in the basement with the markers.
What kid doesn't want an awesome potatoe with accessories. If there's one out there I don't want to know them.
Along with the new Toy Story 3 DVD and Don't Break the Ice game, Luke got something he has been wanting for, for quite some time. Everytime we'd go to Target and see a BUZZ LIGHTYEAR Luke would say, "Can I have Buzz if I go poo poo in the toilet?" (no, of course we don't bribe our kids to get them to do what we want) But if everyone must know Luke did get BUZZ, and it was just a coincidence that he finally pooped in the toilet and had a birthday at the same time.
We are so blessed to have Luke in our family. He keeps us on our toes that's for sure. As for those terrible two's disappearing I think they feel at home here and may stick around for another year. Luke is a fireball and the most persistent out of our 3 kids.(Shane and I are hoping that his persistent nature will be a strong attribute later in life, right now it's Lukes tool for wearing mom and dad down). Luke is full of life, fun and laughs, even at 3 he loves to be funny. He loves to read books, play games, be outside and wrestle.It's one of my favorite things to come home and have Luke run up, wrap his arms around my legs and say, "mommy, mommy I missed you." Life is good. We love you LUKE.
p.s. Here is a sample of Luke via video clip of the things he is capable of on a daily basis.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
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