Nimble, In a Box, and Jumping Over a Candlestick

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[jackknipe]

Jack’s Travels

This year has been one of the busiest travel years for me ever. I love travel - living out of suitcases, having no idea if you’re doing the money conversion correctly, waking up disoriented, having to take a minute to think about what country you’re in - all that jazz. But there are other things I love about travel.

1. I usually like to travel alone. I like to be spontaneous, meet new people, walk random streets, etc. I hate feeling like I’m dragging people into the black hole of chaos that I enjoy. But this time, I got to travel with a colleague/friend. We were presenting a paper at a conference in Denmark. We decided to spend our second week traveling around Europe. I know that no matter how much two people get along, it’s important to give each other space. Staying in hostels with a ton of other strangers can get stressful enough in itself. But our trip went great. We had the chance to share experiences and see sites together. It was a really great opportunity!

2.  I get to meet new people. I usually stay at hostels, not ONLY because it’s cheaper than hotels, but because you get to meet people from all walks of life! People who just graduated college, people who are just starting college, people who have spent the last 9 months traveling the world, people who are just starting a 3 month travel expedition, backpackers, people whose flights got cancelled and so they decided to spend a couple days in one country, and so on and so on. Meeting locals opens your eyes to new cultures and ways of knowing, but so does meeting other people who are traveling. Hearing their stories, listening to their perspectives on current events - it really does remind you how much our own world views are affected by our sociopolitical/sociocultural environments.

3.  Along with meeting interesting travelers and locals around town, I also love meeting up with old friends and new. While in Denmark, I had hoped to meet up with a  couple friends. But, as time, distance from our location, and schedules would have it, we didn’t get to hang out. Same happened with a few friends in Iceland. While I was a little sad, it just gives me an excuse to return. In Germany, I got to meet up with Abraham, my dear old friend that I met in my travels years ago! We’ve stayed in touch over the years, and I really value his friendship. We also got to see the Lorenz family. I worked with them years ago as an ESL teacher in SC. I remember the last evening I spent with them in Greenville. When we said our goodbyes, I actually cried in the car. It was like saying goodbye to family. So, it was excellent seeing them again! They were also so hospitable! Finally, in my stopover in Iceland, I got to meet up with a lot of friends I’ve made through the years - Haukur, Jasmine, Kristinn, Gunnar, and Eggert to name a few. It was so great to spend time with them. I think making human connections and living in community are essential.

4.  The more I travel, the harder it is (financially) to bring home souvenirs. Everywhere I go, I see things that remind me of family or friends back home. “Oh, man! I wish I could transport mum here so she could see what the camera cannot capture,” “Oh, man! Jenna would love the style here,” “Oh wow! Aunt Tina would love this site,” “Nancy would really enjoy this scenery!” So I take pictures. As my niece, Chris, often reminds, it’s about making memories. Making memories with new people, old friends, and in various places. Things I can share with my family and friends. Pictures. Stories. Things that have changed my life and I hope, by proxy, will change theirs.

5.  Travel makes me appreciate my family, friends, and home. As much as I actually enjoy packing, repacking, repacking, and repacking my luggage, I’m always ready to get home. I’m always thinking of my family. I miss them. I’m appreciative that I have family to go home to - a sense of anchor.

6. Travel makes me cherish the time I get to spend with people. I remember particularly when I got home from my first trip to Scotland, and both times when I got home from Iraq, I went through a period of mourning for a few days. It was like I had said goodbye to family across the sea. My stomach hurt, my countenance dropped, and the tears fell. I imagine that’s how it’s going to be this coming week.

See you tonight, USA!

[jackknipe]

By your bootstraps

I speak Spanish. And a few other languages. I don’t understand what chemical compounds are, and I couldn’t fit a pipe or change my oil to save my life, but languages are my friends. As a child, I enjoyed studying languages and linguistics; it was like solving puzzles to me. But learning languages isn’t what defines me. When I meet people at parties or events, I don’t say “Hi! I’m Jack. I like languages.” Apart from being socially awkward, it would be a very limiting statement. In fact, there are a number of parts of my identity that I think are more salient. Just to name a few:

 I like macarons (not macaroons) . . . at the moment.

I like cheese in its many forms.

I’m from NJ, but I spent a long time in SC.

I feel most peaceful at the ocean.

Language revitalization is my passion.

Sometimes when I listen to music on the radio, I like to pretend I’m being filmed for the music video.

I think green olives are disgusting.

I like black olives.

I think Gibraltar has a magical quality about it.

I love Iceland too.

Bonefish is one of my favorite restaurant chains.

I love pizza.

I feel an ineffable sense of belonging or déjà vu in Iraq and Scotland.

I love travel.

My family means the world to me.

I like books.

I liked digging holes when I was a kid. And climbing trees to the top.

I like making announcements.

I am Scottish and proud of my heritage.

I am a Christian.

I don’t like conflict.

People are fascinating to me.

I love Jesus and want to understand Him better.

Even after I read that book by Edward T. Welch about “the fear of man,” I still worry a lot about what people will think of me and whether they like me, especially after I share my doubts.

I often feel a sense of regret after I express my doubts.

I grew up in a big family in a rural area.

Technically, I grew up poor but I felt rich because I was loved.

Issues like cancer, suicide, sexual abuse/assault, eating disorders, and physical and mental illness are close to my heart.

Injustice, in its many forms, really makes me sad. Or is it mad? Maybe both.

 Maybe you can relate to some of those. At least I hope you like cheese. But maybe you can’t. And that’s okay. But I want you to follow me as I walk you through a scenario that happened in 2011 – my last year of teaching in SC before I moved to DC.

 There was a freshman in my high school Spanish class. We’ll call him “Sam” and his parents were from Wales. He grew up in a rural area in PA. He liked books, black olives, and the ocean. It was the second day of beginner’s Spanish. I made an announcement. “Everyone bring $10.00 tomorrow. We’re going to lunch at the Mexican restaurant next door.” I could tell Sam, a new student at our small school, was excited because field trips are the best. The best ever! Then, I made another announcement. I like making announcements. “Okay, guys. Here’s the catch. You cannot eat UNLESS you order your meal in grammatically correct Spanish . . . complete sentences!” I could see the look of panic in Sam’s eyes.

 The next day, right before Spanish class, the students were gathered in the lobby of the school as I walked down the hall. “Okay, kids! Let’s head out!” Within 10 minutes we were all sitting around the table in silence. The mesero (server) came to the table. “What can I get you sir?” Sam, the first in line, replied “Me llamo Sam.” (My name is Sam.) So far, he was on a roll. “Yo querer uno taco.” (I to want a one taco.). UGH!  So close. He didn’t conjugate the verb and he used “uno” instead of “un.” NO FOOD FOR HIM! A few more students tried and failed. This was going disastrously!  One girl made it out with some rice, an ice cube, and a diet coke. The rest were not so lucky.

 I gotta say, I got a lot of parent phone calls that night. I remember the discussion I had with Sam’s parents. It wasn’t much different than the rest. My reply to their concerns went about like this:

“I don’t think I’m ridiculous. I learned Spanish pretty quickly. Heck, I grew up poor. My parents weren’t from a Spanish-speaking country. In fact, they were about as far removed from a Spanish-speaking country as you can get! I remember how quickly I learned Spanish with simply a Spanish dictionary that had a basic grammar section in the middle! When I was 12, I could have ordered 2 tacos, a burrito, some chips and salsa, and a refreshing cerveza, with an Ecuadorian accent if I wanted! If I could do it, Sam should be able to do it! Right?! I mean he has the same tools at his disposal. In fact, in this day and age he has the advantage of the internet. He could have Skyped with Spanish-speaking people to practice, looked up youtube videos, and watched some cheesy Venezuelan telenovelas!”

 They started with some cheap potshots “Well, Sam isn’t you! He’s good at science, can change the oil in our minivan like nobody’s business, and is great at football.  He struggles with languages. The rest of the kids in his class had years of Latin growing up at your school. It’s just not fair that you wouldn’t let him eat!  I’m enraged that you think by day two he should be able to order a meal!”

Despite my logical explanation – this is a free country and we all have the same opportunities – they ended up pulling Sam out of the school. Good riddance. From what I hear, he’s a senior this year at the local public school and slated to go to Penn State next year and major in engineering. Whatever.

 I hope you don’t think me too harsh. It’s just that if I grew up with less than he did and could learn Spanish quickly, then he should be able to.

 Do you know what I mean? Does that make sense? And before you say “no” or give me a lecture, think about whether or not you’ve said as much. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

 Because I hear a lot of people say basically the same thing. They’ll see Black boys dropping out of high school. Black girls on welfare. Single moms. Illiterate adults. Homeless people. There are differing levels of tolerance depending on the person making the assessment and the group being assessed. It’s all very subjective and personal. Regardless, the immediate response is often “If Ben Carson/MichaelJackson/some famous Black football player can do it, then the sky is the limit.”

 I think these statements, as much as my treatment of Sam, are naïve. They place our experience, knowledge, identity, and existence at the center of the judgment. While it’s impossible to “walk a mile in someone else’s shoes” it’s not impossible to acknowledge that maybe that person might not have shoes. Or maybe that person’s shoes were stolen from him just last night. Or maybe that person’s grandparents were denied the right to wear shoes and so the idea of wearing shoes hasn’t really been something that his family has emphasized or adopted as a norm. Or maybe they have, but they haven’t yet gained the means to buy shoes. Or at least that he isn’t wearing the same $150.00 Nikes that I’m wearing. It’s important to acknowledge that not everyone has the same identity as I do and furthermore, some particular groups have an identity that has been affected by centuries of systemic injustice that hasn’t quite been fixed.

 So, for what it’s worth, I should now make the announcement that I didn’t really have a Sam in my class. I didn’t really require my students to order in Spanish or go hungry. But I guess you’ve figured that out by now. Just in case this bears announcing, though, not everything was a lie. I do like cheese and I hope you don’t dislike me after reading this post. I care about what you think.

[jackknipe]

Merry X-mas, y'all!

This post promises to be much shorter than previous ones.  That's the goal going in, anyway.  I want briefly to address something that has gotten my goat for some time now.  So, here goes.

I am a linguist.  I study the structure of language.  I study language in society.  As an amateur in high school, I really loved phonology (the study of sounds) and semantics (the study of meanings of words).  Now that I've formalized this passion, I have grown more and more fascinated by critical discourse analysis (the study of language as a form of social practice and the implications for power struggles within that practice) and sociolinguistics (the study of the role of language in society and society in language).  

*Disclaimer:  I'm simplifying all my discussion and definitions here so as not to annoy readers beyond the content of this post.

Within sociolinguistics, there is a whole branch devoted to the study of folk linguistics.  This brings me to today's post.

Folk linguistics is a non-scientific approach to discussing language.  Folk linguists (and this term is usually pejorative), go around telling everyone, for example, that "X-mas" was invented as a liberal, leftist secular attempt to rip Christ out of the holiday.  In fact, the term dates back at least to the 16th century (Dickenes, 1954; O'Conner & Kellerman, 2009).  X, the Greek letter chi, corresponds to the first letter in Christ's name.  So, if we could all lay down our guns and torches and do a little research, we will notice that X-mas is a traditional Christian celebratory term for Christmas.  For those who hate new fangled worship with its drums and spiked hair, I suggest reaching into the annals of Christendom and adopting this term.  For those who would say "Well, language has changed and X-mas doesn't mean what it used to.  Now it's a conspiracy of the fewer than 20% non Christians in our country to quell the most sacred holiday of the 73% of us who ARE Christians!", I would counter that you have to give the younger generation the word "bitch."  While in days gone by this term was used to demean women, I hear it often between friends as a jocular sobriquet and/or term of endearment.  The word is being redeemed and recast.  If you don't like my defense of the word "bitch" then, by means of logic and consistency, you cannot get rid of X-mas.

Finally, when I see my Christian friends throughout the month of Christmas, I often say "Have a Merry Christmas."  Sometimes I don't.  I have some Christian friends who take an even MORE historic approach to the season and recognize its pagan roots.  To them, I give hugs and celebrate them being in my life.  The few I can think of who take this perspective, I hold near and dear.

Sometimes I see friends who are Muslim, friends who are Jewish, and friends who are otherwise.  I greet them with a "Have a Happy Holiday" or "Have a Happy Hanukkah!"  I don't feel the need to flaunt my majority position and, with the other 73% of Americans, make them feel as though they are peons who deserve no cheer in December "until they convert, get baptized, and go to heaven with me, dammit!"  That's just obnoxious.

So, this holiday season, if you catch me saying "Happy Holidays," please know that I love Jesus, I am a Christian who has been baptized, and I want nothing more than peace on earth that comes from Jesus.  If you're one of the few that gets a card from me, and you're a Christian, you'll probably see "Merry Christmas."  I like the way I write my "h's" in cursive, so I don't write "X-mas."   So this December, let's stop with the culture wars and recognize that any greeting for the holidays you receive is probably meant with heart-felt, gushy feelings of love and peace.  Let's stop pretending there's some great war on Jesus that starts with deleting "Christ" from your iPhone dictionary and ends with a reverse inquisition.  If you're worried about Christ being taken out of Christmas, shout his name from the rooftops on December 25 - as long as it's the roof of some soup kitchen or a homeless shelter.

[jackknipe]

Get Real

I was going to start this post off with the phrase "Sometimes you just gotta be real."  But I realized, most of my posts are pretty real.  I'm sure there many things in my life that I'm private about, but considering more than close friends know when I've had a bad bowel movement, most people know the "red box story" (my most embarrassing moment), and I willingly announce when my fly is down, I'd say authenticity is pretty implicit in most of my blog posts.  So, here goes the run-down of my thoughts from the past couple days.

For most of my early life and even through college I had a couple of health issues:  Intermittent Angioedema and bad stomach issues.  Doctor upon doctor tried to figure it out and they gave it the catch-all labels - Irritable Bowel Syndrome, Irritable Bowel Disease, unidentified allergies, an unidentified autoimmune disease; I even got some preliminary tests for Celiac Disease.  Just about the time we thought we were making progress with a diagnosis, a little over 10 years ago, my nephew took his own life.  I struggled with depression for a bit.  Then over the next couple years managed to handle 6 kidney stones - one that even blocked up one of my kidneys for a bit.

Next, my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer.  After surgery, she recovered with minor life changes.  Nonetheless, it was a wakeup call for me, the youngest child, that my parents would not be healthy forever.

Then, a couple years ago, my father was diagnosed with Mesothelioma, a rare but deadly cancer caused by asbestos.  This time when tragedy struck, I bucked up.  My family pulled together and we all helped in whatever ways we could.  We watched my dad ebb from a strong, dedicated, hardworking man to a frail, and quiet being.  Finally, last year at this time, God saw fit to take him home.

Then the childhood illnesses resurfaced with a vengeance.  One week the trots, the next week the swells.  It just wouldn't let up.  A couple times my throat started to swell shut and I ended up in the ER.  

Finally, my brother announced that he and his wife, missionaries in South Africa, were expecting their fifth child.  That baby was born on 14 May 2014 - Samuel Wiliam Knipe.  But God wanted him to be with his grandfather and took him that same day.  It would be 6 months later when Bill and Sue would find out that what took Samuel was kidney disease . . . and it was hereditary.  In fact, just recently, during a routine checkup before coming back to the USA on furlough, Bill discovered that he was born with only one kidney.  Furthermore, that kidney currently has 4 stones.  Furthermore that kidney is only functioning at 30%.  Furthermore that kidney is in stage 3b of kidney failure.  

By this point, the Knipe family as a whole seemed to be the butt of a bad joke.  One that drops like a lead balloon.  One where the punchline is shouted out in Hebrew and everyone is waiting for the translation that never comes.

Well, from time to time, the above narrative is at the forefront of my mind. All at the same time.  Because brains can do that.  But today, as I was driving home from my last class of the semester, I was thinking of ditties from my childhood.  One popped in my head and took me back to the third to the last pew at Dividing Creek Baptist Church, 1986.  

When upon life’s billows you are tempest tossed, When you are discouraged, thinking all is lost, Count your many blessings, name them one by one, And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.

Refrain

Count your blessings, name them one by one, Count your blessings, see what God hath done! Count your blessings, name them one by one, And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.

Are you ever burdened with a load of care? Does the cross seem heavy you are called to bear? Count your many blessings, every doubt will fly, And you will keep singing as the days go by.

Refrain

When you look at others with their lands and gold, Think that Christ has promised you His wealth untold; Count your many blessings. Wealth can never buy Your reward in heaven, nor your home on high.

Refrain

So, amid the conflict whether great or small, Do not be disheartened, God is over all; Count your many blessings, angels will attend, Help and comfort give you to your journey’s end.

Refrain

My theology (i.e., beliefs about God) has shifted some since 1986.  I think sometimes people can embrace an unbalanced stoicism in the face of trials without recognizing the severity and cause of the fall.  We suffer because of sin.  But I don't think that looking for the good or "counting our blessings" makes us naive.  It's just about looking through other lenses.  Getting another perspective.  So, I'm sure I've lost some readers by this point, either for being verbose or for not announcing afore that Debbie Downer was going to turn into Patrick Positive, but if you're still here I want to walk you through some of the thousands of things that popped in my head at 8:32pm in front of Trader Joe's on Rte. 7.  All at the same time. Because brains can do that.

I grew up in one of the most loving homes I know of.  I'm the last of 5 kids, my parents were together 50 years until my dad passed, and I don't think I've ever ended a phone conversation with anything other than "Love you.  Bye."

I had my own bed as a child.  I've traveled to many countries where kids sleep on dirt floors.

I've traveled to many countries where kids sleep on dirt floors.  Some people dream to travel, and I have.  I even got to visit Iceland before my dad passed.  It was my lifelong dream and my dad got to see me do it.

I can read.  It sounds like a corny "gift" or "blessing" but when you realize how many people in the world cannot read, it stings you.  Reading is one of my favorite things to do and I get to do it.  It's my escape.  For some of my friends in Iraq, the word "escape" conjures up images of fleeing to neighboring countries in war time - for being who they are, speaking the language they speak, believing what they believe.  For me the word "escape" takes me back to my high school years when I'd come home from school, steal away to my bed, and read about lions, witches, wardrobes, other planets, Iceland, whatever.

I'm privileged to have passions. My mind isn't consumed with what food I'll eat tomorrow, if I'll eat tomorrow, whether a drug deal is going to go down in my living room, whether I'll be able to make it to school, whether the teacher/professor will slightly ignore me in a way subtle to him/her and the other kids but not to me, simply for the color of my skin, the turban on my head, or the sex I was born.  I can fill that mental space with thoughts of languages, cultures, people, favorite foods.

I am among the less that 2% of Americans who is finishing a PhD.  That percentage significantly drops when we consider the whole world.  I came from a home where, statistically speaking, I shouldn't have gone into higher ed.  But my family encouraged me to go if it's what I wanted and I was able to go on for a bachelor's degree - in something I loved.  Not just something I needed in order to make money.  Then I went on for a master's degree - in something I loved.  Then I started another master's degree - in something I loved.  And a PhD in something I love.  

I have friends who have encouraged me as well.  Friends in South Carolina - a place I get to visit often.  Friends in other countries that I get to see on occasion.  Friends across the USA who offer me love, support, and laughs.

These are not brags - no more than the first list was gripes.  It's a statement of authenticity:  things that made me sad and things that make me happy - blessings.  And I think it's good to reflect from time to time.  To count your blessings - name them one by one.  That list was my starting ground.  It's all my brain could muster at exactly 8:32pm.  'Cause brains can't think of more blessings at the same time.  Oh!!  Just one more.  I'm Scottish.  

[jackknipe]

What's on your mind?

The mantras from our parents about being so old they walked 10 miles to school barefoot, uphill both ways in the snow, have been replaced.  I'm so old I remember when my Facebook feed wasn't covered with ads.  I remember when you had to be connected to a network on Facebook - and for a while you had to be a college student.  I remember when people would click in the status update where it says "What's on your mind?" and post . . . well . . . what was on their mind.  None of these memes, pictures of Pumpkin cheesecake donuts with caramel drizzle, or check-ins at Krispy Kreme.  There was dialogue.  

Lest I make anyone think the above examples are shrouded in an air of critique, I promise that's not my intent.  I love seeing pictures of donuts and seeing check-ins at Krispy Kreme.  In fact, it was one such check in that alerted me to the fact that there was a Krispy Kreme within 10 miles of my apartment here in DC, and for that I am eternally grateful.  

People use Facebook for a variety of things.  I can't argue with that.  To put a Kuyperian theological/epistemological spin on it, people have "taken ownership" of this platform.  They have taken dominion so to speak.  I'm sure at least half a dozen of my theologically-minded friends are currently dousing holy water on their computer screens at the mere suggestion that someone's post of anything pumpkin could be at all driven by anything God-related.

Nonetheless, I have chosen to use Tumblr to say some "What's on [my] mind."  Quite frankly, there are a lot of things on my mind.  Too many to jam into a Facebook status, a Tweet, or an Instgram photo.  A lot is on my mind for a number of reasons.  In keeping with the theme of the first several paragraphs, a portion of this cornucopia of thoughts springs from thought-provoking posts and articles I've seen on social networking sites.  

I have a wide variety of friends.  I have friends who are Muslim, Christian, Hindu, Unitarian-Universalist, Buddhist, agnostic, atheist, and otherwise.  I have friends who are straight, gay, bisexual, post-gender and otherwise.  I have friends who are conservative, leftist, Republican, Democrat, Socialist, Communist, Anarchist/anarchist, Libertarian and otherwise.  I have friends who are young and who are old.  I have friends who are skinny, friends who are muscular, and friends who are fat.  I have friends from Iceland, Scotland, England, Malta, Liberia, Uganda, Japan, Russia, Australia, and otherwise.  I even have a friend who doesn't like Krispy Kreme.  (If she didn't post so many interesting articles on education I'd probably delete her; but we'll pretend I keep her around because I'm open-minded).

The point is that I learn a bit from each of them.  That isn't to say that I'm floating in an abyss of gray waiting to pick up on any trend or ideology I read about.  It means I believe, either optimistically or naively, that I still live in a generally civil society, a society where people can benefit from discourse.  It means that, despite the meme that went around on Facebook mockingly stating that someone's politics shifted because of something they saw on Facebook, that my politics have shifted because of something I saw on Facebook.  

I have attempted to generate civil discussion the required logic, courtesy, and open-mindedness and in many cases I got just that.  It means I read through over 400 comments on a status in 2013 about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.  And I thought.  And I learned.  It means I have posted in secret groups sometimes and been caused to think more deeply about free speech, guns, class warfare, eschatology, gender issues, and otherwise.  (Some of my friends are afraid of discourse in certain areas and that can lead to discussions I don't always feel like having.)  It means sometimes I've come back reaffirmed in my thinking that progressives too can stamp their feet down, spout off trendy mantras that were hypothesized by some big name, and not think critically.  For example, I often hear people talk about issues like cultural appropriation, post-colonialism, capitalism, and white privilege without ever having grappled with them in the mud.  I think it's important to think about our assumptions and listen to what others are saying.

I went to undergrad at a conservative, Christian college.  The basic assumptions thrown around the classroom were often that Republican, conservative, capitalist = moral, godly, sophisticated.  I thought going into the big wide open and working on a PhD at a public institution would entail nuanced discussions and critical inquiry.  Instead, I've often experienced assumptions that capitalism, neo-liberalism, and colonialism are obviously evil.  I guess the point I'm trying to make here is that a lot of good comes out of Facebook posts and discussion.  It's sad that even now, in a field that discusses open inquiry, critical pedagogy, and higher order thinking is more propagandistic and controlling of speech and thought (directly and indirectly) than many social media forums.  

So, "What's on my mind?"  A lot.  A lot of stuff.  It's all in a swirl.  In fact, I don't even know if this post, one that I started last night before bed, is coherent.  But that doesn't bother me.  One of my professors often says that good research generates more questions than it answers.  I like to think that good Facebook statuses/posts, blogs, and discussion threads do the same.  I hope we keep asking difficult, critical questions and stop taking things for granted.  And above all, I hope that our generation is known for having meaningful discussions.

[jackknipe]

Bah Humbug or Something Else

A family of storytellers.  That's what I grew up in.  I don't mean storytellers as in people who fib, but rather folks who know how to artfully condense a 300 page book into a few descriptive paragraphs and then turn a 10 minute visit to the post office into a half hour sitcom episode.

Most of the people in my family can spin a yarn better than an old Icelandic woman with 5 kids and a tight budget.  Is it nature or nurture?  Whatever the case, I love to tell stories.  I love to watch people sit on the edge of their seats as I work through a Hitchcockesque plot structure.  I'm aware of this.  I know that even my cognitive process is fraught with temptations to paint every childhood memory with idyllic colors.  

But even with my idealistic memory, I think I can objectively say that I had an wonderful childhood.  Sure, we were poor; we sometimes ate government cheeses and No Frills meats.

But I had a pencil and gobs of paper that my uncle gave us.  I had a back yard with lots of trees and a creek.  I had a neighbor around my age, a sister near my age, and a quiet street.  I had a shovel and a curious spirit.  All these things combined spelled hours of fun.  (Now isn't the time to explain in any detail the time I dug a 3 foot hole that my dad fell into while mowing, but there is a good story there.  It might be developed in a future blog post.)

Despite not having vacations to Disney World, a computer, the latest video games, or a go cart, I can say with certitude that my childhood was great.  Some of my best memories came from Christmas.  There were years in which my parents scraped every last penny and bought us the latest popular gifts (e.g., Light Bright, Power Wheels Jeep) and there were years of restraint.  Those years we got clothes to replace our threadbare Tough Skins, dozens of dollar store items, and new toothbrushes.

Whatever the case, it was guaranteed that my dad would be excited - like a little kid.  He would hide gifts (or so he thought.  They were always in his closet, behind the cellar doorway, or at the bottom of the dining room hutch!).  Then he'd wrap them and put them in our respective piles on Christmas Eve.  He'd chuckle and compare piles to see who Santa liked more that year.  

While most people were scurrying through Macy's and Bradlees with sullen cheeks, sore feet, and the paper-thin patience that accompanies holiday shopping, my dad was parking wherever he could find a spot in the Jamesway parking lot and darting to the toy aisle with the smile and enthusiasm of Buddy the Elf.  It really was something to behold.

Then there was Christmas Day.  When we were younger, my sister and I would pummel my dad at 5am.  "Is it time yet?"  He'd grunt, "Give me another 30 minutes."  He was up all hours of the night wrapping gifts and hiding our "big gift."  (One year the big gift was a Pogo Ball.  Man, I got blisters from bouncing on that thing barefoot for hours!)

As we got older, my dad was the first one up.  Christmas mornings I'd wake up to a loud knock "Get out of bed, you lazy head, and get your body to the potty!"

We'd congregate in the dining room, have a light breakfast, read through Luke 2, pray, and head to the living room.  After we opened our gifts in turn, we'd organize them and call my Grandparents in Scotland to wish them a Merry Christmas.  

Then we'd get ready to go.  First we'd go to Marion's (my sister) house.  Then to Danine's.  Then to Uncle Jim and Aunt Sharon's.  Then to Aunt Nancy's.  Then to Uncle Henry and Aunt Ruth's.  Then back to our house to await visits from Aunt Sandy and Uncle Ray.  Even as a kid, I think my favorite part of the season wasn't spending hours banging out the first line of "Joy to the World" on my new 32 key Casio Keyboard Piano, but seeing family and friends I hadn't seen for a couple months.  

But as I got older, the magic of the holidays started to dissipate.  I wasn't a Scrooge per se, but I certainly got in some sentimental weepy moods around the holidays - even in college.  I almost didn't like Christmas time.  It reeked of memories past - of times that I couldn't get back.  The loss of 2 grandfathers, a nephew, a couple uncles and aunts, and so on - it all changed the dynamic of my childhood Christmas.  There were embers of joy where flames once touched the sky.

This Christmas, I'm trying so hard to fan those embers, but I'm not sure any amount of pep-talks are quite doing it.  The loss of my father is so fresh and the memories of him so vibrant.  Being home the last couple days has reignited what a busy end-of-semester had started to suppress.  Yesterday I saw my dad reading a label in the coffee aisle of Shop Rite.  I smelled him today as I cleaned his room.  I heard his voice on the television.  It's going to be a tough holiday season - the first without my dad - and I'm just hoping and praying I can turn my weepy nostalgia into stories that keep my father's memory alive.

[jackknipe]

Condensed version of my last post

From my friend Ivana:

It’s that time of the year, when everyone is talking about giving, celebration and being thankful.

For me, the end of the year is symbolically connected to some bad news - being diagnosed with cancer and the beginning of the New Year represents new beginnings and new chances in life - and adding a “Cancer Survivor” title to my name.

Diagnosed with Peritoneal Mesothelioma – a very rare type of cancer, I was lucky to find help at the right time and now I am celebrating my 4th anniversary as a Cancer Survivor.

Year 2013 will be remembered as year with a lot of budget cuts. Unfortunately, with budget cuts, mesothelioma researchers have lost one more NIH government sponsored research grant. That means less chance of developing effective treatments for people with Mesothelioma.

Luckily, there is an organization that I absolutely support just because they are here for all meso patients and their families and they are focused on research and helping patients.

The Meso Foundation (formerly MARF) is the only non-profit organization dedicated to ending mesothelioma and the suffering caused by it, by funding research, providing education and support for patients and their families, and by advocating for federal funding of mesothelioma research. The Meso Foundation not only works to give mesothelioma patients what they need most – treatments and support – but it also does so in a fiscally responsible way. Unlike many other organizations, for every dollar received, the Meso Foundation spends 80 cents on life-saving programs.

Some brief information: Mesothelioma is a malignant tumor of the lining of the lung, abdomen, or heart known to be caused by exposure to asbestos. Medical experts consider it one of the most aggressive and deadly of all cancers. Approximately 3,500 Americans are diagnosed with mesothelioma every year and an estimated one-third were exposed while serving in the Navy or working in Navy shipyards.

Please take few minutes to go through more information on the www.curemeso.org web-site.

So, please, help me by donating to the only organization that funds peer-reviewed research grants, offers support groups, connects patients to specialists, and so much more. Your donation is tax-deductible which should make your donation more generous.

And currently there is a challenge: raise $10,000 in online donations by December 31st. THE CATCH: Every dollar you help us raise (up to $10,000) will be matched by a long-time individual Meso Foundation donor.

See more at: www.curemeso.org/fundraising/challenge

Thank you very much for your help and support! This means the world to me!

Ivana Mihajlovic

[jackknipe]

Caring Community

Being in the thick of the holidays, I have to admit that it's harder to celebrate than I imagined.  Thanksgiving, just a few weeks ago, was fresh on the heels of my father's death.  It felt raw.  It was tough.  But, the buzz of laughter and screaming from my many nieces, nephews, and great-nieces and the running around in preparation made the day pass by with little time or mental space for that hardcore grief that results in prolonged crying.

But Christmas is here.  Over a month vacation from work and school.  My dad's favorite holiday during which he would act like a kid, comparing sizes of gift piles to see who "Santa liked most" each year.  Sometimes he'd wrap my mum's annual obligatory gift of "old woman slippers" - each in a separate box.  He'd usually wrap them in the biggest box he could find and add a brick or two in the bottom to throw her off and get her excited, only to find a slipper and a brick.  Can you tell where I get my prankster antics from?  

I'm nervous.  So many memories and time to think. But I just keep thinking, how do people get through stuff like this when they have nobody?  I've been surrounded by community.  Anyone who ever had me as a teacher could attest to the fact that I, along with my colleagues, always stressed the importance of community.  

I have friends scattered around the globe from all walks of life.  Community means so much to me.  Some of my friendship groups overlap while others have served specific niche purposes.  One of the groups that has been most important to me for a specific reason, is the Meso Foundation.  

Days before my father's official diagnosis came in, I was scrambling on the internet to find information about this horrible disease.  By God's grace, I encountered a live chat site for people facing Mesothelioma.  They immediately (within 5 minutes) put me in touch with a phone counselor.  This girl, who became a friend, was named Jill.  She was kind, Christian, knowledgeable, and experienced in counseling - by gift and trade.  By the time our first conversation ended, I was aware that this would be a long journey, but also affirmed that it would not be one my family would face alone.  

Jill put me in touch with a woman named Mary from The Meso Foundation.  Mary had every answer to every question I could think of to ask about the disease and its treatment options.  She was so personal, personable, and caring that I couldn't have imagined at the time the hundreds if not thousands of cases she was juggling.  Mary would email me on occasion to see how my dad was doing and how my family was doing.  She managed to get me into a conference on Mesothelioma where I was able to find out about clinical trials, understand the research going on, and network with patients, family members of patients, doctors, and surgeons who were dealing with Mesothelioma patients daily.

It was ultimately because of the Meso Foundation that my father got the great care that he did and my family got the guidance that we did.  The folks at the Meso Foundation are working around the clock to help Mesothelioma patients and their families.  Recently, funding for research has been cut.  One of my friends who I met at the conference on Meso, a survivor herself, has been volunteering to try to help other patients.  That friend, Ivana, asked me to share a message from her.  I'll post it by itself as a separate entry, but here it is.  

It’s that time of the year, when everyone is talking about giving, celebration and being thankful.

For me, the end of the year is symbolically connected to some bad news - being diagnosed with cancer and the beginning of the New Year represents new beginnings and new chances in life - and adding a “Cancer Survivor” title to my name.

Diagnosed with Peritoneal Mesothelioma – a very rare type of cancer, I was lucky to find help at the right time and now I am celebrating my 4th anniversary as a Cancer Survivor.

Year 2013 will be remembered as year with a lot of budget cuts. Unfortunately, with budget cuts, mesothelioma researchers have lost one more NIH government sponsored research grant. That means less chance of developing effective treatments for people with Mesothelioma.

Luckily, there is an organization that I absolutely support just because they are here for all meso patients and their families and they are focused on research and helping patients.

The Meso Foundation (formerly MARF) is the only non-profit organization dedicated to ending mesothelioma and the suffering caused by it, by funding research, providing education and support for patients and their families, and by advocating for federal funding of mesothelioma research. The Meso Foundation not only works to give mesothelioma patients what they need most – treatments and support – but it also does so in a fiscally responsible way. Unlike many other organizations, for every dollar received, the Meso Foundation spends 80 cents on life-saving programs.

Some brief information: Mesothelioma is a malignant tumor of the lining of the lung, abdomen, or heart known to be caused by exposure to asbestos. Medical experts consider it one of the most aggressive and deadly of all cancers. Approximately 3,500 Americans are diagnosed with mesothelioma every year and an estimated one-third were exposed while serving in the Navy or working in Navy shipyards.

Please take few minutes to go through more information on the www.curemeso.org web-site.

So, please, help me by donating to the only organization that funds peer-reviewed research grants, offers support groups, connects patients to specialists, and so much more. Your donation is tax-deductible which should make your donation more generous.

And currently there is a challenge: raise $10,000 in online donations by December 31st. THE CATCH: Every dollar you help us raise (up to $10,000) will be matched by a long-time individual Meso Foundation donor.

See more at: www.curemeso.org/fundraising/challenge

Thank you very much for your help and support! This means the world to me!

Ivana Mihajlovic

Please consider donating to the cause.  What The Meso Foundation has offered me and my family in terms of counsel and advice for treatment options alone has been invaluable.  Their continued work in the area of research may one day end this wretched disease so other people do not have to suffer like my father did.  

[jackknipe]

To Feel Like a Kid Again

So, like a forgotten fire, a childhood can always flare up again within us.  ~Gaston Bachelard

There are times in life when I've felt, often undesirably so, like I had on my big boy pants.  The first time my dad let me use the riding lawn mower.  When I got my first job.  The time my dad and I drove to Salem so I could take my driving test.  I was just thinking yesterday as I was walking to class, keys dangling from my hands, how 16 years ago when the car keys jingled in my pocket, it seemed like everyone on the sidewalk was staring at me - as if they were thinking "That's a man right there.  He has a driver's license and EVERYTHING!"  Little did they know I wouldn't be able to grow a full beard until I was 28.  But that can be our secret.  I felt like a full-on grown-up and that's what mattered.

Then there was the time when I called my parents from the parking lot of my first apartment out of college.  A tear trickled down my cheek as I had to tell them that I, a fully grown man with armpit hairs and everything, couldn't afford to pay my water bill that month.  I was out of college!  Surely I should be rolling in cash, paying bills, buying cars, golf clubs, fur-lined cigar boxes, and all the other stuff that grown men buy.  What was I doing wrong?  My parents, the most hard-working people I knew, literally ate nothing but hot dogs and eggs for a whole month when they moved from Scotland to a one bedroom apartment in a sketchy corner of Norfolk, VA.  This was so they could save up to buy a jalopy to get my dad to and from work.  Until then, it was ride-sharing and walking for him.  But our generation was different.  A bachelor's degree was like a modern day golden ticket.  Or so I thought - until the brutal reality of what it meant to be an adult slammed me in the gut like a Chuck Noris haymaker punch.  

Contrary to what many of my former students at New Covenant School, my siblings, or friends who have been victims of my prank calls might tell you, I have grown up.  Swinging my car keys while I walk across campus brings no thrills, buying my own clothes brings only the feeling of nostalgia for a time when my parents used to purchase my impenetrable, unbendable Toughskin Jeans, and paying my own bills only makes me want to cry.  Oh, and there's the beard thing.  That finally happened.  

In the past week, however, my mind has been plagued with a nauseating cognitive dissonance.  Even with my precocious penchant for cutting back the thermostat to 59 degrees to save on heating bills, my instinctive arm-guarding for whomever is in my passenger seat when I need to slam on the brakes, and my uncanny ability to finally grow a semi-full, albeit scraggly and patchy-colored, beard, I have never felt as much like a child as now.  

For the past year and a half, I have been in the Washington, D.C. metro area working on my doctorate degree.  Seems an adult enough endeavor.  A three hour drive to my parents' house in N.J., I made it home as often as possible to help in whatever minor ways I could.  You see, as most of you knew, my father was diagnosed with Mesothelioma, a rare and terminal cancer, nearly 21 months ago.  His health had been declining, but his constancy in attitude made death seem like a far off event.  His diagnosis sparked a newfound sense of responsibility in me.  Being the youngest of five children, I never needed to be strong in tragedy or in life.  There was always someone there to guide me through, hold my hand, or help pay my water bill.  But this time, I needed to grow up.  I had to make phone calls, schedule appointments, talk to doctors.  I began researching and making sense of Mesothelioma.  And I wanted to do it.  Somewhere deep down inside, a forecast of death makes us realize how "out of control" (in a literal sense) we actually are.  I wanted to do anything I could to feel "in control."  All of us in the family did what we could to help.

Despite all the strivings for control, I got a call a little over a week ago.  My sister informed me that my father said he was "ready to go home."  What?!  How?  He was driving a week before and now he was unable to walk down the stairs!?  While I knew this call was coming, it still seemed like it should be so much farther out.  I rushed home to find my dad, gaunt and frail, smiling in his bed.  As I entered the room, his face lit up.  I felt like a child again.  He held out his arms and we hugged.  He squealed out my name with a huge smile.  How could the man who used to carry me and my sister down the stairs on his back every Saturday morning, the man who built an addition onto our old farmhouse, the man who used to scale telephone poles and run electric wires to peoples' homes now weigh far less than me?  I squeezed his hand.  He tried so hard to talk, but his diction was so muddled and his words so breathy that it was like the language of a toddler - only those in the family who have spent time with him could translate.  I was feeling like an adult again - caring for a vulnerable family member.  It was almost as exhausting and painful for me to watch him try to explain his wants as it was for him to force them out.  Finally, I said "Dad, how about we try this.  Squeeze my hand if you want a drink," "Squeeze my hand if you're in pain."  This hand-squeezing language was as much practical as it was a last-ditch effort for a sense of child-parent intimacy.

After a long night of watching my father's frail body try desperately to find comfort in that hospital bed in the corner of our living room, my father finally found eternal comfort in the bosom of his heavenly father.  At about 2:15 on Sunday afternoon, my sisters, my mother, and I sat spread around the living room.  My father would occasionally smile at a joke that was told or make hand gestures behind my talkative sister's back as she sat at the foot of his bed.  We were awaiting the arrival of my brother from South Africa.  My dad occasionally motioned to sit up.  At 2:30, he motioned to sit up on the edge of the bed and my sisters helped him up.  It then became clear that things were a bit different this time.  My mother held his hand.  Two of my sisters gently laid him back down.  He gasped.  My sister Marion grabbed my mum's hand, Danine hers, Nancy hers.  I grabbed Nancy's hand.  Then, like when I was four years old and my mum and dad would hold my hands and lift me every third of fourth step as we walked into the grocery store, I grabbed my daddy's hand.  The circle was complete.  Again, I felt like a child.  "Dad!  We love you, we care so much about you, we'll see you again, and we promise to take care of mum!  If you understand, squeeze my hand!"  He took a deep laborious breath.  "Dad, squeeze my hand!"  I shouted forebodingly.  Several seconds later there was another gasp.  One more and then his eyes glazed.  "He's with Jake," my sister pronounced.

And there, surrounded by love in the house he lived in for over 40 years, my father's soul slipped quickly and softly into heaven.  And here, in my big-city apartment, bills paid, beard trimmed, and car keys on my nightstand, I feel like a child - a child who desperately misses his daddy.

[jackknipe]

Philosophy of Education

I'm aware that my posts can be lengthy.  A few readers have asked for "just pictures." :)  So, if you don't want to read, go to the end and click on the link.  That video sums up the whole thing and will hopefully make you cry.  For anyone who wants to read through, have at it.

All of us "Gen Xers" have been there - sitting at dinner, reminiscing about old times with friends, and someone brings up music or style from the 90s.  You all have a good laugh thinking about how different things were 10 years ago.  Then, three topics later, as you're shoveling the Tiramisu into your mouth so you can get home to let Jax or Fifi out to do their business, it hits you like a ton of bricks from the Empire State Building.  The 90s, at least the part of them that you were thinking about, was nearly 20 years ago!  That's the moment you realize that it's NOT abnormal for you to have crow's feet.  You ARE old.

When I think back to the blessed 90s, I often picture myself in different scenarios - often wearing pleated khakis and a combover hairstyle.  I'm wearing a tie, matching argyle socks, and sitting in a classroom.  One memory of the 90s that I think of often is my Philosophy of Education class with Dr. Salter.  It was this class, a requirement for my B.A. in Spanish (any 2 philosophy courses would do), that really got me thinking about becoming a teacher.

Dr. Salter read many of his lectures.  Some background - the son of a Baptist minister in Germany who fought against the ideology of the Nazi forces, he was drafted into the Hitler Youth movement during WWII.  He was taken by the Allies and made his way to the US.  He was in no way sympathetic to the Nazi cause.  Nonetheless, his looming presence, German accent, and teaching style made many students fear for their lives.  One time a student in this lecture class dozed off.  In the middle of reading page 4 of his lecture, Dr. Salter looked up, paused, and said "would someone please poke the man in the purple sweater."  While this student's choice of clothing may have been cause for a fashion police pat down, this didn't seem the appropriate moment.  The student's eyes got wide.  "Please stand up!  I shall inform you now, sir, that there will be no sleeping in my class.  Do you understand?"  The student replied with a sheepish "Yes, sir."  And Dr. Salter continued reading.  The student remained standing until somewhere around page 32 of the lecture when we got a 5 minute bathroom break.  

This professor meant business, and, although he did read his lectures, he did make the class entertaining, eventful, unpredictable, and meaningful.  He sometimes came to life, apart from his notes, to share an anecdote or try out an interesting exercise on us.  A class of 170 was hardly the place to entertain active learning concepts, group work, or a problem based learning exercise.  I don't even know if those practices had been dreamt up by the educational intelligentsia yet.  It was, after all, only 1999!

While Dr. Salter may not have been able to practice what he preached, he really encouraged us to look at education, not as a transfer of knowledge, but as a leading by the hand.  Educators were to be seen as facilitators of learning.  We traced educational theory and philosophy from Socrates and Aristotle, through Kant, to Skinner.  

By the time I got around to taking classes for a Master's in Education at Covenant College, it was 2007 and scholars had finally reached the pinnacle of research telling us all that we could let our students work in groups, arrange the classroom in a shape other than rows and columns of desks, have students do activities that engaged their hearts as much as their minds.  It was officially ok now.  

It was here that I added to my interest in education and became rebuked. The deficiency model that I had clung to - I am the source of knowledge and will share it with you in new-fangled ways so you will love learning - had been dismantled.  While I had gotten part of the equation right (you will love learning) I still thought of myself as the emancipator, the transferrer of knowledge.  Now, Salter taught this was wrong, but I think every educator fights daily with the idea that our students don't bring much to the table.

My philosophy morphed and it would take more than a blog to explain.  I'm always intimidated when I see applications that ask for your "philosophy of education" and then afford you 30 lines, double spaced, to explain.  I would rather just write "Teaching Redemptively."  But, in a nutshell, I'll write it, bullet pointed here.  Again, this is the briefest and non-inclusive account I can give:

The goal of education is multifaceted but is, in short, to help students polish their gifts and abilities to redeem a fallen world

All students have value as they are image-bearers of Christ

They all bear communicable attributes of God (e.g., they are social, moral, physical)

As educators, we must consider multiple avenues of teaching and assessing - what works for some students doesn't work for others

I could literally write books expanding on and adding to these concepts, but those four are a good starting point for what I ultimately want to share in this blog post.

As students share communicable attributes with God, we should capitalize on those attributes.  If my students are social, because God is social, why would I have them never talk?  If they are rational, because God is rational, why would I teach them to memorize answers rather than think deeply?  If my students are creative, because God is creative, why would I never allow them creative outlets to show they understand the content (e.g., drawing, singing, painting)?  If the world is broken by the fall, why wouldn't I use my classroom as a laboratory for fixing and healing the world?  Redemption doesn't start when you can grow a mustache or get your driver's license. (I hope it is understood that I was envisioning males when I wrote the former).  Just because students don't have underarm hair (gender inclusive this time) doesn't mean they cannot do something of value. Just because I have more education at this point of my life than my high school students doesn't mean they cannot draw from their own life experiences and teach me something.

When teachers are required to prepare students for tests that apparently measure our country's economic potential, they miss many opportunities. Often students who are not white, English-speaking, middle class Christians slip through the cracks as though these students are the only ones who bear the image of God.  Students themselves, start to question the value of education.  Is it just to make money?  

Good teachers, and I've encountered a LOT, are able to work within the public school system that has become so stifling, to embrace students where they are.  My friends like Erin, Liz, Sean, Layla, and many others, have been able to humanize education despite the testing culture that exists.  This educational model of redemption goes beyond the American school system, by the way.  In fact, that is why I posted about this topic today.  It was this week that i discovered that the Classical School of the Medes (technically a school network of 3 schools in Iraq), the schools that I had minimal contact with for a couple summers, has made sense of the themes of teaching redemptively.  That is - the teachers and students have a phenomenal philosophy of education that seeks social justice and redeeming a fallen world.  

This video made me cry.  There is hope, friends.  There is hope for our world.  All the doom and gloom in the media could not cast a shadow over me the day that I watched what is going on in IRAQ!  PLEASE watch this video:

Students with a vision!

[jackknipe]

Child of the Promise

Several months ago, I sat in my Sociolinguistics class at George Mason University.  I have always had a love for linguistics and especially the intersection between society and language.  In the first couple weeks of class, our professor wrote two phrases on the board:  “to be drunk” and “to die.”  Our task was to work in small groups to come up with as many ways to express these two phrases as possible.  “To be drunk” – “to be white-girl wasted”, “to be smashed,” “to be trashed,” “to be intoxicated,” etc.  “To die” – “to kick the bucket,” “to pass away,” etc.  Depending on the register, the situation, the context and so on, the way we express these concepts changes.  No matter how we parse it or express it, both concepts are usually undesirable. 

  Several years ago, today, my nephew, Jake Harold Stanley Garrison “passed away.”  No matter how soft a light I try to cast on the situation, it still feels as offensive and stinging as the first time I said it.  Sometimes I struggle to remember where I put my keys, how to get to a friend’s house, or what my college roommate’s last name was, but when I think back on the day that Jake “passed to glory,” it’s as if it’s happening again for the first time. 

  Jake was a child of the promise and a child of promise.  Let me explain.  Jake was born in a Christian home with Christian parents and Christian siblings.  In a Reformed understanding of Scripture, grace was at work in Jake’s life the minute he was born.  Moreover, Jake had a personal relationship with Christ as well.  When he was a preteen, he had some questions about life, spiritual things, and the afterlife.  It was then that he placed his faith in Christ.  In this sense, he was a “child of the promise.”  This “promise” was the covenant between Abraham and his children that was transferred to us as Christians.  The depth of that theological discussion could fill a library.

  Moreover, Jake-man, as we all called him, was a child of promise.  I remember myself being about 17 years old.  We’d head to Cedarville, NJ and watch Jake play soccer.  He also played tee ball.  Then it was baseball.   I would sit in envy of this kid whose athletic skills seemed as natural as his blond hair and his blue eyes.  He didn’t ever seem to learn to play those sports; he just seemed to play them. 

  Jake also had a fun personality.  From a young age he loved to spend time with family.  I remember taking family trips and Jake was never annoyed.  I remember introducing him to opera one time in my car.  I played an old spiritual sung by my friend Ruth Crumley from college.  She hit high notes with operatic force that rattled the windows in my car.  Jake listened patiently, smiled, and despite his coolness, masculine bravado, and athletic prowess, said “Wow!  She’s good!”  He could humor me in any situation.

  I remember playing on the computer at his house while he was doing abdominal workouts and pushups.  He would quote lines from the Goonies while I typed away.  Then he’d go play basketball, another of his natural talents, or go hunting.  He seemed to be constantly busy doing something constructive that I wish I could do.  He was gifted.  In this sense, he was a child of promise.  There was so much I could have learned from him and wish I had.

  He spent hours at my house, only 1 mile away from his.  Although my nephew, it was more like a hybrid cousin/brother relationship.  I spent days at my sister’s house (his house) and he and my nieces spent days at our house.  Doors were always open and something was always going on.  My mum would help him with his homework after school and his mum (my sister) would pick us up to go swimming at their house when he was done.  It was a great environment to grow up in.

  Then I went off to college.  After college I stayed in South Carolina.  I talked to my family often.  Struggling with my own health issues only made me call home more often.  The first anniversary of the September 11th attacks had just passed, finances were tight, my new job was busy, my car was on the fritz, and my health was off.  In my own bubble it seemed nothing else could go wrong.  Then, came the phone call.  That cloudy Saturday morning, as I had just finished showering, I answered the phone.  I got the news that Jake had passed.  No turn of phrase, subtlety of expression, or gentle voice can EVER prepare someone for that type of news.

  The surprise sent me into an emotional whirlwind.  My brother, Bill, and his wife, Sue, came to the apartment almost immediately to pick me up for the long drive home.  After we sang “It is Well” in the van, I tried to fall asleep.  Tears falling down my cheeks and a soreness in my gut that burned like a fresh stab wound were awaiting me every time I’d jump up from a 5 minute doze.  As cliché as it sounds, it seemed like a nightmare.  Every time I’d jump up along highway 85 and then 95, I kept thinking it was a dream inside a dream.  Eventually, I’d be in my bed in Greenville with the sun shining in my window.

  It didn’t happen.  Around 6am on Sunday the 15th, I arrived at my house.  I ran in the house to find my mum on the sofa.  We didn’t say a word.  We hugged and sobbed.  Usually that embrace after the long drive home meant “the family is together again!  All is ok!”  This morning, there was a dark cloud that hung like an attic cobweb that you couldn’t break free from.  That looming feeling seemed it would never go away.

  My description of that day has omitted something important – the manner of death.  Jake died at his own hand.  He promised that he’d be the brightest star shining down from heaven.  He didn’t die of an expected disease.  He didn’t die in a car wreck.  His death, though as tragic in many ways as any death of a 16 year old, left many lingering questions that will never be answered. 

  Today, I could continue asking those questions.  I could ask what would have happened in a parallel universe if the planets were aligned slightly differently.  But it does no good.  Today, I choose to remember my nephew, a talented child of promise; a child of the promise who is in heaven today proverbially shining as the brightest star in heaven.  Tonight, as you go out to meet friends for dinner, as you go for a jog, as you head to a movie, look up at the night sky.  Provided it’s not cloudy, look for the brightest star you can see.  Think of Jake.  Then think of friends that you have, friends that may be hurting, tell them you love them. 

[jackknipe]

Learning Out Loud?

I have not been faithful with my blog.  What little bit of free time I am afforded these days goes to talking with my family, eating snacks in the car on my way to and from meetings, classes, work, and home, or facebooking on the go.  So, this post guarantees to be a one or two off. Maybe a 3 off if my posting history is any better than my dieting history. 

In undergrad, I learned some pretty rudimentary things (e.g., how to form and use the subjunctive in Spanish, who Apollinaire was, why the Punic Wars occurred).  Some of those things I didn't learn very well.  I also learned some pretty deep and complex things (e.g., how to set up a solid written argument, how your epistemology shapes your teaching, the interplay between history and art).  After undergrad, my theology shifted, my views of people shifted, and my learning style shifted.  

Earning my B.A. was more than just a rite of passage, an exercise in fulfilling the first portion of the American dream.  It was a lesson to me that there was still so much more I didn't know.  Sure, I could chat with friends in Spanish, discuss the Mexican novel, and quote some lines from Don Quijote.  Maybe I could gloss the topics of the Iconoclast Controversy, Annuities, and polyandrous societies.  But more than anything, I could say with certainty, "scio me nihil scire" or "I know that I know nothing." Embedded in this Socratic Paradox is the sentiment that liberal arts education freed me from my slavery of ignorance while leading me in an insatiable quest for absolute truth.  This is not to say we don't learn pieces of truth, but we will never have all the answers this side of glory.

My Master of Education degree at Covenant further led me to gems of truth.  Making sense of knowledge and the presentation of knowledge, the work of education, was like the parable of the Arctic wolf licking the Inuit-planted bloody knife.  The more I tasted, the more I wanted.  The hope is that my fate will be less tragic than that of the wolf, for, as stated earlier, with knowledge comes freedom.  

I am finally in my PhD program.  This quest has taught me that, while I may have knowledge, understanding, and even some wisdom in some niched areas, my proverbial glasses are still foggy.  My first year, I was constantly reading the often one-sided literature required for class with a gut-reaction of distaste.  My Epistemology professor at Covenant had us read EVERYTHING with the suspicion of author-intent and worldview, but moreover the author's epistemological assumptions.  "How does the AUTHOR believe we know what we know?"  "What assumptions about truth have shaped his or her writing?"  

And so, I had the privilege of comparing required texts with things I already had in my repertoire of scholarly injunctions on truthful living.  Wolterstorff, Plantiga (some thick stuff to wade through), Sire, Jacobs, Stronks, and even the classics like Adler, Comenius, and Aristotle were all contradicting many of my readings.  As bringing their ideas to the discussion often disrupted the professor's flow, I often sat in silent disobedience - playing the game of academia - all the while knowing the discourse purported as truth was nothing more than an attempt at Postmodern inclusion of untruth.  (Side Note:  This is not to say every reading or every professor denied truth or the discussion of other ideas nor is it to say that Postmodernism is always bad nor that it always involves inclusion of untruth.  My generalities here come as the result of reader pressure for brevity, a notion I have already disregarded).

This semester/year is so far no different.  I am taking a course in Quantitative Research/Statistics, a course in World Perspectives in Teacher Education, and a Seminar on Multiculturalism.  So far readings have been far from boring, brief, or basic.  Week three of statistics has brought this 30 (we'll say 30) year old Scotsman to the verge of tears.  With my stats book in hand at a local coffee shop, I'm waiting for someone to ask if a family member has died, so I can just wail about the gross injustices of a Stats class.  If I were destined for hell, and hell were a personal place, my sentence would involve sitting in a room alone, with posters of cockroaches hanging up, doing statistics problems while chewing on cotton and listening to "Jesus Take the Wheel."  Even so, there is not much controversy with statistics.  Sure, derived scores can be played with, results can be manipulated, but calculations come out the same whether done by a transgender Asian, a white supremacist, or a deaf Democrat.  

World Perspectives in Teacher Education has thus far been enjoyable with thought-provoking and educational reads.  To be fair, I have not yet read for this week so there could be a surprise article by Oprah or an excerpt from Mein Kampf touted as gospel to throw me off.  

The Seminar in Multiculturalism has given me the most grief.  "Multiculturalism."  A word DRIPPING with Jack Knipe.  "The love of many cultures?"  "Methods of teaching many cultures?"  "How to handle different cultures?"  "How to treat different cultures in an American social, education, economic, and political context?"  You're getting warmer.  Throw in some Postmodernism, Critical Theory, and new definitions for all the words in the last question, add in a dash of history, Christian-white-male shaming, and you have the makings of five theories that are as controversial as routing credit card customer service calls to Bombay.  (To be sure, all of these comments are made in jest). 

So, I decided to go at it again - cross referencing every reading with readings that share my own epistemological assumptions (e.g., the Bible,  Justice Rights and Wrongs).  Only this time, I decided to take a page out of a friend's blog.  My friend Erin once had a blog.  She was teaching history and had so many interesting things to say in the area of pedagogy, classroom management, thoughts on education, and just funny and interesting classroom experiences in general.  Her blog was called "Watch Erin Teach."  Then she went back to school - George Mason University, interestingly enough.  And she was, herself, a student again.  So her blog took a new perspective and therefore a new title - "Watch Erin Learn."  So, I, too, decided to blog about my learning process.

This blogging theme may be short-lived, like many have been in the past.  But I want to try to use it as a way to trace my learning process.  As I stated earlier, I know that I know nothing.  I'm learning.  I'm growing.  I want to do that in the most humble manner possible.  While making assertions and arguing a point is valuable and necessary at times, it's also important to recognize that we are ALWAYS growing and changing.  Sometimes I think people fear listening to other points, changing or revising their own points, or coming full circle to a viewpoint they espoused, denied, and may now espouse again.  Isn't Hegel's Dialectic Model (i.e., thesis, antithesis, synthesis) something of value?

So my thoughts may be shoddy, they may change, I may contradict things I was thinking before.  But I hope to always point back to this post and make it clear, I am ALWAYS learning.  I want to make that clear because I just know one day I'll run for office and something like Multiculturalism will be written into law (figuratively and/or literally) and some pundit will point to this blog series and mark me as an anti-Semite, a Luddite, or a child abuser.  In our present democracy, I fear that so much of political correctness has buried the foundational concept of the "marketplace of ideas."  If you say something that doesn't meet the criteria of the "establishment" or "tolerance" you're marked as a purveyor of hate speech.

So, should I state anything that doesn't fit the mold, please forgive my ignorance, be patient with my learning process, or assume I don't care that it doesn't fit the mold, and still be friends with me.  Maybe by "thinking out loud" or rather "typing publicly" (yeah, doesn't have the same ring to it), you all can bounce ideas off of me and help me to grow.  Or maybe we can grow together.  

[jackknipe]

100 Questions About Me

1. ONE OF YOUR SCARS, HOW DID YOU GET IT? When I was 4 years old, I was hanging out at home.  Apparently, I was standing on my sister's blanket that she was dragging around.  Someone pulled into our driveway and she ran to see who it was.  I went flying into the stairs and cracked open the bridge of my nose.  Not quite the war-story most hope for, but a story nonetheless 2. WHAT IS ON THE WALLS IN YOUR ROOM? A clock with a world map on the face, 2 linocuts done by my friend Cindy Barlow (aka Cynthia Nicole or Cindy Albert), a Scottish tartan calendar, and a Friendship print from my friend Ashley's mom.  Ashley was/is a good friend from UT who lost her husband several years ago.  A couple coworkers and I went to be with her and her family and her mom gave us each one. 3. DO YOU SNORE, GRIND YOUR TEETH, OR TALK IN YOUR SLEEP? Surely no. 4. WHAT TYPE OF MUSIC DO YOU LISTEN TO? Everything.  Really.  Classical, Christian, Country, Celtic, Counting Crows, and other things that don't begin with "C" 5. DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME YOU WERE BORN?

Not sure 6. WHAT DO YOU WANT MORE THAN ANYTHING RIGHT NOW? Be in Iceland 7. WHAT DO YOU MISS? My nephew, my family, Take5 candy bars, and pogo-balls 8. WHAT IS YOUR MOST PRIZED POSSESSION? A cassette tape of my grandfather speaking to us 9. HOW TALL ARE YOU? 5ft 9 10. DO YOU GET CLAUSTROPHOBIC?

Nah

11. DO YOU GET SCARED IN THE DARK? Nah 12. THE LAST PERSON TO MAKE YOU CRY? Not sure 13. WHAT’S YOUR WORST FEAR? Cockroaches 14. WHAT KIND OF HAIR/EYE COLOR DO YOU LIKE ON THE OPPOSITE SEX? No particular; although I do like redheads. :) 15. WHERE CAN YOU SEE YOURSELF PROPOSING AT? It depends on who I propose to.  I think a proposal should be memorable and special.  So, I would make it VERY personal. 16. COFFEE OR ENERGY DRINK?

COFFEE!

17. FAVORITE PIZZA TOPPING? I like plain cheese, sometimes black olives 18. IF YOU COULD EAT ANYTHING RIGHT NOW, WHAT WOULD IT BE? A Take5 candy bar 19. FAVORITE COLOR OF ALL TIME? I'd say green, but everything I own is blue 20. HAVE YOU EVER EATEN A GOLDFISH? Not a literal one, just the snack 21. WHAT WAS THE FIRST MEANINGFUL GIFT YOU'VE EVER RECEIVED? Probably a plane ticket to Scotland from my parents.  First time I got to see my family since I was 4. 22. DO YOU HAVE A CRUSH? Nah 23. ARE YOU DOUBLE JOINT? No, I'm lucky if I can touch my toes 24. FAVORITE CLOTHING BRAND? Banana Republic? 25. WHO IS THE HOTTEST FEMALE/MALE CELEBRITY? Anna Kendrick 26. DO YOU HAVE A PET RIGHT NOW? A dog - but he lives at my parents' house 27. WHAT KIND IS IT? a pug 28. WOULD YOU FALL IN LOVE KNOWING THAT THE PERSON IS LEAVING? Not sure 30. SAY A NUMBER FROM ONE TO A HUNDRED: 7 31. BLONDES OR BRUNETTES? Blondes 34. HAVE YOU BEEN OUT OF THE USA? yes  35. YOUR WEAKNESSES? When a woman wears Ralph Lauren Blue.  And head massages 36. MET ANYONE FAMOUS? A couple 37. FIRST JOB? Beaver Dam Boat Rentals, cleaning boats and scrubbing barnacles off the sides 38. EVER DONE A PRANK CALL? Um, most of my calls ARE prank calls 39. DO YOU THINK EVERYONE OUT THERE HAS A SOULMATE? Nah 40. WHAT WERE YOU DOING BEFORE YOU FILLED THIS OUT? Writing a paper for my "Social Justice in International Education" class 41. HAVE YOU EVER HAD SURGERY? a couple times 42. WHAT DO YOU GET COMPLIMENTED ABOUT MOST? My muscles 43. HAVE YOU EVER HAD BRACES? nope 44. WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY? world peace 45. HOW MANY KIDS DO YOU WANT?

At least 4

46. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? My grandfather and my uncle 47. WHAT IS THE BIGGEST TURN OFF OF THE PREFERRED SEX? Smoking  48. WHAT IS ONE THING YOU MISS ABOUT HIGH SCHOOL?

the drama

49. WHAT KIND OF SHAMPOO DO YOU USE? Pantene 50. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? Yeah 51. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT? turkey 52. ANY BAD HABITS? picking my nose and wiping it on people 53. ARE YOU A JEALOUS PERSON? Not usually 54. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON, WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? I hope so 55. DO YOU AGREE WITH FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS? No 56. DO LOOKS MATTER? Obviously you have to be attracted to someone, but that doesn't mean everyone finds the same people attractive 57. HOW DO YOU RELEASE ANGER? Prank call people 59. WHAT’S YOUR MAIN GOAL IN LIFE? To teach . . . to help students reach their full potential as image-bearers of God 60. WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE TOY AS A CHILD? my pogo-ball 61. HOW MANY NUMBERS ARE IN YOUR CELL PHONE? too many to count 62.WERE YOU A FAN OF BARNEY AS A LITTLE KID?

I'm too old for Barney 63. DO YOU USE SARCASM?

Haven't I made that clear?

64. MASHED POTATOES OR MACARONI AND CHEESE? Both 65. WHAT DO YOU LOOK FOR IN A GUY/GIRL? Someone who has the same basic interests, can be completely goofy, and can have a good serious talk too.  Oh, and someone who likes chocolate, travel, and Super Mario Brothers 3 66. WHAT ARE YOUR NICKNAMES? Jack, Jacko, Jacky, Jackaroo, Jackson, Jacarias, Joaquin, Jacko-bean, Stud-muffin 68. WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE TV SHOW? Friends 69.WHAT’S THE BEST WAY TO DEAL WITH YOUR ENEMIES? "Kill 'em with kindness" -Julian Jones 70. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM FLAVOR? Turkey Hill Chocolate-peanut butter ripple 71. DO YOU HAVE ALL YOUR FINGERS AND TOES? yes 72. DO YOU HAVE A COMPUTER IN YOUR ROOM? A laptop 73. PLANS FOR TONIGHT? Going to bed early and then opening the door for a friend who's coming in from out of town later on tonight and staying on my couch 74. WHAT'S THE FASTEST YOU'VE EVER GONE IN A CAR?

Probably 90 . . . 

75. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO ANSWER THESE QUESTIONS? Doesn't matter 76. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO? Nothing right now 77. LAST THING YOU DRANK? Diet Dr. Pepper with Vanilla 78. LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? my sister, Nancy 79. THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE IN THE PREFERRED SEX? smile 80. WHAT DO YOU LIKE TO DO IN YOUR SPARE TIME? Read books and things 81. FAVORITE THING TO HATE? cockroaches 82. FAVORITE MONTH OF THE YEAR? October 83. WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE TYPE OF CANDY? Take5 84. HAVE YOU EVER REALLY AND TRULY HAD A BEST FRIEND?

yeah

85. WHAT IS YOUR HAIR COLOR?

Blond

86. EYE COLOR? Blue 88. FAVORITE FAST FOOD PLACE? Burger King 89. FAVORITE RESTAURANT? Lazy Goat 90. DO YOU LIKE SUSHI? Yup 91. Last thing you watched? Parks and Recreation 92. FAVORITE DAY OF THE YEAR? Thanksgiving 93. PLAY ANY MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS?

Not really

94. REPUBLICAN OR DEMOCRAT?

Neither

95. KISSES OR HUGS? Sloppy wet kisses or nothing at all.  But seriously, I don't know. 96. RELATIONSHIPS OR ONE NIGHT STANDS? Relationships 97. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU BOUGHT? A shirt from JCrew 98. DO YOU HAVE A LOW SELF ESTEEM OR A HIGH SELF ESTEEM? Is self-esteem still a thing?  I thought that was just a buzzword from the 90s. 99. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING? A few:  "The Scots Language:  Its Place in Education" and "Scottish Highlanders and Native Americans:  Indigenous Education in the Eighteenth-Century Atlantic World" are the two I was reading today 100. DESCRIBE YOUR LOVE LIFE? extinct

[jackknipe]

Latest on life

I've been encouraged to do a "Caring Bridge."  A few have asked if I am going to do an email chain to fill people in on life here in D.C.  Honestly, though, most of my news goes out through facebook.  Even so, I wanted to give a little bit of an update on here about how things are going.

Washington, D.C. has been just great.  For starters, school is going well.  This semester I've only taken a couple courses - Ways of Knowing and Introduction to International Education.  The former was definitely an interesting class.  I say "was" because as of tonight, it's technically finished.  I still have a paper to turn in (that I'll work on when I'm finished my blog), but we're finished meeting.  I thought the class was going to be on Epistemologies and world views.  I had my Davis course notes from my Covenant College days on hand to combat any overt Pluralism or Postmodern mantras that would come my way.  But it really wasn't what I expected.  We read a number of books (5 or 6) and a myriad of journal articles and papers.  The overarching principle of the class was to realize that as practitioners, researchers, and policy makers in education, we come to the table with a number of "ways of knowing."  Our gender, ethnicity, experiences, learning styles, religions, and a host of other things shape how we approach life.  This class got me to think outside the box.  Noting that people like Temple Grandin see the world through pictures and folks in Generation Y see the world through a technological lens has helped me not only to consider my own stilted ways of course delivery but helped me legitimize my own ways of thinking.  Of course, that sounds like a 30 second exposition of Pluralistic swill, but I can assure you there was a lot to this class that will hopefully strengthen my character, practice, and empathy in education as well as life in general.

The other course I took was Introduction to International Education.  This class delved into the history of international education, themes that make it distinct from comparative education and global education, international competence and international mindedness, nonwestern traditions of education, and international development.  This class really helped me understand how many veins there are in international education.  The class culminated in a paper (due tomorrow) in which we were to explore a specific niche in international education.  While some students focused on issues such as mobile technology in education in Sub Saharan Africa, I focused on reversing language shift of languages (specifically Scottish Gaelic and Cherokee) and language hegemony.  The topics were THAT varied and I like that!

In between classes, I've spent a great deal of time with new friends in my program.  Friends from Los Angeles with parents from El Salvador, friends who have taught in Korea, Vietnam, and South Africa, friends who are Quakers and Anglicans, friends who have done excavations in Antarctica, friends who have touched George Washington's underwear, Pakistani friends, Chinese friends, Indian friends, and friends who are plus sized African American women models.  And that's only the friends I've made on campus.  Aside, I've spent time with old friends from the area (Cyrus and Layla Razmgar), friends from Bridgeton High (Colleen Riley and David Price), friends from South Carolina (Diana Morrow, Stephen and Erin Russ, Shayne McAllister, Andrew Bolden, and Dave Squalli), and new friends they've introduced me to.  I've attended Scottish parades, Guanaco (Salvadorian) festivals, and Icelandic picnics; I've eaten authentic Korean barbecue in Centerville, eaten pupusas, kimchee, injera, and other authentic foods from Korean, Ethiopian, Spanish, Salvadorian, Japanese, Moroccan, French, Afghani, Peruvian, Chinese, and Mexican restaurants.  I've even had an authentic Hell Burger and a milkshake from Ted's Schedule.  I've heard great live music by Kindlewood and Brendan James and toured the city with my nieces Jenna and Cameron.  All in all, I've crammed a lot into a few months.

Despite all that, I've still managed to get back to New Jersey a couple times to cut down trees, lay out some mulch, nail up some flashing near the roof of our house, start a few bonfires, whack some weeds, and clear out some brush.  I've taken my dad to a few appointments, played a few games of Phase 10 with my mum, and spent time with my old buddy Zed (a mutt) and Sam, our pug who makes the Tasmanian Devil seem like a Stepford Wife on Ritalin.  I've even gotten back to South Carolina to make my debut as a carrot on one night and a black-eyed pea on another.  

While life has been busier now than I ever thought it could get, I've loved every second.  Sure I miss my life in South Carolina.  Sure I get scared sometimes about what the future holds for me and my family.  But I haven't felt alone for one minute.  I'm thankful on a daily basis that I live in 2012.  Technology has kept me almost as much in the South Carolina and New Jersey loops as if I were there.  I can tell you what Liz had for dinner last night, where Riley and Thomas went last week, what Holly and Jennie wore to the Cosgrove's tailgate party, what Blake got in the dirty Santa gift exchange, how Patty's family is doing, how tacky Joey REALLY looked at the Christmas party, how Alice is celebrating Advent, and how Betty Lou's pregnancy is going.  I can even tell you that my sister scratched her butt today - there's a Vineland Police Department surveillance video of it.

So, while I'm keeping up with all my friends and keeping you all up on me, I feel like I should end with an update on my father's health as it's pressing and I know many of you are praying.  The chemo was taking a pretty rough toll on his body this year.  We were all a little worried as there were a lot of unexpected side effects.  The doctor gave him some time off as the cancer had receded to microscopic levels, also unexpected.  However, the two spots that have started to grow have taken his treatment on a new trajectory.  One of the spots was growing "dangerously close" to his spinal cord.  With the idea of paralysis and/or neurological damage, we sought out a potential clinical trial (again) from the University of Pennsylvania's Presbyterian Hospital.  They agreed that he was a great candidate but said they would like to start radiation first.  The spot near the spinal cord could be best handled with radiation.  So, he has been going 5 days a week to Philly to get radiation.  He's been in a lot of pain, but the doctor assures us that after a few more treatments, the pain will start to minimize.  Bill, Sue, and the kids came over for a couple weeks from South Africa to visit and help out.  It was a HUGE blessing.  Dad should be finished with radiation the day before Christmas Eve.  After that, he'll resume chemo with a clinical trial included.  This year has definitely been full of surprises, some good and some bad.  If there is one thing I've learned it's that I wouldn't want to face any of it - good or bad - without the company of good people.  Community has been my lifesaver this year and I'm thankful for everyone in my life.

[jackknipe]

NCS - Things Are Different Here

I almost feel like I should have titled this NCS - Things Are Different Here:  Part 1.  Why?  Well, the school at which I teach is unique.  The amount which could be said of it could fill volumes.  Despite my persistence that good rhetoric never includes the phrase "today I'm going to share with you . . . ," I'm going to break my rule.  Today, I'm going to share with you a few samples of some activities and students that have my last weeks at New Covenant School an encapsulation of all things good.  I've included a few pictures so I can appease my friends who flip through my blog on the fly.  I can appreciate that! :)

First, every year we have a formal.  Some call it a prom.  We call it "different."  This year's theme was "Masquerade."  We joined with Montessori School of Anderson for a great night.  Their school is equally cool and sometimes I wish we could just squish the two schools together!!  Here are some pictures.

Joey the headmaster was the DJ.

Couple of the guys posing at sunset.

The girls and Bruce

Diversity.

"Same Dress Syndrome" can prove embarrassing for some, but not when you're A) so dang cute and B) confident enough not to run from each other, but get your pic taken!

She can sing like Adele and look like Amy Winehouse - the one on the right.

More pretty faces and sweet personalities.

There they are again - plus another one.  The one on the right is my current student and her sense of humor always makes me smile.

What's so great is that the three on the right are related.

They don't just look "too cool."  They really are! Great kids!

Diversity and uniqueness - personified.

The Prom Singers - I think that's what they call themselves.  All but the drummer go to NCS. 

Some Montessori friends with a photo bomb by Austin. he he he  My kind of kid!

Speaking of . . .

Action shots

Slow dancing

I THINK he enjoyed embracing her.

Yup, he did.

More slow dancing

Jillian is one of the few who could get away with this.  And she did.  Her mom's proud smile shows it all.

Ready to dance

The end of the night draws near

Still time for Jillian to "whip [her] hair back and forth."

More of our Montessori friends

That's right.  Riley likes to break it down.

Some of the chaperons decide to take a break. ;)

Well, there are many more memories to be made and many more to share.  But, I'll close here.  Hope the pics gave you some insight into the group we get to hang with every day.

[jackknipe]

[jackknipe]

And Knowing is Half the Battle

When I was a child, I spoke as a child.  When I became old, I feverishly engaged in childish pranks.  So, I didn't quite get the verse . . . or the concept right . . . but I have had fun in my old age.  I'm the ripe old age of 28.  Or is it 29?  I can never remember and neither can most of my friends, colleagues, or students.  Whatever the age, it's surely young enough to grant me many more years of mirth and merry-making in the form of scaring people, tapping people on the opposite shoulder and looking busy, and pulling pranks.

The pranks I play are hardly novelties.  In fact, many of my pranks I've documented in former posts.  Specifically, I was thinking today about my Prank Partner in Crime - Jacob.  Most called him Jake.  Most readers would know him as the guy who sprayed warm water on Mr. Sloppy Socks in the community bathroom of my dorm in college.  I know him as a great friend who had a similar zeal for capturing people at their finest - off guard.

One Saturday, we were hanging around the dorms.  Most Saturdays many students took the Shame Train - the shuttle bus that drove from campus to Walmart and the Mall.  This shuttle didn't induce shame in the hearts of its riders because of its size or color.  It was a simple, standard bus that stated the college's name on the side.  It didn't spark embarrassment in its riders because it signified they didn't have cars and were forced to ride public transportation.  Using public transport in the late '90s and early 2000s (don't do the math to see how old I am)  was a sign of noble adherence to earth-friendly travel.  The Shame Train, as most of us called it caused many of its riders to hang their heads low for another reason. 

Going off campus for the students at Bob Jones University stirred up many a glare.  Students were the objects of stares and snickers sometimes as they marched around town with their denim skirts that caused a "ft ft ft ft" sound if the girl walked too fast, pleated khakis for the guys who hadn't seen flat fronts until it was too late, and for many guys, the 90s equivalent to the mullet of the 80s.  That's right - the BJU Comb-over.  Much like love, it's hard to explain what it is, but you know it when you see it.  Kind of like a direct, calculated line that looked a bit like a knife-slice that went from the cowlick of the back of the head to the bangs that were, try not to picture it, combed straight down in a sort of plastic straight-edged awkwardness.  For the guys who had pitched their tents toward Sodom and perused a GQ or a Men's Health magazine at the grocery store, the bangs got shoveled over with the rest of the hair or sprayed up a little bit. 

Whatever the look, it screamed "I GO TO BOB JONES UNIVERSITY!" Adding a shuttle bus that touted the university name on the side only expanded the 2 inch bulls eye for ridicule to a solid four feet in circumference.  Those of us who were proud, but not too proud to admit we were proud, tousled our hair as much was in the limits of holiness and went to the mall with friends who had cars.  If you didn't have a friend with a car, you made friends with someone with a car. 

This particular Saturday, my friend Jacob and I were caught up on our purchases of dress shirts, toiletries, and flat front pants, and we decided to have some fun.  With the permission of our hall leader who offered to sit at the center desk in the guise of studying but really video taping, we started our mission.  The front center of our dorm boasted 2 sets of 2 large glass doors with a 2 foot section of wall in between.  They could be locked individually.  We locked the left door of each set.  Then on the right door of each set we taped a sign that said "Please use the other door" with an arrow pointed to the locked door.

We sat on the couch opposite the hall leader's desk.  Time after time we watched as people would come down, read the sign, push on the locked door, pause, scratch their heads, and turn around to exit via the back door.  Some would run straight down, ignoring the sign for the sake of their urgency to make the Shame Train on time, and slam backwards onto the floor.  Then it happened.  We spotted a legalist.  Now, legalism has its fingers millimeters from the reigns of all our hearts.  Legalism is the doctrine that states that adherence to man-made, externally imposed laws or rules will make you a good person regardless of the motivation behind the rules or the spirit of the rules being imposed.  Digest that.  It will take a couple minutes, and as it is MY definition and not a textbook definition, I am aware that should anyone spend too long unpacking it, you'll find some holes.  Moving on.

There he was.  Our next victim.  The next to be laughed with, not at . . . .well maybe a little at, in our pursuit of juvenile frivolity.  He made his way down the center stairwell.  "Slap-slap . . . slap slap."  The slap of his rubber-soled Steve Maddens smacked louder and louder on the plastic covered stairs as he got closer and closer.  As was typical with each dupe who approached our man-made Venus Fly Trap, we tried not to overplay our parts in spite of our beating hearts.  Jacob and I talked about random events on campus, our hall leader squinted as he read, and our pulses raged.  Then . . . in his ignorance, he went through the unlocked door and the door shut behind him.  We all sighed with the presumption that we had lost one. 

Then it happened.  In the apparent swirl of thoughts - what he had to do that day, what homework was due Monday, and so on - he realized he had missed a sign of some sort.  He turned around and re-entered the lobby.  Once he was fully in, he read the sign.  "Please use the other door."  With great precision and obedience he reached for the other door.  It wouldn't open.  He paused and did what anyone who loves the letter of the law would do - turned around and escaped through the back door.

In our confusion, we laughed.  How could someone be lacking THAT much common sense.  Looking back, it slaps me in the face.  As I mentioned earlier, the love for the letter of the law, the love for feeling good or right despite the reason, the love for codifying what makes us loveable and good is endemic in the hearts of humanity.  I still struggle with this and I know I always will.  By God's grace, however, I at least know now that it's a worthy STRUGGLE and knowing is half the battle.  If only G.I. Joe would have told me THAT one!