Via Facilis

Is this a good thing, or a bad thing?

I've been told recently that my Latin text (displayed to your right just ostentatiously enough along with a couple of samplings, q.v.) has no particular niche into which it nestles neat 'n nice.

Guilty as charged. It doesn't.

I wrote Via Facilis for my 7th, 8th, and 9th grade students.
Were 12-15 year olds my target learners?
Yes. And no.

I also teach graduate students at City University of New York in the Latin for Reading Knowledge program. Are they my target learners?
Yes. And no.

Who then could learn best from my text?
Anybody who wants to learn, or relearn, Latin.

What age group?
Anybody who wants to learn, or relearn, Latin.

Who is my target audience?
Anybody who wants to learn, or relearn, Latin.

(and Brutus is an honorable man)

What about the best and the brightest?
And they are...?
And the people who determine the identity of "the best and the brightest" are...?

(Rearing its head stage left, the Insidious Suggestion that only those who are most in touch with their mental processes should even hope to attempt so difficult an enterprise.)

All these beg the question:
Is Latin really that tough?

To which the response is:
Does it have to be?
Why?

And so:
To Niche or Not to Niche?
Not.

For a different perspective on what the publishing industry is missing by niche-ing, see my colleague Annette Kramer's learning lab. She's convinced - and is probably right - that although children's editors may have met virtual children, they never have met any actual ones.

In my last post, I wrote of the Absurd - how it powers sentences to make the mastery of Latin (in specific), and the understanding of language (in general), readily accessible. Students tend to progress to the point where they either accept the sentence on its own terms, or provide a context wherein the sentence has meaning for them. Or both.

This is a story about how some of my students opted for the latter path.

When I was in high school, that brilliant, technologically revolutionary masterpiece Star Wars came out, with its (no longer) cryptic moniker, "Episode IV - A New Hope". My friends and I learned the meaning of true devotion. We would wait on line - a line that went all the way down and around the block - to see that movie.

Not once.
Not twice.

I saw it twelve times.

My cousin (friend and fellow SW devotee) and I would write each other often (by snail-mail, the only type then available, unless you wanted FedEx) from our respective boarding schools. In those letters, a couple of lines addressed how life away from home was going; the rest was devoted to lines from Star Wars.

The letters would go on for pages.

Flash forward thirty or so years. In the interim, Episodes V and VI came out, followed by Episodes I, II, and III (these last regarded by SW purists to be uncanonical).

Yoda's manner of speech is readily recognized, predicate complements leading the way:
"Your father he is."
"Gone is young Skywalker, consumed by Darth Vader."
"Only pain will you find."
"Surprised are you?"
"Failed have I."
"Judge me by my size do you?"
"Remember what you have learned. Save you it can."

In their struggle in the Force, Masters Yoda, Windu, Kwaigon, Obi-Wan, and Darths Mogg, Sithius (good second declension Latinate ending) and Vader, bring to the fore the critical role that choice plays in a person's life: it will shape your destiny.

As a linguist and Classicist, I particularly appreciate that Yoda's speech patterns raise our awareness of word order, of syntax, of how language establishes meaning. Our effort to understand him is itself a linguistic exercise.

"If once down the path to the Dark Side you start, forever will it hold you."
"Anger, fear, hatred - the Dark Side are these."

Now in 2007 there has emerged another die-hard, ardent Star Wars following.
These are kids who saw all the Star Wars movies, maybe even in Episode I to VI order. They probably own the dvds and listen to the theme music on i-pods. As for us seasoned Star Warriors, we saw IV through VI first. Then, if we could get over our contempt - and ourselves - Episodes I through III. Or not.

I have seen them all.

That Yoda is one heck of a teacher.
Anyone could learn from him.
"Do. Or do not. There is no try."

So what?
This is what.

In the building blocks of chapter 7 of my Latin text, the final set of sentences translate as follows:

"The skill of the boy conquers his anger."
"The skill of the boy is conquered by anger."
"The boy's anger is conquered by skill."
"They are conquered by the the boy's skill and anger."
"Skill and anger are conquered by the boy."

These sentences could qualify as absurd.
A context would be helpful.
Student, help thyself.
This year, my seventh grade students did.

And what might their context of choice be?

Star Wars

Of course.

Yoda, Master of Jedi Masters, whose favorite metaphor for a padawan's progression in the Force is Path or Road.
Anakin Skywalker, possessed of skill and anger in massive measure.
His was a journey from the Dark Side into Light.
Even the Emperor, Sith though he be, uses similar language:

"I feel your anger. Good. Gooood. I am unarmed. Go ahead. Take your light sabre. Strike me down, and your journey to the Dark Side will be complete."

The Road.
An apt metaphor.
Star Wars.
An unexpected context.
An old and welcome friend.

Even if one seventh grader does think that he's one of the Sand People.

And that I'm the Emperor.

My early twenties were the most difficult years of my life. I was fresh out of college. I had no direction, no desire to do much of anything. Everything I did, thought, wrote, saw, or heard had a pointlessness that I could neither get beyond nor ignore. I had originally thought that I wanted to become a professor of Religion. I went to Harvard Divinity School right after college. It was the natural, knee-jerk thing to do, as I had been going to school for sixteen years straight.

It became apparent that Div school wasn't going to work. I became ensorcelled by Greek and Latin, but I found at Harvard that the shepherds had become too much like the sheep. The sheep didn't care much about language mastery, just about "religion." It didn't matter that the texts upon which that religion was based were written in those languages.

I spent a year at the Div school, then withdrew. I applied to be a special student at the Yard in Classics, but was summarily rejected. No surprise, really. The true shock came when I was told by the secretary of the head of Harvard's Classics department - the secretary, mind you, not even the head, himself - that it was a bit late and I was a tad old to be getting into Classics. At another time and place, I would have told her what I thought of both the assessment and its author. But it wasn't.

Yeah, I was "too old".
An ancient 22.
Over the hill, but not picking up speed.

As an aside, St. Ignatius Loyola didn't start studying Latin until he was 33. All the lowly Loyola did was to found the Society of Jesus and play a key role in the Catholic Counter Reformation.

(I did eventually get my ph.d. at the University of Pennsylvania.
At the tender age of 34.)

It was just as well. I was riding on intellectual empty. I had been going to school for too long: grade school, high school, college, grad school.

Seventeen years straight.
It was definitely time for a break.

I still wasn't listening.

I began a Classics M.A. at Boston College. Prof. Emily Vermeule was good enough to recommend me for a spot there. But it was not to be.
A month into the term, I'd had it.
I took that euphemistically named "leave of absence" from the program at B.C.

I remember walking down Massachusetts Avenue in Allston where I was living, thinking, My God, what have I done? I might never go back to academia again.

It was terrifying.
It was the right thing to do.
I had to do something else.
Something completely...Other.

So I did.

I volunteered for the Boston Chapter of NOW, and then worked for Carla Johnston, the only woman who was running for Congress in the 8th congressional district. Tip O'Neill was finally stepping down.

Alas, Carla didn't win.
She didn't even have a prayer.
How could she?
There was a Kennedy in the race, even if his ego and his understanding of the world were inversely proportionate to one another - heavy on the ego.

As I said, I was living in Boston, specifically in Allston.
And it was here that I learned an amazing lesson.
From a plant.

My apartment was pretty nice, aside from (or next to) the roaches. With it came a plant which the previous owner had thoughtfully left for me. Or had simply forgotten.

I had no idea what to do with a plant.
I'd never really had one.
Still, I couldn't bring myself to throw it out.
So I just let it sit there, a soon to be no longer living memorial to my directionless existence.
The plant's leaves died, and so, seemingly, did it.
I could relate.

Then one day, I decided, What the heck, I'll water the plant.
Yes, it needed it. But I think I needed it more.
And besides, I had nothing to lose.
And everything.

A few days went by, a week, a month.
I kept up my daily ministrations.
I even got a spray bottle so I could keep its leaves moist.
And the plant - an English Ivy, I think - came back to life.
And began to grow.
And grow. And grow.

When I finally left Boston for my first teaching job, the plant was lush, its vines tumbling over the sides of its pot to the floor seven feet below, an emerald cascade.

I had never felt such an enormous sense of accomplishment.
But it was more than that.
I myself was pivotal in the turn around of this plant's life.
I mattered.

And in the simple act of giving this living thing the chance to grow, I had done the same thing for myself.

I did not then fathom the plant's gift to me. Nor did I see how great a role it played in my quest for the meaning of meaning. I didn't even know I was on a quest.

That plant may not have been key in my becoming a teacher. But it was instrumental in my staying one.

As I said. I didn't know then.
Now I do.

"Give and thou shalt receive."

On the road of life, we meet many different characters of varying ilk.
We do not always recognize the significance of that interaction.
In fact, we usually don't.
We have to wait a few years before it dawns on us.

One teacher I had who said or did things that escaped ready comprehension and significance was Mr. Mitchell.
I just found out that Mr. Mitchell died two weeks ago.
He was my homeroom and Soc. Sci. teacher (he pronounced it Sock Sy) in 5th grade.

Aeons ago.
Another life.
Another time.

Mr. Mitchell was infamous for one particular propensity.
He deplored the desk that was a mess.

But that wasn't what he was infamous for.

It was for the swift retribution he exacted upon those desks and their owners.

The desks we had then had flap-up tops.
Mr. Mitchell would frequently check our desks.

Or, he would wait.

Until time had elapsed.
Until our desks were overflowing with papers and general chaos.

Then, he would strike.
Like the Assyrian, like the Wolf on the Fold (one of the many poems he made us memorize, along with, Act iii, Scene ii, The Forum, Mark Antony's speech to the crowd after the death of Caesar, in the tragedy of that name by Billy Shakespeare).

The unfortunate student targeted would watch the descent of this Zeus-like figure, beard bristling, wrathful eyes blazing.

The desk would be expertly upended, emptied out.

Papers, books, notebooks, drawings, pencils, pens would fall to the ground, scattering themselves in fear.

Its top open like a toothless, gaping maw, the desk would come to rest on its side topping the piled-up havoc.

The hapless student would cry, laugh, or just sit in his chair in shock, stripped both of his desk and his pride, a forlorn creature midst the devastation of his work space.

We would look at our classmate, moved with great pity, knowing that our time would also come - if not today, then tomorrow.

How could this mean man do this to us?

We would help our classmates put themselves and their desks back together.
And we would make sure that our own place was likewise in good order.

It was only recently that I came to understand the lesson.

It wasn't simply, Keep your work space neat, or suffer the consequences, or Decisive Action Works, or even, Be Prepared.

Those were incidental.

The lesson was deeper, more complex. More to the heart of life.

To deal with the enemy in front of you, you must help your compatriots, knowing that you will need their help, just as they rely on yours. Your likes and dislikes of each other had nothing to do with survival.

That was the point.

Our worst enemy was Mr. Mitchell.
Mr. Mitchell taught us how to help ourselves.
He taught us how to help each other.
He taught us how to be compassionate.

Mr. Mitchell in himself showed us how our worst enemy could be our best friend.

With enemies like him, who needs friends?

Funny that it was also in 5th grade when I began to find my voice.
In Mr. Mitchell's class.

It was Mr. Mitchell who had us all memorize the aforementioned Marc Antony's Act III, Scene ii speech, then stand up and recite it in front of the entire class; then, for those good enough, in front of the entire grade.

I found I could give the words life, vigor, a power that my fellow students couldn't match. Yes, they could memorize it. But their recitations were bland repetitions, no emotion, no feeling. Even so, they admired how I said the words, how I could make them come to life.

So, I repeat.

With enemies like Mr. Mitchell, who needs friends?

requiescas in pace, Magister.

Adolescents (and many young[er] adults as well) are in a constant battle with what they perceive as two diametrically opposed desires:

to be their own person;
to be part of a group.

In being part of a group, kids feel pressure to be like everyone else in that group. Many think that they have to sacrifice their identities, or some key aspects of those identities, to gain entry into this safety of numbers.

Self-confidence comes when adolescents realize that they fit into a group not in spite of, but because of, their independence.

And independence is itself a manifestation of who a kid is.

The better "groups", insofar as such "cliques" can be, accept this individualization, however grudgingly; some even celebrate the "craziness" of their members.

Thus it is who a kid is that fortifies the group, not the group that fortifies a kid.

So what is self-confidence anyway?
I don't know.

I do know the operative word in self-confidence:

Self.
Unhyphenated.

More about those groups and cliques I mentioned in the previous post.

They have a tendency to view themselves as the "elite" - the best, the brightest, the most beautiful, etc. They encourage this view of themselves in others.
Others almost too quickly help reinforce these pronouncements and proclamations.

The best education.
The best clubs.
Where the Elite go.

Sometimes, clubs, groups, cliques, etc. die out, or grow no further. We can look back in the past and laugh that we were a part of them.

It is when they become institutions that the problems set in.
In the former Soviet Union, if you were a high member of the Party, you could do what you want.

George Orwell, disillusioned and disabused socialist as a result of the heavy handedness of that Man of Steal...uhh... Steel....Stalin, wrote in his political allegory Animal Farm the famous words:

"All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others."

Corruption becomes rife.

The most difficult challenge is the effort it takes to get into such groups, not the blood, sweat, and impossible expenditure of energy it takes to earn one's way out. Because there is no need of such effort. The in-crowd is the focus. Everyone else is out of it.

I was an avid watcher of the old television series Kung Fu. It was a fabulous show, full of life lessons.

I found the ending credit scene particular poignant.

The young acolyte Kwai Chang Kane must walk the distance of thirty yards on rice paper without leaving a trace, then remove a huge cauldron with his forearms, burning the dragons of the Shao-Lin temple imperishably and indelibly into his skin.
The act of removing the cauldron triggers the opening of a trapdoor.
The acolyte is confronted by the terrible aloneness of the outside world in the dead of winter, snow blizzarding down. And he, forearms burned, feet bare, in threadbare robes, faces it utterly alone.

He has left the place where he has been all his life.
Only then does the acolyte become a priest.

This is what his group life, his living in the Shao-Lin temple, has set him up for.
Not a cushy existence.
Not even "Servant, Well Done."

Rather, "Servant, Thy Work Has Just Begun."

But this is not what happens with the Elite.
Far from it.

How about with major universities?
How about so-called excellent schools?

There can be no doubt that originally these places had a reality that led to their current reputations.

But.

They have rested on their laurels.

Does real learning go on there?
Does real teaching go on there?

Maybe.
Sometimes.

But these are the elite!

So?

So does it matter if real learning and teaching go on there maybe or sometimes?

Apparently not.

If we're talking "Elite".

Elite? No longer.

Effete.

A couple of weeks ago, the Yankees, my favorite baseball team, were in the throes of the worst stretch of baseball woes they'd experienced and been a party to since 1995. They couldn't do anything right. And the Red Sox, their arch-rivals, had a ridiculous 13 and a half game lead on them.

There they were in Toronto playing the Blue Jays.
There were two outs, runners on 2nd and 3rd, and a high fly pop-up had just been launched in the direction of the shortstop, symptomatic of yet another frustrating attempt by the Yankees to score with fewer than two outs and runners in scoring position.
The pop-up was, in baseball lingo, a can of corn.

Then Alex Rodriguez, while running behind the Blue Jay shortstop on his way to third, said "I got it!"

Keep in mind that the shortstop is supposed to be the captain of the infield.
If he calls for a ball, he takes the ball.
Even if it's close.
And nobody - I mean, NOBODY - calls him off it.

Did we get that?

The shortstop calls the ball.
Nobody calls him off it.
No exceptions.
Period.

Especially on a routine pop-up like this one.

Yet as soon as he hears Arod, the Blue Jay shortstop jumps out of the way.
The fans groan.
Understandably.
The ball falls in for a hit.
Obviously.

The Yankees go on to win that game, and eight more after that.
Woes over.

Aggressive stupidity, Naivitee, self-centered justice just beginning.

The shortstop, a 20/30 something year old, complains bitterly to the third base umpire.
The Blue Jay manager joins the gripe session.
Can you imagine?
Sure, you say.
But can you imagine that the umpires actually took what he was saying into consideration? Had a group confab right then and there on the field?
Decided that there was nothing they could do?
That after the game, Joe Torre, the Yankee manager, said it was not the most appropriate time for Arod to say something like that?
That for a week or so after that, the Media kept printing headlines like "Arod Told To Keep Mouth Shut"?

Please.

This wasn't a check from behind that endangered the physical well-being of the player.
It wasn't a blind-side hit.
It wasn't even a hard slide into third, spikes up.
Nor a play at the plate, which has resulted in concussions for the catcher on many occasions.
Nor was it shouting obscenities to distract a player.

It was a psych-out.

And it worked beautifully.

Do you think if someone said that to Derek Jeter, the Yankee shortstop, he would have jumped out of the way?

Let's say it together.
"No."

Cut to "The Bobby Orr Story."
This was about the great Bobby Orr, defenseman for the Boston Bruins.
It was a kids book. Is a kids book.

At the beginning of one of the chapters, Orr is playing in one of his first games in the NHL.
He's skating out of his own zone when suddenly a voice in his ear says, "Bobby, I'm right behind you, drop the puck."

Orr does so.
The crowd groans.
Turning around, Orr helplessly watches Yvan Cornoyer of the Montreal Canadiens go in on a breakaway and score a goal.

Did Bobby Orr, a future hockey hall of famer, a player to be reckoned perhaps the greatest defenseman in NHL history, complain to the referee?

No.

Did he think what had happened to him was unfair?
Most likely.

Did he look for retribution?
For some higher authority to step in and "make it right"?
No.
Why not?
Because he knew that the play and its outcome, painful though they be, were the result of his own, and only his own, poor judgment.
Did he look to blame someone else for his foolish, rookie mistake?
No.
It was his action and, in the final analysis, his choice.

Did he learn from it?

Apparently.

My, how times have changed.

It wouldn't bother me so much if this were one isolated incident.
It isn't.

The incident brings to the fore a disturbing trend in the world view of 20/30 something year olds.
The next generation.

It is a dangerous trend.
We must address it.

Fourteen months ago, I wrote the following entry for this blog regarding the years right after college graduation - years I would never want to experience again. Still.

"...I was living in Boston, specifically in Allston.
And it was here that I learned an amazing lesson.
From a plant.

My apartment was pretty nice, aside from (or next to) the roaches. With it came a plant which the previous owner had thoughtfully left for me. Or had simply forgotten.

I had no idea what to do with a plant.
I'd never really had one.
Still, I couldn't bring myself to throw it out.
So I just let it sit there, a soon to be no longer living memorial to my directionless existence.
The plant's leaves died, and so, seemingly, did it.
I could relate.

Then one day, I decided, What the heck, I'll water the plant.
Yes, it needed it. But I think I needed it more.
And besides, I had nothing to lose.
And everything.

A few days went by, a week, a month.
I kept up my daily ministrations.
I even got a spray bottle so I could keep its leaves moist.
And the plant - an English Ivy, I think - came back to life.
And began to grow.
And grow. And grow.

When I finally left Boston for my first teaching job, the plant was lush, its vines tumbling over the sides of its pot to the floor seven feet below, an emerald cascade.

I had never felt such an enormous sense of accomplishment.
But it was more than that.
I myself was pivotal in the turn around of this plant's life.
I mattered.

And in the simple act of giving this living thing the chance to grow, I had done the same thing for myself.

I did not then fathom the plant's gift to me. Nor did I see how great a role it played in my quest for the meaning of meaning. I didn't even know I was on a quest.

That plant may not have been key in my becoming a teacher. But it was instrumental in my staying one.

As I said. I didn't know then.
Now I do."

So, yes. Now I will say this, quoting my buddy Marcus Tullius Cicero (it's up to you readers to figure out how it applies to what follows):

"Qui ipse sibi sapiens prodesse non quit, nequiquam sapit."

Translation:

"The wise man who cannot help himself is wise in vain."

Now.
One thing I neglected to mention in that story:

I didn't just leave Boston.

I also left the plant.

That always bothered me.
The leaving the plant part, that is.
(Leaving Boston was easy.
I'm a Yankee fan, for goodness sake.)

Nagged at me.
Niggled.
Still does.

So why am I bringing this up now, you ask?
"Yes. That would be nice to know."
Fair enough.
Recently and with increasing vigor, I've been working with my education consultancy in the UK.
Coming over here every month, working with all the teachers for a week or so each time.

But somewhere in the back of my mind has been lurking the thought that I would teach again next year.

And that it would be in an independent school in the US.
And that it would be full time.
I had already spoken with various placement services, and had received phone calls regarding my availability.
I even went through an interview for a paternity leave position for April and May of this year.
It was okay.
Even good.
But it was lacking.
Or rather, I was preoccupied.
I could talk the talk, even walk the walk.
But my heart was nowhere in sight.

How could I just be a substitute teacher with this school when I have my own work to do?
My own teachers to work with?
I was offered that position.
I turned it down.
I couldn't in good conscience accept it.

cagse requires commitment.
Full Commitment.
From Everyone.
My executive director is the best there is.
But she can't do it herself.
My pro story teller is fabulous.
She can't do it all, either.
My head of Latin Programs is tremendous.
She can't do it by herself, either.

Then there are the teachers themselves.
They are hardworking, dedicated, enthusiastic.
Most of them are new to teaching.
Even those who aren't are new to my book.

'Everyone' includes me.

But I still wasn't quite getting it.
Recently, I had a phone call from the folks at Dalton School.
They wanted me to come in for an interview.
I said I would.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I could not do it.
So I cancelled.
Why?
Because I already have a job.
I also removed my name from placement services regarding further consideration for the foreseeable future from any school.

Why?
Because I finally got it.

I (still) already have a job.

And what a job it is.

The work we are doing over here is nothing short of critical.
To the UK's national curriculum, certainly.
But even more to education itself.
We have here a new, powerful mechanism which will serve as a paradigm for real teaching and learning in the form of our Latin program.

cagse can be the cutting edge, not just on it.
Can shape vibrant, energetic, thoughtful teaching and learning for decades to come.

We are Compelling.

We put the R E A L back into L E A R N i n g.

But for cagse to take wing,
it is up to me.
And so, here I fly.

So why the reference to that earlier blog?

Haven't you figured it out yet?

Simple.

I've come back for my plant.

drg

Who is Dr. Richard Gilder III?
Why did he found CAGSE?

If you want to know, read on.
If you don't, plug in a new destination and keep on surfin'.

I am on what is currently a twenty-four year journey to deepen my understanding, knowledge, and flexibility of thinking in several meaningful areas. These areas include, but are not limited to, an on-going investigation into the power and eloquence, the brashness and boldness, the mechanics and intricacies, the beauty and the absurdity, the good sense and the nonsense, of the essence of Latin, Greek, English, language in general, lacrosse, learning, teaching, coaching, advising, and guiding students and teachers on the beginning, middle, or end of the road upon which they find themselves at a particular moment in time.

CAGSE is the expression, the physical manifestation, of that quest.

I have taught and coached students of every age level from 4th grade through graduate school. I know where they began, where they are, where they're going. I understand their motivations, their hopes, their fears, their disappointments (sometimes borne of bitter unexpected failure, sometimes accepted with lukewarm acknowledgement), their successes (garnered with anything from a modest shrug to a wild whoop of exultation). When it comes to students, I have seen the means, the extremes, and everything in between. I am a student of the mind inchoate belonging to that age group undergoing the angst and grind of growing up. Students sense this intuitively. They know when they come to me that I will tell them what they need to hear. Each student is different. One needs compassion, another compulsion, a third someone who will simply lend an ear. One student would do well to stop kidding himself, another to give herself a break. And there's always the student who is desperately seeking the answer to the lonliest of all questions, "Is there anybody out there?" I encourage students, and teachers, to undertake more and greater challenges, to opt for the more difficult path, or the one less obvious. Yet whether in the classroom, in my office, or on the athletic field, I'm ultimately in the business of putting myself out of business. There will come a time when students walk out of my classroom, out of school, and on to the next phase of their lives. I prepare students not against that day, but for it.

As a colleague, I'm open and frank; I speak my mind; I don't break if you speak yours. I work extremely hard, am self-motivated, but not self-absorbed.

If you want to work for me, I expect nothing less from you.

I have a clear vision about the whos, whats, whens, whys, wheres of Latin and language, of lacrosse, of teaching, of coaching, of mentoring. I am direct. I've written two Latin text books, used in the UK in CAGSE's state schools in the London area. And I attend conferences such as that held by the Classical Association of Atlantic States, by the American Classical League, and by JACT.

drg

I'll be having dinner with my father tomorrow.

I'm not looking forward to it.
He'll say something like
"Why aren't you teaching? You should be teaching."
I'll say,
"Well, I am teaching. Teaching other teachers how to teach."

He'll go on as if I hadn't spoken.

That's alright.
I'm used to it.
For years, it made me angrier than a category five hurricane.
Now, it just makes me sad.

Truth to tell, I would love to be teaching.
There is nothing like being in a classroom, challenging your students to go beyond themselves. To reevaluate their understanding.
To reestablish their limitations in ever expanding depth and breadth.
To take the plunge into the unknown.
Even without a safety net.

Right now, I simply don't have that luxury.

Not when I know what I know.
About administrators.
How they feel compelled to curb strong teachers.
Teachers who will speak their minds.
Who will challenge the administrators on crucial issues.
They don't like a challenge.
They like to have people reaffirm their pronouncements.

They even fancy that they understand kids.
They miss the reality of that fancy.
Which is that they don't.

Administrators are all over schools.
They make the decisions that affect the kids, and those who teach them.
Yet they are bereft of true understanding of what kids really think, and how they learn.

There's an old saying:
"Those who can't do, teach."

I believe that's wrong.
Well, misstated.

It should be,
"Those who can't do, administrate."

Those who teach well have the ability to create the environment wherein kids learn how and what they can do.
Their individual power.
The power of self.

It is not testing.
It is not continually evaluating and reevaluating teachers,
or coming up with questionnaires which are slanted in such a way that there is only one answer you can truly give, and that answer does not truly fit the question.

It is not a check list, a set of "rubrics".
It is not SATs.
It is not ERBs, either.
Or any other sort of three letter words.

Give me someone who can challenge the young mind.
That is the person I want teaching for me.

I don't care if they have an MA in education.
I'd prefer it if they didn't.

I'm not looking for them to tell me the answer they think I want.

I'm looking for them to harness their minds.

I do that on my terms.

CAGSE is the expression of those terms.

drg