TVWSP

The Reluctant Quester Meets Stanford-Binet

Seventh grade and hormones kicked in - the kind that make you aggressive and hostile. With more adrenaline than growth hormones, RQ was short but had a very big chip on his shoulder. It was the 1950's, so I had three extra inches, including my pompadour and engineer boots.

On my toes and looking James Dean tough, I would get in line at the movie theater and try to buy a ticket for the latest Bridgette Bardot film. The same lady was always in the ticket booth. She would smile, sometimes giggle and wink, but always sold me a ticket.

Nice lady...who no doubt would be arrested today by ultra right conservatives and crucified in the New York Post for corrupting the morals of a minor.

Short, bad, and angry, I acted out, but did not rob or murder.  I just misbehaved and talked back to teachers. I was never in danger of being sent to Riker's Island or reform school, but was endlessly threatened with a "600" school. Six hundred schools were the New York City Public School's home for the less than criminal, what the NYC family court defined as "PINS" (People {children} in Need of Supervision.

Okay, so I was never sent to a 600 school, but got very close a couple of times. The closest was in a science class taught by a young man we will call Harvey.

As you might guess, Russell Sage Junior High was not a progressive school. However, being the progressive student that I was, I liked calling Harvey…well Harvey… a lot…And I kept it up - compulsively, obsessively - with result that I made frequent visits to the assistant principal's office.

 If it had not been against the law, I probably would have felt the lick of a strap. There was a cane in the corner of the AP's office, and rumor had it that she would stare at, then look at you, then back to the cane…grim, scary stuff.

So one day, during one of our chats, there is a fight in the hall and she flew out of the office to deal with it. Invitingly, left open on her desk, was my "Permanent Record Card!!"

Like a shot I was out of my seat and behind her desk. Numbers and letters I could read, and there, circled in red, was my IQ - 92.

No longer scared or angry, I was just sad.  The worst had been confirmed by Stanford-Binet. Dumb and slow, I couldn't even claim to be an underachiever. I was just stupid...geesh.

Cice Meets Her Match

Before I share my latest thoughts I want to be clear about one thing – it was not my fault.  I am a respectful, well-behaved canine who heretofore felt nothing but mild curiosity about the members of the Mephitidae family.  From this day forward, however, I shall regard them as mortal enemies.  Here are the facts:

 It was late afternoon on a particularly warm day.  I was leisurely sniffing my way around the outskirts of Storybook, looking for a shady place to nap when a large black and white creature leaped from behind a tree and began stomping its feet.  Before I could do more than yip, the dreadful creature turned its backside in my direction, lifted its tail, and filled the air with a foul, overwhelming stench. Alarmed, I yelped and backed away, but the scent clung to my fur and burned my eyes, so that it was all I could do to find my way to Jenaia’s home.

Imagine my chagrin when she took one sniff, ordered me outside, and insisted on bathing me in acidic red juice poured out of cans.  Not only was I mortified to be seen covered in this sticky red sauce, but the results only added insult to injury.  The original, noxious odor remained, but now it was overlaid with the scent of Solanum lycopersicum.

Clearly less than satisfied with the results of her efforts, Jenaia suggested that I pay a visit to RQ.  While polite and careful not to wrinkle his nose, I could tell he was not pleased to see me either.  Therefore it came as no surprise when he failed to invite me into his living quarters.  Rather than feel sorry for myself, I decided to console myself with a bit of questing.

Questing, as Jenaia has explained it to me, is not the clever form of torture RQ claims.   While it does involve writing, there are many curious and occasionally puzzling activities to engage in which do not require making black marks on paper.  As a matter of fact, most humans would benefit greatly from an afternoon spent questing as a canine.  By this I mean focusing their attention less on what they can see and more on what they can feel, hear, smell, and touch.

 It would also do them a world of good to get their heads out of the clouds and down near the earth.  There are marvelous things to be discovered creeping, crawling, and slithering along, as long as you do not encounter a member of the Mephitidae family that is.  Here then, in brief, are my impressions after an hour or so of “questing” in and around the home of Uncle D.

 Sun streams dusty with pollen

and the smiles of bees,

pine bark sweating woody love

while tired leaves spend the last of their lives

lighting up the sky in yellow, orange, and russet twirls

spinning like pinwheels

into the water’s embrace.

 

The silly buzz of gadflies drunk on sun,

the endless, busy march of ants

muttering to themselves

against the burp and burble of water

tickled by light.

 

The musk of deer lies heavy

In trampled, still warm grass

Their startled looks and white flagged rumps

Holding a moment hostage

Before it catches its breath

And the day moves on.

Next I shall investigate the house, which is layered with peculiar odors ranging from medications and coffee to scented candles and cats.  Even more tantalizing, however, are the faint whispers I hear from the building itself. Clearly stories are waiting.

 

 

 

 

The Reluctant Quester Learns to Sew

Having mastered electromagnets and reading, I was ready by grade 6 for a new challenge. Mrs. Traeger was the consummate pro…all confidence, grace, and warmth. Funny how good teachers don't have trouble makers…and can get their classes to do anything…even sew? 

Okay, picture this. The Reluctant Quester, and most of the other boys in the class, were not the academic elite of PS 139. If we had the necessary hormones, every one of us would have needed a shave. We had to satisfy ourselves with greasy Brylcream pompadours, t-shirts rolled up to the armpit, motorcycle boots, and leather jackets.  

The girls were ahead in the hormone race, so there was a new distraction to have to cope with - breasts. Yikes!  All of a sudden, out of nowhere, there they were. Some hidden under sweaters and bulky sweat shirts. But some were right there, proud and demanding attention. 

Well if I was hopping and jumping around before, without raging hormones this was a game change, but not in Mrs. Traeger's class.  Been there seen that. True insanity would have to wait until junior high school. All would be calm in her class and relaxed - a perfect time to learn how to gather around and learn how to sew.

Smash cut to Grease - Danny Zuko, Sandy Olsson, and Betty Rizzo! Sure Sandy (Olivia Newton-John) would be delighted to learn how to sew, but Betty (Stockard Channing) and Danny (John Travolta) ...not on your life. Never going to happen. 

Mrs. Traeger made it happen.  RQ, a pretender, and the real goons and juvenile delinquents were going to make shop aprons. The girl would make aprons for Home Ec. 

For the boys in my class expectations were low. The dye had been cast. We were being readied for metal and wood shop and a lifetime of blue collar work. 

Freed from having to decode black dots on a page or struggle with math…I could focus on a needle and thread. Learn how to pick up one single thread and learn a basting stitch. I used basting tape that I secured with blind stitches. No metal shop for me, I could learn to be a tailor!  

Actually what the career possibilities might be were irrelevant. I was in a classroom and doing something, making something, succeeding and learning. And, I was good at it. 

There was Mrs.Traeger breaking down sex role stereotypes before anyone even knew there were any. Letting us be creative, use our hands, teaching us to focus…project based learning. The grade…the finished apron. What a radical idea!!!

 

The Reluctant Quester Watches Mr. Wizard

One of my favorite Saturday morning TV shows was Mr Wizard.   You know the one where he would take a tin can, fill it up with a little water, bring it to a boil, make some steam in the can, and then close it tight with the cap.  Next thing you know as the can cools, the sides collapse, and the can twists into a pretzel. Woo hoo!

 So one Saturday morning, he is doing this experiment with electromagnets, a wire, a nail, and a dry cell battery.  These are all things, he assures us, we can pick up in our local hardware store.

 Having resigned myself to never being a scientist (http://tvwsp.typepad.com/tvwsp/2009/07/the-reluctant-quester-patchkies-aroudn.html), I set my sights on being an electrical engineer. I knew that my parents would never spring for the money to buy the dry cell battery, wire, and nail, so I got Mr, Greenhill to write a note saying I needed supplies for a project he wanted me to do for the school science fair.

Somehow recreating what I'd seen on TV (using my hands and picturing the experiment in my mind), turned out to be something I could do, and do well.

First,  I made a "coil" by carefully wrapping wire in tight rows around the nail.  Then, I removed the insulation from both ends of the wire, and hooked up the dry cell battery. Drum roll...please!!  In what was a miracle of modern science circa 1953, my nail could pick up thumb tacks!!!

 I figured I was done and headed for the front seat in the front row of the class, but Mr. Greenhill said, "Ok, how can we use this for the Science Fair?"   Excuse me?  Kids from our class didn't enter Science Fairs.  Besides, I reminded him, I'd just learned how to read!

 He asked me where I'd seen electromagnets used.  "In junk yards," I said, "where big cranes pick up whole cars then drop them into machines that crush them into small square bundles of scrap metal.  From there, according to Ray Forest's Children's Theatre (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ray_Forrest)  they got shipped to Japan.

"That's a great idea; you can make a working model of a crane!"  said Mr. Greenhilll.

Duh… "Who me?"

To make a long story short, with wood, screws, nails, and some paint, I crafted my crane. I was praised by the principle, did not win the School Science Fair, and was told by my father I should think about becoming a construction worker.

By 2009, dry cell batteries, screws, and nails would have raised suspicions that I was trying to build a bomb and gotten Mr. Greenhill and I sent to Guantanamo Bay.

Mr. Wizard: http://www.mrwizardstudios.com/

 

Cice Dons Another Hat

Jenaia and I have been talking.  RQ’s troubled tales of misunderstanding and abuse in human schools sparked memories of her own difficulties in the classroom.  Though Jenaia had no trouble reading, and was a straight A student, she was perpetually bored and perpetually in motion.  Her unwillingness to sit quietly with her hands folded on her desk and tendency to run rather than walk from place to place earned her the label, “hyperactive.”  The pediatrician who made the diagnosis prescribed sedatives, which a discerning school nurse would obediently dispense, then look the other way as Jenaia flushed them down the toilet.

Listening to Jenaia and RQ talk, what is clear to me is that human beings have no clue about how to educate their young.  In fact, they have completely misunderstood the concept.  The word “educate” comes from the Latin root “educo,” which means to draw out.  How very different schooling would be if a child’s innate curiosity was “drawn out” by teachers who saw themselves as guides rather than data dispensers.  What if no one expected teachers to have all the answers, only a willingness to find them? What if it was assumed that each child was different and therefore precious? What if the goal of education was to find and encourage each child’s gifts?

What seems to have escaped the powers that be is that the human brain is not a hard drive onto which data is supposed to be crammed.  Indeed that is a complete waste of the one truly remarkable skill the human mind has – Narrative Synergy™.

Yes, I know.  Narrative Synergy™  is not a familiar term to most of you . It’s simply my way of describing the capacity humans have for generating stories that transcend individual storytellers.   Listeners absorb, digest,  and distill the threads of a story, then weave them into larger, communal stories – immense narrative collages  that celebrate the individual while articulating larger themes.  This is storytelling at its best because it forges common bonds – creates community.

Jenaia is very big on written storytelling.  She likes to encourage participants on her Quests to create poems, songs, journal entries, blogs, and something she calls “Tweets.”  As a dog I have little use for written words, but can appreciate how writing has helped  RQ.  He seems to be coming to the realization that  how he was treated as a child was neither acceptable nor his fault.  The fact that he survived and went on to create educational programs that help children learn is a testament to his courage and tenacity.  He is to be congratulated even if he is a bit dog phobic.

I have more to say about this new Quest Jenaia has created, but must stop for my daily siesta. What a pity that most humans don’t make time in their days for a good nap.  But then again they are human, and as we all know humans do not always (in fact rarely) behave sensibly.  To be continued……zzzzzzzzzz

An Educational Tale

And it came to pass that an Administrator (mythical, of course) looked out across the educational institution that was his responsibility and saw much that was good, but also much that needed improvement.  The process seemed disordered, and so over a period of years the teachers were replaced by robotic teachers, who could be trusted to do everything in the most efficient way.

And, Lo, the Administrator looked again and saw much that was good, but there was still disorder, since the students were failing to learn, even though they were taught in the manner that had been mathematically proven to be the most efficient manner.  And so the Administrator had all of the students replaced by learning machines and saw that it was much better.

But the Administrator was still not satisfied, and each teaching machine and each learning machine was equipped with a small red light, so that when the Administrator spoke kindly to the machine the light glowed softly in appreciation of this sign of administrative favor.

And the Administrator looked out over the Institution and saw that the teaching machines were teaching; the learning machines were learning, and all were suitably appreciative of the largess of the Administration.  And the Administrator said, "It is good; have created an educational Utopia."

And the Administrator looked out over his realm and smiled.

DISCLAIMER:  This is a teacher-centric view of education, and I realize that many administrators are really just trying to follow the silly directions that they are getting from their superiors.

Signed,
Pencehe

Dear Pencehe,

The Reluctant Quester knows about disorder and being messy...you should see my Second Life inventory....yuck...its a disgrace!   What the Administrator here missed...blinded by his success was that The Reluctant Quester much like the Pied Piper had led the real flesh and bones children away to play and learn in magical virtual worlds that were diverse and inter-generational. Where they could go on quests, join guilds/communities of interest/practice...with other children from all around the world that they learned to understand, enjoy and accept. And yes live happily ever after...

Signed,
The Reluctant Quester

The Reluctant Quest Meets Uncle D

Got an invitation to another one of Jenaia's Quests and leapt for joy....Not! Oh I jumped all right, more from terror and/or the hope that I would fall off my skybox and disappear into the metaverse.

Of course Ms. therapy dog can't wait to get started.  Everywhere this dog looks she finds another "healing" opportunity for me....geesh.

Teleporting to the starting point of the Quest, I can already feel my heart racing. "Stories Without Borders: Tapping the Healing Potential of Story Quests."

I am already having heart palpitations when Cice takes off like a rocket and disappears around some very large rocks/boulders. I have no choice but to race after her, and find her in front of an exotic oriental fence and gate.

By now my heart feels like it is going to explode, and the idea of getting CPR from a dog - even if she is a doctor - completely creeps me out.

I tentatively touch the gate, which opens to the sound of the most beautiful chimes and an echoing gong I have ever heard.  Magically my breathing slows and I am quieted into an almost meditative state. We are on holy ground.

There is a boat waiting there for us. I get in, but Cice hesitates, mumbling she's afraid of the water!!! Complains that she is a Border Collie, not a Labrador.  I am able to coax her in and our journey begins.

The old wooden boat slips soundlessly from the dock as we become aware of soft music playing in the background quickly complimented by a disembodied voice:

As for life,

I'm humbled,

I'm without words

sufficient to say

How it has been hard as flint,

and soft as a spring pond,

both of these

and over and over,

and long pale afternoons besides,

and so many mysteries

beautiful as eggs in a nest

unhatched

though warm and watched over

by something I have never seen

a tree angel, perhaps,

or a ghost of holiness.

Every day I walk out into the world

to be dazzled, then to be reflective.

It suffices, it is all comfort--

along with human love,

dog love, water love, little serpent love,

sunburst love, or love for that smallest of birds

flying among the scarlet flowers.

There is hardly time to think about

stopping, and lying down at last

to the long afterlife, to the tenderness

yet to come when

time will brim over the singular pond, and become, forever,

and we will pretend to melt away into the leaves.

As for death,

I can't wait to be the hummingbird,

can you?

As the poem was read, Cice and I each saw the images in the poem alive around us …even the hummingbird and its nest…breathtaking, transformative…

There is a house, big windows and skylights so light can pour in from everywhere…It is real, almost normal looking but more…something intangible...something to see but also to feel. My fears and anxiety about writing, yet another quest, fade and I am overcome by intense curiosity.

The Reluctant Quester and Mr. Greenhill

So while I grew up watching Father Knows Best, Leave it to Beaver and the Donna Reed show….which were like Second Life is today, my alternate reality…   At home with my real father, he was not in the entertainment business. The best, first seat, first in his row student (who btw, left school to work by the eighth grade) was not happy with his television addicted, illiterate son.

While not a very nice person, he did belong to the Book of the Month Club and read the New York Times every day…He was my first direct experience knowing someone who over his lifetime was actually quite well read and literate…but clearly had learned nothing, gaining little if any sensitivity or humanity from the hundreds of books he read. In spite of being a devoted viewer of the Milton Berle show, he also had no sense of humor although he did seem to enjoy being cruel and hateful.

Enter Mr. Greenhill and the fifth grade…my turn around year (of sorts). Ok…this may sound a bit politically incorrect…but my first male teacher…for you Freudians, yes my first positive father figure. Mr. Greenhill taught me to read…yea…yippee!

Well maybe not exactly…a combination of phonics or what we then called “sounding the words out,” patience, unconditional support and a belief in and respect for me just simply because I was a kid in his class…But the lock sprung open finally, because I wanted to…had to read and finish one particular book: King of the Wind by Marguerite Henry.

 You librarians, whom I hope are following this blog….know that it is a great children's classic…I just remember the cover with a beautiful illustration of an Arabian Horse…and yes a Gold Seal. Later on when some fools allowed me to become an English teacher, I learned that the seal was the Caldecott Award which was a very big deal.

Sitting in class, quite possibly in the very last seat in the very last row,  Mr. Greenhill just left me alone to read on my own…this wasn't just my first chapter book…it was my first book!!! Yippee!! Hurray!! I yelled when I turned the last page…Mr. Greenhill looked up from his desk and just smiled.

Mr. Greenhill did not pre-judge his students. We were a smaller class…in a smaller classroom…which we noticed. But he was a big teacher in that small classroom and he left plenty of room for me to relax, feel safe and start reading.

The Reluctant Quester: The TV Kid

By now it must be clear that I was not one of those kids up late at night reading under my blanket with a flashlight. No Sci Fi books, The Hardy Boys or even comics... although I liked the pictures.

Beginning with our first Crosley TV we bought in the early 1950's, I obsessively watched The Farmers Almanac, Ray Forest's Children's theatre, yes Howdy Duty, Flash Gordon... And my favourite, Million Dollar Movie… A Touch of Venus, Mr Peabody and the Mermaid. Home sick from school (as often as I could get away with) I would often watch those films 5 plus times in a single day...heaven!!

 A scheme that worked until I got caught was that my mother would come with a thermometer… Her rule… no fever... no staying home.

 I would ask her to get me a glass of juice...put the thermometer near the lamp next to my bed... Not touching the bulb or she would think I was dying...just wanted to stay home not go to the hospital!!

Ok picture this…already 9 years old…not reading and not able to read …sitting in a leather chair in my room about 10 inches from the TV set. Bare Toes on the ready to change channels…Open Box of Kellogg's Sugar Frosted Flakes in my lap…hanging with Tony the Tiger  and munching away.

Dad walks in….not pretty…not me…I looked very comfortable…happy in fact watching TV and on a sugar high…what was not pretty is what would happen next. Oddly he did not make me turn off the set…he just stared at me angry and contemptuous…and then the string of epithets: "moron, stupid, lazy, useless" and I never missed out on him telling me that he was ashamed of me and that he was the best student in his teachers…sat in the first seat in the row…blah blah…

 

Fortunately for me Crusader Rabbit would show up and we were off to Texas http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3hHQvkUhJo  to save the Jack Rabbits…. Oh and I still have not figured out how to get in world using my toes…lol

Cice Gets a Dose of Reluctance

Well, I have made the acquaintance of the Reluctant Quester and I must say the name is accurate.  RQ seems to have a deep-seated mistrust of his mental capabilities and would avoid putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) were he not pressed to do so by Jenaia and yours truly.  The irony, of course, is that he is not only articulate and amusing, but uniquely positioned to help create change.  One would be hard pressed to find a more experienced or media savvy Quester, but he is not easy to convince.

Then again, who can blame him? The tales he has begun to recount with such clever, self-mocking humor are sharp with pain. On more than one occasion I have had to curl into a ball and hide my eyes beneath my tail after reading one of his blog posts.  Despite all I know about homo sapiens and their dysfunctional behavior, I am still deeply shocked each time I hear how they abuse and neglect  their young. 

If you ask me, this failure to cherish their pups is a critical and perhaps fatal flaw in the human genome.  It is also the main reason  they find it so hard to acknowledge and nurture  the unique gifts in each individual. Because they are raised to doubt their own worth and right to exist, they tend to see the talents of others as threats.  The world becomes a competitive struggle for survival and the beauty of others a source of unending worry. 

What confounds me even more is their failure (despite their much touted brain power) to figure out this simple fact:  The “challenged,” “disabled,” and “unstable” among them are their greatest teachers.   Why, for example, has no one noticed that the dyslexic and autistic are often the most creative? The reason is simple.  When fundamentally incapable of conforming  to stereotypic roles, the soul finds other more ingenious outlets. 

Just describing how this self-defeating system works has made me pant with anxiety. Is it any wonder the Reluctant Quester wears a perpetual frown and complains of stomach pains?

But there is good news to convey about my new acquaintance.  Reluctant he may be, but he is neither insensitive nor unaware.   Though it’s true he takes some nudging, and seems to have an aversion to being licked (a pity really), he is willing to tackle Jenaia’ s Quests.  Out of these interactive encounters he is able to find the willingness to confront his ghosts.  For this reason I have hopes for RQ’s healing and happiness.    

 Now if I can just get him to stop making wisecracks about me peeing on fence posts we can establish a solid working relationship.  Perhaps I need to apply a little reverse psychology and make a point of marking his leg or shoe.  What he doesn’t seem to realize is that should I choose to empty my bladder in inappropriate places, I would choose a spot that was much more obvious and a lot more embarrassing.  Don’t tempt me RQ, don’t tempt me.