Lately I've had a great many interactions in which someone will say something about how Governor Snyder wants to take money away from schools, almost always accompanied by an expression of disgust with the governor and the fact that he is speaking at U-M's commencement. I find this awkward, because, well, I support the governor. The state has no money, and it has to make cuts, unfortunately. I guarantee that he doesn't want to cut education, but that the state also can't spend money it doesn't have. And in an economically depressed state, raising taxes on "the rich" or on "big business" just isn't a good policy. The problem is the tax base--everything we have that could be taxed--rather than tax levels. Until the economy here comes back, we're going to have to do more with less, educationally. I think our teachers are good enough to do that.
But...what is the best thing to do in that situation? Do I engage that in conversation and express my disagreement in a polite, respectful way? Or do I just ignore--at as I have largely been doing--smile, and move on? Among other teachers, I've learned just to smile and move on. What about my brothers and sisters in church? I don't think less of anyone who disagrees with me politically, but I sometimes get the feeling that others think less of me when they hear about my opinions. Well, that or become personally offended...
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
A Meeting of the Minds
In reading Latin, it is terribly important to think like a Roman. Latin speakers used word endings instead of word order to determine syntactic functions. As a result, one has to be able to identify words quickly by part of speech and often to use the word's ending to determine whether it is a subject, direct object, or some sort of adverbial modifier disguised as a noun and lacking the comfortable familiarity of the prepositions with which English abounds.
This process has to be modeled, and that was why I had written a neat little sentence core--two underlines with the words "subject" and "verb" scrawled underneath them--for students to fill in and thereby practice reading Latin correctly. When one stumbles over a nominative, one places the English equivalent of that word in the "subject" slot. When one bumps against an ablative, one mentally spins a giant wheel o' prepositions, combines the result with the English equivalent of the noun, and tapes it haphazardly to the end of the sentence.
At least, that's an acceptable starting point. At any rate, the students had given it their best shot, and it was time to walk through it with them. I asked my first target, "What is the first word?" "Quinto," he replied. "Right! What case is it?" "Could be ablative or dative, but it's probably dative because it's an animate noun." "Right! So let's translate it as 'to or for Quintus' and put it at the end." I turned to write this on the board, thus opening the door to or for trouble.
I turned around. One of the students now had a paper mustache taped onto his face. Undeterred, I asked a second pupil, "What is the second word?" "Marcus," came the answer. "Right! What case is it?" "Nominative; it's the subject." "Exactly, so let's right it in the subject slot."
Again I turned, wrote on the board, and turned back. Another student had taped a paper soul patch onto his face. Nevertheless, I trekked bravely on. "Next word?" "Clamavit!" "Part of speech?" "Verb!" "Tense?" "Perfect!" "Good! What's the translation?" "'He shouted!'" "Great, but we already have a subject, so we'll omit 'he' and write 'shouted' in the verb slot. Now, there's a period next, so--" and when I turned back around, the rest of the class had freshly donned facial hair.
There was a moment of silence as the competing forces in the room battled for final supremacy. Finally, one of the students asked, "Mr. Breen, do you want a mustache?" I gazed upon the class with narrowed eyes, pondering how to respond to this intrusion upon my carefully constructed lesson. Without altering my expression, I let out a gruff "Yes" and held out my hand.
In teaching Latin, it is terribly important to think like an eighth grader.
This process has to be modeled, and that was why I had written a neat little sentence core--two underlines with the words "subject" and "verb" scrawled underneath them--for students to fill in and thereby practice reading Latin correctly. When one stumbles over a nominative, one places the English equivalent of that word in the "subject" slot. When one bumps against an ablative, one mentally spins a giant wheel o' prepositions, combines the result with the English equivalent of the noun, and tapes it haphazardly to the end of the sentence.
At least, that's an acceptable starting point. At any rate, the students had given it their best shot, and it was time to walk through it with them. I asked my first target, "What is the first word?" "Quinto," he replied. "Right! What case is it?" "Could be ablative or dative, but it's probably dative because it's an animate noun." "Right! So let's translate it as 'to or for Quintus' and put it at the end." I turned to write this on the board, thus opening the door to or for trouble.
I turned around. One of the students now had a paper mustache taped onto his face. Undeterred, I asked a second pupil, "What is the second word?" "Marcus," came the answer. "Right! What case is it?" "Nominative; it's the subject." "Exactly, so let's right it in the subject slot."
Again I turned, wrote on the board, and turned back. Another student had taped a paper soul patch onto his face. Nevertheless, I trekked bravely on. "Next word?" "Clamavit!" "Part of speech?" "Verb!" "Tense?" "Perfect!" "Good! What's the translation?" "'He shouted!'" "Great, but we already have a subject, so we'll omit 'he' and write 'shouted' in the verb slot. Now, there's a period next, so--" and when I turned back around, the rest of the class had freshly donned facial hair.
There was a moment of silence as the competing forces in the room battled for final supremacy. Finally, one of the students asked, "Mr. Breen, do you want a mustache?" I gazed upon the class with narrowed eyes, pondering how to respond to this intrusion upon my carefully constructed lesson. Without altering my expression, I let out a gruff "Yes" and held out my hand.
In teaching Latin, it is terribly important to think like an eighth grader.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Here We Go Again
It seems that there are a few things about which I never learn my lesson and to which I keep coming back. For whatever reason, I always think that this time, when I start a HatTrick online soccer team, I'll stick with it. After all, it's only a few minutes' investment every day. Less often, I go back and make another BuzzerBeater online basketball team. Keeping a journal is another one; I just can't seem to keep going with it whenever I start up again.
In non-related news, I think I'm going to start writing on this blog again.
In non-related news, I think I'm going to start writing on this blog again.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Hope
"To believe is to commit." Oswald Chambers
I watched the Michigan-Illinois game on Saturday with a strange sense of detachment. I don't think I've ever watched a Michigan game feeling like that. Maybe the 2007 Minnesota game. I fully expected us to lose at every point in the game--after we scored a touchdown on the first play, after we went ahead by a touchdown in the second quarter, after we went ahead by a touchdown in the second quarter, after we made the final two-point conversion in triple overtime. I was happy when we won, but not as happy as usual.
At the risk of sounding emo, hope is something I've tended to shun. For whatever reason, my tendency is to believe that hoping for something that doesn't happen is just about the worst possible result. In other words, better to set the expectations low and be pleasantly surprised, and it's still okay if the result isn't great. At least you didn't hope.
That also means I get to be above it all, so to speak. When your expectations can't really go lower, then you can't be taken by surprise in a negative way. So I've figured it out! Disappointment is something I'll never have to experience. Cheesy motivational quotes and unfounded optimism are for the suckers; they played the lottery and lost, and now I have my dollar still to wave in their faces. It's not much, but it's something.
So even though I'm a die-hard Michigan fan, my investment in the Illinois game had to be small. (College football is one of the few areas in which I actually am willing to put my emotions on the line.) And in plenty of other areas in my life--as I'm sure several of you know--I insist on low to no expectations.
Is it wrong to be that resigned about various things? Part of me still wants to embody that Rudyard Kipling poem, "If," or the quote by Teddy Roosevelt about the man in the arena. (Forget the cheesy quote stuff.) But there's always the issue of failure out there. It's hard to get over the fact of failure, the possibility of it. If you tried and failed, was it really worth it to have tried. It's difficult to come up with an answer for that question other than "no."
On the other hand, maybe being one of the suckers isn't so bad. I suppose you at least know you have company.
I watched the Michigan-Illinois game on Saturday with a strange sense of detachment. I don't think I've ever watched a Michigan game feeling like that. Maybe the 2007 Minnesota game. I fully expected us to lose at every point in the game--after we scored a touchdown on the first play, after we went ahead by a touchdown in the second quarter, after we went ahead by a touchdown in the second quarter, after we made the final two-point conversion in triple overtime. I was happy when we won, but not as happy as usual.
At the risk of sounding emo, hope is something I've tended to shun. For whatever reason, my tendency is to believe that hoping for something that doesn't happen is just about the worst possible result. In other words, better to set the expectations low and be pleasantly surprised, and it's still okay if the result isn't great. At least you didn't hope.
That also means I get to be above it all, so to speak. When your expectations can't really go lower, then you can't be taken by surprise in a negative way. So I've figured it out! Disappointment is something I'll never have to experience. Cheesy motivational quotes and unfounded optimism are for the suckers; they played the lottery and lost, and now I have my dollar still to wave in their faces. It's not much, but it's something.
So even though I'm a die-hard Michigan fan, my investment in the Illinois game had to be small. (College football is one of the few areas in which I actually am willing to put my emotions on the line.) And in plenty of other areas in my life--as I'm sure several of you know--I insist on low to no expectations.
Is it wrong to be that resigned about various things? Part of me still wants to embody that Rudyard Kipling poem, "If," or the quote by Teddy Roosevelt about the man in the arena. (Forget the cheesy quote stuff.) But there's always the issue of failure out there. It's hard to get over the fact of failure, the possibility of it. If you tried and failed, was it really worth it to have tried. It's difficult to come up with an answer for that question other than "no."
On the other hand, maybe being one of the suckers isn't so bad. I suppose you at least know you have company.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Stories and Endings
"You tried your best and you failed miserably. The lesson is, 'Never try.'" --Homer Simpson, The Simpsons
This is going to be brief. I wanted to jot this down somewhere, and this is as good a place as any! I realized the other day how much I like to sort the things that happen in life like it's a story. This probably is not entirely unique to me. But so often, the focus of that sorting process is finding out what happens at the end. But I don't do this in any other similar context! For example, I don't like it that much when somebody sitting next to me watching a movie or show says, "Ohhhhh, I figured it out. It was so-and-so." And then they're right. I'm watching because I want to be surprised; if I'm not surprised, it's hard to be interested in the rest of the story. It's the promise of the ending, not the ending itself, that keeps you in your seat.
So why do I keep trying to figure out what the ending is, when there's a perfectly good story playing out in front of me?
This is going to be brief. I wanted to jot this down somewhere, and this is as good a place as any! I realized the other day how much I like to sort the things that happen in life like it's a story. This probably is not entirely unique to me. But so often, the focus of that sorting process is finding out what happens at the end. But I don't do this in any other similar context! For example, I don't like it that much when somebody sitting next to me watching a movie or show says, "Ohhhhh, I figured it out. It was so-and-so." And then they're right. I'm watching because I want to be surprised; if I'm not surprised, it's hard to be interested in the rest of the story. It's the promise of the ending, not the ending itself, that keeps you in your seat.
So why do I keep trying to figure out what the ending is, when there's a perfectly good story playing out in front of me?
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Stories: The Plan
"I was married by a judge. I should have asked for a jury." -- Groucho Marx
For the next few days or over the next week, I'm going to sketch out some of the stories I often tell. Since I'm in the middle of grading papers (whoo let's learn us some ENGLISH PLZ), I am going to talk about The Plan instead of my tense relationship with my, er, place I was for four years and left with a degree. You know; that...place. But yes, The Plan. This Plan is as controversial as it is hilariously controversial. That's why I chose it.
Best to start with some background. I like to tease people who are in relationships, and especially people who are otherwise serious. It's one of the joys of being single, and such joys must be appreciated while they last. One day Pastor Pete was carrying something for his then-fiancee Gina, and I was duly needling her about this. She informed me that I would be doing something similar one day, to which I politely responded that hecks no. Some people may try to fill up their empty lives with a relationship, but I'm more than happy with Michigan football (graaaahhh) and Pizza House pizza, thank you. From the ensuing exchange, needless to say, a little wager arose. If I am still single by the age of thirty-five, then Gina will buy me pizza from Pizza House.
Now, you never make a bet with someone that hinges entirely on their decision. Just a little advice.
When I mentioned this to several other people, similar wagers were made. My friend Susan is buying me Pizza House pizza at age 30, Gloria at age 40, and (I think) Sam at age 45. Now, this set me to thinking even more. I've always said that if I don't die early, I haven't eaten the way I really want to eat. So the Pizza House wagers made me decide it might be best if I aimed at dying of a heart attack at age 48. There's no history of heart disease in my family, really, so this would be a pretty big accomplishment. But I have no lack of ambition.
I recently added Jiyeon to the list of people buying me Pizza House (age 32.5). There was another recent modification, too: for the sake of awesomeness, if somehow the heart attack thing doesn't seem likely when the time is drawing nigh, I'm going to attempt to become the first person to fly across the Pacific in an ultralight aircraft. The advantages to this are that, if it works, holy dang. Awesome. If, as seems likely, I perish along the way, then there's no need for a whole expensive coffin, burial, etc.
There is an addendum. If, somehow, I do get married and leave an heir (which good luck with that, world), then I'm naming him Nancy Boy. I am doing this on the "Boy Named Sue" Principle, which is that boys with girlie names will grow up tough with all the teasing they will undoubtedly receive. Ultimately, such a son would probably end up playing NFL ball and supporting me in my old age, assuming he doesn't avenge himself on me first. Some things must be left to luck, after all. This also means that, if I get married, I shall have to get married to someone who is about 5'7"...someone who, although not necessarily taller than me, has or would likely have large, athletic brothers.
So there it is: a future all planned out and almost perfectly crafted to elicit amusing responses from those who hear it. A final note: When asked, "But what will you do?" the only possible answer is, "Not being married? Probably whatever I want." Discuss.
For the next few days or over the next week, I'm going to sketch out some of the stories I often tell. Since I'm in the middle of grading papers (whoo let's learn us some ENGLISH PLZ), I am going to talk about The Plan instead of my tense relationship with my, er, place I was for four years and left with a degree. You know; that...place. But yes, The Plan. This Plan is as controversial as it is hilariously controversial. That's why I chose it.
Best to start with some background. I like to tease people who are in relationships, and especially people who are otherwise serious. It's one of the joys of being single, and such joys must be appreciated while they last. One day Pastor Pete was carrying something for his then-fiancee Gina, and I was duly needling her about this. She informed me that I would be doing something similar one day, to which I politely responded that hecks no. Some people may try to fill up their empty lives with a relationship, but I'm more than happy with Michigan football (graaaahhh) and Pizza House pizza, thank you. From the ensuing exchange, needless to say, a little wager arose. If I am still single by the age of thirty-five, then Gina will buy me pizza from Pizza House.
Now, you never make a bet with someone that hinges entirely on their decision. Just a little advice.
When I mentioned this to several other people, similar wagers were made. My friend Susan is buying me Pizza House pizza at age 30, Gloria at age 40, and (I think) Sam at age 45. Now, this set me to thinking even more. I've always said that if I don't die early, I haven't eaten the way I really want to eat. So the Pizza House wagers made me decide it might be best if I aimed at dying of a heart attack at age 48. There's no history of heart disease in my family, really, so this would be a pretty big accomplishment. But I have no lack of ambition.
I recently added Jiyeon to the list of people buying me Pizza House (age 32.5). There was another recent modification, too: for the sake of awesomeness, if somehow the heart attack thing doesn't seem likely when the time is drawing nigh, I'm going to attempt to become the first person to fly across the Pacific in an ultralight aircraft. The advantages to this are that, if it works, holy dang. Awesome. If, as seems likely, I perish along the way, then there's no need for a whole expensive coffin, burial, etc.
There is an addendum. If, somehow, I do get married and leave an heir (which good luck with that, world), then I'm naming him Nancy Boy. I am doing this on the "Boy Named Sue" Principle, which is that boys with girlie names will grow up tough with all the teasing they will undoubtedly receive. Ultimately, such a son would probably end up playing NFL ball and supporting me in my old age, assuming he doesn't avenge himself on me first. Some things must be left to luck, after all. This also means that, if I get married, I shall have to get married to someone who is about 5'7"...someone who, although not necessarily taller than me, has or would likely have large, athletic brothers.
So there it is: a future all planned out and almost perfectly crafted to elicit amusing responses from those who hear it. A final note: When asked, "But what will you do?" the only possible answer is, "Not being married? Probably whatever I want." Discuss.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Nostalgia
"Why, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, do you want to ruin--wait a second. Who's the girl?" -- Barney Stinson, How I Met Your Mother
It is my belief that, as a person, I am more prone to nostalgia than most. When I drive back to Newaygo, I often take a longer route--I-96 to the East Beltline to 10 Mile to Algoma--just to pass by all the places I used to go with people when I used to be there more often. There were the late nights at the IHOP near Celebration Cinema, the two trips to Dunhill to get fitted for and then pick up my tuxedo with Andrew when he got married. The aforementioned Celebration Cinema was where I saw all three Lord of the Rings movies; for the last one, my friends spent two straight weeks convincing me to join them in dressing up for it (guh), and when I went as Gandalf people there actually asked me to take pictures with them. Turning from the Beltline onto 10 Mile takes me within sight of Jody's, where I went and hung out with church friends all the time. Just a short walk from that is where the D&W used to be when I was five and we still lived in Rockford.
So many of those friends that I spent my formative years with are gone now. A few are still around. Not many. And it would be impossible, I know, to go back to some of those places without feeling the slight heartache of missing not only people, but times together. Or just times, period; I still remember pacing around the wooden deck behind Frenz Coffee House, memorizing my toast on the morning of Andrew's wedding.
That's what nostalgia is; it comes from the Greek words nostos, meaning a homeward journey, and algos, meaning pain.
Of course, I don't want to go back to those times. They're completely idealized, or even romanticized, for me now, but then, too, there was always something to worry about. I started thinking about this because I was feeling that nostalgia, thinking about what it would be like to go back to those places without those people and situations. But how often do I think about the future: what it would be like to go to some of those old places with a new person or new people and be able to share with them some of the things that made me who I am? I know the places in Ann Arbor that are going to be like that for me; what if there are some here that I don't know about yet? What are the places that are going to be like that for me wherever I live next?
Nostalgia is good, but optimism is better :)
It is my belief that, as a person, I am more prone to nostalgia than most. When I drive back to Newaygo, I often take a longer route--I-96 to the East Beltline to 10 Mile to Algoma--just to pass by all the places I used to go with people when I used to be there more often. There were the late nights at the IHOP near Celebration Cinema, the two trips to Dunhill to get fitted for and then pick up my tuxedo with Andrew when he got married. The aforementioned Celebration Cinema was where I saw all three Lord of the Rings movies; for the last one, my friends spent two straight weeks convincing me to join them in dressing up for it (guh), and when I went as Gandalf people there actually asked me to take pictures with them. Turning from the Beltline onto 10 Mile takes me within sight of Jody's, where I went and hung out with church friends all the time. Just a short walk from that is where the D&W used to be when I was five and we still lived in Rockford.
So many of those friends that I spent my formative years with are gone now. A few are still around. Not many. And it would be impossible, I know, to go back to some of those places without feeling the slight heartache of missing not only people, but times together. Or just times, period; I still remember pacing around the wooden deck behind Frenz Coffee House, memorizing my toast on the morning of Andrew's wedding.
That's what nostalgia is; it comes from the Greek words nostos, meaning a homeward journey, and algos, meaning pain.
Of course, I don't want to go back to those times. They're completely idealized, or even romanticized, for me now, but then, too, there was always something to worry about. I started thinking about this because I was feeling that nostalgia, thinking about what it would be like to go back to those places without those people and situations. But how often do I think about the future: what it would be like to go to some of those old places with a new person or new people and be able to share with them some of the things that made me who I am? I know the places in Ann Arbor that are going to be like that for me; what if there are some here that I don't know about yet? What are the places that are going to be like that for me wherever I live next?
Nostalgia is good, but optimism is better :)
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