Student Teacher Dispatch

I stood there, in the empty classroom, fingering a pumpkin. The replica had a top that when lifted, revealed the emptiness inside. What one could store in there, god only knows, but it would become a strong metaphor for my career.

See, every once in awhile I would pick it up, expecting to find something inside. As if all the months of the collective changes in students would yield something inside this pumpkin replica painted with care by someone a few years ago, who really cared about my cooperating teacher, whose room was the setting for these scenes we were to have.

That student, who years ago expected K to look on it for years, but by now most assuredly would have forgotten who it was that gave her this empty pumpkin. And despite knowing this much about the little tchotchki, I nevertheless would open it almost daily, expecting something in it to change. Knowing my students, they’d probably put gum, or spit, or rotten food in it, but I kept looking anyway.

Discussions were hit or miss those days. Some days they’d chomp at the bit, yammering on for hours over a simple writing or discussion prompt. But other days I'd feel the cold chill of their indifference. That is to say, the hollow sound that follows the response of thirty eight students staring back at one with blank faces was what reminded me of the “tabla rossa” teachers used to refer to students as. These blank slates would then be filled with knowledge.

It was at times such as this that I felt like walking into the middle of the room and dying right in front of them. I wanted a great tragedy to fall not on the students, but to have a dynamo of an experience right in the middle of the classroom: a heart attach, a junked telescope, a trashed satellite. I wanted space debris to land in the middle of the classroom and to have it smolder away. I wanted them to have indifferent looks when the proletariat of Mars marched down off of his throne, down the rectangular auburn chute to greet the classroom as ambassador for another world. I wanted him to look into the empty pumpkin and plonk down an amulet without me knowing about it, so the next time I would open it I would find it there and the kids would go on looking indifferent, and I could be whisked away to the ship, exploring the nether regions of the galaxy, while the drool would still be collecting on top of their desks, next to the carving “AC/DC” or some such heavy metal band that is named after a retired airship, electrical currents, or nonsensical nomenclature.

I had faith in my students on most days. I’d make my lesson plans loose and lean, with plenty of “wiggle room.” Sometimes society harps on a certain phrase, and our minds are so in need of a new saying that they’ll pick up on it for a week, or a year. At this point in history, the history of the ongoing 21^st century, “Wiggle Room” was that term. Condoleezza Rice used it at her confirmation hearing, and I thought how fitting. But I was having this thought in the middle of class, and I was kicking my heals against the desk and my cooperating teacher was staring at me, so I stood up suddenly, closing my copy of Fahrenheit 451 with a snap and bolting to the front of the room.

“Who can tell me what the news coverage in 451 reminds them of today?” Empty faces, no wonder we reelected that slack-jawed yokel. Concentrate; if their not getting it, it’s your fault, your not engaging them enough. Focus on the background knowledge, nip all disciplinary discretions in the bud, and don’t forget to utilize those higher-level thinking skills.

“How about America’s Most Wanted or Cops?” I press on. I know why I go to the pumpkin everyday. It’s in the verification that nothing is there that refreshes me as it reassures. It’s letting me know that it’s never been full, of anything. I can tell just by the smell of the hollow recess. It’s been painted with care, but ultimately, it will just sit there until a student has an outburst, and destroys it accidentally.

“Now this book, this book I really enjoyed.” The kid with the Mohawk is pointing at a copy of The Things They Carried. “It was like the only book I’d read in four years when I read it. And these guys, they didn’t just carry the guns, like on the cover, but the thoughts they carried with them, you know.”

It’s in a dream, the way it comes out of him. In recognizing this kindred spirit, maybe he’s finally trusting in me to express how he doesn’t like the current book, about World War I, but he did like this one, maybe in his own way, he’s saying he’s sorry, don’t take it personally, but I just don’t like it. He goes right back to his seat and behaves the same way he always does, speaking profanely and profusely, at chugging intervals, the way one would chug milk on the morning of their 17^th birthday, their tattered flannel pajamas accentuating the newly cut Mohawk.

They sing songs by The Clash. The first time I heard it I jumped in my boots. It feels good, knowing that while they may be losing everything they can educationally-- the knowledge of the day slipping out with every fall and burn of their skateboarding that afternoon or maybe it’s lost in the fog that looms over the school at three pm-- that they still had time for the classics.

There’s something profound in the interaction that occurs sometimes. And that’s when I realize how young I am and how young I can be for a long time, if I just let my belief hang suspended, and keep believing in the empty shell of the pumpkin, because it will always be there, reassurance that things don’t change, that people don’t change, until they are finally destroyed, and put out of their misery.

When at Night

When at night,
Slipping devious thoughts to myself
Pushing tin pillars across steel bridges
Through future anxieties
Once passed through these balmy gates
Into sleep and its divine profundity
I dream of Cuban revolutions
Myopic dystopias
And chain letters that never end.

The Last Day of Snow Part II

He’d have to go back now, back up the icy hill to his shack, where he lived with his cat, Roger, and a bundle of firewood in the foyer that he’d kick over almost every time he came home. It wasn’t much in the way of luxury, but it was company, and the otherwise empty home would speak to him late in the night, when he’d wander the empty living room, into the hallway, staring out at the vacant branches, which when illuminated looked like hundreds of little arms, reaching out for him, ready to cradle him, and as he thought about it, thought about the idea of being cradled, he would inevitably think back to the afternoons spent en route to church, in rural Biloxi.

He’d been raised seventh day Adventist, and his mother, Gertie, would play snakes and ladders with him, her head turned around to the back seat, where young Gary made impervious moves while he contemplated the glory contained in the continuos hum of the road. He sat quietly while the front hood popped up, ripped in half by the sudden appearance of bark and a carving that also served as a pact of love, “CJ loves Lara”.

He could still remember how his mother cradled him, as they tried to revive his father, Dwight, whose hard work down at the paper factory had yielded the oversized Buick regal that now lay nearly ripped in half, as the day passed in silent reverence as Gertie rocked Gary into a half trance, one where he wouldn’t be conscious of what would become the great tragedy of her life

The hospital medics held on to Dwight’s tenuous contract with the great beyond for as long as they could. The doctor on duty even took the time to take Gary aside, giving him a lollipop and explaining exactly why “Daddy had to go away”. Gary didn’t even cry that day, his feelings and turmoil had turned inward, reflecting on a world filled with sharp angels and negligent parents. For Gertie, on the afternoon of the accident, had given Gary sips of sweet rum coated with cola, to forget, to numb the boy into a twitching sleep.

The only memory Gary ever had of that afternoon, besides the game of snakes and ladders was of his mom gently humming “sweetness follows” to him, while rocking him in between sips of rum-infused cola.

He’d have to go back up the hill. Even though he was a good hour late to work, he’d have to brave the elements, just suck it up and go there, through the woods. He’d had visions that the monster was after him, after the second pass down the icy slide. He’d hike back up the hill if he needed to, the thermos was essential. He couldn’t get through the shift without it, the hot coffee and rum propelled the emptiness through hour after delicate hour of guarding the meat packing plant. Without the warm solace in the thermos, he couldn’t write his stories, and if he couldn’t write his stories, well then, what was the point?

So he threw the Cherokee in reverse, and crept up the hill even though the monster was out there, and had his number tattooed on his white fur, he was chained to the tree on the fourth pass, the one with the mountainous view, the one that bordered the Cutters farm, it stood there now, only a few feet from the Cherokee with big saucer eyes, ,moping at Gary, daring him to move forward. He backed the truck up to get more leverage, and sped until he hit the tree and the monster was no longer there, and his thermos was several hundred feet away, at home, and at the moment his leg was wrapped around the tree. He could see the chain where the monster had been tied, but as for the monster, his location was unknown. He could hear the howls in the distance, and he hoped that the monster had been hurt, and had saught higher ground. He couldn’t feel anything and it would be getting dark soon, and he was due in at work, and he didn’t listen to them, to their repeated requests that he get a cell phone, and he thought about how important one of those things were now, alone in the woods, with a monster on his trail, and the only savior several hundred feet away.

After realizing that noone was coming down the pass, he managed to squeeze his way out of the front cab. Although he couldn’t feel anything in his left leg, he managed to get his butt on the floor and begin the long crawl home, in search of the thermos, and maybe even a fire, if his leg would hold out that long.

A warm feeling graced his leg, and he realized he had urinated without knowing it. It was dark now, the empty branches no longer visible. He’d heard the monster many times throughout the two hours since he had left the truck behind, each time at a closer proximity than the time before. It was only a matter of time, and he knew this.

When the monster took the form of his mother, he was a little taken aback.

“Here y’go hon, just sip on this.” And there, with the aura of her maternity shining down up on him, was her. The elusive warmth he’d searched for was right there. He had so much to say after being silent for so long. He hadn’t seen her since the accident, and she rocked him now, as he awoke to more howling, on a furry patch of moss, awakened by the sting of warm drool becoming frozen.

He didn’t have much further to go, and he heard his mother calling him, quickly morphing into the cackled call of the monster. He saw the cracked wood of his shed, too close to home to be hearing the call of the monster, and as the eeked his belly across the snowy drifts, the calls escalating, as footsteps trampled behind him, and as he turned around to look, they had found him, picked him off the ground, let him in the front door, knocking over the woodpile in the foyer, went straight for the flask, hummed a gentle tune while giving him tiny sips of the hot liquid, until he was no longer breathing, and gently, like the noiseless sound of the last snow of the season falling, buried him amongst the snow, the little boy spared another daylong tragedy.

The Best Albums of 2004

The Best Albums of 2004

Looking back, it was a grand, overwhelming year for music, and the events in my personal life were as dynamic and engaging as the soundtrack I chose for it. I started off the year with an engagement, and started school that will lead to a new profession. During this year of change, I felt stretched, challenged and well supported. The music reflected all the changing events of 2004: The beginning of the student teaching process, witnessing the mudslinging, brief period of hope and eventual let down that was Election 2004, quitting the IT field and joining the ranks of the pre service high school English teachers.




1. Drive By Truckers – Dirty South

I hate to be predictable, but this album remained in my player for the longest period of time during 2004. Repeated listens only strengthened my resolve to love and respect this band. The combined talents of three singer songwriters seek to rewrite public opinion regarding the South and its people. Through songs that re-evaluate Southern history, from its history books to the bands that created all the current stereotypes, Athens Georgia’s Drive By Truckers managed to keep me entertained throughout most of the year. Long may they run.



2. Green Day – American Idiot

An unexpected treat, this album was discovered during the election year blitzkrieg (somewhere around October) at which time each and every individual citizen found themselves inundated with propaganda from both sides. While my political beliefs lie obviously grounded to the left, I needed something to stanch the aggravation I felt towards the Bush Administration. To my surprise, I heard not only their strongest material, but also a rock opera that deserves a place between the Clash’s “London Calling” and the Who’s “Tommy”. When I told friends about my discovery, they laughed, asking me when I would return to BMX racing. What changed my mind were the songs: “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”, “The Jesus of Suburbia”, “Letterbomb” and “Holiday”. These songs not only convey the frustrations felt by citizens living in these bleak times, but how our culture overall handles growing up, receiving a public education, and the disappointment found in growing older. On “American Idiot” Green Day manage to create their best material and stretch way beyond their humble punk beginnings.


3. Arcade fire – Funeral

A word of caution to my readers: While this album has received praise from all camps, many declaring it the album of the year, I simply found it to be a fun, addictive, but ultimately disposable listen. Not that these songs don’t cover a lot of difficult emotional territory while managing to sound like they are having the times of their lives. It’s only under the scrutiny of repeated listens that the songs don’t really hold up. What is left is meticulously crafted gauze, which once removed leaves little to be desired. I found myself bored with all but a handful of tunes each time I revisited the album. This pleasure lies not in the sound of the record as a whole, but in the discovery of their formula. I liked it, but come this time next year, they will be all but forgotten. Keep those singles alive!


4. Trash Can Sinatras – Weightlifting

One of the things about maturation is discovering just how immature many of your old records sound. In replaying my life in song to my partner, I discovered how limp the Trash Can’s first album “Cake” really is. This came as much of a disappointment to me, it being the source of many dreams of adulthood and eventual contentment. It is their second album “I’ve Seen Everything” that still sounds raw and invigorating, despite the eleven years since its release. So hopes were high for their next proper album.(their third and worst album, “A Happy Pocket” wasn’t even released in the U.S.) It is on “Weightlifting” that their sound really comes together, as song after song clicks by at a pleasant speed. Through this song cycle, old wounds are healed, new relationships are created, as they drift further and further into adulthood and an album that takes great joy and care in reflecting on the past, and embracing the future. Seeing them live only reaffirmed their place in my personal cannon.


5. Wilco – A ghost is born

Hopes were high for this follow up to 2002’s “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot”. When I first heard this record, I had to check the packaging. Was this an album of demos or a fully fledged studio recording? After the studious production on “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot”, “Ghost” sounds relaxed, worn out and fresh at the same time. These are songs written in the throes of addiction and uncertainty. I remember walking in the sun this summer, sitting on the back of a TriMet bus watching the world roll around me as Jeff Tweedy unloaded the angst of doubt, comforted by the bliss of being loved. After having some time to breathe, it quickly became one of the best albums of the year. It takes time to get past many of the noisy bits, but over time will become a dependable friend. At times they sound like they did back in 1995, other songs reveal a more experimental side, as If they’ve been giving much attention to much of the Can catalogue. An intriguing yet delightful song cycle.



6. The Streets – A Grand Don’t Come For Free

An album of surprising power or how I became entranced with Mike Skinner’s balance of street thuggery and street poet. The first few times I spun this set, I couldn’t stop laughing. “This sounds like someone I know rapping to me, and in that overblown cockney accent to boot!” But this complaint soon turns into many of its strengths, as further investigation reveals. Towards the end of the record, he starts to sound like a friend of yours, and instead of normal verse chorus verse songs, these turn into little stories about everyday life, with we the audience the dedicated friend/listener. When the judgmental side of your ear finally shuts off, we are let in on one of the years not so greatly kept secrets.



7. Richmond Fontaine – Post to Wire

“Maybe you’ll wake up, in a bar somewhere, or in some sort of sanitarium.” Willy Vlautin manages many things on “Post to Wire”, one of them is getting that last sentence to rhyme. The song, “Always on the Ride” is a tremendous highlight for me, partly because he manages to make a song so desperate into a toe tapping delight. The album chronicles the misadventures of a drifter named Walter who has his heart and torso stomped on over and over again, his dreams of winning the jackpot at gambling serving as the angel that never quite comes. Throughout the listen, you’ll feel as if you are engaged in a Denis Johnston novel, instead of a traditional rock album. Vlautin manages to paint detailed friezes of life on the desperate side of the casino. That combined with some local Portland, OR songwriting touches, and what one takes away is the experience of beautiful heartbreak.



8. The Blue Nile – High

A latecomer to the game, not having been fully discovered until December 29th, the Glasgow group pulls off an amazing feat that U2 and Peter Gabriel (Whom the lead singer has often been compared to) failed to do on their last few outings, make desperate melancholy sound outright infectious and sweet. These are songs with a fraught urban edge, pulling out pain and sorrow in the most trusted places, the audio equivalent of being wrapped in a blanket on a cold night, alone with a bottle of vodka. The songs deal with elevating oneself above pain through love, drugs and redemption. Not exactly lite subject matter, but the Blue Nile manages to tackle all of these subjects while still remaining true to themselves.



9. Modest Mouse –Good News (For People Who Love Bad News)

Here in the Great Northwest, sunshine is like a Faberge Egg, something to hold onto intently, a force to cherish and appreciate. So when the rain finally leaves us each summer for three whole months, the entire region wakes up and peers out at the world. With that in mind, “Good News” was the soundtrack to a rebirth of sorts. There I was, slaving away in the cubicles of the IT world, when I had learned about my acceptance into a teacher training Graduate Program. At the start of the spring/summer this year, “Good News” never left my reach. After years of being misunderstood, Isaac Brock and company step out with some much needed positivity, and life responded in kind.

10. Bright eyes – I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning

I’ve always had a distant respect for Connor Oberest, appreciating his songwriting skills while cringing on his immaturity, posturing and frankly, his whining. It comes then, as a great relief to report great things about this record that won’t be released until the end of January 2005. Teaming up with My Morning Jacket singer Jim James and Steve Earle regular Emmylou Harris, Bright Eyes set the bar much higher on songs reflecting the travels of a maturing songwriter. With great, hummable melodies and lyrics that refer with great subtlety to the Iraq War, Bright Eyes manages to grow up while still maintaining their edge.