The Boneyard Education

A good buddy of mine introduced me to dominoes a few years back (yes, six years probably). I went through a phase where I played a lot and taught people so they could play with me. I spent several evenings at coffee shops with my brother, sipping coffee, listening to indie music, and playing dominoes.

While cleaning the garage, I ran across one of our boxes of dominoes. I brought it into the house, intending to sit with Dr. Wife and play in the evenings and give our scrabble and boggle games a change-up.

"What are those?" asked Miss Neverpoop.
"They're called dominoes, and it's a game," I replied, hope building. She knew how to count. She could recognize patterns. She knew how to take turns (theoretically).
"Can I play?" Her question completed the tower of hope.

So I proceeded to teach her how to play. And she is pretty darn good. No score keeping yet, just matching the pieces, drawing tiles, taking turns. Her attention span is about one hand, maybe two.





This is really the first time she and I have played a game together. Wii bowling, sure, but this one is really a game where we don't just score against each other, we play with each other.

And when she wins, she celebrates by putting on a leotard, sunglasses, and becomes a Badass Fairy of Victory.

Minds, hearts, and minnow buckets

I have a lot to write about. I have searched for some connectivity, continuity, or theme under which to tie these things. I have failed. So pardon the complete lack of transition that follows.

The Boomerang Project is in full swing. It's the student mentoring program that I travel with, teaching folks how to build the program in school. It has taken me to Portland so far (hence Goonie Rock), and Austin (just outside the city limits). I love this thing. Very rarely does one get the chance to really examine what they are doing, how they are doing it, and then adapt to all of that. I never feel more professional than when I do this, and it is so immediately rewarding on an emotional and intellectual level. I wish I could do this full time, but that isn't really an option. And the best/worst part, the folks that I work with in this are the type who love, support, challenge, demand, and trust me. I want them in my arms every day.

I returned from the most recent trip just in time for Valentine's Day. Allow me to clarify: I returned just in time for Valentine's Day at an all-girls Catholic school. One large room was closed down and staffed with secretaries. The sole purpose of this room was to receive the massive influx of cards, balloons, bouquets, candies, bears, gifts, and other pink-infused love tokens. The reek of roses rolled out of that room, carrying with it the power to induce drama. Valentine's day seems to divide school-girls into two packs: those with boyfriend drama and those who yearn bitterly for boyfriend drama. Add to this soap-opera scenario the freshman and sophomore class retreats, which took them and their teachers from the building and infused them with church-driven cathartic tears and soul searching.

I overheard things today that no man should have to hear. Stories of teen Valentine lust, two-timing, heartbreak, hatred, jealousy, and angst that ripped all semblence of sanity from my head. At the end of the day, my already ill body felt ripped from my addled head.

The only prescription: more cowbell. No, scratch that. The only prescription: pink Valentine's ice cream with Miss Neverpoop.

A little date with the Snotter Daughter was great. We talked about Valentines cards, and to whom we want to say "I love you", and about swinging on the swings. She was thoroughly impressed that she had a pink spoon and that I had a blue spoon. She talked about her friend Emily, and how she wants to marry her and shower her with gifts of spider-rings, head bands, necklaces, and washable tattoos. It's nice to see her connecting with other kids, even if she does appear to be a tiny lesbian.

My grandfather passed away last night (see? no transition. Just Bam!). His wife had passed a few months back, he had suffered a stroke, and continually fought to recover from that. Riley was a good man: stoic, devoted, hard-working, and honest. I take some pride in that one cannot walk through downtown Kansas City without standing next to a building that either he or my father were involved in building. I am proud of my father, aunt, and uncle who made the choices to make him comfortable during his last months, even though that meant that they might not be prolonging his life. It's the decision I would want made for me. So fire up some barbecue, smoke some strong tobacco in an old pipe, and mow your lawn today in honor of Riley Aquila Killmer. He'd be doing the same for you.

She hate me

The kids don't care about it as much as I do. This is the typical lament we science teachers share. And because I didn't recognize this, I bored the hell out of my class today.

I thought to myself, "Self, you should play for them a broadcast from Science Friday that discusses the relationship between evolution and intelligent design. After all, you are beginning a unit relating evolution to environmental science and you teach in a catholic high school."

So I fired up the intertubes. The radio program played. I took notes on the board, along with the kids. At important points, we paused and discussed. At first, ideas were shared. I got the students used to identifying the various panel guests on the program. But as the hour wore on, I could see it. The thin film of detachment covering their once bright and shiny eyes. The strings of drool began their inexorable reach down, down, down to the desks.

How could this be? The discussion was entirely about communication! It contained no science jargon (which amounts to triptophan for kids). I paused for interaction with carefully planned questions! I asked them to share with partners their opinions! It was IRA FLATOW for crying out loud!

I just wanted them to know why there is a debate at all. If scientists are so sure of evolution, how can their be arguments against it? And, more importantly, I want them to not just accept evolution, but be good scientists and look at the data and evaluate.

I wanted them to care.

Rookie mistake.

I can get kids interested in science by providing relevance. But true caring? Can anyone do that? Can any teacher move a student from being interested in something new to truly caring? I believe not. Caring comes from the heart, not the mind. I can inform, and inquire, and cause inquiry, but caring comes from experience. It is experience that causes us to care. Some event in our lives must reach down to that core and really change us. I can set the stage for those moments, but I can't force them.

Route 66

I've been musing lately with the idea of taking a group of students on a summer trip. Some outdoor excursion steeped gently in science. French teachers find themselves traipsing off to France. Geography teachers explore Australia. Hell, even PE teachers take kids on ski trips. Why not me?

But where do we go? I've got some thoughts: Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, canoe trips... I should probably stay stateside for my first foray.

Where, were you my student, would you like to go with me? Fun is important, and the world offers an education that no classroom can match.


*for those who read the first draft, my apologies for the poor editing ;)

Clean thoughts

A standard fixture in every good science class is the long, black-topped experiment table. It gleams glossy, its days marked by on the barest of nicks; scars from the Battle of Education. It's badges are two, small, ringed holes.

Many assume that these holes are to support lab equipment during fits and bursts of hands-on education. But the Insidious Dr. Science(!) knew their true purpose, and he shared it with me in a temple lab in the ruins of a shrine dedicated to Robert Hooke.

They are finger locks. Teenagers are compelled to discover them through trial by fire.

CSG*: "Mr. Rover, come here!"
Me: "No. I am old. You come here, lazy youth."
CSG: "Mr. Rover, come here!"
Me: "Dare you ignore this lesson, child?! Fine. I shall approach that you may learn."
CSG: "I put my finger in this hole and I can't get it out! It's too tight! I'm stuck!"
Me: "Of course you are, my child. It was written in the Tome of Hypotheses. 'If the finger lock is present, the child must become ensnared.'"
CSG: "How do I get out?"
Me: "You must remain calm. Your mind must recede, allowing your body to slow for 3 days, growing ever slimmer, until it is freed. Or, dish soap could work."

This child owes me cookies for many reasons. Feel free to list them all.

*CSG = Catholic School Girl

I'm getting too old for this...

Friday night was the local catholic schools' sweat-and-stink sleazefest (also known as back-to-school dance). First, let's address the facts that you are all wondering about.

Yes, it is coed, as it involves several of the local schools.
No, they were not wearing their uniforms, you sick monkeys.
I was there as a chaparonne, required as part of the job.

The job itself was relatively straightforward.

1. Stand around looking important.


2. Prevent teenage boys from hitting each other.


3. Keep the 1200 some odd dancing pheromone factories from knocking over the DJ stage.


4. Walk into the middle of the sweaty, grinding, hormonal, mass of teenage bodies and tell the girls not to grind their booties onto the crotches of the boys.


5. Stop the crowd surfing.

Let's just say that any successes achieved in any of this were only when students realized I was in their immediate vicinity. At several points, stopping in the throng even became dangerous. I realized this when suddenly a mini-skirt clad teen butt started bouncing against my thigh. Nope, she didn't bother to look first to see if I was a chaparonne. She just found a pelvis and tried to dry hump it. When I tapped her shoulder to get her attention, all I got was an embarassed grin and an immediate vanish into the dance.

Now most of you are thinking to yourselves, that doesn't sound so bad. But let's explore my options.

1. Smile and enjoy it: that makes me a dirty old man and gets me fired.


2. Stop the rump rub: that prevents me going to jail and embarasses a girl into behaving.


3. Freak out, scream, and curl into a ball: I considered this, actually, but I was worried that being horizontal would only make things more dangerous.

Sure, there's a little part of me that feels hypocritical for stopping the simulated soft-core that was going on that night. But then I remember that in 12 short years, I will get to club the pancreas out of a teenage boy for trying to dance that way with my daughter. And a quiet peace comes over me.

Chaos and rain

Since most of you waited until after the weekend to respond to my blog, you can only blame yourselves for my current employment. That's right. I now teach catholic school girls.

It really wasn't what I wanted to do, but it seems to be sitting alright in my craw. It is time for Miss Neverpoop (yup, she's at it again) to start pre-school, I couldn't afford out of state tuition for graduate school, and our house in Kansas hasn't sold. This left us financially pinched. And, let's face it, I'm not a homebody. I had expected to be able to work on painting, repairing, sorting, organizing, and unpacking. Instead, I found myself pacing the boxes in our garage, fuming at life. Not a good scenario. The depression was creeping in.

It was actually that silly meme blog I posted that really pointed it out. If I was a color, I'd be gray. Dr. Wife was surprised by this.

Dr. Wife: I thought your color would be blue.
me: No, I've always been gray.
Dr. Wife: No. In college, and for quite some time after, you were blue. Not bright blue, but true blue.
me: I suppose. But I'm certainly gray now.
Dr. Wife: I know, but you can change that.

So I got to thinking; what was it that made me gray? The truth is, it was not having a dream and the opportunity to pursue it. College was a time for dreams, and I lived them fully. I thought that the future held something for me, and that I was gaining by pursuing. I was alive in a very blue way.

I haven't felt that way in a long time. I haven't really had a dream or a goal. Being around my friends in Mexico reminded me that people admired and respected me, but I don't really understand why. So I have gone back to something that used to inspire me; teaching.

As for the burnout, I was certainly there. But it seems that time off treats me just as badly. I am hoping that working with such a very different bunch of kids, in a very, very different setting will help me feel connected again. I am also teaching a course that I am not even remotely familiar with. It will be nice to be a student again. Speaking of which, one of the perks to this new job is that they will pay for me to take a course every semester, even working on a Master's degree. I can have my cake and eat it, too.

So it remains to be seen... will this be good, or bad. My only concern is that the large jug of holy water just down the stairs from my room boils every time I pass...

In trouble...

I have been offered a job teaching physics and environmental science at an all-girls catholic high school. I have to decide whether or not to take it by Sunday. Discuss.

Race til ya drop...

I just finished my last day as a teacher. I have been working non-stop trying to get done, and now it's done. I am so worn out I can't even really think about it yet. Thankfully, I was spared most of the sappy goodbye stuff because we were all in such a rush to get our rooms emptied out for remodeling.

I'll write more when I think more. Now, time to write a new chapter.

Group Hug

I am thrilled to be a part of Link Crew, a division of the Boomerang Project. Let me give you the premise:

A freshman starts high school. On the first day, they enter a gym and are immediately greeted by a hoard of clapping, cheering, smiling upperclassmen. They move to the bleachers, where they proceed to relax and laugh as an outgoing goofball guides them through activities that gradually get them more and more involved with each other. Just as this might get dull, they are pulled from the bleachers and through a series of efficient people moving maneuvers, they find themselves divided into completely random groups. And there to guide them is an upperclassman. A Link Leader.

The Leader then whisks them away to a secluded room, where they work through a series of activities that guide them to getting to know names, personal stories, and which allow them to come together to solve common problems. And then they discover that this group, which they have shared their life story with now, will be with them all year, helping them through all of the challenges ahead with the guidance of their Link Leader.

I have put together this program at my school, and I love it. And this year, I have had the chance to teach other teachers how to put this together as a Coach with Boomerang. And I love it. It feels like being a camp counselor again. I work my butt off for three days with the most creative, supportive, affirming people one could hope to ever see. For a brief time, I enjoy teaching again. I forget the stress, the pain in my heart, and the pain in my body. I sleep little and laugh much. The curriculum is challenging and engaging, and the analytical pedagogical part of my brain has tiny little orgasms.

When it comes down to it, this is the part of teaching that matters to me. Not science, not grades, not administrative silliness. It is helping people understand that the key to making life better for kids is to enable them to rise above their challenges through supporting each other.

Boom boom.

Scare tactics

Yesterday’s bomb threat was called into the local police. A school (no district or building named) is going to be bombed, said the voice.

Nice. So part way through the first class of the day, we receive an email notifying us of this, and telling us that there is nothing to worry about according to the police. At which point, the rumor mill begins and despite the ultra-secure lock down (21 exits, two security guards, you do the math), students begin leaving in droves. Even after a suspect was arrested and the all clear given, parents continued to call their kids on their cell phones and tell them to get the hell out. Even worse were the kids who called mommy pretending to be scared, then high-fived their friends as they got the clear to go spend the sunny day roaming the town.

In the middle of this, of course, were some of the wonderful standardized tests that No Child Left Behind uses to evaluate our success as teachers. Is there any way to void these test scores and take them under normal conditions? Nope. Kids bail partway through the test, their score tanks. Funding cut. Teachers fired. Class sizes increase. Learning suffers.

Very glad to be leaving teaching. The upside is, I was forced to surrender my lab activities for the day. My seven remaining students and I took the sidewalk chalk outside and made a giant periodic table.

Whether vain

Despite my dislike of yard work, spring is good for my soul. I spent my last day of break outside. I finished removing last summer's rust from my daughter's little wagon, leaving a coat of red Rustoleum gleaming in the sun.

I found the local hippie hangout, The Bourgeois Pig, ordered a Boulevard Stout, and set about organizing my lesson objectives for my last two months of teaching.

I can't help but be a bit melancholy about that. I feel I am leaving a job unfinished. But that's the nature of it. Teaching is static. A new class, the same topics. Rinse. Repeat. I see the upcoming months full of work and chaos and am finding comfort i the little task of chemistry teaching.

I had placed a lot of hope in physical therapy and epidurals. I feel cheated that I have to endure another surgery just to walk right. I want to lift bags of mulch to the garden. I want to carry my daughter into her bed when she falls asleep watching the heffalump movie. I've spent my life hating my body. And, despite how shallow it is, I'd like to be strong and handsome. I would like it if I didn't have to resent my body.

The young and good looking stroll by arm in arm, or eying an arm to arm. It's nice to watch and admire. The wind is threatening skirts and ball caps cocked crooked. It is time for a stroll to see if I can regain some feeling of foot or hope. I'd take either.

New job...

I am about to enter my last quarter as a teacher. I'm throwing in the towel. I surrender. It has been something that I have excelled at and pushed the boundaries of. But enough is enough. It's a tough job that gets worse as you get older.

I am still, however, completely clueless as to what comes next. More school? A new career? And where will that be? My wife has about a month left until she is Dr. Wife, PhD. Although that sounds glamourous, it is really just stressful, as she is interviewing for a select few jobs that happen to all be located on edges of the US. Currently, we are in the wheat-fed middle.

So help me out. Career advice, por favor!