Concerning Cycling

It was a beautiful day in the 'hood and families were out in force, riding their bikes. While I love seeing families doing things like that together, I have to resist the urge to yell at (usually) the fathers, "Hey, doofus, making your kid wear a helmet while your hair blows in breeze (or scalp smiles at the sun) is a terrible message to send during family time." Your head won't really be much less vulnerable to the pavement than your child's, but, more importantly, your example is telling your young one that wearing a helmet isn't really necessary. I hope you won't be surprised, some years down the (metaphorical and literal) road, to see your kid pedaling down the street with a helmet hanging on the handlebars. Do these same people make sure their children are buckled up and strapped down in the car but refuse to wear seat belts themselves? Sorry, I just don't get it.

As long as I'm being cranky about cyclists, I have no problem sharing the road, I admire those who use bicycles for transportation as well as recreation. A few years ago, during the summer and the kids were out, I cycled to work because it didn't matter that I showed up dripping. I enjoyed riding by the Clydesdales and being greeted by other trail users with friendly waves and "Hello's" -- it sure beat the honking and finger gestures on the roadways and didn't significantly lengthen my commute. Of course, I didn't really do it often enough to justify the cost of the bike, but at least often enough so that the purchase wasn't a complete waste of money.

But here's the point (finally, you might say). While I expected people to watch out for me when the trail ended and I was on the road, I also followed traffic laws! I stopped at stop signs and red lights, obeyed speed limits (not really a tough task for my physical condition, or lack thereof), signaled turns, kept to the right and was as respectful of cars and trucks as I hoped they would be of me (at least in part because they were lots bigger and I would be the loser in any confrontation). I also wore a helmet. I am occasionally amazed and frequently irked by the spandexed speeders who seem to think that traffic regulations are only for their motorized brethren.

I will admit, however, that almost all of them are, at least, wearing helmets.

SCOTUS, DOMA, & Other Acronyms to be Named Later

A quick weigh-in on the Supreme's supreme decision yesterday. Although I was not surprised by it, I am generally pleased with the SCOTUS ruling on DOMA. (We coin so many acronyms we're going to need to start adding letters to the alphabet.)  It bothers me, though, that we're celebrating a decision clearly offering indisputable evidence that we have four justices with antediluvian views. We're still only one justice away from a reversal.

I felt like the case was a no-brainer. What difference could it possibly make to anyone to allow everyone to share the same privileges as me? Carolyn and I will continue to celebrate our anniversaries even though Congress will no longer be "defending" our marriage. Actually, I'd suggest we need defense FROM Congress more than BY Congress, but maybe that's just me and maybe that's just THIS Congress.

How can those who argue that they want LESS government turn around and argue that the same government they want less of should restrict the freedoms of their relatives, friends, and neighbors? Although I don't really have a pony in this race, except for friends who deserve equal rights (NOT a minor point, mind you), I have enough quirks that a tolerant, open society certainly smooths over whatever minor discomfort and bumps might result from said idiosyncrasies. 

This case didn't really seem like a tough legal call, although I understand why some would find it a big and bitter political pill to swallow. Progress in civil rights has never been a smooth highway. I am certain that this will not be the last time that those who oppose equal rights will predict that the world as we know it is coming to some apocalyptic end.

   As a fan of irony, though, I promise to try to be tolerant of the intolerant, no matter how deserving I think they might be of at least one of Dante's circles.

Worst Part of Coaching

Camp season is here. For Becca it was Monster Camp. For some of my formers, it's "sleep away" camp - varying numbers of weeks away from home, not something I think I could have considered for my daughter at their age. However, I do remember, fondly, the month on the French Riviera with a French family, the bicycle trip through southern England, and the "Castle Rehab" project in Untergruppenbach, Germany, rich sources of stories from my high school summers. It never dawned on me that my parents were probably as glad to be rid of me as I was to be away from them!

But for me it's Softball Camp Season, when we, scrupulously following the rules established by the Missouri State High Schools Activities Association (MSHSAA), teach softball skills to both aspiring athletes and kids whose parents want to be rid of them for a morning or afternoon.

School was no sooner out this year (in fact, there were a couple days left for returning teachers) than we had 56 girls, grades 2-8 (next year) on our field. Fortunately, we also had 15-16 of our returning high school players every day as volunteer helpers, a couple graduates as auxiliary coaches, and great weather, so everybody went home happy. The afternoons are for the high school girls with days set aside for defensive position work, scrimmages with other schools, conditioning and hitting. Next week will be our official high school camp. 

That schedule continues up to the end of July when the Fall Season Dead Period starts. I'm not sure if that refers to the fact that coaches are not allowed contact with their athletes or to the energy level of the coaches (and, to be fair, the girls, because many of them are ALSO playing up to 6-10 weekend or evening games each week). You might think this intensive schedule is the reference to the title of this piece.

Not so.

These summer and camp activities for the high school girls aren't tryouts. Those officially happen in August, but we're starting to get a pretty good picture of who will be trying out and what their skills are. Inevitably the tryout process results in tears and disappointment. When I was the head coach at Hancock I posted the names of those who had made the team(s), but only after I had personally informed (almost all of) those whom I had to cut. 

Reactions varied, from, "That's okay, I'll try out next year," (and she did, for three years, until she finally made the team as a senior) to expressions that said, "Get it over with. I know what you're going to say and you're making me uncomfortable." I think half the time I stammered and looked so miserable that the girls felt worse for me than I did for them. It wasn't a strategy, but it helped me get through the task of being the bearer of bad news. It was also never a complete surprise.

I remember how I felt when I saw my name on the "Cut List" after trying out for the 9th grade basketball team at West Ladue. As obvious as that decision was (maybe 5'2" with neither instincts nor skills), it still hurt, and while I certainly had no inkling that I'd ever coach anything, I remember feeling that somebody should have, at the very least, talked to me, thanked me for trying out.

At Webster, up to this year, decisions have been made before school even started (last year saw 38 girls trying for one of the 28 uniforms), so after 2-5 tryout days we would have to pull aside girls after a day of hard work and give them the bad news. We would encourage them to try out for other sports that needed players or didn't make cuts (cross country). We work at being as sensitive and private as possible, but the other girls know what is being said, sometimes to their friends.

The ubiquity of e-mail has resulted in a few nasty-grams from parents -- and in one case outright confrontation -- but most people understand it's a miserable part of the job. One of the downsides of our program's success is that we are now cutting girls who might even have started not too may years ago. 

I understand those who believe that experiencing failure is part of life and that we shield too many kids from disappointment, that we reward success that isn't really accomplishment, that we're too worried about self-esteem and not enough about hardening these future adults to the harsh realities of life. I understand Rule 15, that if you've never fallen on your face you've never stretched to your limit. 

But I hope I never reach the point where cutting a player is easy. I hope it's always the most miserable day of the season, because when that day becomes easy, or even easier, it's time for me the turn in my (figurative) whistle.

Farewell to the Alphabet School(s)

In about a week I'll be participating in an "exit interview" with members of the SMJCS board. I'm glad they're doing that and hope that it is or becomes a part of the retirement protocol. Finalizing that appointment provided the impetus to finish the (rather long) piece below that I had already started.

It was two and half years at SSDS and another one and a half at SMJCS. All those letters weren't really a problem, given my other jobs had been at HP and WG (HS). Hmmm, just like Hebrew, no vowels.

I thought I'd spend a few words (turns out, more than a few) partially summing up my four years in a religiously oriented private school after having spent 37 years on the public side. If you're looking for a public-private comparison and contrast, you'll have to wait. My ideas on the plusses and minuses of these distinct but parallel systems are coming later, after aging some more in oak barrels. In any case, this is just about my four years at Schechter/Mirowitz.

Part of my motivation is that I stubbed my toe on the way out the door and kind of stumbled ungracefully to my car, dropping things and bumping into people along the way. Although metaphorical and not literal, it is a source of regret and I wish I had exited in a manner consistent with how I felt about my time there.

Let there be no mistake: I loved my time at this school. (It may have changed names, but for me it was always the same school and the many positives and few negatives had nothing to do with the merger or different personnel.) I loved the kids, the parents, my colleagues. There wasn't a single day that I came to or went home from work feeling down or bad. My years here brought me joy.

I know it seems inconceivable to those who know me that I lasted four days, much less four years, in a religious school. It is surprising to me, as well, and I don't think that tenure would have been possible in a school sponsored by any other religion. You might be surprised to learn that, during my four years in the Middle School, not one of the general studies teachers was Jewish. 

With apologies in advance to anyone who might be offended, I can't imagine any other religion or religious school being secure enough in its beliefs and traditions to allow not just non-believers, but men and women active in and committed to their own churches, to teach their children. When I was "interviewed" by the class I would eventually be hired to teach, they asked me what religion I was. I answered, somewhat disingenuously, that my "spiritual journey was ongoing." The Head of the Upper School, as it was called then, just barely succeeded in not laughing out loud.

I learned a ton from my kids. Like many adolescents, they were often less than reverent with all the prayers and rituals, but were happy to explain anything I wondered about. I also did my best to honestly answer the numerous questions they had about Christianity, although I'm not sure I would have been anyone's choice of emissary. Nevertheless, I think my skepticism made it clear I was just trying to provide objective information, and that made me a valuable, if not expert, source.

 I was also fortunate enough to have (and share a room with) a different Judaics teacher each year, as well as interact with numerous rabbis and Hebrew teachers. Thanks to them, I grew, intellectually and yes, spiritually, in a warm, welcoming, open, and big-hearted community. I discovered that it is virtually impossible to be with any significant number of Jews without having a rabbi in the vicinity. One of the things I just loved was that every one of those rabbis wanted to share with me what was going on in the ceremony or celebration, not in any kind of attempt to fix me (I'm pretty sure I'm broken beyond repair) but simply out of pride, generosity, and love.

I don't want to go on and on, but while I came to accept and even expect the openness of this school and community, I am still in awe, because it went so far beyond what might have been anticipated.

I made dear friends, observed incredible colleagues, shared memorable experiences with kids. I like to think I became a pretty good middle school teacher. (When they hired me to teach eighth graders, they took a chance not just on a heathen, but on a guy with extremely limited middle school experience, and virtually all of that as a counselor.) My first year, I had 16 eighth graders who had pretty much been together for close to a decade. It was a challenge, but I'm guessing for them as much as me. It was the first time, but not the last, all at this school, that I heard the following expression of wonderment: "We've never had a teacher like you, Mr. Berndt." It was as much a statement of confusion as a compliment.

I'd never had a crew like them, either, but I really liked them (and will remember each of them fondly). They were bright, curious (but with their own agendas), and almost completely unmanageable, at least in the sense of following  a structured curriculum or even a daily plan. Fortunately, as near as I could tell, there really wasn't a structured curriculum. What I was told I was to teach pretty much went off the table after the first day when I found out they hadn't learned – or even been taught – what allegedly had been the curriculum. We turned out to be a good fit. They had questions, albeit generally irrelevant to what I had planned to teach them, and I am essentially incapable of not answering an interesting question, which leads to another.... Well, you get the picture.

Apparently I answered enough questions that the next year I was asked to add the sixth grade to my load, and what started out as a 2-3 hour a day job turned into an almost full-time position. The next year there were two sixth grades and I ended up with both of those. My final year saw me with mostly sixth and seventh graders (that there were only three eighth graders also had something to do with it). The guy hired because he had high school experience (with the goal of "pushing" the eighth graders and getting them ready for high school) ended up as a pure middle school teacher.

There is no question my teaching style became, shall we say, chaotic. But who's to say that the students' questions were less important than my planned curriculum. Usually I found my way back to where I wanted to be, but it was almost always via the back country roads and seldom on the interstate highways.

For these kids, and me as their tour guide, I think this was the best way to travel. Those pathways are closing as conformity and uniformity are becoming more prevalent; it became time to leave the driving to someone more willing to stick to the pre-programmed GPS.

In any case, the journey has ended, but what a rich and fulfilling journey it was, and I will remember and be thankful for it as one of the best times of my life.

Father's Day -- My Day of Thanksgiving

   It's Father's Day, a day for intro- and retrospection. Becoming a father changes your life forever. At least it should, if you let it. I clearly wasn't really ready for fatherhood, but I had given some thought to what kind of outcome I wanted for my daughter. I was, of course, clueless as to how to achieve that outcome, but there is no parent manual and we all muddle through, trying to screw up as little as possible and hopeful that our mistakes and the damage they cause are both minor, little fender-benders on the perilous path of parenthood.

   I know I could have done better; I wish I had done better. I know (now) that my priorities were neither clearly explained nor even rationalized, if not badly and completely misplaced. I've used this anecdote before, but when your daughter's first complete sentence is, "Daddy's at a meeting," it should set off alarm bells. I couldn't get beyond thinking she was cute and smart (which she was, of course).

   Still, all in all I was blessed with a great daughter of whom I could not be more proud, even if she and her mother deserve most of the credit. I say this not with false modesty. I think I did an above average job as a father. Of course, as we are constantly reminded, it doesn't take much to beat average, especially in competition with other men in terms of relationships with their families. This next generation is raising the bar, and I enjoy watching Ben excelling as a father.

   Nicci made me a better person (and a better teacher), and I'll always be in her debt. I'm pretty certain that she reached the understanding (sooner than I did, at least in part because she has her mother's aptitude for empathy) that, like my father, I did the best I could, given who I was with my background and parenting models, that I recognized and tried to rectify, when possible, my mistakes, and that I loved her more than I could ever have imagined being possible. I loved her and loved being her father. Where I perhaps deserve the most credit, I also loved working at being a good father for her. What a great job, what challenging and joyful work.

   I have to say, though, that being a grandfather is the best gig ever. This was not a role I was anxious to adopt; I wasn't one of those people who "couldn't wait" to be a grandparent. Grandfathers were (or should be, in my world view) old, not a label I am ready to embrace with any enthusiasm even now. Then I saw the child of my child and again my world changed, again I became a better person because of a child.

   The difference between parenting and grand-parenting is that on this round you actually have time to pay attention to the growth and change, to truly observe the development of a wondrous human being, without all the demands and distractions of life getting in the way. Again, I am fortunate. Carolyn and I are blessed not with front-row seats, but a place in the dugout. Nicci and Ben moved back to St. Louis to share their lives with us. So not only is Becca a beautiful gift, but the closeness of our family and their willingness to share this incredible child enhance the value of that gift more than I could ever have imagined.

   Today I celebrate Father's Day, not as a recognition of what I did as a father, but as a day to be thankful for all the love, joy and learning I have received, and continue to receive, in that role, gifts beyond measure that make my life a rich and blessed one.

Worst Nightmare....

Carolyn has, at least occasionally,  told Becca, "That's my worst nightmare. I don't want to do that."

I'm accustomed to bright children, having been blessed with one and having taught numerous others. But this is both amusing and close to frightening.

We know how Becca feels about princesses (Eye roll, "I'm not a princess, I'm Becca). Add 1: Becca, to her mother: "My worst nightmare is being surrounded by princesses." Certainly makes Disney World its own special challenge.

Destruction vs. Construction

   I enjoy Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert (I think the former is more consistently on point, but the latter produces more moments that put the TV in danger from liquid projection of whatever I happen to be drinking at the time). That being said, I'm also glad Stewart is shutting down for the summer; it unclogs the DVR and I think he's become a little stale. I give him credit for trying to be fair and critical of the administration, but it strikes me as mostly forced.

   On the other hand (I suppose that's the right hand), I can't abide Rush Limbaugh, even as I grudgingly recognize his talent for skewering his political nemeses (anyone with post 19th century views, IMO). I generally have about a 30-second tolerance for his voice, but have managed to last longer than that on rare occasions. I'll throw Dennis Miller (whom I've heard maybe once or twice when he was first syndicated in St. Louis, but I did read one of his books) onto the pile (or under the bus?), just to keep the sides even.

   However, the point I want to make is that ridicule is easy; problem-solving is hard, and complicated. Ridicule works, as often as not, because it takes a complex situation and either manipulates details or creates clever play-on-word comparisons. (Stewart and Limbaugh [and their writers] are especially good at this.) Without disparaging the talents of satirists, making an idea or a person (using words out of context or pushing a position to the point of absurdity) appear ridiculous (and we must give both political parties "credit" for providing so many easy bulls-eyes) is not nearly as tough a task as careful and thoughtful analysis of a problem or proposing a worthy or logical solution.

   Of course, proposing an alternative solution further raises the degree of difficulty, as well as subjecting that alternative to the same kind of ridicule that sabotaged any hope for the original. Congress has clearly demonstrated how much easier it is to find excuses to oppose proposals than to productively create solutions, via compromise, to our multiple national dilemmas. In this media age, compounded by the ease of offering opinions via social media, it is no wonder thoughtful people are reluctant to put targets on their backs by offering solutions.

   Personally, I'm really good at destruction when it comes to household projects. I can take things apart if there's no expectation of its retaining any useful life beyond recycling. Construction, however, is beyond my abilities. On the idea side, I like to think of myself as a problem-solver, someone who can come up with creative solutions to complicated challenges. I have no problem working with critics, in part because I've generated so many over the years. I recognize that we all need counterbalances (or editors, not someone readily available for a blog) to point out flaws or alternate directions. Nevertheless, I'm guessing those who have been on the receiving end might opine that I'm even better at caustic criticism, and, certainly from their perspective, they might be right.

   I'll continue to be amused by the satirists, but I hope I don't fall into the trap of thinking they're actually providing any meaningful solutions to real problems.

This Could Be The Start of Something....

   Well, not big necessarily (with all due respect to Steve Allen, who wrote the song). But something, maybe.

   I've been publishing my blog for almost six years (9/1/2007). Now that I'm in semi-permanent retirement, I'm looking forward to reading (and not just YA fiction) and writing more. I have neither stories nor characters clamoring to get out of my brain (apparently it's too frenetic and crowded in there with past personalities vying for attention), so fiction seems unlikely.

   I've always been more of a non-fiction writer, anyway. My writing heroes were some of the old-time columnists, Mike Royko, Russell Baker, Art Buchwald, even Charles Osgood (and since he's not dead, I still would sort of like to be him when I grow up).

   There's a "Blog-Lovin" link on the website: bobberndt/blogspot.com for those who would like to "follow" me or be notified when I post a new article. (There's going to be a real one later today.) If I find a better way to publish, I'll add it. I'll continue to use Facebook (appropriate for random thoughts since Facebook's notification algorithm seems purely random to me) and Twitter (I think -- in theory I'm on there, but I can't imagine limiting myself to 140 characters!).

   Topics will be personal, political, social, and anything else that hangs around my brain long enough for me to remember it. It will take a little while for my thoughts on education to play themselves out to the point where that becomes just another random area of commentary.

   While it would be kind of cool, I have no goal of monetizing the blog; I'm not that ambitious at this point, nor do I want the pressure of a deadline, so you have no real worry about being subjected to ads.

I'm hoping to do 2-3 articles a week and see how that develops. As a teacher I tried to entertain myself and hoped my students would find it beneficial, interesting or entertaining to come along for the ride. I see this blog as something like that.

Thanks for reading.

In-Service & Karaoke: An Analogy

School years start and end the same way – with in-service. At the end of the year, exhausted teachers are informed that, no matter how good a year they thought they had, they could have been better if only.... And in the beginning, refreshed and recharged teachers have their enthusiasm numbed out of them, first with data that, no matter how positive, ends up emphasizing their failures to reach some magic number, followed by instructions that imply while they’re really not that good, they can become great if only they become disciples of the latest educational Jesus.

   Can following the strict catechism of the latest savior (Madeline Hunter, Marzano, etc.) really make anyone a great teacher? I’m a skeptic, but administrators fall all over themselves to create a conformist culture based on those faddish “new” religions. Where are the administrators with the courage to trust their teachers to do the job the right way, to make creative decisions with their students’ various needs in mind, and to not bog their staff down with mindless workshops of data and dicta that are either ignored or perfunctorily followed.

   I know lots of great teachers. I don’t know any that think they need more large-group in-service time. One of my favorite articles of all-time (see link) compares teacher in-service to the artificial insemination of cattle: it’s only marginally effective and not all that much fun for the cow.

   Virtually all the good teachers I know spent those endless in-service hours (and days!) with their minds elsewhere. Do teachers need time to plan? Of course. Do they need training? Absolutely. Do they need to have the same training as every other teacher in the building or district? Ummm, have we heard of differentiation? Of course we have. We all took the same damn workshop! And those in charge failed to see the irony.

    Logically, if you believe you can create great teachers by giving them more training, then you also ought to believe that I can become a great singer by doing more karaoke or a great dancer with enough Dance Dance Revolution! Never mind that I’m worse than a monotone: I may have more than one note, but they're ALL bad, or that I share the rhythmic abilities of the aforementioned cow during the artificial insemination process! But herd me often enough into a room with other bad to mediocre singers and dancers and the latest, greatest, up-to-datest training in either of those areas and I, too, can become great.

   No, I can’t (and I half-heartedly apologize for my defeatist attitude, but I am a pragmatist). My best possible outcome in either of those areas is a bored and controlled, but less than embarrassing technician. I know it’s cynical, but I really think that’s the ultimate goal: controlled technicians. 

   I contend that the art of teaching is similar to any other art. You must be born to greatness, you must possess something innate that will allow you to excel. In the same way that there are styles of music and art, there will be styles of teaching, great teaching; your great teaching won’t look like your colleagues down the hall or in a different grade/department.

   Great teachers (even good teachers) are always looking to improve themselves, but regimented in-service workshops have never been, and will never be, the answer. In the same way every great artist had mentors and instructors, every great teacher has also had inspiration, both formal and informal, but the greatness was already there, waiting to burst forth. Yes, administrators will also have to deal with the artistic temperament; great teachers have never been easily controlled. Too bad. If administrators really care about the kids as much as they claim, they’ll cope.