What Teachers Believe

I'm always amazed when confronted with the fact that some teachers just don't get it: What you choose to believe about your students is what you get from them.

It's such a predictable dynamic to watch. I know some teachers who characterize their students as whining floof-heads ("whining" is their terminology; "floof-heads" is mine). Voila! They've got a bunch of whining floof-heads in their classes.

These teachers make negative comments about the "irresponsible" approach of their students, coming to believe that they are not teaching serious scholars. All the while these teachers don't realize that they're building an artificial reality that becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. It's so painful to watch them do this, because their beliefs are actually communicated to their students through their attitudes and sometimes words as they accuse their students of having bad attitudes. These same students, with other teachers, may be interested in learning and respectful, coming to class on time and leaving when it's done, and using all the resources at hand to study--habits they don't follow for the teachers with negative beliefs. The students can't help responding by actually becoming what their teachers believe, unless they are self-aware enough to say, "Hey, that's not me and I refuse to accept that characterization."

I also know a few teachers--all in one department in this case--who think their students are very cool, hard-working smarties who will get full-ride scholarships to graduate school. What do ya know? The number of full-ride scholarshipped PhDs out of that small department has been shooting up. In the last five years they have eight graduates who have gone on to fully supported doctoral studies in well-reputed universities.

I can't think of one student who I ever thought didn't care to learn. I've met discouraged students, and they could be encouraged. I've met lost students, and they could be helped to see their way through. I've met students with overwhelming life circumstances to deal with, and we gave it our best shot together for success. I've met distracted students, and it was my job to try to help focus them. I've met students who were frightened of the task of learning, or of my standards for passing, but then it was my job to convince them that they could do it ... because I believed they could. And occasionally I met a student who was in the wrong major, and then it was my job to help them explore other options.

But I think they all, deep down, wanted to learn and to succeed. Why would anyone want to fail? They just act that way when they've faced so much failure, so many obstacles and so many negative messages that they've become discouraged about ever achieving their dreams.

On the flip side, I suppose some of my students may have resented my idealistic view or high expectations of them, expectations that felt like "shoes too big to fill." That's the downside of being taught by an idealistic teacher who thinks everyone can do anything. I think I'm comfortable erring on that side of the equation.

But here's what I'd love to see: I'd like to see these teachers--the kind with whiny floof-heads in their courses--deliberately choose to believe their students sincerely want to do well. I'd like to see their scholars who are struggling, or display a don't-care-attitude, as people just need some support and someone to believe in them. And I'd love for them to deliberately choose to change their own attitudes and then watch the student landscape change.

That's what I want for my next birthday.

Cost of Living

This coming school year at our school we're getting no cost of living wage increase. I have no problem with that. Life as we've known it in this country has changed; it's not going to change back, and we may as well get on with the requisite adjustments.

But I was thinking about the term "cost of living" last night. It struck me that there are a whole lot of costs of living. I thought I'd make a list as a way of exploring the idea. For the privilege of living, here are some of the costs I think we pay:

• the pain of learning the hard way
• broken hearts and relationships
  
• illness, temporary or chronic
• loss of those we love, sometimes because of our own actions
  
• imperfect bodies that get saggy, baggy and flabby
• imperfect minds that get duller and more forgetful
  
• worries for those we love
• dreams deferred or denied
• disappointments
• aches and pains
• fear
• loneliness
• regrets
  

When all is said and done, and no other alternatives being available, I'll pay the costs. The benefits of living still outweigh them.

As a believer, that reminds me of the words of a song I used to hear when I was younger, words that become more meaningful through the years as they speak to me of the hope I possess:

It will be worth it all when we see Jesus,
Life's trials will seem so small when we see Christ.
One glimpse of His dear face all sorrow will erase,
So bravely run the race 'til we see Christ.

Highest Priority in the Universe

This is actually the model of data phone I carry. It's usually set on "vibrate" mode. I liked my Blackberry better.
From the latest edition of the newsletter/communiqué I send out to principals of our feeder schools:

Why do many people interrupt a face-to-face conversation to take a phone call, as if the choice to use the telephone gave the caller Highest Priority in the Universe? Unless you’re in the midst of a crisis, the person you’re with is more important than the one calling on the cell phone, the one sending you the text message, or the one popping an e-mail into your inbox. In a world saturated with technology, I predict that people will increasingly value the leaders who give their full attention, face-to-face, without responding to the buzzing, ringing and dinging of incoming messages. If you’ve given technology priority over the person looking into your eyes, try re-ordering what gets your first response. I think you’ll collect “points in the bank” that you might not otherwise earn.

What Would You Do?

I was idly clicking through channels on the TV the other night when I came across a show on ABC called "What Would You Do?" It apparently works like a sort of "moral dilemma" version of Candid Camera. The producers set up a scene with actors, and unwitting people walk into the scenario and have to make a choice or respond to what they're experiencing.

In this particular episode of the show, a realtor is tending an open house at an expensive home. As people drop in to view the home, they experience a scenario in which a minority couple comes in, and the realtor tries to steer them away from the home and the neighborhood. She says things to the couple such as, "Perhaps you're looking for something more urban ...with people more like you," and "This house might not be for people like you; there aren't a lot of people of color in this area." Later a Muslim couple comes in and the realtor gets even more pointed, referring to terrorism and their facility with the English language.

The episode was fascinating, watching the expressions on people's faces, and seeing them struggle with whether to say anything, and what to say. The question is: if you see someone doing something harmful or wrong, would you interfere? According to the producers, only one third of the unwitting witnesses chose to speak up.

I've thought about this nearly every day this week, and wondered what my response would have been. We'd all like to think that we would speak up, whether forcefully, or whether as gently as the grey-haired woman did in the clip. But would I? Would you?

Rico's Restitution

Beerbohm's The RestitutionIt must have happened almost exactly 20 years ago. I was teaching 8-, 9- and 10-year olds in a multigrade classroom in a small Christian school of 320 students in southern California.

Each day at 11:45 I'd have the students stack their work neatly on their desktops and walk down the sidewalk to the lunch tables under the awning behind the kindergarten room. The students who had ordered a hot lunch could make their way to the lunch tables via Mrs. Yapshing's lunch window, which faced in on the parking lot. After supervising lunch, Mrs. Rice would let the students go out on the playground for recess before we teachers called them back in.

I was teaching one afternoon when Mrs. Yapshing passed by my classroom windows and knocked on the door. I went to meet her.

"Do you know if Rico's parents sent extra lunch money with him?" she asked.

"No," I said, somewhat startled. I took the lunch orders along with taking attendance in the morning, and didn't ask to see the students' lunch money.

"Well, Rico came to the window with twenty dollars today," she said. "A twenty dollar bill. And he bought lunch for himself and two friends. It 's not usual for him to have that much money."

"I don't know," I said. Honestly, I didn't pay attention to the money my students brought or didn't bring with them. I had no idea what was typical.

"Well, I think you should mention it to his parents," said Mrs. Yapshing.

So after school, as Rico was being picked up, I mentioned to his stepdad out of Rico's hearing that Mrs. Yapshing noticed that he had come to the lunch window with twenty dollars.

Rico's stepdad frowned. "I'll look into it," was all he said.

The next day Rico's stepdad brought a very glum 10-year old to the classroom at the start of the day. In front of Rico, he told me that his boy had confessed to taking the money out of my purse. My purse! I usually stashed it under my desk and hadn't even noticed that one of my two twenties was gone.

"Rico will be working it off," his stepdad said. "Would you be willing to wait for him to pay you back until the money is earned?"

I said "Sure." I was feeling squirmy in the stern presence of Rico's stepdad. I recognized that consequences were appropriate, but I was also a bit worried that Rico might catch some physical consequences for his deed, and was also worried about how harsh that might be, coming from a man that stern.

Some weeks later, Rico's dad again came to the classroom with his stepson. Rico approached me and handed me four twenty dollar bills.

"Wait," I protested. "Rico only owes me twenty dollars."

"No," said Rico's stepdad. "I read him the Bible story about Zacchaeus the tax collector. When he confessed to Jesus that he had stolen money from the people, he promised to pay back what he had stolen, times four. If Rico is going to learn his lesson about stealing, he needs to follow the good example of Zacchaeus."

"But I don't feel right taking extra money," I said.

"You can do what you want with it," said Rico's stepdad. Rico was standing by quietly, looking uncomfortable and distressed. "Rico has worked fair and square with me in my roofing business to earn the money to pay for what he took, and to learn to be honest. He's spent some pretty hot days in the sun. I don't think he'll be stealing again." Rico shook his head, agreeing with his dad that the temptation to steal would no longer be a temptation.

I found a way to give Rico a hug around the shoulders that morning so he'd know I held no grudges and was sympathetic to his hard work. And that weekend I put the extra $60 dollars in the offering at church, designating it on the envelope for the worthy student fund for Christian education. It needed to go for a good cause.

I thought of Rico for the first time in years and years as I read about restitution in Exodus 22:1 the other day: "If a man steals an ox or a sheep and slaughters it or sells it, he must pay back five head of cattle for the ox and four sheep for the sheep." And I wondered what had happened to Rico.

I looked for him on Facebook, that ever-widening circle of networks. And I found someone with his name and a grownup version of his face, living in Texas. Same twinkly eyes, same mischievous smile. If it's not him, this guy sure bears the similarities. I sent the Facebook guy a message asking if he'd been my student, telling him I'd suddenly thought of him that day and wondered how he was doing.

He hasn't responded.

Poetry Days: Mining Darkness

This is the last of the week of poetry days. This one is also from Husband, written in 1996 (nice of him to date them, eh?). Knowing the story of his journey, I love this poem.

Mining Darkness

I used to be afraid of the dark
dark times where friends disappear.
Once I fell into a deep dark place
and found a kind of grace
not known in the light.
I found a strength and quietude
a pleasure with myself, not tied to things
that I could see.
I found other gems and precious metals
which now I bring into the light
and they sparkle.
Friends swarm around me,
freely.
I am not afraid of losing them.
They will stay,
for they are afraid to go get their own.

Poetry Days: New Father's Day

Husband wrote this in 1996 for his stepdad. (His dad died when Husband was 13 years old.) Dad's gone now; it made me smile to see his picture again.

The New Father's Day

I am slicing a new sea.
I have my bearings,
yet I desire still
some greater passion for life;
some freer, easier confidence;
a quicker smile, a wind-blown laugh.
These things will be woven into my sails,
thread by thread into who I really am.
I am strong and sleek and will be
a trespasser in wildest storms,
maybe no scintillating
and romantic wit,
but a chest of treasures,
a heart of gold.

I am on a new course, under a new star.

At birth my father wrapped me in his being.
I was comfortable and fond of all he was.
But a new father guides me now.
Strangely excited, I know
I am making a deep internal shift . . .
from being the child of the one,
to becoming the youth of the other;
from worrying about the wather,
to trusting in the ship.
This feeling fits.
Honest. solid. Unafraid.
I'm losing nothing in the trade.

Poetry Days: Dartboard

Here's another one by Husband, written in 2000 when he was in Hawaii. Who knows; we probably both have PTSD from years of being administrators....

Dartboard

It's hard to walk out of the house
without people noticing the bright red rings
and grabbing up their fistful of darts.
I don't believe their needling accusations and innuendos.
I don't internalize those things any longer,
or change my opinion of who I am or what I'm worth.
Still the barbs hurt.
It's tempting to become a brick
and bend their pointy little noses
which they could better stick in someone else's business.

Poetry Days: Relax

Here come some poems by Husband. He sent them to me when we were dating.

Relax

Help me to relax, Lord,
calm down, unwind.
Lead me back
to a peaceful state of mind.
When I care too much,
help me dare to touch
your face,
to stop,
gaze into your eyes.
For in that sanctuary
the answer lies.

Poetry Days: Duchess

I wrote this poem when I was around 3rd-5th grade. Unfortunately, I somewhere lost my childhood creative writing notebook in the move from Asia to the U.S. But I do recall the first verse of this ode to my puppy. Be prepared to be edified....

Duchess was a doggy good

Black and brown was she.
We roamed all over the neighborhood,
And oh, what fun had we!

Poetry Days: Lady in Waiting

I'm posting my poetry this week. Or lyrics. Whatever. As they say in Malaysia: "Same-same, lah!" Here are some lyrics I wrote back in 2000 for an event. One of my acquaintances composed the music and performed it.

Lady in Waiting

Back then you were young and the world was your oyster,
Promising treasures that sparkled and shone;
Back then there was love hiding 'round every corner,
Promising family, promising home.
Back then God was simple and life was more gentle,
And people invariably reaped what they sowed;
Back then there was hope in the years still before you,
The ballad of Heaven's assurances flowed.

Chorus:
You're a lady in waiting, lady in waiting...
While promises wrinkle and age with the years.
You're a lady in waiting, lady in waiting
For God to come closer and quiet your tears.

For now years have passed and the life you had dreamed of
Has faded to grey in reality's glare;
The promises you thought you heard softly whispered,
The dreams of the future no longer are there.
So how do you wait for fulfillment of promise,
And how do you wait for the ache to subside?
And can there be confidence after the sorrow?
Can you run into His arms open wide?

Chorus:
You're a lady in waiting, lady in waiting...
While promises wrinkle and age with the years.
You're a lady in waiting, lady in waiting
For God to come closer and quiet your tears.

Bridge:
Woman, take heart and be strong.
God has been holding you close all along...

Poetry Days: Chartreuse

Photos found on the internet; the poem is by me, written a long time agoI remember hanging my head out the window of our white VW bus
into the lush, languid air of the northern Malay peninsula,
hurtling up the road toward family vacation on Phuket Island.
Idly I'd play with the rear view mirror, tilting it one way, then the other,
paddies of young green rice flashing past.
"That's my favorite color," I told my mom. "Young rice.
Is there a name for that in English?"
"Chartreuse," she said.
Years later I learn that Chartreuse is French.
A good French word to use because English hasn't a word
for the color of young green rice, glowing in the setting sun,
in paddies punctuated by occasional clumps of skinny-trunk betel nut palms.

I remember hanging my head out the window of our white VW bus,
thinking about Life at a very young age.
(That's when I do it--thinking about Life. Always on long trips,
craning my neck for quick glances at the sky.)
I wondered what my future would hold,
whom I'd marry, what I would name my kids.
I dreamed to be a mission doctor among those rice paddies,
delivering berry-brown babies, treating black-button-eyed children.
Someday someone would write a book about me.
I remember hanging my head out the window of our white VW bus,
all tangle-haired, singing into the wind, my mouth full of breeze,
belting out a dry-tongued song into the wind over the rice paddies,
no one hearing but my family.

Chartreuse: cross-country trips, songs into the wind, thoughts of Life,
hair blown straight back from my forehead, the grumble of the VW motor,
and the neon growing green of young rice.
Only a French word could utter all that
in 2 syllables.

Destiny

Esther by Sir John Everett Millais, 1865I love this painting of the biblical queen Esther, found here. The website describes the painting this way:

Esther, dressed in royal robes, stands outside the entrance to the throne room of her husband, King Ahasuerus. She raises her right hand to untie the pearls which hold back her thick hair. In her left hand she holds her crown, which she is about to place on her head. This is the moment of decision.

The young women's bible study group that meets at my house is currently studying the book of Esther. It's a story that has long intrigued a number of us in the group, and we're enjoying picking up new bits and pieces about the book and the story as we do our reading and research.

This last week we got to talking about destiny and hearing God's voice. I've been thinking about those things since then.

I used to lie in bed as a child and imagine that God had a special destiny for me, as He did for Esther. Perhaps I would do something great or special in my life, coming to a certain place or position for a certain time in which I was needed. Not anyone else, but me, because I would be the only one who could do what needed to be done. Thus went my imaginations.


Perhaps, if I strained hard enough, I would hear God's voice in my ear, guiding me. There's nothing in the story of Esther that describes a situation of her hearing the guidance of God, but I was happy to mix up the sense of calling in Esther with the audible divine calling of the young boy Samuel in the night.

"Speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth." I had it all practiced and ready to say.

More recently I've taken the position that for some people there is a Great Destiny, a crossing of time and situation such as occurs in the story of Esther, or Moses, or Samuel, when a leader is needed to save the people. But such a Great Destiny is extremely rare, and tends to be separated by great blank spaces of time--many, many years--during which there is no discernable divine intervention or communication through a larger-than-life person. God seems content to be perceived as silent for hundreds of years.

"Sounds lonely," one of my friends said to me.

"Only if you have expectations that God will always be making noise in your life," I responded.

It's not that I don't believe that God makes noise in our lives. But the Great Destiny stories are few and far between. Instead there are frequent smaller moments of destiny in our lives. They reside in the little things one person says to another that encourage or cause thought. They reside in the little steps toward a deeper knowledge of God.

Little moments of destiny are found, I believe, in an urge obeyed, a nagging thought followed up with action. Or they are in the little changes in our lives or understandings after reading a Bible story or devotional thought. Furthermore, the little moments of destiny sometimes consist of a very ordinary "putting of one foot in front of the other," managing one minute, hour or day at a time with our best love for God and commitment to dignity, whether there is evidence of divine action in our lives or not.

The little moments of destiny are not the ones that create heroes, fame or popularity. But somehow I think they matter every bit as much in the kingdom of God.