The Golden Rule

When I heard about the shootings in Atlanta on Tuesday, I soon began playing in my head a song from childhood.  It became an earworm, which I still can't get out of my mind.  Called "Wun Long Pan," from The Blue Book of the John W. Schaum Piano Course series, it introduces students to sixteenth notes through the following lyrics:

"Wun Long Pan, Is famous Chinese Detective,
Wun Long Pan, He gives the crooks a chase.
Wun Long Pan, Is famous Chinese Detective,
Wun Long Pan, He always solves the case."

Here's the picture that accompanies this simple, clunky tune:

The year before I started piano lessons and learned to play "Wun Long Pan," my second-grade teacher taught us about Mao Zedong, whose name at the time was spelled in English as Mao Tse-tung.  He had most likely appeared in an issue of My Weekly Reader.  All I remember about this lesson is the way my teacher pronounced his name: Mayo Tease Tongue.

Wun Long Pan and Mayo Tease Tongue were my introductions to Chinese culture in the early 1960s.  The sad thing is I don't think much has changed since then.  Too many Americans wouldn't object to the illustration of Detective Pan, the absurdity of his name, or the disturbing syntax of the lyrics.  Moreover, newscasters and politicians continue to mispronounce Asian names, either as deliberate insults or as insensitive slights.  As one student said in response to a survey at the University of Alberta, "It is important for me to have my heritage name pronounced correctly because it makes me feel like I belong."

Exactly.  That's one of our main problems today.  Too many fellow citizens feel unwelcome and unworthy, as if they don't belong.  We can fix this, and it begins with respect: treating others as we would have them treat us.  Sound familiar? 

Landings

A friend whose mind dwells largely in the past often talks about the landing on the stairwell in her childhood home.  She gestures to me as if I can see the spot where the first set of stairs stops and the second takes a turn upwards in a new direction.  Every time she describes this scene, I can see and feel the landing in my Aunt Myrtle's house, a place I haven't been in years.

There's something comforting about landings, these spaces betwixt and between.  As a child I snuggled into the farthest corner and sat, hoping to be unobserved.  It was as if no one knew I were there, even though the living room was filled with family.

I think of landings when I read articles about new online courses and the possibility of getting college degrees from home.  There are advantages for sure, and yet I can't help but think that college is a landing for many of us, a place we climb to--and pause--and then journey upwards again.

Our fast-paced, acquisitive culture doesn't allow for many landings.  We're always on the ascent until, like my friend, we're forced into descent.  Maybe this is why the landing is so important to her now.  It's a safe place in her mind, a place where nothing really happened.  How reassuring in its own way.  Nothing--and yet, paradoxically, everything--happening in this simple square partway up the stairs.

The Wit and Wisdom of Rahm Emanuel's Mother

The October issue of Carolina Parent features articles typical of such magazines: "Breast Cancer Survivors Share Stories of Triumph," "Sweet, Sugar-Free Halloween Treats," and "Preserving Digital Memories that Matter." Words of encouragement fill the pages--from how to prepare for teacher conferences to how to garden with your kids. The darker sides of "parenting" skirt around the magazine's edges, however; snippets on childhood fears and lying are about as dark as it gets (not counting, of course, the unmentioned stories of mothers who didn't survive cancer).

Our so-called "parenting culture" is full of saccharine. The feelings of despair, fear, and anger that often accompany raising children are rarely acknowledged.

How refreshing, then, to read an interview with Chicago mayor Rahm Emanuel in Time Magazine (October 17, 2011), in which he's asked about parental favoritism. "Was there a favorite in the Emanuel family?" asks the interviewer. The mayor responds, "I used to say to my mother, 'You love Zeke more than you love me.' She said, 'No, I hate you all equally.'"

Hooray for Mrs. Emanuel! However fleeting--or not so fleeting--her sentiment was, we need honest and funny voices like hers more than ever. For the humor helps us face the dark stuff, the places we'd rather not go. But go we must, for the sake of our kids and, ultimately, for ourselves.

Fog

Raising children is like trying to take a picture of your kid in a Tilt-A-Whirl. Every so often you spot her, in focus, and you think you've got it right. But most of the time she whizzes around in a blur, despite all of your efforts.

If you're lucky, you catch her laughing more often than not.

Words to Live By

The Reverend Paul Byer, my childhood minister at Salem United Church of Christ in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, often concluded Sunday services with this benediction:

Go forth into the world in peace.
Be of good courage.
Hold fast that which is good.
Render to no one evil for evil.
Strengthen the faint-hearted,
Support the weak,
Help the afflicted,
Honor all people.
Love and serve the Lord
Rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit.

Instructions for life that celebrate its mystery. I'm glad I grew up with these words etched in my memory.

Parenting Skills

During Barack Obama's news conference last week, he made the following statement about his daughters: "Malia and Sasha generally finish their homework a day ahead of time," the President said. "They don’t wait until the night before. They’re not pulling all-nighters."

When asked in a follow-up interview to explain these remarks, political adviser David Axelrod suggested that perhaps President Obama was "just expressing pride in his own parenting skills."

Whenever I hear the term "parenting skills," I wince. What exactly are these skills and how do you acquire them? And are we to give Barack Obama credit for the fact that his kids aren't procrastinators? Perhaps this trait is simply genetic. Or maybe Malia and Sasha have watched too many friends panic on the night before a project is due and don't want to live this way. Or did one of their teachers instill this habit in them?

So it goes with so-called "parenting skills." Who knows how kids turn out the way they do? It's typical, I think, of our narcissistic culture to take credit where none is due.

Give it up. We all have less influence than we think.

Graduation

The graduation ceremony is over, the robes hung up, and the tassels tossed. Everyone offers advice. Mine is simple:

As you leave childhood and embrace your adult life that lies ahead, hold tight--when you can--to the little you

* who swung with glee among racks of clothes at department stores;

* who danced to the pulsing rhythm of Sertab;

* who searched out crying children at the library;

* who coined the online moniker "gingerbreadwitch";

* and who created worlds of imagination through dress-ups and performances just about every day.

For I believe that when life gets difficult, as it inevitably does, you can find rescue within yourself and from your past. If you can recall what brought delight as a child, you can often get through the darkness.

The future gallops ahead, whether we're ready or not. You're ready, Madeleine. Journey on with hope and expectation.

The Bogeyman

As a child I worried about the bogeyman. If I left my bike outside overnight, the bogeyman might take it. If I walked home in the dark after playing outside, the bogeyman might get me. I never saw him, but he was always there.

It didn't occur to me until this week that an entire nation might fear the same bogeyman. Yet we did. His machinations created the stuff of nightmares: jumping from burning buildings; being buried alive; knowing you're about to crash.

I didn't think much about Osama bin Laden in recent years. But I realize now that he was always there, lingering in the dark. Now that he's gone, though, I wonder what fears will take his place. For when the child learns that there's no bogeyman, she feels relief, yes, but soon learns that danger itself is ever present in ever many forms. Though the devil is gone, evil remains.

Are we safer today than we were before Sunday night? I doubt it. But maybe now that we've gotten the bogeyman and buried him at the bottom of the sea, we can regain the balance and vision we need to move beyond September 11 and its disastrous legacy.

Heaven

One day last week I took a nap on the couch at my daughter's theater class. I drifted off to sleep listening to the laughter and cheerful banter of children.

If angels really exist, and if they sing in heaven, I know what they sound like.

Nuclear Fallout?

The NY Times ran an article yesterday, "U. S. Rethinks Strategy for the Unthinkable," about the American public's preparedness for a nuclear attack. Apparently there's plenty of educational information available now but a reluctance to disseminate it for fear of alarming us.

The article brought to mind a vivid memory from childhood: air raid drills in elementary school where we would huddle under our desks--with our hands clasped over our tucked-in heads--readying ourselves for "the unthinkable." (It turns out that these drills weren't as ridiculous as they seemed; studies show that we're best off staying inside buildings rather than heeding an impulse to flee.)

At any rate, I'm struck by how much has changed. We didn't worry back then about scaring the public; everyone knew those were scary times and we were advised to think and plan accordingly. Contrast this with today, where people often comment on how dangerous our world is, but addressing this reality is itself unthinkable.

Indeed, we learn in the Times article that the Obama administration had planned to simulate an attack involving about 10,000 emergency personnel in Las Vegas; the drill never took place, however, because "casinos and businesses protested, as did Senator Harry Reid of Nevada. He told the federal authorities that it would scare away tourists."

It's like everything else in America. Business interests dictate priorities.

We used to be scared of things that mattered. Now we're scared of shadows, and, as a result, we're becoming shadows of what we once were.

Art to the Rescue

The teaching of art, at least in elementary school, isn't what it used to be. Gone are the days when you trace your fingers to make a turkey or spend weeks learning to paint a tree. Art teachers today use all types of media--yarn, paint, clay, beads--to help kids find the artist inside. Each child is successful; if you can't paint a tree, you can weave a mat. If you can't weave a mat, you can shape a pot. If you can't shape a pot, you can copy Matisse and produce a cutout. At day's end, each kid is an artist.

Which makes me wonder about all the handwringing over the state of education today. Good news, of course, goes unreported, so people don't know the amazing work in art and music and drama taking place in many of our schools. And, of course, some schools have dropped these programs altogether, so there's nothing to report. But if art teachers can find ways to educate kids and bring out their talent, why can't teachers of academic subjects do the same?

Perhaps the spirit of creativity and flexibility that underlies the teaching of art needs to be restored to the teaching of math and reading. Where there used to be time for academic teachers to engage their students through a variety of media--not unlike art teachers--they're now forced to prepare their students for standardized tests. If you feel a big yawn coming on, you're not the only one.

The tests are boring. Practice worksheets come home constantly. And despite the effort to make the tests inclusive and multicultural, the fact that Miguel buys 10 pounds of apples instead of Michelle doesn't eliminate the tedium. Standardized tests have an occasional place in education, but the everyday use of them has rendered inspired, creative instruction obsolete.


Thank God for the artists. In these bleak days when the "Race to the Top" means more standards and more tests, I'll take a sunflower any day. And it doesn't even need to be yellow.

The Appeal of Silly Bandz

What a refreshing fad this latest craze is. Colored rubber bands in the shapes of trombones, stars, castles, and ice cream cones—to name a few—they’re worn on the wrist like some elaborate, ancient bracelet. One pack of 12 costs $ 3.00, so you can sport a stylish look without losing too much money. Or, as is the case at my daughter’s school, those who have share with those who don’t, so everybody has at least a few. Silly Bandz elicit generosity where it’s sometimes hard to come by.

They also appeal to girls and boys alike. After years of resisting products marketed separately to each gender—brown and violent action figures for boys and pink and gentle dolls for girls—we can finally buy something that obliterates gender. Silly Bandz let kids be kids, rather than forcing boys to be boys and girls to be girls.

Perhaps the most fun of all, they are traded each day on an open market, housed on the playground or school bus. Trade a dragon for a duck. Trade a mermaid for a minotaur. Trade two figures for a phoenix, the most desired Silly Band of all, or hold out for an IPod. Each day brings something new.

Silly Bandz: simple fun in the midst of complicated times.

End of Grade Tyranny

Today marks the beginning of End of Grade (EOG) tests in Durham County and in other districts across North Carolina. In honor of these colossal wastes of time, and, I would argue, hindrances to the education of our children, I have composed an acrostic poem similar to the ones my children compose in school when they're not forced to prepare for yet another test.

Endless cycle of pointless tests.
No time for real learning.
Death to creative instruction.

Original student work? What's that?
False sense of achievement.

Great minds stifled day after day.
Relentless onslaught of practice worksheets.
All math and reading all the time.
De Soto, Degas, de Gaulle. Social studies? Forget it.
Every child let down.

Teaching to the test is all that counts.
Education under siege by misguided bureaucrats.
Science suffers: it's not on the test, why bother?
Too much time spent on all the wrong stuff.
So many children left behind.

First Lady Rising

Michelle Obama took on the giants of the food industry last week, as she continued her efforts to eradicate childhood obesity. In speaking to the Grocery Manufacturers Association, she told representatives of some of the leading junk food generators that there “needs to be a serious industry-wide commitment to providing the healthier foods parents are looking for at prices they can afford.''

Good for her. It’s time that someone of prominence assumed the lead in tackling one of the most serious health challenges we face.

And she’s going about it in the right way. Last month she launched “Let’s Move,” a comprehensive approach that addresses the problem at many levels and amasses the support of both public and private agencies.

“Let’s Move” brings to mind the efforts of Lady Bird Johnson, whose name became synonymous with “Keep America Beautiful.” Though Mrs. Johnson’s efforts began as a project to beautify areas around the White House and along the mall, she quickly expanded her mission to include urban renewal and environmental preservation. Her agenda focused on national forests and parks, air pollution regulation, and beautification of highways. The bursts of floral color we see in the spring and summer along many of our interstates derive from Mrs. Johnson’s vision.

Her multi-faceted campaign wasn’t free from controversy, however. When she supported an act to restrict roadside billboard advertising and remove junkyard eyesores from the landscape—concepts now widely endorsed in many communities—she was ridiculed and opposed by strong unions and lobbyists.

Michelle Obama will no doubt encounter similar resistance. But like Mrs. Johnson, she’s tough. And she’s not shying away from the complexity of the challenge before her.

Most of us today wouldn’t dream of throwing trash out our car windows. This wasn’t always the case. Thanks to Mrs. Johnson and her support of “Keep America Beautiful,” none of us wanted to be litter bugs.

Perhaps some day, owing to Michelle Obama’s foresight and leadership, most of us won’t want a super-sized soda or a fat-laden burger either.

Stacking up to Two³

I wonder if Durham artist Vernon Pratt ever imagined the delight he would give the kids of our city long after the Royall Center for the Arts was built and dedicated. “All the Possibilities of Stacking Up to Two³ to Sit On” reads the inscription by Pratt in 1988. Had he known, he might have added the words “. . . and to Play Games On.”

These granite cubes embedded in the yard of the Durham Arts Council building have hosted freeze tag, hide and seek, and—when children get older—games with elaborate rules that mystify adults. These blocks belong to the kids, right in the middle of the city where the grit of buses and ever-present road construction have replaced the sweet smell of tobacco.

This is old-fashioned play: the kids are in charge, fashioning fun from the tools at hand. No adults run along the sidewalk blowing whistles and refereeing disputes, and parents aren’t shrieking from the sidelines. They talk amongst themselves or their minds wander elsewhere as their kids leap from one cube to another, defying the sharp edges of the blocks.

It’s a peaceful place, these cubes stacked upon cubes. A respite from a frantic world that doesn’t give children enough rest.

I think Professor Pratt may have known after all. Stacking up possibilities is endless when you mix an artist’s vision with the imaginative world of childhood and give them a chance to flourish.