Joy in Teaching

Late last week I attended a dinner of faculty.  The event, organized by the director of our center for teaching excellence, was intended to allow us a space to explain how and why, selfishly, we enjoy teaching.  It didn't work that way (asking a group of faculty to do anything so directed rarely works), but one of the exercises was "visioning," a concept at which I usually scoff, but, desiring to give the folks involved my full attention and diligence I did as asked.

One of the prompts was to describe, understood loosely, how we know that a class session is going well.  How would we describe that experience, but not as though we were answering a questions posed by a hiring committee?

So, this is what I wrote with my post-event comments in brackets:

"Fluid Lecture with an embedded Socratic experience"  [that sounds like a application letter line]

"Call and Response" [That works for me, like a preacher]

"Preaching without moralizing" [perhaps I am in the wrong profession]

"Lecture is the magic for me, not in the traditional format, but lecture as directed performance art with a large cast of characters who have differing levels of commitment to the process" [a bit wonky]

"Late hard-bop Jazz improvisation (a core of knowledge, 'the American songbook' deconstructed.  I think Horace Silver, or Lee Morgan, or Coltrane on 'Crescent.'"  [This one works - the students aren't the audience, but the band])

5 (less than obvious) things I'm grateful for

It is November after all...

1. Diet Mt. Dew.  I understand that it's composed of industrial solvents, the TMNT Ooze, and the tears of kittens, but man oh man there is no substance in the world I love more than DMD. 

2. 15 degree mornings.  The last couple of days have dawned bone-chillingly cold in Northeast Missouri.  The frigidity is a reminder that you're alive - a painful reminder when you're standing on a corner waiting for a bus full of high school kids, as I did this morning.  Humanity has survived millions of such days and we will continue to do so.  What's more, in  March or April, when those first gorgeous days of the new year emerge, we will appreciate them all the more.

3. Contact lenses and night mouth guard.  I started using the former in 2005 and the latter in 2013 and in both cases I was worried that I would hate them and they would provide nothing but irritation and heartache. In both cases I was an idiot.  Nothing much new there.

4. 2 year olds.  A coworker brought their two-year old son into the office this afternoon and I think that it would be fun to have one of these ... for about half an hour, once a week.

5. Calvin and Hobbes.  I hated it when I was twelve.  What a buffoon I was.

Basketball

The weather has turned cold and the days are dark almost before they begin, which can mean only one thing: basketball season.  I always wanted to be good at basketball. Not because I liked it - I liked football and baseball far better when I was growing up.   But it would have been cool to be a baller on the court.

I wanted to be good at basketball because it's so easy to show off in basketball, and what youngster doesn't like a chance to show off?   Even better, basketball can be played inside in the warmth, helpful when growing up where 2/3 of the year is some variation on the theme of "winter."  Early on you come to value a sport that can be played outside of mother nature's grasp.  On the court itself there were few better ways to display your awesomeness than with hot moves and the sweet (read: fucking expensive) kicks that came with them.   And the ladies, oh the ladies.  I mean, there's nothing the fairer gender love more than seeing a guy rumble down the court and slam home a dunk (or, you know, jack up a lame duck three from 30 feet,"Matt-style").* Or so I assume.  I haven't actually asked any of the lady folk about this and I am not a scientist.

Basketball is a sport for tall people.  I am not tall - I am 5' 8".  In truth, I would say that I am a shorter than 5'8".   Short arms. Short legs.  A general solidity to my frame.  I am built not to reach the sky, but to survive the harsh winters of the Taiga.  Hearty stock.  Noble stock.  Non-basketball playing stock.

Basketball is a sport for people who can jump.  I cannot jump. Ok, I can jump, as in I can propel myself off of the ground using my legs.  But I take no responsibility for the welfare of bystanders and property when I do so.  I am fond of the Earth and I prefer to stay close to its warming bosom.

Basketball is a sport for people with big hands.   Basketball is a sport for people who are fast. I have comically small hands. I'm slow, even when I try real hard.    Basketball is a sport for people with great speed and stamina, fortune favoring the player who moves best both with and without the ball.  I hate running, thinking it best employed only in cases of imminent predator attack.

So why, when all of this is considered, did I ever step foot on the court?  Call me a dreamer I guess, even though real life often knocked me a down a peg.  I played in the school league in 4th grade.  The ball was passed to me once; I traveled.  What a dumb rule anyway.  About the same time a friend convinced me to attend our hometown university's basketball camp, and I did, if only for the free meals provided in the dining hall.  I don't remember a single thing about that camp other than the fact that I attended.  I hear that sometimes the brain blocks out traumatic occurrences for our own protection.

In middle school I would trundle the 1/4 mile from the school to the local YMCA, where I would ply my wares on the court, and by that I mean I would try to perfect my half-court shot and run around like a jackass.  In hindsight, my favorite thing about going to the Y after school was that it gave me an excuse to wear shorts in February.  

I (blissfully) abstained from basketball in high school and college, but found myself once again in the hands of this cruel mistress in graduate school as a member of the History graduate intramural team.  I was half of the "Captain Jack and Mad Bomber" duo (I think i was Captain Jack?  don't ask questions).  Our nicknames were code for our status as three point specialists, which in turn was code for our status as not being good at anything else.  I didn't see the court very often, seeing as most of the guys on the team actually knew what they were doing.   My enduring memory was of a friend taking an elbow to the face from another teammate, losing a front tooth and gaining thousands of dollars worth of dental work.

So now here I sit, aged 31, with all my teeth, and still not worth at a damn at basketball.   

*My favorite plays in high level basketball are missed, or as I like to call them "bonered," dunks.  The give me no shortage of mirth.