The Change Chronicles: Part 1

It is Sunday and I spent the morning reading. The morning began bright and sunny and became cold and dark. In some ways, so too this post.

The first article I read this morning was about how Teller (the quiet, or rather silent half of Penn & Teller) approached teaching when he taught Latin at Lawrence High School in New Jersey before going on to, well, frankly as our society would have it, much greater tings. I enjoyed the article for a variety of reasons – some of which will come up in a later version of The Change Chronicles dealing with whether or not one remains a teacher…

The primary take away from the article for many, I assume, is that for education to be successful it must be performative – entertaining! – and that the “first job of a teacher is to make the student fall in love with the subject.” Although in myriad ways I disagree with this take, I continued reading. I am glad I did, it was an engaging and thought-provoking article. My second favorite line was the reference to Alfred North Whitehead‘s premise that learning occurs in three stages: romance, precision, generalization. This articulation of what I like to believe has been the way I teach, made me feel validated and inspired. Yes! Impress them with the potential, the drama, the pathos-laden aspects of the subject. Then wow them with specifics – oh, how those superlatives, extremes, and data points resonate with the developing human brain! Finally, demonstrate how the knowledge of a specific allows for the understanding of all those things beyond one’s immediate ken.

Way back when I was trained to teach we called this activating and/or creating schema: what prior information is in that head of yours – ours – that we can connect to in order to makes sense out of this unknown situation/material/question? I love thinking about things like this and it always takes me back to one of my favorite articles that I have been using in my classroom – at every grade level – for a decade, The Importance of Stupidity in Scientific Research. I do not explicitly teach science, although it’s unavoidable the social sciences, but this article forms a basis for how I teach… the part where kids, and really everyone in the world these days, must get comfortable with the not knowing. Which Teller poetically gets to in his recollection of teaching, and is my favorite line in the article, and most significant takeaway from the piece:

When I go outside at night and look up at the stars, the feeling that I get is not comfort. The feeling that I get is a kind of delicious discomfort at knowing that there is so much out there that I do not understand and the joy in recognizing that there is enormous mystery, which is not a comfortable thing. This, I think, is the principal gift of education.

Sadly, I fear the aspect of the article that will be the one people hold fast to is the emphasis on the teacher to engender love of the subject in the student. This depresses me for various reasons, but my fundamental problem with it is that it is not love of the subject that matters – it is the love of learning – figuring things out, seeing connections, and understanding nuance and context that matters more.

Twenty years after my own graduation, I have come gradually to understand that the liberal-arts cliché about “teaching you how to think” is actually shorthand for a much deeper, more serious idea: “Learning how to think” really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience.

After more than 20 years of sharing history, literature, civics, geography, and economic theory in more classrooms than I can count, it is not a love of the specific subject I have ever sought from my students (though, admittedly a tremendous added bonus) but it has been the possibility of showing kids that thinking about things – any things, though perhaps especially the things they do not see as valuable (after all they will pursue that which holds value to them on their own), gives them power. I am not so audacious to use that age old expression of teaching someone how to think (thank you DFW for indelibly imprinting the silliness of that expression) but certainly have aspired to show kids how cool it is to be able to think, and to direct that thinking, and then – like having your own super power – to make meaning from it.

I sat with the disappointment of the lead to the Atlantic piece for a bit, and was then came across this  article, reviewing Sara Zaske’s book Achtung Baby. Because I have a very good friend raising two amazing daughters in Germany, and I know a fair number of American parents, I read on. I laughed at the anecdotes and even without children of my own thought this might be a great read. At the end, I sat and said aloud (apparently to my cats): Huh. Growing up in Germany sounds like being raised Northern California in the 1970s.

Contemporary German parents give their children a great deal of freedom—to do dangerous stuff; to go places alone; to make their own mistakes, most of which involve nudity, fire, or both. This freedom makes those kids better, happier, and ultimately less prone to turn into miserable sociopaths. “The biggest lesson I learned in Germany,” she writes, “is that my children are not really mine. They belong first and foremost to themselves. I already knew this intellectually, but when I saw parents in Germany put this value into practice, I saw how differently I was acting.”

Granted, I am (now) acutely aware of the fuckery of the 70s (and even more so the 80s), one thing I have noticed about the kids who grew up the way I did in the 70s – broken homes, bad television, inappropriate exposure to adult themes, an absence of hand sanitizer, limited parental surveillance, bouncing in the back of pick-ups, and all the rest: we are largely functional, healthy (robust even), adults. Yeah, some of us have weird (okay, completely messed up) attitudes about relationships, politics, and economics… our general attitude seems alright: Just 4 percent [of us] reported a “great deal of unhappiness” with their lives as they approached middle age. I think this comes from the reality that we are the last Americans to have the old-time childhood. It was coherent, hands-on, dirty, and fun.

So true.

I thought about how the way American kids are being raised now with all of these tangible fears – fear of dirt, of bugs, of foods, of people, of independence, of doing – and then thought about how it manifests in my profession, where kids have become absolutely terrified. They are so afraid to fail at anything that they are afraid to try anything: afraid that a wrong answer might lead to a bad grade, which of course means they are, and will always be, a failure at life. Which is super strange considering these are the same kids who are getting rewards and trophies for all the things, are feted with celebrations – formal graduations from preschool on up, and are told that any of their failings are because they have bad coaches, bad teachers, or because they are not appreciated for who they are. Being perfect has become more important than ever for a group of people who are more afraid than ever to try to be their best selves.

What a freaking conundrum.

Full disclosure – I was not a kid (adult?) who enjoyed being new at things or not knowing how to do things. I was not comfortable in my own space of the unknown. What was different for me is that I was surrounded by people, a veritable – literal – village who constantly reminded me I was so much more than my personal successes and failures. People who were not afraid I would wilt if they told me I did something wrong (some in fact seemed to take great pleasure in reminding me of my screw ups as a way to show me my growth – I am looking right at you Coach Johnson.) People who showed me that they were still going to be there if I made choices they disagreed with or knew (how did they always know?) were going to end badly. People who made me sit in the discomfort. It was (is!) a life’s work to get comfortable with the ambiguous, the unknown… The Change.

Because it is always there. Lurking.

I am grateful Amy has her girls in Germany. I am grateful I grew up with dirty hands – no TV – super weird parents. I am grateful I did not fall in love with subjects because of teachers, or teachers because of subjects (the agenda of another in either case) but that I can explicitly remember the moments I learned things that would forever change my life (that respecting the opinions of others did not mean I had to agree, Mr. Cefalu, ca. 1977; that boasting would rarely lead to actuality and often to embarrassment, Mr Fore, ca. 1980; that algebra was possible and awesome even if I got it wrong the first time and regardless of a hideous 8th grade math teacher, Terry, ca. 1981-4; that I didn’t need to know how to play basketball to try out for the team – that was sort of the point of joining the team, mom, ca. 1984; that knowing what mattered to me was more important than what mattered to my friends, Coach J, ca. 1984-8; that my choice to teach was not going to make my life easy, but it would make it something special, Dr. Bloom, ca. 1994; that there was beauty, reality, and meaning in the patterns we see around us, Dr. Starrs, ca. 2000). All these people have seen me flounder and fail repeatedly, while showing me those were the precise spaces in which I would learn and grow the most.

Then this news item came across my screen somehow. A couple of weeks ago, a 16 year old boy, seemingly with all the advantages in the world, took his own life as a response to the pressures he felt.

 

 

In the letters he left behind he speaks to his school experience specifically. Directly stating that his parents put no pressure on him and that his coaches were amazing, still this young man felt neither of those things were enough in the face of the academic pressures and mean/bad teachers he had to face. I sat with this one for a while. Lots of it made little sense to me – but then suicide rarely does and that hardly renders it a nonissue. There are aspects of these letters that make me want to roll my eyes or say, “snap out of it!” which is wholly inappropriate considering the context. This student did not feel inspired by teachers, he felt afraid. He did not feel challenged by hard material, he felt un-taught. He did not think that the support he received from parents, coaches, and friends would be enough to buoy what must have been academic shortcomings (in his mind). I love that he still included a reminder to be kind.

A principal from a neighboring school responded to the news of the suicide (I hear that CDMHS was silent on the matter for 10 days) and his entire response bears repeating, but I will call out this excerpt:

A very intuitive parent gave an analogy recently that hit home: “Our kids are not teacups; they are meant to be bumped around from time to time.”

It is during these bumpy times that we can applaud a “C”, applaud a student going to the military or junior college, properly support failure with introspection not blame, take an 89.5% as a B+ in stride, or applaud a student in one of our CTE pathways. My British father would always quip, “it is the sum of our experiences that should always outweigh the sum of our bank accounts.”

We must reach the point where, if our sons and daughters don’t live a perfect young adult experience, it is not the end of the world…it is simply an opportunity to lift the sails and head in another direction.

These three articles from my Sunday morning are deeply connected in my mind; all speaking to the lack of clarity over who holds responsibility for our successes and failures, our adventures and discoveries, our disappointments and inspirations… as children/students/parents/people. This year I found myself repeating – on a loop that seemed infinite – in parent teacher conferences that the students needed to have some faith – trust that they could take the uncomfortable intellectual risks that are necessary for learning, for growth, for everything in the great beyond, and if it didn’t work out, so be it. We go from there. It is obviously a joint effort, perhaps more than that because it might really take much more than a village to get this all right, for the kids – and for us.

 

 

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Ziggy played guitar.

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I woke up this morning like millions of other people to the news of the death of David Bowie. Like those millions of other people I was shocked to the point of disbelief, and surprisingly devastated by my sadness. I felt like I had lost someone I knew. I am sure this was exacerbated by the fact that it was, for those of us not in the know, a complete surprise. Not to mention the fact that there are some people you cannot imagine the world without, and David Bowie is definitely one of those eternal souls.

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I listened to his music all morning and was somehow consoled by the fact that my social media feeds were completely and totally dedicated to Bowie. That all my friends felt – maybe as unwittingly as I had, or maybe not – as equally distraught by this loss made me feel like it was okay to be feeling the way I was.

And that was what David Bowie always did.

He made it okay to be who we were.

There are hundreds, more likely thousands of tributes and testaments and honorifics that emerged instantly from his star dust. And I probably don’t need to add one more. Still, so much has been said about how Bowie was there for the “weird kids” or the oddballs, or the ones that didn’t fit in. But he was more than that.

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David Bowie was so damn cool that he gave the generic kids – the kids like me who weren’t edgy or cool or different enough – a”in” in the same way he gave the aforementioned people validity and acceptance. I cannot think of another person who had that much cool: enough for everyone.

By simultaneously giving a voice and validity to kids who didn’t fit in so easily and showing the kids who needed an extra push to step out of the pains of adolescent (or other) conformity, Bowie became a conduit to a kind of energy that changed my generation entirely.

He fed us pure inspiration, beautifully strange and always unpredictable, yet somehow everything made perfect sense. No other musician was more influential for our generation. David was a pioneer, and inventor, a space traveller, a superhero, a truly astonishing songwriter and a friend. – Nick Rhodes, Duran Duran

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In 1983, I was tall, skinny, awkward, and trying to figure out what mattered to me at a really weird time to be alive. I listened to this album non-stop for nearly two years and was completely taken with the tall graceful man who defied any sort of label my 7th grade self could come up with. 

Suddenly, I had someone who helped me be a little less awkward and something that I knew mattered.

The truth is of course is that there is no journey. We are arriving and departing all at the same time.

That he mattered this much to so many other people who I never understood were just as desperate to find an entity-oddity-starman like Bowie makes me feel connected to humanity in a way that defies explanation but seems even more important with every passing day of my life.

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Ubiquitous, ever-present, fluid, transcendent.

He will be king.

I, I will be king
And you, you will be queen
Though nothing will drive them away
We can beat them, just for one day
We can be Heroes, just for one day

And you, you can be mean
And I, I’ll drink all the time
‘Cause we’re lovers, and that is a fact
Yes we’re lovers, and that is that…

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[All images from public domain.]

Sei sup mmmmmmmmm: ripple in still water.

I wanted to write tonight. I took care of all the things I needed to take care of today and I was all ready to give myself time to sit and write. But I couldn’t. I mean, obviously I could have in a literal fingers-to-keys kind of way, but not in a metaphorical making-meaning(ful)-meaning kind of way.

If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung,
Would you hear my voice come through the music?
Would you hold it near as it were your own?

I wanted to write about this video I took from JM’s car in Paris this summer.

I wanted to write about something satisfying. Like about taking a group of high school seniors to listen to a conversation with US Supreme Court Justice Stephen Breyer on a Friday night and having them come out of the talk and say, “He is all about the Social Contract, isn’t he?”

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But, no.

I suppose if I were a writer, I would say I had writer’s block. But I am not really a writer, am I? Only in so far as one with an Instagram is a photographer, or one who goes to church is a Christian (I wanted to write about the Pope too, because I cannot get enough of the Pontiff.) Instead, I sat. I considered meditating, but I didn’t want to make the cat move, and I sort of suck at meditation anyhow.

It’s a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken,
Perhaps they’re better left unsung.
I don’t know, don’t really care
Let there be songs to fill the air.

I turned 45 this week. I sat with that for a while. 45. Forty five. Cuarenta y cinco. Sei sup mm. Fifty minus five.

Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.

Maybe that is why I can’t think of anything good to write. Maybe by the time you get to be this age, you are supposed to have a whole bunch of real things to write about, and here I sit with my immaculate home and my two cats and some loud Eighties music in my unbearably hip neighborhood, and no typical accomplishments like husbands and divorces and kids and shit to write about.

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty,
If your cup is full may it be again,
Let it be known there is a fountain,
That was not made by the hands of men.

I was born in 1970. Do you know how long it takes to scroll to that year when you are filling out your birthdate on-line? You have to pick your finger up off the touch pad at least twice. That shit is crazy. Nixon was the president and my Grandma M tried cocaine. That would have been something to see.

In 1970 things were pretty fucked up.

I came of age in the 1980s. Do you know how accidentally iconic the Eighties have become? What I know recall about the Eighties could feather your hair. I still love the music, hipsters still love the fashion. We are all still paying for the politics.

In the 1980s things were pretty fucked up.

I got some education in the 1990s: formal and otherwise. Do you think everyone assumes the time they opened their minds is the more relevant than that of others? I don’t know, but a lot of shit happened in the nineties. And then at the end of 1999 the world didn’t end and I think a lot of people thought that was pretty fucked up

I had my mid-life crisis in the mid-90s. Which makes sense because I never really thought I would live very long (which is kind of dumb of me because the women in my family tend to live a very long time.) For whatever reason my mid-life dramz kicked off at 34. It took me about four years to sort that shit out.

Mid-life crises are pretty fucked up.

There is a road, no simple highway,
Between the dawn and the dark of night,
And if you go no one may follow,
That path is for your steps alone.

On the weekend leading up to my birthday I met someone who is in her mid-30s and appears to be on track to have a midlife crisis just like mine. (Apparently it’s not just movies and politicians from the decade that never go away.) I told her I had to sail away to China to deal with it. She did not get the musical reference, but I am fairly certain she is on board with the rest of it. I predict she breaks up with her boyfriend before the end of this year (not due to my counsel, mind you – I am not a meddler, just a sharer.)

Maybe the reason this birthday isn’t sitting so well with me is that I don’t have anything to be in crisis about because I already got all destructive and ridiculously reckless ten years ago and so it feels empty of purpose. I emerged from my midlife crisis down one Wal-Mart-shopping boyfriend and one suburban tract house, but as my kids would say: I am not about that life.

Life in with the suburbs was pretty fucked up.

You, who choose to lead, must follow
But if you fall you fall alone.
If you should stand then who’s to guide you?
If I knew the way I would take you home.

This week was my fifth repatriated birthday. The birthday itself was not particularly eventful, but at this point in one’s life, that seems like a win. A dear friend I have known since the 8th grade said to me, “I hope you feel how much you are loved.” Yes, L, I did. And here I am, in a great city, with great hair, a few new wrinkles, amazing friends, no involuntary responsibilities, and I am alive.

Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.

So, happy birthday to me: good hair, good shoes, wrinkles, and a potty mouth, but crisis free. That’s livin’: L-I-V-I-N.

That seems like a lot to write about.

I’ll get back to writing in no time, I am sure.

That’s So Gay! And That’s So Awesome!

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The recent Pride celebrations in San Francisco – and across the nation – were especially festive as they coincided with the US Supreme Court’s landmark decision forbidding states from denying gay people the right to marry. This decision has unsurprisingly upset a lot of people. I have no idea why. I mean, I have an idea because they are always saying it is because it is against their beliefs and the Bible forbids it and therefore it should be forbidden to all people… and some folks throw in some nonsense about how the sanctity of marriage is some sort of cornerstone of our society… I guess I mean I do not understand the “marriage” of these realities, or how people who preach freedom feel that the freedom of others shits on their own. Rainbow sparkly unicorn shit, apparently.

I don’t even want to be bothered to explain how something being against one person’s beliefs cannot be made into law because in the same way they get to hold their beliefs, others get to hold theirs (oh hi First Amendment to the US Constitution), or how the Bible forbids all sorts of shit (like wearing mixed blend fibers and shaving) and encourages all sorts of shit (like infidelity and spousal abuse) and so selective enforcement of Biblical law might make a person a hypocrite (because I really do not care what you believe – only that you do not [and legally cannot] make me believe the same because: America.) I also am not interested in explaining how the “sanctity” of marriage is evolving if it is even still a thing. The divorce rate is actually dropping, only about a third of marriages now end in divorce, but the interesting reality behind this trend includes a whole bunch of inconvenient truths for fans of “traditional” marriage. It turns out that the reasons marriages are lasting longer has to do with increased reproductive rights and work equality for women. Also, as more educated people marry, and marry later, marriages seem to last longer. Another painfully obvious reason divorce rates are dropping is that marriage rates are also dropping. People who live together and then break up (often as traumatic and costly as a divorce) don’t figure into the stats. But there remains a positive correlation between some of the most rabid defendants of “traditional” marriage and divorce, which is a little awkward.

I don’t want to talk about all that because I really do not care about marriage. At all. I also do not care about, say, American football. You might even go so far as to say I do’t really believe in either of them and what they stand for. But why on earth should that preclude other people from being crazy about either institution? Their passion for football or marriage has no impact on my life.

I am far more interested in the freedoms and protections that our Constitution guarantees. And with expression being one of them – along with equality under the law – it seems that the whole gay rights thing should be redundant.

Of course it is not because, well, because people everywhere feel compelled to tell people that they “are doing it wrong” and bent on proving that rather than just living their own lives.

After the marriage equality ruling came down, the world exploded in rainbows (really literally in a lot of cases) and landmarks across the country got rainbowed.

So of course people got angry. Because, rainbows and ponies and glitter.

I think – aside from the obvious reality that I am in favor of any ruling that is going to prevent the government from getting involved in personal matters – like who is marrying who (remember when interracial marriage was illegal? #awkwardtruehistory) – the rainbows struck a personal chord with me because I am a child of the eighties. For real. As I watched the eruption of positivity and joy around Pride this year I realized it all feels like coming home. I was raised – culturally, with no specific familial influence – in a Pride parade. Consider my early cultural imprinting:

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It is all so fabulously gay! And all the men I loved? Well, you be the judge:

Even the straight guys seem pretty gay…

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I have a completely ineffective gaydar because of all this… Seriously – who could tell? And who cares (well, except for the inconvenient truth that those super cute waiters I was crazy for as a tween at the Crest Cafe in Hillcrest were never gonna be waiting for me – outside of some John Waters style of fiction.)

This was also a time when we were trying to work out WTF about HIV/AIDS and lots of our standard popular culture was littered with the pejorative, “Fag!” Strange bedfellows fear creates indeed. When I revisit those films now I always have a double take because it’s always coming from someone dressed like the above, and I am like, “Really.” It was around this time that I once referred to something as “So gay” in a disparaging way in front of my (gay) aunt who perfunctorily said, “Oh really? Gay? Do tell.” That was awkward. But important. And as I think about all the parts of my life that really are “so gay” I realize they are fundamental parts of me, my person, my taste, and my mind. In the most awesome ways.

I guess my point is this: I love the rainbows and the glitter and the gay. And for people who do not, and who are allowed to not, don’t. The difference is now you can’t legally discriminate based on your personal beliefs – which you were never supposed to do anyhow. #LOVEWINS

And if you don’t believe me, ask Jon Stewart.

Coach J.

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My Coach is retiring this year. I knew it would happen sometime, but really it had started to seem like maybe… Anyhow, the older we get the more clear it becomes that nothing lasts forever in a singular familiar way. Sometimes when I think about Coach – which is almost every day in some capacity – I laugh thinking to myself how old we thought he was when we were in school. And he was barely older than  I am now. In fact, if I am precise, when the time comes to mark the anniversary of the actual moment I first met him I think I will be exactly the same age he was on that fall day back in 1984.

I introduced my Coach to one of the teams I coached in the early 2000s. They were thrilled for the chance to meet the man upon whom pretty much my entire philosophy of excruciating hard work, consistency, practice, and the unwavering belief that (in the majority of circumstances in high school basketball) discipline and effort could get ‘er done. These girls were one of the first groups I had led, without assistance, as my own team. They changed me in a lot of ways and I like to think I made a difference for them; and meeting my coach was something I was able to do to show them a little bit of what was ‘behind the curtain’ in my life, one I tend to share very little of with my clientele.

So we drove down to Sacramento where the Petaluma Lady Trojans (a disappointing, yet enduring adjustment of my school’s mascot for the women’s sports programs… often “T-Girls” as well, yet I digress) were playing in the Northern California CIF Championship. For the uninitiated, this is a huge accomplishment in a state like California with more than 1,450 high school teams – our section, the NCS has 171 competing schools at different classifications. (The Southern Section boasts 567!) When we arrived at Arco Arena in Sacramento and found the Petaluma contingency, I felt like a prodigal daughter returning home – in my heart feeling so lacking relative to what I had once intended to accomplish by the ripe old age of 30, and shy about “just” being a high school teacher and varsity basketball coach in front of the man who had seen me through years of awkward adolescent declarations of what lay ahead for me. The moment passed in a millisecond as my coach embraced me, my girls, the moment in the way he always had.

I was one of his girls and he was going to let people know exactly what that meant; he suffered no fools, failures, or lackeys. If you were one of Coach’s girls you were something special, and he was going to make sure you, and those around you saw that. On my darkest days I often find myself turning to some small memory of something Coach said to me over the years.

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What an immeasurable, tremendously generous gift.

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I read the news today, oh boy…

The summer before my sophomore year in high school, or was it my junior year – I don’t remember anymore, I went to Chico State for basketball camp. I really only remember a few things about that camp: it was stupid hot – like 110 degrees by noon; my coach – who had been like Captain America of Chico in his day – took us to have the world’s tallest soft serve ice cream cones, and eating them was a futile endeavor in the aforementioned heat; we went to see a movie (About Last Night) with Coach, and that was pretty much the height of awkward; and I listened to a mixed tape that Willy had made for me over and over and over and over again, in particular the Beatles A Day in the Life.

And somebody spoke and I went into a dream

I never understood why he put that song on there. Though to be fair Willy dedicated every moment we spent together through high school educating me about the cultural deficits that we were suffering in the 80s and showing me that my parents’ tastes were where I should be looking to develop my own, and so he often showed me how to be less lame by giving me mixed tapes that included songs that confused me because I couldn’t tell if they were supposed to make me happy or sad. But I listened to this one over and over.

And though the news was rather sad
Well, I just had to laugh

Willy was an old soul, people said. He did always seem to know things that I didn’t, but should’ve. He never got really wound up about stuff. He always had that little smile on his face that let you know he was in on the joke, even when you didn’t know there was a joke.

A crowd of people stood and stared
They’d seen his face before
Nobody was really sure if he was from the house of lords

Thirty-two years ago today John Lennon was shot and killed in front of his building on the Upper West Side. I remember the day that this happened. We were living in Seattle. Reagan had just been elected president. It got dark at 4:30 in the afternoon and that always struck me as really weird. I had just gotten all interested in the Beatles myself as a 10 year-old who would endure adolescence in the 80s and revisit the Beatles under the tutelage of a wise soul. In 1980, I was partial to Meet the Beatles and their early pop endeavors. I always liked George. My mom was completely dedicated to John. He seemed like an old soul. I am pretty sure we had just gotten Double Fantasy, or I want to think we had it before it happened. That album would play a lot in my house, like a way to punctuate an event where nothing seems apropos.

I read the news today oh, boy
About a lucky man who made the grade

I remember my mom trying to explain how sad it made her. I remember that my dad never opened the newspaper that day. It is still in the plastic sleeve. He said there was no reason to read the news. I understand days like that much more now.

Four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire
And though the holes were rather small
They had to count them all
Now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall

I’ve been talking a lot with my students lately about how the news is so depressing. We wonder where the cycle started. Like, what came first bad news or bad behavior. What would happen if the news didn’t report the bad stuff? Would it make a difference? We never agree on an answer.

I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round
I really love to watch them roll

No longer riding on the merry-go-round
I just had to let it go

Thank you John Lennon (9 October 1940 – 8 December 1980)