Where I am, right now, in this moment.

     Traveling down the highway at 75 miles per hour, I'm focused on the road ahead. Way ahead. I'm nestled in the bucket seat of a 1980 Chevrolet Chevette, my seatbelt on before the law required it because an occupational therapist friend of mine told me horror stories of car accidents and injuries. I feel safe enough. Above 75 mph the car starts to rattle, so I can't go any faster. I've rolled the windows down to save the gas the air conditioner would burn, and the wind in my face creates the illusion of greater speed. But that's not what I'm thinking about. I'm not really thinking about anything, except how long it will take me to get to my destination. How many more miles do I have to go?
     My eyes keep adjusting to the farthest distance, the horizon I've not yet reached, which gives way to another horizon, and then another, and then another. An endless succession of destinations. I'm lost to the passing of time, and well into my journey. At one moment I notice a crossing road, an overpass, at the farthest reach of my vision. In the next moment I'm passing under it and driving on.
     And this experience finally startles me back to consciousness. I wonder at how quickly I seemed to traverse that stretch of pavement, then realize that I have no memory of the road between my first sight of the overpass and my now leaving it behind. How did I get from there to here so quickly? And why can't I remember anything about the road in between?

     It has been a long abiding curse of my life to be gifted with moments of insight I consider for a time and then set aside, a sort of collection of bits of wisdom that grow dusty on the shelf of my intellect but never really find a place in the midst of my living. As if the insight were sufficient unto itself and warranted my self-satisfaction. I used to pray for wisdom when I was young. I should have prayed for the capacity to live by it. But for some reason this summer finds me pensive, and I recently remembered that moment of insight on the road between Louisville and Indianapolis, when it occurred to me that I could live my life from destination to destination, from horizon to horizon, but miss all the living in between.
     Some twenty-five years later I look back and wonder how often that bit of wisdom has come true. I can remember all the landmarks, I think, the big moments on the map I knew to watch for, or the surprises, for good or ill, that meant some change in direction. But what about the mile after mile moments, the day after day moments? Do I remember these? Did I even notice them? The big moments are important to me, but they are not all there is. Collapse them on themselves and they make for a pretty short journey. Destination after destination after destination, when in truth there were miles and miles of road in between.
     Today, I want to remember the miles, every one, each one. I want to celebrate the beautiful monotony of the road, the speed bumps, the potholes, the sleepy straightaways, the exhilarating curves, the narrow shoulders, the wildflowers defying the authority of pavement, with less concern for the destination and more attention to the road I'm traveling, and the simple fact that tomorrow it may look much the same. For that is, after all, where the real journey takes place, in the mile after mile, in the day after day. It would be so easy to reduce your life to an ongoing journey of waiting to get to the next place, waiting for the next thing to happen. But something is happening now, this day. Something is happening in this moment. And it is all a part of your life.
     It's not a new idea, of course. It's part of the spirituality of pretty much every religion I've ever encountered. And whether one holds to any particular religion or not, the principle is sound. If you don't want to miss your own life, you need to pay attention.
     I think I've been driving too fast lately. Every day I'm up at five and on the road by six, flying down the highway at 80 mph, the Chevy Chevette a distant memory, to arrive at a destination that will not be anxious for me if I arrive a moment later. I think I need to slow down. Better yet, I think I'd like to stop the car, get out, and walk, and finally feel the road beneath my feet, and finally start paying attention to the journey itself ... to where I am, right now, in this moment.

Step away from the personal communication device. You're vomiting all over my Twitter feed.

     Have you ever had that experience in a conversation where you realize you seem to be the only one talking, or that for every comment one person makes you seem to have about five responses?  It's not that you're trying to fill the lapses in the conversation, for there's no shortage of others who might offer their particular perspective.  Rather, you simply can't stop yourself.  It's as if you are working out your own personal view of the world in a sort of stream-of-consciousness dialogue with yourself, where others are simply there to prompt your process and acknowledge your success, with the enthusiasm of spectators at a sporting event, or maybe repentants at a revival meeting.
     And then there comes that moment when you realize that you no longer know what you are talking about.  I don't mean you've lost the train of the conversation; I mean it finally occurs to you that your words have actually outstripped your understanding, and probably did so some time ago.  Quite literally, you do not know what you are talking about.  And yet you are still blathering on.
     Upon reaching this moment of self-realization, a bit of self-preservation instinct kicks in and, with a sheepish apology for monopolizing the conversation or at least a bit of inward embarrassment, you finally shut up, and give someone else a turn.  You scold yourself and promise yourself you'll be more considerate the next time.  You may even look for another conversation you can join where you can practice holding your tongue and acknowledge someone else's thought process for a change.  But in any case, the point is, you stopped yourself, because you knew that you should.
     This conversational instinct, it has occurred to me, seems to be missing from online communication.  At a dinner party or office party, or at a table with a round of drinks, the boredom or exasperation of our interlocutors is readily apparent, if we're paying attention.  We can read it on their faces.  In our online communications, however, we are free to be blissfully oblivious, to imagine that everyone actually wants to hear everything we have to say, is even enthralled by our supposed insights.  Since we cannot see our audience we can easily picture them impressed by our endless pronouncements and piercing existential questions, enraptured by our regurgitation of ideas we naively assume are original with us.  And so we blather on, in a sort of creeping megalomania, encouraged by the smiling faces of our followers stopped in the moment of a profile picture.
     I have noted this conversational disconnect most often on Twitter, and it has presented me with a bit of a problem.  Following various Twitter conversations that are relevant to my life and work, I notice particular voices that seem insightful in the moment, and so I decide to "follow" the persons who belong to these voices, which is what a good Twitter citizen should do, or so I've heard.  Most of the time this works out nicely, with an occasional opportunity to overhear a good conversation or eavesdrop on the intriguing thoughts of another.  At other times, however, the result is disastrous, as if I'm trapped in a conversation from which I cannot escape and into which no one, including myself, can fit a word edgewise.
     I open my Twitter feed to find an endless stream of the same profile picture vomiting verbiage on everything from alpha to omega, and I don't know what to do to stop it.  I could simply "unfollow" the voice, but then I might miss the rare moment of insight that could come within the long stream of tripe.  I did follow the person for a reason, after all.  I fight off the impulse to reply to each successive tweet, "Shut up!," "Shut up!," Shut up!" Instead I just give up for the time being and exit the feed, expecting that the individual will eventually decide to have lunch, or maybe need to go to the restroom. But, of course, laptops and cell phones are portable even into the most intimate of spaces.  With no real solution, then, I find myself only hoping in the end that the offending "conversationalist" might realize what they are doing and simply stop, because they should.  But they never do.
     I'm beginning to consider now the possible advantage, and conversational authenticity, of uploading a variety of profile pictures from which I might choose in the particular expediency of the moment, from agreeable smiles to disapproving raspberries.  I might then reply to these oblivious monopolizers with an appropriate countenance and the politest sarcasm I can muster, hoping they will get the message.  But that would actually be an impolite thing to do, and conversational manners, I suppose, is really what I'm asking for here.
     Yes, I am well aware of the irony of my writing about this annoyance.  I'm writing on a blog, which I will publish online. To demonstrate the depth of my frustration on the matter I might do better to sign off of all my online connections, never to return again.  ... But, of course, I'm not going to do that ... because I desperately want you to read this blog entry and admire how clever and insightful I am.

In Praise of Google+

Dear Friend,
     I wanted to reply to something you said about Google+ in your last note: "I do like the format of google+ as well. Too bad it never caught on."  
     I felt that frustration for nearly an entire year after signing on to Google+.  I was originally drawn to and enthusiastic about its design, the easy management of separate relationships, the easy control of privacy, and what struck me as a more aesthetically sensitive design (as opposed to Facebook, which I had never joined).  Then I began to feel as if I were the only one subscribing.  Almost no one I knew had signed on.  I even wrote to a friend that I felt "lonely out here in Googleland." In the last six months or so, however, I've begun to change my mind.  
     Google+ doesn't seem to have caught on as a social networking tool, but it seems to have a steadily growing population of subscribers who are interested in professional and personal interest networking. To see what I mean, you should roll your cursor over the g+ at the top left of your screen, and then click on Communities. I think you might be surprised at what all is out there. You can search your areas of interest, and the options will be more than you might have expected.  And some of those communities are very active.  
     But be a little patient.  I first joined an English Teachers community (there are many). It seemed like a cool idea.  Unfortunately, hardly anyone ever seemed to post anything on the community site, adding to the frustration I mentioned above. I even made a couple of posts myself as a newbie to see if I could get something started.  Each only received one response, and weeks went by without another post from anyone else.  So I continued my search.  
     I'm presently a member of two very active Google+ Community sites, one on the Common Core and the other an English Teachers Support Group. Both are very active (the teacher group has slowed down just a little for the summer, which makes sense), and both continue to have growing memberships.  Between you and me, I haven't really found the collegial connections and support I might have hoped for at my school. Perhaps it's because I'm older by a bit than pretty much everyone else in the department (but I'm 50; it's not like I'm nearing retirement). I certainly feel no animosity toward any of my colleagues, and I'm willing to accept that the absence of connection is my own responsibility; nevertheless, I've felt that void in my professional life.   
     Then, some months ago when I was following a Twitter conversation on 21st century ed, I began to think more about the idea of an online PLN as actually a better way to create a community of support by finding those you may never really know but who think and write in ways that are professionally helpful to you.  I'm beginning to find that now on Google+, and I continue to appreciate these communities of people whose voices and thoughts I've begun to recognize as those of colleagues.
     So here I am, proselytizing.  I suppose I probably have the hidden agenda of  hoping to meet or hear from more people I actually do know in the communities of interest we may share.

A Silly Sonnet for Summer School Students

A Silly Sonnet for Summer School Students

by Dr. Son (June 2013)

We're all in summer school with Dr. Son!

I could have been at home and chill instead

of having to endure such English fun,

but I flunked English I, or so they said.

I wouldn't know because I never tell

my mother what my grades in class may be,

because I never look myself, and fail

when maybe I'd have earned at least a “C.”

So here I sit depressed all summer long;

The portable’s so hot I nearly melt.

To go to school in summer just seems wrong;

This is the lamest I have ever felt.

Next year I'll try to do my work in class,

and not waste time just sitting on my !@#$%.

Not with a flourish, but with a wave.

     Yesterday the last of my students walked out of my classroom.  Seniors, who will not be back again next year but will be moving on to something else.  The next thing.  Hopefully a good thing.  Most of them I will never see or hear from again.  And they will not hear from me either.  They passed out of my life in the same way they came into it, according to schedule.  The bell rang.  They left.  

     I've grown accustomed to this departure, and I've lived enough years beyond my own that I know how early this is in the stories of these lives.  For now, this is as much of the story as they know.  But so much more will happen.  Looking back years from now this will not be the time that inspires their recollection or requires their reflection.  It's not that complicated.  They had to go to high school.  They had to take an English class during their senior year.  I happened to be their teacher.  A paragraph, maybe a page, in a life.  So many more chapters will be written.  

     It happened with little more than a wave.  We kept it light:  "See ya'."  "Have a nice summer."  "I'll see you at graduation."  We avoided saying 'goodbye.'  There were no tearful embraces, no manly handshakes.  There were no final words of wisdom from the old sage before the hero's journey.  Just a wave, some casual words, and they were gone.  As if this were only a holiday break and not the journey of their lives.  Perhaps the weight of the latter thought kept us to our daily routine.  We hadn't missed the significance of the occasion.  We just didn't want to talk about it.  We're tired.  We're hungry.  We're bored.  That's enough for now.

     That's enough for now.  But I will remember some of them.  And some of them will remember me.  And whether I am only a footnote, or even just a name in reverse order (Son, Dr. J. Thomas) in the index, or actually get a mention in the text itself, I have become a part of the story of these lives.  Years later, when they are flipping back through warn pages, they may find me there.  A minor complication to a minor plot.  A benevolent presence in the bottom margin .  One teacher among many who wished them well with a wave.  Whatever my character, whatever my part in the tale, I hope it turns out to be a good story.

For Mother's Day ...

For Mother's Day

     A sonnet for the mother of sons, 

     from their grateful father.

Of chromosomes, the "Y" one is the worst,

Perpetuating brooding, distant males --

In retrospect the 50/50 curse --

The prodigal of old, familiar tales.

They rarely grasp the gift of motherhood,

The bruin-heart, the sacrifices made;

Obtuse by nature, thinking that she should

Give all she has, they take; they go away.

Yet what she's given lingers deep within,

Though outward feeling he'll not suffer long;

The motherhood within the lonely men

Bursts forth in poetry, in art, and song.

These gentle arts confirm their mother's worth,

Bestowed and nurtured in them from their births.

                                        By J. Thomas Son

     When I was a somewhat younger man, about fifteen years ago I think, I participated in a weekend retreat for educators.  It was led by an educator-cum-writer, a devotee of Parker Palmer, and the president of a small liberal arts college as I recall.  I can't remember now what specific topic focused our weekend; I only remember a question and answer session at its close.  Uncharacteristically, I risked my own self doubt in front of my peers and expressed the anxiety that kept me resisting this way of life.  I asked when  it is that a person actually knows enough to assume the audacity of teaching others.  In other words, when does one know enough to teach?  The leader did not miss the opportunity to appear wise (I'd opened the door very wide after all), and she readily suggested that when one is self-aware enough to ask such a question, one is ready to begin teaching.  I could appreciate the rhetorical timing and the inspiration of that moment, but I remained uncertain.
     I still am.  And I'm still asking the question.
     Today I led my final class session with my AP Literature students before they take a three-hour reading and writing exam.  In a sense, we work toward this moment all year long.  It matters to most of them, I think, and they will do their best.  But I think it matters more to me.  It's the measure of my success.  It's the answer to my question: Do I know enough to teach?  It's the scale that weighs how much I know.  As they walked out of the classroom, I felt the inadequacy of what I'd provided them not only today, but every day.  Did I say too much?  Did I not say enough?  Did I leave too many questions unanswered?  Did I answer some questions too easily?  Did I pretend to know more than I actually do know in order to make them confident in themselves, and in me?  Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
     Do I know enough to teach?  Yes.  And I also know enough to be filled with anxiety over how poorly I may have prepared my students for the tests I cannot take for them.

Okay, so the first question that must be addressed is whether or not an old dog can learn new tricks.  It's an old question because it remains relevant.  Every old dog has asked it of himself, I imagine ... probably at about the time he turned 50, if he lived that long. (Please excuse the exclusive gender here. I'm not foolish enough to speak to the experience of women in this regard, so I'll keep the reference male.)  Anyway, in answer to your question (my question), I am writing these first lines of the first blog I've ever written in my life.  Whether I'll learn anything from it is still a question unanswered, I suppose, but I can say I'm making the attempt.  To learn what, exactly?  I'm not sure.  For one, I suppose, I do want to become more familiar and comfortable with the increasingly--almost utterly, it seems--digital and online social means of human interaction today.  To be completely honest, I've been feeling a bit like I'm being left out of the conversation lately.  I'm not certain that I have any particular need to be heard at the moment, though a little acknowledgement now and then would be nice, of course.  I am human after all.  What I do know is that I'm not ready to be absent from the conversation of life.  I at least want to be listening.  For another, I miss the opportunity or occasion for writing, not having any deadlines to meet in that regard, and the need to keep up with a blog now and then could be a means through which I might find, or rediscover, my voice.  And reading what I've written before and after publication will likely make me a better writer, as it always has before--another learning opportunity.  The direction of this blog?  Who knows?  I guess we'll see.