Last weekend, I jumped in a coupla cars with six other KA colleagues, and we headed to Aqaba, the seaport on the southern tip of Jordan.
Think “The Hamptons” on the Red Sea and you’ll be close…
But how we decided on this adventure is almost more interesting than the lazy, relaxed weekend by the balmy Red Sea…
You have to know the story of “Fatcat” to see why this weekend junket happened at all.
Fatcat has been around KA’s campus for quite awhile—longer than any of the current faculty actually. Fatcat, aside from its corpulent moniker, is a singularly annoying member of the feline race. (I know cats aren’t a race—I am purposely engaging in a bit of racial profiling…it’s a “bit,” okay?) For any of my cat-loving friends, you probably know that I am not one to fall under the spell of the charming tabbies or calicos or siamese—indeed, we had dogs in my childhood, so I am particularly fond of the needy, touchy-feely canines. Back to Fatcat.
Fatcat is loud. Fatcat has a pulsating mew that may be similar to Chinese water torture. Fatcat wanders around wherever he/she so desires. I think it’s a he. But, no matter. Fatcat got adopted by Alena, an intriguing hotbox of crazy that worked at KA for two years, and left in June for a summer in China prior to assuming a new job in Aqaba. Alena left Fatcat in the charge of some colleagues who did not spend the summer in Jordan. So Fatcat made the entire campus his abode. As new people moved onto campus, and into his former home, Fatcat tried to insinuate his darling self onto the newbies. Fatcat got into some trouble with other cats, presumably cats with more charming names! Anyway, I saw Alena on campus a few times in the last month, and everytime I spied her, I asked someone—“is Fatcat leaving?? Could it be happening??” Alas, Fatcat remained on campus, not going with her mommy down to Aqaba.
One night Tessa grabbed my arm, and said in her Judi-Dench-ish tone, “John-O—something must be done with Fatcat.” There was an interesting gleam in her eye! For a woman with a seemingly endless supply of grace and calm, I knew she couldn’t mean anything approaching harm to our adorable campus mascot. “John-O, if Alena does not come back quickly, I am afraid we are going to have to take that Fatcat down to Aqaba. It really must happen.” Whenever Tessa says “really” it has the authority and command of a naval officer. There must be a roadtrip to liberate the KA campus from Fatcat.
It seems Alena did not have a cat carrying case—that’s okay, we would purchase one if necessary. Fatcat must be returned to her mother! Must happen soon. Must.
Tessa decided that we would make a weekend beach trip out of the return of Fatcat to her mother. We secured rooms in a hotel with the name “Ocean View,” and made 4:00 p.m. on Thursday our goal to get Fatcat into the car. As a funny aside, late last week Fatcat decided to make one last enemy before departing. Fatcat got into a tussle with Toto, one of the headmaster’s cats.
It was a funny scene as we left the parking lot—a fair number of people had come to bid adieu to Fatcat—not with tears, mind you, but such elation at a Fatcat-less campus! However, however, I must also say that my dear friend Renee came to have a semi-tearful moment with Fatcat, and she also made me promise I would not release Fatcat at any point during the four hour long journey.
Four hours with Fatcat in the car. I haven’t had my patience tried like this, since, shoot, I can’t come up with a funny parallel. There must be a moment when I have been forced to be in a long distance car ride with a seeming innocent—most of the school trips I have chaperoned probably.
There were two cars headed south on the Desert Highway. Very interesting that the other car made it clear that they would not be hosting Fatcat. So the four in my car grab some CDs hoping that music, like the Buena Vista Social Club, might drown out the constant mewling of the precious one.
We get a little bored on the drive down, and while I text the other car, I start to have a little fun with Rehema’s car. I pretend that Fatcat has stolen my phone, has ditched the adults, and is in charge of the car on the drive down to Aqaba. It’s Renegade Fatcat. I suppose I was inspired by the Saturday Night Live sketches of “Toonces” the cat of the 1980s, and the text messages became more and more bizarre as I sketched out what I, Fatcat, had done with those humans—especially the handsome man who kept talking the whole time. Rehema texted back at one point: “Fatcat, what have you done with my friends??!” I don’t know if any of that is funny now, but after a few hours on a desert highway with the droning meows of Fatcat, it was a riot then.
So we arrive in Aqaba (I had only been there before once for a quick lunch, so I didn’t count that as a visit) and meet up with Alena. We promptly hand over Fatcat to Mommy. Reunions are beautiful things! We head over to our hotel. By the way—Ocean View is such a deceptive name. One might have thought one could have a view of the sea from the hotel. Picky, picky. There are views of the sea to be had—just not from our hotel. Okay, I lie. The following morning I went up to the rooftop pool area and from there one could spy the Red Sea.
We spend most of our time at the fancy-schmancy Swiss hotel Movenpick in Aqaba. We three guys share the “Ocean View” hotel room and it costs us $53 a person total for our two nights in Aqaba. So we save money on the hotel room, and then spend 99% of our time strolling through the Movenpick as if we had booked suites.
We have a late dinner at the Red Sea Grill, overlooking the water, and aside from the intense heat, it is a gorgeous evening. We walk on the beach, and it is a marvel—just about 5 miles away is the border with Israel and the Eilat resort area. Not far to the west is the border and beach area of Saudi Arabia, and just across the sea a bit, is the Red Sea beach area of Egypt. Staring back at the venerable mountains that rise up from the Wadi Rum desert, it was an impressive sight.
The following morning we return to spend the day relaxing in the Movenpick. The sunseekers go outside, but since it is about 110 degrees, I opted for the opulent lobby of the M-pick. Several of us get massages, and in the evening we take a sunset cruise on the Red Sea. As the burning sun dipped below the mountains by Egypt, we sighed at the beauty of the Red Sea. Oh, have I mentioned that we went to the Red Sea? The Red Sea where I believe Moses and Cecil B. DeMille once spent time???
There is an exciting buzz in the air in Aqaba—maybe because of Alena’s recent move, and the return of Fatcat—and it is interesting that with the proximity to Saudi Arabia it didn’t feel more socially conservative. The contradictions between deep tradition, big business, and mass tourism should give Aqaba an interesting spin in the next few years. Oh, and His Majesty maintains a winter residence there—wouldn’t it be cool if I got invited again to go sometime and warm the chill of Amman from my bones some January weekend!
I didn’t get to indulge on this weekend trip (I was trying to steal time away from the meals and massage to grade my first of tests from my AP class too) but I want to go back since Aqaba is known for its fabulous coral reefs that hug the coast.
But even at the beach I maintain my status as a historian, and I discovered that one of the earliest references to Aqaba comes in the Old Testament. King Solomon built a large port on the site of the future Aqaba both for trade and his new navy. During the time of the Nabateans two thousand years ago, Aqaba was a key stop on the caravan route for merchants arriving in Arabia, with roads leading to Petra and Syria. Recent excavations beneath the beach have revealed the remains of a church dating back to 300. The fabled Lawrence of Arabia surprised the small Ottoman garrison in Aqaba in 1917 and it quickly fell into Lawrence and Faysal’s hands. A funny story I learned—when film director David Lean arrived in Aqaba to stage that sequence for the film Lawrence of Arabia he thought Aqaba looked wrong, and so departed and filmed the sequence in Spain.
Saturday we had the breakfast buffet—where else—at the Movenpick, and then headed back up the Desert Highway for a return to the work week. We hugged Alena goodbye, wished her well in her new job, and put Joan Baez on the CD player. It was so quiet in the car I nodded off for a bit until Tessa awoke me to see the dust storm all around us.
Nice weekend, and I guess I have Fatcat to thank for the decision to relax by the sea for the weekend. Fatcat is intrepid, and if he escapes and returns to KA, we will have another weekend by the Red Sea.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Happy Birthday to Danny and to Rehema!
It is now somewhat of a conscious decision process for many of us, isn’t it?
Do we commemorate the day or not? It is September 11th, fully seven years since that plate-shifting day in the American consciousness, and many of us probably wake up deciding—will I mark this day consciously in some somber way, or will I go about my life in a consciously blissfully complacent manner?
As with many of those iconic historic days seared into the collective consciousness, we remember where we were on such a day. I had driven to Hackley on that supremely beautiful September morn, a bit uneasy about teaching the art of ancient Sumer in AP Art History. That art just didn’t sit well in my head yet. Of course, I never got to try that lesson out that day—we were called to the auditorium so that the headmaster could relate the news of what had transpired in the previous half hour.
As New Yorkers it wasn’t out of our minds for months and months. I remember that at Christmas parties in December, 2001, it was very common to have the festive guests start talking, and comparing notes, about the World Trade Center tragedies. In December, 2002 I wrote about the lingering effects in the New York area about that day at the towers. I had one friend from Charlotte who wrote me after that letter asking me when I would “get over it.” The historian in me relished all of this—when do we ever get over something???
There was another tragedy in New York—nearly a century ago now—when a pleasure boat exploded in flames on the East River. I forget exactly, but around 1300 perished that beautiful afternoon. Editorial writers seized on this tragedy to bemoan the changes in 20th century sensibilities, how technology would doom us, and asked, would we ever recover? Politicians took advantage of the many memorial services to use the grief as a fear-mongering bully pulpit. People knew the pain of this tragedy would be seared into the souls of New Yorkers and Americans forever more.
By the time I moved to New York in the 1990s there still was an annual memorial service of the doomed Gowanus pleasure boat. As a curious New Yorker, and history devotee, I attended the memorial service once, and of course found it interesting how people need to remember, or need to do something to process the emotions of events and tragedies. I noticed sometime after 9/11 that the observations of the Gowanus faded away into the dusty pages of history.
Recently, I saw on the on-line version of The Wall Street Journal an interesting comment: “We have arrived at the seventh year after the events of September 11, 2001. This summer the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey issued a stunning document to explain why ground zero has remained nothing but a hole for some seven years. It is arguable the greatest political and bureaucratic fiasco in the history of the world. Remember the line about how if we don’t rebuild the towers ‘terrorists will win’? The terrorists will be dead of old age before this project is finished.” Thank you for the sobering reminder Daniel Henninger.
In 2002 I sang in a concert of Brahms’ Requiem on September 11th. It was at Columbia University, and working our way through this monumental piece about death and the power of resurrection seemed a fitting way to observe this historic day. Many people go to the recitations of the names of loved ones lost, many stare upwards at the “pillars of light” that New York City provides from “Ground Zero.”
But I also have two friends whose birthdays are on September 11. Danny, an affable and marvelous French teacher at Hackley, hosts a birthday party for himself every year on this day, not in the hopes of distracting everyone from the horror of the historic event, but as a reminder that we can still choose to love dearly in the midst of such pain. Rehema, one of the best blessings I have at KA, turns another year older today. Yesterday someone casually said, “Oh, don’t forget Rehema’s birthday tomorrow” (rest assured, I would not forget this great friend’s day!) and another colleague sighed, “Oh, gosh, her birthday is September 11th? What a horrible day for a birthday.” As if we have a choice! I am choosing to celebrate the good humor, the intelligence, and the kindnesses these two friends have shown me as my way of commemorating the day.
In the stew that is the marking of September 11th, I heard on CNN that both candidates for the U.S. presidency will be making appearances at the scorched site. I use that phrase “making appearances” because it does seem a little much like the grandstanding politicians always do for the photo ops. And as I thought about that, and of course, neither really had a choice but to appear at the Lower Manhattan site, it did give me pause to think about the upcoming election.
I am not going to become a political blog ranter (not much anyway) but it is interesting soaking in all the impressions, opinions, and hopes of the people around me. Not that Americans probably know, but people around the world are watching the U.S. presidential race more closely than usual. The foreign adventurism of President George W. Bush has left the world in no doubt that America’s president is in a sense the president of all of the globe’s citizens. And as I have talked with my friends and colleagues in the Middle East—they are fascinated by Senator Barack Obama. And here is why: the fact that a black man has come this close to being elected the president of the United States has already given pause to those who had always dismissed the USA as a nation of illiterate, gun-toting racists. (Seriously, when traveling abroad, that conclusion is as common as coca-cola.) The roiling story of racial bitterness in the USA is so well-known outside of the USA. My friends and colleagues feel that if Obama were actually to win the White House, it would transform and electrify America’s image worldwide, instantly and for the better.
Much has been written about what an Obama presidency could do for race relations in the United States, but I have come to see what a win by Obama in November could even improve race relations outside of the United States. Obama’s spectacular rise from a single-parent home and a mixed-race background is a story whose horizons extend beyond national borders. As I spoke with a French-North African living in Amman, she said that Obama’s story inspires hope in disaffected youth in other places, and as she believes, the angry, hopeless, immigrant youths in France find something “to smile about” in the Obama candidacy.
I asked a German man who goes to my church in Amman what he thought, if he even thought about, an Obama win. He said that Germans pride themselves on “social tolerance and progressive thinking, and if Obama wins, it would put a crack in the smugness of Europe’s self-image.”
I asked another woman about race and Obama and America and the world. She sighed, and said, “Does it have to be Obama? Why not Colin Powell or Condi Rice? They would make for better reliable military allies, and far better trading partners.” As I have conducted my very un-professional poll, there is keen interest in this election, because there seems to be something very crucial at stake. Obama’s skin color may have made him a hero to many immigrants and ethnic minorities, but my Arab friends are watching how he has become less interested in raising, and pushing issues dear to their hearts on the issue of Palestine. Senator Obama has recently turned down all invitations to speak to Arab-American groups.
All of this stew of emotions brings us back to September 11th—how do “they” see us around the world? What is the state of our union? What is the state of our global image? How has the tragedy of 9/11 transmogrified some events, changed politics, and created new dynamics? What does this mean for the future? How would a President McCain or a President Obama affect the world? Can they avoid being like Governor Jack Stanton in Joe Klein’s astute novel Primary Colors? (I mean we should all re-read this novel and come to that point when the Stanton character explains to an aide why it’s necessary to betray all the principles he once held dear. Stanton had gone into politics to help “the folks…and to change the whole country.” But to help the folks, you first have to appeal to their basest instincts, so you can win the election. Barack Obama and John McCain would have thought of themselves as incapable of such slippery rationalizations, but the idealist and the maverick are now but one more electoral victory away from realizing their greatest ambition. With a place in history beckoning, and a tarnished worldwide image waiting to be rehabilitated, will they succumb to these necessary hypocrisies? Oh come on! I get CNN and the evening news—a day later—come on, all this is good for the country, and for “the folks.”)
Enough!
Happy Birthday to Danny and to Rehema!!!
Do we commemorate the day or not? It is September 11th, fully seven years since that plate-shifting day in the American consciousness, and many of us probably wake up deciding—will I mark this day consciously in some somber way, or will I go about my life in a consciously blissfully complacent manner?
As with many of those iconic historic days seared into the collective consciousness, we remember where we were on such a day. I had driven to Hackley on that supremely beautiful September morn, a bit uneasy about teaching the art of ancient Sumer in AP Art History. That art just didn’t sit well in my head yet. Of course, I never got to try that lesson out that day—we were called to the auditorium so that the headmaster could relate the news of what had transpired in the previous half hour.
As New Yorkers it wasn’t out of our minds for months and months. I remember that at Christmas parties in December, 2001, it was very common to have the festive guests start talking, and comparing notes, about the World Trade Center tragedies. In December, 2002 I wrote about the lingering effects in the New York area about that day at the towers. I had one friend from Charlotte who wrote me after that letter asking me when I would “get over it.” The historian in me relished all of this—when do we ever get over something???
There was another tragedy in New York—nearly a century ago now—when a pleasure boat exploded in flames on the East River. I forget exactly, but around 1300 perished that beautiful afternoon. Editorial writers seized on this tragedy to bemoan the changes in 20th century sensibilities, how technology would doom us, and asked, would we ever recover? Politicians took advantage of the many memorial services to use the grief as a fear-mongering bully pulpit. People knew the pain of this tragedy would be seared into the souls of New Yorkers and Americans forever more.
By the time I moved to New York in the 1990s there still was an annual memorial service of the doomed Gowanus pleasure boat. As a curious New Yorker, and history devotee, I attended the memorial service once, and of course found it interesting how people need to remember, or need to do something to process the emotions of events and tragedies. I noticed sometime after 9/11 that the observations of the Gowanus faded away into the dusty pages of history.
Recently, I saw on the on-line version of The Wall Street Journal an interesting comment: “We have arrived at the seventh year after the events of September 11, 2001. This summer the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey issued a stunning document to explain why ground zero has remained nothing but a hole for some seven years. It is arguable the greatest political and bureaucratic fiasco in the history of the world. Remember the line about how if we don’t rebuild the towers ‘terrorists will win’? The terrorists will be dead of old age before this project is finished.” Thank you for the sobering reminder Daniel Henninger.
In 2002 I sang in a concert of Brahms’ Requiem on September 11th. It was at Columbia University, and working our way through this monumental piece about death and the power of resurrection seemed a fitting way to observe this historic day. Many people go to the recitations of the names of loved ones lost, many stare upwards at the “pillars of light” that New York City provides from “Ground Zero.”
But I also have two friends whose birthdays are on September 11. Danny, an affable and marvelous French teacher at Hackley, hosts a birthday party for himself every year on this day, not in the hopes of distracting everyone from the horror of the historic event, but as a reminder that we can still choose to love dearly in the midst of such pain. Rehema, one of the best blessings I have at KA, turns another year older today. Yesterday someone casually said, “Oh, don’t forget Rehema’s birthday tomorrow” (rest assured, I would not forget this great friend’s day!) and another colleague sighed, “Oh, gosh, her birthday is September 11th? What a horrible day for a birthday.” As if we have a choice! I am choosing to celebrate the good humor, the intelligence, and the kindnesses these two friends have shown me as my way of commemorating the day.
In the stew that is the marking of September 11th, I heard on CNN that both candidates for the U.S. presidency will be making appearances at the scorched site. I use that phrase “making appearances” because it does seem a little much like the grandstanding politicians always do for the photo ops. And as I thought about that, and of course, neither really had a choice but to appear at the Lower Manhattan site, it did give me pause to think about the upcoming election.
I am not going to become a political blog ranter (not much anyway) but it is interesting soaking in all the impressions, opinions, and hopes of the people around me. Not that Americans probably know, but people around the world are watching the U.S. presidential race more closely than usual. The foreign adventurism of President George W. Bush has left the world in no doubt that America’s president is in a sense the president of all of the globe’s citizens. And as I have talked with my friends and colleagues in the Middle East—they are fascinated by Senator Barack Obama. And here is why: the fact that a black man has come this close to being elected the president of the United States has already given pause to those who had always dismissed the USA as a nation of illiterate, gun-toting racists. (Seriously, when traveling abroad, that conclusion is as common as coca-cola.) The roiling story of racial bitterness in the USA is so well-known outside of the USA. My friends and colleagues feel that if Obama were actually to win the White House, it would transform and electrify America’s image worldwide, instantly and for the better.
Much has been written about what an Obama presidency could do for race relations in the United States, but I have come to see what a win by Obama in November could even improve race relations outside of the United States. Obama’s spectacular rise from a single-parent home and a mixed-race background is a story whose horizons extend beyond national borders. As I spoke with a French-North African living in Amman, she said that Obama’s story inspires hope in disaffected youth in other places, and as she believes, the angry, hopeless, immigrant youths in France find something “to smile about” in the Obama candidacy.
I asked a German man who goes to my church in Amman what he thought, if he even thought about, an Obama win. He said that Germans pride themselves on “social tolerance and progressive thinking, and if Obama wins, it would put a crack in the smugness of Europe’s self-image.”
I asked another woman about race and Obama and America and the world. She sighed, and said, “Does it have to be Obama? Why not Colin Powell or Condi Rice? They would make for better reliable military allies, and far better trading partners.” As I have conducted my very un-professional poll, there is keen interest in this election, because there seems to be something very crucial at stake. Obama’s skin color may have made him a hero to many immigrants and ethnic minorities, but my Arab friends are watching how he has become less interested in raising, and pushing issues dear to their hearts on the issue of Palestine. Senator Obama has recently turned down all invitations to speak to Arab-American groups.
All of this stew of emotions brings us back to September 11th—how do “they” see us around the world? What is the state of our union? What is the state of our global image? How has the tragedy of 9/11 transmogrified some events, changed politics, and created new dynamics? What does this mean for the future? How would a President McCain or a President Obama affect the world? Can they avoid being like Governor Jack Stanton in Joe Klein’s astute novel Primary Colors? (I mean we should all re-read this novel and come to that point when the Stanton character explains to an aide why it’s necessary to betray all the principles he once held dear. Stanton had gone into politics to help “the folks…and to change the whole country.” But to help the folks, you first have to appeal to their basest instincts, so you can win the election. Barack Obama and John McCain would have thought of themselves as incapable of such slippery rationalizations, but the idealist and the maverick are now but one more electoral victory away from realizing their greatest ambition. With a place in history beckoning, and a tarnished worldwide image waiting to be rehabilitated, will they succumb to these necessary hypocrisies? Oh come on! I get CNN and the evening news—a day later—come on, all this is good for the country, and for “the folks.”)
Enough!
Happy Birthday to Danny and to Rehema!!!
Monday, September 8, 2008
A Toast to 10,000 Years!
Last week I began teaching another new course in my career. New courses are, well, I guess like new friends. There are those moments of utter joy and strangeness in the new discoveries, then the wonder at how you ever might have lived before that friend came into your life; there is real work to create a groove where there had not been one before; there are ups and downs, and hopefully, exhilaration. As easy as it might seem to teach a history course (Hey! All you do is start at the beginning and keep going until the year ends!!) I obsess about how to properly introduce the students to a course. What do I do that first week that will create the kind of thoughtful, curious, reflective, challenged student I enjoy?? I wade through many ideas and sources, trying to plot and plan how best to engage them in a subject.
My challenge in AP World History is that in about 120 school days I must empower my 50-some students so that they could answer any question about anything that has ever happened in the history of humankind on the AP test. Oh my…new friends can be so taxing and consuming!!
I decided that in the first week I need to do some kind of overview that somehow provided a snapshot of 10,000 years of history. I have never done this before, but I enjoyed the thought process…hmmm…how to give them the sweep, the breadth, the drama, the purposefulness, the thrill of 10,000 years? I remembered a play I had directed back in Charlotte in the Fall of 1995, a play with the audacious title of The Compleat Wrks of Wllm Shkspear, in which my cast offered an overview of all of the bard’s plays.
I had recently read a book in which the author argued that many of the developments of world history could be traced to the primacy of six drinks. Hmmm…so I thought I would use that as my lens and do my overview of 10,000 years as
World History As Seen Through Six Drinks
The drinks are: beer, wine, distilled alcohol, coffee, tea, and coca-cola. In these six drinks we would travel 10,000 years and cover all the continents of the world. I thought I would give you a little taste of that two-day lesson in class.
Around 10,000 years ago there was a phenomenon not far from here, in Jordan, historians call the Neolithic Revolution: when humans domesticated cereal grains. At this same time was the first appearance of beer. Beer was discovered—not invented. These grains that had been made into food sat around for a while, and went through the scientific transformation of fermentation. People drank this (on a dare probably at first!) and found it pleasantly intoxicating. At first people didn’t know what to make of this process, and so thought beer was a gift from the gods. In Egypt, for example, they believed that beer was discovered by Osiris, one of the most powerful gods. Naturally, then, beer was used in religious ceremonies. Some of the very first documents in the history of writing talk about who had access to beer, and that societies paid wages in bread and beer! Beer appears in prayers, poems, and plays. In minimum wages, in government documents, it records that every person is allowed a payment of a liter of beer every day. The workers who built the pyramids were paid in beer! The payment was about 3-4 loaves of bread and 8 American pints of beer. People were buried with jars of beer. Another thing left from these ancient days is toasting: one toasted someone’s health before a drink of beer since they thought beer came from the gods and it held magical properties.
We don’t know when wine is invented, but there is a great story of a huge party by a king that reveals something about a new importance of wine. King Ashurnasirpal of Assyria, in modern Iraq, had a 10-day party in 870 BCE for himself and he wrote that he would serve wine and not beer. Beer was for poor people, and wine is for the rich! The wine came from the islands of Greece, and cost so much to transport it to Assyria. Serving wine from a distant region made his power seem even more impressive.
Of course much of the western world looks back to the ancient Greek and Roman world to explain theories of government, literature, and science, and almost anything else. It is legendarily the cornerstone of western thought. The Greeks pursued all of this thought through “adversarial discussion,” and drinking. Hmmm…The Greeks did not like the beer of the Middle East, and developed wine. Soon they were trading wine all over the Mediterranean and that helped make the Greeks rich, and also spread their ideas far and wide. Politics, poetry and drama were discussed at formal drinking parties, or symposia, in which the participants drank from a shared bowl of wine and discussed philosophy. The Romans, who came along after the Greeks, saw themselves and wanted to be like the Greeks, so much so that I call them “Greek wannabes.” And so wine became associated with wealth and civilization. Moreover, two of the world’s major religions issued opposing verdicts on wine, as well: the Christian ritual of the Mass has wine at its center, but with the rise of Islam, Muslims banned wine. Is there more to it than just alcohol? Could this be about political tension as well? According to the Bible, the first miracle Jesus Christ performed was the transformation of six jars water into wine. Jesus said, “I am the vine, you are the branches.” At the Last Supper, Jesus offered his followers wine, saying this was a symbol for his blood. Now jump ahead 600 years when the Muhammad received the visions from God that became the Koran. Among the duties of a Muslim is to abstain from alcohol. Tradition has it that this rule was made after a drunken fight between two of his followers and Muhammad sought divine guidance and received an uncompromising reply. In many ways it is meant as a rejection of many things Roman, like Christianity and their love of wine. This signal reveals one of the tensions between these competing religions.
Let’s jump to 1000 and the city of Cordoba in Arab Spain. One of the things the Arabs invented around 1000 was distilled alcohol—boiling it and making alcohol so much stronger. It was seen as medicine in the Arab world. Now—let’s skip about 500 years and it has moved from a medicinal drink to a recreational drink. In the European world, this distilled drink emerged as an important supply on explorers’ ships as the European kings wanted to get away from Arabs who kept them from doing business, so explorers began to sail west, to the Americas, hoping to come to India and China. The Europeans also wanted the sugar that the Arabs denied them. As Columbus and others discovered the New World, they saw that this was a great place to grow sugar. And people wanted sugar, and they would pay mucho money for it!!! Europeans picked up on this method and began to make rum and whiskey. Interestingly, this rum and whiskey proved more than just popular with sailors. It became the method of exchange to buy slaves in Africa and sell the slaves in the Americas. Slaves???? Yes, starting around 1500 Europeans began to create a slave trade to make more money off of the sugar plantations. They had an argument from the Bible about enslavement: since the Pope had decreed that black people were not fully human it was okay to enslave them. It became more and more acceptable, especially since slavery was out of sight to the Europeans. It was all in the New World. Now as the Europeans went to Africa to get the human cargo, the slaves, the African slavers most wanted these strong alcoholic drinks. Soooo the Europeans perfected their drinks and used the brandy, rum, and whiskey to make a huge amount of money. They took the rum to Africa for the slaves; took the slaves to the Caribbean, where they got the sugar; took the sugar to the New England ports where they made the rum. Then the process began again…These people became the richest people, non-kings, in the world! The interesting things is that rum is cheap to make!!! It is made from the leftovers of making sugar! So cheap and profitable. Here is also something interesting: the British became the best navy in the world—how? They had the most sailors, the fewest who died. Why? They discovered that if you added lemon or lime juice to the rum, fewer sailors got sick and died, and they were healthier because of the cocktails. That is also how Britain became the most powerful empire on earth!
Coffee is a drink that is totally from the Arab world, and they loved it. It was sometimes called the “wine of Islam.” In the Arab world, beginning around 1500 it became even more popular to meet and talk about politics and science in a coffeehouse. Oh, and we know how those Europeans love to copy people: merchants from Italy found out about these Arab coffeehouses, and took the idea back to Europe. First the Europeans went mad for coffee, then the rage and fashion of the coffeehouse. By 1650 these coffeehouses had spread through the rich, trading centers of Europe. These were not like taverns where you just got drunk. People went to coffeehouses to discuss the latest ideas and theories. They had bookshelves and fancy discussions and debates. If you wanted the latest news, you went to a coffeehouse. It was like the internet of its day. And everyone could come there—not just rich people. It was seen that coffee promoted clear thinking so it became the ideal drink for scientists, poets, learned people, and people interested in changing society. Coffeehouse discussions led to the establishment of scientific societies, the founding of newspapers, financial institutions and provided fertile ground for revolutionary thought. I would argue that there would not have been an American Revolution or a French Revolution without that coffeehouse hothouse environment.
In 1773 a British navy man declared that “the sun never set on the British empire,” meaning it encompassed more land and people under it than any empire in history. How did it accomplish this? The trade in distilled alcohol, and then the trade in tea led to this pre-eminence in the world. Indeed, the desire for tea in Britain changed how they went about their trade routes and foreign policy. Britain wanted more tea, and so wanted to control India and China, from where the tea came. Westerners wanted so much to be like the civilized, stable Chinese and so they did what the Chinese did—they wanted tea.
And, well…the profit on a ton of tea was several years’ wages! So the money from the rum trade allowed them to go after India and China. And so they did…the British went after the French, got them out of their way, went after the Dutch, got them out of the way, and finally by the mid-19th century, after plying the Chinese and Indians with opium, controlled the world’s tea trade. The British made tea available to everyone, making even the poor love the government for providing them with cheap tea. Owners of factories offered free tea breaks, making workers very happy as well. The story of tea is the story of power and world domination.
The story of a certain carbonated drink from Atlanta, Georgia in 1885 almost tells itself. Is there anyone alive who does not know of this brand? This American drink is a world-wide phenomenon and has become a leading symbol of globalization and the power of the USA. How did it get there? In War World II, Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces, General Eisenhower, ordered the military to purchase at least 10 million bottles of the stuff every month and send it to wherever American soldiers were stationed around the world. As he told the executives at C-C, he wanted our soldiers to know what they were fighting for. That was how Coca-cola created a world-wide market—they went where those soldiers were. During the days of the Cold War the Soviet Union secretly bought Coca-cola and colored it white and put it in different bottles so the Soviets would not know it was a product from the devil capitalist west.
But the story that I think best illustrates the reach and power of Coca-cola comes from a story I read in a magazine a few years ago. African leaders met in a summit to address the tragic situation of the spread of AIDS in Africa. They wondered how to get the necessary drugs to people in far-flung areas. Someone suggested, “why don’t we follow the Coca-cola trucks? Use their routes, and we will reach the most people.” Ahhhh…the power of the real thing.
So there—our overview of 10,000 years!!
My challenge in AP World History is that in about 120 school days I must empower my 50-some students so that they could answer any question about anything that has ever happened in the history of humankind on the AP test. Oh my…new friends can be so taxing and consuming!!
I decided that in the first week I need to do some kind of overview that somehow provided a snapshot of 10,000 years of history. I have never done this before, but I enjoyed the thought process…hmmm…how to give them the sweep, the breadth, the drama, the purposefulness, the thrill of 10,000 years? I remembered a play I had directed back in Charlotte in the Fall of 1995, a play with the audacious title of The Compleat Wrks of Wllm Shkspear, in which my cast offered an overview of all of the bard’s plays.
I had recently read a book in which the author argued that many of the developments of world history could be traced to the primacy of six drinks. Hmmm…so I thought I would use that as my lens and do my overview of 10,000 years as
World History As Seen Through Six Drinks
The drinks are: beer, wine, distilled alcohol, coffee, tea, and coca-cola. In these six drinks we would travel 10,000 years and cover all the continents of the world. I thought I would give you a little taste of that two-day lesson in class.
Around 10,000 years ago there was a phenomenon not far from here, in Jordan, historians call the Neolithic Revolution: when humans domesticated cereal grains. At this same time was the first appearance of beer. Beer was discovered—not invented. These grains that had been made into food sat around for a while, and went through the scientific transformation of fermentation. People drank this (on a dare probably at first!) and found it pleasantly intoxicating. At first people didn’t know what to make of this process, and so thought beer was a gift from the gods. In Egypt, for example, they believed that beer was discovered by Osiris, one of the most powerful gods. Naturally, then, beer was used in religious ceremonies. Some of the very first documents in the history of writing talk about who had access to beer, and that societies paid wages in bread and beer! Beer appears in prayers, poems, and plays. In minimum wages, in government documents, it records that every person is allowed a payment of a liter of beer every day. The workers who built the pyramids were paid in beer! The payment was about 3-4 loaves of bread and 8 American pints of beer. People were buried with jars of beer. Another thing left from these ancient days is toasting: one toasted someone’s health before a drink of beer since they thought beer came from the gods and it held magical properties.
We don’t know when wine is invented, but there is a great story of a huge party by a king that reveals something about a new importance of wine. King Ashurnasirpal of Assyria, in modern Iraq, had a 10-day party in 870 BCE for himself and he wrote that he would serve wine and not beer. Beer was for poor people, and wine is for the rich! The wine came from the islands of Greece, and cost so much to transport it to Assyria. Serving wine from a distant region made his power seem even more impressive.
Of course much of the western world looks back to the ancient Greek and Roman world to explain theories of government, literature, and science, and almost anything else. It is legendarily the cornerstone of western thought. The Greeks pursued all of this thought through “adversarial discussion,” and drinking. Hmmm…The Greeks did not like the beer of the Middle East, and developed wine. Soon they were trading wine all over the Mediterranean and that helped make the Greeks rich, and also spread their ideas far and wide. Politics, poetry and drama were discussed at formal drinking parties, or symposia, in which the participants drank from a shared bowl of wine and discussed philosophy. The Romans, who came along after the Greeks, saw themselves and wanted to be like the Greeks, so much so that I call them “Greek wannabes.” And so wine became associated with wealth and civilization. Moreover, two of the world’s major religions issued opposing verdicts on wine, as well: the Christian ritual of the Mass has wine at its center, but with the rise of Islam, Muslims banned wine. Is there more to it than just alcohol? Could this be about political tension as well? According to the Bible, the first miracle Jesus Christ performed was the transformation of six jars water into wine. Jesus said, “I am the vine, you are the branches.” At the Last Supper, Jesus offered his followers wine, saying this was a symbol for his blood. Now jump ahead 600 years when the Muhammad received the visions from God that became the Koran. Among the duties of a Muslim is to abstain from alcohol. Tradition has it that this rule was made after a drunken fight between two of his followers and Muhammad sought divine guidance and received an uncompromising reply. In many ways it is meant as a rejection of many things Roman, like Christianity and their love of wine. This signal reveals one of the tensions between these competing religions.
Let’s jump to 1000 and the city of Cordoba in Arab Spain. One of the things the Arabs invented around 1000 was distilled alcohol—boiling it and making alcohol so much stronger. It was seen as medicine in the Arab world. Now—let’s skip about 500 years and it has moved from a medicinal drink to a recreational drink. In the European world, this distilled drink emerged as an important supply on explorers’ ships as the European kings wanted to get away from Arabs who kept them from doing business, so explorers began to sail west, to the Americas, hoping to come to India and China. The Europeans also wanted the sugar that the Arabs denied them. As Columbus and others discovered the New World, they saw that this was a great place to grow sugar. And people wanted sugar, and they would pay mucho money for it!!! Europeans picked up on this method and began to make rum and whiskey. Interestingly, this rum and whiskey proved more than just popular with sailors. It became the method of exchange to buy slaves in Africa and sell the slaves in the Americas. Slaves???? Yes, starting around 1500 Europeans began to create a slave trade to make more money off of the sugar plantations. They had an argument from the Bible about enslavement: since the Pope had decreed that black people were not fully human it was okay to enslave them. It became more and more acceptable, especially since slavery was out of sight to the Europeans. It was all in the New World. Now as the Europeans went to Africa to get the human cargo, the slaves, the African slavers most wanted these strong alcoholic drinks. Soooo the Europeans perfected their drinks and used the brandy, rum, and whiskey to make a huge amount of money. They took the rum to Africa for the slaves; took the slaves to the Caribbean, where they got the sugar; took the sugar to the New England ports where they made the rum. Then the process began again…These people became the richest people, non-kings, in the world! The interesting things is that rum is cheap to make!!! It is made from the leftovers of making sugar! So cheap and profitable. Here is also something interesting: the British became the best navy in the world—how? They had the most sailors, the fewest who died. Why? They discovered that if you added lemon or lime juice to the rum, fewer sailors got sick and died, and they were healthier because of the cocktails. That is also how Britain became the most powerful empire on earth!
Coffee is a drink that is totally from the Arab world, and they loved it. It was sometimes called the “wine of Islam.” In the Arab world, beginning around 1500 it became even more popular to meet and talk about politics and science in a coffeehouse. Oh, and we know how those Europeans love to copy people: merchants from Italy found out about these Arab coffeehouses, and took the idea back to Europe. First the Europeans went mad for coffee, then the rage and fashion of the coffeehouse. By 1650 these coffeehouses had spread through the rich, trading centers of Europe. These were not like taverns where you just got drunk. People went to coffeehouses to discuss the latest ideas and theories. They had bookshelves and fancy discussions and debates. If you wanted the latest news, you went to a coffeehouse. It was like the internet of its day. And everyone could come there—not just rich people. It was seen that coffee promoted clear thinking so it became the ideal drink for scientists, poets, learned people, and people interested in changing society. Coffeehouse discussions led to the establishment of scientific societies, the founding of newspapers, financial institutions and provided fertile ground for revolutionary thought. I would argue that there would not have been an American Revolution or a French Revolution without that coffeehouse hothouse environment.
In 1773 a British navy man declared that “the sun never set on the British empire,” meaning it encompassed more land and people under it than any empire in history. How did it accomplish this? The trade in distilled alcohol, and then the trade in tea led to this pre-eminence in the world. Indeed, the desire for tea in Britain changed how they went about their trade routes and foreign policy. Britain wanted more tea, and so wanted to control India and China, from where the tea came. Westerners wanted so much to be like the civilized, stable Chinese and so they did what the Chinese did—they wanted tea.
And, well…the profit on a ton of tea was several years’ wages! So the money from the rum trade allowed them to go after India and China. And so they did…the British went after the French, got them out of their way, went after the Dutch, got them out of the way, and finally by the mid-19th century, after plying the Chinese and Indians with opium, controlled the world’s tea trade. The British made tea available to everyone, making even the poor love the government for providing them with cheap tea. Owners of factories offered free tea breaks, making workers very happy as well. The story of tea is the story of power and world domination.
The story of a certain carbonated drink from Atlanta, Georgia in 1885 almost tells itself. Is there anyone alive who does not know of this brand? This American drink is a world-wide phenomenon and has become a leading symbol of globalization and the power of the USA. How did it get there? In War World II, Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces, General Eisenhower, ordered the military to purchase at least 10 million bottles of the stuff every month and send it to wherever American soldiers were stationed around the world. As he told the executives at C-C, he wanted our soldiers to know what they were fighting for. That was how Coca-cola created a world-wide market—they went where those soldiers were. During the days of the Cold War the Soviet Union secretly bought Coca-cola and colored it white and put it in different bottles so the Soviets would not know it was a product from the devil capitalist west.
But the story that I think best illustrates the reach and power of Coca-cola comes from a story I read in a magazine a few years ago. African leaders met in a summit to address the tragic situation of the spread of AIDS in Africa. They wondered how to get the necessary drugs to people in far-flung areas. Someone suggested, “why don’t we follow the Coca-cola trucks? Use their routes, and we will reach the most people.” Ahhhh…the power of the real thing.
So there—our overview of 10,000 years!!
Friday, September 5, 2008
“They Carry Themselves Differently”
One of the most moving short stories I know is a work by Tim O’Brien called, “The Things They Carried.” I discovered it about a decade ago and taught the story a couple of times in a U.S. History course. It is about the Vietnam War, but instead of resurrecting the old debate concerning whether the United States should have gone/should not have gone to war, it is a deceptively simple story about what our American soldiers in Vietnam carried with them. It began with a laundry list of the physical things they carried in the packs on their backs, and the weight that they produced. Then the story moved into the social and emotional baggage that also weighed them down as they lived and fought in the Southeast Asian jungle. As a historian always wondering what a particular moment in time must have felt like, this story helped me better understand what all humans carry with them. As I travel back and forth from Jordan to the United States now (three trips in all last year) I am interested in what people carry, and also, since I am a sociological voyeur at heart, how they carry themselves.
Last night at a “TGITh” dinner (remember—our workweek ends on Thursday, with the weekend as Friday and Saturday) my wonderful KA friends Tessa, Rehema and Linda and I enjoyed a calm dinner out at our old standby restaurant, Haret Jdoudna, in nearby Madaba. Naturally we talked about the very long orientation and first week of classes experiences (a substantial 11 day stretch with nary a break) and among the witty, sage, catty, frank, reflective comments, Rehema marveled about our “old” students, the pioneers of KA: “they just carry themselves differently now.”
There are many exciting things about a first week of school. Certainly you can’t help reliving your own childhood experiences—for me dashing off to Westwood Elementary School, Gamble Jr. High, and then Western Hills High School. I always wore a blue shirt from K-12 grade on the first day. I learned from my new colleague Nancy that she has enjoyed blueberry muffins every first day of school for her entire life—student and teacher life—and that is quite a record since Nancy is entering her 41st year of teaching. On those fabled first days there are hopes that you will finally get it right this time (!). There are the butterflies in your stomach about the new, unknown students, whether as peer, or classroom charges. But there is that serendipitous experience of seeing familiar faces. I went through K-12 grade with two friends over that long haul—David Thornton and Kathy Gardner. Every Wednesday after Labor Day we greeted each other from the clamor of kindergarten days to the sophistication and authority of senior year at West High. I’m sure someone noticed how we changed over time and how we carried ourselves, but we were far too interested in other more meaningful pop cultural or friendship concerns.
Rehema is right. The marvel of the week has been the maturation of our students from last year. They do carry themselves differently. I jotted down just a few examples of how in this first week they have come back to KA—so different from the beginning of last year’s experiment in the Middle East.
There is one young woman, the daughter of a great history colleague, who just came back from an August conference to Boston, an international conference called “Woman to Woman” and she announced to her family that her mission in life is to be a bridge between the Middle East and the West. My colleague said, “That’s not the same daughter who started here last year! She said she had a mission in life! Who knew it could happen?!”
Another prickly and often exasperating student, very close to that same colleague, went to see her the other day and said, “Have you gotten any complaints about me yet this year?” My friend thought about it and realized that no, she had not. He responded, “No, of course not. I’ve changed.”
Yesterday in morning meeting before the whole school a student who last year was such a shy student, gave a solo presentation about the meaning of Ramadan to him, with powerpoint (of course), but more importantly, a winning smile and smooth confidence.
I met with a student the other morning to whom it had been suggested she could not handle my AP History class. She asked if I would give her a week to prove that she could do the work. I did not hesitate to give her a chance. The encounter reminded me of another such request back in 1992 from a kinda shy student named Karen. Karen went on to succeed in that class and prove her mettle as an excellent scholar. At the conclusion of the next day’s class this young woman stayed after to ask questions—not things she had not gotten through or understood in the fast pace of class, but questions that revealed her curiosity and need to continue along our discussions of the 17th century Dutch and Chinese. I told her then there was no need for a “waiting period.” She is going to be golden. My “Karen” of the 21st century!
After the third day of class, another shy young man stopped me and said, “I really like that you are trying to get us to understand what’s going on. I have to work on that. I think that’s what’s really important—we have to understand things.”
I spied one of our juniors, now a proctor in the freshman dorm, walking side-by-side with a new 9th grader. Our veteran student is at least a head taller than the young guy, but from their body language, the older guy was happily explaining something and the freshman looked so relieved to have a kind junior to look up to.
It has made the first week of school even more exciting than usual to see and hear these examples. In my first day of real class (after the introductory day where I try and explain what AP means and scare/intrigue/excite/support/inspire them) I hoped to spend the whole class on one Vermeer artwork, a painting I had never taught before. I wanted to see if they could keep their attention for so long on just one thing, and also to keep digging just on one source. A great day. That night I gave them a tricky assignment. I gave them some excerpts from the great novel by Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible, and asked them to read the passages and extract from them some lessons they may learn about what it takes to be a great historian. Not easy at all. I reminded them not to write a summary. I know what happens in the passages.
I had 13 boys come one-by-one to visit me—very little whining—mostly seeing if their thought process was going okay. I had a 30-minute discussion with a boy that any teacher would probably sigh and go, “oh yes, he’s a bad boy.” He had found a terrific quotation and was working on how to transform that concrete quotation into a strong abstract insight.
I have a handful of sophomores who had me last year and requested to take the AP course this year. They sit in class smiling away, knowing that this work just transforms you. One of them had an interesting approach to the assignment. He decided to brainstorm on what the hallmarks of a great historian might be, and then seek out in the passages for examples of his thoughts. Another told me he fixated on the title alone for awhile, and especially the word, “bible.” He said, “A bible, or a Koran, is a sacred text—you don’t mess with that. But we have to be careful not to think of a history textbook as a Bible. We need to challenge that text.” All I can say is wow. I wish I had had that insight!
Indeed they do carry themselves differently now—but the year is not just about our old students. And not everything is perfect! We are talking about a school—with adolescents and lots of idealistic adults. On the very first day of school someone pulled two fire alarms during the third class, sending the campus into a tailspin. Everyone assumes it must be a new student. After all it never happened once last year, and as we know, our old students “just carry themselves differently now.” Maybe.
And on the first day in my one AP section, as I am enjoying the beauty of my own spoken words, a new girl offers very loudly: “I don’t know what all this worry about college is. Everyone I know just sleeps through high school and then they go to the college they want to. What’s the big deal???” Oh—how delicious! How charming! What an interesting choice in how to make your first impression! I remembered the all-mighty words of the wise philosopher Barney Fife, who uttered to his boss Andy Taylor, “Andy, you’ve got to nip it in the bud!” Kinda fun to have a smack-down on the first day.
And on the third day a different new girl, about 10 minutes into our lesson, closed her notebook, put her pen and then her head down on her desk. I waited a little bit, and went and said quietly enough, “You may want to re-think staying in this class if you’re tired. We don’t have time to be tired in an AP class—we have 10,000 years to learn! And if you’re tired on the third day, I wonder what it will be like for you after 30 weeks.” The next day she came and apologized. I told her what got me the most was that she closed her book—she ended her engagement and involvement in class. “Be careful about what that statement looks like to a teacher,” I said. We had a nice chat. I think I noticed that she was carrying herself a little differently after that.
Oh—it’s great. It was an exhilarating week. But I am reminded of a comment made once by university professor and biographer Fawn Brodie: “Housework is a chore. Climbing a mountain is difficult. But teaching school—now that’s real work.”
And so on the 12th day they rested…
Last night at a “TGITh” dinner (remember—our workweek ends on Thursday, with the weekend as Friday and Saturday) my wonderful KA friends Tessa, Rehema and Linda and I enjoyed a calm dinner out at our old standby restaurant, Haret Jdoudna, in nearby Madaba. Naturally we talked about the very long orientation and first week of classes experiences (a substantial 11 day stretch with nary a break) and among the witty, sage, catty, frank, reflective comments, Rehema marveled about our “old” students, the pioneers of KA: “they just carry themselves differently now.”
There are many exciting things about a first week of school. Certainly you can’t help reliving your own childhood experiences—for me dashing off to Westwood Elementary School, Gamble Jr. High, and then Western Hills High School. I always wore a blue shirt from K-12 grade on the first day. I learned from my new colleague Nancy that she has enjoyed blueberry muffins every first day of school for her entire life—student and teacher life—and that is quite a record since Nancy is entering her 41st year of teaching. On those fabled first days there are hopes that you will finally get it right this time (!). There are the butterflies in your stomach about the new, unknown students, whether as peer, or classroom charges. But there is that serendipitous experience of seeing familiar faces. I went through K-12 grade with two friends over that long haul—David Thornton and Kathy Gardner. Every Wednesday after Labor Day we greeted each other from the clamor of kindergarten days to the sophistication and authority of senior year at West High. I’m sure someone noticed how we changed over time and how we carried ourselves, but we were far too interested in other more meaningful pop cultural or friendship concerns.
Rehema is right. The marvel of the week has been the maturation of our students from last year. They do carry themselves differently. I jotted down just a few examples of how in this first week they have come back to KA—so different from the beginning of last year’s experiment in the Middle East.
There is one young woman, the daughter of a great history colleague, who just came back from an August conference to Boston, an international conference called “Woman to Woman” and she announced to her family that her mission in life is to be a bridge between the Middle East and the West. My colleague said, “That’s not the same daughter who started here last year! She said she had a mission in life! Who knew it could happen?!”
Another prickly and often exasperating student, very close to that same colleague, went to see her the other day and said, “Have you gotten any complaints about me yet this year?” My friend thought about it and realized that no, she had not. He responded, “No, of course not. I’ve changed.”
Yesterday in morning meeting before the whole school a student who last year was such a shy student, gave a solo presentation about the meaning of Ramadan to him, with powerpoint (of course), but more importantly, a winning smile and smooth confidence.
I met with a student the other morning to whom it had been suggested she could not handle my AP History class. She asked if I would give her a week to prove that she could do the work. I did not hesitate to give her a chance. The encounter reminded me of another such request back in 1992 from a kinda shy student named Karen. Karen went on to succeed in that class and prove her mettle as an excellent scholar. At the conclusion of the next day’s class this young woman stayed after to ask questions—not things she had not gotten through or understood in the fast pace of class, but questions that revealed her curiosity and need to continue along our discussions of the 17th century Dutch and Chinese. I told her then there was no need for a “waiting period.” She is going to be golden. My “Karen” of the 21st century!
After the third day of class, another shy young man stopped me and said, “I really like that you are trying to get us to understand what’s going on. I have to work on that. I think that’s what’s really important—we have to understand things.”
I spied one of our juniors, now a proctor in the freshman dorm, walking side-by-side with a new 9th grader. Our veteran student is at least a head taller than the young guy, but from their body language, the older guy was happily explaining something and the freshman looked so relieved to have a kind junior to look up to.
It has made the first week of school even more exciting than usual to see and hear these examples. In my first day of real class (after the introductory day where I try and explain what AP means and scare/intrigue/excite/support/inspire them) I hoped to spend the whole class on one Vermeer artwork, a painting I had never taught before. I wanted to see if they could keep their attention for so long on just one thing, and also to keep digging just on one source. A great day. That night I gave them a tricky assignment. I gave them some excerpts from the great novel by Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible, and asked them to read the passages and extract from them some lessons they may learn about what it takes to be a great historian. Not easy at all. I reminded them not to write a summary. I know what happens in the passages.
I had 13 boys come one-by-one to visit me—very little whining—mostly seeing if their thought process was going okay. I had a 30-minute discussion with a boy that any teacher would probably sigh and go, “oh yes, he’s a bad boy.” He had found a terrific quotation and was working on how to transform that concrete quotation into a strong abstract insight.
I have a handful of sophomores who had me last year and requested to take the AP course this year. They sit in class smiling away, knowing that this work just transforms you. One of them had an interesting approach to the assignment. He decided to brainstorm on what the hallmarks of a great historian might be, and then seek out in the passages for examples of his thoughts. Another told me he fixated on the title alone for awhile, and especially the word, “bible.” He said, “A bible, or a Koran, is a sacred text—you don’t mess with that. But we have to be careful not to think of a history textbook as a Bible. We need to challenge that text.” All I can say is wow. I wish I had had that insight!
Indeed they do carry themselves differently now—but the year is not just about our old students. And not everything is perfect! We are talking about a school—with adolescents and lots of idealistic adults. On the very first day of school someone pulled two fire alarms during the third class, sending the campus into a tailspin. Everyone assumes it must be a new student. After all it never happened once last year, and as we know, our old students “just carry themselves differently now.” Maybe.
And on the first day in my one AP section, as I am enjoying the beauty of my own spoken words, a new girl offers very loudly: “I don’t know what all this worry about college is. Everyone I know just sleeps through high school and then they go to the college they want to. What’s the big deal???” Oh—how delicious! How charming! What an interesting choice in how to make your first impression! I remembered the all-mighty words of the wise philosopher Barney Fife, who uttered to his boss Andy Taylor, “Andy, you’ve got to nip it in the bud!” Kinda fun to have a smack-down on the first day.
And on the third day a different new girl, about 10 minutes into our lesson, closed her notebook, put her pen and then her head down on her desk. I waited a little bit, and went and said quietly enough, “You may want to re-think staying in this class if you’re tired. We don’t have time to be tired in an AP class—we have 10,000 years to learn! And if you’re tired on the third day, I wonder what it will be like for you after 30 weeks.” The next day she came and apologized. I told her what got me the most was that she closed her book—she ended her engagement and involvement in class. “Be careful about what that statement looks like to a teacher,” I said. We had a nice chat. I think I noticed that she was carrying herself a little differently after that.
Oh—it’s great. It was an exhilarating week. But I am reminded of a comment made once by university professor and biographer Fawn Brodie: “Housework is a chore. Climbing a mountain is difficult. But teaching school—now that’s real work.”
And so on the 12th day they rested…
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Building Cathedrals
O-O-O-rientation…
We are nearing the end of the death march that is Student Orientation! The pace of activity is a bit frenzied, so that it makes a regular school day, which begins tomorrow, seem like a relaxed cakewalk (I never have really gotten that whole “cakewalk” thing—I have never done a cakewalk, seen anyone else do a cakewalk, but it is such a nice archaic expression to bring back…anyhoo…)
Our Dean of Student Life created a wonderful student orientation. Her most brilliant stroke involved bringing back our 110 returning students on Friday, enjoying a day unto themselves before welcoming the new students. I have never run a student orientation, but if I had been charged with the task, I imagine I would have just had the new people come first, and then squeeze the veterans in at the end. Instead, Wendy had the foresight to understand that it is actually a little hard for our pioneering students to relinquish the campus to more people. All morning on Friday the old students returned—there was such a cacophony of “I missed you Habibi!” and hugs and kisses to beat the band (somehow tonight I am excited to resurrect many archaic phrases). You remember that in Jordan men greet each other with a kiss on the cheek—to be more accurate it is a “single double.” There is one kiss on the left cheek as you face your friend, and then a double kiss on the right. But, there are exceptions—when you have not seen a mate for some time, there can be extended kisses on the right cheek. So with the swells of the 110 students returning, such happiness to be back at school the kisses and the wishes continued all morning. Indeed these remarkable students many of whom truly transformed deserved a day to bask in the friendships forged in our opening year before embracing the new students.
We met as a school one last time in the Lecture Hall, a place that holds about 125 people. We will never be able to meet there again since the number of students increases so much this year. We will meet in the large auditorium from now on. Our headmaster recounted some of the triumphs of the year. The faculty acted as waiters and table heads at lunch, serving our students, and enjoying the reversals of roles. The old students got their marching orders for the following day, so that they understood their significant role in preparing the school for Year #2.
I was tempted to re-read the blog entries from last August and early September, those days of semi-horror as we ventured into Scratch. No need. It was just a joy to welcome them back, eager to see how they would handle the next day and carry on the mission of the school.
Saturday dawned—wait, it is Jordan, we don’t need the weather report. It is sunny and hot and blue skies. The old students all had t-shirts to wear with “King’s Academy Moving Company” on them to help greet and move in the new students. Around 8:30 a.m. the new students began arriving—looking nervous and unsure about what a boarding experience really means. Our students grabbed hands to shake, and bags to carry, and led them to dorm rooms, took them on tours, waited on them in the dining hall, and served as exemplary role models. Wow. Even though we had loved our small intimate school of last year, they were ready to pass on the meaning of what KA meant to them.
After the parents departed about 7:00 everyone rushed in line for a BBQ dinner. All of a sudden we saw how much the school had grown overnight. There were now 267 students, and sadly, there was only one line for all these people. Somehow I must have had a little sign on me that said, “Why not cut in line here??” because I had a group of returning guys that cut in front of me—I suggested they go to the end of the line. A minute or two later, I saw them with plates in hand. So effective in my discipline! Then a group of returning girls cut in front of me. This time I played the heavy and walked them back in line. As soon as I was back in my place, would you believe it, the crown prince and his posse cuts right in front of me. I looked to my colleague and whispered, “We should say something, shouldn’t we? We’re supposed to treat him like everyone else.” She just smiled at me, so I put my arm around the prince and a buddy of his and said, “You know this is a pretty bold move on your first day at your new school to cut in front of a teacher. I mean we never forget things like this. Are you sure you really want to do this?” It didn’t seem to cultivate the kind of guilt I hoped, but they did offer to let me cut in front of them! I declined, and said, “all right just know I will be watching you, and if this happens again, we’ll be spending some time together at the back of lines.” I know I caved a little—but in my brain I thought, I didn’t make the first boys go back, I did make the group of girls, so it seemed sort of fair. Well, fair-ish.
This morning at breakfast I came up to a small group of the posse and I told them I appreciated that they were now waiting in line, doing the decent thing. The prince (he has a name I just want to protect him a little here—and we definitely don’t call him prince, we just call him by his name) turned and said, “Mr. John, it wasn’t this guy, just us two from last night. We’ll wait in line. Sorry about last night.”
So there.
Last night we continued a tradition from last year (does doing something twice make it a tradition?? My sister would vigorously agree!!) where the school comes together and each person takes a few seconds to introduce him/herself. Where you are from, your grade, your name, first/second year at the school. All 267 students. All 47 full-time faculty. All 15 Teaching Interns. All 18 Junior Fellows. It did take a little time.
Most of them are not terribly memorable introductions, of course, but you do get everyone speaking in front of people right off the bat. But there was one interesting—for lack of a better word—moment when a student introduced himself: “I am from a country that has been destroyed by that monkey named George Bush.” Oh. Little Awkward. A colleague and I turned to each other—we both had been on the Admissions Committee—and wondered, “is that a guy from Iraq or Afghanistan??” We have some students from both. Well, personal expression is a good thing, but there are better places of more appropriate discourse.
All the while during Orientation I have been preparing my opening packet for class tomorrow. I am teaching AP World History, and since it is a totally new course for me I started from that proverbial s-c-r-a-t-c-h. I always want to open an AP course dealing with a mixture of emotions, aiming to scare/intrigue/excite/caution/support/inspire them since it is such an undertaking. I wrote a little about the importance of trust in this course. Here is a little quotation from my opening packet:
Trust calms the fear that uncertainty breeds. In times of high uncertainty, we need to pay more attention to the source of trust—human connections and how we do what we do. Trust becomes, more vitally than ever, the currency of human exchange. And of course, trust begats trust. Trust brings groups together. I once read in a book about successful businesses a great acronym: TRIP.
Trust
Risk
Innovation
Progress
Trust is a heady concept. When I trust you, I am giving you the power to let me down or do right by me. I am taking a risk with this trust. But more importantly, trust is empowering to both parties. Trust is the engine that powers this TRIP. When trust is there, it enables risk, to leap higher. In a trusting environment everyone feels emboldened to take more risks, to venture into new territory, to solve problems. Innovation flows from this creative spirit. And of course, innovation leads to progress.
I had no idea last year at this time what to expect of the school year, let alone the first day of class. I have a pretty good idea that tomorrow we will begin pretty smoothly, and over the course of the year, I have an expectation of what these students can achieve. Last year their learning curve was steep. This weekend they proved that their transformation last year was not a fluke, but the beginning of a lifetime commitment to excellence. Our old students were punctual, dressed appropriately, and calm in the dorm. Last year we built this trust—one interaction at a time. It has changed us all.
Of course it is difficult to sum up what this experience has meant over the last 13 months. I mean there are almost 100 blog entries chronicling the ups and downs! But this whole experience reminds me of that old story of two guys doing masonry work on a building. The first one, when asked what he was doing, says, “Laying bricks.” The second one replies, “Building a Cathedral.” Some people see themselves merely as bricklayers, but we need to define ourselves less narrowly. Why not always aim higher and higher—to the sky even, concerning ourselves not just with what we are doing, but how we make it happen. We came here—to start a school from Scratch, and look at what we’ve got. We have the makings of a cathedral. I can see the skeletal structure. I wonder how high it will soar this year.
That image of a cathedral summons up visions of light and beauty, and also a Russian proverb: Education is light—lack of it darkness.
Almost midnight here, and time to rest before the first classes tomorrow.
We are nearing the end of the death march that is Student Orientation! The pace of activity is a bit frenzied, so that it makes a regular school day, which begins tomorrow, seem like a relaxed cakewalk (I never have really gotten that whole “cakewalk” thing—I have never done a cakewalk, seen anyone else do a cakewalk, but it is such a nice archaic expression to bring back…anyhoo…)
Our Dean of Student Life created a wonderful student orientation. Her most brilliant stroke involved bringing back our 110 returning students on Friday, enjoying a day unto themselves before welcoming the new students. I have never run a student orientation, but if I had been charged with the task, I imagine I would have just had the new people come first, and then squeeze the veterans in at the end. Instead, Wendy had the foresight to understand that it is actually a little hard for our pioneering students to relinquish the campus to more people. All morning on Friday the old students returned—there was such a cacophony of “I missed you Habibi!” and hugs and kisses to beat the band (somehow tonight I am excited to resurrect many archaic phrases). You remember that in Jordan men greet each other with a kiss on the cheek—to be more accurate it is a “single double.” There is one kiss on the left cheek as you face your friend, and then a double kiss on the right. But, there are exceptions—when you have not seen a mate for some time, there can be extended kisses on the right cheek. So with the swells of the 110 students returning, such happiness to be back at school the kisses and the wishes continued all morning. Indeed these remarkable students many of whom truly transformed deserved a day to bask in the friendships forged in our opening year before embracing the new students.
We met as a school one last time in the Lecture Hall, a place that holds about 125 people. We will never be able to meet there again since the number of students increases so much this year. We will meet in the large auditorium from now on. Our headmaster recounted some of the triumphs of the year. The faculty acted as waiters and table heads at lunch, serving our students, and enjoying the reversals of roles. The old students got their marching orders for the following day, so that they understood their significant role in preparing the school for Year #2.
I was tempted to re-read the blog entries from last August and early September, those days of semi-horror as we ventured into Scratch. No need. It was just a joy to welcome them back, eager to see how they would handle the next day and carry on the mission of the school.
Saturday dawned—wait, it is Jordan, we don’t need the weather report. It is sunny and hot and blue skies. The old students all had t-shirts to wear with “King’s Academy Moving Company” on them to help greet and move in the new students. Around 8:30 a.m. the new students began arriving—looking nervous and unsure about what a boarding experience really means. Our students grabbed hands to shake, and bags to carry, and led them to dorm rooms, took them on tours, waited on them in the dining hall, and served as exemplary role models. Wow. Even though we had loved our small intimate school of last year, they were ready to pass on the meaning of what KA meant to them.
After the parents departed about 7:00 everyone rushed in line for a BBQ dinner. All of a sudden we saw how much the school had grown overnight. There were now 267 students, and sadly, there was only one line for all these people. Somehow I must have had a little sign on me that said, “Why not cut in line here??” because I had a group of returning guys that cut in front of me—I suggested they go to the end of the line. A minute or two later, I saw them with plates in hand. So effective in my discipline! Then a group of returning girls cut in front of me. This time I played the heavy and walked them back in line. As soon as I was back in my place, would you believe it, the crown prince and his posse cuts right in front of me. I looked to my colleague and whispered, “We should say something, shouldn’t we? We’re supposed to treat him like everyone else.” She just smiled at me, so I put my arm around the prince and a buddy of his and said, “You know this is a pretty bold move on your first day at your new school to cut in front of a teacher. I mean we never forget things like this. Are you sure you really want to do this?” It didn’t seem to cultivate the kind of guilt I hoped, but they did offer to let me cut in front of them! I declined, and said, “all right just know I will be watching you, and if this happens again, we’ll be spending some time together at the back of lines.” I know I caved a little—but in my brain I thought, I didn’t make the first boys go back, I did make the group of girls, so it seemed sort of fair. Well, fair-ish.
This morning at breakfast I came up to a small group of the posse and I told them I appreciated that they were now waiting in line, doing the decent thing. The prince (he has a name I just want to protect him a little here—and we definitely don’t call him prince, we just call him by his name) turned and said, “Mr. John, it wasn’t this guy, just us two from last night. We’ll wait in line. Sorry about last night.”
So there.
Last night we continued a tradition from last year (does doing something twice make it a tradition?? My sister would vigorously agree!!) where the school comes together and each person takes a few seconds to introduce him/herself. Where you are from, your grade, your name, first/second year at the school. All 267 students. All 47 full-time faculty. All 15 Teaching Interns. All 18 Junior Fellows. It did take a little time.
Most of them are not terribly memorable introductions, of course, but you do get everyone speaking in front of people right off the bat. But there was one interesting—for lack of a better word—moment when a student introduced himself: “I am from a country that has been destroyed by that monkey named George Bush.” Oh. Little Awkward. A colleague and I turned to each other—we both had been on the Admissions Committee—and wondered, “is that a guy from Iraq or Afghanistan??” We have some students from both. Well, personal expression is a good thing, but there are better places of more appropriate discourse.
All the while during Orientation I have been preparing my opening packet for class tomorrow. I am teaching AP World History, and since it is a totally new course for me I started from that proverbial s-c-r-a-t-c-h. I always want to open an AP course dealing with a mixture of emotions, aiming to scare/intrigue/excite/caution/support/inspire them since it is such an undertaking. I wrote a little about the importance of trust in this course. Here is a little quotation from my opening packet:
Trust calms the fear that uncertainty breeds. In times of high uncertainty, we need to pay more attention to the source of trust—human connections and how we do what we do. Trust becomes, more vitally than ever, the currency of human exchange. And of course, trust begats trust. Trust brings groups together. I once read in a book about successful businesses a great acronym: TRIP.
Trust
Risk
Innovation
Progress
Trust is a heady concept. When I trust you, I am giving you the power to let me down or do right by me. I am taking a risk with this trust. But more importantly, trust is empowering to both parties. Trust is the engine that powers this TRIP. When trust is there, it enables risk, to leap higher. In a trusting environment everyone feels emboldened to take more risks, to venture into new territory, to solve problems. Innovation flows from this creative spirit. And of course, innovation leads to progress.
I had no idea last year at this time what to expect of the school year, let alone the first day of class. I have a pretty good idea that tomorrow we will begin pretty smoothly, and over the course of the year, I have an expectation of what these students can achieve. Last year their learning curve was steep. This weekend they proved that their transformation last year was not a fluke, but the beginning of a lifetime commitment to excellence. Our old students were punctual, dressed appropriately, and calm in the dorm. Last year we built this trust—one interaction at a time. It has changed us all.
Of course it is difficult to sum up what this experience has meant over the last 13 months. I mean there are almost 100 blog entries chronicling the ups and downs! But this whole experience reminds me of that old story of two guys doing masonry work on a building. The first one, when asked what he was doing, says, “Laying bricks.” The second one replies, “Building a Cathedral.” Some people see themselves merely as bricklayers, but we need to define ourselves less narrowly. Why not always aim higher and higher—to the sky even, concerning ourselves not just with what we are doing, but how we make it happen. We came here—to start a school from Scratch, and look at what we’ve got. We have the makings of a cathedral. I can see the skeletal structure. I wonder how high it will soar this year.
That image of a cathedral summons up visions of light and beauty, and also a Russian proverb: Education is light—lack of it darkness.
Almost midnight here, and time to rest before the first classes tomorrow.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Can you hear me now?
Can you hear me now? I have been waiting to use that line as a blog entry title for months! And the really funny thing (well, funny to me, at the very least) is that I have no real through-line for that title. I mean, I have no philosophical-metaphorical plan for that title. Sometimes I will get an idea for a title of an entry, and then magically or poetically it is linked or wrapped or connected to something else. I just think it’s funny to ape the funny cellular phone tagline as I come back to Jordan, resume the writing of the blog, and shout back to my friends and family in the United States: Can you hear me now?
Anyway, I am back in Jordan having arrived exactly 100 hours ago as I write this. I enjoyed the smoothest flight/transition yet on this partiular return to Jordan. By this time, I have finally learned what can and cannot be packed in carry-on luggage (Campbell’s Bean Soup is certainly not allowed according to FAA rules, and btw, the TSA agents do not like discussing the reasons why not) and how to judge the 50 lb. rule on checked luggages. My father now always brings “emergency bags” to take home anything that tips a bag over 50 lbs. since we are not a family prone to pay fees for excess baggage! Just so you know (he says with smugness...) I guessed well—all three of the checked suitcases weighed 48 lbs. each. Now the supreme smugness would have surely been if I had been sharp enough to know I could have stowed away a few more pepperoni sticks. But those “emergency bags” went home with my father empty.
I have also gotten savvy to the security process at the airports in Cincinnati and Chicago. When I fly USAirways or American Airways to connect to Royal Jordanian, I have a big, bold “SSSS” emblazoned on my ticket. The first couple flights it was little rattling how invasive the security measures were for this designation. I mean they take every single, little thing out of the carry-on bags and wipe their mysterious cloths over everything. I have to stand in a certain place, and I have always been told that if I touch anything—at all—the whole process would start all over again. Last year, in 2007 on that maiden flight to Jordan I had no idea how long this process took and I really almost missed the flight to Chicago due to the laborious process to secure my magazines, DVDs, and sundry carry-on stuff. This year I allowed enough time, kinda sauntered in, and said, “Okay, everybody. I have one of the SSSS marks. I figured out what it stands for. I’ll bet it means, "Super Secret Security Shuffle.” Those sweet TSA agents chuckled, and somehow the process seemed to be over in only about 10 minutes. We’re all old friends now…
I had my flight plans arranged so I could fly from Cincinnati to Chicago (rather than JFK in New York) so that I could enjoy the lay-over with my remarkable friend Elizabeth who has forsaken KA to start medical school in Chicago. We met, screamed hellos, and got in the car to go have pizza—with pork products before the “embargo” began once in J-country. It was a great reunion, and I loved her attitude: she loves her new school, roommate, apartment and everything, but she kept saying, “Don’t forget to send my love to Sam!” followed by “Don’t forget to send my love to Tessa!” followed by “Don’t forget to send my love to Lana!” followed by “Don’t forget to send my love to Hamzah!” followed by “Don’t forget to send my love to Arthur!”—you get the point. She had such fondness for the people that crowded their way into our hearts, and I was getting to go back and see them shortly, and she was getting to begin that journey of medical training that is so important to her. For those who are faithful blog-readers, this Elizabeth was that instant friend who followed my donkey on her donkey during that infamous donkey kerfluffle up the gazillions of steps in Petra last August!
I got on the flight, and actually slept for half the flight.
I returned around sunset to KA and spent the few hours left of the day greeting friends, hugging, and checking out new apartments and suntans. I went in search of Greg, someone who will probably figure prominently in this year’s installment of my blog. Greg is a former student of mine, a member of the fabled class of 2004 at Hackley, and a sharp historian. I taught Greg in his junior and senior year (in different courses—he didn’t fail the course and have to take it over again!) and as I remember, our History department awarded him the prize as best historian at the end of his junior year. Ahhh…I loved being department head and getting to arm-wrestle my colleagues as to who should win awards). Last spring I pestered Greg as his senior in college came to and end, hoping he would join us at KA as a teaching intern. He agreed! I think he was just interested in becoming a connoisseur of hummus!
I found Greg—welcomed him to Jordan and beamed as I pulled him around to introduce him to my friends.
So here it is 100 hours later. Last year at this time I had written 4 blog entries already, I think. But of course everything was so new, so strange, so foreign, so full of the unknown. I miss somewhat that marvelous-unnerving-unfolding feeling of it all, but I also welcome the familiarity of returning and seeing dear friends and sitting back during faculty orientation feeling quite pleased that I know the ropes here.
Our first day back, on Monday, we enjoyed a dinner, just like last year, under the stars in a beautiful courtyard. Where to sit??? When you know 75% of the group it is much more fun and aggravating deciding with whom you want to break pita. And last night was the gala dinner in Amman with the entire employee staff at KA. It is in the same place as last year, and I was told there aren’t many places that can accommodate a party of 300! From the headmaster to our faithful landscaping team to the kitchen staff and the registrar, KA faculty everywhere. The drive to Amman was familiar, and while there isn’t that new “luster” anymore, there is that beauty of comfortable surroundings.
We have four new members of the History department, and it has been fun to meet, finally in person (you can’t fly out candidates as easily here) Nancy, Lucy, and Anna. We worked collectively on the 9th grade world history course, ironed out details and plans for the 10th grade Middle Eastern history course, discussed where to begin the U.S. History course for juniors, and I worked solo on the AP World History course. It is a good few days of tweaking syllabi, mulling over introductory statements and hauling books over to our rooms.
Today was the last day to get things in place because—tomorrow—they come back! The “old” students arrive and spend the day getting moved in and back together before welcoming the many new students on Saturday. So today was that day-before-Christmas rush of getting everything organized, finished…in the middle of the day as I walking from one building to another all of a sudden a Broadway showtune popped into my head. (Doesn’t that happen to you???) I had the lyric buzzing:
Four weeks, you rehearse and rehearse
Three weeks, and it couldn't be worse
One week, will it ever be right?
Then out of the hat it's that big first night!!
That lyric is from Cole Porter’s Kiss Me, Kate! and I spent the afternoon humming this bridge of the tune, smiling as we prepared for the Return tomorrow. This evening I enjoyed a relaxing dinner on the patio of newlywed friends Tiffany and Hassan, and I shared this musical stream-of-consciousness with my five friends. Rehema just turned to me and said, “Are you sure you don’t have ADD???”
Well, in any event—I never have been tested for it. I am bound for bed now, for in but a few hours it will all begin again. I will see Abdullah and Maya and Jude and Karim—and the fabulous lot of them all. Interestingly, there is only one student not returning from last year. Otherwise, they are all on board for the launching of the Second Year in the Life of KA. I’ll be reporting as best I can.
As I type save and then jog on over to the website to deliver the posting, I will leave you with the rest of the Cole Porter lyrics that danced through my head today…
Another op'nin, another show
In Philly, Boston, or Baltimo'
A chance for stage folks to say hello!
Another op'nin of another show.
Another job that you hope will last
Will make your future forget your past
Antoher pain where the ulcers grow
Another op'nin of another show.
The overture is about to start
You cross your fingers and hold your heart
It's curtain time and away we go -
Another op'nin
Just another op'nin of another show!
Anyway, I am back in Jordan having arrived exactly 100 hours ago as I write this. I enjoyed the smoothest flight/transition yet on this partiular return to Jordan. By this time, I have finally learned what can and cannot be packed in carry-on luggage (Campbell’s Bean Soup is certainly not allowed according to FAA rules, and btw, the TSA agents do not like discussing the reasons why not) and how to judge the 50 lb. rule on checked luggages. My father now always brings “emergency bags” to take home anything that tips a bag over 50 lbs. since we are not a family prone to pay fees for excess baggage! Just so you know (he says with smugness...) I guessed well—all three of the checked suitcases weighed 48 lbs. each. Now the supreme smugness would have surely been if I had been sharp enough to know I could have stowed away a few more pepperoni sticks. But those “emergency bags” went home with my father empty.
I have also gotten savvy to the security process at the airports in Cincinnati and Chicago. When I fly USAirways or American Airways to connect to Royal Jordanian, I have a big, bold “SSSS” emblazoned on my ticket. The first couple flights it was little rattling how invasive the security measures were for this designation. I mean they take every single, little thing out of the carry-on bags and wipe their mysterious cloths over everything. I have to stand in a certain place, and I have always been told that if I touch anything—at all—the whole process would start all over again. Last year, in 2007 on that maiden flight to Jordan I had no idea how long this process took and I really almost missed the flight to Chicago due to the laborious process to secure my magazines, DVDs, and sundry carry-on stuff. This year I allowed enough time, kinda sauntered in, and said, “Okay, everybody. I have one of the SSSS marks. I figured out what it stands for. I’ll bet it means, "Super Secret Security Shuffle.” Those sweet TSA agents chuckled, and somehow the process seemed to be over in only about 10 minutes. We’re all old friends now…
I had my flight plans arranged so I could fly from Cincinnati to Chicago (rather than JFK in New York) so that I could enjoy the lay-over with my remarkable friend Elizabeth who has forsaken KA to start medical school in Chicago. We met, screamed hellos, and got in the car to go have pizza—with pork products before the “embargo” began once in J-country. It was a great reunion, and I loved her attitude: she loves her new school, roommate, apartment and everything, but she kept saying, “Don’t forget to send my love to Sam!” followed by “Don’t forget to send my love to Tessa!” followed by “Don’t forget to send my love to Lana!” followed by “Don’t forget to send my love to Hamzah!” followed by “Don’t forget to send my love to Arthur!”—you get the point. She had such fondness for the people that crowded their way into our hearts, and I was getting to go back and see them shortly, and she was getting to begin that journey of medical training that is so important to her. For those who are faithful blog-readers, this Elizabeth was that instant friend who followed my donkey on her donkey during that infamous donkey kerfluffle up the gazillions of steps in Petra last August!
I got on the flight, and actually slept for half the flight.
I returned around sunset to KA and spent the few hours left of the day greeting friends, hugging, and checking out new apartments and suntans. I went in search of Greg, someone who will probably figure prominently in this year’s installment of my blog. Greg is a former student of mine, a member of the fabled class of 2004 at Hackley, and a sharp historian. I taught Greg in his junior and senior year (in different courses—he didn’t fail the course and have to take it over again!) and as I remember, our History department awarded him the prize as best historian at the end of his junior year. Ahhh…I loved being department head and getting to arm-wrestle my colleagues as to who should win awards). Last spring I pestered Greg as his senior in college came to and end, hoping he would join us at KA as a teaching intern. He agreed! I think he was just interested in becoming a connoisseur of hummus!
I found Greg—welcomed him to Jordan and beamed as I pulled him around to introduce him to my friends.
So here it is 100 hours later. Last year at this time I had written 4 blog entries already, I think. But of course everything was so new, so strange, so foreign, so full of the unknown. I miss somewhat that marvelous-unnerving-unfolding feeling of it all, but I also welcome the familiarity of returning and seeing dear friends and sitting back during faculty orientation feeling quite pleased that I know the ropes here.
Our first day back, on Monday, we enjoyed a dinner, just like last year, under the stars in a beautiful courtyard. Where to sit??? When you know 75% of the group it is much more fun and aggravating deciding with whom you want to break pita. And last night was the gala dinner in Amman with the entire employee staff at KA. It is in the same place as last year, and I was told there aren’t many places that can accommodate a party of 300! From the headmaster to our faithful landscaping team to the kitchen staff and the registrar, KA faculty everywhere. The drive to Amman was familiar, and while there isn’t that new “luster” anymore, there is that beauty of comfortable surroundings.
We have four new members of the History department, and it has been fun to meet, finally in person (you can’t fly out candidates as easily here) Nancy, Lucy, and Anna. We worked collectively on the 9th grade world history course, ironed out details and plans for the 10th grade Middle Eastern history course, discussed where to begin the U.S. History course for juniors, and I worked solo on the AP World History course. It is a good few days of tweaking syllabi, mulling over introductory statements and hauling books over to our rooms.
Today was the last day to get things in place because—tomorrow—they come back! The “old” students arrive and spend the day getting moved in and back together before welcoming the many new students on Saturday. So today was that day-before-Christmas rush of getting everything organized, finished…in the middle of the day as I walking from one building to another all of a sudden a Broadway showtune popped into my head. (Doesn’t that happen to you???) I had the lyric buzzing:
Four weeks, you rehearse and rehearse
Three weeks, and it couldn't be worse
One week, will it ever be right?
Then out of the hat it's that big first night!!
That lyric is from Cole Porter’s Kiss Me, Kate! and I spent the afternoon humming this bridge of the tune, smiling as we prepared for the Return tomorrow. This evening I enjoyed a relaxing dinner on the patio of newlywed friends Tiffany and Hassan, and I shared this musical stream-of-consciousness with my five friends. Rehema just turned to me and said, “Are you sure you don’t have ADD???”
Well, in any event—I never have been tested for it. I am bound for bed now, for in but a few hours it will all begin again. I will see Abdullah and Maya and Jude and Karim—and the fabulous lot of them all. Interestingly, there is only one student not returning from last year. Otherwise, they are all on board for the launching of the Second Year in the Life of KA. I’ll be reporting as best I can.
As I type save and then jog on over to the website to deliver the posting, I will leave you with the rest of the Cole Porter lyrics that danced through my head today…
Another op'nin, another show
In Philly, Boston, or Baltimo'
A chance for stage folks to say hello!
Another op'nin of another show.
Another job that you hope will last
Will make your future forget your past
Antoher pain where the ulcers grow
Another op'nin of another show.
The overture is about to start
You cross your fingers and hold your heart
It's curtain time and away we go -
Another op'nin
Just another op'nin of another show!
Saturday, August 23, 2008
What It’s All About
In a few hours I will get on a plane from my hometown in Cincinnati and make the trek back to Jordan.
I have had a 54 day sabbatical from the blog, and while, yes, I have taken a vacation from the tap-tap-tapping on the laptop, I have been steeped in the luxury and abundance of summer.
About two weeks ago I was in a beautiful 19th century house in Cambria, California, a bed-and-breakfast that Anne and I secured during our drive up the coast of California, and I looked over at the breakfast table and spied a coaster with the curious query: What if the Hokey Pokey really is what it’s all about?
I laughed and wondered what IT really must be all about. I looked back at my summer—a period of eight weeks of modest trips (Wisconsin, New York, and California) and memorable meals and meaningful conversations. Indeed, I decided to linger once more on what the luxury and abundance of the summer of 2008 held for me. I did no splashy foreign trips (I live in a foreign country now!) no intensive “National Endowment for the Humanities” seminars, neither labored over a major move, nor excavated stones or built walls. I ate and talked with people I hold dear to my heart and soul.
It was a quite a summer.
There was the dinner with Dawn, a friend since the Bicentennial of the United States, and we went to see our iconic high school AP history teacher, the irrepressible Mrs. Michaels. We three hadn’t been together in 20 years, and it was glorious reminiscing.
There was the night that Sylvia made her mouthwatering pulled pork for my family at her house, when summer was young and we had plans for movies and concerts and walks. There was a lunch at Sylvia’s just last week when summer began to fade, although I don’t think our friendship will. She invited her dear mother and our delightful high school English teacher, Mr. Justice. Lunch that day was about a four hour event. Dare I say we are Olympic lunchers?
There was the day deep in July when I decided to do a “Central Ohio Victory Tour” and drove nearly 500 miles in one day and got to enjoy three meals with three exquisite people. I met the divine Devane, my dear Sharon, at a Cracker Barrel to which we both drove hours just to catch up and re-connect. I then visited my 5th grade teacher, Miss Wilson, the woman to whom I owe the most in my educational career. Then I drove to Heath, Ohio, to see Tracey, the earth mother of the Denison Singers in my freshman year. I only got to spend 2 ½ hours with each friend, but what a day of sweet meals and conversation.
There was the bi-annual visit of old friend Tony to Cincinnati. He drives 100 miles to see me, and we go out for Indian food. This August was especially nice since we commemorated the 25th anniversary of our friendship. I can’t ascribe enough adjectives about his greatness.
There was breakfast with Debbie at First Watch—our regular breakfast meeting point and opportunity to revel in our 28 years of friendship since the 1980 All Ohio State Fair Youth Choir. It is a smile-fest as our gratitude beams.
There were meals and conversations in museums—with stellar Aunt Dot and Jim at the Cincinnati Art Museum café, and with wondrous Kate and luminous Fareeda at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and a fancy-schmancy dinner with Christy at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.
There was a picnic outside on the deck of the Polcari house with the Khosrowshahis—two families that have been kinder and more generous than I might have imagined.
There was an indoor picnic at Doris’ house—with her famed potato salad and roast chicken. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried that potato salad. This was a meeting of an old friend and a new friend as I brought KA friend Rehema in tow as we smiled and talked and heaped on the potato salad.
There was the rib and corn roast last week with my father and brother-in-law. For 50 years my father has gathered with this Police Masonic organization of grumpy old men as they try and outdo each other in consuming great brats, metts, corn and ribs. Many ask how my dad has stayed so thin…like I know?
There was the visit from the ever-lovin’ Sue, from northern Ohio—more of a “drive-by” visit since neither of us could fit in a “proper visit”—we stole some time away while she was shopping in Cincinnati. No matter—all good no matter what the time.
There was the late-night dessert festival with the amazing Unger family. If most of the family did not have to get up for work the following morning we might have just talked all night. A recipe for success—great dessert + great friends=great satisfaction.
There was the Italian meal with my Italian friends, the Canterinos. I haven’t taught a child of theirs in 8 years, yet every visit is fresh and alive and upbeat.
There was the evening with high school friends Doris and Sylvia at Shelley’s house, enjoying the low humidity that was the hallmark of this summer of 2008. Memories and the luxury and abundance of summer…enjoying the renaissance of friendship.
There were the California meals—with Anne and cousin Susan at Tom Ham’s Lighthouse in San Diego. Susan is one of those family members you wish lived so much closer so you could always call up and just start checking things out. Then there was the dinner with Anne on the beach at the “Del,” the Hotel Del Coronado, the beach resort of Some Like It Hot fame; or maybe the view was even more stunning up in the reaches of Big Sur, at the famed bohemian Nepenthe.
There was the family meal at Green Lake, Wisconsin, the place of annual retreat for my family, in days long gone by, and where my mother networked and learned with such passion on church missions ideas. We could feel the warmth of her her laugh and smile all over this oasis of beauty.
There was the steak dinner night before last with the Flowers—friends of my parents for 50 years, and as I have been told, I upstaged the bride a bit at their wedding, since this handsome infant was passed around with delight at their reception. They have stood by us and loved us since they forged their friendship a million years ago.
There was the spaghetti dinner with the Griley cousins—almost three hours of eating and talking and catching up. Eight of us sharing memories of the past, describing 2008 summer trips, and looking to the future for gatherings. Have I ever enjoyed them more?
There was the breakfast in the diner with Nancy, a mother of a dear student, but also a friend who offers loyalty and kindness at every turn. There was a breezy and beautiful lunch on the terrace at “the club” (always courtesy of the phenom Anne!) with Flavia, Meg and Diane. There was lunch with ebullient Diana, the math goddess, and another friend for the ages. Every time we part there is that ache again—how I wish we could teach together again.
So what did I do this summer? I ate. I talked. And with the conclusion of each meal, as the hugs ended and I sighed back to my car, every time, I felt blessed at the people I have in my life. It was the summer of the Great Meal and the Great Conversation. Of course I didn’t get to see everyone I love. I wish there had been two more weeks of summer so I could have enjoyed the Great Meal and the Great Conversation in the south: in Texas to see Judy and her clan, or Stephanie in Atlanta, or the Gastonia gang and the Charlotte clatch. But hopefully, there will be more Great Meals and Great Conversations.
I come by all this Olympian eating and talking quite naturally. For years my mother would whisk us off to school so that she could jet over to Frisch’s for her crucial morning coffee and visiting time. Now my father goes to the Imperial Diner 5 days a week (the “Institution of Higher Learning” as he affectionately calls it) where Pam presides over the daily meals and conversations of the ROMEO clique. (ROMEO as you might recall stands for Retired Old Men Eating Out). They revel in their self-proclaimed parallels to the fictional Boston bar in Cheers.
But I digress…the other morning I was talking with my dad’s friend Chris, a 93 year old man who has filled life’s bucket of joys and sorrows to the brim, and still smiles and cracks wise. I mentioned to him that my father had enjoyed the birthday breakfast party Chris had thrown for himself a few weeks earlier. He had taken about 30 friends out for breakfast, treating them himself. Chris leaned over to me, smiled, and said, “Well, you know John—friendship really is what it’s all about, now isn’t it?”
An exclamation point for the summer of 2008!
I have had a 54 day sabbatical from the blog, and while, yes, I have taken a vacation from the tap-tap-tapping on the laptop, I have been steeped in the luxury and abundance of summer.
About two weeks ago I was in a beautiful 19th century house in Cambria, California, a bed-and-breakfast that Anne and I secured during our drive up the coast of California, and I looked over at the breakfast table and spied a coaster with the curious query: What if the Hokey Pokey really is what it’s all about?
I laughed and wondered what IT really must be all about. I looked back at my summer—a period of eight weeks of modest trips (Wisconsin, New York, and California) and memorable meals and meaningful conversations. Indeed, I decided to linger once more on what the luxury and abundance of the summer of 2008 held for me. I did no splashy foreign trips (I live in a foreign country now!) no intensive “National Endowment for the Humanities” seminars, neither labored over a major move, nor excavated stones or built walls. I ate and talked with people I hold dear to my heart and soul.
It was a quite a summer.
There was the dinner with Dawn, a friend since the Bicentennial of the United States, and we went to see our iconic high school AP history teacher, the irrepressible Mrs. Michaels. We three hadn’t been together in 20 years, and it was glorious reminiscing.
There was the night that Sylvia made her mouthwatering pulled pork for my family at her house, when summer was young and we had plans for movies and concerts and walks. There was a lunch at Sylvia’s just last week when summer began to fade, although I don’t think our friendship will. She invited her dear mother and our delightful high school English teacher, Mr. Justice. Lunch that day was about a four hour event. Dare I say we are Olympic lunchers?
There was the day deep in July when I decided to do a “Central Ohio Victory Tour” and drove nearly 500 miles in one day and got to enjoy three meals with three exquisite people. I met the divine Devane, my dear Sharon, at a Cracker Barrel to which we both drove hours just to catch up and re-connect. I then visited my 5th grade teacher, Miss Wilson, the woman to whom I owe the most in my educational career. Then I drove to Heath, Ohio, to see Tracey, the earth mother of the Denison Singers in my freshman year. I only got to spend 2 ½ hours with each friend, but what a day of sweet meals and conversation.
There was the bi-annual visit of old friend Tony to Cincinnati. He drives 100 miles to see me, and we go out for Indian food. This August was especially nice since we commemorated the 25th anniversary of our friendship. I can’t ascribe enough adjectives about his greatness.
There was breakfast with Debbie at First Watch—our regular breakfast meeting point and opportunity to revel in our 28 years of friendship since the 1980 All Ohio State Fair Youth Choir. It is a smile-fest as our gratitude beams.
There were meals and conversations in museums—with stellar Aunt Dot and Jim at the Cincinnati Art Museum café, and with wondrous Kate and luminous Fareeda at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and a fancy-schmancy dinner with Christy at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.
There was a picnic outside on the deck of the Polcari house with the Khosrowshahis—two families that have been kinder and more generous than I might have imagined.
There was an indoor picnic at Doris’ house—with her famed potato salad and roast chicken. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried that potato salad. This was a meeting of an old friend and a new friend as I brought KA friend Rehema in tow as we smiled and talked and heaped on the potato salad.
There was the rib and corn roast last week with my father and brother-in-law. For 50 years my father has gathered with this Police Masonic organization of grumpy old men as they try and outdo each other in consuming great brats, metts, corn and ribs. Many ask how my dad has stayed so thin…like I know?
There was the visit from the ever-lovin’ Sue, from northern Ohio—more of a “drive-by” visit since neither of us could fit in a “proper visit”—we stole some time away while she was shopping in Cincinnati. No matter—all good no matter what the time.
There was the late-night dessert festival with the amazing Unger family. If most of the family did not have to get up for work the following morning we might have just talked all night. A recipe for success—great dessert + great friends=great satisfaction.
There was the Italian meal with my Italian friends, the Canterinos. I haven’t taught a child of theirs in 8 years, yet every visit is fresh and alive and upbeat.
There was the evening with high school friends Doris and Sylvia at Shelley’s house, enjoying the low humidity that was the hallmark of this summer of 2008. Memories and the luxury and abundance of summer…enjoying the renaissance of friendship.
There were the California meals—with Anne and cousin Susan at Tom Ham’s Lighthouse in San Diego. Susan is one of those family members you wish lived so much closer so you could always call up and just start checking things out. Then there was the dinner with Anne on the beach at the “Del,” the Hotel Del Coronado, the beach resort of Some Like It Hot fame; or maybe the view was even more stunning up in the reaches of Big Sur, at the famed bohemian Nepenthe.
There was the family meal at Green Lake, Wisconsin, the place of annual retreat for my family, in days long gone by, and where my mother networked and learned with such passion on church missions ideas. We could feel the warmth of her her laugh and smile all over this oasis of beauty.
There was the steak dinner night before last with the Flowers—friends of my parents for 50 years, and as I have been told, I upstaged the bride a bit at their wedding, since this handsome infant was passed around with delight at their reception. They have stood by us and loved us since they forged their friendship a million years ago.
There was the spaghetti dinner with the Griley cousins—almost three hours of eating and talking and catching up. Eight of us sharing memories of the past, describing 2008 summer trips, and looking to the future for gatherings. Have I ever enjoyed them more?
There was the breakfast in the diner with Nancy, a mother of a dear student, but also a friend who offers loyalty and kindness at every turn. There was a breezy and beautiful lunch on the terrace at “the club” (always courtesy of the phenom Anne!) with Flavia, Meg and Diane. There was lunch with ebullient Diana, the math goddess, and another friend for the ages. Every time we part there is that ache again—how I wish we could teach together again.
So what did I do this summer? I ate. I talked. And with the conclusion of each meal, as the hugs ended and I sighed back to my car, every time, I felt blessed at the people I have in my life. It was the summer of the Great Meal and the Great Conversation. Of course I didn’t get to see everyone I love. I wish there had been two more weeks of summer so I could have enjoyed the Great Meal and the Great Conversation in the south: in Texas to see Judy and her clan, or Stephanie in Atlanta, or the Gastonia gang and the Charlotte clatch. But hopefully, there will be more Great Meals and Great Conversations.
I come by all this Olympian eating and talking quite naturally. For years my mother would whisk us off to school so that she could jet over to Frisch’s for her crucial morning coffee and visiting time. Now my father goes to the Imperial Diner 5 days a week (the “Institution of Higher Learning” as he affectionately calls it) where Pam presides over the daily meals and conversations of the ROMEO clique. (ROMEO as you might recall stands for Retired Old Men Eating Out). They revel in their self-proclaimed parallels to the fictional Boston bar in Cheers.
But I digress…the other morning I was talking with my dad’s friend Chris, a 93 year old man who has filled life’s bucket of joys and sorrows to the brim, and still smiles and cracks wise. I mentioned to him that my father had enjoyed the birthday breakfast party Chris had thrown for himself a few weeks earlier. He had taken about 30 friends out for breakfast, treating them himself. Chris leaned over to me, smiled, and said, “Well, you know John—friendship really is what it’s all about, now isn’t it?”
An exclamation point for the summer of 2008!
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