Parenting, Teaching, Coaching: Interesting To Draw Lines, No?

Interesting to read the news that Mathiang and Adel were suspended from last night's game against Virginia after violating team rules, breaking curfew, and ignoring the coach's advice. Perhaps this is more interesting coming from my alma mater where the rules for play (at the university and on the court) have been in question throughout the institution's history. The good people who live by morals have not always been the ones that the campus celebrates. Rather, there's been scandal associated with the Belknap campus for as long as I can remember...who was the Dean of Education that embezzled all that money meant for public schools?

I will let Kentucky natives debate that one. I'm proud of the U of L degrees I earned there and know, like anywhere, there's many variations to what is really going on. The good people on the campus are the unsung heroes, as always. There are many, many more of them, but the bad apples simply have a field day at the U of L orchard. I wonder if that trend will ever cease to exist.

That is why I'm applauding that the Pitino-man actually made a move to suspend his players. I'm thinking about my own teaching, parenting, and mentoring that I've done throughout my career and know, full-heartedly, that when I drew lines it pissed people off. I always stuck to the lines, though, because my feeling was I did it rarely, so when I did it, there needed to be a lesson learned.

With the scandals in Louisville basketball programs, I'm unsure what Mathiang and Deng were thinking. My knee-jerk reaction was to be hyper-critical of their decisions, because I've spent a better part of my life working with young men from Africa given opportunities for tremendous success in the United States. It is gambling with one's lottery winnings if one's hubris feels above the order and boundaries given to them. Yes, there is tremendous responsibility that comes with the chance to prove oneself, but I keep thinking, "What are you boys doing?"

I wasn't there. I don't know the details. But I know youth, and as Shaw said, "It's wasted on the young."

Last night, while watching the Cards lose, I thought about how their decision not only directly led to the suspension (and loss of co-captainship for Mathiang), but that their teammates had to suffer, too, because of the decisions they made. It is sad, I suppose, that they are just learning this now in college - that their actions have consequences, too.  Ah, every classroom teacher knows this golden rule. The few ALWAYS ruin it for the majority.

And I am thinking of parents everywhere - those who have had to draw lines with their own children, losing sleep over the decision for punishments when those lines are crossed. In my own journey, I often think about the conversation my parents must of had in their bedroom after the Sunday morning I passed out in a snowbank from drinking Jack Daniels. I was in 9th grade. It's not funny, but I can't help but think there had to be some laughter because my choice was simply beyond STUPID. And that event LEARNED me BIG TIME. I gained insight on how idiotic I really am. The lines drawn by my parents were clear. I disobeyed them. I was wrong and I had to grow up afterwards.

Adulting is the act of realizing that there are rules and expectations for a reason. I am hoping that Mathiang and Deng come back to the program thirsty to prove themselves, not only for their team and fans, but for the millions of kids who wish they could have an opportunity like they have, especially those from their home nations.

Pitino, in a surprising act that doesn't follow his career patterns, did the right thing. Interesting. Might be the microscope his program is currently under after other allegations made over the last few years.

I am also thinking about I Am Charlotte Simmons by Tom Wolfe. College basketball is a metaphor for all that is wrong and right in this world. The hubris is never good.

It's now time for Adel and Mathiang to show how much integrity they have in their hearts, minds, and souls. I am hoping they have it, but only time will tell.

Crazy that this is what I am thinking about this morning.

Runner's Confession. After The Race Cinnamon Rolls Rock

My cousin Mark turned me on to the cinnamon rolls at IKEA when he visited one time and needed new furniture for his daughters' room. Then, they used to heat the rolls and after getting lost in the IKEA maze for an hour, it was a well-deserved treat.

Yesterday, after leaving the trace, we were driving my IKEA and I thought, "I wonder if you can avoid getting trapped in that store by entering through the exit doors."

It worked. And we were able to get right to the cinnamon rolls for a post-race rejuvenation. Of course, the kids ate Wilbur Cross High School out of all the food prepared for the 2,500 runners. This was just a dessert.

Ah, man. Is it really Monday again?

I guess it's time to regroup, reconfigure, and realign objectives, purposes, and tasks that immediately need to get done. In dossier time, every free second is spent compiling more and more information, so there's no space to do all the other work needing to get done. Well, that's handed in, so now it's time for the book chapters that are due, the planning for a new grant, and the courses that need to be reentered as a priority on the radar.

(and I had a cinnamon roll for breakfast, too. Shhhh)

Running for Refugees, 2017 - 6th Straight Year in New Haven

The greatest lessons I've learned in life have come from two Sues - my mother in Syracuse and my teaching mom in Kentucky. From both of them I've learned the power of unconditional love and support. That is huge. Let me repeat that again. From both of them I've learned the unconditional power of love and support.

They've had by back through thick and thin and I'm forever grateful to them both. Because of their love and support of me, I've been able to share love and support for my students and the young people I work with.

This morning, a team of twenty five from Fairfield University will be running in support of refugees at the 5K in New Haven, Connecticut. Each and every year I run this race, my heart gets bigger. It is this race and the Vicki Soto 5K in Stratford that reminds me that there is hope in humanity, that people really do believe in doing what is right, and that love is the greatest answer every time.

This year for the holidays, Sue in Kentucky asked if she could make a contribution to a charity Chitunga and I believe in. Although he is in Syracuse going to school now, it was a no-brainer to invest in IRIS and the 5K. The money goes to support relocated individuals who have been chosen to enter the United States with opportunities for a better life. These are families that go through a scrupulous 2 1/2 year vetting process and are the fortunate 1% of the 65 million displaced worldwide hoping for safety and security.

Exercise. Fresh Air. A great cause. Communities coming together. A celebration of diversity, compassion, humanity, and the richness of doing good for the world when so many prefer to do the opposite.

I am unlikely to ever be rich. It has never been my intent to seek fame or the fortunes that come with it. Rather, I simply want to be a good human being who lives his life with empathy, understanding, global knowledge, and a belief in my fellow men and women. This is one of those days each year - one before the very American hoopla of a ridiculously expensive football game - that reminds me of why I've chosen to live the life I have.

I appreciate the love and unconditional support I've had my entire life. I am fortunate, and as long as I have life I will choose to pay it forward.

Believe There Is Good In the World: Be The Good

In one of the schools I'm working with this year, a small, textual mural makes me smile. It is simple: believe there is good in the world and/or be the good.

Like hope, good is another of those words that I like to think deeply about...take away an 'o' and you get God, who I hope is taking care of all of us (the Great Whatever who oversees all faith and spirituality in the world).

I got home last night ready to dig into grading, but after another long day in the office doing dossier work, my brain simply fizzled out. I got a few groceries, vacuumed and mopped, then sat down to stare into space.

Then I heard a ding. It was a grant I wrote last semester - a notification that it was funded. My first reaction on a Friday night when I was feeling extremely overwhelmed and fried was, "Oh, no. Not more work." This morning, I woke up feeling excited about the possibilities that will come from it.

$30,000 more and I will hit the 1/2 million dollar mark in grant writing since I arrived to Fairfield University. With this comes organization, planning, professional development data collection, budgeting, and reporting. I've been semi-strategic to turn the work into presentations and publication, too. I'm still waiting on a $90,000 grant that I'd really love, but that is a GIGANTIC crap shoot. Only time will tell on that one.

Okay, time to tackle this Saturday thing...I promise to be the good if you will, too.

Representing the Ville at a Stags Game. Whoops. Tough Day at the Office

It's good to be optimistic about Thursdays, because that means Fridays are there as a catch-all for what doesn't get accomplished the day before. I managed a 12 hour day crossing t's and dotting i's, but didn't quite meet the plan of action. At 7:30 pm I fulfilled a promise and picked up Juma and Akbar so they could attend their first college basketball game. It's been a year since I've seen the Stags play and I'm happy to say they beat Niagara quite impressively.

My mind, however, was on the work that I wasn't accomplishing that needs to be done. I'm optimistic about today, however, after a faculty visit for a potential Jesuit-in-residence of for our department.

Interesting to talk about politics with Edem, too, as we unwind for the evening and he starts processing his history from Togo, the faith he had in the democracy of the United States, and the suddenly about face our country seems to be making through executive decisions. I simply process with him my middle-of-the-road politics and ask questions to get both of us thinking. The conversations usually end with both of us shaking our head. It actually reminds me of a Blues Traveler Song.

Have you ever seen an atom / Little bits of everything floating by / Take a good look at them / Collectively they compose all you see, including your eye. / Brilliant puzzle / A living Rubics Cube we think think we can figure out and solve. ? But we're just monkeys / Scratching our heads trying to open our ears / To a chord that just won't seem to resolve. / And we call it a wisdom / Yes intellect in our truest sense of the world / You see for us security means harmony / According to only what we have heard / And this alone and nothing less / Will ease our heart and our mind / In the hopes that in feeling free we'll reach paradise / On the hilltop we're still trying to find. / But the possibility exists no matter how scary it may seem / That paradise was once the world and it wasn't just a dream. / The earth was our heaven and we didn't know there were rules for us to break / And maybe now we'll find out too late what a clever hell we can make. / Whoops. / Whoops. / Taheeka had. Whoops. / Whoops. / In this corner / Weighing in at almost every weight imaginable / Life, and all that surrounds it / And in this corner / Weighing in at well, not really very much of everything; / A very sound and user friendly idea / On finally bringing the pesky mountain to Mohammed / Gentleman, at the sound of the harmonica you may come out fighting. / Take a look at the horizon / Quiet and still. / You know there used to be bison. / Gentlemen you may fire at will. / They say this land won't go to waste. / But you got to wonder how. / You know we're chopping down the air we breathe / as fodder for the cow. / That's right we can eat well / Yes and starve to death / And say there's nothing we can do. / Because we really don't want to do a goddamn thing. / Look, I'm shrugging and so are you. / We can imagine the straightest of lines / But our fingers can't control the pen. / And it's this frustration that yields relief / As we say we're just mortal men. / And that means we get to torture a chimpanzee / And infect him with disease / Because he screams just like a human child / while we study his desperate pleas. / But the possibility exists no matter how scary it may seem / That paradise was once the world and it wasn't just a dream. / The earth was our heaven and we didn't know there were rules for us to break / And maybe now we'll find out too late what a clever hell we can make. / Whoops. / Whoops. / Ah Whoops. / Whoops. / While we're not the subject you know my conscience hurts (whoops) / and it will not go away (whoops). / So please concoct me some pill I can take (whoops) / While I think of something clever to say (whoops). / So I can look in the mirror made of polished glass (whoops), / and find no need to cringe (whoops). / And forget that singing feeling I'm a dinosaur (whoops) / out on his drunken binge (whoops). / ... from possible to fossil / dust to dust / I'll see you all in the earthy crust. / Whoops-a-daisy / Whoops.

Now there is a song from my college days. had to give it a lesson again this morning for old time's sake. And with that, it's Friday! Friday! Friday! 

Wrapping My Head Around Reality. Or Is It Fiction. We're Crazy.

I was in a K-8 school yesterday on a tour where the principal brought me to the library and said, "The school hasn't had a librarian in 20 years." His first goal was to resolve that and he found a substitute teacher to cover for the year and her first mission has been to sort through the piles and piles of books that were on tables. At the time I entered, books were everywhere, but the shelving units were busted and very unsteady. I brought a team of students with me, thinking in one day we'd be able to help organize the books and fix the shelves. In three hours, we barely put a dent into the labor. Books have not been checked out by students at this school in  years, although it appears that money went into buying them. They all had labels on them (Dewey's decimal would be proud) .

I can't imagine this. I can't imagine our nation would allow for such a thing to happen, but then I talk to teachers, and like cops, veterans, and social workers, they simply are accustomed with having their resources restricted, their wages battled, their hours challenged, and their integrity scrutinized. Why is this? Probably because their salaries come from tax payers. Any profession that gives to the people, for the people, to make America what it is, is simply viewed as burdensome, I guess.

One local district is set to make 9 million in cuts by the end of this school year and it is likely that more librarians, art teachers, music teachers, middle school counselors, and paraprofessionals will be the ones sacrificed.

Meanwhile, a billionaire who made her money through a Pyramid scheme is on the senate floor to run our nation's schools. Pyramids are what Charters are all about, too. They prey on poor, urban districts, syphoning off the limited resources already being drained from urban schools.

The hustle has grown disproportionately unfair. I see it every day. I feel it. And I know it.

Too many do not, including political elites in both parties. It is criminal and shameful. It is unfair and wrong.

There's so much banter going on in our nation right now, but for me the most despicable truth in the United States is the inequality in our school districts. It doesn't surprise me that schools don't have librarians or opportunities to check out books, because cuts aren't anything new.

But it doesn't make it right, especially in a country that used to pride itself on its public schools.

Shed Tears Dearest Nation. We've simply lost our way.

Small Gestures. Huge Reminders Of What Is Most Important.

It's the grind, man. The grind. I can't decipher what day it is, what page I'm on, which of the 535 unread emails I should address first, and how it is I'm supposed to be 20 places at the same time while meeting deadlines that this is due, and that is due, and come to my office, and 'oh, yeah, I have to teach, too.'

I've been at Fairfield almost six years and this is part for the course in January. I don't see any way to change this. Living in my office is the only cure, but even that is not enough. I will be late with work this year, slow in response, and unable to be on top of my game. I'm settling with that. This perfectionist realizes that, at this point, it is just impossible. The work of two...maybe three...jobs can't be done by one person. I love the grind, that's my nature, but not when it's become this.

Always, I'm doing what I can do the best way that I can do it.

I went to the CWP office in the English Department yesterday (sometimes I go over there to remind Caryn that I will eventually get to the backlog of our work - a promise I've been making since September), and Elizabeth Hilts, and adjunct facilitating the core writing program, had a note in my box with a tattoo she found. I love it. It is so nice to know someone is thinking of you and the little 'rub on' made my day. I will save it for another day, tattooing myself for an event or occasion where it is more suitable.

Arrived home late last night and got things prepped for class this morning - a debut in Bridgeport Public Schools with a new cohort of undergraduates. I'm looking forward to see how it goes.

And Happy Birthday, Edem! My goal is celebrate his birthday somehow, but I don't know exactly what the details will be yet.

We could spend the evening doing fact checking on all the reporting coming out in stereo from DC, but that is getting old. There aren't truths coming out of DC, and we merely wait to see how everything is unraveling and being reported.

Amidst the crazy stress that is par for the academic course, I guess what is hardest this year is a loss in faith in humanity. I thought people...at least Americans...were better than this.