Throwback to Angus Bethune with @ChrisCrutcher, A Story

Several summers ago, I had the honor of working with Chris Crutcher at the Louisiana State University Young Adult Literature conference. I was there to offer a seminar on refugees in young adult literature and was thrilled he was one of the keynote speakers. The writer, Chris Crutcher, was HUGE for my first years of teaching. Why? He was one of the few writers that my students would read.

I began teaching in Kentucky with two passions: I wanted to celebrate all kids and I wanted to promote writing. I didn't declare creative writing as a major, because teachers were supposed to major in literature. Although I give my creative writing background all the credit for any success I've had as a teacher, it was the literary scholars that were positioned authoritatively on my transcript.

I finished two Masters degrees when I first began teaching high school. I was given freshmyn, and taught in one of the most diverse environments in the nation - a school that requested one boy and one girl from each zip code in the city of Louisville. The joke was, "If it's out there, we have it in here, too." There were multiple truths in the population represented at the Brown.

During my first year, I was looking for something to help my students to develop as short story authors and stumbled upon Athletic Shorts: Six Short Stories. My kids loved the tales Crutcher crafted, but year after year reported that "A Brief Moment in the Life of Angus Bethune" was the story that helped them to tune their own craft most: the voice, the structure, the genuine recreation of adolescence, the parents, and the humor.

That was 1997. Fast forward to 2017 (oof, that is 20 years!).

Tonight, I am teaching a graduate seminar on developing young adult readers and we are thinking through Deborah Appleman's chapter on Reader's Response. We've been playing with Kylene Beers and Robert Probst's Notice and Notice, as well as Jeff Wilhelm's You Gotta Be the Book. Knowing I wanted to teach a story to help make some cases these researchers are describing for my graduate students, I recalled Crutcher's Angus Bethune, and pulled a copy off my shelf. Rereading it 20 years later, I realize it is a short story that continues to have the same effect. It is perfect. I love it.

A part of me wants to offer my interpretation and analysis on this post, but I'd rather intrigue readers to want to read the story for themselves. I love Angus. He's terrific. He's a product of his environment: sarcastic, insecure, yet awkwardly confident. He's very much like many of the kids I've taught throughout my career - one who is engaged with his world, but arriving from contexts that just don't seem to be normed by society's standards. Still, he perseveres.

"Actually," I say, "I even tried it once, but when I stuck my finger down my throat, I was still hungry and I almost ate my arm" (p. 13). 

That he tells a certain love interest, Melissa Lefevre, during a slow dance at the prom. He responds to her admittance that she's bulimic.

I always loved Chris Crutcher's writing, but after meeting him, it became extra special. For some crazy reason, I was invited to have lunch with him by the LSU School of Education Dean (Okay, not a crazy even...she was from Louisville) while he was there and it was one of the most awe-inspiring, engaging lunches of my life. For a short period, I was invited into the world of counseling and helping kids, listening to the many stories the writer helped in his other life as a counselor. Learning why he transitioned so many stories into print was astounding and I realized at that moment I was with celebrity, integrity, and genius. I knew it before, but sitting with it solidified it all.

I am curious to see how a room full of adults will respond to Angus Bethune after I had such success with him as a high school English teacher. I feel like I've dusted him off some, simply to introduce him to another generation of teachers. Phew. If Angus was 18 in 1997, that puts him in his late 30s today.

Unbelievable and beautiful. So grateful for the genius of this writer. 

Papi Butch Day and the

It's March 6th, two weeks after my birthday, so that means it is my father's special day (and I am hoping the card I sent last week arrives in the mailbox today -  perfect timing). I know there's not too much he wants any mor, except for the itching and the pain of his shingles to disappear. I wish I could make that happen and even more so that I could be in Syracuse to sing a few rounds of the birthday song. I also wish I had the magical power to keep my mother from nagging at him for just one day (I'm sure he'd love that, too - but it ain't gonna happen).

Instead, I send my father warm wishes of fishing on Oneida Lake and  drum beats of Sherburne parades. I send sunsets at the St. Lawrence River and a fire for his pit in the back yard. I send fertilizer for his lawn and gas for the lawnmower to cut it down. I send pooper scoopers for the piles from all the damn dogs that visit his yard and many memories of the garden that used to break that poop down.

I send him little league games and color guard shows, band competitions, and beers at the Clam Bar. I send Chubby's, and Lewis's, clam chowder, and Buck's Seasoning. I send a day with Aunt Bobbie and Uncle Milford, and memories of Grandpa Ken and Grandma Vera.

And of course, I send all the love from all of us in Connecticut and play him the theme song from Mash.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAY. 

If my card doesn't make it on time, let this be a placeholder.

LOVE YOU!

Self Portrait After a Saturday Behind My Laptop

I was determined to finish grading a batch of undergraduate papers, merely so I would be able to tack today with zest and openness to prepare for another hectic week. I did manage to cook a makeshift dinner and Tunga and I were able to hit the gym, but otherwise I sat at my computer reading, editing, revising, and offering suggestions to student papers.

I was determined and I completed my goals, but the cost was shear numbness. By 10 pm last night I looked up and thought, "Whoa. That was a day I'll never get back.

I managed to listen two wins: Syracuse and Louisville, both teams looking good as we head into the madness. The t.v. was on while I read, but right now my brain is thinking, "$#@@$#@."

This is the life I love, but on days like yesterday, I really question the pace and rat race of the profession. I feel like I read 14 novels while leaving track changes in Word. Ah, but I got it done.

It's Sunday, a day of rest, and I really need to be proactive about the presentation ahead. I knew today would be a dull post because my brain can't muster up anything else to think about. Rather, it was a crazy teacher kind of Saturday and I'm simply glad I got through what I set out to accomplish.

I Knew It. It's March After All. It Was Inevitable

The cold has returned, as I knew it would. It hurts to be outside.

But, it's warm inside. The kid returned and we caught up over dinner at Paradise Pizza and a Blackish marathon. It's somewhat surreal to think about life elsewhere taking place and being caught up on "and then this," and "then that," and "of course this."  

The best part of the reunion. Gleams. She simply spazzed out a licked and jumped and whined and licked and jumped  and whined and was simply thrilled her buddy was home. She comes running up to him as if to say, "Are you sure you're here? I'm so glad your'e here. Oh, good you're here."

Chitunga has returned for a week - a super early Spring break. It was somewhat of a test...know that when I return home, I last for ten minutes and I'm off to the next thing: hopping home to home, event to event. Not the case here. Home is home (which for me, this is true, too).

We didn't get the snow, though....so I will spend this morning grading and catching up on all the materials I haven't found time to get to).

I'm ready for hunkering in for the day.

Friend, Colleague, & Nervous System. Grateful for @SonyaHuber

University of Nebraska Press

I'm two-for-two in 7 days having the fortunate opportunity to hear colleagues read from their recent work. Last night, I attended Sonya Huber's Pain Woman Takes Your Keys and Other Essays From a Nervous System and her chapters on living through, with, from, on, and under a life with rheumatoid arthritis (wishing the multiple selves she has: thinker, writer, mom, academic, wife, daughter, and human being who more than likely cringes every time I come by with my bear-hugging self.

Disclosure: I have not read the book yet.
Discosure: I will read the book.
Disclosure:  A Kirkus Review (they read the book)
Disclosure: I am about Judy Blume's The Pain and the Great One (from Free To Be You and Me) - a childhood favorite for my little sister and me. I'll get to that.
Fact: I had the privilege of hearing Sonya Huber read from her collection last night at a Fairfield University Book Store event. This means I have her voice in my head so when I read the rest of the book she'll be with me (and I won't need to invite her over for dinner, demanding a new reading before I serve the kielbasa - a joke for Ivan).

Last semester, Sonya was on sabbatical and my colleague Beth, in her introduction, said it best, "She was missed, especially her laugh" Sonya's the type of person who radiates warmth, happiness, joy, and funk (with emphasis on the funk part), but who questions vehicles with "Life Is Good" bumper stickers. Her mind is alive, energetic, driven, and focused. The first time I saw her office, however, and all the zest I said, "She will be my friend. She has nice toys, too."

Sonya Huber (in tights matching the
cover of her new book)

What's interesting about the reading last night is that I didn't hear Sonya Huber's voice as she share the rhythm of her language and how she learned to contemplate the "alien from outer space" who lives with her (it's not Cliff). Rather, I heard my little sister's history in the pieces she shared and her days during high school when her nerve endings used to flair with fibromyalgia and a life was uprooted for several years. It made me recall my mom always saying she knew something was up when Casey hit her last home run in high school swinging the bat. After that it was constant appointments, hospital visits, and therapists. No one knew what it was, but her pain was off the charts and she had to see many around the nation to get control of it. The episodes were outrageous and it's hard to imagine how much control it had at the time.

It simply disappeared. Well, it didn't disappear, it stopped being so severe. But the pain from high school...that pain was real.

Casey and I always read The Pain and the Great One, and that was one of our running jokes. She was the "pain" and I was the "great one." After hearing Sonya read from the essays last night, though, I realized I have it  wrong. Those who live lives with such pain are the great ones: the pain is intolerable, the bitchiness is real, and the suffering makes one want to "origami"  while contemplating Judeo-Christianity, Buddhism, and french fries. As a brother, I really was the pain. I didn't understand because I didn't feel it. It wasn't until last night when I heard it, that the pain my sister experienced became more real.

I'm a talkative guy, but seldom do I speak up at readings. I prefer  to absorb what I jam hearing. Yet, listening to the essays  brought back the memories of my sister's high school years (and our curiosity about the nervous system that had all of upside down). Last night I spoke, though, "Thank you, Sonya. You voiced and penned,what I'm sure others have wanted to say their entire lives. You gave pain a language: the frustration, anger, contemplation, humor, and sincerity it has always been. You have expressed what others have been trying to say."

Ah, Sonya Huber is one of my muses and simply being with her for ten seconds makes me want to stop everything and begin writing something. She has that Tinkerbell, Punky Brewster, Hermione, Katniss thing going on, so I never quite know if she is real or a figment of my imagination.

Last night, Sonya was real. So was her collection. So is the Pain.

I Feel Too Much. These Poor Crocuses...Too Soon. And the Frogs?

I left this morning bright and early for a 12-hour day (don't worry, I stopped by the house to give Glamis some people time), but before I left I noticed that the purple crocuses were already in bloom. It's March 1st people, and their are tornado warnings in the forecast with severe thunderstorms. Shouldn't this be April?

Of course, for a week now, I've been listening to the Peepers chirping their Stratford songs from their tree tops and the mucky land by ponds. Too early for frog mating rituals. But, Glamis is shedding and my house sparrows have returned to build nests.

Newsflash - they're all going to freeze their $#@$ off! We are due for much more winter, no matter the foolishness of Mother Nature. I imagine, too, this is going to cause severe depression who suffer from seasonal mood disorders. We're getting too accustomed to unseasonable temperatures. It's a bit odd, but I have known other years like this from my childhood. I also know enough about the northeast to say, "Don't put the winter jackets and snowblowers away yet. That would be foolish."

I simply feel sorry for nature who thinks it's okay to show that blooms, songs, and mating season can begin now - summer is coming. It is...just not yet.

And for those of us who teach, it makes us think ahead to beaches, more flexibility in our schedules, family time, and opportunities to actually think. I hate when this happens. There's a lot more winter left. Mark my words. I just hope that this unseasonal stuff doesn't inhibit the beauty of REAL spring. It can come...just bring it in April and not now.

Deal?

A Day of Argh-ument with 6th Graders. Argggggggh!

Week two of hosting students from a local K-8 school, this time the 6th grade class who have been working on argumentative writing with their incredible teacher. Today, we will be looking at models, reading a children's book, analyzing commercials, and thinking about what we also stand for!

The cool thing is that each kid, a pirate-captain of his or her own ship, will be guided to make an argument of their choosing.

And I'm like, Arrrrrggggh! I hope it all works out, given the storms coming our way, buses, permission slips, and enthusiasm for learning.

Another whacky (if not, crazy) Wednesday it will be, but I am hoping to make an argument that more education courses should open themselves up to similar opportunities. What's the best way for pre-service teachers to think about a career in teaching: how about seeing teaching in action while offering professional development and model lessons for teachers? It's been great to assist the vision classroom educators have for their students.

It's amazing, too, because the reading we're doing in this philosophy course aligns perfectly with what the experts argue: pro-community, pro-reform, pro-student, pro-democracy, pro-literacy, pro-advocacy, and pro-equity.

It is my hope and intent that today will help bring that philosophy to life. Last week worked out wonderfully, and we'll see what we can accomplish this week.