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D.R. Ranshaw

D.R. RANSHAW

Tales From The Crypt

7/8/2019

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A friend recently asked, “What was your first revelation about teaching?” And I didn’t have to think much to come up with something. Because it happened the first day of my formal training. Before I even got to the university. It was a remarkable lesson on human nature --- mine and my (prospective) students.
 
Let me back up and provide some context. My university career spanned seven years. The first five, I majored in political science and minored in drama --- which, in retrospect, is so richly ironic I should have stayed with it, although the drama minor was actually in technical theatre, not acting. But partway through, I changed my minor to history (which may or may not have been more relevant to political science), and that’s why my BA took five years instead of four. Why change the minor, you ask? Because my drama professors were really not good at allowing students to take charge as their skill levels matured, and by third year, when I realized I was still doing the same stupid grunt tasks I’d done in first year, I decided I didn’t need that, and voted with my feet. Which, also retrospectively, was not the best course of action… but most of us at 21 are not as sure of ourselves and willing to speak out about injustice as we are with several additional decades of life experience under our belts. We’re also speaking of a society lo, almost 50 years ago, when deference to authority was far more ingrained than these chaotic times we live in today, alas.
 
 (Actually, apart from the appalling lack of a steady girlfriend in my life at that point, I do tend to look fondly back on my university years as a pretty idyllic time. I could largely arrange my own academic schedule --- a biggie for someone who hates rising early in the morning: I was careful never to schedule a class before 10. And I swiftly perfected the technique of knocking out term papers in a day or so, once I’d done the reading/research; and I had a part-time job at the university theatre --- actually doing the technical theatre I’d wanted to do in drama --- which kept me in beer money. The weird thing about university is it pretty much seemed to consist of formally acknowledging stuff I already knew. It also taught me that university professors, by and large, weren’t teachers, just [mostly] bright people in very narrow fields of specialization who would much rather be researching than dealing with a bunch of wet-behind-the-ears undergraduates, thanks very much. Ah, academe.)
 
Anyway. Back to that teaching revelation. I took public transit to university… for seven looooong years, as mentioned. The final two years were spent getting my Bachelor of Education. The first day of that program, I was pretty pumped: I was going to learn to be a teacher! Although there was one slight fly in the ointment.
 
Remember I said I could largely arrange my academic schedule? Well, sometimes, the university liked to play practical jokes on my carefully ordered little world. One was called ‘cancelling-a-section-and-folding-it-into-another.’ Usually, I’d discover this the first day of classes… but after a couple of times, I was too smart for them, going up the day before to check class locations. Sure enough, they’d done it with my first education class. A methods class, if you please --- a course designed to deal with the actual nuts and bolts of teaching. (Completely useless course, as it turned out… but I couldn’t know that then.) It wasn’t at 10 anymore; it was scheduled for the middle of the night AKA 8 AM. The horror! Not only did it mean rising at an ungodly hour, it also meant taking transit during the height of high school student rush hour. I’d had experience with high school students in unstructured situations like buses. And these kids were, as my very English mother succinctly observed once, a lot of hooligans. So my enthusiasm that first morning was, shall we say, a little tempered.
 
And my fears were realized when the bus pulled up. It was jammed. With high school kids. Hardly any room to get on the bus. What added insult to injury was most of the jam was at the front. There was space towards the back. But did these hormonal adolescents see that and act? Nope. They continued standing in the jam at the front. I gritted my teeth, wedged myself in on the bus front steps, and off we went. I knew we’d be in trouble at the next stop.
 
And we were. A little old lady waited to board. Only there was no possible way she could. I looked to the bus driver for leadership. He glanced around, cast a weary, defeated eye on the assembled multitude, and said spiritlessly, “Move back, please.”
 
No one moved. Including me, but that’s because I couldn’t. He waited a beat, then said it again, sounding rather like a sheep pleading with wolves. “Move back, please.”
 
Nothing. Not a flicker of acknowledgement from any of them. The old lady still waited curbside. The universe stood still. And I would not make that first class on time. What to do?
 
Then it happened. Now, I’ve never regarded myself as a particularly angry, impatient, or imposing person. But something welled up from deep within me, surged to the surface like a volcanic eruption.
 
I. Was. Enraged. At. This. Stupidity.
 
You know how writers sometimes describe a character’s eyes ‘blazing?’ 38 years later, I can state with utter certainty it’s not just another cliché. I glanced wildly around and quite spontaneously bellowed, “WELL, GODDAMMIT, MOVE BACK!”
 
It was a Moses-and-the-Red-Sea moment… they parted and moved. With alacrity. The little old lady boarded, and off we went. When it momentarily appeared no one would offer her a seat… I glared menacingly at one long-haired, gangling youth. Didn’t have to say a word. He hastily stood, and she sat.
 
Hmm, I reflected thoughtfully. My first lesson in classroom management. No, no… not ‘swear at them,’ ‘shout at them,’ or anything like that. It was simply --- well, remember Han Solo, that erudite philosopher of Star Wars fame and his take on leadership, decision-making and such? What he says to Leia in The Empire Strikes Back, when they realize they’re inside a giant creature’s gut and need to get the hell out of there? Immediately? And she questions the wisdom of his decision?
 
Yep. Sometimes, you don’t have the luxury of leisurely sitting and discussing things in committee. Or, as Bob Heinlein said, “when the roof leaks, you don’t appoint a committee to study the leak. You fix the leak.”
 
That particular leak was fixed. And lo, it was good.

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Rites of Passage

7/1/2019

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A few months back, my wife and I flew off (in what I like to refer to rather disparagingly as ‘mass transit at 33,000 feet, with all the accompanying cachet and romance you’d expect in cattle class’) to attend my youngest daughter’s university convocation. Now, graduation ceremonies are certainly one of life’s most recognized and ballyhooed Rites of Passage (ROP), and my gosh, as a secondary school teacher for 34 years, I should know. I’ve seen enough of them, and also organized my own fair share of them (and like any event that goes off flawlessly, I can tell you quite unequivocally there’s a ton of stuff going on behind the scenes to make them so). I clearly remember writing an email to my school’s staff one year providing details regarding the upcoming grad ceremony and in particular, the rehearsal that was to take place, and I noted that:
 
“…the rehearsal will cause a certain amount of noise and distraction in your hallway, in the same way that the Pacific contains some water. But, you know, rites of passage are seldom painless, are they? And as your assorted alumni make rude gestures and farting noises at you through your classroom windows, thereby proving once again that things have changed remarkably little since the barbarian hordes swept through the Roman Empire to pillage and burn, take solace in an immortal truth: that this particular rite of passage signals an important thing:  these scholars will soon be gone from our august hallways… and busy causing mayhem somewhere else.”
 
I think the most important phrase is the one noting most ROP, while important, seldom tend to be painless. And what of the characteristics of them? Upon reflection --- having just experienced a pretty significant rite of passage myself, which, as you may well surmise, prompted today’s thoughts --- I’d say rites of passage have at least four main characteristics:
 
First, they involve highly significant moments in our life journeys, typically signifying major transitions from one state or period to another.
 
Second, while these milestones tend to be of only marginal/passing interest to most of the outside world, they are of major interest to us… or, if not us, then in many cases, our families. (Case in point: I didn’t go to my first university convocation because I’m one of those people who fail to see the point in parading across the stage with all the rest of the cattle, hearing my name called and receiving five seconds of politely disinterested applause before the next anonymous victim is named. However, I did attend my second university convocation. Oh, yeah, you betcha. Not because I’d had a change of heart. No, no, no; because after my first convocation, my mother, God rest her soul, pulled one of her patented I’m-not-angry-with-you-just-terribly-terribly-hurt routines which I know all children, regardless of age, are intimately familiar with. I’m sure it’s a required technique all impending mothers learn at mommy school… you know, along with more mundane things like changing diapers.)
 
Third, these experiences range emotionally from the tedious to the terrifying, the exhausting to the exhilarating, and the terrific to the tragic.
 
And fourth, some ROP are what I would characterize as builder milestones, others as retreat milestones, particularly later-life situations.
 
Think about the ROP we undergo for a moment: birth (well, most of us don’t have too many memories of that particular ROP --- which on reflection is probably not a bad thing at all), walking and talking (same), beginning school, moving from elementary to junior high to high school, graduating high school, being formally recognized as an adult (at least physically), post-secondary education, first jobs, first relationships, marriage (I wanted to write mawwidge like the Impressive Clergyman from Princess Bride, but decided not to), children, careers, retirement, grandchildren… and, of course, the ultimately final ROP, the one Will describes as moving on to “the Undiscovered Country, from whose bourn no traveller returns.”
 
These are all highly significant personal moments, snapshots in time if you will, of our respective life journeys. They are (mostly) moments we all share, so in that sense, they tend to be relatable to each and every one of us, which gives us a common frame of reference across the human condition. And, you’ll notice, a lot of them also involve firsts --- and sometimes, lasts. Quite a few are also what you could call involuntaries, in the sense that they occur quite without any conscious decisions or consent on our part.
 
The ROP I’ve just experienced? Ah, yes, thanks for asking. I retired. Just last week. From a secondary school teaching career spanning nearly three and a half decades. A mostly very rewarding career. And it was a voluntary ROP whose time, I decided, had come --- despite the fact it was also a very daunting ROP, signalling as it did a profound shift in the way I am about to live my life. Maybe that’s one of the most telling things about ROP: they also tend to signal major changes in our lives, and, given that most of us tend to have a lot of difficulty/anxiety with change, it’s easy to see why many people view some ROP with a certain amount of dread. I didn’t dread retirement, not exactly. I’ll go so far as to confess to being a little daunted by this profound shift, but am fairly confident that, with the help of friends and loved ones, I’ll be able to successfully navigate the sometimes-rocky channels of change without running aground or hitting any icebergs.
 
Anyway, ‘tis done. (As Will says, “If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly.” Or something to that effect.) Today is the first day of, not retirement, but a change in careers.
 
Full steam ahead! (Or “ahead, warp factor one.”)
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    D.R. Ranshaw's Blog

    Author of The Annals of Arrinor series.  Lover of great literature, fine wine, and chocolate. Not necessarily in that order.

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