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D.R. Ranshaw

D.R. RANSHAW

The Year After

8/31/2020

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Last Thursday began like… well, like a whole slough of others lately. My wife rose and readied herself for work, while I lay in bed and listened to the radio news I’m so addicted to. She came by when she left and kissed me good-bye. I lay in bed a while longer --- prepared to admit I may have dropped off to sleep again, despite the fact the earbuds I wore still delivered the radio host’s tinny voice to me --- but eventually roused myself. It was at breakfast shortly thereafter that the date finally registered (I’m really not a morning person at all). I looked at the kitchen clock, and for some reason, the thought popped into my head: “Oh, yeah. It’s first day of back-to-school… in fact, the opening staff meeting’s been going on for half an hour.” Which brought a smile to my face, because… I’m retired.
 
Let me back up a little. I was a career secondary school teacher (English and History) for 34 and a half years. Fell into it as a career path quite unexpectedly (as I pondered what to do after my BA in Political Science, a dear friend asked me one night if I’d ever considered teaching, because she thought I’d be pretty good at it). Loved it (most of the time). False modesty aside, was damned good at it (according to most of my students). Made a difference (informed so by many students and colleagues).
 
But the last few years, I’ve noticed deeply disturbing changes creeping in to pedagogy like a termite infestation, gnawing away on the foundations until the entire structure is now dangerously unstable. These changes emanate from well-meaning but ignorant/naive principals, superintendents, university professors, and elected politicians, most of whom have either: (a) never actually stood in front of at least 35 hormonal adolescents shoehorned into a dilapidated classroom where the ambient temperature is that of a Turkish bath, attempting to impart a pearl or two of wisdom; or (b) conveniently chosen to completely forget the experience because it was too traumatic, leading them to flee the classroom for administration. The changes lie in noticeably watering down --- on the verge of eliminating --- academic and behavioural standards, and instituting extremely questionable new philosophies that cumulatively seem to ensure we’ll have a generation of kids who never experience failure, have no idea how to cope with it, and possess no adaptive, resiliency, or creative problem-solving skills. It’s my countercultural position this all does kids a massive disservice, and in good conscience I couldn’t be a party to it. So, it became very obvious to me it was time to go. (Even more obvious when I involuntarily blurted in frustration to an assistant principal that I couldn’t work in this cockamamie environment, and informed my principal that while I respected her as a person, as far as philosophy was concerned, thought she and her colleagues all insane. BTW, those were the words I used; I had something of a reputation among my colleagues for speaking my mind.) So, yeah, definitely time to hang up the old whiteboard markers.
 
Now, I don’t intend today’s epistle to degenerate (any more than it has already) into a vitriolic diatribe against a system I passionately believe has collectively lost its sanity and its way, to the profound detriment of our kids, so before I wind myself up into a truly righteous lather of literary fury (don’t mince words, Ranshaw, what do you really think?), that’s enough background for one day. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
 
Instead, let’s return to last Thursday and its realization: I’ve been retired from teaching for a year. An entire year. Do I miss it? Yeah, definitely… the most important parts. I miss the kids. I miss the teaching. I miss moments you see lightbulbs go on over their heads. I miss laughter and discussions. I miss bringing a new concept into the classroom, figuratively holding it up, and saying to kids, “See this? Let’s examine this a while. Look at it from this angle… now this angle. What do you see? What do you think?”
 
I don’t miss the politics, irrational demands of parents, administrators and education officials, the million required bureaucratic tasks that don’t do anything to help kids, endless marking, the sheer impossibility of what we’re asked as educators to do (even more so this dumpster-fire pandemic year). But if I could dispense with all that crap and just teach kids without interference, I’d likely still be sitting on the Command Stool (their name, not mine) in front of them.
 
What changes have taken place in my life? Well, obviously, stress levels have declined enormously. I’m not mentally/physically perennially tired anymore. Life has slowed down, become far less frenetic. Creativity has gone way up, which is most welcome but hardly surprising, once one is no longer being sucked dry by an impersonal system that would put the Borg Collective to shame. As a writer, I like to think I haven’t so much retired as changed careers. I write --- currently two works in progress, one of them the sequel to my first novel, that I have every intention of eventually publishing in some format. I read. I work on my model railway. I game. I go on walks. I continue plotting world domination (just kidding). I wait for my wife to join me in retirement. I’ve taken over much of the cooking, discovering a number of creative new recipes. I enjoy little things, simple things, like coming down to the kitchen each day at lunch, making my lunch then (instead of the night before), and sitting down for a full hour or so to leisurely eat, read, drink a pot of tea, and relish the peace and quiet. And as far as the pandemic has gone thus far, I have to admit, as an introverted retiree, it’s really not affected my lifestyle much. In short, with reference to Oliver Wendell Holmes, I play, and enjoy many things I didn’t have time or energy for when teaching the Great Unwashed.
 
It’s rather like Sir John Lubbock once said: “Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”
 
So, ‘scuse me… gotta go look at some clouds.
 
 

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Dear Tweeps

8/10/2020

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Last post, I wrote an open letter to Twitter (read: social media generally), inspired by Twitter informing me we’ve been in a relationship (read: it’s complicated) for five years. I thought that little piece of doggerel/trivia deserved discussion… like everything on social media, it seems. Today, I want to continue in like vein, except this time, address myself to fellow Tweeps, bless their angsty little hearts. While I’m the first to admit I’m nowhere near a social media expert (read: thank God), there’ve been a few things (read: problems) I’ve observed and come to know all too well these last few years.
 
So, dear Tweeps, herewith, four social media problems:
 
The Problem of Meeting Random People: (who’re certainly strangers… but may or may not be strange). Once upon a time, a very long time ago now (as A.A. Milne would say… not last Friday) I simply followed everyone who followed me. Without question. Which, I now admit, was touchingly naïve, rather like Tinkerbelle being saved simply by audiences believing in fairies. But I gradually came to realize some followers hold very odd views. (And reprehensible, at times.) Like believing vaccines are a government conspiracy to give us all autism. Or that America actually didn’t land a dozen men on the moon. Or most incredible of all, believing it a good thing that an unbelievably corrupt and morally/ethically bankrupt narcissist with the morals of a malignant hoodlum should occupy the highest office of the United States --- at all, never mind eight years. (Here’s a sidebar observation why most conspiracy theories are bullsh*t: to be successful, they require too many people --- sometimes thousands --- to Keep Their Mouths Shut. Forever. Which people simply cannot do. There’s no piece of information as juicy, as tempting to shout from the rooftops, as the one you Must Not Share.)
The Solution: Nowadays… I will vet you before following you. I will go back and view your posts. (Makes me sound rather like Liam Neeson, doesn’t it?) Because if you’re one of those people mentioned above… I’m sorry. We’ve nothing in common. Less than nothing. (Yeah, I know… technically impossible. Shut up, he explained; I’m on a roll.) To quote Desiderata: “Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexations to the spirit.” Amen, brothers and sisters.
 
The Problem of Time: most people I follow are --- or at least, say they are --- writers… who, presumably… want to write. And yet… if their Twitterfeeds are to be believed, they spend inordinate amounts of time… well… not writing. (I’m not being holier-than-thou: it’s an easy trap to fall into, one I’ve encountered a time or six myself. And it’s a common problem --- two thousand years ago, a man named Paul voiced the same kind of lament.) But Sweet Light of the One, to use my MC’s favourite swear in my current WIP: social media has elevated this procrastination/avoidance to a whole new level. We are aware our time on this mortal plane is limited… right?
The Solution: switch your damned laptop into airplane mode… and put your phone on the other side of the room, first muting alerts. And what the hell were you doing (pre-Covid) writing in Starbucks, anyway? Even mathematically challenged types like me understand how the equation works, and I’ll share it. Are you ready? It’s very complicated. Here it is: more distractions = less productivity. There. Did we get that, Tweeps? There’ll be a test later.
 
The Problem of Relationships: I see more and more plaintive tweets on variations of (1) “nobody talks to me… feel I’m shouting into a void” and (2) “I want to have meaningful discussions… and an audience of millions. Let’s do a writers’ lift!” Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but… most of us are shouting into the void, thanks to Twitter’s algorithms. And did you ever hear of Dunbar’s Number? It’s named after the British anthropologist who suggested the maximum number of meaningful relationships humans can have at any given time is 150. So… those thousands of followers… you don’t seriously imagine yourself having meaningful relationships with all of them, do you? Or believe those thousands all hang on your every word? I just checked: Stephen King has 6 million (six zeroes, kids) Twitter followers; he follows 122. QED. Those six million people may hang on his every word, but he’s… well… Stephen King. Which the vast majority of us are not, nor ever will be.
The Solution: if you truly seek deep, meaningful relationships… may I respectfully suggest all social media --- not just Twitter --- isn’t really the medium you should employ? Form real, in-person relationships (fewer than 150), because you’re not going to find those in 280-character Tweets. Or even threads of Tweets, which, as I’ve noted, are awkwardly like trying to read War and Peace on the sides of multiple cereal boxes.
 
The Problem of Nasty People: Oh. My. God. I think future historians will look back at Ye Olde Internet of Ye Early 21st Century, indicating it as the tipping point that turned us all into a rabid pack of vicious hyenas tearing each other apart. Granted, love and tolerance never seem to have been humanity’s strong suits, but people are just nasty on social media. Even when they’re right. Case in point: people, everyone knows Trump supporters are mindless sh*theads, but it’s really not helpful to the cause of civil discourse to tell them that.
The Solution: Hmm. Short of the zombie apocalypse and technology’s collapse, I’m not sure there is one. And that would replace our metaphorically tearing ourselves apart with literally tearing ourselves apart… which I’m not sure is much improvement.
 
So…
 
You’ll note I’m on social media; after all, that’s where you found today’s epistle/rant. Ah ha! you gloat triumphantly. You damned hypocrite! You’ve trashed social media, but still use it! Well, yes, I do, I reply mildly. But I’m careful about new followers; I attempt, with general success, to limit my time on it; I’m under no illusions about the depth or numbers of relationships I have on it; and I do try to avoid being more than curmudgeonly on it.
 
Robert Heinlein noted “moderation is for monks,” but maybe where social media is concerned… we should all try being a little more monkish.
 

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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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