Drag Yo' Cross

Darin asked me to say something about the Christian metaphor, and then I didn’t do it and now Darin has a sinus headache. Will teach me to quit being lazy? Maybe.

Just kidding. Our actions cannot cause the sinus headaches of others.

But before I really get into how my Jesus is different from Darin’s Jesus, I want to say I just realized how much god and Jesus is on this blog and it disturbs me greatly. I want you to know that I am not unaware. Probably actual Christians don’t even go on about god and Jesus this much, for chrissake.

OK.

So Darin said that his gospel told HIM that “by constant christlike love and sacrifice, one may have some small impact on individual lives.”

Whoo. That stresses me out just to read it. It also sounds like  a good way to avoid one’s calling. One of Jesus’ central qualities is his willingness. He knows his job, and he does it. And his job isn’t to act like god. It is human-ness. From his first act of bloody humble human birth to his mob death his job is to be a person.

That is your job, too.

The truly christlike sacrifice is to sacrifice the safe position of being god, and be a person.

The Christian story is about a god who lives as a human, dies and yet still lives. So if this your model or your metaphor, step one is living as a person. The hardest, the ickiest, the most embarassing, the boringest and most trite the most frustrating and humiliating work; the only work that is actually worth doing, the work that all other work depends on.

Oh but we don’t want to do that. Like a student in the beginner class who says he ‘knows this already’ and wants to be moved to advanced, we want to skip this boring ass person stuff and be a god. A savior. A martyr. To be good. Jesus never tried to be good. He kept at just being him. Sometimes that was transcendent (sermon on the mount) and sometimes it was shitty (Caananite woman.) Christlike means human.

And because we don’t want to do it, life just keeps trying to murder us. With illness and pain and emptiness. With nastiness that seems somehow especially designed just to be what we can not handle. With depression, and divorce and addiction and helplessness. Life will keep banging our fucking heads against the wall until we are so broke down that we start being christlike.

Jesus’ story is this story. God’s head made corporeal so that life could bang it against the fucking wall.

Jesus suffers. He suffers on the cross, sure,  but more importantly he suffers all the indignities of being a person. He loses his temper. People don’t get him. The people he loves turn on him. He disobeys his parents. He’s never sure he’s doing his job totally right. He has an imposter complex. He’s lonely. He has anger problems. He gets itchy. His feet hurt. This is what we call christlike suffering.

The call is to feel it. Not to escape into some kind of godliness and ignore all that angry itchy humanness. To be present, as he was.

Jesus dies. The ultimate surrender. Jesus gives up control. He carries his cross to the place of his torture. Jesus hits rock fucking bottom.

And then he rises again. Because when you are human, that is what you do. Life finally hits you so hard that you surrender, and then you rise again. And you can not believe you got through that. And it is not over, because you will die again. But you’re going to die better next time because you’re going to live better-- live more human-- in the meantime.

The more christlike, that is, the more really uncomfortably human you allow yourself to be as you drag your cross towards some new death, the more often and readily you rise.

It’s a good story. 

And that is how the impact on lives and the world happens. You do your job, and god can do gods. If you get christlike and live your portion of life down in the dirt where people belong and get out of god's business in the heavens, god can set you about the work of helping others and making things better. 

Jesus could not have done his work without being human, without itching. Neither can you.

Someday I'll Find My Audience

Chris’ chat window stays open on my desk pretty much all day at work, and we type back and forth throughout the day. I like having his window there because I like him, and even as a little white square, he’s good company. That isn't really because of the conversation, but because I know from knowing him that he’s hilarious and goodhearted and seeking in a precise and inimitable way. Now that I think about it, I like being friends with Chris the same way that I like his chat window’s being open on my screen. I like that he exists.

Chris’ brain goes too fast for the speed of life, which is really bad luck because the speed of his life  where he works is punishingly slow. Sometimes it feels like he has to reach to the far ends of all human knowing just to keep himself from...I don’t know what. I’m not sure what knowing keeps him from. Sometimes I feel a desperation as he pushes at the capacity of ideas like a claustrophobic gnat in a big balloon. Sometimes his chat window is many many many lines of some theory he's poking at. 

Often, I will come back to my computer, and it will say something like: “Cara, I am trying to develop a theory of languages that presupposes the inevitable influence of hierarchy.” or “Cara, I think the way that we think of zombies as a symbol for bodily alienation is played out.”

My favorite part of these sentences is “Cara,” I'm not very fussed about what comes after it, some of which is interesting and some of which is not, because I like that the person it comes from is looking to engage me.

I quit speaking with another friend last week and it is pretty crappy. If you think that you graduate middle school and girlfriend breakups are over, you are wrong, assumed female reader. Of course, it’s a little easier when one person is clearly right, and in this breakup, she was. I just overall didn’t do this friendship very well. In fact, when she called me out, I didn’t apologize and try to fix it because I didn’t want to not do the friendship anymore.

I want to say that most of my part the friendship was listening, except I wasn’t listening, a lot of the time. I was stewing while she talked.

At my job, I listen a lot to people who are struggling to express themselves. I understand that this is not a conversation, that my listening serves a very distinct purpose. They need their English to be heard by a native speaker to see if it’s working. Their part is to try to get the meaning out, and my part is to gauge how successfully they’re communicating. I almost never speak, but I’m also never bored. I understand my role in this exchange, and it’s value. They are trying to form the word “marco!” When they get it right I call “polo!” And we both know where we are.

And then in other conversations, like the ones that were most common in this late friendship, I feel that I am serving a very different purpose. Like my animated human presence is a necessary prop in the ritual of talking. In some ways, I’m doing something that only a person can do, but in other ways, a basket of laundry would suffice. Lonely and bored, at first I would hear potential “marco!”s and start to “po-” only to be run over by the bullet train of my friend’s prepared remarks. After a time, I just limited the time we’d be together- the time of my inert audienceship.

Look, I know how friendship works. If that is the situation, I have to tell her. But I pussed out and now we’re not friends. I have not a few relationships where I behave this way, and not a few friends who “jukebox” rather than converse, pulling record after record from their vast collection of prepared statements and dropping them down into the shared space. And I understand that this is their marco, because it used to be mine. My cowardly presence is a kind of bereft recognition.

But I don’t want to polo that shit.

Because I see you, and I see that authentic real-time connection is scary and I empathize with that and I know that this is your tactic for avoiding that scariness but I can’t really orient myself by it. And if I don’t know where I am, I can’t truly tell you where you are. And we’re both just kind of lost.

Chris’ window had like 60 lines worth of ideas about something that I honestly don’t remember what it was and I was not really responding- it wasn’t really required. With no engagement, he was getting frustrated.

Chris: Ugh.

Chris: Someday I’ll find my audience.

me: yeah. me, too.

Class Time

Right now I am trying to codify everything that I have to say about teaching English in one big document for work, that is kind of like a self-help book and kind of like an instruction manual. 

Probably home team will figure out what I’m doing and claim that it is their intellectual property and then all will be for naught, but for now, I’m just getting it out. Half to help the new teachers, and half to get it all out. My wisdom about teaching might not be classy, but it is hard earned, and if I get hit by a big black sedan tomorrow, I’d hate to see it lost.

What’s been great about the way I’ve learned to teach, is that it’s fully intuitive. Having never been trained, I’ve been forced to follow the path that experience supports, and let experience teach me when I’ve gone astray.

And what fascinates me about it is that the way I’ve learned to teach is the way that life teaches me.

When I started teaching English, I already knew English. By the time I was old enough to realize I was alive and a person, I already had the language. So when I had to teach it to people, I hadn’t even had the experience of learning it, so all I really knew how to do was tell students when they were making mistakes.

Student: I very like dance.

Me: You should say “I like to dance very much.”

Student: OK. “I like to dance very much.”

Me: Do you like to sing?

Student: I very like sing.

Me: You should say “I like to sing very much.”

Student: OK

This was not very productive, but it was pretty frustrating.

This is also how life felt until about my early thirties.

Me: (Dates a mean boy.)

Life: You shouldn’t do that.

Me: OK. (Dates a different mean boy.)

Life: You shouldn’t do that, either.

Me: OK

As I became more frustrated with the ineffectiveness of my teaching, I began to really crave a structure that introduced English from the beginning to the end- a straight line starting with nothing and ending with perfect fluency. I started to really study the language, it’s structures and patterns. 

This helped a little, but it remained pretty frustrating, because ultimately there is no first step and no last step to mastering a language. Instead, you go in a spiral, the first few times around you’re going “I very like sing” and if someone points out to you that “very” belongs before an adverb like much and not after the subject, and if you practice a bunch your fifth or fiftieth time around you’ll say “I like sing very much” At this point you are many spirals away from “I like to sing very much,” let alone “I totally love singing.” And on each spiral, you’re picking up all kinds of junk, new vocabulary and better pronunciation and all that. You’re just wandering around and around, coming closer and closer to what people will hear as fluent English.

My attempts to improve myself in a straight and cumulative line are similarly useless. Instead, I get a little better at some things about the thousandth time I do them wrong, and pick up new things to be bad at along the circle path. Next time around I skip the mean boy but pick a really nice addict.

The structure I teach teachers to teach with (I see when I step back) is the one I’ve learned to learn from. So if you would like to teach things the way life teaches them, here is the deal.

Step One: Introduce

Expose the students to the thing that you want them to learn. Just let them experience it. Don’t correct mistakes, don’t answer questions. Just let them sit with it. Try to get them to focus on the thing you’re trying to teach, and not all the other distractions in the activity.

Step Two: Instruct

Explicitly teach the lesson. Give new information that the student didn’t have before. Make sure you start by explaining the structure behind what they’re learning, then explain what it means, and finally show them how to use it. Expect resistance. Expect confusion. Try to get them to write it down.

Step Three: Targeted Practice

Let the student practice with the new information. Do not expect success. Expect disaster. This is the practice activity that helps you know how well you did at teaching, and lets you know what your student missed. This is stuff you will have to re-instruct. But you don’t re-instruct now. They’ll have to catch it next semester when it comes up again.

Step Four: Open Ended Practice

This is where the student has to use what they learned on their own. This isn’t a fill in the blank-- they have to produce something using what they learned. Do not expect success. Expect disaster. This is much harder than anything they’ve had to do before. They might not really get it this time around.

Step Five: Application

This is when the student has to use what they’ve learned in the real world. It’s time for a field trip. They have to go out and do what they’ve learned to do. You should still expect disaster, but this is a higher stakes disaster. This will be witnessed. This has emotional consequences. Prepare yourself and your students for emotional consequences. Do not attempt to shield your student from emotional consequences, even though you really, really really want to. Even though you feel like their parent and their bodyguard and an unwilling conscripted torturer all at once. Don’t do it.

The thing about the way we teach lessons at my school is, when this process ends, it begins again. Our students enter the school, and they go through each lesson as many times as they have to before they can level up. And so do you.

As teachers, we have to learn to accept the many steps that have disaster in them, with the knowledge that the whole lesson will be back again in a number of weeks. This is how God, in his wisdom, constructed our universe as well. It’s got rolling admissions. You drop in, and you go around and around until you graduate at as high a level as you can achieve. And I’ve led enough Application activities to know that God does not enjoy your suffering. I love my students even more fiercely when I lead them out to humiliate themselves in the early circles of learning than I do when they finally nail it in the late ones. I’m a brutal kind of teacher, and so, I think is God.

And I’m not a brutal teacher because I learned that this is right or think it is. I am because I know it is they way they learn. Because I know it from experience, I am also a really compassionate teacher. And for the same reason, I’m a really faithful learner, stumbling around my dumb circles, trusting I'm getting better. 

Baby, New Year.

OK, everyone, it’s the Western New Year, time to sweep out the temple! But how shall we sweep it? With a handmade stick broom which is romantic, but does not actually make the temple floor less dirty?

Probably.

It’s Western New Year, but it is actually impossible to sweep the temple in an all-American mop-n-glo way. The temple is not such. You can’t swiffer the temple.  All you can do here is the best you can.

On this, the cusp of 2015, I am feeling pretty good about last year’s sweep. Last year’s theme was “Breathe, next stair.” Over time, I have learned to set the bar a little lower on January first, and mop-n-glo themes like “Achieve saintlike discipline and benevolent dispassion” have kind of given way to the stick broom. And that is a tool that you have to use to get better at.

But I did OK in 2014. I built my church, in a way, and I wrestled Satan and her armies too. The devil won some and I won a few, too. I’m overall less sick. I’m overall more peaceful. These lovely new fences mostly keep joy in.

Looking forward it’s hard to say other than “keep sweeping.”