tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72894590103193554762024-03-13T02:36:20.401-04:00IntersectionsOne Writer's Journey Through Parenting, Teaching, Writing, Faith, and Social Justice. A.E. Housman once claimed that "poetry is not the thing said, but a way of saying it." These are my attempts at a way of saying it. Too often, we erect walls where a few stoplights would do the trick. Consider these posts stoplights along the way.Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comBlogger260125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-68008988748276474312020-12-18T21:19:00.003-05:002020-12-18T21:19:20.559-05:00Yes! But Who's Doing the Dishes?<b>Thread One:</b><div><br /></div><div>When we had our first child, 12 years ago, I remember reading every parenting book I could get my hands on. Research article exploring the most effective way to raise kind, happy, confident kids? I'm on it! Newest studies, profoundly thought-provoking columns, how-to guides? Check, check, and check. <div><br /></div><div>Now, shoulder-deep in kids--four boys whose energy never seems to calibrate at anything lower than ZENITH POINT THRESHHOLD--a thought that began percolating back when I read all those books and articles comes circling back: <i>why does it seem like a lot of white men are writing these volumes on parenting and general hot-to advice regarding children and their development?</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>And furthermore, I began to wonder--12 years ago, and the question forms a through-line to today--about a second question: <i>how are they finding so much time to write, travel, speak, lecture, attend so many conferences, give so many interviews and podcasts and so on?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Essentially, the overarching question my mind and heart couldn't square with everything I was seeing and reading was--and is!--essentially this: who's actually raising the kids? </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Thread Two:</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>I remember reading a fascinating interview with Ruth Graham about her famed evangelist husband, Billy, and how he came home from one of his marathon speaking tours. one of their kids asked Mom, "Who's that?" and the reply--given in a sense of humor but recalled by me with a strain of fascinating sadness--was, "That's your father." </div><div><br /></div><div>His speaking and traveling had caused crowds to surge and his fame to skyrocket, but had also caused him to become somewhat of a stranger in his own home. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Thread Three:</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>And now, as I consider so many well-meaning men making a name for themselves in this world--seeking to bridge farther gaps, reach bigger audiences, share inspiring speeches, and striving to grow their influences, the question emerges: <i>Yes! But Who's doing the dishes?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><b>The Rope:</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>As a father of four sons, I want my kids to strive to pursue their dreams. I want them to chase their deepest passions, especially in the hopes that those passions can meet a need in the world, to paraphrase Frederick Buechner. </div><div><br /></div><div>However, what I desperately do not want to teach them is to pursue their own goals and dreams while assuming that someone else will change the diapers, or do the dishes, or fold the laundry, or vacuum the carpet, or shovel the driveway. </div><div><br /></div><div>And now, having just turned 40, I can scan the last twenty years of my own life and see a somewhat slow shift towards this place where I now stand. At twenty, I craved to write a bestselling book, give a speech that would move mountains, craft a new educational theory that would shake the public education system, <i>be everywhere</i>. I wanted to give a keynote at a major conference, be invited to Ted, and write another bestselling book (and then another and another and another). </div><div><br /></div><div>At 32, the best job I could obtain while living abroad was to be a paperboy. That dose of humility was much-needed, and in a beautiful sense of irony, it is the job that has most profoundly helped me become who I now am. </div><div><br /></div><div>At 40, I no longer crave major significance, nor for recognition or to be on the stage or the subject of any viral podcast--but rather I do crave to, <i>yes,</i> do the dishes. Give baths to the kids. Change the diapers. Teach a great class for the students whom I deeply care for and want to see become inspiring educators. Help fold a load of laundry. Shovel the driveway. </div><div><br /></div><div>At the risk of boiling down the deeply complex waters of pursuing one's passions and chasing dreams, I am in no way suggesting that wanting to give a crowd-roaring speech or writing a bestselling book is wrong. I am in no way claiming, here, that the pursuit of significance inevitably unfolds on shaky ground. </div><div><br /></div><div>However, I do want to ask the question of myself, consistently, in the face of any dreams that involves me under the lights: <i>Yes! But who's doing the dishes?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>And I want to ask my sons the same thing. I want them to strive not for any sense of deserving praise, but rather to curtail entitlement and instead help them see the beauty of service. I want to help them see the profound joy in being <i>fully present</i> to the people around them, rather than always seeking to impact strangers whom they can't see--especially when that impact might masquerade as beneficent service but really involves the enlargement of the male ego. </div><div><br /></div><div>To return to those parenting and childhood books written by the experts, or the many speakers who travel countless circuits to talk about issues that may displace them from the places in which they might actually face those very issues--the lingering question is not about denying oneself, but rather about noticing whose work gets, well, <i>noticed</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>Whose work--and <i>what </i>work--gets valued? </div><div><br /></div><div>I do want to change the world. I want to make it better. I want to contribute something of meaning to the people with whom I interact. But I do not want to do so through the mechanism of an entitled expectation that others will do the dishes, the laundry, the diapers, the driveway. I want to make an impact not by enlarging my own ego, but by learning to do the meaningful work that lies, waiting, right in front of my face. Not because it gets applauded, but because it, too, matters. And because it helps to curtail my own need for applause. It helps to situate my own soul in a place of service and love, and perhaps--too--enables others to shine. Especially others who may have been prevented from doing so because of unjust structures, or status quo expectations that encouraged me, as a white male, to chase my dreams, while simultaneously discouraged others from chasing theirs. </div><div><br /></div></div>Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-23558910241862660512020-08-27T14:57:00.005-04:002020-08-27T14:59:08.896-04:00Graduation Address, The Bromfield School, 2020 (7/31/20)<p><i>Below is the transcript of the commencement address I gave at The Bromfield School, to graduating seniors whom I had taught years before in 7th grade. </i></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="">Five years
ago, I welcomed you to 7</span><sup style="font-family: "courier new";">th</sup><span face=""> grade English with a picture of an
iceberg on our wall and told you that it was super cool to be PERSPICACIOUS. I
challenged you to be kind, bold, and honest.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">Today, I
want to remind you of those same principles—but with one additional caveat:
each is a lifelong process, and we can only triumph in their pursuit if we are
willing to trust the process of our own journeys, especially when life doesn’t
proceed as we had once hoped it would.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">Like now.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">If you are
confused, you are not alone.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">If you are
afraid, you are not alone.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">If you are
angry or worried or uncertain, you are not alone.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">The good
news is that by being honest about where you’re at, and how you’re struggling,
you allow kindness to blossom. You allow other people in, instead of pretending
that all is well.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">I have four
sons now, ages 11 years through 7 months, and it is fascinating to watch how
each handles their emotions. My two-year old, Joshua, has no qualms about being
precisely honest about how he feels—especially to a variety of older women who
live in our neighborhood and whom he sees when we go for early morning walks.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">He loves
calling out the names of the various older women as we pass by their houses.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">“Daddy,
that’s Linda’s house! HI LINDA!”</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">When Linda
does not immediately emerge, he’ll ask, “Where’s Linda?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">“She’s
sleeping Joshua. It’s still super early, only five-thrity in the morning,” I will
sagely reply, thinking we’ve settled that.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">“LINDA!
WAKE UP BECAUSE I WANT TO SEE YOU WHY ARE YOU STILL SLEEPING THE SUN IS SHINING
SO I WANT TO SEE YOU AND I AM SAD WAKE UP LINDA!”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">And he
repeats the process for Gladys, and Carol, and Annie, and Florence, whose
houses we pass as we venture forth.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">In return,
these kind older women shower Joshua and our other boys with animal crackers
and veggies sticks and chocolate and Twizzlers and old toys.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">But honesty
isn’t always so easy as we get older. Talking about how we really, deeply feel
and what we really, deeply need, we fear, won’t commandeer us animal crackers
and cool toys. It’s harder. We fear more, share less. The emotions get complex,
their roots webbed, and their resolutions obscured.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">But by
refraining from honesty we deprive others of the ability to show us kindness.
We convince ourselves that we are the only ones who think or feel a certain
way. We are not.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">And by
sharing who we really are, we give other people the chance to see, accept, and
love us. As you go from here, please be willing to share that you are sad, or
hopeful, or excited, or scared, or giddy, or grateful. It’s the only way you’ll
find the Lindas in your life, willing to come to their doors at 6am, groggy and
half-asleep, but ready to see you for who you are.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">So: be
honest, and when others take that leap to be honest with you, be kind.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">But there’s
one more challenge I have to give you—and it’s a hard one: be bold. It’s hard
because we so often believe a lot of lies about courage and what it really is.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">Maya
Angelou said that “Courage is the most important of all the virtues because
without courage, you can't practice any other virtue consistently.” This means
that courage, or being bold, is never a single act, but rather a practice. It
embodies the way we live—the thousand seemingly mundane decisions we make every
day, that actually forge who we become.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">When that
same Linda-loving son, Joshua, was born, he died. He came out blue with no
heartbeat. And instead of letting my wife and I hold him, we heard intercom
shouts of emergency codes, and saw dozens of medical staff rush our hospital
room.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">I held my
wife’s hand and wept.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">I was
thinking the worst as every second slugged past with no hope and no sound from
our third son.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">After
forever, I heard the most beautiful noise I think I ever will: a shrill cry
which made me laugh with joy. The doctor who shocked our son back to life,
though, bewildered me. I will never forget our conversation after all had
calmed down.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">It was
clear to me that what I saw as incredible courage and heroism in that doctor
was another small action he and the other nurses had taken. The doctor was
decidedly calm and matter of fact about the whole thing. Mundane.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">What if the
actions you deem normal and mundane could actually save someone’s life? The
small smile you give, the kind text, the picked up piece of trash, the band aid
you offer, the song you sing, the catch you have with a kid, the lunch you buy
for someone, the hello wave, the goodbye hug, the sign you hold, the words you
use, the way your eyes light up when someone walks into a room or your life.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">It matters.
It all matters. And when we give and receive enough of these small
moments—-these tiny acts of courage and boldness—we build a life.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">Today, I
challenge and encourage you to build a life that is kind, bold, and honest. It
will not be perfect. It will be, like me and all of us, a work in progress. But
while it will never be perfect, you will also never be truly alone.</span><span face=""> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;">You will
indeed find those with animal crackers or electromagnetic shocks, ready to meet
you exactly where you’re at. And what’s more, you’ll do the same for others.
Thank you, and congratulations. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-62591862168618358222019-08-28T22:20:00.000-04:002019-08-28T22:22:23.931-04:00To a New Teacher<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This week, a graduating senior of mine wrote with a lot of vulnerability, asking for any final advice before he began his first year as a new teacher. Here is how I replied:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Dear [...],</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I'm so glad you reached out! I hear you, and it's a crazy and surreal feeling to start your first year of teaching. The biggest thing I can share is to know that everything you are feeling--the nervousness, the worry, the doubt, and sense of uncertainty--is all <i>very </i>normal! This is what every new teacher feels, and on the first day, even most veteran teachers feel it. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Once the students arrive, and you get a few weeks under your belt, a rhythm starts. But during your first year, it will still feel hard. You'll make mistakes, and you'll feel uncertain often. This is okay. This is part of the process of learning to teach. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">As far as preparing curriculum and strategies for the classroom, I would say to try to plan activities that don't make you the center for the whole duration of class. If you plan a lot where you have to be constantly talking and leading, you will get exhausted, and also the kids will start to struggle with behavior. They won't be able to sit and focus on you for long periods on and on, so be sure to plan in ways for them to connect with each other and to move around the room. Remember things like CHALK TALK from Assessment class, where students can get up, record ideas and responses on large posters or white boards around the room. Use that! Use activities that help students get in small groups and think through problems. I would suggest picking groups, so that students don't always just go right to friends, and so that the same kids aren't always left out. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Come up with some fun challenges for students to work on. Things like: "If you were a group of senators in the US Senate, which 10 laws would you add to our country right now? And why? In the groups of four that I give you, talk about your ideas, then come up with your list and with one solid reason why for each law you create." You can then give students 45 minutes to talk, create their laws, maybe a second 45 minutes the next day, and then they can hang their posters with their laws around the room. Students can then do a GALLERY WALK to explore each other's posters, and then you can lead a discussion afterwards about what everyone noticed--prompting deep analysis and reflection. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">You might do an activity like this after you briefly explore some real laws--or a discussion of unjust laws in our country's past, and how to create new laws that ARE just. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">A strategy like this allows students to learn, but also doesn't put you in the spotlight for long, long periods of time, allowing you to connect with kids in small groups, and also allowing kids to do the thinking and learning!</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The more you can utilize strategies like this, the more fun you and the kids will have, and the more energized you will feel!</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Also remember that the words you say to students matter, and you have the power to encourage them, inspire them, and let them know that you SEE them and you CARE about them. You'll show them this by all the little things you do every day--making eye contact, responding to their joy about a movie they saw, a soccer practice they had, or a picture they drew. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">What students remember--long after they will have had you as a teacher--are these things. They'll remember whether your eyes opened wide when they told you a story. They'll remember whether you delighted in them, and whether you allowed yourself to be childlike enough to be amazed at what they'll say and do. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Be delighted. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Be amazed. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This matters far more than anything else you'll ever do in the classroom. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And one last thing: remember that they are going to try their best. On the surface, it might not look like that, but they'll also be hiding a lot of fears, a lot of worries about not being cool enough, smart enough, loved enough. Don't always take their surface-level reactions as core-level judgments of you or what you do. See deeper. Explore farther. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Keep reaching out, and know that I'm here for you, and others are too. Never hesitate to ask away--you are not alone!</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Peace, and rock on,</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Professor R</span></div>
Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-82885914053908418402019-04-08T12:09:00.001-04:002019-04-08T12:09:39.571-04:00Why It's Crucial that My Sons and I Watched the NCAA Women's Basketball TournamentLast night, in an epic, edge-of-your-seat basketball game, Baylor and Notre Dame went head-to-head in 40 minutes of some of the best basketball I've ever seen.<br />
<br />
Scattered around our living room were my three sons, ages 10, 5, and 1, my wife, and I. It was deeply important to me that my sons watched the game. It was also deeply troubling to me that the championship game of the women's NCAA basketball tournament was aired only on ESPN, and not on CBS, as equivalent men's games are (and as the men's championship will be tonight). Not to mention, even more troubling that the other games of the women's tournament were aired only on ESPN2, while the men's games were on channels with far easier access.<br />
<br />
I want my sons to be a part of stopping this kind of unequal and unjust reception.<br />
<br />
I want my sons to get used to seeing women as powerful, poised, bold, brave, and amazingly engage to watch as they compete at the highest levels of athletic skill.<br />
<br />
However, because the culture of inequality is so immensely pervasive, it can sometimes feel overwhelming to change.<br />
<br />
Case in point: in earlier games, as I tried to get my oldest son to be interested in the NCAA women's tournament, his reply came honestly and quickly, "I think the men are more fun to watch. It just doesn't sound super fun to watch the women play."<br />
<br />
Resisting the huge to respond with incredulity and shock, I stayed calm, and started to ask that key questions for parents and educators: "Why?"<br />
<br />
As it turns out, it wasn't because he had actually seen them play and thought they weren't as exciting or interesting. Instead, it was because he had <i>heard </i>that the men were the most engaging to watch. He had drunk the Kool-Aid of our cultural norms, evident everywhere and ready to be received as totally legit, that the real drama and excitement in sports was in watching the men play.<br />
<br />
All my logic didn't really get through to him, but we watched the preliminary games, and he slowly started to get a little more interested.<br />
<br />
Then, last night, we started watching the early coverage, hearing the truly remarkable stories about players like Arike Ogunbowale and her epic buzzer-beaters from the previous season to win the semifinal <i>and</i> final for Notre Dame.<br />
<br />
We heard about Chloe Jackson and her courageous decision to transfer from LSU to Baylor for her last shot at a title, having to learn an entirely new position (point guard) on the job to make the move work.<br />
<br />
We learned about Notre Dame Coach Muffet McGraw's powerful words on equality in the workforce for women, and we heard about Baylor coach Kim Mulkey's battle back from the darkness of losing a grandchild during her daughter's stillbirth in the past two years.<br />
<br />
And then it was game time.<br />
<br />
Baylor came out fighting, taking a commanding lead from the get-go. But over the course of the game, Notre Dame never gave up. In the second half, led by guards Arike Ogunbowale and Carolyn Mabrey, Notre Dame went on run after run, eventually taking their first lead in the game since they led 3-2 in the first minute.<br />
<br />
I looked over at my 10-year old: mesmerized. Literally on the edge of his seat. Hands raising in hope or fear or shock and, yes, most definitely in <i>awe.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
He was loving every minute of this tense, talent-filled and effort-fueled battle for the 2019 NCAA Women's Basketball Championship.<br />
<br />
And as his dad, I loved watching him watch these women play.<br />
<br />
I want him and my other two sons to learn early and often that women are leaders, game-changers, powerful and poised and worth watching, worth learning from, worth admiring, worth following.<br />
<br />
This belief in no way diminishes my sons' own abilities or trajectories. Such a lie is far too often peddled by those fearful of change and equality.<br />
<br />
No. Supporting, rooting for, and encouraging women to be their powerful selves does not diminish boys and men. Instead, it frees us to be fully human, too. It frees us to encourage, celebrate, and grow. It frees us to embrace equality and justice rather than harbor power and fear.<br />
<br />
The definition of masculinity lies not in a forged and false notion of dominance, but rather in the embrace of authentic equality and progress for <i>all</i> people, not just those with certain attributes or labels.<br />
<br />
That's what I want to try hard to practice. That's what I want my sons to learn from me.<br />
<br />
<br />Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-55847326439191077912018-06-06T10:09:00.000-04:002018-06-06T22:59:26.508-04:00To the LighthouseAfter a three week period in which we had a baby, moved to a new state, changed schools for the boys, and changed jobs for dad, we lately stopped to take stock of what's happened over the last nine months.<br />
<br />
The simple answer: a lot.<br />
<br />
Watching the national and international news has been deeply discouraging, bordering on suffocating. As a public school teacher for many years, I've lately felt almost voiceless to know how to navigate the bullying that now emanates from the highest office of leadership in America. I would tell my students at the start of every year that I have a very, very calm demeanor, and that I almost never get angry.<br />
<br />
I am a big believer that <i>everything</i> is a learning opportunity. Middle school students, I find, seldom make decisions on the pure basis of trying to deliberately hurt and demean others. Instead, they make decisions without thinking deeply first, without checking in with the empathy in their hearts and minds, without stopping to consider whether it's mob mentality and false reality that drives their choices. Thus, as a teacher, my job is to challenge them to stop and think. To consider their actions from other angles.<br />
<br />
BUT, I would tell my 7th graders, there is one thing that <i>does</i> make me deeply angry. And it's the only time you'll ever see Mr. Reynolds raise his voice. That thing? Bullying. When one student (or a group of students) attacks others because they are different, because they are scared, because they don't toe the line of false and insecure machismo or bravado or a certain look or style...that does get me heated. But how can we combat the attacks by those with more power on those with less when such attacks are modeled by the highest office holder in our country?<br />
<br />
One possible way: lunch duty.<br />
<br />
Many teachers would complain about having lunch duty--a task where we were asked to monitor the lunch waves as high school and middle school students rushed in, ate as if with timers, and gesticulated with gusto.<br />
<br />
I loved lunch duty. I cringed seeing how my students interacted when I wasn't at the front of the class, directing our words and actions in a more structured way. So, then, why did I love having that particular duty assigned to me? It gave me a chance to connect with my students in a plethora of teachable moments. I could sit beside the students who happened to eat at tables alone, hear about their hopes and dreams, the books they loved, the poetry they wrote, and the journey they've been on so far.<br />
<br />
I could also sit at the tables chock full of rowdy boys and ask them questions, share stories about my own love of poetry or about the movies that made me cry, or literally anything that might force them to stop the marching mentality of mob thinking.<br />
<br />
See, lunch was always the most terrifying part of my middle school day when I was growing up. I hated the sheer volume of the massive cafeteria in Windsor, Connecticut. I hated the sense that I didn't belong anywhere. As a kid who loved poetry, basketball, but was terrified to talk in class or take a jumper on my team, I felt like I lived in no man's land. No rarefied struggle at that age, to be sure, but it seemed like everyone else <i>did</i> belong. They found their place. They were cool.<br />
<br />
When I got to high school, I searched out the other people who sat alone, and together we forged our own table--a motley crew, to be sure, but one in which I looked forward to sitting every day. There were students who were labeled "learning disabled" and students who were in Special Olympics and students who were intensely shy, and students who just didn't have anywhere else to go. I loved that lunch table.<br />
<br />
And when I became a teacher, I saw the same lunch room scene: some tables full of vociferous tweens and teens presenting as though they knew their place in the world--had it all figured out and completely belonged. And then there were the scattered lonely souls--often the same students who had endured years of abuse, mocking, and bullying.<br />
<br />
I consistently viewed all of this first as a student, myself, and then as a teacher. But now, due to our own oldest son's experiences, I view it as a dad. This vantage point raises the game to a whole new level--a kind of emotional angst I have never before experienced.<br />
<br />
When we are in the public eye--whether in a massive way, as the leader of a country, or a microcosmic way, as the leader of a class--we have an obligation to those who see us. Our obligation is simple, but profound: be better. As Nelson Mandela more beautifully asked, <i>how can we get people to be better than they think they can be? </i><br />
<br />
Instead of asking, <i>How can I get back at someone?</i> we need to ask, <i>How can I learn to model something better?</i><br />
<br />
We can be sure of one thing in life: we all fail. We all make many mistakes and we all struggle to make our inner worlds align with our outer performances. But that fact does not necessitate any subsequent obligation to stop trying to be better.<br />
<br />
When we have students looking up to us, or citizens watching us, the need to respond with kindness is severe and profound. It is our most lacking resource right now. Modeling basic human dignity and decency are desperate needs, and in the absence of genuine leadership, we must strive to show it more to one another, not less.<br />
<br />
For the past nine months, I've grappled with the deep divisions I see springing up everywhere. People seem more at odds with one another than I can ever remember in my brief life thus far. There is more animosity, more hatred, more disgust towards one another. But behind all of that, there is also a reverberating dignity that is emerging. I see people who have often been silenced--those relegated to sitting at their proverbial lunch tables all alone--speaking up, and doing so with passion and unwavering commitment.<br />
<br />
I see status quo cultural trends beginning to crack. The guise of the macho bravado is being questioned more and more, making way for sensitive boys and men to be who they really are, and show the emotions and inclinations they long to share.<br />
<br />
I see an astounding array or books being published by writers who have been underrepresented for far too long. And when I stroll through bookstores and libraries and see these volumes on display, my heart flutters. Books like <i>American Street</i> by Ibi Zoboi, <i>The Poet X</i> by Elizabeth Acevedo, and <i>The Serpent's Secret</i> by Sayantani DasGupta make me feel a sense of human dignity and hope that seems unquashable, inextinguishable.<br />
<br />
Nine months of a strange malaise is coming to a close. There has been beauty over the past nine months, to be sure. There has been possibility. There has been insight and recognition and hope. Yes., But it has also been a very long winter. In search of genuine leadership based on dignity rather than fear, love rather than vitriol, I have had to search not at the highest pinnacles of power, but rather as the rising up of new leaders--those who perhaps haven't yet peaked, but who are surely en route, and refuse to back down.<br />
<br />
There is a lighthouse in York, Maine, where we rent. Called Nubble Light, it still shines brightly every night as a beacon to ships at sea, wondering, perhaps, where they are meant to be. We had driven there a few times to climb, as a family, along the rocky coast nearby.<br />
<br />
But it was only this past week, when our oldest son wanted to go for a run, that we learned how close we really were to this beacon. After running a while, Tyler turned to me and asked, "Hey Dad, you think we could run to the lighthouse?" Initially, I resisted, thinking the journey would overwhelm us. And even if we made it there, we'd be unable to make it back.<br />
<br />
But that part of me that holds onto hope, that holds onto the possible, said, "Let's do it."<br />
<br />
Two miles later, we climbed atop the rocky coast as the sun set. I glanced up from my sons's face to see the bright light of Nubble awake for the night ahead. That beacon of clarity and hope wasn't nearly as far away as it had felt throughout our nine months living here.<br />
<br />
The rising of dignity, hope, and empowerment often feel far away because of what gets the most airtime. But I see students who have often been scattered around the lunchroom, lonely, coming together. I see voices rising up to speak stories that have been silent too long. I see boats, searching long, who have found a place to dock.<br />
<br />
That place is dignity.Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-27347069633933271452017-08-16T15:45:00.005-04:002017-08-16T21:57:33.719-04:00Facing History with Courage and HopeWhen I first started teaching high school students in Connecticut, back in 2003, I remember discussing the realities of racism in America with my students, and the horrific--and lasting--legacy of slavery and the Jim Crow era. My students were shocked to learn that the KKK was still active in 2003, and I recall many of them saying that they had thought racism was long gone.<br />
<br />
No.<br />
<br />
Today, I doubt any high school student in America would dare to believe that there is no such thing as the KKK. Because of the repulsive acts of cowardice among white supremacist groups in Charlottesville, students today are realizing a harrowing truth: racism was never defeated nor dead--it was merely in hiding.<br />
<br />
I grew up in the town of Windsor, CT--a town just north of Hartford, where there is still a beautiful diversity of people. In all of my public school years, I had friends of many races, and I recall listening to the speeches of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, Jr. on my Sony Walkman as I did my paper route. The speeches riveted me--their clarion calls for justice and equality, their evocation of America's ugly past towards African-Americans, and their hope for a more just future.<br />
<br />
Listening to those speeches, though, and going to school every day where my classes always seemed to be 50% white and 50% black, I thought America had come a long way.<br />
<br />
But when my best friend in high school, an African-American, and I created a dream to hike the Appalachian Trail together, I was somewhat shocked when he confided in me that he wasn't sure it was the smartest idea anymore. "Why not?" I recall asking--noting that we had trained with great discipline already. "Because there have been some racist attacks on the Trail lately," he said.<br />
<br />
He was worried for his safety. As a young black man, he had to deal with a reality that I never did.<br />
<br />
In more recent years, in my teaching in the 7th grade classroom, I saw a glaring ignorance. On the walls of my classroom were such notable figures as Martin Luther King, Jr., Langston Hughes, and Toni Morrison. Students could only recognize King, and even then, many of them inquired, "Didn't he end slavery?"<br />
<br />
However, I think my own initial ignorance, and that displayed by so many students, is evidence of America's hiding of its past. So many want to pretend that racism is over and done with--dealt with by passing a few laws and some slip-shod apology for slavery.<br />
<br />
It is not.<br />
<br />
So, my 7th grade students read <i>Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass</i> and <i>Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry</i>. In conjunction with these books, my students <a href="http://www.slate.com/blogs/the_vault/2013/06/28/voting_rights_and_the_supreme_court_the_impossible_literacy_test_louisiana.html" target="_blank">explored the racist voting literacy test Louisiana gave in the 1960's</a> after the Voting Rights Act was passed. We read and discussed <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2014/06/the-case-for-reparations/361631/" target="_blank">Ta-Nehisi Coates' "The Case for Reparations"</a> and we watched footage from <i><a href="http://www.npr.org/2017/03/12/519925253/eyes-on-the-prize-producer-on-making-a-civil-rights-documentary-before-its-time" target="_blank">Eyes on the Prize.</a></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Just last week, my wife and I welcomed out third child into the world: Joshua William Reynolds. We have both long believed in raising our sons to be kind, compassionate, gentle, and loving. Ever since we watched Jackson Katz's powerful documentary about the horror of male bravado and cowardice that masquerades as courage, <i><a href="http://www.jacksonkatz.com/videos/" target="_blank">Tough Guise</a></i>, we have tried to create a family that aims for honesty, emotional-openness, and facing our hopes and our fears.<br />
<br />
We grow as a family when we talk openly and vulnerably. We grow as a society when we reveal our wrongs, not when we hide and disguise them, pretending that they were not really all that bad. We heal when we make amends, not when we make false moral equivalencies.<br />
<br />
The high schoolers and the 7th graders I taught evidenced something beautiful as they learned more fully about America's past: action. They wanted to know what they could <i>do</i>, how they could help change our country for the better. They didn't become America-haters, as so many seem to fear. Instead, my students became America-changers. They wanted to try to work to fulfill America's promises to <i>all</i> people--to the many, not just the few.<br />
<br />
I am a highly imperfect man: imperfect as a father, as a teacher, and as a writer. But I long to try my hardest to live compassionately, to love deeply, and to stand witness to injustice and do whatever small part I can to try and stop it.<br />
<br />
The middle school kid who heard powerful words on his Sony Walkman is now a Daddy. I want to make those words real to my sons. I want to help them see that courage is about making amends for wrongs, about facing history honestly and trying hard to do whatever we can to create a more just society.Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-37398334550669568222017-08-02T00:11:00.001-04:002017-08-02T00:11:47.902-04:0027 Books? 27 Acts of Faith, Hope, and LoveA confession: I really loved the movie <i>27 Dresses</i>. Jen and I have watched it twice. (Okay, three times.) I'm a sucker for romantic comedies--so much so that once, my four brothers and I all wanted to hang out together and catch up on life in our different worlds. So, what did we do? We went to see <i>The Wedding Planner</i> when it was in theaters.<br />
<br />
Five guys saying, "Excuse me" as they walked around a variety of couples out on their first or second dates.<br />
<br />
(And we loved the movie.)<br />
<br />
But tonight, Jen and I witnessed something far more spectacular than a solid romantic comedy. We told our two sons, Tyler and Ben, that they could have a little extra Brother to Brother Reading Time tonight. They responded with giddiness and proceeded to their bedroom to choose their books.<br />
<br />
Jen and I proceeded to ours to sit and talk together after a day's journey hike at the <a href="http://www.massaudubon.org/get-outdoors/wildlife-sanctuaries/broad-meadow-brook" target="_blank">Broad Meadow Brook Conservation Area</a> in Worcester, MA, and a spontaneous stop at an incredible local bookstore, <a href="https://www.enchantedpassage.com/" target="_blank">Enchanted Passage</a>, in Sutton. (<i>Keep active and busy as we wait for baby number 3 to arrive </i>is our mantra each day).<br />
<br />
Brother to Brother Reading Time began, and continued, and continued, and...<br />
<br />
After an hour, Jen and I realized that it was almost 10 pm, and bedtime had long since passed. As we entered they room, we saw a massive stack of books, and Tyler was delighted to show us the mountain.<br />
<br />
Ben said, "We read A LOT of books!"<br />
<br />
Tyler proceeded to count every single volume, and the tally? 27 books.<br />
<br />
There's a lot said about books being sources of hope in dark times--about books being acts of resistance against fear and cruelty, and books serving to light the way for our feet when the path ahead seems treacherous and unknown.<br />
<br />
And I believe in all of it.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipFb89J5PJyTX-wJiY0ohG1kXX1SK9-6bND4DQE8393woaOyYGl0nqPfkdRFjlzNUz76PxhPPJglBVfbltPAoR5eFdCNEWs5vLpAIhTtwFz87iqE16oQj5JWZ3e14_tiM251qbO6WZBb7-/s1600/Just+Mercy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="408" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipFb89J5PJyTX-wJiY0ohG1kXX1SK9-6bND4DQE8393woaOyYGl0nqPfkdRFjlzNUz76PxhPPJglBVfbltPAoR5eFdCNEWs5vLpAIhTtwFz87iqE16oQj5JWZ3e14_tiM251qbO6WZBb7-/s200/Just+Mercy.jpg" width="129" /></a>I believe in the power of books to change lives because it has happened in my life over and over again--at every stage of my growth. The most recent volume to grab make my heart swell and my mind focus is <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/20342617-just-mercy" target="_blank"><i>Just Mercy</i> by Bryan Stevenson</a>--a nonfiction account of one lawyer's quest to seek justice for the wrongfully accused and for children serving life sentences for unequal crimes, sentencing when they were young and locked away because of a society that values wealth more than it values love.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBigmNcl3EnHxLlvBGg7dXH3Bc045PLvqc7GwhGlff6j95sKRKMAZe8446RJRUzCTB5bALPFSZD1DnKTtpKsbj3yCch1umg9STaA-kr7yWDsEeG8Li4DT0vRkucQedVDj5NKDtBUGqpvaA/s1600/Luke+was+There.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="353" data-original-width="300" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBigmNcl3EnHxLlvBGg7dXH3Bc045PLvqc7GwhGlff6j95sKRKMAZe8446RJRUzCTB5bALPFSZD1DnKTtpKsbj3yCch1umg9STaA-kr7yWDsEeG8Li4DT0vRkucQedVDj5NKDtBUGqpvaA/s200/Luke+was+There.jpg" width="169" /></a>Back when I was in the third grade, I remember reading a book called <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Luke-Was-There-Eleanor-Clymer/dp/0440401399" target="_blank"><i>Luke Was There </i>by Eleanor Clymer,</a> and I clutched that book to my chest and took it to bed with me at night and cried with it and believed in it and loved it. It's the story of a young boy, Julius, struggling as his stepdad leaves home and his mom becomes seriously ill. Julius is put into a group home, and he believes that no one cares for him; life is completely hopeless. Enter a Big Brother of sorts--an African-American volunteer named Luke--who helps Julius see that love is possible, and that some people can be trusted.<br />
<br />
Man. When I see the cover of that book, my heart still beats fast.<br />
<br />
So, yes: I believe that books can change lives, help us see and feel and believe and hope things we might otherwise never have known.<br />
<br />
And tonight, when Jen and I walked into our sons' bedroom and saw that stack of 27 books, my heart swelled. That's 27 acts of faith; 27 chances for connection, and compassion, and laughter, and hope.<br />
<br />
And love.Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-1413705052840730112017-07-22T21:14:00.000-04:002017-07-22T21:14:48.688-04:00Surprised by JoyAll parents of young children come to understand that the word "early" takes on a new meaning when crossing the threshold into parenthood. Whereas, before kids, 7:00 felt early, waking up, now, anytime when the clock reads 7-something is easily considered sleeping in.<br />
<br />
Anything before 6-something is early, anything before 5-something is very early, and anything before 4-something elicits a GOD PLEASE HELP ME prayer that runs on repeat until the sad realization dawns that--yes, the day is truly starting.<br />
<br />
So when, earlier this week, our sons came into our bedroom and the clock read 9-something, my first thought was, <i>what phantasmal force has refrained our kids from doing that which they have been programmed to do every single morning of their little lives until this particular morning?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The more honest rendition of that thought was something like, <i>HUH!? </i>followed closely by, <i>WOW!</i> and then subsequently by, <i>OH NO!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Jen and I waited, listening as the trained spies that we have so expertly become (all parents double as secret agents, complete with their own repertoire of skills and shenanigans), and heard whispers. Tyler, age eight, was instructing Ben, age three, as to where to put certain household objects.<br />
<br />
"Spray" could be heard. <i> </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Glass" could be heard.<br />
<br />
"Basement" could be heard.<br />
<br />
At which point my legs flew off the bed and I scrambled as close to the top of the stairs as I could to ensure that neither of my kids was about to perish.<br />
<br />
We could charge admission to our basement, since it could easily double as a thrill ride for any kid under the age of six. <i>Come one, come all, to the terrifying tyranny of concrete floors awaiting your descent on thin wooden steps that bend with your every footstep and which have no rails to protect you as you make your perilous way downwards!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
(Full disclosure: I have a slightly unnecessary and exaggerated sense of fear about stairs. But still.)<br />
<br />
I waited, however, at the top of our stairs, and Jen and I continued to listen to our two boys, attempting to discern what they were engaged in so thoroughly as to let us sleep in until the afternoon (as anything after 9-something qualifies as, essentially, the afternoon.)<br />
<br />
Our boys emerged, alive, from the basement and then proceeded to discuss how to wake us up for the big surprise.<br />
<br />
"We can jump on Daddy and Mommy <i>real big</i> in the stomach, like this!" Benjamin brainstormed, then proceeding to--I assume--show is older brother kind of jump with which he conjectured it would be wise to awake his full-term pregnant mom and his stair-anxious dad.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, Tyler gently declined that idea, and suggested instead that they jump into our bedroom and loudly announce they had a surprise awaiting us.<br />
<br />
"Okay!" Ben replied, ever the little brother ready to follow his big brother into anything.<br />
<br />
"Let's go <i>really, really</i> quietly until we get to the top, okay?" Tyler announced.<br />
<br />
"Okay!" Ben shouted as loudly as he could.<br />
<br />
They began their ascent to our bedroom, and I raced back to the bed, leapt on top, and tried to look as though I was a hibernating bear who had not been awake since Fall.<br />
<br />
"SURPRISE!"the boys roared.<br />
<br />
Jen and I, wielding our ever sharp skills in the crafty arts of astonishment, sat up in shock and wondered to one another what could possible be happening.<br />
<br />
Benjamin, forgetting his older brother's sage counsel regarding jumping-on-people's-stomachs promptly jumped on m stomach and almost let the soon-to-be-baby feel his leap, too, but Tyler announced, "Come downstairs!" before he could.<br />
<br />
We all peddled down the stairs and Jen and I utilized our we-really-<i>are</i>-astonished astonishment.<br />
<br />
Celebrated author C.S. Lewis once wrote a potent autobiography of his journey to faith over a lifetime of reading, study, friendship, and deep thinking, entitled <i><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/121732.Surprised_by_Joy" target="_blank">Surprised by Joy</a></i>. Soon after the book was published, he also met and married an American poet named Joy Davidman--a surprise for an Oxford professor who had come to believe that he might never have what people called romantic love, or a partner in marriage.<br />
<br />
These two surprises for Lewis are much deeper than mine--much longer and much more meaningful--and yet on this particular morning, as the clock reads 9:36, and I have just arisen, my joy swells.<br />
<br />
As I look around, I see that our boys have spent the morning, as we slept in, cleaning.<br />
<br />
Cleaning.<br />
<br />
CLEANING!<br />
<br />
Jen and I looked at one another with that mix of surprise and delight that neatly evades definition but can be expressed by any one of a number of monosyllabic expressions.<br />
<br />
<i>Wow!</i><br />
<br />
<i>Oh!</i><br />
<br />
<i>Look!</i><br />
<br />
<i>Ah!</i><br />
<br />
We said them each, repeatedly, as our boys walked us through all of their morning work.<br />
<br />
I was probably a bit to effusive in my praise and gratitude, considering the erudite or terrifying (depending on your natural proclivities as a parent) book, <i>Nurtureshock</i> by Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman, in which they demonstrate that traditional praise can be debilitating to kids. (<i>Aaaah! What about SO MUCH OF EVERYTHING I SAY TO MY KIDS!?). </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
But the sheer level of the joy--and the extreme nature of the surprise--have me forgetting my need to focus on the hard work and I go all-out in my effusive gratitude and praise.<br />
<br />
Because I remember too many mornings waking up when the clock said 4-something.<br />
<br />
Because I remember too many nights staying up long after the kids were asleep and the house was clean, and the clock said 10-something, and I have 43 essays on <i>Their Eyes Were Watching God </i> to grade before report cards were due tomorrow, or to make a writing deadline, and I all I wanted to do was cry and shout loudly I CANNOT DO IT. I DO NOT HAVE WHAT IT TAKES.<br />
<br />
Because I remember that parenting is a job where, even when you feel like you're making some solid, wise decisions, that just meas you about to get slapped with a surprising bad--<i>how could I have made THAT decision?</i><br />
<br />
Because no matter what our struggles, when we are truly and deeply surprised by the kindness of another, it runs deep with us and we remember it and it strips away our fears and foibles--if only for a little while.<br />
<br />
Years ago, my wife began a small challenge to us as a family: to become RAKATEERS: or, Random Acts of Kindess (-ateers).<br />
<br />
It was very cool. And as I watched her concoct fun schemes like buying neat local jewelry and then stopping by a McDonald's to ask if those behind the counter would be interested in it as a gift, it made me smile. I loved seeing the precise moment when someone received a small bit of a joyful surprise.<br />
<br />
This past winter, I felt as though there were many of us who could have used a little more sense of being surprised by joy. Instead, the major headlines seemed to hold forth with surprises of despair, pain, intolerance, and fear. Indeed, fear, protectionism, and lack of compassion seemed to win at the polls and that defeat trickled to many other areas.<br />
<br />
But the small moments of joy were still present in the ever-resistant acts of kindness that I saw in my own 7th graders, in our greater society, and in the voices of friends and fighters who stood up for one another with compassion and courage.<br />
<br />
And, yes, I even was grateful to receive some small moments of being surprised by joy myself, this late wake-up being not the only one, but one of which I am particularly fond.Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-16935273269077110972016-09-14T11:07:00.000-04:002016-09-14T12:42:45.137-04:00The Most Important SkillBefore the new school year starts, I try to think through a theme for the year--something that I want my students to carry with them long after the work of reading and writing essays and stories has finished for 7th grade. After reading article after article about the lack of empathy--and seeing such proof displayed, tragically, on the national stage all through the summer--I decided that this year we would try and work on what I believe is the most essential skill of all.<br />
<br />
Growing up, I was very close with my oldest brother, Christopher, who is deaf. He lost his hearing at age two due to meningitis. Once I got to high school, Chris began to open up to me and vulnerably share what school had been like for him--the ways in which others did not view him or treat him with kindness and dignity, but rather with disdain and disregard.<br />
<br />
His is not my story to tell: his journey belongs to him, and I do not want to speak on his behalf. Chris has a powerful, beautiful, and dignified voice all his own.<br />
<br />
But I do want to share that after teaching for 13 years in a variety of contexts--at the high school, college, middle school, and Adult Ed levels--I am convinced that the most important skill we can help our students learn is empathy. It is more important than every single test score, every college essay, every other result or attribute.<br />
<br />
And empathy is severely lacking.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.kmtv.com/news/local-news/bullied-deaf-student-overwhelmed-by-support-wants-to-transfer-schools" target="_blank">The recent news out of Omaha, Nebraska, about Alex Hernandez is deeply disheartening.</a> Watching Alex talk about his experiences of ongoing bullying (particularly the most recent instance when two male students stole his backpack and threw it into the toilet), and showing the clip to my current 7th graders, I cannot keep from crying.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.cnn.com/2016/09/07/health/deaf-bullying-backpack-trnd/" target="_blank">But in the CNN article about Alex</a>, in light of the wave of support and solidarity from people who heard about the disturbing incident and then connected with Alex, he shares a profoundly moving statement: "It made me very happy. It made me feel like I am not alone." <i>This</i> is the power of empathy. For a student who has traveled years feeling like he is alone, that his battles are his alone, and the cruelty of others is his alone to face (with little support, it would seem, from the school community in which he spent years), Alex finally feels like others <i>see</i> him for who he is. They are seeing the injustice that has been done to him repeatedly--not just in a single instance--and they are voicing their support of Alex and their righteous anger at those who attack.<br />
<br />
One of the questions my 7th graders and I are exploring is <i>why</i> students who attack feel like they have the license to do so. In other words, why did those two male students who stole Alex's backpack think it was okay to do so? Why did they have a sense they would get away with it (as, by all accounts, they have. A mere mention that they didn't know Alex seems to have convinced the school that it was all a big misunderstanding--something that is often told to people who are systematically and consistently oppressed)?<br />
<br />
One of the most insightful responses from my students is that students who bully and demean others do so because they do not have a deep, experiential, and intimate understanding of others who look, act, or think differently than they do. In other words: the segregation which plagues our school systems across this country is a massive culprit in the absence of empathy.<br />
<br />
Our schools are woefully segregated according to race, class, gender, abilities, and many other attributes, aptitudes, and attitudes.<br />
<br />
Instead of remedying this injustice, many of us seem to accept that this is the way schooling has been done, or that it would be too hard to change, or that it would impose upon principles of freedom. But when we allow segregation and misunderstanding to fester, anything else we teach or learn is meaningless.<br />
<br />
What could have been done to prevent the tragic act of Alex's backpack being thrown in the toilet (and the thousand other cruelties Alex endured along his years as a student)?<br />
<br />
Giving students experiences connecting with others who look, think, and act in ways that may be new to them. We need to invite speakers into our schools to talk about deafness, race relations, gender inequality, and more. We need to create experiential activities whereby our students journey outside the walls of their own schools and into others. We need to create new ways of fostering communities in our schools, and building schools that depend not only on zip codes but on justice codes: commitments to equalize housing costs and access to our public schools.<br />
<br />
We can continue to pretend that standardized test scores are what matter, and that fighting for better scores for all is the work of justice. But that would be to deceive ourselves. What matters most is creating schools that model the kind of what in which we want to live: diverse, understanding, connected, and full of that most important skill of all: empathy.Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-78589658898662065312016-05-19T12:11:00.000-04:002016-05-19T14:29:25.916-04:00Poem for the Maybe-Inclined<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJ0v4490ZLh8TYkIGYFlCimoUOHAC4Tpu3axk53czXgVTUo-oN9nozaoTpeE7Orrqh8ckN7o_cbm4i6ZPtYFfdYSbI26WFJ5qcBLFPkoNcViDgr-TkmFkErDD00sZZYJscbKZKC2cjPeV/s1600/ben+water.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJ0v4490ZLh8TYkIGYFlCimoUOHAC4Tpu3axk53czXgVTUo-oN9nozaoTpeE7Orrqh8ckN7o_cbm4i6ZPtYFfdYSbI26WFJ5qcBLFPkoNcViDgr-TkmFkErDD00sZZYJscbKZKC2cjPeV/s320/ben+water.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Open up the world.<br />
See it for its breadth, depth, beauty, pain.<br />
Life is bigger than we think.<br />
Smaller than we scoff.<br />
Go out and touch it.<br />
See it.<br />
Swim in the oxygen that<br />
Sits still unless we take<br />
Staccato breaths<br />
And big steps<br />
Off cliffs, out of boxes,<br />
Where the air is thin and<br />
Meaning is thick.<br />
Reach.<br />
Teach.<br />
Learn.<br />
Burn.<br />
Think not of thriving<br />
Or of dying,<br />
But of all that is<br />
Waiting to come alive. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5GU2L2dWmc0lWXFVrI5J2pMnsfHdutZlfddqddBqjzoDotdMx0XUmacwSUTt2n2wFmtVLlIJmgfl7UWZvKB6_W8hV4aKP1NBI9DB6KlNf3PUi1r8c4FtjymnAyC48F92bsR36MpbMuIxg/s1600/tyler+cave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5GU2L2dWmc0lWXFVrI5J2pMnsfHdutZlfddqddBqjzoDotdMx0XUmacwSUTt2n2wFmtVLlIJmgfl7UWZvKB6_W8hV4aKP1NBI9DB6KlNf3PUi1r8c4FtjymnAyC48F92bsR36MpbMuIxg/s320/tyler+cave.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-7379950843977494692016-05-13T13:31:00.000-04:002016-05-16T08:19:40.019-04:00Why We RememberLately, our two-year old, Benjamin, has taken to becoming a mini-Chris Farley in every aspect of his conversational life. <a href="http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/the-chris-farley-show-mccartney/2868143" target="_blank">Just like that fabulous persona on <i>SNL</i></a> where Farley portrayed an interviewer who began every question with "Remember when...?" Ben has been imbued with such a trait lately.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6bIK3NCRgOQrSanSDB-Fx9L47r1qcz0TOcaCl6cPze8YnfLcWzvsJUB15wQAIf4JUItxhWJXZId6k_UR-IMRJwEhoDbdCyhBp2laKXzpG4ISWmmXCUPulH1Zm7Aru_EQoaat6tpJ8OB5h/s1600/Farley+McCartney.jpg" /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Ben's questions come at the most random times. When we're sitting eating dinner together, Ben will suddenly look up and out with blazing eyes and remark with rapture on his face: "REMEMBER DINOSAUR AT BARNES AND NOBLE!?" </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
This would be referring to a dinosaur book at Barnes and Noble where, when you push a button, the dinosaur selected subsequently responds with a resounding <i>ROAR!</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Tyler, Jennifer, and I all answer Ben, "Yes, we remember that dinosaur Ben!"</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
To which Ben replies, "Dino say <i>ROAR</i> at Barnes and Noble!"</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
At other times, we will, all four of us, be snuggled on the couch together ready to rock and roll with some reading before bed, and Ben will spontaneously pipe up, "Remember boy fell down!?" </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It referred to an incident three weeks when, at the beach, a boy had fallen while he was running and began to cry with every bit of lung capacity he possessed. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
"Yes, Ben. we remember that."</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
"That boy <i>OKAY, </i>that boy <i>OKAY, </i>that boy gon' to be <i>OKAY."</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
To which we respond, of course, "Yes, Ben, that boy will be okay. he is <i>all-okay!</i>"</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Jen and I have talked a lot lately about how fast everything seems to move. Rushing out in the mornings to get to school on time, rushing to get papers written and deadlines met, rushing to make dinner to get int the bath on time to read books to get to bed before <i>OH MY GOSH HOW IS IT ALREADY 9;30!?</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And with the rampant pace--and the rampant news cycle to keep up with, and all the beautiful and glorious work that we so long to do to make the world just the tiniest bit better--remembering seems to take a back seat to the NOW, to the DO, to the MOVE MOVE MOVE.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
But maybe Chris Farley, and our little guy Ben, are on to something.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Maybe there's more to Remembering than meets the eye. Maybe slowing down and focusing less on the what-still-needs-to-happen and more on the what-work-has-already-been-done, we actually grow. Maybe it's in those spaces where we experience life close to the bone and learn from it, celebrate it, and <b>remember</b> it, that help us feel content and even peaceful. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
As Sarah Lewis claims in her inspiring Ted Talk, after all, sometimes mastery isn't about the absolute best and the absolute perfection; rather, it's about coming close and celebrating that fact--even enjoying it. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/IS_upr6ayqw/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/IS_upr6ayqw?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Remembering reminds us that while we have much to do, we have also already done much. Remembering also reminds us that we do not need to make the same mistakes twice--we can learn from the errors we've already encountered and, by slowing our pace and taking the hand of a friend beside us, move forward with a little more wisdom. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I hope to practice the art of remembering a little more, and striving a little less. </div>
<br />
<br />Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-41877512626408242582016-04-13T12:12:00.003-04:002016-04-13T12:14:55.955-04:00Get Your Looney On!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBuG7gBdKMe_vVYRltma33HyVB0oMzktOlcXFoP_HUh6S_nrF3gW20qgDzxzEJMalJ7jfOSzrlpB2uzBXEjPo28M7wozddBO2m5t2s5n55w5OhOg5DX8ybda_ZfWB-fq6uVVE4S1MvGFAg/s1600/Gant+Looney%2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBuG7gBdKMe_vVYRltma33HyVB0oMzktOlcXFoP_HUh6S_nrF3gW20qgDzxzEJMalJ7jfOSzrlpB2uzBXEjPo28M7wozddBO2m5t2s5n55w5OhOg5DX8ybda_ZfWB-fq6uVVE4S1MvGFAg/s320/Gant+Looney%2521.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gant Family (Paul, Diana, Micah, Emma)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mr. Looney, the 77-year old zany English teacher in <i>The Looney Experiment</i>, is all about depth, connection, and courage. The friendship he forges with 8th-grader Atticus Hobart is a testimony to what's possible when we are willing to get beyond the status quo for school, for ourselves, and for society.<br />
<br />
To help spread the word about going beyond the status quo and into the realm of LOONEY, here are a few friends...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDkqE6bhsoi-VJboOjivFyhZ8_xTzOVCU2yGhJB2wV5TwigBzjk44BSBQHY7VlXYojBhJFfiHV4oeU5uywnGgKnyRiHIDik4PSi3A_JQ7AjwgxmlrMaeQPqqnrKvMYOomBfTaR4IeO9TVa/s1600/Ben+Looney%2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDkqE6bhsoi-VJboOjivFyhZ8_xTzOVCU2yGhJB2wV5TwigBzjk44BSBQHY7VlXYojBhJFfiHV4oeU5uywnGgKnyRiHIDik4PSi3A_JQ7AjwgxmlrMaeQPqqnrKvMYOomBfTaR4IeO9TVa/s320/Ben+Looney%2521.jpg" width="198" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ben Reynolds</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmdTwZcLUtmabvC16im4lM4oy-phk8vVcQDMIvDPE4tiFltgmoXv5ZmBbAyfWjTKMhbwGg74no1fuGTfzvBgMrqyy87ApvUVCT63Uy8OzE40zKsrWI4YDuE214E_EG4x8hzkSBR8mccS3y/s1600/Kathy+Looney%2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmdTwZcLUtmabvC16im4lM4oy-phk8vVcQDMIvDPE4tiFltgmoXv5ZmBbAyfWjTKMhbwGg74no1fuGTfzvBgMrqyy87ApvUVCT63Uy8OzE40zKsrWI4YDuE214E_EG4x8hzkSBR8mccS3y/s320/Kathy+Looney%2521.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kathryn Erskine</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Z7dC2-nCCQ2dKY8vth9cLPMVcH8nj7amkDqjcfKrvbbItobZ0MP-sL-Dn-hM8lEXszq_o-7js7YRPB1cV525iN60vUFragzZG0EVihg8MkAtFaJCbciPf-exRWv6Pi_KP2BtULsOhzwC/s1600/North+Tama+Kindergarden+Class+%2528TJ+Shay%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Z7dC2-nCCQ2dKY8vth9cLPMVcH8nj7amkDqjcfKrvbbItobZ0MP-sL-Dn-hM8lEXszq_o-7js7YRPB1cV525iN60vUFragzZG0EVihg8MkAtFaJCbciPf-exRWv6Pi_KP2BtULsOhzwC/s400/North+Tama+Kindergarden+Class+%2528TJ+Shay%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs70Iq7SGbqczZGtVAQnCVKk8n_1VM3OOrIAtwutGd5M51HJIEYriYmuCDSi8qxW0EjzvFmdYJrhw8FaGUWTNBNrflG1KYsPrL1uSijlEoM9AZgOYCq3Qn7ntkHfvJksOIqtjbr7S3SYqP/s1600/Megan+Looney%2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs70Iq7SGbqczZGtVAQnCVKk8n_1VM3OOrIAtwutGd5M51HJIEYriYmuCDSi8qxW0EjzvFmdYJrhw8FaGUWTNBNrflG1KYsPrL1uSijlEoM9AZgOYCq3Qn7ntkHfvJksOIqtjbr7S3SYqP/s320/Megan+Looney%2521.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Megan Devlin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Qt0WqUAFTyNd73hRz1Ljo4s5FRelfNilgmc_NcO0mBYcIt-vWqYopc45Y0RUbu8ae9tVCDQaqCQvZc45v2nKTbanZGIzsAzujnQ0We87bes0KQfqQjEkOsfXGfgQ0D7Gl8Gaz1wEP_94/s1600/Matt+Looney%2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Qt0WqUAFTyNd73hRz1Ljo4s5FRelfNilgmc_NcO0mBYcIt-vWqYopc45Y0RUbu8ae9tVCDQaqCQvZc45v2nKTbanZGIzsAzujnQ0We87bes0KQfqQjEkOsfXGfgQ0D7Gl8Gaz1wEP_94/s320/Matt+Looney%2521.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matt Devlin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPj0-xZi96w6qP5anU7494975zGGF0pZ15QeSNTydKZtqQ9VBZLAd3UCSEaMMViE_Gfm70CTw9IojfckU8M6NNE6xHtwHsLXXTK7wDniU7h-ByDAZcO9iEGWPW-RTQ3mIptZBG51u9PdO_/s1600/Tam+Looney%2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPj0-xZi96w6qP5anU7494975zGGF0pZ15QeSNTydKZtqQ9VBZLAd3UCSEaMMViE_Gfm70CTw9IojfckU8M6NNE6xHtwHsLXXTK7wDniU7h-ByDAZcO9iEGWPW-RTQ3mIptZBG51u9PdO_/s320/Tam+Looney%2521.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tamara Ellis Smith</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizZ4rcAnFCXkFIUIWGKej4h_wiCXLPbFHX6G0uqv_te9Zavt1urt9zSE2R5LDhSOIpz_Wk3LY1b_4jZptsbWGyN2xoZW62V1GvTFu4lTkUis3Wg3WVgFlNDibPicbtFMFGmiVzalys5fw6/s1600/Katie+Looney%2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizZ4rcAnFCXkFIUIWGKej4h_wiCXLPbFHX6G0uqv_te9Zavt1urt9zSE2R5LDhSOIpz_Wk3LY1b_4jZptsbWGyN2xoZW62V1GvTFu4lTkUis3Wg3WVgFlNDibPicbtFMFGmiVzalys5fw6/s320/Katie+Looney%2521.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Katie Benson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVAs4vIdjXuaAwkBKGpm-KjCWmF3LDcf6FRQrvQ4JbDKnSiLj721qvzH00UcHRJPvaAqfzQtLeDtg5PHo0QesLPjRG45EiG3qXRyNcyIjRIrLkPRo1Cwi8u6HMuVIa8Gikp_CBNEGlnqh2/s1600/Susan+Looney%2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVAs4vIdjXuaAwkBKGpm-KjCWmF3LDcf6FRQrvQ4JbDKnSiLj721qvzH00UcHRJPvaAqfzQtLeDtg5PHo0QesLPjRG45EiG3qXRyNcyIjRIrLkPRo1Cwi8u6HMuVIa8Gikp_CBNEGlnqh2/s320/Susan+Looney%2521.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Susan Anderson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_kzbRi9W79PSxb_kIAP2MIsYe7Wn3hZOG3ZQc0n2sTXIIb4O09qy-HIQ62sADE9i2w_qzofXWGl3OKlG1fU_HUsdXYZvNsjUf7NF1uVpov7e5jJFjINX-NboNvd18fZccmTARByEcaKJ/s1600/Jake+Looney%2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_kzbRi9W79PSxb_kIAP2MIsYe7Wn3hZOG3ZQc0n2sTXIIb4O09qy-HIQ62sADE9i2w_qzofXWGl3OKlG1fU_HUsdXYZvNsjUf7NF1uVpov7e5jJFjINX-NboNvd18fZccmTARByEcaKJ/s320/Jake+Looney%2521.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jake Dustin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp0kmJebdW-HpR6UHnnSbHMxthLIQ3kN9qoMw1144V7w87XBQfTLsL_bOmDIkK-zu-6y9InmcitzOofsBlz6l9jxFgwSz1hNDGFG1unw5_Grfulifqu0d0qsYH-U-z21H9J4foY211fKwr/s1600/Deborah+Looney%2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp0kmJebdW-HpR6UHnnSbHMxthLIQ3kN9qoMw1144V7w87XBQfTLsL_bOmDIkK-zu-6y9InmcitzOofsBlz6l9jxFgwSz1hNDGFG1unw5_Grfulifqu0d0qsYH-U-z21H9J4foY211fKwr/s320/Deborah+Looney%2521.jpg" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deborah Underwood</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKpZo_1UWPOjyfaL8BmIXKqNsVR-h2cNTV4ASd8IH-20FmSJN1rji43nqGc4bnzP7Al_zSs32xiyrWg6VHqbipqlDOGv68fQJyAHK8S7NF0Q5cTBJQkuIjoNTVYeg4N6bEHMtaZB5r-Sa7/s1600/Laurie+Looney%2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKpZo_1UWPOjyfaL8BmIXKqNsVR-h2cNTV4ASd8IH-20FmSJN1rji43nqGc4bnzP7Al_zSs32xiyrWg6VHqbipqlDOGv68fQJyAHK8S7NF0Q5cTBJQkuIjoNTVYeg4N6bEHMtaZB5r-Sa7/s320/Laurie+Looney%2521.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laurie Ann Thompson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpSvuYPr03LCE4R03E8FMRINOmPBDcfw363jMfSf4tNwNJrxwm9e9cCQeuLg-AqD2MDktn6yRO8iE9hFMsNWHPeYe0fC8SJ7HRGuTR-_QOLd31AD43dz9G_1ZrbLoiLHv1ywvR8bEEQmIi/s1600/Luke+Looney%2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpSvuYPr03LCE4R03E8FMRINOmPBDcfw363jMfSf4tNwNJrxwm9e9cCQeuLg-AqD2MDktn6yRO8iE9hFMsNWHPeYe0fC8SJ7HRGuTR-_QOLd31AD43dz9G_1ZrbLoiLHv1ywvR8bEEQmIi/s320/Luke+Looney%2521.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luke Someone or Other</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj83POe_y9CWVzl4W1AdUbodCB0QE9Bxo40dORVEFs8JHzHpubq1nxpi-9eu1KHB2PFMujEvo8O6ncF45lvIfFacahrR1gjyTj-8fGCW2viUgABlVXE5iYXjib4NK2CjV2JxkJJ-A-BsWxg/s1600/Suka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj83POe_y9CWVzl4W1AdUbodCB0QE9Bxo40dORVEFs8JHzHpubq1nxpi-9eu1KHB2PFMujEvo8O6ncF45lvIfFacahrR1gjyTj-8fGCW2viUgABlVXE5iYXjib4NK2CjV2JxkJJ-A-BsWxg/s320/Suka.jpg" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Suka</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmw4L7v17carcSSXlOtpd8jiQqu0kIWpz-1xxFOKXT_w3t_H8M9VB9u55Vvf_3688xz3IPhiWRzmGrq5o9WyWtuxKeXO23Onz1lzuPjgWdCv36MvWE2MelSKuN1rZTKaAbseacy8J2yvBA/s1600/Trixie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmw4L7v17carcSSXlOtpd8jiQqu0kIWpz-1xxFOKXT_w3t_H8M9VB9u55Vvf_3688xz3IPhiWRzmGrq5o9WyWtuxKeXO23Onz1lzuPjgWdCv36MvWE2MelSKuN1rZTKaAbseacy8J2yvBA/s320/Trixie.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trixie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
What does your looney look like?<br />
<br />
#GetYourLooneyOnLuke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-73209851505889794822016-03-17T16:13:00.003-04:002016-03-18T08:44:03.387-04:00Of Soup and SynthesisA few nights ago, Tyler announced that he wanted to make dinner for Jen, Ben, and I.<br />
<br />
"What are you going to make?" We wondered aloud.<br />
<br />
"You'll see!" came the excited retort.<br />
<br />
And so, we saw.<br />
<br />
Tyler asked Jen to purchase a number of items from the store--red peppers, onions, garlic, avocado, grape tomatoes, tomato sauce...and a few hours later Tyler was at the stove adding ingredients into one pan and getting ready to chop up others and fry them in another pan. The entire time, as he progressed in his yet-unannounced recipe preparation--he voiced aloud exactly what he was doing as he was working off the set of his own veritable cooking show.<br />
<br />
Hearing our seven old utter sentences like, "So what I'm doing here is I am cutting these peppers into very tiny pieces to get them all to be just the right size for the mix" filled us with a synthesis of wonder and delight.<br />
<br />
We relished it. (Even if we were just a bit mystified and fearful of how the eventual result would taste.)<br />
<br />
Fast forwarding an hour later, we all sat down do a kind of soup. The onions had been fried and we browned just towards the heavy side of soft, the peppers were (as predicted) just the right size, and the other ingredients seemed to elbow out their space in the mixture to announce themselves subtly yet powerfully enough to get noticed--"Hey man! I may be small and have strange ties to varies but I AM HERE TOO" said the garlic.<br />
<br />
In the days that have followed, I've thought a lot about soup.<br />
<br />
Soup.<br />
<br />
It's a synthesis really, and I have thought a lot about synthesis lately, too, since my 7th graders just finished writing their synthesis essays and since my school backpack is burdened with the 100 essays labeled TO BE GRADED.<br />
<br />
The theme my thoughts have taken with all of this soup and synthesis has coalesced into one curiosity today: I wonder how many students in our schools feel like they can make their own soup?<br />
<br />
In other words, I am wondering how often we ask our students--and our children--to work with the ingredients they know and come up with new possibilities. Instead of handing them recipes to be followed meticulously, how often do we let their minds wander around the educational grocery store and say, come up with something new!<br />
<br />
RUBRIC is a buzzword we hear everywhere these days, and if I ever assign some kind of writing and don't provide a rubric (which is becoming more and more frequent!) I certainly hear the fear that arches back: "But how will we KNOW what to produce?!"<br />
<br />
And the answer that rises up--the YAWP if we can invoke a little Whitman here--is simply, "You won't!"<br />
<br />
And maybe that's okay. Maybe that's even a good thing.<br />
<br />
In one of his poems, the great rule-breaker e.e. cummings wrote, "I would rather learn from one bird how to sing / than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance." Maybe part of what he meant here relates to soup and synthesis. Maybe part of what he meant was about learning a new song rather than teaching what NOT to do because it's not on the rubric.<br />
<br />
I have a lot to learn. And watching my seven year old son make soup, I felt a kind of challenge from the young to the old: watch this, Dad. It doesn't have to be all planned out. I don't even have to know what I am doing! And it will be okay!<br />
<br />
It may not always taste great. But then again, isn't that, too, what real learning is all about?Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-1422967948369780302016-03-10T11:57:00.000-05:002016-03-11T08:59:18.598-05:00"Charmed and Delighted": An Interview with Tara Lazar<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://taralazar.com/" target="_blank">Tara Lazar</a> is a veritable whiz of boisterous, joyful, fun, and empowering picture books. She is the author of <i>The Monstore</i>, <i>Little Red Gliding Hood</i>, and many other books--including her latest, <i><a href="http://taralazar.com/taras-books/normal-norman-by-tara-lazar-s-britt/" target="_blank">Normal Norman</a></i>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">As a teacher and a dad, <i><a href="http://taralazar.com/taras-books/normal-norman-by-tara-lazar-s-britt/" target="_blank">Normal Norman</a></i> is about everything I want my students and my kids to know and believe: that being EXACTLY who you truly, authentically are is the only real "normal" worth striving towards! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYKRcOxMVvw_VnyCa-mtxBbYM40V_EnG92wSdjT54KwwjnbOthbPH6Aa48EQDQz6iFo9JrlP3ZCxo371DdSuAkoBYhM8YW5keK3qG1EAk-s7L-XTSO09jqYgSjvkLSGYSmvVC3pJTzJml/s1600/Normal+Norman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYKRcOxMVvw_VnyCa-mtxBbYM40V_EnG92wSdjT54KwwjnbOthbPH6Aa48EQDQz6iFo9JrlP3ZCxo371DdSuAkoBYhM8YW5keK3qG1EAk-s7L-XTSO09jqYgSjvkLSGYSmvVC3pJTzJml/s1600/Normal+Norman.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Tara hits this beautiful message out of the park with her latest picture book, which includes an awesomely unique orangutan and a passionately empowered young female scientist. It's DEFINITELY worth buying and reading to yourself and your kids and your students many times over again!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">And here's Tara's wisdom on writing, living, <i>Normal Norman</i>, and her love of waffles and Roald Dahl...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>How did you first get the highly original and engaging idea
for NORMAL NORMAN?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">All I had was the title, or rather, the character’s name. I love
word play so my only real thought was that it was fun to say. This kind of
thing pops into my head from nowhere, so I don’t remember any specific
lightning bolt of inspiration. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m a pantser, so sometimes ideas don’t manifest themselves
fully until I’m actively writing. It seemed to make sense to introduce Norman
first, so I created the junior scientist narrator. Then I knew Norman had to be
very uncooperative. And the story took off from there!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>You've created not only a very unique and fun and funny
orangutan, Norman, but also a very empowered young female scientist! How did
you arrive at the identities of these two protagonists? Did they change
throughout the revision process?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I just wrote the words. S.britt created the characters. I had no
idea what they looked like! I never specified what kind of animal Norman was,
nor did I state that the junior scientist was female. That was all Stephan’s
brilliant interpretation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Norman started out as a lion, but he didn’t feel quite right and
we all knew it. Then he was a blue lion but he looked more like a monster. Then
came the purple orangutan and we all knew it—we knew it like you know about a
good melon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><b>One line you hope kids think or feel after reading NORMAL
NORMAN?</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ooh-ooh-ahh-ahh-ahh-roo-wee-ROO-WEE!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ha ha, just kidding.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“…everyone likes being his or her normal self.” No explanation
needed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>One line you hope parents / teachers / librarians think or
feel afterwards?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Same for them, too!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><b>You've got an amazing and inspiring (and hugely helpful) blog
<a href="http://taralazar.com/" target="_blank">WRITING FOR KIDS WHILE RAISING THEM</a>, and you also run PiBoIdMo, the picture
book writing equivalent to NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). Can you
share why you so strongly believe in, support, and create picture books?</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I have always loved picture books, the unique format, the
interplay between words and pictures. Honestly, I love the pictures more than
anything else! I remember being in 2<sup>nd</sup> grade and being told to read
chapter books and novels. BUT THERE ARE NO PICTURES, I said. I was devastated. To
this day, I still feel sorry for my 8-year-old self.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I create picture books because they are a child’s first
introduction to literature and I want the children reading the books to be
charmed and delighted. I want them to LOVE reading for a lifetime. Reading is instrumental
to a child’s success in school and later in life. If I can reel one kid in, my
job here is done! Err, I mean, my job here is ongoing! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><b>Can you finish these lines for us...?</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSKsr7v6cU1aLc8q0dg8MfdMyX0lLAOgIkphztzcEtFBYF3ugINFIa2SmAo1HRcpwLyjp0LCwjLra8Q-AwAtgFGI9Q7Jp0WPsYdcIpckuW6gq0anWzXHka49ZVPni6ompHSxjFWJHc6_2/s1600/roald-dahl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSKsr7v6cU1aLc8q0dg8MfdMyX0lLAOgIkphztzcEtFBYF3ugINFIa2SmAo1HRcpwLyjp0LCwjLra8Q-AwAtgFGI9Q7Jp0WPsYdcIpckuW6gq0anWzXHka49ZVPni6ompHSxjFWJHc6_2/s200/roald-dahl.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<b style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">If I were to have a five-hour breakfast with someone, it would
be...</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Roald Dahl (with waffles)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><b>If I could have a superpower it would be...</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">To fly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><b>If I had to choose between eating the same piece of fruit every
day for every meal or only relying on a tractor for all forms of
transportation, I would choose...</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The tractor. Come on, how fun would that be?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbmce-jZniWegUBVOByl0LRHrSIuPQHQiI5z5VBNCA2Tg2kskCBnO3opFC1mzvjfPWozTeAEuQbzDizgXJafdJqmlyXDsl1YyF2jieWUDbdRJGdJ79DzHlZK_GH3sqJNeP2zKL8ZhroAh-/s1600/waffles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbmce-jZniWegUBVOByl0LRHrSIuPQHQiI5z5VBNCA2Tg2kskCBnO3opFC1mzvjfPWozTeAEuQbzDizgXJafdJqmlyXDsl1YyF2jieWUDbdRJGdJ79DzHlZK_GH3sqJNeP2zKL8ZhroAh-/s200/waffles.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<b style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">If I could create a constellation of my own design, it would
be...</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Roald Dahl (with waffles)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><b>And last: can you share a little about your journey as a
writer--what has inspired and sustained you?</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">The kids! My readers. When I receive a fan letter, my heart
melts and I feel happy, content and inspired to keep creating.</span></div>
Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-4137125756114902092016-02-25T12:18:00.000-05:002016-02-25T12:18:03.422-05:00"An Act of Hope": An Interview with Francisco X. StorkEver since I read <i><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780545056908" target="_blank">Marcelo in the Real World</a></i>, I have admired, been inspired by, and devoured everything <a href="http://www.franciscostork.com/" target="_blank">Francisco X. Stork</a> writes. Creating characters and worlds with great depth and remarkable heart, Stork is able to elucidate what maters most in life. And he connects with readers in ways that not only make for engaging and powerful reading experiences, but can truly change people's lives.<br />
<br />
He has already changed mine.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780545474320" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK5nZ42xbDZD2Hgr7vPUmPyvvBzLhjyEGQYuj2DhG1SXXN8cISlT6E8jHXLVyTQDxHgqEWe9c95OoLURQGJF-jA69PC9qr2PdV5FdNyqGzwHiAzzVqdEe4v8ejDnZs4g4-yxD3P2woLeAF/s320/Memory+of+Light.jpg" width="205" /></a></div>
So it is with a huge amount of excitement and gratitude that I want to share an interview with Francisco X. Stork, along with a plea: please (please! please! please!) read his most recent novel <i><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780545474320" target="_blank">The Memory of Light</a></i>. I wept, exulted, and relished the chance to hear such an authentically moving and life-changing novel. It is one of those few books that I truly believe everyone needs to read, and I thank Francisco so much for writing it.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Growing up, were there any school experiences that
either inspired or hurt you? </b><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">More than experiences I think that there were certain
persons who guided me and pushed me in the right direction. Many times this
guidance was in the form of small gestures that turned out to be significant. I
remember, for example, Mr. Halpern, my English teacher at Jesuit High School in
El Paso. One day he called me to his desk when class was over and handed me
three typed pages. It was a list of a hundred books or so listed in
alphabetical order starting with Antigone and ending with Zorba the Greek. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“These are the books everyone that wants to write
should read,” he said. I spent that summer and most of the following year
reading each book on the list. It’s how I fell in love with Borges and
Cervantes and Dostoievski and Jung and many other classic books of fiction and
non-fiction.<br />
<b><br /></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As a writer, what part of the process do you love
most?</span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I love it when after a lot of thinking and daydreaming
and doodling a character comes to life in my mind and I feel like I can be him
or her and think and feel and talk the way he or she does. I think that 80
percent of the writing process happens before I actually start writing. A
character needs time to grow inside of me and it is hard to wait for the
character to be whole and unique enough for me into step into her shoes. I also
love the first draft process when I’m not sure where the book is going and I’m
not so much controlling the process as following where it takes me and
discovering what I want to say in the process of saying it. During those times
I am able to quiet my inner editor and simply write the book that is in me.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>In THE MEMORY OF LIGHT, Vicky's journal is so raw and
real and full of both despair and hope. How did you find the courage to be able
to journey with Vicky in this way? How did you find the words?</b><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It probably helped a lot that I’ve been writing in a
journal almost daily since I was a teenager. My journal is a place of total
self-honesty. No one will ever read what I write. I don’t even read what I
write in a journal once it is written. When Vicky writes in her journal she is
also in a place of total honesty. She doesn’t need to pretend that she is
strong or happy when she is there. You would think that such self-honesty would
be painful and it is - but the process of finding words for what you are
feeling is a healing process. I found the words that Vicky used because I’ve
experienced what she experiences and probably wrote down for myself some of the
things that she writes. Even when the writing is full of despair, the act of
writing is an act of hope. There is a hope and faith that there is someone
listening to us. In many ways, whether you are overtly religious or not,
writing during those times is form of prayer.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>What would your advice be to a struggling high
school student who is scared about speaking with others about her or his
pain? </b><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The first thing I would say is that it’s okay to be
scared. It’s normal to have this fear because you are making yourself
vulnerable to another human being. I say this because you shouldn’t wait until
the fear goes away to speak to someone. You should just go ahead and do it even
though you are afraid. Usually, we have a gut feeling that someone will be a
good person to talk to. Maybe we see in someone a kindness or an understanding,
a way that a person listens to others, that makes us feel as if we could trust
that person. Follow that gut feeling. You don’t have to understand why you’re
feeling the way you do before you talk to someone. Just explain what you are
feeling and try to communicate the thoughts that you are thinking. “I feel like
crap.” or “I have these thoughts about hurting myself.” Just tell what is
happening. You are not weak or a bad person for feeling and thinking this way.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Your advice to teachers? </b><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Be the person that a student can trust. A person in
pain is on the lookout for someone who is kind and who can listen. You don’t
need to be the student's therapist or even the student’s friend. You just need
to let the student’s know that you care. Learn about depression and other
mental illnesses and find ways to integrate a discussion of these in your
classroom. Resist as much as you can the pressure to motivate your
students by fomenting competition. Let your classroom be a safe place for
all. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Thank you so much to <a href="http://www.franciscostork.com/" target="_blank">Francisco X. Stork</a> for sharing such depth of heart, and for so honestly walking through both despair and hope. His words remind me of Robert Frost's dictum about writing, "No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader." </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">And if you are looking for a book that is not only riveting and inspiring and authentic, but also has the power to truly changes lives, please read <a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780545474320" target="_blank"><i>The Memory of Light</i>.</a> </span></div>
Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-584314792460684162016-01-26T14:47:00.002-05:002016-01-26T14:47:53.490-05:00On Loving LibrariesSix years ago, when Jennifer and I first landed in England with our two-year old in tow, I had something of a panic attack. And when I say 'something of a panic attack,' what I mean is a panic attack.<br />
<br />
It all settled on me, seemingly, in an instant and I freaked out over leaving home, getting rid of all our stuff, packing up our toddler and moving abroad for Jen to work on her PhD and me to work on writing and live as close to the bone as possible without a car and without a drying machine and without, essentially, that often helpful thing called money.<br />
<br />
After we had landed, those crazy questions and panic-inducing curiosities lifted off: <i>What if the little house we rented was a scam? What if it wasn't real? WHAT IF IT WASN'T REAL!? What if we couldn't make ends meet over here? WHAT IF WE COULDN'T MAKE ENDS MEET OVER HERE!? What if we both failed in our endeavors and we ended up royally messing up our first child? WHAT IF WE BOTH FAILED IN OUR ENDEAVORS AND WE ENDED UP ROYALLY MESSING UP OUR FIRST CHILD!?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
After a red-eye flight, we landed in London at seven in the morning, got our luggage, piled into a small black cab and went on a two hour drive to York's train station. From there, we piled out of the black cab and piled into another cab that took us to a small hotel room at the Priory Inn because the little house we were going to be renting wasn't ready yet.<br />
<br />
(If it was even REAL!)<br />
<br />
It was four o clock in the afternoon, and we sat in a small hotel room and my chest started to feel tight and I started to have that freak out feeling.<br />
<br />
But then we left. We went to the York Public Library in the center of town. After walking the mile to get there, it was clean, well-lit, warm, and children's picture books abounded. We stayed there, sheltering from the rain that had suddenly started, reading books to Tyler and to ourselves.<br />
<br />
The picture books quelled my panic. The library calmed my nerves. Seeing such a beautiful place, that was FREE to enter and FREE to explore and so welcoming and so kind and so warm and so DRY made me want to cry.<br />
<br />
The panic subsided.<br />
<br />
We didn't yet have any official mail with our names and address on it yet (if our address was even going to be a real place), but when we explained all this to the kind librarian, she said not to worry and gave us our library cards.<br />
<br />
For free. Access. Warmth. Inspiration.<br />
<br />
And this is why I love libraries.<br />
<br />
Even though we are back in the States now, and we have cars we can drive and more stable lives, I still get that feeling of salvation and transcendence and possibility and warmth whenever I enter a library with our kids.<br />
<br />
Picture books! Novels! Memoirs! Space to read, and writer, and ask questions, and find stories and examples and hope and maybe, just maybe, fight back the panic of fear and worry that life sometimes throws our way.<br />
<br />
This is why I love libraries, and why whenever a hard rain falls or some dark inner turmoil rises, walking into a library opens a crack for me where that beautiful thing called hope can squeeze through. Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-42979404426652835782016-01-14T09:20:00.001-05:002016-01-14T09:31:42.431-05:00Blasting Off Into ImaginationFive years ago, when my oldest son was 2, a laundry basket sat nearby us on the floor just before bedtime. Already, Jen had created the giddy habit of pushing Tyler around in the laundry basket all over our small carpeted apartment as he shouted wildly.<br />
<br />
And so, when I should have been getting Tyler into the bath and the bedtime routine, he instead climbed into the laundry basket and looked up at me with wide, wondering eyes.<br />
<br />
"Bedtime?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Not yet!" Tyler shouted, and then proceeded to bounce up and down in the laundry basket.<br />
<br />
And so, instead of talking with Tyler about the importance of following routines and getting good sleep, I grabbed hold of the handle and proceeded to push. (Does this explain possible sleep problems now...hmmm...we'll deal with that in a subsequent post!)<br />
<br />
Tyler's head tilted back and we raced around the apartment, turning the laundry basket into a jet, a boat, a bulldozer, a rocket ship, a fire truck, and more. With each new imaginative sequence, we changed our accompanying sounds and motions and let loose.<br />
<br />
Twenty minutes later--me breathless as an out-of-shape Daddy and Tyler breathless for an in-shape screaming little guy--we both flopped onto the floor near the bathroom.<br />
<br />
"Bedtime?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Not...yet..."<br />
<br />
Later that night, when Tyler was finally asleep in his crib, I sat down at the desk and began journaling. But instead of writing about the day at school teaching, or a cool conversation Jen and I had shared, or about the book I was reading, or about the weather (<i>Get the weather in! </i>Hemingway always exhorted), I wrote a poem.<br />
<br />
It was a very simple, short poem that essentially walked through the stages of our little imaginative adventure.<br />
<br />
So it is especially fun and with great gobs of gratitude (what do gobs of gratitude look like? I imagine them to be like handfuls of strawberry jam ready to be propelled onto giant-sized pieces of toast) that I wait with excitement to see the picture book <i>Bedtime Blastoff! </i>be released on January 26th.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.scholastic.com/teachers/book/bedtime-blastoff#cart/cleanup" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCnwx7G_5jf82rwYRsMdUd6olWPFYTU3WrcCrvo7tBncE4Z26Q2kwH1vOfE6ZDye7evd6EhwDHSxOwRd8XrXpvKC_suKDB-uO_3V2mpschnPkLepVEM7xHnBd6VLrtWVsdljCqZIX-D9bF/s320/BB_Jkt_072915.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Even though the poem was written in a single night after our play, it proceeded to go through more than a dozen revisions and still take 3 years to get it towards its journey of becoming an actual book. But what I most appreciate is the small ways wise people helped to fiddle with each phrase, wonder about each scene, imagine the imaged with fresh perspectives--people like my wife, Jen, who is the catalyst for the idea in the first place! And people like my agent Ammi-Joan Paquette whose excitement and work with the manuscript helped it reach its eventual publisher. And people like editor Orli Zuravicky whose energy and zeal and interest propelled it towards its finish.And to awesome artist Mike Yamada who brought the scenes to vividly to life!<br />
<br />
But what I am most grateful for is Tyler. And children. They come ready to any situation with the innate and infinite capacity to imagine. A piece of wood can become a talking robot; a laundry basket can become a host of vehicles; a tree can become a space station; anything can be transformed into something beautiful, jovial, miraculous, and fresh.<br />
<br />
And I still see glimmers of this kind of willingness to imagine in my 7th graders, too. When they write creatively, when they let go of the worry about a grade and delve into the hope for a new world, their eyes sparkle and they seem somehow free.<br />
<br />
Jen and I talk often about how to balance all the little necessities of life--the worries about paying bills, the to-do lists of parenting and teaching and finishing degrees and laundry (<i>laundry, always laundry, aaaahhhhhh!</i>) with the need for imagination. And it isn't always apparent how to do so, but when we go on a family hike up a mountain or climb a massive rock along the trail, we all start to feel like the mountain might be something more than a mountain, the rock might be something more than a rock.<br />
<br />
Our lives are imbued with a sense of symbolism--that what we do in our most basic, physical ways can actually represent so much more. And it's this ability to leap from logic to liberty--to live, for a while, with the symbol rather than the definition--that energizes us for the to-do lists of normal life.<br />
<br />
And this possibility is what excites me most about parenting and teaching.Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-91780422916202629362016-01-13T13:20:00.000-05:002016-01-13T13:26:33.408-05:00Imperially Marching to Elmo's SongWith a 7-year old and a 2-year old at home, we go back and forth between the graces of Elmo and the terror of Darth Vader. Watching my two sons be riveted by each, though, the thing that surprises me most is how they're finding joy in the other's favorite.<br />
<br />
Last week, before bath time, Tyler and Ben were both in the living room and we were all dancing our hearts out. Initially, we marched and pivoted and jumped and turned and 360-ed in the air as we listened to the Imperial March of Darth Vader's destruction.<br />
<br />
Then, we segued into a giddily gleeful romp to Elmo's Song, roaring the words aloud as we cascaded across the carpet.<br />
<br />
Each song brings with it a certain amount of engaged interest, and as we danced our way upstairs for bath time, the two songs seemed to synthesize so that we sang a gobbled, garbled mash-up of Elmo and Darth Vader each marching and playing the piano and somewhere amidst the whole big mess laughter erupted.<br />
<br />
Though I would never remind him of this outright, my 7-year old son will still sit and be enraptured by Elmo's song. And my 2-year old son can already say "DARTH VADER SCARY!" with big eyes ready to pop out of his head and <i>bo-ing</i> to the wall on the other side of the room.<br />
<br />
Their delight in the music of the other reminds me that fun isn't always about what seems 'cool,' or even about what makes sense (as our mash-up taught me). Delight is about finding surprising ways to interact with all that we experience in our lives. Delight is about dancing goofy moves to scary music, and accomplishing some serous tasks--bath!--to the accompaniment of some goofy music.<br />
<br />
As a teacher and as an adult, I think I have a lot to learn from imperially marching to Elmo's song. There is joy and delight to be found in rather serious places, and there is a great sense of purpose to goofiness. And maybe our efforts to try to consistently separate the two should be re-examined.Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-82442897338598777552015-12-08T14:17:00.000-05:002015-12-09T10:38:24.814-05:00The Value of ImaginationIt is hard to figure out why telling a story is so important when the front pages of every newspaper flood fear, hatred, danger, violence. Reading through headlines and delving into analysis pieces and reportage, my head swirls and I look away and then look back, committed to know what is happening in the world--yet fearing it and feeling insignificant and deeply troubled by it.<br />
<br />
There is a question that reverberates inside me a lot lately: <i>How do we not get lost? </i>It was a question Jennifer and I first heard when we watched the film <i>Dinner with Friends</i> years ago. It is the story of two couples--one of whom is divorcing, the other of whom stays together. By the close of the film, one partner wonders aloud, "How do we not get lost?" In essence, how do we confront and face all that seeks to obliterate love and forgiveness and mercy in our world, and not get lost?<br />
<br />
This past weekend, my seven-year old, Tyler, and I went outside to climb the trees in a nearby field. For hours, we climbed and created imaginary games about pine-cones and contests and races and reaching higher. I didn't notice it in the moment, but those hours were the first in a long time that I was existing at only one moment: the present one. I was so deeply enthralled by the imaginary visions of my son that I stopped--at least for a while--with the imaginary visions of all the horror that was yet to come in our world.<br />
<br />
I hadn't realized how deeply it was with me. All the time. On the drive to teach my 7th graders, while teaching, and on the way home.<br />
<br />
How do we not get lost?<br />
<br />
I think there is a balance between knowing as much as we can--trying hard to stay current and then do all we can whether giving money or time or sharing messages or writing letters--and then also living in that beautiful world of possibility: imagination. And when we do one to the denigration of the other, we lose our ability to keep moving forward. We lose our ability to have the endurance to keep loving and letting ourselves be loved.<br />
<br />
We become, without balance, much like one of the characters in a novel. <i>The Absolute Value of Mike</i>, that my 7th graders read. His name is Poppy and he is unbearably despondent after the death of his son, Doug. Rather than allow his wife and others to love him, Poppy shuts himself off from the world. The world is too painful, too cruel and untrustworthy, and so Poppy chooses to sit and remain in a world of his own.<br />
<br />
What Poppy doesn't realize is that while his son had suffered and died, the world is still very much alive. There is more work to do, and more love to bequeath. Poppy had left the possible--the new kinds of love that others around him choose to imagine--undone and unexplored.<br />
<br />
The value of imagination is that it helps to provide balance, and imbues us with the energy to keep moving forward, believing that even in the face of treacherous violence and fear, love is still possible. Storytelling, then, is a way of sustaining our spirits so that we can act in love. Stories seek and speak to our souls so that we remember, inside, that life is still worth living.<br />
<br />
As a kid, I remember reading and re-reading to shreds a book called <i>The Thing at the Foot of the Bed</i>. It was a collection of ghost stories--hilarious and ridiculous and terrifying---that I could go to anytime the house erupted with screaming and yelling and fighting and fear that I wanted to flee. Those ghost stories were a form of imagination that helped me live through a reality and yet move on from it, simultaneously.<br />
<br />
When Jen and I visited Russia many years ago, we were deeply struck by the orphans we met and learned with there. They thrived on two things: hugs and imagination. They let themselves be enthralled by the power of stories, and they gave and received hugs with a kind of reckless abandon and efficacious joy. I know so little of what their lives were (and are) truly like, and yet in the small moments they showed both of us the power of balance: how to live through horrendous experiences and still crave love, crave imagination, crave the possible.<br />
<br />
God, help us crave the possible rather than quit because of the present. Help us to be willing to walk into stories--both of ourselves and others and this world and other worlds--allowing our souls to be stirred up there, empowered for further action, small <i>or </i>big<i>. </i>Help us to remember balance, boldness, and tree-climbing. Help us not to flee truth, but to touch it and still walk forwards.<br />
<br />
This, I think, is one way that we do not get lost. This is the power of imagination.<br />
<br />Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-49924702329179977092015-08-31T14:37:00.001-04:002015-08-31T14:37:18.073-04:00Our First-Draft Selves...Our Tenth-Draft Selves<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
When I first heard the news that a second Harper Lee novel was going to be released, I did an actual jig. Even though I am not much of a jig-dancer, I did. (I created my own jig, which probably would have made the Riverdance professionals hang their heads low in embarrassment on my behalf.) Yet, as journalistic reports and media coverage of Lee's hotly-anticipated second novel, <em>Go Set a Watchman</em>, came out, I began to view the release with a certain sense of ethical dread. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
Was this what Ms. Lee wanted?</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
Was it about money for those involved on her behalf?</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
Why was the novel only being released after the death of Lee's close confidant and handler in all legal issues, her sister Alice Lee?</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
But as the release approached, I knew that I would have to read the book. My first thought: <em>I'll put my name on the library waiting list so I don't have to necessarily support the whole Lee-being-taken-advantage-of-for-money possibility, etc.</em></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<em><br /></em></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
So I put my name on the waiting list, and BAM! There I was: 298th in line for our town of Acton, Massachusetts.</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
But I was resolved to wait it out.</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
Until I wasn't. I was on my way home from the library one day and my car kind of drove itself to our local indie store, Willow Books. There, I purchased a copy of <em>Go Set a Watchman</em>, went home, and promptly read the thing as fast as possible. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
Like many readers who once idolized the heroic and calmly brave Atticus Finch, I cringed as I read about him in this semi-sequel. I finished the book, and I almost as though it was my own father who had been pretending--and many years later I had found out who he really was, what he really believed. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
And I mourned--for a little while--the fact that I had even named my own character in <em>The Looney Experiment</em> after him: Atticus Hobart! An eighth-grader who learns what real courage is all about. I saw the "new" Atticus through the eyes of my own Atticus, and I could hear my character asking, WHAT DOES THIS SAY ABOUT ME!!??</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
I tried to calm him down, let him know that everything was going to be okay. That his courage is still courage. But when I read an article about an actual couple changing the name of their seven month old baby after <i>Watchman</i> was realeased because they no longer wanted him to be named Atticus, I admit I lost some sleep. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
After all: I couldn't change the name of my eighth-grader! And he certainly felt like a real son to me. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
And then I proceeded to devour every news story released about the saga. And my heart kind of flooded over with a certain gratitude when I read about Tay Hohoff, Lee's editor for <i>To Kill a Mockingbird</i>. From all evidence gathered, <em>The New York Times</em> did an incredible job of painting the scene: <em>Mockingbird</em> had been the EVENTUAL draft--the final draft--of Lee's masterpiece. But <i>Watchman </i>had been the first foray. It was only through Hohoff's extensive revision requests and effusive encouragement that Lee was able to get to many drafts later and the masterpiece we have come to know. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
In essence: First-draft Atticus Finch was not the man that later-draft Atticus became. And it was only through the insight, counsel, and support of an astute editor that we came to meet the real Atticus Finch. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
I began to think about this in terms of my own character, Atticus Hobart. And I realized that, at the start of <em>The Looney Experiment</em>, he is definitely his first-draft self. He is terrified of life: of speaking up in class, of talking to AUDREY HIGGINS, or being real with his Dad, of using his voice in any way to speak his truth. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
But Atticus Hobart doesn't stay there. His first-draft self is not his finished self.</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
And then I began to think about myself, too. And about the people I love. And I realized that we all long to grow from our first-draft selves. We try things, we get it wrong. We try again, we get it wrong again. We make mistakes, mess up, miss opportunities, remain silent when we should speak, speak when we should remain silent, attack when we should repent, repent when we should attack--and so on. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
We all mess up, and were life a courtroom drama, I suspect we'd all be found guilty of a jury for all of the above. For our missed moments and our unkind actions. But the thing is, life is more a novel than a courtroom drama. We get to see our first-draft selves and then we're not stuck with them. We get new chapters, new revisions, new drafts--and we get the chance to create second-draft, third-draft, fourth-draft...tenth-draft selves. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
And the truth is, this process of getting to out next draft-selves is a lot easier if we've got someone supporting us. We can't do it alone. Just as Lee had her editor, Hohoff, to help Atticus Finch become his best-draft self, we too need others to love us, challenge us, hold us, push us, <em>see</em> us, and--especially--see what we can yet become. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
Sometimes, I remind my character, Atticus Hobart, of this fact. <em>Atticus</em>, <em>you don't have to be like anyone but yourself. You are free to become the best-draft of yourself that you can be. </em></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
And I sometimes remind myself of this, too. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
We are all masterpieces--classics of a sort--waiting to become a new draft that is just a little bit stronger, a little bit bolder, a little bit braver. And we all need someone to help us along that road. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
In this way, I see Atticus Finch in a new way. No longer do I view him as a perfect model of sensitive strength. Instead, I view him as a draft--because now I know where he began in <em>Watchman</em>, and how far he came along to get to <em>Mockingbird</em>. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px;">
I too have a long way to go and a long way to grow. Atticus Hobart does. We all do. And the good news is, that's a journey worth taking. That's a journey worth talking about, writing about, and believing in--no matter how long it takes. </div>
Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-82203611139958809452015-06-15T09:10:00.001-04:002015-06-15T09:34:07.389-04:00Climbing Mt. Grace (Kind of)About a hour and a half from us is a Massachuseets State Park called, intriguingly, Mt. Grace. And so, this past weekend, when we were looking for a fun place to explore, something about the name beckoned and two kids + dog in tow, we trekked off towards the small town of Warwick, Massachusetts.<br />
<br />
It was a Saturday. A sunny, 80-degree Saturday. And if Walden Pond State Park and Wachusett Mountain State Park were any indication (surefire favorite exploration places for our family), surely Mt. Grace would also be packed.<br />
<br />
Teeming with people!<br />
<br />
Hard to find a parking spot!<br />
<br />
But when we arrived at the parking lot, there were two cars. Two cars and approximately 148 empty parking spaces. I didn't even bother to lean over towards the glove compartment and grab our nifty MA STATE PARK PASS, which allows us to visit any state park <i>for free. </i>No parking fee!<br />
<br />
Here at Mt. Grace, though, there would be no parking fees.<br />
<br />
Ben woke from his nap, yawned, and then yelled out, "Ball!"<br />
<br />
Even though there were no actual balls around, part of the surface of the parking lot must have looked a bit like one. Tyler took off his seat belt and leaned forward, inquiring, "We're here?"<br />
<br />
"We're here!" I replied in my jovial Dad-voice, trying to hide the confusion I was already feeling--and the question: <i>But why isn't ANYONE ELSE here?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
We all climbed out of the car, and proceeded to read a disturbing sign that informed us of the following (paraphrased):<br />
<br />
HUNTING IS ALLOWED IN MT. GRACE STATE PARK. IF YOU DECIDE TO HIKE HERE, KEEP IN MIND THAT YOU MAY BE SHOT AT, AND POSSIBLY KILLED. WHILE THE LIKELIHOOD OF BEING SHOT (AND KILLED, MAY WE KINDLY REMIND YOU) IS NOT EXPANSIVELY HIGH, THERE IS A CHANCE. THUS, WE THUSLY RECOMMEND THAT YOU WEAR BRIGHTLY COLORED CLOTHING AND TRY YOUR BEST TO ACT AS HUMAN-LIKE AS POSSIBLE--WHATEVER THAT MEANS TO YOU. IF YOU SHOULD SEE OR HEAR HUNTERS, WE RECOMMEND THAT YOU SHOUT OUT, LOUDLY, "WE ARE HUMAN BEINGS ON A HIKE! DON'T SHOOT US PLEASE!" WHICH SHOULD ALERT HUNTERS TO THE FACT THAT YOU ARE NOT TARGETS. HAVE FUN! ENJOY YOUR HIKE!"<br />
<br />
After chasing Ben down--who was gleefully on his way towards Rt. 78--I turned to Tyler and said, "Maybe we should hike someone else..."<br />
<br />
Tyler inquired why, upon which time I re-read the sign, aloud, to him.<br />
<br />
Now Tyler was nervous too. And Ben seized the moment to dart towards Rt. 78 again.<br />
<br />
We began heading back towards the car, when I saw the sign, "SUMMIT," and an arrow point up a steep path. We had already come this far. Shouldn't we at least <i>try?</i><br />
<br />
This could be a very stupid parenting move OR a decision to not let fear overwhelm my parenting. Aren't there dangers inherent in anything?<br />
<br />
We began hiking. I listened intently for gunshots or any sounds of walking as I imagined hunters might walk--stealthily and slowly. I listened for the slow snap of branches, the steady crushing of leaves.<br />
<br />
After 20 minutes of hiking, we had seen or heard nothing and no one. I began to shake the fear. Tyler did too. Ben merely looked for ball-shaped objects and Rt. 78.<br />
<br />
We eventually did see another human being (and not one with a gun in his hands). Two, actually. A couple were hiking down with their dogs, one of whom frolicked in a particularly goupey muddy puddle. Tyler, Ben, and I laughed.<br />
<br />
It was going to be alright. We were safe.<br />
<br />
An hour later, we were all wiped. The temperature had risen, our legs ached, and Ben grew heavier on my shoulders. Tyler asked, "Can we go back down without reaching the top?"<br />
<br />
My first thought was <i>NO! We've got to summit! And we're so close! </i>But then I remembered that the hike today was about getting out into nature and having fun--exploring, have space to roam and run and be loud. The night before had been a rough one for sleep in the Reynolds home, and we were all wiped.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, we can go back," I said and held Tyler's hand as we made our way back down the mountain.<br />
<br />
At the bottom, I was grateful and happy about two things: 1) We hadn't gotten shot. 2) There was a huge field just off the trail, where I put down the backpack with Ben inside. And then we all proceeded to play numerous rounds of tag.<br />
<br />
Spider tag.<br />
<br />
Lion tag.<br />
<br />
Kangaroo tag.<br />
<br />
Crocodile tag.<br />
<br />
Tickle tag.<br />
<br />
No-base tag.<br />
<br />
And Tyler seemed to forget how tired he was. I did, too. Ben giggled as he watched us run, trying his best to keep up (and even seeming to forget about balls and Rt. 78 for a while).<br />
<br />
We stayed in that field by the foot of Mt. Grace for over an hour--running until we were breathless and happy.<br />
<br />
And walking back to the car, I kind of felt that climbing Mt. Grace wasn't really ever about reaching the top for us: it was about two things: 1) Not letting fear stop us; 2) Enjoying the journey.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, playing and laughing at the feet of Grace is good enough, which is particularly potent for me right now. Maybe 'good enough' is okay--even better--than struggling for a standard that breaks our backs and pushes us beyond joy.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4jA2Q021mz9DrWU0C9Mn__W70-q3PEFw2Vs2VXMncryKJqGCAZW7nvdZH03fj5TCIqLlb843QB7QR0ybdefLpTXgJrZYcy0tPQbQDwz5tnLkll9Y0vh9Bt_D37Ls_BKw49QpK1wuC7P2K/s1600/T+and+B+on+Mt.+Grace.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4jA2Q021mz9DrWU0C9Mn__W70-q3PEFw2Vs2VXMncryKJqGCAZW7nvdZH03fj5TCIqLlb843QB7QR0ybdefLpTXgJrZYcy0tPQbQDwz5tnLkll9Y0vh9Bt_D37Ls_BKw49QpK1wuC7P2K/s400/T+and+B+on+Mt.+Grace.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tyler and Ben hiking Mt. Grace</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-52093062726953362242015-04-30T10:31:00.001-04:002015-04-30T10:38:15.563-04:00Everything is a Ball. Or Not.Benjamin is now 16 months old, and everything is a ball to him. Balls are balls, of course. Basketballs, soccer balls, kick balls, bouncy balls, footballs. But then there are other things about which his pure relish and love of balls makes his little mind transform into balls.<br />
<br />
Things like: the round tops of chair backs, the round handle of a toy fishing net, any building with a curved roof, the front of a car.<br />
<br />
While Jen and I repeatedly say back the right word, "ROOF ... ROOF" or "CHAIR ... CHAIR" this doesn't seem to matter much. Instead, his bright eyes and gleeful face grow ever wider and he replies to us and to his big brother Tyler (who also helps in the ball dissuasion mission) "BALL! BALL! BALL!"<br />
<br />
And then, usually we all laugh because, hey, it's kind of fun to see almost everything as a ball.<br />
<br />
Right?<br />
<br />
But then I read the news. I open my front door and proceed to go teach my 7th graders. And everywhere I look I see the brokenness in our world. Baltimore. Nepal. Broken hearts. Broken dreams. And I wonder about that question Langston Hughes asked so powerfully and which Lorraine Hansberry brought to life so vividly: "What happens to a dream deferred?"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisuUt4x-e0C_0Ixivze8bvlEwuoyzCoEMvYpkQDZyr0ZcjqZpTJjwjtuZABYCBamdoKBg81pzleWm8xaYwLe1kf4wosiW4q6Cqbj7UTuBW5e1kU8uhzx-NORpNKhF9dJom27wF1R08nXW6/s1600/Langston+Hughes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisuUt4x-e0C_0Ixivze8bvlEwuoyzCoEMvYpkQDZyr0ZcjqZpTJjwjtuZABYCBamdoKBg81pzleWm8xaYwLe1kf4wosiW4q6Cqbj7UTuBW5e1kU8uhzx-NORpNKhF9dJom27wF1R08nXW6/s1600/Langston+Hughes.jpg" /></a></div>
What happens when we want--desperately--to see the world be peaceful, equal, kind, and instead we see racism, hatred, fear, war, natural disasters, confusion?<br />
<br />
What happens to a dream when it is deferred, or worse: impossible?<br />
<br />
There is a great scene in Hansberry's play <i>A Raisin in the Sun </i>when Beneath says to her Ma about her older brother, Walter, "There ain't nothing left to love!"<br />
<br />
Walter has acquiesced to the racism of the whites in his neighborhood, who have offered to buy out the black family so that they move out of the neighborhood. Walter is broken, defeated man.<br />
<br />
But Ma says to Beneatha a line that makes me tremble: "There's always something left to love." Her subsequent speech to her daughter beautiful articulates that when we are most broken, that is when we most need love.<br />
<br />
Years ago, I would have my 7th graders in Hudson focus on that speech, and rewrote it about someone in their own life. We would read Hansberry's play and act it out in class, and every time one of my students read that line from Ma out loud, I would tremble. I would cry.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjosquQUw5UTbn2c-_fRS9rhyphenhyphenEI2hNMcsBCDEKYoUWx8GawttmXQIXC2_F64mNW1tyngOfNLTEtSS02FOg3H8hAWUiqNMROedVW81dP18nY6X_AU9fzuSCaNmJbRmeQpkcP5vMQRezS77Ak/s1600/Raisin+in+the+Sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjosquQUw5UTbn2c-_fRS9rhyphenhyphenEI2hNMcsBCDEKYoUWx8GawttmXQIXC2_F64mNW1tyngOfNLTEtSS02FOg3H8hAWUiqNMROedVW81dP18nY6X_AU9fzuSCaNmJbRmeQpkcP5vMQRezS77Ak/s1600/Raisin+in+the+Sun.jpg" height="320" width="187" /></a></div>
One year, we brought out students to a live performance of Hansberry's play. And when that scene occurred, I vividly remember sitting among my 7th grade students and just weeping. I mean, weeping so hard many of them around me looked at me and wondered how anyone could ever let an emotional wreck of a guy like this teach them!<br />
<br />
And my heart sometimes feels so weak. I can't read about the brokenness in our world without crying. And when I cry, I can't help wondering what I can do. What any of us can do against injustices that seem so formidable.<br />
<br />
How can we change a deeply entrenched system of racism?<br />
<br />
How can we find hope for deeply broken forms of education?<br />
<br />
How can we transform lives--our own and others--fraught with despair or fear or hurt?<br />
<br />
And I come back to Hughes. And I come back to Hansberry. And I come back to my sons.<br />
<br />
Again and again and again I come back to trying to see the world not just through my own crying and weeping and wonder, but through the lens of hope which others show me.<br />
<br />
I try to see that anything good--a poem, a play, a word on the blank page, an interaction with a student, a protest, a smile, a plea--is never wasted.<br />
<br />
I know that, soon, Benjamin will learn the reality that not everything is a ball. Some things are most definitely not, and are in fact the complete opposite. Life is hard. Life is unjust. Life is fearful and confusing and painful.Life has jagged edges that don't even approach roundness, smoothness, and a curve towards good.<br />
<br />
But there <i>are</i> still balls in the world. And there is still some hope that we might transform things that had no earthy business being balls into balls.<br />
<br />
We might use the tools at our disposal to change, re-envision, rethink, and redeem. We might find ways to help create curves of growth and curves of possibility where none seem possible. And though I can't always find the strength to wipe away my tears and <i>work</i>, I find it most often when I realize the truth of Ma's statement.<br />
<br />
In all our brokenness, there is still something left to love. There is still something worth fighting for. There are poems, plays, protests, pleas, and purposes which need hands and feet to energize them.<br />
<br />
There is always something left to love.Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-13074076033066003122015-04-17T12:59:00.002-04:002015-04-17T13:01:52.916-04:00Waiting for Knowledge...or Pursuing It?<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There’s
a great scene in Samuel Beckett’s </span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Waiting
for Godot</i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> when Estragon says to Vladimir, “Let’s go.” And Vladimir replies
to his buddy, “Yes, let’s go.” Beckett then gives us the final stage direction:
“They do not move.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Usually,
talking to my 7<sup>th</sup> graders about the English portion of the
Massachusetts Comprehensive Assessment System (MCAS) test is a bit like that
scene. There is not a whole lot of movement when it comes to deep learning,
knowledge, and reflection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So
this year—my sixth as a public school teacher—I decided to not really talk
about the test very much.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
figured that if my students were learning to become more effective writers,
stronger readers, and deeper thinkers, that would show up on any kind of
assessment they were forced to take. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But
with three days to go until the test, I noticed something: a bunch of my
students began to freak out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Mr.
Reynolds, are you going to prepare us for the MCAS?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Mr.
Reynolds, <i>WHEN IS </i>the MCAS?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Mr.
Reynolds, what are we going to have to do this year on the MCAS?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And
that’s about when I realized that I was either doing one of two things: 1)
being a terribly inept teacher in not photocopying a slew of models and
worksheets and test preparation activities for my students; or 2) practicing
what I had been preaching all year long: that education is about more than a
test grade, and that authentic learning is more about going deep than it is
about going fast or far.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">However,
I relented a bit and explained what the MCAS was about, and what it would ask
them to do. I even photocopied a few examples of what the MCAS people said were
strong writing samples. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This
seemed to quell the anxiety of some of my students. Yet the day before the
test, I asked all of my students in each of my five 7<sup>th</sup> grade
classes to close their eyes. Then I asked them to hold up a hand with fingers
from 1 – 5. 1 meant <i>I am really freaked
out and nervous and anxious about this test tomorrow!</i> 5 meant <i>I am not worried at all; everything will be
fine.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">While
some students held up 5’s, I felt a pang inside myself to see that some
students felt a 1 or a 2. Many held up a 3. In years past, I had done more test
prep activities, and I had detested every minute of it. It felt so awkward to
stop what we were doing as a class to hand out practice bubble-tests, practice
test-writing prompts, and practice readings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
love writing and reading. They are my lifeblood, and I believe that words have
the power to dramatically transform lives. But I struggle with the intention
behind the words we ask students to read and write. If the intention is words
for the sake of accountability, my heart wants to distance itself from
activities in this camp. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Maybe
I am idealistic. Maybe I need to learn how to help my students pause the normal
classroom activities and prepare with conscientiousness and a good work ethic
for the test that they are required to take. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Maybe
I am selfish. Maybe I need to learn to think about my students more—asking, <i>if they are forced to take this test, then
isn’t it my responsibility to ensure they are impeccably well-prepared for it?</i>
In this vein, my actions this year indict me as self-focused and unkind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But
some part of me wants to hold on to the hope that as we talked (briefly) about
the MCAS this year, and as I used the refrain, “You are more than a test score”
over and over and over and…Perhaps something of that reality set in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Perhaps
my students were able to reflect on the fact that we can focus on writing and
reading for the sake of writing and reading, rather than bubbling, and they felt
the continuity of our class and curriculum moving deeper and deeper. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Maybe,
come next Fall, their scores will provide the verdict. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Or
maybe, we won’t be just sitting around waiting to hear their scores. Maybe our
stage direction will look a little different than Vladimir’s and Estragon’s.
Maybe we won’t be waiting, at all,<i> </i>for the
knowledge of if we are strong writers and readers, so much as we’ll be pursuing
it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-74755564073266659472015-02-12T14:56:00.001-05:002015-04-17T12:51:09.622-04:00The Looney Experiment: A Cover and a QuandaryI have been reading voraciously over the past week as the news of Harper Lee's second (first) novel, <i>Go Set a Watchman</i>, unfolded. What began as elation about my favorite author's new (old) novel that would be released this July transmogrified into worry and doubt--<i>Does she want this? Is she being taken advantage of?--</i>and then has settled somewhere along the lines of either a humble ignorance or an ignorant humility.<br />
<br />
Still not sure which.<br />
<br />
Of all the articles that have come out--from incredibly keen observers and analysts in national newspapers around the country to insightful authors and speakers who have aired their opinions on great programs like <i>News Hour--</i>I've come away knowing only one thing: I have no idea what Harper Lee really wants.<br />
<br />
And I am becoming more comfortable with simply not knowing. As my first novel is being prepared--copyediting occurring right now!--I am left with a deep sense of irony, too.<br />
<br />
The novel is called <i>The Looney Experiment</i>, and it follows the journey of 12-year old Atticus Hobart. It has the heart and humor of everything I've learned about life, twelve-year olds, and courage. And much of what I've learned comes from two people: <a href="https://kathyerskine.wordpress.com/2013/09/14/break-these-rules-thank-you-luke/" target="_blank">Mr. Robert Looney,</a> my real-life fifth grade teacher, and Ms. Harper Lee, who penned the book that gave my soul a figure like Atticus Finch to ponder, aspire towards, and appreciate.<br />
<br />
So, as the cover for <i>The Looney Experiment</i> is now final, my processing of the news about Harper Lee is anything but. In the next months, we will probably learn much more. And many more brilliant thinkers and friends and writers will share their ideas and insights.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://blinkyabooks.com/books/the-looney-experiment/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85LtloaU4fiovfbNIQHu9sHsOF_eDpifdOHvLjrdEhK8gQNX9UeIKrazypWz-AgQyRzLayOoGYdiqAV1gE2lR-WKsIQpGNWBcsjse_yK5WvozThZ3eqLDq7zI76ih_INsWVluRbURvIT1/s1600/LOONEY+EXPERIMENT+Cover.JPG" height="640" width="417" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I'm simply grateful--grateful to have had the chance to write a novel that tries to explore the life a middle-school kid named Atticus, and a crazy, old teacher named Mr. Looney. And I'm grateful that the fictional journey of these two characters was--and continues to be--inspired by two characters from my own life to whom I owe a huge debt.Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289459010319355476.post-70553915069112802462014-12-08T10:53:00.001-05:002014-12-08T12:18:36.796-05:00It's a Swamp ThingNo matter what else is going on, being around trees, puddles, roots, moss, vegetation always brings peace. And right now, we are fortunate to be renting an apartment behind which a good-sized expanse of forest sits.<br />
<br />
Overt the past week, Tyler and I have enjoyed bushwhacking within the forest--exploring any path that seems to call us, and walking through the EYE POKERS (twigs or thorns approaching eye level), the FEET GOBBLERS (any puddle area deeper than our shoe laces), and along the BALANCE BEAMS (long trees that have fallen and so afforded us ample opportunity to balance our way across).<br />
<br />
There is something about bushwhacking that feels right. Something about exploring a forest without a path. Something about zig-zagging our way through notable sights, noises, opportunities.<br />
<br />
And when, over this past week, the forest turned into a legitimate swamp with all the rainfall, this excitement grew. Now, we could leap from moss-covered rock to moss-covered rock. We could stretch our legs across substantial FEET GOBBLERS and see if we'd reach safety on the other side.<br />
<br />
The swamp smells. The swamp is dirty. The swamp makes bushwhacking all the more riveting. And Tyler's desire to go out and explore it grows exponentially and correlates with the water level.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile--as my 7th grade students explore with great cordiality and energy Avi's <i>Nothing But the Truth</i>, and as Jen and I prepare for Christmas, and as Benjamin, our one year old, takes his first wobbling steps on his own--I find myself reading and re-reading accounts of Ferguson.<br />
<br />
I re-read all of the plot-driven events, all of the analysis, the commentary, the calls to action, the calls to change, the calls to consider, the calls to contemplation.<br />
<br />
And as a swamp-exploring Daddy, I wonder what I will tell my sons when they are old enough to understand. I wonder how I will explain the kinds of balance our world needs, the very present realities of the dangers that lurk everywhere, and prevent justice for some based on what Toni Morrison calls a social construct--invented hate to match swollen, fearful hearts.<br />
<br />
It is far easier to tell Tyler what moss-covered rock towards which to leap; it is more difficult to chart a path through the tragedy and pain our world sees played and replayed.<br />
<br />
When Tyler and I explore the forest, we take a new path each time. Now that our forest has become a swamp, the possibilities for paths actually increase. The water--rather than hiding avenues--<i>reveals</i> them. The mucky water shows us leaps we never would have seen before. The dirty build-up affords us opportunities to see chances to buck tired, traditional views of safety in pursuit of something more real, something more right.<br />
<br />
So, maybe it is a swamp thing. Maybe the injustice we see playing out is the ultimate call to make new leaps. Maybe the inexplicable pain and horror we now watch is causing a rise in the water level, demanding that we get off the paths we've been walking and start to make leaps toward justice.<br />
<br />
They will not be easy. And they will throw us off balance. But the status quo is no longer even an option.<br />
<br />
I do not have words to explain to my sons the kind of world I wish we lived in; and I know that thinkers and activists far more esteemed and brave then I am even say that such a perfect world of justice and grace is impossible--people like critical race theorist Derrick Bell, who believed that racism will always be among us, though our challenge to fight it is no less necessary.<br />
<br />
However, I do have the words to tell my sons to leap. I have the words to tell them to look for the gaps where the water has risen, to see a trajectory across, and to go for it. And as they grow, I can hope to tell them to keep leaping--in the swamps, yes--but also in their schools, in their relationships, in their words, in their lives, and towards justice.<br />
<br />
And I can hope beyond hope to model this leaping, however humbly and imperfectly I can.Luke Reynoldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05595341635379460539noreply@blogger.com