Common Core vs. Common Knowledge

There is no love lost between me and the educational system in this country. So when I see these posts of “common core” mathematics, and stories of crying children and frustrated, educated parents, I am reduced to monologuing my long-suffering partner with one of my epic rants. I will spare you the same. I don’t need to tell anyone how or what to think. (Although, if asked, I will expound upon my own ideas should you care to take them into consideration. Be prepared.) 

However, when I’ve kicked my soapbox back under the sink, and my blood pressure returns to normal, and my partner returns to his regularly unscheduled life, what I have left is the debris field of my energetic verbal vomit. Now what? What I’m becoming adept at these days, and that’s transferring my mental energy from the “What” to the “Why?” Not the bemoaning, whining “why”, but the inquiring “why”, that is a quest for understanding in a situation that seems to make no sense. 

So, now that all but one of my children are done with school, and I can afford to be completely emotionally objective about it, it’s time to seek out the other side of the story. Whose idea was this? Can’t tell…my sledgehammer shattered the picture so well I can’t read the autograph. Enter Google. Common Core math. Jo Boaler, Stanford University. Conrad Wolfram. Sebastian Thurm. The rabbit trail continues. 

Less than an hour in, I’m sitting in a “holy shit” moment. Kind of embarrassed, really, at what I might have looked like delivering my bitter diatribe to these people in person. Objectively speaking, these people are making a lot of sense, and are coming from a place of sincerely wanting to better the human mind. And their ideas have merit, and they warrant some clear-headed consideration. 

What they are really talking about is a paradigm shift in the way we think about math. And they are spot on. The majority of people have a bad taste in their mouth about math. The idea is that we’ve been teaching not math, but manual calculation, which is a drudgery to be sure. Now that we have entered the computer age, it’s time to let the computer do the calculating so that we can engage in the math. Math does NOT, in fact, equal calculating. If this makes no sense to you, then I would suggest the TED talk by Conrad Wolfram. The long and the short of it is, we need to redefine math here in America. And that will take a paradigm shift. 

After spending more time than I really wanted to, I’ve taken the info walk around all 360 degrees of this one, and come to the same conclusion as Cool Hand Luke: What we have here is a failure to communicate. 

These two ways of defining math are so far apart, and have so little in common, that to even carry the same name seems ludicrous. The concept at one end is creative, brilliant and progressive. At the other is pencil-wielding, number-crunching performance with little practicality. And then there’s me, stumping to keep things the same-same. Yes…the math I hated? Keep doing that, dammit, so I can help my kid do their homework. It’s the math I know. It’s COMMON KNOWLEDGE!  Ding! Ding! Ding! 

Math (as we know it here) IS common knowledge. You know, add, subtract, multiply and divide. Fractions. Percents. You’re good. But that’s not what we’re talking about. We are talking about a NEW knowledge altogether. That’s not “common” on any level. The word common here is oxymoronic, because the “new math” is a complete reframing of math, and has about as much similarity to the “old math” as the butterfly resembles the caterpillar from which is emanated. 

Here’s another metaphor for you: "Nor do people put new wine into old wineskins; otherwise the wineskins burst, and the wine pours out and the wineskins are ruined; but they put new wine into fresh wineskins, and both are preserved." 

We are asking teachers, whose common knowledge of mathematics is the “old math”, to teach a subject that has far less to do with the calculations that make up their training and more to do with creative, critical thinking. It’s like asking the most left-brained person you know to teach a class in transcendental meditation. The concepts of what have been mislabeled “common core” cannot be taught with the same methods as the times-table calculations we all memorized and hated. It’s not a memorize-and-regurgitate-pop-quiz kind of material, and we cannot hope to teach it that way. The poor little wineskins are exploding, and all the good stuff is falling on the floor. And we are rightfully panicking about the damage control, because the kids are caught in the maelstrom. 

The world is, in fact changing. In my lifetime along we’ve gone from dial telephones to Skype. That was Sci-Fi stuff when I was in high school, and I’m only 50. Perhaps we need to consider making room for additional changes, and not snubbing the new ideas with our memories of the way things used to be. Those schools are full of the future of our species. If there is a new and better way to educate them – that intensifies their creativity and learning capabilities, it’s probably a good idea to look at it. 

Now, the fastest way to ruin any chance of common anything is to toss an issue into the political arena, smothered in dollar bills. Observe the melee. Heavy sigh. 

Here’s the part where the temptation to pull out my soap-box can get overwhelming…but I shall stand strong. My point is not to continue the debate, but to push for knowledge, because knowledge will lead to understanding, and understanding leads to appropriate action for you, your kids, your school, your community, your life. 

There are not two sides to every story. There are at least 360. And I believe it was David Bender who said it best, “Those who do not know their opponent’s arguments do not completely understand their own.”  If we all apply a little due diligence, perhaps we can indeed find the Common core. 

http://youtu.be/60OVlfAUPJg

On Turning 50

On the auspicious occasion of my 50th birthday, I got what  had to be one of the best birthday presents ever...imagine a REAL e-mail from a REAL person! Getting to be as rare as a letter! You do remember those, don't you? I think they went the way of the flash-cube and betamax. (Which spell-check doesn't even consider a real word...sigh). Indeed, all reminders that we are getting...yes...I'll spell it out loud...OLDER. It was from my - ahem - younger brother in Australia. Like me, his life isn't terribly conducive to the whole "keep-in-touch" thing, so this was a great-big-huge treat for me. With all the tact and humor we genetically share, he  suggested that this "Something-0-year" birthday tends to depress people. And I thought about that. 

Now after a week’s worth of age-related sticker shock, I am happy to report that 50 fucking ROCKS. A glance (or stare-down) in the mirror at this age may find a woman pining for a younger version of herself. However, exactly which age would she choose?

Twenty-something with all its insecurities and "must-prove-myself-to-the- world", (or in my case, finding myself chest deep in the play-offs of the Fertility Bowl)? No thanks.

How about 30-something? Yeah, where the first half is spent reconciling all the decisions you were too young to think through from your 20s, and the second half is tip-toeing through the debris field of damage control for same? And the body that no longer responds to work-outs as your metabolism takes an extended holiday? Um...that's a Hell No.

So how about 40-something? Something to be said for these years, actually - where you may feel older, but the wiser part more than compensates. Suddenly going back to a previous age - or even halting the progress at this point flies in the face of that wiser part. After all, wisdom is cumulative, and who wants to go back and do your Bachelors in life, when you're just a few credits away from you PhD? And for me, kids factor in in rather large proportion. Drivers Ed...again?? Uh-uh. Ruptured appendixes, school drama, teen-age angst? Good Lord, no. It has not escaped my Red Letter Day radar that my youngest child who will be leaving the nest turns 18 this year, and I will officially and legally be emancipated from parenting. Although it has been a spectator sport for several years running now, I will be burning birth certificates and social security cards like a mortgage paper that's paid in full! (Okay, not literally - I just don't have to keep those things in the safe to prove they exist anymore. They can do that themselves. Yippee!) And this is much more difficult to accomplish when focused on some mythical better time in the rear-view mirror.

So around rolls the big FIVE-ZERO. Given the 100-year  mark, I'm half-way there! Off to the Back 9, where the grass is, in fact, greener, owing to the immense amounts of fertilizer that's been collected over the years. Where,  if you are 30 or younger, I will now address you as "kid", or "sweetie", or collectively as "children", because I fucking CAN. And I don't care anymore if you have more letters after your name than the alphabet soup your kid spilled on the table. I've straight up been here longer than you and that, all by itself, is license to pull rank. Which is far more difficult if you are trying to look like your 20 or 30-year-old self. Then you just look at bit ridiculous, and that is NOT lost on the younger generation...trust me.

But what of the gray hair? Bring it. I've earned every one of them, and have reason to be proud of that. Laugh lines - (or frown lines...whatever...pfft...semantics) - leave 'em there. Evidence of life well lived. Creaky knees and back? Whatever - now you can legitimately ask the young 'uns to do the shit work for you - and enjoy watching them experience all the things that you already did. (With a drink in your hand if you're clever about the way you ask!)

And while sitting by the RV with said drink in my hand, I contemplated the now popular “Bucket List” that we have all been encouraged to write. Something I actually read in the Reader’s Digest back in the 90s, and did. It was called “50 Things I Want to Do Before I Die”. I don’t have a copy of it anymore, but I know I wrote it with all the youth and enthusiasm I possessed at the time. I can tell you there was nothing of sky diving or bungee jumping…I don’t have those thrill issues. But it was loaded with cool geographical locations and everything from 5-star adventures to slumming it under the stars in remote places. This was also, of course, before the issuance of Philip, and his perceived ball-and-chain genetics. 

Enter here, the wisdom of years and experiences one does not want to repeat, and offer thanks and gratitude! 

Despite the fact that my geographical world has been reduced to 1/3 of an acre in Random Lake, I have through presence of mind and changes in thinking, courtesy of age, made this prison into my palace, where I am the Ruler of All I Survey! I’ve turned disability into ability, to experience the freedom of my life every day. I can create things in my kitchen you will never find at a 5-star restaurant, and it's home-grown. My own gardens are no less thrilling to me than the Chateau de Versailles, without the trip to France. The songs that I write, wrenched from my heart and plucked out on my 100-year-old piano well rival the London Symphony Orchestra to me. Before getting grounded, I was able to sneak in a plane ride or two, and even managed a helicopter flight over Glacier National Park – an experience of natural beauty so intense it made me cry. And taking eight kids to Disney World satisfied my appetite for travel pretty much forever. I get it. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. 

At 50, I contemplate what there is left to experience. Isn’t it all about the feeling? I’ve felt that. Thrill. Fear. Joy. Sorrow. Grandeur. Subtle  beauty. Extremes. Sickness. Health. Not a few births, and but a few deaths. Contentment. Rage. Romance. Heartbreak. Confusion. Clarity. Immense success, and something that looks a lot like colossal failure, but come to find out in 50 years of retrospect that I haven’t actually had any failures. Just experiences, which lead to consequences, which lead to LIFE, which leads to understanding. I have, indeed, settled into a life which agrees with me. 

At 50, I am officially done taking shit from anyone, or anything. I simply don’t need to. I’ve had all my freak outs. I have nothing left to prove. I have survived, and this, in and of itself is an accomplishment of herculean proportions. I have come to love me. It’s been said that we are spirits having a human experience, and I’ve been a damn fine host for this life. 

And whether it was turning 50 or my full-blown face-plant at 48, I have acquired a simple yet complex appreciation for all of life. The maiden years, the mother years, and I heartily welcome the archtypical crone years now with grandchildren in the picture. (Minus the wart and cauldron, although ½ of my kitchen looks a bit suspicious with all the herbs and oils going on…)

Thus, with bucket list fait accompli, children happily checked into their adulthood without my training wheels, I am free to contemplate where I’d like to take this old girl (along with the Love of my life, and our trusty sidekick) for the back stretch…and the UP of Michigan wins by a long shot. Back to the trees, and the earth, and chickens and a cow, and my gardens. At this age, I don’t really want anyone to take care of us, thank you very much. Much like my kids learned to pick up after themselves and do their own laundry, I’ve opted to assume personal responsibility for the rest of my life, and I can’t think of a better place to continue that journey. I have come to that fork in the road of human history, in a country that seems to revere youth and stupidity rather than age and experience, and I’m opting for that road less traveled. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the best years are yet to come.

There are those who mourn 50 – wanting to go back to…what? Not me. I celebrate it – not wanting at all to go back, but forward. Across the 50-yard line toward the end-zone, with all the energy and gusto I can muster so I can, like a good Wisconsinite, finish with a Lambeau Leap.

Washing of the Feet

Holy Thursday! 

One of the few times of the year you can say this and it has both a secular and religious meaning. I confess, my exclamation was generated in the secular realm. As it is on Holy Monday, Holy Tuesday, Holy Wednesday, Holy Friday, Holy Saturday and Holy Sunday. 

This is because I am a professional Foot Washer. You know the whole speech given by Jesus that fine Maundy Thursday so long ago? Yes, that would be my job description. 

For those less biblically inclined:

 “Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. ¹⁵ I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you. ¹⁶ Very truly I tell you, no servant is greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him. ¹⁷ Now that you know these things, you will be blessed if you do them.”

So…how did I acquire this auspicious sounding calling? Let me be clear…(bonus blessings if you can name who I stole that from…)…it’s not as uncommon as you think. In fact, given that this was the mandate of one of the most revered spiritual figures of all history (note: I’m religiously non-partisan), I’m pretty sure we are ALL called to participate in this at one time or another. Kind of like military service in some countries. 

And, I suppose like military service, there are the Lifers. Similarly, most of those who try it opt for the two to four year commitment, and then decide that they are just not cut out for this. Us Lifers just didn’t have that option. I think this is filed under the “many-are-called-but- few-are-chosen” category.

However, since we are all in this together, really, allow me to speak candidly.

Most of us will get our opportunity to Foot Wash with the children in our lives, whether that’s babysitting as a teenager, or having your own, or adopting someone else’s. And this then becomes a temporary exposure to the Footwashers Activities of Daily Living (henceforth to be called ADLs. You Footwashers know what I’m talkin’ about, don’t cha?) The rest of us will get our chance, most likely on the Back Nine of life, with parents, grandparents, or other people we love.

It’s a tough world, this Foot washing, because it actually entails a lot more than washing feet. I think Jesus was making a point, and rather than have the whole crew strip down, the lowly, middle-eastern-sandal-clad-dirty feet would have to serve as the example. We come to understand this in Foot Washing boot camp, which, as I said, is with children. It’s the whole child who needs to be washed. Daily. And what a noble calling and task it is. In fact, I pity the culture that allows some people to pay someone else to do this job, claiming they have better things to do…or are somehow above this. How sad. But there comes a day when those darling little biscuit feet belong to a rather oily, sweaty kid who is quite capable of handling their own ADLs, and if we even stopped to notice this, we'll rejoice!  

And then there’s us. A group I have labeled The Reluctant Elite. (Generally speaking, I dislike and avoid labels, but, well, if the shoe fits…wash the foot that’s in it.) We are the benefactors of feet that may never even wear a conventional shoe. And the body that goes with it. Yup…we were chosen.

The unfortunate part of this is that we live in a society that has gotten all some kind of squeamish about the human body and its function, to the point of almost complete dysfunction. Human beings in our American culture have fallen to new lows of self-loathing that have us believing that without multiple “products”, we are totally gross. We stink. We leak. We have bad breath and crooked teeth. We have hair we don’t want in places we don’t want it, and the wrong kind of hair in the places we do. Still more products needed. Our skin is too pale/dark/spotted/dry/oily and requires still more products to “fix”, and if you are female, requires some type of paint to accentuate one part and disguise the other. And only after we have donned our chemical costumes are we fit to join the rest of the world. We cringe when we see a body that is less (or more) than the air-brushed billboard model. And unless that body belongs to you, you certainly don’t want to touch it! And by the same token, we, in our very natural state, do not want to be touched! In the text prior to Jesus’ above statement, his pal Peter was going to have none of this pedicure done by holy hands, presumably because he felt unworthy, or Jesus was TOO worthy. Either way, Jesus tells him he’s going to understand later that there is no greater-than or less-than in the human being. Seems we’re still pretty lost on this count yet today.

So when the Foot Washers of today get their notice, it kinda feels like getting the short straw. And from a purely physical standpoint, we might be justified in questioning this calling. Isn’t it enough to have to keep track of our own hygiene? Our own self care, our own food intake and output (to put it delicately)? With the pervading attitude about our bodies, it’s no surprise to feel this way. “I couldn’t do what you do.” How many of us have heard that before? 

Well, that’s really too bad, because as a now 30-year veteran of this branch of service, I can tell you that Jesus wasn’t kidding when he said, “Now that you know these things, you will be blessed if you do them.”  I don’t believe, however, he was referring to the symbolic gesture of his own actions, or the Pope symbolically washing the feet of women prisoners (great PR move, by the way), or the poignant ritual at weddings and celebrations of commitment. I believe he was referring to our willingness as humans to embrace other humans, right down to the point of taking care of their most intimate and “dirtiest” selves when necessary. I think he was referring also to the magic that happens when we begin to see our calling as holy, sacred, and high. Tough to do when people pity you for it, but not impossible. 

It’s hard to explain to people, because Foot Washing takes place in the inner sanctum of the human world. Behind closed doors. Literally. What happens in the inner sanctum stays in the inner sanctum. And we wash our own feet alone, tend to our own cleansing rituals in the privacy of our own space, judged only by ourselves and our own view of our bodies. Naked and (hopefully) unashamed. Raw and uncensored. Pure. Holy. Sacred. But when you are called to enter someone else’s sacred space, you are humbled beyond description. To be the hands of another; to tend to the body of another who cannot tend themselves is a privilege of the highest order. While you have the able body, you realize the dichotomy that you are not the master, but the servant. Your ability to take charge and do what needs to be done does not make you the master…quite the cognitive dissonance in a society that still believes the myth of survival of the fittest, dog-eat-dog competition and only the strong surviving. Rather, it’s a baptism into the world of cooperation, and ultimate trust, where your abilities and strength make the survival of the weakest a blessed possibility. Your hands become the grace of God on earth, providing the human touch to those who often times receive precious little of that. To live up to the sacred trust of keeping someone else’s ears clean, nose clear, face free of oils, nails trimmed and scratching exactly where it itches without feeling it yourself is to live up to the highest call of God in anyone’s life. 

And so today, I lift my glass to my fellow Foot Washers, (who all know it contains coffee, since sleep comes to Foot Washers in 2-3 hour increments). You are good and faithful servants…and “now that you know these things, you will be blessed if you do them.” (Jesus’ words…my experience!) May today be one of those days you KNOW those blessings. 

For those who are not currently Foot Washers…find one. They are all around you. You won’t see them much, because the title doesn’t afford them much on the social circuit. But they are there. Perhaps you would like to know of these blessings. How about shadowing them for a day? Or dayS? Or periodically stepping up to hand them a fresh towel? Get them a glass of water? Save them some supper? Stand in their gap when they need a nap? Rest assured that in the Circle of Life, you will either need to get your feet washed, or you will be a Foot Washer, but there’s no time like the present to get in on the blessings that are so richly bestowed upon those who “know these things”. 

Time to go and get today’s Master up and dressed. I get the smiling face, the morning hug which I must engineer, the laughter and the conversation during our daily “foot wash”. 

Holy Thursday, Jesus, you weren’t kidding about those blessings, were you?