The Liberal Arts ... Lost Again?

I don't like watching the State of the Union.  I don't care who the president is, really--either party.  I just find the whole thing so scripted and predictable.  All the standing, the sitting, the standing.  It reminds me of that kids' game we used to play along with the song "The Grand Old Duke of York. / He had 10,000 men. / He marched them up the top of the hill, and then / He marched them down again. / And when they were up, they were up, / And when they were down, they were down, / And when they were only halfway up, they were neither up nor down."

We youngsters stood, sat, squatted as the lyrics advanced.  All so ... meaningful.  (BTW: The infallible Internet tells me that the song goes back to the War of the Roses.)

Here's a silly YouTube video involving the song: Link

I did watch the State of the Union this year--though not all that willingly.  And I found myself, by evening's end, wondering if, once again, the liberal arts--the humanities, in particular--are going back up on the shelf of neglect in our cultural closet.

Take these words from the speech: 

Tonight, I’m announcing a new challenge to redesign America’s high schools so they better equip graduates for the demands of a high-tech economy. We’ll reward schools that develop new partnerships with colleges and employers, and create classes that focus on science, technology, engineering, and math – the skills today’s employers are looking for to fill jobs right now and in the future.

Hmmm ... I don't see anything in there about art, music, literature, dance, foreign language, history, etc.  An oversight?  Not likely.

I've been watching--with considerable alarm--over the past few years as more and more people--especially people of power and influence in politics and education--are coming to equate education with job-training.  High schools becoming vocational schools.  Colleges becoming vocational schools.

Now, there's nothing wrong with vocational schools.  People who know they want to be carpenters, say, or electricians, or welders, or computer technicians, or whatever should have the opportunity to take courses that lead to whatever certifications they need to practice those crafts.  But job-training should not be the principal mission of a high school--and certainly not of a college.  Job-training is what you undertake after your formal schooling--that's my view.  Why?  Because that's when it makes the most sense, when it's the most relevant.  It's when you kind of know what you want to do with yourself.  Most young people tend not to know.

When I was in primary and secondary school, I wanted to be a cowboy, Robin Hood, an Alamo-defender (one, of course, who survived), a catcher for the Cleveland Indians, a star on Broadway.  I didn't turn out to be any of them--though I have driven Alamo rental cars.  The point is: I had no idea what I wanted to do--or even what I was really capable of doing.  Thank goodness the schools then didn't focus on job-training.  Instead, they sought to educate us generally, knowing that a broad education is the best way to create agile, flexible people who can quickly adapt to whatever the ever-changing job market requires.  The few vocational courses that our school offered--shorthand, for example--are virtually worthless now.

Hiram College had the same philosophy.  The only specifically "vocational" program at the school during my time there (1962-1966) was teacher education.  But you couldn't major in it.  You fulfilled all the distribution requirements; you majored in an academic discipline--then fulfilled Ohio's requirements for a teaching certificate.  (The exception: elementary school teachers, who could major in "elementary ed.")

All of us at Hiram took math, science, English, history, art, foreign languages, philosophy, music, physical education (!!)--the best preparation, in my view, not just for the "job market" but for "Life."  It's not novel to notice that many  jobs today did not exist when I was a student; it's not novel to remind everyone that many of the jobs of tomorrow are unknown today.  Narrow training makes it much harder later on when employment opportunities metamorphose.  Also, exploring all those fields in high school and college helps us discover what interests us--what inspires us; it helps us figure out where our talents lie.

But beyond the merely vocational aspects of education are some far more important ones.  We live in a voting democracy--a type of government that requires educated people who can think critically in a variety of ways, who can look at issues from an array of perspectives.  We diminish the quality and effectiveness of our democracy when we de-emphasize history, literature, art, music, and the other humanities--when we send to the polls people who have been principally trained, minimally educated.

We see the sad results today.  People who don't know what to think until they watch MSNBC or Fox.  People who think history began when they were born.  Who think literature is too "hard"--and/or irrelevant.  Who think other cultures are silly, quaint--or dangerous.  Who spend all their leisure time in pursuit of entertainment and pleasure, and, if they don't find it, complain that they're "bored."  Who know nothing about the arts.  Or other languages.  Who think science is a belief system. 

Mark Twain wrote over and over again about the terror of mobs--most famously, of course, in the Col. Sherburn episode in Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.  Twain's view of our species darkened as he grew older--for many reasons.  He suffered grievous personal losses (as we all will): the deaths of loved ones, the betrayal of "friends."

But what most frightened him was our fierce intent to keep ourselves ignorant.  He knew there was nothing more deadly in a government such as ours.  Nothing made us more dangerous to one another.  Nothing prepared us more for mob behavior.

I find horrifying the image of a bunch of well-trained technicians who know little but their own jobs.  Who celebrate only what they already know.  Who read and view only what they already agree with.  Our schools haven't prepared such people; they've cheated them--condemned them.  And, in a very significant sense, damned them.

The Papers of Victoria Frankenstein: 16

Six

It was a few weeks before Harriet’s parents let her come over to my house again.  Every day I would ask Father if I could call her, and every day he would say something like: “It’s too soon, Vickie.”  Or: “Let’s wait just a little while longer.”

 “But, Father—”

 “Just a little longer.  Then I’ll call and talk to her parents again.”  He looked at me closely.  “And I’ll assure them that you’ve learned your lesson … about scaring your friends,” he added.

But he didn’t have to call them.  One day during the Christmas holidays Mrs. Eastbrook called us and invited me over to play.

When Mrs. Eastbrook came to the front door and opened it, I noticed right away that she had been crying.  She looked tired … tired and sad.  “Hi, Vickie,” she said in a tight voice.  “Harriet has wanted to see you so much.”

 “Mrs. Eastbrook, I’m so sorry about—”  And I was starting to cry myself.

 “You don’t need to apologize again,” she said.  “I know that you love my daughter and that you would never hurt her, not on purpose.”

Now I was really crying—and hard.

 “Anyway, come on in.  We’re letting all the cold air in the house!”

Harriet was up in her room.  And the first thing I noticed when I saw her was the she had been crying, too.  That made three of us.

 “Harriet?”

 “Oh, Vickie!” she sobbed when she saw me.  “Daddy’s gone!  My daddy’s gone!”

And so he was.

A few days after Thanksgiving, I learned, when Mrs. Eastbrook came home after spending an afternoon out with Harriet, she found a letter from her husband on the dining room table.  He was leaving the family.  Going somewhere … but he would not say where. He had taken lots of their money, one of their cars, other valuable things.  And off he had gone.

Harriet didn’t know—or wouldn’t tell me—why he had left them.  But I guess that doesn’t really matter.  He was gone.  And now Harriet and her mother were alone.  I was kind of glad.  He didn’t seem like a nice man—he made people who loved him feel bad.

I thought I knew why Mrs. Eastbrook wanted me to come over: She needed help with Harriet, who was suffering a great sadness.

But I never minded, never minded at all.  Soon, Harriet and I were spending much of our time together.  I would go to her house; she would come to mine.  She would show me her goldfish; I would admire them—even though I couldn’t really tell them apart.  She gave them names (Charles, Jane, Edward[i]), made up little stories about them.  And soon Harriet and I became very close friends, like sisters—like twins, remember?  We seemed to agree about so many things.  She would start a sentence; I would finish it for her.  It was as if there were one of us, saying one thing; we just took turns saying it.

We also dressed alike.  We had sayings that no one else understood but would make us laugh whenever one of us said them.

Blue skies.  Blue jays.  Blue whales.

They all have tales—but two have tails.

That sort of thing.

In other ways, though, we were very different.  The goldfish, of course.  But Harriet also went to dancing lessons.  And piano lessons.  And voice lessons.  She started playing sports—soccer and basketball and softball.  More and more, she was not home when I called or stopped over.

But it didn’t really bother me.  Because while she was away, learning to dance and play and kick and shoot and throw, I was reading—or down in the basement, building things, learning things, surprising myself with discoveries almost every single day.

By the time I was in school in Franconia—Chester Elementary[ii]—I had learned not to let anyone know about my talent for making things.  It made people uncomfortable—or unhappy.  The pre-school teachers thought I was cheating on the little projects we were supposed to do at home.  One teacher wrote a letter to my father about the Thanksgiving turkey I’d made out of chicken feathers, a soccer ball, and other ingredients.  Not only did my turkey look just like a real—though miniature—bird: It made gobbling sounds and felt warm when you held it.  There was even a little heartbeat in its chest.

 The letter from the teacher accused my father of buying the turkey and—here’s the teacher’s words—“destroying the spirit of the assignment” and “making the other little children feel bad.”

Well, the other little children didn’t feel bad at all—they hated me.  They hated me for “cheating.”  And those few who didn’t think I cheated hated me for being too good at something.  Only Harriet stuck up for me—but I could tell that she had some doubts, too.  Not that she would ever accuse me of anything, but I’m sure she was wondering why I was able to do things so well.

Anyway, the last time I ever did my best on any school project was in kindergarten.  Here’s what happened …

---

            [i] All of these are the first names of people whom Mary Shelley knew.  Charles Clairmont was her stepbrother; Jane and Edward Williams were great friends early in the 1820s.

            [ii] Oddly, Mary Shelley’s final residence—where she died in 1851—was on Chester Square in London.

Stumbling into Theater, Part 3

I used to joke when people asked me how I liked  directing plays:  I like two things about it: thinking about doing it--and having done it.  The rest was endless work and aggravation--with some moments of wonder and magic mixed in like glitter.

Before I go on ... a former student (and student actor in some of my shows)--Eric Miles--after looking at the list of shows I'd posted the other day noted that I'd left out an evening of one-acts that we did in the middle 1970s.  He remembered doing a dramatized version of Shirley Jackson's story "The Summer People" and Mark Twain's "The Diary of Adam and Eve."  I'd completely forgotten--and remembered instead a production of The Apple Tree, the musical that features some of Twain, a show a former student of mine--John Mlinek--directed at Aurora High School.

In my complete (hah!) files of the shows I did over the decades I cannot find a thing about those one-acts.  Nothing on my shelf under Twain or Jackson.  Nor in my files.  So all I can do is hope that some pack-ratty former cast member has kept a copy of the program and will scan-and-send it to me?!?!

Meanwhile, I wanted to write today about some show memories--some things I loved, hated, miss.

• Many of the early shows I did were scripts I wrote with students over the course of the school year.  Sometimes the kids came in early; I made hot chocolate for them, and we wrote and laughed for an hour before school started.  I very much miss the intimacy of those meetings--those times with those young bright writers who gave me and the shows so many of their dark winter mornings.
• Our first few shows we performed only twice--once for the students in the afternoon, another time for parents and others in the evening.  Those initial student receptions were so critical to all of us--and those Aurora Middle School kids were a great audience--never once making us feel bad about what we were doing.  (Of course, they got out of class, too--so why not be happy?)
• Year after year I was startled by how often kids surprised me onstage.  Sure, there were times when I knew a kid would be good--but there were other times when someone seemed ignited by stage lights--or by an audience.  And there, right before me, they became someone else.
• We never had the most, uh, advanced technology in our shows--but, somehow, some of the greatest kids wanted to work backstage--or on the follow spots.  Working in the most difficult conditions (they couldn't hear well, couldn't see well--enormous pressure in the performances), they delighted me, year after year.
• I was forever impressed with how willing kids were to do things I asked them to.  Bill Duris ran out in a diaper, dressed like Cupid, and threw hearts into the audience.  Ray Duval hid up on a cabinet and swung down onto the gym floor (our "stage" in the early years) on the climbing rope at a surprise moment.  Kids dressed up like ET and Elvis, executioners and teachers, hippies and Robin Hood, King George III and Sacajawea, wizards and weirdos.
• I was disappointed in our audiences only once: Very few people showed up to see our production of Shakespeare's The Merry Wives of Windsor--only about 100/night.  The AHS kids did a fantastic job--and, for once, their community failed them.
• I loved all those 8th grade farewell shows.  During the school year I would write the skits and the lyrics and put it all together over spring break, begin rehearsals right afterwards.  One year, I remember, I was in Amsterdam over spring break doing research on Anne Frank (I was teaching the play based on her diary).  There I sat in my hotel at night, writing silly skits about Harmon Middle School.  On closing night, when the lights went down at the end, the kids would cheer so excitedly--then find themselves weeping.  (Right along with me.)
• I had some wonderful colleagues who helped me with the productions, right from the very beginning.  Donna French with costumes and moral support.  Musicians Ted Clawson and Debbie Langford and Janet Nabring and David Patton and, especially, later, Gary Brookhart, a wonderful pianist who made every kid sound better.
• But virtually none of it would have happened without Andy Kmetz, artist, set designer, choreographer, teaching colleague, dear friend.  The best moments in the shows were always his, no question.  "The Dance Number" was always a featured scene in the 8th grade shows. In my final show--1996--Andy was unable to help, so a couple of seniors (and former 8th-grade-show dancers)--Bronagh Hollywood and Lydia Baynes--took over what he'd started and did a great job.
• I always had great support from the school administrators--especially Mike Lenzo and Jerry Brodsky (who appeared in an 8th grade show) and dear Jim Wright, the assistant principal, who let us poke fun at him, year after year--including a song ("'Sistant Principal"--to the tune of "Mother-in-Law").
• I had the wonderful experience of directing my own son, Steve, on the Harmon stage--about a half-dozen times--and I'll not forget--ever--how on the final night of his 8th grade show in 1986 he found me afterwards out in the Commons, wrapped his arms around my waist, held me close, and cried and cried.  (I seem to have something wrong with my eyes right now as I type this.)
• I have stayed close with many of the kids in those shows.  John Mlinek--who as a seventh grader was in the very first show I did in 1967--is still a great friend and looks me up whenever he's in the area.  (John, by the way, did a cameo in the last show I did in 1996--as a favor.)  I see Jeff Bissell many mornings down at Caribou; he was in the early shows, too.  FB has put me back in touch with so many others.  Bill "Cupid" Duris does me the honor of "liking" most of the nonsense I post.  Fred Gloor and Eric Miles and so many others jerk my chain now and then on FB, too.  All these contacts mean so much ...

Oddly, I have not missed doing shows.  When I returned to teaching at WRA in the fall of 2001 (I had been there 1979-81), it never crossed my mind to get involved again.  The school had/has some wonderful, gifted people working in the theater program--Midge Karam and Donalee Ong--and watching their productions every year made me very, very humble.

Back in 1980-81, though, I did write a script with some WRA students--a series of satricial skits and songs (and even films) about the school; we called the thing WRA and Peace.  I didn't direct it, though; I instead turned it over to the school's theater person at the time, Corky Davis, who had a lot of fun with it.  Her acting class performed it for an assembly--and it seemed to go over well.

But I do miss those moments, those moments when I saw up on those Aurora stages something that was even better than I'd imagined, something even better than I had any right to expect.  A glance, a move, a song, a dance, a skit, a moment when some girl or boy discovered something inside that she or he didn't even know was there.  And then showed us all.

*****

One of the problems of doing a post like this--I can't mention everyone--even nearly everyone--who helped, who participated, who created all those moments I will not forget.  All I can do is thank you all--profoundly thank you.

The Papers of Victoria Frankenstein: 15

Five

Just a typical Thanksgiving …

Before I had time to say anything more to Harriet about her dreams—about the monster, about me calling it “son”—Father called from the kitchen: “We could use a little help out here, girls!”

And so off we went to carry the food to the table.  I avoided Harriet’s eyes as much as I could—and I felt them on me constantly.  Questioning.  Wondering.

Father and Mrs. Eastbrook made small talk the entire dinner—about Franconia, about the schools, about the neighborhood, about where to shop, where to get gas, groceries, and goldfish.  (Harriet loved goldfish.)

I thought we would never reach the end of it all: the turkey, the mashed potatoes,  the gravy, the yams, the green beans, the cornbread, the cranberries, the pumpkin pie and whipped cream (the real thing, not the stuff you spray out of a can).  But—at last!—it was over, and we heard those magic words from Father: “Why don’t you girls clear the dishes and then excuse yourselves while Mrs. Eastbrook and I clean up a little?”

From the parlor we could hear pots and dishes clanging as Father and Mrs. Eastbrook loaded the dishwasher.  Every now and then one of them would laugh.  It sounded good to hear Father having fun.

 “Harriet, how often do you have these dreams about me?”

 “Often.”

 “Is it always the same?”

 “Well, sometimes parts of the dream are different.  Like, I could be in a different place.”

 “But the monster is always the same?  The yellow skin?  The wild hair?”

 “Yes.”

 “And I always come to save you?”

 “Yes.  And you always call him ‘son.’”

I thought a moment or two.  “Have you had the dreams since you’ve moved here?”

 “Almost every night.  Sometimes more than once a night.”

I went across the room to one of the shelves, looked, found the book I wanted, and brought it back to Harriet, who was sitting on the couch.

 “I want you to see something,” I said.

I opened the book, flipping pages until I found the picture.  I hesitated.

 “What is it, Vickie?  Show me!”

I then held the book so she could see it.

She screamed.

 “Vickie, I’m very disappointed in you, scaring your little friend like that.”

Harriet and her mother were gone.  The screams—yes, more than one of them—had brought the adults running to the parlor where they were certain something awful had happened.

And maybe it had.  For the book I showed Harriet contained a picture of the very monster she had seen in her dreams.  The book was Frankenstein.[i]

When Mrs. Eastbrook saw what was happening, she turned to Father and said, “I think it’s best if I take Harriet home now.”

My father’s face looked dark.  “Yes,” he said, “I agree.”

 “I’m sorry about the dishes—”

 “Don’t worry about it, Elizabeth.   Vickie and I can finish up.”

And, carrying a plate of food for Mr. Eastbrook, Mrs. Eastbrook and Harriet, who was still shivering with fear, headed out into the darkening afternoon.

Now Father was angry with me—and that always made me cry.  He waited for me to calm down a little, then asked again, “Why did you do it?  Why did you scare her like that?”

 “I wasn’t trying to scare her,” I managed.  “I was just showing her something.”

 “A picture of Frankenstein’s monster—especially the pictures from that book—are not just something.  They’re very disturbing.  Very upsetting.”

 “Well, you let me look at them, Father.”  I was not arguing with him—I never argued with Father.  It was just an idea that came to me at that moment.

 “You’re different, Victoria,” he said simply.

Victoria.  When he called me that, he was really serious.

 “What do you mean, Father?  How am I different?”

 “Well, for one thing, you’ve grown up in a house where there are lots of books, where your parents—your father, I should say—never worries too much about what you read or what you look at.  Not everyone lives in a home like this one.”

I understood.

He continued, “Some parents like to protect their children from things that are frightening … or disgusting.”

 “Why don’t you protect me from things like that, Father?”

 “Because, Victoria, like I said: You’re different.”

We were both silent for a moment.  Then Father asked, “When on earth did you start looking at Frankenstein?”

 “I look at the pictures in all of our books,” I admitted.  “And if the pictures are interesting, well, sometimes I read the book, too.”

 “You haven’t read Frankenstein, have you?”

 “No, Father.”

 “It’s not easy to read,” he said.

 “I know.”

He looked at me quickly.  “I thought you said you hadn’t read it?”

 “Oh, I haven’t,” I hurried to say.  “I just started it once … because of the pictures.  But I didn’t read much of it.  I didn’t understand it.”

 “I see.”

This was the first time I’d lied to my father.  Because, you see, I had read the book … several times.  And I understood it, too.  I understood it completely.[ii]  I don’t know why I lied—I just felt I should.

I’ll tell you something strange.  The next time I talked to Harriet, she told me that her monster dreams had stopped.  Stopped completely.

---

            [i] Ed. note: From what I can tell, this may be the edition from 1984 with the creepy drawings by Barry Moser (University of California Press).

            [ii] Ed. note: I do not believe Vickie here.  She could not have read Frankenstein at age 4!

Stumbling into Theater, Part 2

Last week I wrote about my early experiences in the theater--from kindergarten Pilgrim pageants to high school musicals and operettas.  And nothing in college until my senior year, when some friends and I wrote Remember the Alamo, a silly satirical musical.

I mentioned too that I stumbled into doing plays at the middle school level quite by accident--a bus-scheduling snafu left time at the end of the school day for activities.  Drama Club was born.  And my students and I wrote The Founding of Aurora; or, The Grapes of Wrath, which we produced in the spring of 1967.  This began a tradition of some years.  Below, I've listed all the productions I did in Aurora between 1967-1996 (I retired in January 1997).

1. Spring 1967: The Founding of Aurora; or, The Grapes of Wrath.
2. 24 May 1968: Our War for Independence; or, 101 Ways to Be Revolting
3. 29 May 1969: The Adventures of Robin Hood; or, The Man with the Green Robber Band
4. 15-16 May 1970: The Lewis and Clark Expedition; or, Come with Me on the Swan Boats
5. 15-17 May 1974: The Roaring Twenties; or, How the St. Valentine's Day Mess Occurred
6. Fall 1974: The Harmon Revue
7. 16-17 May 1975: The Disappearance of Rory Wildroot; or, You Have to Stay Up Pretty Late at Night to Catch a Kid Napping
8. 15-16 April 1976: The Periwinkle Perplex
9. Winter 1977 (?): You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown
10. 2-3 December 1982: E. T., Phone Harmon!
11. 20-21 May 1983: Snoopy (sequel to You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown)
12. 9-10 December 1983: Murder on Bus 10
13. 24-25 February 1984: A Night at the Theaters, I
14. 9-10 November 1984: Billy the Kid (originally produced, Spring 1979--while I was teaching at Lake Forest College)
15. 18-19 May 1984: The 88th Annual 8th Grade Farewell-to-Harmon Show (the first of an annual series of shows)
16. 18-19 January 1985: You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown
17. 31 May-1 June 1985: The 89th Annual 8th Grade Farewell-to-Harmon Show
18. 14-15 March 1986: Dracula, Baby
19. 30-31 May 1986: The 90th Annual 8th Grade Farewell-to-Harmon Show
20. 11-12 December 1987: A Night at the Theaters, II
21. 12, 13, 14 March 1987: Grease (at Aurora High School)
22. 11-12 December 1987: A Night at the Theaters, III
23. 18-19 March 1988: Luann
24. 3-4 June 1988: The 92nd Annual 8th Grade Farewell-to-Harmon Show
25. 9-10 December 1988: Funky Winkerbean
26. 9, 10, 11, 12 March 1989: The Merry Wives of Windsor (at Aurora High School--its first full-length play by Shakespeare)
27. 2-3 June 1989: The 93rd Annual 8th Grade Farewell-to-Harmon Show
28. 1-2 June 1990: The 94th Annual 8th Grade Farewell-to-Harmon Show
29. 31 May-1 June 1991: The 95th Annual 8th Grade Farewell-to-Harmon Show
30. 29-30 May 1992: The 96th Annual 8th Grade Farewell-to-Harmon Show
31. 31 May-June 1 1996: The 2000th Annual 8th Grade Farewell-to-Harmon Show

As you can tell, most of these productions I wrote with students--or by myself (all the 8th grade farewell shows).  For some reason, I do not have--or cannot find--the program for the original production of Charlie Brown--so any FB friends out there who have it?  Lemme know!

Tomorrow--Some comments about the shows--what they meant to me ... and mean ...

Some Small Saturday Thoughts about Education

Last week, having lunch with some long-ago colleagues in Kent, Jerry Brodsky and I were talking about how the public school curriculum has become so standardized--so regimented.  How different from our own days as students and teachers and (in his case) an administrator.

Jerry reminded me that back in the 1950s it was common to hear disdain for the Soviet Union (well-earned), and among the criticisms?  Something like this: Over there, all over the country, every kid is doing the same lesson at the same time every day!  A half-century ago, we thought such a thing was a horror.

We were right.

But now it seems the old Soviet system has become a goal in the public schools of the United States.  Standardized tests are driving everything in school--from the elementary school curriculum to the evaluation of teachers and school systems.  The tests have become the curriculum--and woe to those teachers on the testing freeway who see an interesting detour and head down an appealing off-ramp.

Every good educator I've known (as a student or colleague) had plans for the day-week-term-year. But the great teachers knew that plans were like, oh, like an itinerary you compose before you head off on a long, cross-country car trip.  Sure, you can stick rigidly to your plans--but what if, along the way, you see something interesting?  Something you didn't even know was there?  Do you drive right by, muttering about how it's not on the plan?  Or do you slow down, pull over, take a look?

Duh.

I've written here before that the greatest teachers I had--and knew--were agile.  I had a friend at Western Reserve Academy, Tom Davis, who was constantly reading books by new writers.  And sometimes he would get so excited about the book he was reading that he would order a set for his classes--and off they would go, discovering together the wonders of this new text.  A teacher's passion is the fuel of learning.

Years ago, I once spent a week observing a primary-grade class out at Lake School in Aurora, a class taught by Vivian LoPresti.  I never saw anything like it.  She was the greatest I've ever seen at taking a kid's question--or an event that had happened in school or in the world--and transforming it into something meaningful.  One day--some kid had brought in some stuff for blowing bubbles.  Surreptitiously, he launched one across the room.  And Vivian--far from confiscating the stuff--stopped what she was doing and used it.  Soon they were learning about what a bubble is--why it has a reflective surface; they were experimenting with the movements of the bubble through the room.  They tried to see how long they could keep one "alive."

Throughout my career I often wished I were more agile than I was.  I tended to plan each day carefully, perhaps too afraid of what would happen if I added a little elastic to my plans.  Probably it all goes back to the primal terror I felt early in my career about empty moments in the class--What will happen if I finish early?  Chaos!  Who knows?

But I do know this: I can't think of a more effective way to separate education from life--from actual experience--than to impose a regimen of standardized tests.  And I can't think of a more effective way to dissuade the Tom Davises and Vivian LoPrestis from ever entering the profession in the first place.  And I can't think of a more certain way to show kids that learning is not exploring, discovering, pursuing, loving.

The Papers of Victoria Frankenstein: 14

Thanksgiving Day was surprisingly warm—near seventy degrees.[i]  Through our windows we could see people wearing no coats out on the street.  It was odd.  About two o’clock in the afternoon I saw some people coming up our front sidewalk.  I didn’t wait for them to ring the bell; I just swung open the door.

 “Well, that’s service,” laughed Mrs. Eastbrook.

 “Hi, Harriet,” I said.

 “Hi, Vickie,” she replied, staring at me strangely.

And then I noticed that Mr. Eastbrook was not with them.  “Where’s your father?” I asked Harriet.

 “He’s not … feeling well,” said Mrs. Eastbrook.  The redness in her face came, I knew, not from the cold but from the lie she was telling.

 “Vickie,” my father called from the kitchen, “don’t make them stand on the porch all day!”

 “Oh, uh, come on in,” I said, stepping aside.

Father, wearing an apron and carrying a wooden spoon, entered the room.  “Happy Thanksgiving,” he said—then hesitated when he saw that Mr. Eastbrook was not with them.

 “John’s not feeling too well,” said Mrs. Eastbrook.  “Maybe he’ll be over later.”

Another lie, I thought.

 “That’s a shame,” said Father.  “I hope it’s nothing too serious.”

 “Oh no … just a headache,” she said.  “A slight fever.”

 “Well, something’s been going around—a virus, I guess.  Anyway, we’re happy to have the two of you,” said Father, “and we’ll be sure to put together some things you can take home for John later.”

 “You don’t need to do that.”

 “No trouble,” said Father.

 “Everything smells so wonderful,” she said.  “Can I give you a hand in the kitchen?”

 “How about both hands,” my father joked.  And off they went to the kitchen, leaving me alone with Harriet.

 “Want to see our house?” I asked.

 “Sure.”

Harriet loved our place—all the rooms, the deep closets, the long hallways.  “It’s so big,” she said, over and over and over again.  “It’s so big.”

Back downstairs again, she asked me about the basement.

 “Oh, there’s nothing much down there,” I said.  “Just a basement.”

 “Can we look?”

 “Oh, are you sure?  It’s smelly and wet,” I said.  “Lots of spiders and—”

 “Ugh,” said Harriet.  “Let’s just stay up here.”

I don’t know why I didn’t take Harriet downstairs that day—or on any other day.  Or why I didn’t even tell her about my workshop and lab—not for a long long time.  But I didn’t.  Something was urging me not to, and I’d learned already—in just four years of being alive—that I should always listen to my instincts.  Always.

And so I showed Harriet all my books—which didn’t really interest her, I could tell—while she ate potato chips and all the other snacks we had put in little bowls in the parlor.  “I don’t know how to read very much,” she confessed.  “I’ve just sort of started.”

 “I’ve always been able to read,” I said.

 “Really?”

 “Always.”  And this was not a lie—I couldn’t remember when I didn’t know how to read.[ii]

We were sitting alone in the parlor, quiet now, the only sound the crunch of pretzels in Harriet’s mouth.  I waited a few moments, and then I asked her what had been bothering me for days: “Harriet, what did you mean when you said that you’d seen me in your dreams?”

She put a handful of pretzels back into the dish and stared at me.  “You are a girl I see in my dreams,” she said.  “So I couldn’t believe it when you were standing on my own front porch!”

 “But how can that be?” I asked.  “It must’ve been someone who just looked like me.”

 “Oh no,” she said.  “It was you.”

 “Well, what was I doing in your dreams?  I mean, what were your dreams about?”

Harriet stared at me some more.  Her voice, when she answered, was low, a ragged whisper: “Vickie, it is scary, what I see.  Sometimes when I wake up, I am crying because I am so scared.”

 “But what is it?  What do you see?”

 “I see a big monster,” she said.  “He looks like a man, but he’s very tall, and his skin is yellow and sick-looking.  His hair is all wild.  And he wears raggedy clothes.  He’s chasing me, and he’s just about to catch me … I can smell him …  he smells so bad … and … and …”

 “And what?”

 “And then you save me.”

 “How?  How do I save you?”

 “You yell at him.”

 “I yell at him?”

 “Yes.”

 “What do I say?”

 “You say”—she paused to look at me; there were tears in her eyes—“you say, ‘Son!  What are you doing?’”

I waited a moment, shocked at what she’d said.   Finally, I was able to find a quiet voice: “And then?”

 “And then the monster disappears.  He just … goes away.”

Harriet’s blue eyes bored into me like drills.

---

            [i] Temperatures around 70 were indeed recorded in southeastern Ohio on Thanksgiving Day, 1987.

            [ii] Ed. note: Vickie is clearly exaggerating here.  It is very difficult for me to believe that she was reading at such an early age—below four!