A car owner's manifesto

Five ways to redeem yourself with the sustainability gods (or to rationalize your decision to purchase a cute used Toyota):

1. Be generous. Loan the car to friends. Support others in being car free.

2. Use with intention. Plan and combine trips (post office and thrift store and groceries and library).

3. Fill the seat belts. Car pool. Offer to drive people places.

4. See how long you can make a tank of gas last.

5. Regularly re-discern whether the car is still needed. When it's not, let it go.

Denial and it's sister, petroleum

Earlier this month I bought my first car.

I did a lot of things right, as far as buying a car goes: I didn’t buy more car than I needed, got a model that gets good fuel economy, did lots of research, negotiated an excellent loan, etc. I had been contemplating the purchase for months and was clear that as long as I work and live in the country, in the foothills, a car is necessary. The car is a sensible teacher car.

Necessary because nothing is walkable here, and I’m not brave enough on a bike to take the twists and turns and precipices of Newtown Road. Necessary because I do not go home to a family life to counter balance my work life; I have to build my own off-campus non-work support and social systems. Building local networks and friendships was hard here without a car.

The day I bought the car I wanted to unwind in the evening by watching a movie and, ironically, selected The End of Suburbia. I went into it suspecting what was ultimately true, that it wasn’t going to tell me anything I didn’t already know: the oil is running out, and life as we know it will be unsustainable once it does.

I know that. Have known it for awhile. There's a huge oil spill in the gulf. Why the hell did I buy a car?

Why do we all buy cars? Why do I know people who are radical environmentalists and own cars? Why do I know simplicity-and-integrity-minded Quakers who own cars?

I'm not sure why, but cars are not a given for me. I don't assume their presence in my life forever. They're not something basic I expect to own or to have at my disposal like bowls or socks or underwear. I lived for a long time without one, and in the city was really happy being car free.

So now I am starting to fall for my new wheels. AND I feel like an alien space ship just landed in my driveway. Like I made a decision totally contrary to what I believe about lifestyle and to what I know about where the world is headed, but a decision no one is faulting me for, and a decision that, given my circumstances, made good sense.

What's that quote about the 1920's - something about dancing towards war wearing elegant velvet blindfolds?

Choosing failure

I caught an NPR story earlier this week about a school in Rhode Island that fired all of its teaching staff in an effort to turn around a district in which the majority of kids were regularly failing state-determined standards.

I do understand that sometimes schools can become dysfunctional organisms that need help, but I bristled when I heard that story. I thought about the student I failed last semester (whom I adored) and the student who might fail this semester (whom I also adore) and how I tried to work with both of them so that they could pass and about how they had tons of support in our small school community. And about how, honestly, there has been an element of choice in both of their failures.

There are some obvious differences between my work as a teacher at a small semester program and the work of teachers in public schools. I'm aware of those differences, but also feel very much in conversation with public education because I am product of it and it is the academic home of so many of my students.

Some of the questions are the same: Who's fault is it when a kid fails?

The school, the parents, the guidance counselor, the kid? How much do you weight structural violence, pathetic school funding, lack of support at home? And in a holistic learning environment like Woolman where we honor other growth and work and acknowledge that grades aren't everything, is it OK accept a kid's decision to fail if that is what they are used to and what is easiest for them?

Our global issues teacher uses an iceberg model to approach societal issues. The kids identify symptoms, causes and structural causes (or triggers, patterns, and structural causes) in a conflict or situation. It helps them get to the root of understanding.

Student failure - and the implication of specific teachers - are at the tip of that iceberg. It's hot up here in the spot light. Everybody is looking at you.

But guess what, there's this huge behemoth lurking underneath it - maybe you don't see it because you're not on top of it - and you all are implicated.

Did you do the assignment?

Dear _____

Am I right that you did not hand in your Social Class essay? Do you intend to do it?

Thx,
Angelina

I write notes like this a lot and deliver them to my students' mailboxes. There are a couple things going on here:

1. An assignment is missing.

2. I’m making it clear that I know the assignment is missing.

3. I’m allowing for the possibility that the kid may have given me the assignment, or e-mailed it to me, and I lost it (this has happened once or twice).

4. I’m leaving the door open that the assignment may be turned in late, and I’m making it clear that I am still willing to accept the assignment even if it is late.

5. I’m allowing for the possibility that the kid may have chosen not to do the assignment.

6. Notably, we are not having a face-to-face conversation.

We’ve been talking a lot recently about what happens if kids don’t do their work.

Several of them don’t do their work on a fairly regular basis. Sometimes this is an act of rebellion against our admittedly rigorous school. Sometimes kids are overwhelmed or unprepared for the work, and not doing it comes in lieu of asking for help. And sometimes we get kids who are just used to not doing their work, and that’s a hard habit to break.

Right now the education staff is in fairly unanimous agreement that if kids are way behind, they don’t get to do extra stuff like going to a slam poetry competition in San Francisco or an immigration rally in Reno. This is a tough line to hold, though, because we’re also clear that those experiences are part of this semester program’s experiential element. And because sometimes kids get more out of those experiences than writing essays.

There’s also this element of honoring choice. I had a student last semester who decided not to do most of her written assignments. There were several factors involved in that decision, but I think it ultimately had a lot to do with self-care. As frustrated as I was, I also appreciated her decision. That’s not to say it’s easy when students selectively opt out. It’s especially hard in a residential setting when kids bail on group projects, though really all non-participation hurts a teaching and learning community.

But if a kid can articulate to me that they’ve made a conscious, considered decision not to do something, I’m inclined to honor that (after some pushing). That decision is a learning experience. Advocating for oneself is an important skill. Experiencing the consequences of a decision is also a learning experience. If the thoughtfulness and articulation is not their, I'm less generous.

I’m not going to give them a grade they haven’t earned, but my love, appreciation and trust for them is not necessarily shaken by missed assignments. I’m learning not to take it personally when a kid doesn’t do the homework, because it seems so rarely personal. Some of the same kids who don't do essays contribute a lot to class.

Possibly I am a push over. It’s probably telling that I write notes and rarely confront a kid over a missed assignment. But I’m pretty sure they know they didn’t do something. And taking responsibility for work and follow up? That’s a learning experience, too.

I’m clear that our relationship is not just an exchange in which hard work is the price paid for a good grade. I care more about their care and feeding as human beings. I am grateful to work at a school where it’s understood that the teacher-student relationship is bigger than the classroom and grades, and where its OK for me to talk about the love that is part of teaching for me. I do love my students – as complete, imperfect, awesome human beings (and sometimes as ornery little twerps). That comes first, and doesn’t necessarily go away when homework is missing.