The Common Hero

As I type this, there is a lawyer at JFK airport trying to free an Iraqi man, Hameed Darwish, who has worked with the American military in Iraq.  He is being detained on an executive order signed by President Trump and the lawyer cannot meet with the man.

I am thinking of that lawyer.  No doubt he is an extraordinarily, common man.  I don't know his name.  I bet he had to take a cab to the airport.  I bet he hasn't eaten well in the past twenty four hours.

As I type this, there is a reporter, no doubt poorly dressed, chasing down a lead on Trump's connections to Russia.  She probably has sore feet.  There is a very good chance her entire week will be dedicated to a part of a large story that may not make it into print.  We will never know.  She will wonder if any of it is worth it.

As I type this, there is a teacher, marking final exams.  She is looking at the essay question:  "In a clear and concise, logically constructed and textually supported essay, decide if Orwell's assertion that "Man is infinitely malleable" is true."  She is sitting at her kitchen table, coffee cup cooling as she begins to see if her students have mastered the critical ability to think.

Three common people.  Three people, any one of whom, you might walk your dog with or have a glass of wine with or who might be coaching your kid's hockey team.  You may even be one of them.

Robert Bolt in his masterpiece A Man For All Seasons, begins his play with "The sixteenth century, like all centuries, is the century of the Common Man."  In this young century, with the encouragement of technology and social media, we have begun to disparage the common men and women who do common work.  We question our doctor because we diagnosed ourselves on the Internet.  We question a need for a lawyer and make jokes at their expense.   We dismiss journalists as biased and we ridicule teachers as lazy.

Interestingly, we attack these common people in these professions while we assert our own uniqueness, our own individuality. We want special menus.  We want unique treatments.  We want elite programs for our children, we want our own music and we want it now. We, we argue, are unique.

When Bolt used the term "common" he didn't mean it in a derogatory way; he meant it as, that which we all share.  The common is what connects us; the common should be exalted.

Our teacher has refilled her coffee cup and is looking at the exams, all of which have been written by common people who she hopes will do uncommon things.  She is imagining one of them chasing down a story that will make our democracy safer and more vibrant.  She is thinking that one of them will rescue a stranger in a windowless room in a large airport, assuring rights apply to all.

Our teacher knows, that Bolt was right:  The twenty first century, like all centuries, is the century of the Common Man.

It's Time to do More than Talk

I've been teaching in the most typical of high schools in Ontario for nearly thirty years and if my experience of mental health is consistent with schools across the country, then folks, we have a serious problem.  I want to start with the macro and move to the micro.

 Here are the statistics, taken from the Ontario College of Teachers:

• Half of all lifetime cases of diagnosable mental illness begin before age 14, and three-quarters begin before age 24. 
• Suicide is the second leading cause of death among young people age 15 to 24. 
• Ninety per cent of those who commit suicide have a diagnosable mental illness.
• 10 per cent of boys and 11 per cent of girls age four to 11 have symptoms of depression. 
• Mental-health problems in children are expected to increase by 50 per cent by 2020. 
• Seventy per cent of childhood mental-health problems can be solved through prevention, early diagnosis and intervention.

Anecdotally, I can tell you that:

• We've lost a number of students to suicide.
• We've lost a teacher to suicide.
• We have a small epidemic of anxiety in both our students and our teachers.
• Some in our school suffer from mental illnesses ranging from depression to personality and bipolar disorders. 

I think the Ontario education system contributes to this epidemic.  We work everyone too hard, we keep students and teachers inside (in my case, without a window), we limit physical activity, we emphasize results at the expense of process and we don't get enough sleep.  Our language, our work places, our classrooms, our hallways, sometimes encourage competition over cooperation.  We don't give anyone enough time to talk, and think, and decompress.

Finally and perhaps most importantly, we provide little help to those who feel unwell in such a system.

I'm  a teacher and I don't pretend to be trained in psychology but I have seen a few people over the past thirty years and I think I've learned what can keep them happy and healthy:

• Let's build schools that are made for people.  Let's have open windows, buildings that provide natural light and invite nature in.
• Let's give elementary teachers the training and ability to screen for mental health issues and then give families and students the supports they need. 
• Let's provide supports for teachers who far too often are left to struggle with their own mental health while still trying to be effective teachers.
• Let's screen teacher candidates, much like pilots, for mental health issues and either provide them support or discourage their entry into this profession that demands the most stable of psyches.

The mental health of our children and those who care for them is the most serious issue we currently face in education.  Let's do more than talk.  

A Day in the Life of a High School Basketball Coach

It starts with a 7am shooting practice to prepare for the 4:45pm game at another school that afternoon.  His team is sluggish after the weekend tournament; two students are late to practice.  Most of the kids have colds. He sends them off to class after 45 minutes, with one player staying behind to talk to him about a family issue that has arisen.  He will be late for his home room class.

He teaches a full class load, including covering for other colleagues working on other extra curricular activities and eats his lunch at his desk as he organizes the school's home tournament scheduled for next month.  He's been working on the tournament since last May.  

That tournament is one of two this season that are out of town and requires him to book rental vans, and hotel rooms on his credit card and arrange for another chaperone to attend.  The board of education insists he fill out a package of forms that is over 12 pages long for those tournaments.  It doesn't matter if you are taking students to Oslo or Orillia, it's the same number of forms.   His team will play close to forty games this year, requiring two hours of practice a day, five days a week, to prepare and four to six tournament weekends.  You can't be competitive at this level without that minimum time commitment.

The phone rings.  It is one of the parents of a player on his team.  Dad wants to know why his son is not playing as much as the other players.  The parent is angry and he needs to explain that he is teaching the merits of hard work and discipline.  He suggests the parent speak to his son about his effort.  He hangs up realizing the parent is still angry and he is late for fourth period.

After the bell rings and before he leaves for the game, the Vice Principal stops by. The Vice Principal wonders if he could speak to a player about an incident in math class. The math teacher is having difficulty with the class and the Vice Principal would like the student to be a leader in the class.  He promises the Vice Principal he will.

He will, against the advice of his union, drive students to the game this afternoon in order to save money.  He will use his car, his gas.  One player has forgotten his away uniform but he always packs a spare one in the ball bag.  During the warm up, one of the students from the other school takes one of his basketballs.  He has to follow the student down the hall to retrieve it.  The referees are late.  As a result he will miss his own kids' bedtime.  

The game will end at 6:30 and he will drive two or three players home who do not have rides.  One young man needs to be dropped at work.  He obliges, recognizes the student hasn't had dinner and gives the student a few dollars so he can eat.

That night, after he has tried to spend a moment or two with his wife and having looked in on his own sleeping children, he lies in bed thinking about the team.  He thinks he could have been better.  He thinks he made some mistakes, he feels badly about the parent phone call.  He feels badly that not everyone can play.

He rolls over and questions why he does this, season after season, year after year.  He thinks of the players and their improvement.  He thinks of the bonds that have formed, the struggles faced, the love that has been shared.  He thinks about the opposing coach and takes comfort in their effort as much as his.  Those coaches become his life long friends.

He thinks about the sacrifices that so many teachers make for the "extra" curricular at the school; how kind and considerate and how hard working each is and he thinks most particularly about the fine men and women he has coached and is thankful for each one of them.

He's ready to do it again tomorrow.

The Danger of Echo Chambers

Ironically, you're in a wide open space, you fill your lungs with air and belt out your "Hellooo" and what bounces back from the far away hills is, of course, "Hellooo."  We find it amusing and comforting that we hear our own voices coming back to us.  But the U.S. election shows us just how dangerous an echo can be.  Hearing your own opinions, your own voice bouncing back to you through Facebook or Twitter or Instagram turns out to be a grave danger.

When we are forced out of our echo chambers, when our self indulgent peace is disturbed by the "other", whether it is on a streetcar or in an arena, and we hear racist words, weak arguments and illogical conclusions, we are almost shocked.  Did he just say that, we say to our partner. Did I actually hear her say that we whisper to our friend.

We haven't done much in education to stop this echoing.  Safe places and trigger warnings in schools and universities serve to mute people and when they are muted, the only voices we hear are our own.  Those of you firmly ensconced in my echo chamber may gasp right now.  "Is he arguing against safe spaces?" I can see your furrowed brow.

Schools need to be places where rigorous debate occurs.  A classroom can sometimes be no different than our Facebook feeds; only the chosen get to speak, only the worthy get to be acknowledged.  We can see now how important it is to have broad range of discussion.  We need to hear opposing views, even if sometimes they boarder on reprehensible.  The more reprehensible, the easier it is to expose and defeat.

I know that there is a danger that a young person listening to such a debate may feel harmed or threatened or anxious but this is the way a democracy functions.  And this is where the skill of a teacher is most needed.  It is in the moderation of an argument, in the careful and polite questioning of an idea where the teacher can illuminate the weaknesses of a poorly constructed argument and can affirm for students who may feel vulnerable that there is an order and a logic to public discussion.  All students will find comfort in a polite, controlled, thoughtful and considered discussion of an idea.

Debate clubs have disappeared from schools.  The formal debate, the preparation of an argument that you don't necessarily agree with needs to make a come back.  Being forced into a position you do not agree with, is important for the mind and begins to free us from the echos that social media reverberate.

Let's teach students to defend the ideas contrary to their own and by doing so, we begin to build the foundations of civilized, thoughtful debate, leading ultimately, to the adoption of good ideas.

A Christmas Story

Silence between Songs

A work of short fiction by Dan de Souza

Ya, I should be happy.  I’m sure all of the teachers slaving in classes at this time of year would gladly trade places with me.  What other lucky bastard gets to take the dog mid-week, mid-afternoon to the tree farm to get the goddamn tree….the mall walkers and me...senior citizens and me.  At least the dog won’t want to talk.  At least we can just get the tree in silence.

I pull the car into the tree farm parking lot over a rutted driveway.  Every Christmas we bring the kids here on the Saturday before the big day.  We ride on the wagon out to where the good trees are.  I chop one down that Emma and Steven have chosen and we drag it back to the car.  While the kids are having hot chocolate, Cheryl and I tie the tree onto the roof rack.  Not this year though.  It’s me and the dog, mid-week; no crowds, no kids, no noise.  The tree farmer comes out of the Quonset hut when he hears my car on the gravel.  He comes out to greet me, like he does every year.

“Where are the kids this year?”  I smile and nod at him, reach into the trunk and get the ax.  What I want to say is that my wife has ordered the whisper that is her husband out of the house as part of his recuperation; hoping he will return to her with a tree and a smile.  That is what I want to say but can’t.

The dog goes for a sniff.  I turn and the farmer is right beside me.  He says again, “where are the kids this year?”  I shrug, reach into the pocket of my jacket for my card and hand it to him.  I see his lips move as he reads: “I was hit in a hockey game, took a slap shot to the throat and will never be able to speak again.”  He looks up at this point, like they all do.  “I’m sorry “ he says.  I hand him the card from my left pocket, it says “Ya, I’m sorry too.”

No need for the wagon this year.  Just the dog and me.  I take the ax and place it over my shoulder.  We head down the dirt path to where the good trees are.  The dog is moving along in front of me, nosing the ground as he goes.  He keeps looking back to make sure I’m with him.  I choose a row of trees that looks good; the dog scoots down other rows but keeps returning to make sure that I’m still there.  My ax bites into the wood of the tree.  It is good to be doing something with my muscles again after all that time lying in bed.  The air in my nostrils and in my throat feels good, like breathing again after a long drawn out cold.  The tree comes apart, not with a shudder, like I imagine great trees falling the wild, but with a little puff of snow.  The death of a domestic, tree farm tree.  I place my ax over one shoulder and pick up the stem of the tree, dragging the body of it behind me.  

Where is that damn dog?  Christ, where the hell is the dog?  I begin to move back to the hut.  To hell with the dog, I’ll leave without him.  By the time I’m back at the lot, the dog is still nowhere to be found.  The tree farmer gives me a hand putting the tree on the roof rack.  “Where’s the dog?” he asks.  I shrug again and I can tell that he is embarrassed, they’re always embarrassed, as if someone is supposed to remember that an able bodied man can’t speak.  

I cup my hands around my mouth, like I used to do when coaching in the gym.  I prepare my voice to shout “Digby”.  I get ready to hear my teacher voice as my students use to call it.  What I expect to hear and what finally slumps out of me are two different things.  What I expect is the voice, the one that can fill any auditorium.  The one that makes small children and large adults turn their heads and pay attention.  Instead the sound that comes out is the sound of a dog choking on a stick.  My larynx implodes with pain; my eyes water and I begin to choke on the saliva I can no longer swallow.  I lean on the car and grab my throat and spit, staining the snow red.   The farmer takes up the call, “here boy” he calls.  His voice echoes through his suburban forest.  His voice bellows out full and robust, old and gnarled though he is.  Finally, the last humiliation’ my dog comes to him.  I nod in appreciation and disloyal, disobedient mutt bounds into the back and wags his tail completely oblivious to his treachery.

At the stop sign, at the end of the driveway, I wait for traffic to clear.  The dog begins to howl.  Every time we take the thing in the car, it howls like it is going to be put down.  Like we are taking it on its last visit to the vet.  If only.  The stupid thing won’t shut up.  I scream at him to shut up and almost faint with the pain.  I wipe my mouth after and there's blood on my glove.  When the traffic finally clears, instead of taking my car onto the highway, I beat my fists into the steering wheel. Christ, what am I going to do?  “Teach the deaf,” they all whisper at me as they look down at me on my hospital bed.  The tone of their voices says, glad this didn't happen to me.  Yes teach the deaf indeed.  That..would..really...suit..my...style.  I beat the steering wheel to emphasize each pathetic word.  When I look in the rear view mirror, the dog is sitting on the back seat, on ear flicked over, mouth open, happy as hell that we went on this mid-afternoon trek and finally quiet.

When the kids arrive home I am in the living room with the tree.  They come bounding into the room and hug me.  They are just happy that their Dad looks like their Dad again.  I hear my wife’s care come in the driveway.  The dog barks to greet her and to all appearances, this is a Christmas like every other.  The place smells like Christmas.  Christmas carols have been playing on the radio for weeks and the cards that we did not get a chance to send this year remain on the gate leg table in the hall.  There’ll be no brag rag this year.  If there was how would it begin?  “This year finds us just fine thanks for asking, my husband remains mute and life will never be the same.  Steven continues to score goals for his house league team.”  

The fire is finally lit.  My scotch is in my glass and the ice melting make swirling patterns you’d see in an advertisement for scotch.  Finally there is silence.  The kids are in bed.  My throat is not sore so much as it is throbbing.  The doorbell.  Christ.

The dog is barking like it does anytime visitors come to the door.  What kind of person would be calling on this cold of a night?  I let the dog out the back door so that he doesn’t jump on whoever is at the door.  When I open it, the warmth from our home meets the cold from the night and an immediate frost rises on my lenses.  I cannot see the visitors but I can hear them and they are singing.

I had forgotten about the carolers that come to our house every year the week before Christmas.  Forgotten them in the hustle and bustle that is Christmas for a family with young children and for a family that has only a whisper of what a father was.

I let the carolers in and can hear underneath their voices the sound of the dog barking at the back door.  They are singing “The First Noel”, my wife’s favorite and she joins me in the breezeway of our house.  I feel her hand on my shoulder as she stands on the step, above me that leads into the kitchen.  I step back, away from her hand, away from the carolers, they enter the space I have vacated.  The dog gives up his barking and is probably listening with his back to the metal screen door, quiet at last.  My fogged glasses blind me.  I can’t see my unwanted guests, nor can I greet them.  I can only hear their Christmas voices.

Finally I take off my glasses and rub them on my sweatshirt.  My feet are wet from the melting snow on the carolers’ boots and all I want to do is be back to my fire, with my scotch and my own brooding silence.  They stop singing.  My wife gives them a hearty round of applause.  I look up, putting my glasses back on and the faceless, murky carolers come into focus in the silence between songs.

For the first time, I see them.  They are my students, my senior students.  These are not the carolers of every other season, but my students that I have not seen in over a month.  The larger boys are in the back, uncomfortable in my house but nonetheless, they are there.  The girls, glowing in the light of the breezeway, with their jackets open and their mitts on, are looking at me from the front row.  There are tears on their cheeks as we see each other for the first time in what seems like a very long time.  My hand goes to my throat.

They say, all at once, but not together, “Merry Christmas, sir.”  We have one more song for you.  They begin “Silent night, Holy night.”

Silent Stories

It is Christmas and Christmas, more than any other season, is defined by its stories. The Magi, stories of Light, of stars, of Scrooges, of Grinches.  The stories we tell define us too.  They explain our position in the world.  This season is the season above all when people gather to listen to stories, whether in song or in prose; whether told or read.  These stories make me think of our stories.  What are the stories of teachers?  So many of our stories can never be told or if they can be told, they must be done with care and almost in a whisper.

Most of the students have gone home.  Some linger in hallways, wishing each other well and “all the best” and “Merry Christmas” but most have said their goodbyes,“Have a good break sir, Merry Christmas!”

The teacher is packing his bag; he has a dinner with friends planned and the Christmas break runs ahead like a smooth, flat, frozen river.   She stops him in the hallway as he is heading to his car.  She is crying, sobbing.  Her brother has been hearing voices.  He’s kicking in the walls.  He kicked in the fridge.  Her parents are at a loss.  He stands and listens and ushers her to the side, near the lockers, so that others in the hall can not hear her.

He calls home, quickly arranges a meeting at the school.  Their boys first break with reality  happened in  grade 10.  He started hearing voices that summer.  The teacher listens even though the hallways of the school have been empty for hours.  The family is too embarrassed to talk about it, too afraid.  They don’t know where to turn.

There are calls made.  Arrangements come together and quickly, efficiently, the young man is placed into professional care.  He is admitted to a hospital and he begins to get the help he needs.

Later, while others are at home, while others are with friends and family, the teacher, struggles with his coat.   “I’ll be back soon”, he says as he heads out the door.  There is a bag in the car; chocolates, a gift card for Tims, a book.  He nods at the nurse as he walks down the corridor, entering the room of a boy who talks to people who are not in the room.

The stories of teachers are not always the stories of pageants and choirs, of decorations and class parties.  Most times they are not the stories of dramatic rescues or heroic journeys.  They are not the stories of the powerful, of the famous, of the rich.  

Our stories are about children, they are about families.  Ultimately our stories, some of our most important stories, must remain as quiet as a silent night.

20 things they don't teach you in Teacher's College

1)  The more embarrassing the prescription, the more likely a student from your class works in the pharmacy.

2)  There is always a SNOW DAY bottle of wine in your house.

3)  The Head Secretary and the Head Custodian run the school.  Get to know them.  Bring them coffee.  Say hello to them, smile.  You're welcome.

4)  When teaching a student who has a hearing impairment, turn off the microphone that is attached to your shirt before you go to the bathroom.

5)  During a phys.ed. on call or when on yard duty, keep your head up.

6)  When walking in the hallway during class, always have a piece of paper in your hand and look like you are going somewhere.

7)   Be prepared to have to hold a parent teacher interview with the recovery room nurse after your colonoscopy.

8)  To end a parent interview, slowly stand up and look over the parent's shoulder even if no one is there.

9)  While giving the lecture on plagiarism, always sit on the student's desk you suspect of cheating on the assignment.

10)  Go to the bathroom before the bell rings even if you don't have to go.

11)  Check your fly and if a teacher has tucked her dress into her pantyhose...tell her.

12)  Your kid's teacher cares just as much as you care for other peoples' kids.

13)  Parents will ask you for parenting advice even though you could be their child.

14)  Everyone at a dinner party will know how to do your job and will want to tell you how to do it.

15)  You will lie about your chosen career when you are having your hair cut.

16)  You will be asked to use your teacher voice at a function at some point and you will be stunned by the power it holds over adults.

17)  When on a field trip, you will have to pay for at least one student's lunch.  You will not get the money back.

18)  The student you are having trouble with, will help you in some capacity later in life.  She may be your recovery room nurse after your colonoscopy.

19)  Your colleagues can be your salvation or your destruction.

20)  There will be days where you can't believe they pay you to do this and days where there isn't enough money in the world to do it.