Mrs. Wade — My first grade teacher. I think this woman was my first love. I was a year younger than my classmates, but she never treated me any differently. She had hair the color of autumn leaves, perfect for the beginning of the school year, and was just plump enough to be cute and cuddly. She always greeted us with a smile and a hug, two things I wasn’t so used to seeing on a daily basis. And she always spoke with excitement and enthusiasm, no matter what we were studying.

Mrs. Stone — My second grade teacher. Talk about a wake-up call. She was by far the meanest woman I had ever met, at least at that point. I’m not sure how old she was, but to a six-year-old, gray hair = pretty darn old. She barely smiled, often spoke with a hateful, bitter tone, and just flat out did not like hyper little boys. I can’t hardly remember one single lesson she taught us, but I do remember being told to “Sit down” and “shut up” a few times. I had a weak stomach in second grade and I remember she was reading us a story. I suddenly felt as if I were going to vomit. I begged and pleaded to go to the restroom, or even the trash can, without luck. So, after a few minutes of no longer being able to wait, I walked to the front of the room, turned to Mrs. Stone, and vomited on her shoes. Believe it or not, she didn’t even flinch. She stared at her feet, stared at me, mumbled a bitter-sounding, “Well…” and pointed to the door. I sat in the back of the room near the bathroom for the rest of the year.

Mr. Copley — My fourth grade teacher and the first teacher who became a close friend as I grew up. He was funny, taught class in an interactive and engaging way, and I could really tell he cared about us. He was a portly gentleman with a full beard and an infectious smile. Once, while working on an assignment, I could not settle down. He called me to his desk, wrapped his arms around me tightly, and asked, “Do you know what I’m doing? I’m squeezing the meanness out of you. Is it working?” I smiled and mumbled, “Nope.” We laughed together and when I returned to my seat, I was settled (at least until the next day). Mr. Copley was also the first teacher to inspire me to write. A few years ago, Mr. Copley died in a motorcycle accident. I found out about it well after it happened, so I did not get to say goodbye. Thank you, Mr. Copley, for being the first teacher I could also call “friend”.

Mrs. Priddy — My elementary school phys ed teacher. Though I’ve never been athletic, I have always been fond of exercise if it were fun and active. Mrs. Priddy was the most dynamic phys ed teacher I have ever had, back when phys ed was fun and it was okay to jump around and do your own thing, to make physical activity like a game rather than a sport. In middle school, all we did was play a lot of basketball and do some warm-ups before. In Mrs. Priddy’s class, we jumped through hoops, tossed giant balls back and forth, pretended to me riding horses, spun around in circles, flapped our arms like giant birds, all for the sake of physical activity. I see her often today and I am sure she is proud of me and my unique physical abilities. Thank you, Mrs. Priddy.

Mrs. Racer — My ninth grade English teacher. After two years of misery in junior high, I finally found a teacher I could really enjoy. She incited my love for literature and writing and made me into a devoted fan of Stephen King. She was one of the boldest, most out-of-the-box teachers I have ever known and became one of my good friends after I graduated. I remember she would close her door and read forbidden Stephen King stories to us because they were good literature. She was even brave enough to read most of The Stand to us. I was a depressing mess in ninth grade, often wishing my life could end soon and quickly, and she filled me with confidence every day by giving me a safe place where I knew I could express myself without fear of judgment or humiliation. I came to her room often, crying about whatever was bothering me that day, and she would encourage me to hold strong, chin up. And, of course, my struggles were encouraged to be the topic of my writing. She is my greatest inspiration as a teacher and I strive to be as inspiring to my students as she was to me.

Mr. Miller — My high school Biology teacher. Mr. Miller was a hard-edged, strict science teacher who taught with a slight, old-fashioned, southern African-American accent, in which he said words like “particularily”. He ate grapes on a daily basis because he believed the made you smarter, and took science and learning very seriously. he had a reputation for being the strictest and most difficult teacher in the school. The most exciting aspect of his class, though, was that students had to do 4 dissections. I loved science (still do) and was looking forward to the chance to cut open some animals. Our first dissection was a crayfish. At the beginning of class, trays were on every desk with a crayfish already lying on top, with various dissecting tools next to the tray. Mr. Miller handed out a sheet with squares, and each square was labeled. Our goal was to remove the parts, place them on the correct square, and he would come around with a clipboard and give us a grade. All grades would be posted on the wall with student ID #s the next day. “Be sure to put youh name on youh papuhs,” he said, as we enthusiastically began to cut open the crayfish. I had studied the crayfish’s anatomy extensively and I was ready for this. As I worked, Mr. Miller wandered from desk to desk, mumbling things like, “Good, good,” as he nodded, or he shook his head, frowned, and mumbled, “Mmm, mmm, mmm.” I knew I was going to get a nod and a “good, good.” As he finally reached my desk, he glanced at it briefly, raised his eyebrows, and said, “Huh.” Huh? The next day, grades were posted: 0 out of 200. How? What did I do wrong. I respectfully approached Mr. Miller at the end of class. “Did I get every one wrong or something?” He grinned. “Nope, you actually got them all right. But ye didn’t put youh name on youh papuh.” I was crushed, but I learned a valuable lesson. I passed his class with a “B”, the highest in my class.

Dr. Stuart McGehee — The greatest college history professor I have ever known. Dr. McGehee is one of the most loved and talked about professors at West Virginia State University. With an encyclopedic knowledge of history and a wit unmatched by any other history professor, McGehee’s class is guaranteed to get students back into history again. His primary form of teaching is lecture, but his contagious enthusiasm and excellent speaking skills make it easy to forget you have sat through an hour lecture on the Louisiana Purchase. But don’t let his teaching fool you. McGehee is also a very serious scholar who expects the same from his students. Tardiness is inexcusable. Attendance is mandatory. And his tests? Mostly short answer and essay questions. But my love for history was rekindled during Dr. McGehee’s class.

Dr. Juris Lidaka — By far the funniest and most intelligent professor I have ever had, Dr. Lidaka is a true scholar, with thick-lens glasses and a shiny bald head. He spends his weekends in a library, translating ancient languages and studying various topics related to English history and linguistics. I had never even heard the word “linguist” before I met Dr. Lidaka. I took three classes from Dr. Lidaka and they all began the same. He warned us about his exams, stating that no one would receive an “A” and most of us would not even pass. Then, he proceeded to point out his vision problem, a lazy eye that could be distracting if you were not careful. “Sometimes, you’ll think I’m looking at you, but I’m actually looking over there. And sometimes, you’ll think I’m looking over there, but I am in fact looking at you.” He had the most atrocious hand writing I have seen from any professor, and he addressed this, as well. “If you ask me to translate my handwriting, I will begin to speak to you in an obscure foreign language of my choice, because while my handwriting is messy, it is written in English.” This is also the same professor who, during a discussion about the Venerable Beade, warned us not to refer to him as “Venereal Disease”. While Lidaka’s tests were really difficult and required time in the library, his classes really motivated us to be scholars ourselves.

So that’s it. I’m sorry it’s such a long list. I actually have about three more professors I could write about. There’s just something quirky and eccentric about a the best college professors that makes them so legendary. Thanks for bearing with me.

Once again, I get the chance to prove my courage by dancing on a stage in front of several hundred people, all for the sake of having fun.  This time… I get to do it Footloose style.

Okay, I see the guys raising their eyebrows, but admit it.  You know you spent a good chunk of your young life, watching Swayze in Dirty Dancing, Travolta in Grease, and, yes, Bacon in Footloose, wishing you could be just like them, because the ladies were loving every dance move.  That’s not why I’m doing it, of course… I’m just shooting down any possible ridicule.  Like last year, I will love every second of it.

That explains the newly purchased Chucks.  I’m not gonna lie.  When I purchased them, I spent a few minutes dancing through Shoe Carnival.  My favorite moves were the shimmy from the Breakfast Club and a few proud leaps that mimicked Kevin Bacon in Footloose.  Okay… so I looked more like Andy Samberg in Hot Rod (”I need to go to my quiet place!”).

In other news, Barry Lane sent me an invite to join his Ning, Discover Writing.  I’m actually friends with some writers and teachers who are legends in the field right now.  I know that’s no big deal to those of you who could care less about writing or teaching, but it is a big deal to me.

Okay, folks, it’s time to sign off.  Night school beckons.  I just hope the kids are a little more mellow than they were last week.  More on that later.

I know how much some people love to watch political debates.  I personally hate them.  Too often, the conversation steers away from the topics and onto how much the candidates hate each other.  So, how to get my healthy dose of debating and arguing?  Movie reviews.

Think about it.  The reviews are almost always on topic and if you read enough reviews of the same movie, you get a nice argument between people who love the movie and people who hate it.

For example, I was browsing reviews for the movie Surf’s Up (It was on, I was bored).  A lot of the reviews complimented the movie’s script and its creative mockumentary style.  There were also some rave reviews from people who loved penguins, surfing, and John Heder.  However, I stumbled onto this hilarious little gem from flixster.com that just made my day:

“HORRIBLE. Lets put together two things I am sick of: Reality TV and Penguins…F. ME. CAn I give it 0 stars?”

Not that I agree with his review, but it was just really funny to me that it followed one that said, “The mockumentary stuff is really very well done,” and right above one that says, “incorporating the mockumentary film style with the animation genre was just brilliant.”

This just reminds me of going to see a movie with a big group of friends.  Inevitably, someone in your group is going to hate it when everyone else loves it, or vice versa.  The car trip home is unforgettable because no one stops talking (or arguing) about the movie.  That’s why I love movies so much.  I just don’t think I’m at that stage in my life where I can argue about politics without getting a headache and wanting to scream until my lungs explode.  But movies, I could go on and on.

Try it some time.  Go see a movie with some friends and argue about it as long as possible.  You’ll feel better and I’ll bet your appreciation of the movie will skyrocket.

Until later — “There’s no turning back now that you opened up to your mind.”

My ears have been bothering me since we got back from the beach. Since I spent most of the vacation in water, I assumed it was just water stuck in my ears. Today, though, I was having trouble hearing and a little bit of pain in my left ear.

So, I did the smart thing and went to Health Plus. The doctor looked in both ears. “They’re a little pink, and you have some wax building up in there. We need to flush out your ears.”

Hmm, sounded harmless enough. A few minutes later, a nurse walked in with a spray bottle that had a long tube on it with a plastic disc and a much tinier tube at the tip of it.  Again, it didn’t look so bad. The nurse politely asked me to hold this oddly-shaped white plastic tray under my ear as she gently slid the tiny tube into my ear. As she squeezed the nozzle on the spray bottle, my ear filled with water and a felt just a slight stinging. She sprayed again and again. “There’s nothing coming out,” she said. After a few minutes of me grabbing the side of the seat, she finally cheered, “Oh, there we go. That’s a big chunk of wax.” (I clean my ears, I swear. Doctor said the buildup could be due to the infection.) Simple enough, right?

However, when she slid the tiny hose into my right ear and squeezed the nozzle, I immediately felt pain on the inside of my ear that grew worse with every squeeze of the nozzle. “Ow,” I whispered, figuring the pain was normal.

“Does that hurt?” the nurse asked. I could only mumble my answer as my eyes began to get glassy and I could hear (or maybe feel) a ringing in my ears. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” I sat back in the seat and closed my eyes for just a second, hoping to ease the pain. I didn’t open them again until I heard the nurse shouting for one of the girls in the hallway.

“I need someone to help me get this chair back, he just passed out.” After a few minutes of embarrassing stares from nurses walking in and out to check on me, the doctor wandered in and checked both of my ears again.

“This right one is still a little clogged, but the left one looks good. Want to try to finish the right one?” Was he serious? Sure, why not, what’s the worst that could happen? I’ve already embarrassed myself by passing out during an ear cleaning.

After giving me some time to relax, the nurse sat me up carefully, handed me the plastic tub, eased the tube into my ear, and squeezed again. After about the fifth squeeze, I felt that familiar wave of nausea again. As if on instinct, in a series of swift motions, the nurse pulled the tube away, scooted the trash can over next to me, and then back away.

I puked. Couldn’t help it. And the embarrassment got worse with every heave. Once the doctor got word that I had vomited, that was it. I lay with my knees up, breathing and relaxing for about thirty minutes until they finally gave me permission to check out and go home.

Here is my confession. This is the third time this has happened to me. I passed out when I had to have lead removed from under my thumb nail and the doctor injected me with a local anesthesia to numb my thumb and then walked off for a few minutes to give it time to work. I was out in just about a minute and a half. Something similar happened when I had to get debris removed from under my toenail. I didn’t actually pass out this time because I felt it coming and managed to bring my knees up and breathe through it.

Why? Why me? I don’t have a low threshold for pain. I walked away from being hit by a car while riding my bike. I once tumbled down a rocky hillside and walked home looking like I had just fought Edward Scissorhands. I was able to stay conscious when I twisted my ankle, which was definitely the worst pain I have ever felt. So why did something so simple make me dizzy and nauseated?

Can any medical experts out there answer that question for me, or do I remain a mystery.

Algazi, Alvarez, Alpern, Ametrano, Andrews, Aran, Arnstein, Ashford, Bailey Ballout, Bamberger, Baptista, Barr, Barrows, Baskerville, Bassiri, Bell, Bokgese, Brandao, Bravo, Brooke, Brightman, Billy, Blau, Bohen, Bohn, Borsuk, Brendle, Butler, Calle, Cantwell, Carrell, Chinlund, Cirker, Cohen, Collas, Couch, Callegher, Calcaterra, Cook, Carey, Cassell, Chen, Chung, Clarke, Cohn, Carton, Crowley, Curbelo, Dellamanna, Diaz, Dirar, Duncan, Dagostino, Delakas, Dillon, Donaghey, Daly, Dawson, Edery, Ellis, Elliott, Eastman, Easton, Famous, Fermin, Fialco, Finklestein, Farber, Falkin, Feinman, Friedman, Gardner, Gelpi, Glascock, Grandfield, Greenbaum Greenwood, Gruber, Garil, Goff, Gladwell, Greenup, Gannon, Ganshaw, Garcia, Gennis, Gerard, Gericke, Gilbert, Glassman, Glazer, Gomendio, Gonzalez, Greenstein, Guglielmo, Gurman, Haberkorn, Hoskins, Hussein, Hamm, Hardwick, Harrell, Hauptman, Hawkins, Henderson, Hayman, Hibara, Hehmann, Herbst, Hedges, Hogan, Hoffman, Horowitz, Hsu, Huber, Ikiz, Jaroschy, Johann, Jacobs, Jara, Johnson, Kassel, Keegan, Kuroda, Kavanau, Keller, Kevill, Kiew, Kimbrough, Kline, Kossoff, Kotzitzky, Kahn, Kiesler, Kosser, Korte, Leibowitz, Lin, Liu, Lowrance, Lundh, Laux, Leifer, Leung, Levine, Leiw, Lockwood, Logrono, Lohnes, Lowet, Laber, Leonardi, Marten, McLean, Michaels, Miranda, Moy, Marin, Muir, Murphy, Marodon, Matos, Mendoza, Muraki, Neck, Needham, Noboa, Null, O’Flynn, O’Neill, Orlowski, Perkins, Pieper, Pierre, Pons, Pruska, Paulino, Popper, Potter, Purpura, Palma, Perez, Portocarrero, Punwasi, Rader, Rankin, Ray, Reyes, Richardson, Ritter, Roos, Rose, Rosenfeld, Roth, Rutherford, Rustin, Ramos, Regan, Reisman, Renkert, Roberts, Rowan, Rene, Rosario, Rothbart, Saperstein, Schoenbrod, Schwed, Sears, Statosky, Sutphen, Sheehy, Silverton, Silverman, Silverstein, Sklar, Slotkin, Speros, Stollman, Sadowski, Schles, Shapiro, Sigdel, Snow, Spencer, Steinkol, Stewart, Stires, Stopnik, Stonehill, Tayss, Tilney, Temple, Torfield, Townsend, Trimpin, Turchin, Villa, Vasillov, Voda, Waring, Weber, Weinstein, Wang, Wegimont, Weed, Weishaus.  

When I took this test, I scored a 72.  Gladwell says that “the first–and most obvious–criterion is that Connectors know lots of people.”  One of my close high school friends used to joke that I know everyone because whenever we were out, I would see four or five people or more that I knew.  There was a running joke that if I went to a different state, I would still see someone I know.

I never took this joke seriously until a few years ago my wife and I were at King’s Island and I bumped into a lady I used to teach with.  The next summer, I was in line for a ride at Cedar Point and realized I was just a few people behind one of the school counselors at GW. 

Wait… it gets better.  The following year, I traveled to Disney World with my wife and kids.  Keep in mind that Disney has four parks, each of which has hundreds if not thousands of people in attendance.  We were walking through Magic Kingdom when I spotted a student of mine and her father, sitting on a bench.

Gladwell says, “Sprinkled among every walk of life, in other words, are a handful of people with a truly extraordinary knack of making friends and acquaintances. They are Connectors.”  I don’t know if I’m a connector or not, but I do know a lot of people.  Gladwell also points out that most people score around 20 or less.

It isn’t hard to believe that I know a lot of people.  I have worked in fast food, retail, and at the local movie theater.  And as a teacher, I have approximately 125 students and I get to know many of their parents, as well.  So I get the opportunity to get to know 200+ people a year.  And I’m grateful for every one of them.

Try this test out and see how you score.  I was thinking of trying it with a local phone book, but I don’t know if it would be as effective.

Until later– “There’s no turning back now that you opened up to your mind.”

What exactly does that mean? I imagine this angry television writer throwing a tantrum because he’s out of ideas for the show and is parading around shouting, “No more! No! I won’t do anymore!”

This isn’t the first time a show I’ve fallen in love with has been canceled. Does anyone remember the show Wonderfalls? It was also a FOX show and had one of the most amazing main characters I have ever seen. Her name is Jaye and she is cynical, antisocial, “overeducated and underemployed”, bitter, and best of all a master at avoiding expectations. The premise of the show was a little weird, but the mark of good writing is when the characters within a story change. It’s even funnier when they change against their will. In this case, the cure for Jaye’s cynicism comes in the form of inanimate objects speaking to her and giving her clues that lead to helping her change people’s lives.

Here is one of my favorite quotes from the first episode:

Eric: Life can be sort of peaceful when you stop struggling.

Jaye: It’s a lot like drowning that way.

But, unfortunately, the show went the way of other artistic shows that just aren’t meant for mainstream crowd, I guess. I fell in love with it and was heartbroken when the fourth episode aired and then that was it.

There is a similar show out now that I also love: Eli Stone. I won’t ramble on and on about that one just yet. Let’s hope FOX keeps Amsterdam alive and I finally get to see if John finds true love and becomes mortal (although I like that he’s immortal. It does make him a better cop.) If I just confused you, watch the show. It’ll make more sense then.

Until later– “There’s no turning back now that you opened up to your mind.”

Wednesday I did yoga for thirty minutes with an instructor who comes in and teaches it to my students.  Then, at 12:20, we left for a nature hike with Mr. Smith, my Science teacher colleague.  That was an awesome hike, down behind the school and up a steep hill until we came up next to the road.  I’m sure our group of thirty or so students looked pretty comical emerging from the woods near the road.

Then, yesterday, I took the students outside at 11:50 to play whiffle ball and played all afternoon until 2:55.  After that, I drove to my writing workshop and did a presentation on using digital video with students.  Finally, I drove to dance class and practiced the dance for my routine four times, after which I flopped onto a tumbling mat and felt every muscle in my legs pulsating.

This next statement might shock you:  When I was sitting in my bed last night, watching CSI, a ticker scrolled across the screen announcing that an 8 year old boy was lost somewhere in Kanawha State Forest.  The ticker was calling for anyone who wanted to volunteer to join the search.  My heart skipped and I jumped up off of the bed.  All of my exhaustion slipped away and I started to pull on my jeans.

“I want to go,” I told my wife.

“My God, he’s only eight,” she said.

“I know.”  Both of us were thinking the same thing.  Eight.  Only one year older than our daughter.  “I want to go.”

“Honey, by the time you got there, they would probably have a hundred people searching.  And how well do you know the woods at Kanawha State Forest?”

I thought about it.  “Not very well.”  So, worried that I might get lost myself, I did not go.  I wanted to, really bad, but honestly they would probably have to call another search party to help me out of the woods, also.

Until later — “There’s no turning back now that you opened up to your mind.”

The Gunslinger—-> Bag of Bones (inc.)—-> On the Road (inc.)—-> To Kill a Mockingbird—-> Crum (inc.)—-> All the Pretty Horses (inc.)—> The Book on Leadership—-> It’s Not About Me (inc.)—-> Empire Falls (inc.)—-> Lonesome Dove (inc.)—-> Breakfast of Champions-—> Cat’s Cradle—-> Sirens of Titan (inc.)—-> The Maltese Falcon (inc.)—-> Trainspotting (inc.)—-> The Kite Runner (inc.)—-> One Hundred Years of Solitude (inc.)—-> The Tipping Point (currently reading).

See what I mean.  Now, in my defense, some of those books are pretty hefty.  Lonesome Dove is somewhere near 1000 pages and Trainspotting is tough to read because it is written using Scottish phonetics.  “Now most people would put this doon tae experience, ye always want what ye cannae have and the things that ye dinnae really gie a toss aboot get handed tae ye oan a plate.”  And I have read Bag of Bones before,but I wanted to read it again.  Once I stumbled on to Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, however, I just abandoned Stephen King’s beautifully written horror romance to go traveling across the country with the Beats.  And when I suddenly remembered I had never read To Kill a Mockingbird, I was appalled and just had to read it right away.  And so on, and so on.

You can also tell from this list what kind of impact Kurt Vonnegut’s work has on me since I did finish all but one of his novels on the list.

In her book The Bell Jar (the first book I read more than once, by the way ) Sylvia Plath’s narrator says,

“If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I’m neurotic as hell.  I’ll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days.”

I’m usually flying back and forth between six or seven mutually exclusive things at the same time, and it is usually a stack of books.

Download Video: Posted by mrallsop at TeacherTube.com.

I love finding amazing things like this.  This is funny, informative, catchy.  I love the South Park inspired Civil Rights Movement animations at the beginning.

For my next post, I’ll put up a video that a lot of you may have already seen:  “Did You Know 2.0″  It is essential viewing for anyone who wants to know what is up with our world right now and what all the big fuss is about for 21st century learning.

April 26th, I will be participating in my first dance recital, and I am terrified.  That’s a hard thing for me to say since I am usually pretty comfortable on a stage.  But dancing is not my area.  At first, I was told by the instructor that she doesn’t need me to dance so much as just be a good showman and “play my part” during the closing number. 

That closing number is “You Can’t Stop the Beat” from Hairspray.  And my “part…?”  Link.  That’s right… the hunky lady-killer, played by Zac Efron.  I get to dance a little dance (any dance from me is a little dance) with the dancer who is supposed to be Tracy, mouth the words to the song, and that’s it.  Oh, then, I stay on stage and bring on another dancer who is supposed to be Penny while I again mouth the words for Seaweed’s part and dance another little dance.  Then, I’m off stage and that’s it.  But wait… I come on stage again, flip a girl over my back (hopefully without killing her or breaking my back), and then off stage again.

No pressure.  The instructor just told us Saturday that this has to be the best finale anyone has ever seen.  But no pressure.

So that’s pretty much it right now.  I love this experience because it reminds me how stressful it can be to learn something new, to go out of your comfort zone long enough to try something new or help someone else.  This creates quite a bit of empathy with my students in understanding how they feel when I present them with a new idea or teach them a new skill and they have to learn it through practice.

Wish me luck with the recital.  I’ll post on it the night after it is over.

Until later — “There’s no turning back now that you opened up to your mind.”