Riding Into My Saturday, the First of a Week of a Supposed Break, With My Hopes to the Sky, The Great Whatever, That We Can Make Things Better

I'm not sure if I'm spent or recharged to do better as a human being. I have my sense of history, of social justice, of good, and of possibility, but I'm cautious of the systems, the narrations we tell ourselves, and whether or not we waltz on the dance floor of hypocrisy, or we actually stand for what we believe in. 

My colleague and I painted our classrooms in Kentucky to replicate the last scenes of The Truman Show, and we challenged our students to exit Plato's metaphorical cave to go out into the world and to put into action what they believe, preached, and stood for. Do good. Do right. Do you.

I live by the motto that actions speak louder than words. Words go out into the universe and disappear. Yet actions, and words dedicated to page, become spaces to replicate what we truly believe. How we behave, what we choose to do, and what we create for the world means more than anything we might commit to verbal promises - if actions don't follow the language, they are nothing but words meant to disappear and be forgotten. 

We must act on our beliefs and if we believe in a better world, and claim this, then our actions need to show this, each and every day, so they represent the words we stand behind. 

Higher education is as odd a location as anywhere. Cuddled in privilege, opportunity, language, and ego, such locations establish the tomorrow we want to see...that is, if they choose.

That is what I hope I stand for and what I hope I die for. There is a tremendous amount of work to be done as generations before us have demonstrated for us to follow. We owe it to them to bring forth a better world for youth and the Earth they will inherit. If it is only talk, then it is useless.

Actions. That's the answer. Create the world you want for others...for all. If you are dividing, condescending, manipulating, and conniving, you are the problem. The only answer I've ever found to be true is LOVE, and that is a LOVE for all human beings, no matter the nation, the time in history, or the social status.

Do better. That is the way. The only way.

Just do better.

Braved the Backed-Up Traffic of I-95 on Thursday to Tour Kendall College & Career Academy in Norwalk, a K-5 School Making a Tremendous Difference

There was something that happened to cause a parking lot on I-95, and I was stuck on the high for 2 hours, but I made it to my office and eventually to Kendall College & Career Academy where I met the 1st graders we mentored from EDUC 2201 - Explorations in Education (and their wonderful teachers) and was able to tour the older grade classrooms. A highlight was being shown how one copy of POW! Power of Words inspired student writers to compose their own writing, which was showcased in window displays throughout the school. All a teacher needed to do was use the 3-12th grade writing from POW! with their kids, and suddenly, WOLA! the young writers were inspired to compose, too. 

That fueled my soul.

And I also received a video from graduate, Stefania Vendrella, of a writing celebration she hosted at her school that resulted from the years she worked with Little Lab for Big Imaginations. She and her students turned their space into a writing emporium, and the parents were invited to an event in celebration of their writing success. Words everywhere, and genres galore. The happiness was obvious.

Yesterday was Dave Wooley's 52nd birthday, and what an honor to celebrate with their family: good food, good company, good stories, and great friendship. I'm thankful to have him, Kris, and the kids in my world. They are spectacular.

This morning, I need to finish recommendations, grade, fill out dispositional forms for new Educational minors, and then attend an afternoon faculty meeting.

I am waking up, however, knowing that the investment of summer programs that CWP does really makes a difference in transforming schools.

That's what it is all about. 

And the sun is shining...that makes all the difference in the world. 

Symbolism. I Can Take It. I Live By It. 6:30 a.m. on Campus Getting Ready for a 3-hour Turbo. It's Symbolism. We All Get It.

Tuesday night, I came home at 9 p.m. from teaching and transitioning to an 8 a.m. the next morning I realize, "Fudge." There aren't enough hours in the day, especially when you lost two days doing the administrative biddings of a Dean's Office that needs you to work for them (without any favors in return). I stayed up until midnight to catch up. The result? I also arrived at the University at 6 a.m. with 4 hours sleep, so I could prepare for a turbo course that I'm actually paid to teach. I needed two hours to finish preparation. My time was taken up by uncompensated administrative requests (who, by the way, were absent because they were stressed out by having to make requests, so took yet another day off)

But, on the way up to my 8 am. class, the bag of dry-erase markers exploded and without enough caffeine I found myselff] picking up markers. It's symbolism I tell yourself, and knowing there's always a good reason to exercise, I made the explosion into a an aerobic opportunity. And one, and up. And two and up. And three and up.

You don't make too much noise because you realize the hallway is empty and you won't disturb anyone, and truth be told, it will be this way from 6 a.m. until 5 p.m. because no one will be in your hallway. You can scream in agony as you pick up your markers, but it doesn't matter. Who's there to hear you? No one. The halls remain empty for the entire day. 

Honestly, I think faculty are done. They're sick of the narrative given to them by administrators who claim they have the back of others, but who never come to campus, unless it looks good for the narrative they want others to believe about them. And faculty recognize that their students aren't okay, and are doing everything in their power to maintain and upheld the instruction they need.

A week before break, almost 50% of the students were absent. Why? They're lost. They're wondering why they and their parents are investing what they are so they can attend a campus that is vacant and almost 100% online. It's desolate. There are no faculty. The University marketing is that it won't be this way, but it is this way. And the kids are frustrated, perplexed, stressed, and full of anxiety. It doesn't matter because the hallways are empty and they'll talk to anyone who is present and wlll listen. That is what happened to me for 5 hours yesterday, I listened, simply because I was there.

So, I think a hallway full of dry-erase markers is right. I picked them up, taught a class in person, and thought it was successful. Then, after class I was met with the angst of students who feel faculty and administration has left them neglected and behind. I wonder the same.

Empty hallways. There's no there there.

I wonder the same. 

And how much do these kids pay?

I Wish It Was Easy As Simply Wrapping the Sun As a Gift and Presenting It to Others to Enjoy and Heal

The past three days have been revealing.

Principals reporting, "My teachers aren't all right." Teachers reporting, "My students are hurting." I even experienced how one school has restructured its entire day in support of the young people they are teaching, needing to process the past few years.

Then today, because I was in my office after teaching an 8 a.m. turbo and my door was open, Three different students stopped by my office asking for help, and simply reported they were not okay. Two of the students I've had in class before and one I didn't know, but they said they needed someone to talk to and "all the doors are closed."

Reality check. 

Between 700 and a 1,000 people continue to die each day as a result of Covid. Russian is invading Ukraine. Our campus is what our campus is. Kids who do not fit the upper, middle class, suburban personas, feel threatened in every step they take. Everything is triggering them. They don't want to leave their dorm rooms.

All I can do is coach, mentor, ask questions, and guide these young people to the professional counseling services on campus, although that is the site of what has been triggering them because they don't feel they matter. What a ruckus. I had to tap my inner-high school teacher and trained peer counselor days to be an active listener and to take in all that was being processed. Most often I restated what I was hearing and put questions back to them.

I realize this is what Principals are getting from their teachers, teachers from their students. Home lives aren't what they should be, and the world is upside after several years of vitriol, wrath, and unprofessional banter from the top making it seem that cruelty and no accountability is okay. 

Thick skin comes from enduring...getting up...building layers to protect the self, but also knowing that one's self-esteem comes from resiliency...trusting that the self is much more than what is being narrated upon you...us...them. It doesn't matter. The heaviness is extra heavy right now and everyone is looking for ways to make it lighter. Some blame. Some lash out. Some curl up with ignorance and spit venom at anyone that comes near them.

It's hard to say, "Just be the better man. Just be the better woman. Just be better" when you're still finding out who you are and where you belong in the universe. 

I always think of a colleague of my mom's who disappeared for a while when the world became too much for her. I was still young, but whispers of concerned people searching for her came across our phone and I could hear. Eventually they found her in a hotel eating Oreo cookies (good choice), but she needed to get away from it all. To nestle in a safe space until she could process the world would be okay.

I think the world will be okay. There's never been a time without turbulence, and even when you think there has, that might not be true for other populations around the world...other cultures....the person next door. 

So, I listened from 11 a.m. until 2 p.m. - missed lunch and didn't accomplish what I was on campus to do (I arrived at 6 a.m. to get on top of the game, taught, then thought I could work in my office). I missed meetings. I missed phone calls. I missed texts. But I listened.

And I hope this was enough light to guide these young people for another day. I know many might say, "Well, your problem is you'r ein your office and you leave your door open." 

Actually, I consider it my blessing. I feel fortunate to be in the right spot at the right time, although not what I planned for my day.

I Need My Hour Every Day, and I Took That Hour an Hour Earlier Than Usual Last Night...That is, the Hour I Write For Me & I Unwind

This is year 15 of blogging and I don't have an audience or a purpose, really, just an outlet to think through my day and make connections where I can. Although these post in the a.m., I typically made a decision at 10 or 11 p.m. to push everything aside so I can write for me. I write all day: proposals, articles, emails, texts, more and more emails, inquiries, responses, edits, etc. but I need at least one hour of my day to simply write what's on my mind. Truth is, I rarely take the entire hour; instead, I write for however long it takes and then I try to shut off my brain so it will sleep (some nights this is easier than others).

Those that hear me rambling in the halls or see the piles of distractions I keep in my house and office must think, "Crandall is the most disorganized human alive." It's not true, though, as I wake up working and tend to work all throughout the day trying to get done as much as I can in numerous projects. That one hour though, this hour, is for me. I need to dump my end-of-the-day thinking somewhere.

And when weeks exist like this one, when every second of your day is consumed by doing work for other people (caring for their needs and desires), you have to be extra organized. I knew it was coming and that my time would not be my time, so I hunkered down over the weekend to get everything in place so that I could give to others what they need from me. It's not my agenda, but it is the game of academia and what we have to play.

Which is interesting, because I don't think I've ever been the person who makes more work for others. If something needs to get done, I sit down to get it done. And if I'm collaborating, then I am truly collaborating. We're working together, not relying on anyone to get the work done for us.

So my white flag went out at 8 pm last night because I couldn't think another thought for other people...I simply needed to process the universe for me. I needed this hour to rant a little, but also to be mindless with a Words with Friends game, the dog, and maybe some t.v.. I know when I am not going to be of any use to the piles at my side. 

Grant edited. Check. Classes planned. Check. Chapter edited. Check. Meetings about upcoming journal collaboration, done. Proposal to Academic Council. All good. Grading? Um, two things got done. A journal article review....I'm halfway there. Advising...loving ZOOM for this. Food? Glad I prepped this weekend. Socializing, being human, checking on the news? Um, no. Those are distractions. But I'll get to that this weekend.

It's on the agenda. And today, I tour schools before teaching. We got this.

Dog vs. RoboVac Vera. The Sweeper Wins & the Canine Hides in Fear. This is a Good Thing (She Could Bark and Try to Kill It, But Doesn't)

Chitunga gave me a RoboVac for Christmas and I finally found a few seconds on Saturday night to figure it out. It's been charging since Dec. 26th so it was hyped to get out of the saddle. The directions that came with it were as vague as possible, but it did have a QR code which led to an APP. There were no instruction, so I did research for a week and finally found out that it needs to be operated through the phone APP, and I had to find online all the ways it can be operated. 

I named her Vera after my extremely tidy grandmother Vera. 

When I finally got the App to work, I commanded Vera to sweep and she took off. I expected Karal to jump at her, bark at her, and try to destroy her. Instead, she ran to me cowering, hiding between my legs, and eventually sitting as close to me as she could while she watched. As Vera swept, Karal avoided her at all costs. 

And Vera did sweep, reminding me often of Stan, one of the men in the group home in Indiana, who often yelled, "Help me. Help me. Help me." She'd get stuck trying to climb over a dog toy, or trapped herself in between chair legs. Her command was, "Alert. Alert. I need your help. I need your help," in which I had to get up, see what she did this time, and fix her so she could continue. She didn't enjoy swallowing the sliding glass door curtains, either, as she inhaled them with her thirst of consumption. "Hack Hack Hack. I'm dying."

She also says, "I think my underside needs wiping," which is something Grandma Vera never said to her grandkids.

I was impressed when she finished, though, because her little kangaroo pouch was loaded with dust dinosaurs and dog hair. I thought she'd set out to memorize the space, but she's sort of a mad, random woman who goes at it until her battery dies. Most of the carpets she can get across, but the chairs drive her nuts. I did appreciate that she could maneuver underneath the dining room hutch and living room t.v. stand, though. 

I didn't expect her to be so noisy, either. She whips forward her long lashes swiping everything she can grab into her insides. For a while, she got in a fight with picture frame that is still wrapped n plastic from the store. I don't think her sensors understand when the lashes come across plastic. Rather than give up, she seemed obsessed with attacking the frame until I moved it. It was like breaking up a girl fight at school.

Perhaps Vera is what we need to get out whenever Karal gets extra spastic. The machine seemed to put the dog in its place. Here I was having fantasies of Karal wearing a shark outfit riding Vera around the house like a cat, but she is not a happy puppy with this thing is in our house.

Happy Monday. Once again, there are no words for all that lies ahead. 

Happy 80th Papa Butch, From your Son of a Butch! Phew. 1942 to 2022...There's Definitely A Few Stories To Be Told. Love You, Dad.

I remember driving to Sherburne and celebrating my Grandma Vera's 80th birthday party (someone gave me a camcorder and I made it a documentary on hearing aids). Last night, I started my robo-vacuum and when it asked me to name her, I called her Vera. I don't know anyone who was clean as her. I miss her every day. And I realize that I am around the age my father was during that party and I recognize the grays. Long gone are the days when my father comes home from work with a perm - we used to say he was trying to be Mr. Brady or a character on Mash.

Yes, today is my father's 80th celebration of life...1942 to 2022. It's almost crazy to comprehend. Born during WWII in Sherburne, New York, living through Korean, Vietnam, Panama, Gulf, and now Ukranian wars, this man of pit crew dads, little league, Clam Bar, Chubby's, Oneida Lake, Bud Light, Amalfi Drive, Karl, mowed lawns, and snow-blown driveways is 8 decades old. It's pretty amazing and you can't help but applause, love, and cherish such a milestone.

He is vintage, 1942. And I'm thankful for all his love, support, guidance, shelter, coaching, mentoring, yelling, yelling and yelling all those years ago in Cherry Heights. He's the Superman of the Crandall crew, and we love him very, very much. 

What?

DAD! WE LOVE YOU VERY, VERY MUCH. 

Huh?

BUTCH, BRYAN IS TELLING YOU THAT HE LOVES YOU!

And I'm wishing my father a very Happy Birthday today, wanting to be there for cake, family, love, and cheers. You deserve all the attention you'll receive today. 

Here's to you, Dad, and another 80 more!

Well, @TorreyMaldonado...a Morning Post Simply to Say I'm Thankful for Your Brilliance, Leadership, Love of Youth, and Craft.

I hope nothing but greatness showers on Torrey Maldonado this weekend and for the rest of his life. Yesterday, the teacher-author, author-teacher presented to a room full of Bridgeport educators and youth participating in the MLK Youth Leadership Academy. His talk was beyond engaging, so much that students stayed afterwards to say they had no idea that individuals like them could write and publish books. At one point, when he asked how many of the students have not seen stories that represented them and their families in school and almost 100% raised their hands.

This is the heart of where we are in the 21st century. As the world talks about democracy and freedom, we have to be cautious about who really had freedom and democracy in U.S., especially now with the book-banning surge of parents and the gerrymandering of a narrative that hasn't been true for all. That is the power of a Torrey Maldonado's text. His books represent the stories of kids, and families, trying to find their way in the United States, when there stories haven't been told.

As I worked with the kids before and after Torrey Maldonado's presentation, one doodle in a notebook caught my attention. It was a young girl sketching the face from the main character of What Lane with a Martin Luther King, Jr. quote, "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter." She then wrote, "We are all born with a voice so if that is taken away from us, we are not able to emotionally show what we think, want, believe in and care about."

And that is the heart of yesterday's event - one hosted by CWP with the greatness of Rony Delva, Upward Bound, in the Oak Room full of beautiful teachers of Bridgeport and their students. Very appreciative of Yolehema Felican for being a leader, too, and stopping by to greet the students. 

The open mic at the end of the day was as it always is: beautiful. The writers read with new composition started by the models of great writers (yes, Torrey Maldonado offered us two). 

I'm inspired as always. 

Thank you, Torrey. You deserve nothing but joy, greatness, and the power of the next story to come.

Writing Our Lives & Choosing Our Lanes with @TorreyMaldonado - a @CWPFairfield Event for the @FairfieldU MLK Youth Leadership Academy

I have numerous days a year which are my favorite days and one of them is the MLK Youth Leadership Academy for youth in Bridgeport, Connecticut, where they come to celebrate the brilliance of Martin Luther King, Jr., learn to think of themselves as community leaders and writers, and participate in workshops designed from some of the greatest YA writers on the planet. This year we are Writing Our Lives & Choosing Our Lanes, because of the inspiration of no other than Torrey Maldonado...the Mandalorianado, himself.

Frog gets to tap his inner-Yoda all day today, and the beautiful middle-grade humans get to fill a writer's notebook with writing possibilities to turn all their frustrations and hopes into brilliant manuscripts. This year is extra special because every kid is receiving a copy of Torrey Maldonado's What Lane, which he scripted with Martin Luther King, Jr. in mind.

The show begins at 9 a.m. in the Oak Room at Fairfield University, with numerous finger snaps for Rony Delva, Upward Bound, and his irreplaceable hard work for the MLK Committee and the young people of Bridgeport (I hope, too, that the one and only Todd Palazzo makes an appearance - it will not be the same without him, as he always gave so much to the many communities around our campus for so long - a champion above all champions). 

What is beautiful, admirable, amazing, and stupendous about the day's special guest is that Torrey Maldonado not only writes incredible books that young readers devour,  he also remains in the classroom as a teacher - advocating for the excellence of K-12 schools, the importance of writing and storytelling, and the necessity of #WeNeedDiverseBooks (I have Phoebe Yeh to thank for introducing me to his outstanding work).

It's a party, that's how I roll. 

If you are at Fairfield University, believe in the genius of tomorrow's generation, and simply want to be inspired by excellence in all capacities, we'll be in the Oak Room doing our thing.

I need moments like this to rekindle hope and wonder  - the possibility of absolute excellence. I am thrilled, too, to be in-person, not online, and back to the Writing Our Lives tradition (all love to Dr. Marcelle Haddix at Syracuse University). This is my 9th year of hosting the Youth Leadership Academy, after learning from the best for two years, Dr. Yohuru Williams. He was one of the greatest minds our campus has ever known and I'm proud to keep his tradition and friendship alive.

We gotta write, a'ight!?!

I'm Ready To Crawl Under a Rock with a Surrendering Flag...But I'm Also Ready For So Many Others to Crawl Under the Rocks From Where They Come From

I have no problem admitting I'm overwhelmed. There are 24 hours in a day and 7 days a week, and anyone who knows me understands I'm pretty much at it most all of these times....until I'm not. I realized when I woke up this morning that I don't have much bandwidth for much more. I'm spent: intellectually, emotionally, psychologically, and physically. I continue to shake my head in disbelief.

Disclaimer: I've always worked in public schools, with public school years, in pubic settings. I run a National Writing Project site at a Private, Jesuit Institution. I teach education courses and we are in schools all the time. I have to shake my head at times, though, when I hear about the culture shock my students experience as they go into schools in the U.S. -...they are simply amazed to, gasp, see American schools exist as they do. 

Granted, I usually teach graduate students and not the initial, introduction classes. I am doing it this semester as a favor to the Chair (and hence the Department). I'm used to in-practice teachers, academics, and pre-service teachers in their last courses. I didn't realize I'd get so much shock, confusion, frustration, disbelief, and bewilderment from sophomores and juniors. 

I guess this is where the prisoners first see the light, Plato.

I'm almost overwhelmed by how overwhelmed they are that the realities of our nation are not what they always knew them to be. Their shock is shocking to me, because I can't understand that the reality of what schools actually are would be alarming to them. They don't believe their eyes (and it's funny, because I'm seeing these spaces as wonderful, thought-provoking, joyous spaces where incredible teachers are investing their lives to make stunning children more exceptional.

They only see deficits - can't get past the privileges they grew up with. As I see assets and attributes at how incredible the teachers and students are, they look at the spaces with disdain and blame. I don' t understand privilege or how, in 2022, one continues to think that the world is kind, genuine, safe, and hopeful. It's a narrative I want to believe in (and can, because I've been a public school educator my whole life and know the greatness that exists)...but this awakening for undergraduates paying what they pay to explore teaching and, for the first time, realize the inequities of the world is sort of shocking my system. I'm not sure how to process it.

You want to teach...but don't see the world around you....and it bothers you to have to see it? I'm at a loss for words and need to process this some more. Definitely reaching out to mentors across the country on this one, because I've never taught a general education course....not to I wear a set of frames as they do. It is something.

I think I might need to stick to Grad Student who come to us with more worldviews, but I also know I need to talk with my department and the Office of Social Impact on what they intend with this work...for what should be gained...and merited. I've never been in the business of poverty tourism...my life has been dedicates to public school bliss. So, when I hear their hiss, it just gets me angry and disappointed in the human species.

Rant over.

Joy Comes From The Excellence of Fantastic Teachers - Gratefulness - Excitement - Pride - Passion - Thankfulness - & Hope. A Moment to Reflect on What Counts Most

I was fortunate to host afternoon office hours yesterday, where teachers participating in the New Era Women Writers Program - The Cultivated Women's Collective - stopped by to pick up the first round of materials for their girl writing groups. These are teacher leaders who are the best of the best, and have been doing amazing work beyond the craziness of the nation and world. As each stopped by and discussed their excitement about what has already been accomplished, they shared wonderful things.

I'm also excited. I was going to crate the first round of materials, but then found the cloth boxes at Targets that were 1/20th of the price and much more stylish. They are starting with Ibi Zoboi and getting their writer's notebooks. I have set up an appointment with Dr. Marcelle Haddix for next week and, fingers crossed, hope I can get her to record a writing prompt for me. Gholdy Muhammad is next. 

It's National Women's Month, too, so this seems like the perfect opportunity to make things happen.

What I'm already hearing:

• The girls are super-excited to be selected. In fact, word has spread and more want to get involved? Can I ask more girls to join?
• Last week, I created a Padlet for the girls at my school and it is already filled with ideas and possibilities.
• I feel like this project is saving me. We are being super policed right now and can't teach much at all. Because this is extracurricular, I can actually teach. I am getting books in the hands of my writers. This should be what it is about.
  
• You would not believe what they are banning at my school. I'm hoping this club will get girls talking and books will be spread to others by word of mouth.
• There are so many teachers at my school that want to get involved. They are 'jelly' that I'm a part of this and wish they could be to.
• We spent all last week discussing, "Who is Octavia Butler? Why don't you know her? Who should? It's been super educational for the girls to realize that so many women writers are off the radar. We want all our girls to be on the radar. They need to know the shoulders upon which they might one day stand.
  

I had back to back classes, but an 8 a.m this morning, I feel like I gained so much life, joy, and purpose in one afternoon. Here I am simply allowing teachers to teach. We all can avoid the bureaucracy, the social positioning, the power structures, and the games. I can simply say, "Here's what I got, here's what you get, now what can we do to empower girl writers?" 

It's so easy. I've said it for what is approaching three decades now....cut out the academic bureaucracy, remove the k-12 school bureaucracy, listen to kids, and put funds into the hands of teachers. Teachers remain the most amazing, resilient, hard-working, and energized people on earth. If we invest in them, we invest in futures.

Sorry, higher ed. 99.9% of how your existence is self-serving and without any purpose other than to justify an economic structure that DOES NOT help society in the ways it think it does. Invest in the doers...not in the talkers.

It's that easy. 

We Are Always the Stories We Tell Ourselves - Some More Grandiose Than Others, Most Glorified By the Hunters on Their Roads with Best Intentions

If I didn't experience it, I wouldn't believe it. The fabrications we've watched over and over again these last few years that have made us go hmmm, subsided a little (ha! never), so witnessing the storytelling where I work is alarmingly amazing. How do we weave a story about our stories which are totally untrue and ridiculous, and create a narrative about our falsehoods to convince you that our narratives are better than the ones you've been living and experiencing yourself?

Nope. Not 1984. 2022. Newspeak. Let us tell you the story of everything, even when the story isn't true, but we want you to believe it. Let us convince you that what you think you are seeing is not what you are seeing because, well, our NARRATIVE is superior to yours, and we don't want you to see what you're seeing, because that is what we've created for you to be seen.

I am hearing Michelle Farrell on this, a colleague who often calls me with he phrase, "Oh, my head." This is her expression when she's trying to figure out things that make absolute NO SENSE.

How I am reading the story continues to be the same way I've been reading it since 2011. We have fantastic faculty who are brilliant at what they do. Our students continue to be rather amazing, for the most part, albeit homogeneous and not a reflection of the world. There are numerous people who have worked tirelessly to make change, only to be humiliated or let go. It's exhausting. Yet, the one consistency has been their narrative needing to be sold to the world: one with sunglasses, rules for how you should sign your name, and what is okay to promote and represent. 

This is where narration becomes fiction. It's not real. It's fabrication. We who live and see and experience what we live and see and experience, should be allowed to name it as such. 

Nope. We get a narration that says, "This is what you should see, and we want you to see, because we have this narration on pens, sunglasses, and t-shirts to roll out to the next generation who we want to believe in this narrative. 

My lord...how the heck did I ever end up in higher education at a predominantly White, wealthy (definitely not healthy) institution? I just shake my head and think, "Huh?"

But the kids make me proud. Colleagues make me proud. There are so many who see what I see exactly as I see it. So when they come forward with the narrative they want me to believe, I know that it isn't true. Why? We're historians, writers, researchers, sociologists, scientists, philosophers, mathematicians, nurses, educators, and thinkers who LIVE a narrative every day. It's just not the one they want us to believe is true. It's the most insane thing ever.

I think what they really meant to say is FICTION or FABRICATION, covering up the lies they want us to believe. It's 1980 again...4 years before Newspeak was supposed to happen. THE GODS MUST BE CRAZY

 My head is just spinning.