Thankful to Franny for Sending Me This Video on a Sunday Night Before a Challenging Week (especially as we work with @Trevornoah's BORN A CRIME)

A year ago I listened to Trevor Noah's Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood on a visit to my parents in Syracuse. At the time, I remember cursing myself that I went audio on this book, because I wanted to pull over the car and take notes, to dog-ear pages, and to highlight sections for work with teachers and young people. 

Soon after, I learned it was being adapted to young readers and waited for a reason to pull it into a course. Well, Fairfield University offered me an undergraduate course, a beginning class for Exploring Education and I knew I wanted to continue doing the in-school service work with wonderful teachers across southern Connecticut.

I added it to my courses this semester. 

I know that if I am going to teach a book, I am going to work with the paper copy. I am so glad I did this and look forward to conversations over the next few weeks with graduate students, undergraduates, teachers, and sophomores in high school. 

I've never been to Africa and have commonly said, throughout my life, Africa has come to me. I've been working with and for Hoops4Hope since my 20s (love my cousin Mark), teaching Things Fall Apart, Waiting for the Rain, and Cry the Beloved Country for a long time, and of course dedicated my academic life to working with young men relocated to the United States from all over Africa - from nations with different histories, different politics, different conflicts, but a common denominator: European imperialism and colonialism.

I've also dedicated my life to work in K-12 schools, particularly those that serve the heterogeneity of our world. Trevor Noah's book is a fantastic edition to all of this,

• his humor and poignant insight are unmatched,
• the story is remarkable (as Jason Reynolds points out),
• the complicated and vicious race relations in S. Africa parallel the same ones in the United States - a result of colonialism and imperialism (and I am glad he makes the point about Nazi Germany versus Germany today. We Must Teach History),
• kids (heck, even me) love the impish childhood,
• the message is spot on: education + reflection + questioning + critical thinking = knowledge
• it is a story that vaults the globe forward, and not backwards like some are doing in today's worl. Hate is hate is hate. Ignorance is ignorance is ignorance.

Last night, I was signing off my life for another day when Franny Bitman of Greenwich High School shared a video she found while looking for data and knowledge about Ukraine for her own sanity and the students she teaches. I'll take the coincidence that it brought her to a video about Ubuntu. I'm forever an optimistic, I'm in favor of democracy and human togetherness, and I encourage all of us to be more empathetic, caring, giving, and loving - it's the only way.

I Don't Recommend 14-Hours Behind a Laptop on a Saturday When You Wear Trifocals. By 11 p.m. Everything Before Me Was Out of Focus

I'm trying not to fall in the last February angst that I see landing upon literacy colleagues across the country like it's a fog. I realize the work ebbs and flows, and at times there's just no way to catch up, even when you sacrifice every second of your weekend to stay on top of the game. K-12 and University teaching never ends. There's no clocking in or clocking out - you can only do what is necessary to stay afloat. In K-12 schools, administrators work just as hard as teachers. In higher education, you occasionally catch glimpse of an administrator and they always assure faculty they work much harder than everyone else on campus. It's an illogical trust that goes with the territory. I will likely go to my grave curious what those positions entail, especially when they don't teach, don't seem to fight for faculty, and rarely interact with students. They are paid well, though.

Saturday was successful, I suppose. I did walk Karal and toward the end of the evening reread half of Trevor Noah's Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood. It really is a phenomenal book - of course, I'm partial to comedy, but the realities of race in S. Africa is as disturbing at U.S. history...I know it is safe to say that racism was globalized by European colonization - made almost universally problematic for Black individuals in any nation. When you read about S. Africa you simply think, "How could this ever be allowed to happen?" But then I see our administration at Fairfield University and simply think, "Oh. Not too hard to imagine. There's variations of it everywhere."

Good thing I wasn't driving last night. Everything was blurry when I finally decided to give it a rest. The good news is my laptop sure does hold it's charge. Even after an entire day typing away, I still had a quarter of the battery left.

I'm likely to repeat the same strategy today, as I need Tues/Wednesday classes finished by the end of the day, so I can use Wed night and Thursday to prepare for the MLK Youth Leadership Academy. This is my 9th year as host for the middle school conference in collaboration with the MLK Convocation at Fairfield University, a task that Dr. Yohuru Williams passed onto my in 2013. I was invited, watched him in action, then took the lead from there. I miss him every day as he, Rony Delva, Coach Sydney Johnson, and the incredible Todd Pelazza were always loyalists, always at my side and supportive of the work. Rony are the only ones left...can't say we've ever seen Deans or their superiors at the event. There's always a story, though. The optics to upkeep the facade. 

So, I'm starting today to rubbing my eyes and ready to focus once again. It's all I can do. There's so much more to be done. And I will continue to fight for what I know is right and what I believe in.

Still Riding on My 50th. Ice Shoveled (Damn Adulthood), Weekend, and Seriously Thinking about Being Generation X...Classes 1985 to 1992.

I guess it is wild to be at an age where reflection is still a key to figuring out what it's all supposed to mean. I spent a snow day wrapping up projects, beginning new ones, and ending in nostalgia as a result of photographs (thanks, Rose Brock), and now I am thinking historically and as a documentarian. What would it look like to have a collage of school-aged photographs aligned to 'where we are now' - the K-12 stuff, skip the 20s, 30s, 40s, and boom, the 50s? The formative years are the first 18, but there's so much life that follows. What do we think now about all that growth then?

There was nothing more ritual than end-of-the-year yearbooks, the photographs, signatures, and bonanza of socializing over grade-stamped capsules of time, and I wonder if this generation has such habits. We were pre-video, maybe some with video cameras, but our years were defined by sending film to the local drugstore to be developed and returned a week later, with half not coming out. Who we were depended on what came back to us after a week of waiting (and if we could scrape up enough money to print what we captured from our cameras).

I am, because we are. But who were we?

I was thinking about this last night looking at yearly imprints from a graduate in the class of 1989, and it hit me....different states, different regions, different rituals, but part of a period of time that is likely to be drastically different than adolescents experience today. Same drama. Same angst. Same rebellion. Same mischief, but we were team MTV, cassette tapes, out-of-town-parent parties and definitely not where we are today with Twitter, Tik Tok, Facebook, and 24/7 embarkment of images, opinions, and news. Was it innocent? Naivety? Luck? Has it all just become tragic?

I honestly think about kids today in the same location as we once were and wondering, "what are the similarities? The differences? And how does history and location play a role in the narratives we tell ourselves?" I'm really curious.

I have fond memories of the nostalgia shared by Butch and Sue as we went through their yearbooks giggling at the photographs, stories, and ridiculousness that came from the way such images entrapped a period of time. Now, at 50, I'm thinking, "Shit. We had it, too." I'm simply mesmerized and curious where my generation currently is, post Big Chill, St. Elmo's Fire, Party of Five, Beverly Hills 90210, Cosby's, Roseanne and how cable turned to this world of Netflix. 

Dang. I want these stories. Not the ones we told when we were there, but how we think of them right now. 

I mean, I was there for The Real World,  followed by Road Rules, and at the time, I thought we'd always be in our early 20s, coming of age post baby boomers, hippies, and yuppies. I also think we were the last generation of innocence....or were we?

I guess I am thinking, arrogantly, that our small pocket of people...1985 to 1992 (let's give it 7 years of time) really are united by unique history. If I didn't have to teach, work, and be committed to what I am, I'd really like to set out to explore this. 

Given the chaos of right now, might I say that we were the last safe and sheltered generation? Is there a point where suddenly times turned traumatic and outrageous as they are right now. We were pre-Jerry Springer, but now it seems every day is another episode of dysfunction. I want this documented, as I'm sure every generation does.

Always an Honor to Score Writing Portfolios of Juniors at Joel Barlow High School in Redding, Connecticut - This Should Be in Every School

When I came to Connecticut in 2011, I was invited to score portfolios at Joel Barlow High School. Here, a team of educators, from administrators all the way to the content areas , were committed to solid writing instruction and holding a high composing bar for their school writers that remains admirable, college and career-oriented, and replicable, today. 

This should be the tradition in every school.

I've always felt nostalgia for my Kentucky portfolio days while I'm there working through student-created portfolios and applying their writing to a well-established, useful, and practical rubric. Teaching kids to be writers and giving them the opportunity to share their work with readers is the greatest assessment (both formative and summative) a school can do for their kids. It's a test of who they are, where they are, that doesn't come from the money-making industry or superficial insight our standardized tests offer. It's authentic and real. 201 students treated with integrity, and given opportunity to write in a variety of genres - "where words come to life."

Kudos to them. All of us in literacy should be flocking to schools like Barlow to understand how they maintain such excellence in their schools and, better yet, how this requirement sets up their students for success upon graduation. 

This is what we once had in Kentucky before politics came into play and they destroyed the beauty of an era - a statewide initiative that was the awe of the nation, toppled by grumpy, ignorant, and short-sided neanderthals (I'm sorry...I kind of like neanderthals. Don't mean to insult them).

I left yesterday having my spirit rejuvenated and optimism restored. The young people at this high school are set up for success and the work should be replicated everywhere. Interestingly, too, the faculty remains joyful. In a period of time when teachers are waving white flags everywhere, the teachers at Barlow are proud (and supported) with the work they do. They should be.

It's simply wonderful. And it's happy.

When a Student of Yesteryear Sends You a Photo from Two Decades Ago, You Wonder, "Hmmm. I Imagine They Finally Painted Over that Last Fragment of Who I Once Was."

10 years ago, Bambi, a deer, was touring the school, her alma mater, before she moved to England. She left the Brown 10 years earlier, so 20 years passed. She snapped a photo of a poem I wrote that Jessica Stauble artistically recreated outside the class, room 301. I learned a long while ago that the poem I wrote for the tea room and that showcased student talents and artwork was white-washed for  new use. I laugh, too, because it was a lunchroom for students and a space that teachers rarely used except for after school meetings. Jessica transformed the room into an art space and began a tradition that other students followed. 

But that's all gone. Changes is inevitable. There are two types of people in this world: artists and lovers of creative expression, and those that work against them.

In this hand - a universe / possibilities for forgotten dreams / always lying in truth moons / suns / the ones who fly by the fires of forgotten caves / cry through love rants and raves / trying to grasp the stars in the brown landscape of tomorrow...tomorrow...and tomorrow.

As the Taliban once wiped away Buddhist monuments and statues, so do administrators  to mark their territory like dogs upon a fire hydrant.

I am thinking about this today because I submitted a writing piece that required me to look back at two decades of journals, and I've been thinking about how stories transcend any one place, especially if invested onto lined pages. Then, of course, this photo showed up as a memory on her Facebook timeline. It just makes me stop to think about the fragility of any moment...it's beauty...the the unknowing of its effect on the days to follow.

That was then. This is now.

20 years

And who knows now?

Such a little tale is insignificant in the larger stories of the world. I awake to news that Putin invaded Ukraine. We shall see if the Western ideology of democracy can withstand a new world order. Civilizations are civilizations. Let's see how this plays out. 

tou·ché, little sister, tou·ché. As soon as the bathroom mat purchased dissolves and disappears, these are definitely the next step for anti-slip protection

My little sister ordered these to come with the first aid kid and the 1972 bourbon glass, but the company messed up, so the joke had to be a little delayed. Still, it's really funny, and I really could use the non-slip bathroom protection. I don't need to recreate another incident like two weeks ago. Although humorous, it really is a great gift and I appreciate it. 

Wow, it's Wednesday again. That happened fast. Today, we'll be working with 75 5th graders before I move to work with 128 juniors (yes, I'm jam-packed today). I just hope I can get to point A from point B without falling asleep. There's a lot of obligations needing to be fulfilled. Of course, it's all for student writer, K-12 teachers, and the magic of what kids can do when adults invest in them. 

I just wish it didn't start at 8, causing me to leave my house at 6:45 a.m....

Ah, but it is what it is.

I spent yesterday on campus, alone in a Dean's Office that remain empty, creating 150 Cultivated Women's Collective notebooks for the participating schools in southern Connecticut. I did see colleagues online and was assured about all the ways our leadership was supporting us, helping us, keeping us in mind, and doing more work than we can possibly imagine. 

We also learned that it is hard, at time, to be motivated when it rains, clouds are gray, and one lives with seasonal dysfunction disorder. I get it. These days are dark. 

But, I'm finding the light. I get to work with teachers and kids today and that is what I signed up for, and what I hope to do for the rest of my life. 

We got this Crandall. We have to.

By Golly, I'll Be Damned Before You See My Wordle Achievements (I Don't Play), but I Am Mighty Proud of My 259 Point Game Play on Words with Friends (So There)

I know I should quit. I'm addicted. I've always been a scrabble fanatic, so when Words with Friends came onto the scene, of course I began playing. I start my day waking up on the game, and I put myself to bed playing (a main culprit for why I spend so many hours on my i-Phone). I have to tell myself that in the old world, I'd play Scrabble five or six times a year. Now, I play nine or ten people a day.

It's excessive and I am not happy with the hours I put in. 

But I love the magnets my sister made for me when she beat me and they hang on my office door. I also get excited when I line words along to triple word scores because, well, you win on one word-play. It rarely happens, but when you do, you post it on your blog.

Happy Tuesday. Lucky for me, it's a Monday on Tuesday day at Fairfield University, so I don't have to teach my evening class, but just have the life sucked out of me while attending campus meetings. Tomorrow morning, however, it's a full blast day with 5th graders again, followed by portfolio scoring for the rest of the week in Redding, Connecticut. 

As a result, I needed to spend all of yesterday getting prepared for the bonanza ahead. A teacher always needs to have everything prepared for every second of the day, because as soon as they sense disorganization, they go in for the kill. I'd rather keep everything moving forward every second I'm with them.

And so I'm hoping for a 'saved' week and not an 'unsaved' one. We shall see. 

Time to kick it off in 3...2...1

The Goal of Fall 2021 Was to Bring My Teachers to Louisville and to Participate in NCTE, in Vietnamese Food, and to Try Some Brough Brothers. Didn't Happen, But...

Well, this didn't occur because of Covid and online conferencing. Even so, in the back of my mind I have been wanting to taste Brough Brothers Bourbon Whiskey, but they don't sell the product in Connecticut. I was sent teasers from friends in Kentucky, California, and Tennessee, but could not get a taste in the Nutmeg State. Instead, I figured I'd have to way until I visited the bluegrass once more

Then Sue McV surprised me, and a birthday present arrived. On Saturday night, Leo, Dom, and I gave the bottle a shot.  Well, we didn't do shots. We sipped the bourbon neat and on rocks. It made for a wonderful celebration while bopping one another on the head with a blow-up cave club. We drink booze. Monosyllabic talk and bourbon are a way of life.

This is all to say that I finally got to try the bourbon and I believe there's a definite taste of Brown School in the mix. I have to get my local stores to carry it. It would make Connecticut living a little bit smoother. 

Okay, Monday. We have a day off, but we have work to do. The past four days were a bonanza of too much attention (really appreciate it), and I loved all the love. Not sure if I deserve it, but it definitely was rejuvenating. I have fuel for the years ahead (whatever The Great Whatever allows). I'm slowly putting away the gifts, arranging the cards, and putting things in place for the incredible we have lined up over the next several months and summer..

But this morning, I'm shouting out the the brothers of Louisville. Congratulations on your success. And I can say without remorse....All gone. That bottle was a little too good once it was open. Lucky for me, I had friends to assist.

Me 5-Uh Oh Now. Me Blow Up Club and Speak Like Man in Cave. Me Talk in Verse & When I Do Bad I Get Whomp On the Head

I do no more love fest to me. Day of Birth no more. But last night me speak one word at a time. We play game (Neanderthal Poetry). We get team to guess word with grunt words and no hands. Say what me think. You say no, you get Club to head.

Cake is good. Booze is friend. We laugh. It snow. Cold wind blow. Last day of me. That is good. 

Yum cake. Yum treats, Yum food. Yay friends. Life is love. Love is life. My team wins. No two beats, just one beats when we speak. We are beasts. I wake up and know we win. Good Day.

Frog love cake. Man whack Bev. Bev swear at man. Bald man. Bald man play game. Cake is friend. So we eat cake.

Food no more. Bry eat too much and Bry get fat. Too much love. Too much food. So Bry must run and sweat. Bry eat fruit. Fruit is good for clean life. Frogs know flies be bad to eat. Too much fat, so Frog eat air. 

New day. New life. No more pain. No more sick. No more blood. No more eye jab or foot cramp. No more wet poop. No more sneeze. We live good life from now on.

Cave club go bye. Say no more whomp to head. No more fools. We act smart now. The joy must go and we should not laugh so much. So much Booze gifts. Just add ice. Sip Sip Sip. Booze for weeks. More time to pray. More time to rest. More time to sleep. 

Bry is 5 uh-oh. Need to live smart. Man should be good. And thank you.

Lublic Pibrary Bead-a-Rook. Okay, I Will Say the 5th Grade Workshop Was a Success and a Very Short Shel Silverstein Exercise with Runny Babbit Was a Hit

On my birthday, the 16th, my undergraduate students worked with 5th graders at Cesar Batalla and the 4th grade ESL class came for the ride. This morning, I'm going through the birthday cards they sent to me and I'm smiling. One of the exercises we did - they are in an argumentative writing unit - is decide which of three poems they thought were the best and why. All three came from Shel Silverstein. I didn't realize the malapropisms would be attractive to students learning the English language, but hey thought it was hysterical. 

I was super-impressed that one student came up with a Rubric Pibrary Bead-a-Rook campaign which simply demonstrates the intelligence youth hold inside. The artist obviously knew they were clever and added a smiley face. Read more and Learn more. 

This is the brilliance of young people who are capable of processing anything we throw at them when they are invited to be involved. engaged, active in their writing, and encouraged to have fun while learning. 

I'll take that as a cherry on any Dirthbay Kupbake thrown towards my celebrations. An unsolicited Dirthday Darc simply had me smiling with this kid. 

Milner 101...it's not an academic gap, it's an opportunity gap. Kids from the most marginalized schools and districts deserve the best. Any and all who work in "superior" locations, need to ask themselves, "Am I working with learners who deserve my "expertise" most? If not, I am not so sure about claims of "brightest" and "best." I think we're fooling ourselves and flattering our own egos.

All kids are talented and gifted. All are at risk. Our institutions have a lot of rethinking to do.

Symbolism with Joy. For those Who Understand the Beauty of Bourbon to Unwind the Day, this Photo is for You. It Will Melt. That is the Way.

I think it's Friday morning. I'm still processing the pomp and circumstance of turning 50, and the fact that most gifts quickly morph me into Elton John singing songs on the stage. I'm not sure the glasses or feathers serve me well, but they come with territory.

I am watching skating, trying to process the ROC's doping of a child, but understanding competition is competition, and nations do what they do. It's abuse. That kid's mental state will be warped for the rest of her life.

The poor child. Just a child. What we adults do to children. We should be ashamed. 

Meanwhile, I await the ice to melt, which by the time you read this it will be several hours later and I'll be waking up.

The birthday celebrations continue with another round tonight, but I am thinking of last night's NWP gathering and the fact that teachers are desperately in need of help. The nation: including politicians, graduate school programs, academics, parents, and historians, have failed them. They are hurting as they try to be superheroes in capes, but continue to be abysmally bruised by neglect, policies, verbal abuse, and test-frenzied bullshit.

The texts that came from the conversation: we're not going to have any teachers left. The toxicity of this culture is too much for any educator to handle.

And that is what I'm thinking about: the sickness of a culture, the reality of our schools, and the inability of those in power to recognize the ultimate power in teaching. I place shame onto all of us. What are we thinking?

Ice will melt. Truth will be told. Privilege will be challenged.

I will stand for kids and teachers all the way. They deserve the best that life has to offer.

The Verdict is That Turning 50 Means that Friends & Family Can Dress You as Elton John, and the Fact Is...Well, You're an Aging Fart. Get Use To It.

When I set out to write this post this morning, I realized that all the documents I had open at 5:30 a.m. on my computer yesterday were still open this morning. I never closed any of them because I never got back to them. Instead, I was on campus by 8 a.m. and in Bridgeport Public Schools by 8:45. We had a great day of setting up arguments and dialogue with 5th graders, and I finally I had the in-school birthday party I've always wanted. 

I then returned home to a lifetime supply of wind-up toys, gift certificates, and candy, only to fall asleep on my couch, then get invited to dinner, in which I could cash-in some of the gift certificates.

This is all to say the day was a blur, and I still didn't get to the Amazon packages that have piled up this week. I didn't have the energy. I am overjoyed, however, by the artistry of Susan James. The Padlet she created is mesmerizing and I will be working my way through it for many days to come. I can't believe so many people gathered in this space to offer a hello. 

As I opened up gift bags and put on clothing, I realize midlife is simply transforming me into Elton John. That's what they want from us: feathers, big glasses, toys, balloons, and glitter. 

I am forever thankful to the 5th grade team at Cesar Batalla, too, for making the entire morning a true delight, to my colleagues at Fairfield, who obviously collected a chunk of change for all this wind-up toys and gift cards, to Susan and Rose for sending the balloons this morning, I think I will cut into the other gifts after I finish a second cup of coffee. It was too much attention for one day, and I wanted to crawl under the rock where I can live with the worms and potato bugs I'm used to.

The Padlet, though...that was something else...I will cherish that for a long time, although I'm wondering how it is that so much "age" happens from 45-50. That is when you officially transform to geezer. Phew. It's like all my youth went "poof" an suddenly I look old.

All love to any and all who contributed. I am going to piece my way through this for a very long time.