Went to a talk, had some thoughts. The talk was fantastic. While I wasn't necessarily blown away by anything she spoke of (which probably speaks more to only having an hour than to her expertise or my advanced understanding of the content), it was yet another in a long line of discussions that I think refer back to a larger paradigmatic issue. More on that later.
The atmosphere was receptive, although there was some hesitance on the part of the audience (myself included) to engage with Dr. Bryan. I feel as though she wanted a little more from us, and I'm not sure what made it that folks weren't more forward with thoughts. I certainly was more interested in thinking than blabbing. "Are gender and sexuality topics that should be discussed in school?" Some comments. Bryan's answer - yes, because schools are sites of development (identity, sexual, cognitive, etc...), because reality will find its way into schools, and because we all have genders, sexualities, and other facets of identity.
She presented us a series of questions from children at different ages, starting at Kindergarten. "Can I be a boy if I don't have a penis?" Moving through second, third, eighth, high school, we explored what seem like reasonable developmental questions, thinking about the role of the teacher (rights and responsibilities) in addressing them.
The most poignant part of the talk was the discussion of destroying the binary present in many pieces of identity. Male/Female, Gay/Straight, and so on. Again, nothing is surprising here (modernism is very present in my mind). What I really appreciated, however, was the visual of the continuum of all of these aspects of gender and sexuality. Not only were they anchored by various benchmarks, such as the aforementioned polar positions, but typically there was a midpoint (bisexual, androgynous, etc...). She had a series of letters show up on the various continuums, sometimes once, sometimes multiple times, to show that people's identities can be so incredibly complicated. This speaks to my thinking about CRT, personal epistemologies, Freire, T440, and so on. I think underlying this idea is post-modernism, which shatters the binary.
She introduced the metaphor of the finch, which varies greatly from species to species and whose gender can only be determined by hearing them sing. The metaphor, obviously, speaks to the variation present in human beings.
Her book is all about starting and continuing these conversations in the school context, with any age student, based on the postmodern vision of identity explored above.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Dream 11-5-13
A bit of set up: I've been in Somerville for a few months now. I've been sleeping on a gourmet air mattress, about 4 feet tall (thick), and really quite comfortable (though sometimes a bit squealy). It had small circular lumps in it, that traveled down the length of the bed, from head to toe. Each one was probably about 6 inches when flat, and I'd say about 1.5 inches tall when fully inflated. One night, the seam that created the middle between two little lumps tore, and it became a 12 inch hump. The next night, another seam tore, creating an 18 inch hump(ón). This disastrous form took up a good bit of prime real estate on the bed, and I've since ordered another cheap bed to replace it. Here was the dream on the last night sleeping with the hump.
I'm inside a wooden fence. There's a huge dude (dude cause his cap's on backwards), wearing jean shorts and a dark (probably black) t-shirt. Shortsleeved. I'm wielding my Wusthof 9" chef knife, and I'm doing my best to slit his throat. Unfortunately, my darned knife is not nearly sharp enough for the job. I keep moving in, slicing, doing some sort of damage (as evidenced by the blood), but not sufficient to debilitate the dude, who seems to want to fight back. His method is simply grabbing my arm to which belongs the hand wielding the Wusthof. I wriggle it away like a little prick, and proceed to slice again. Again and again (I'd say 4 times), we repeat this deadly dance.
I'm inside a wooden fence. There's a huge dude (dude cause his cap's on backwards), wearing jean shorts and a dark (probably black) t-shirt. Shortsleeved. I'm wielding my Wusthof 9" chef knife, and I'm doing my best to slit his throat. Unfortunately, my darned knife is not nearly sharp enough for the job. I keep moving in, slicing, doing some sort of damage (as evidenced by the blood), but not sufficient to debilitate the dude, who seems to want to fight back. His method is simply grabbing my arm to which belongs the hand wielding the Wusthof. I wriggle it away like a little prick, and proceed to slice again. Again and again (I'd say 4 times), we repeat this deadly dance.
Dream 11-3-13
I relayed the following dream to a friend, Eric, which included a man named Chester, which may or may not be a pseudonym. Don't worry, you don't know him.
I had a dream about Chester last night. He was the headmaster of my (British) grammar school, and he had plans to beat me for something or other. He took me away from my room, and walked me into a large hall. At this point, the left sleeve of my blue cardigan extended well beyond my left hand, and Chester was carrying it. I swung it back and forth as I followed behind him in the large auditorium, which was filled with my prepubescent classmates. They giggled at my antics, and I knew their affection for me diffused the situation. The performance started (think the midpoint between music, film, and theater), and my genuine affinity to the content further rendered his abuse unlikely. Seems there's a heart deep down in that massive barrel chest after all.
I had a dream about Chester last night. He was the headmaster of my (British) grammar school, and he had plans to beat me for something or other. He took me away from my room, and walked me into a large hall. At this point, the left sleeve of my blue cardigan extended well beyond my left hand, and Chester was carrying it. I swung it back and forth as I followed behind him in the large auditorium, which was filled with my prepubescent classmates. They giggled at my antics, and I knew their affection for me diffused the situation. The performance started (think the midpoint between music, film, and theater), and my genuine affinity to the content further rendered his abuse unlikely. Seems there's a heart deep down in that massive barrel chest after all.
Writing About Thinking About Writing
In recent weeks, I've been thinking quite extensively about writing. Specifically, I've been ruminating on my writing style - or lack thereof. I'm concerned, as I get deeper into my graduate school education, that I've so long written in a style that was self-determined (and sometimes unconsciously so), that my ability to write academic papers is dormant. To make matters worse, the writing that I've done thus far, excepting two papers, has been very, very open - taking the form of journal entries; reactions to readings and classes and what not.
To make matters still worse, nothing I've read (fun reading, that is) lately is likely to do anything but destroy my ability to succinctly and directly announce anything. Rather, I'm possessed by a tautology, a circumlocution that isn't necessarily welcome in many circles.
I hereby pledge to myself that I, Cameron Allen, will refocus myself on writing often, in hopes that I'll be able to create engaging, meaningful text. At the very least, this will allow me to flex the muscle, which ideally will translate into better writing experiences, as well as increasingly useful and worthy experiences for my readers (most of whom are obligated to read my drivel, as they're my profs and teaching fellows).
Out.
To make matters still worse, nothing I've read (fun reading, that is) lately is likely to do anything but destroy my ability to succinctly and directly announce anything. Rather, I'm possessed by a tautology, a circumlocution that isn't necessarily welcome in many circles.
I hereby pledge to myself that I, Cameron Allen, will refocus myself on writing often, in hopes that I'll be able to create engaging, meaningful text. At the very least, this will allow me to flex the muscle, which ideally will translate into better writing experiences, as well as increasingly useful and worthy experiences for my readers (most of whom are obligated to read my drivel, as they're my profs and teaching fellows).
Out.
Friday, January 13, 2012
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Saturday, August 27, 2011
Dream 8-26-2011
I'm in the backyard of a country home situated on a hilly property.
Maroon fence posts with small, harmless barbed wire, line the perimeter of the property. The maroon matches that of the exterior of the home, at least the back face of it. I approach the fence and place the palms of my hands on the top of the fence post. I leap upwards, keeping my hands firmly placed on top of post, using it as the rotation point. My feet fly into the air until I and the post form a straight line shooting through the center of the earth.
I continue my momentum and flip until my feet land on the other side of the fence. The greener side, which is to say the better side. In fact, the whole of the landscape is a golden yellow. Looks like hay, wheat, straw. I'm engaged by the beauty of the place.
I throw my bag and another item, plastic, black, utilitarian, about 18 in x 24 in. I don't know why I do this, but it becomes important.
I notice two unbelievably beautiful horses trotting along. As they enter the scene at stage left, Sterling, my old roommate and best friend, enters stage right, coming from inside the house.
He's not alone. He's with plan. Plan is to storm the neighboring home, the home of one Farmer Withers, and steal some eggs. Withers is clearly just inside the home, reclined in a sofa chair, holding a rifle. I see this through the wiring of the chicken coop.
There's no dissuading Sterling, and as I run up the hill, for Withers lives atop it, the aforementioned ponies run alongside me, close enough for me to touch. I decide that I want to spend my time petting the blond horse that runs most proximally beside me. His coat is a shade darker than the grass through which we jog, the mane a few shades lighter.
I continue running, and I've been dissuaded from the more sensible option of spending the afternoon relaxing amongst my new found equine friends. I follow Sterling up a hill, he grabs two handfulls of eggs, and we run through the gate, ensuring that our doggie friends (who have since materialized-think Sirens of Titan) escape along with their loyal masters. The horses are no longer of importance, and disappear.
I trail Sterling through the gate, fumbling to shut the latch, rushed by the howls of protest and rage coming from within the home of Withers. He also fumbles to load and prepare his gun for firing, aiming either to inspire fear or do actual harm, we as yet know not which.
The gate is latched, and I enter without tribulation or hurdle the back yard of the maroon house from which we've come.
I arrive only to realize two things.
First, I've forgotten my bag and the aforementioned black plastic object. I clearly need these two items.
Second, I come to understand that Withers' weapon is nothing more than a BB gun, intended more to scare than to harm. This comforts me.
These two facts spur my action to jump the fence and retrieve my items.
I feel simultaneously an anger at and an empathy (and even melancholy) for Withers. He clearly has become resigned in doing us no harm, and will (I know) aim high when firing even the relatively harmless BB gun. We are a symbiotic pair, the defender of the house, who in his loneliness pines for his security to be breached. The storming party, in need of developing the character that defines Withers' long-gone youthful "piss-and-vinegarness," feels the need to pay their dues as youngsters, hoping to add credence to the idea that they lived once, a long time ago.
Even their actions are cyclical. The eggs that they've stolen have a single purpose. To be hucked at the home of Withers himself, the house from which they came in the first place.
Maroon fence posts with small, harmless barbed wire, line the perimeter of the property. The maroon matches that of the exterior of the home, at least the back face of it. I approach the fence and place the palms of my hands on the top of the fence post. I leap upwards, keeping my hands firmly placed on top of post, using it as the rotation point. My feet fly into the air until I and the post form a straight line shooting through the center of the earth.
I continue my momentum and flip until my feet land on the other side of the fence. The greener side, which is to say the better side. In fact, the whole of the landscape is a golden yellow. Looks like hay, wheat, straw. I'm engaged by the beauty of the place.
I throw my bag and another item, plastic, black, utilitarian, about 18 in x 24 in. I don't know why I do this, but it becomes important.
I notice two unbelievably beautiful horses trotting along. As they enter the scene at stage left, Sterling, my old roommate and best friend, enters stage right, coming from inside the house.
He's not alone. He's with plan. Plan is to storm the neighboring home, the home of one Farmer Withers, and steal some eggs. Withers is clearly just inside the home, reclined in a sofa chair, holding a rifle. I see this through the wiring of the chicken coop.
There's no dissuading Sterling, and as I run up the hill, for Withers lives atop it, the aforementioned ponies run alongside me, close enough for me to touch. I decide that I want to spend my time petting the blond horse that runs most proximally beside me. His coat is a shade darker than the grass through which we jog, the mane a few shades lighter.
I continue running, and I've been dissuaded from the more sensible option of spending the afternoon relaxing amongst my new found equine friends. I follow Sterling up a hill, he grabs two handfulls of eggs, and we run through the gate, ensuring that our doggie friends (who have since materialized-think Sirens of Titan) escape along with their loyal masters. The horses are no longer of importance, and disappear.
I trail Sterling through the gate, fumbling to shut the latch, rushed by the howls of protest and rage coming from within the home of Withers. He also fumbles to load and prepare his gun for firing, aiming either to inspire fear or do actual harm, we as yet know not which.
The gate is latched, and I enter without tribulation or hurdle the back yard of the maroon house from which we've come.
I arrive only to realize two things.
First, I've forgotten my bag and the aforementioned black plastic object. I clearly need these two items.
Second, I come to understand that Withers' weapon is nothing more than a BB gun, intended more to scare than to harm. This comforts me.
These two facts spur my action to jump the fence and retrieve my items.
I feel simultaneously an anger at and an empathy (and even melancholy) for Withers. He clearly has become resigned in doing us no harm, and will (I know) aim high when firing even the relatively harmless BB gun. We are a symbiotic pair, the defender of the house, who in his loneliness pines for his security to be breached. The storming party, in need of developing the character that defines Withers' long-gone youthful "piss-and-vinegarness," feels the need to pay their dues as youngsters, hoping to add credence to the idea that they lived once, a long time ago.
Even their actions are cyclical. The eggs that they've stolen have a single purpose. To be hucked at the home of Withers himself, the house from which they came in the first place.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Credential Questions
These are really hard. They're really broad. Here goes. I'm getting my Adult Teaching Credential, and am required to answer some questions. Here they are.
1. What is most important to you as a teacher?
Most important to me is to work with students in such a way that they begin to realize that they are transformers of the world; that whether they recognize their agency or not, they are the shapers of tomorrow's world. If they can really feel this on a visceral level, they will seek to do the things that bode well for tomorrow. They will be able to engage in honest dialogue with themselves about their goals, and subsequently communicate those to the right people to assist them therewith.
Additionally, I aim to help students see that they are no less complete simply becuase of a lack of formal schooling, English language proficiency, financial resources, citizenship status, or due to limited social capital. Rather, they are fully emotional, intellectual, cultural, social, spiritual, sexual, and political beings, who inevitably come from unique experiences no less fascinating or profound than any other. In recognition thereof, students feel empowered to take pride in their personal knowledge, and are less likely to feel deficient for any of the aforementioned lacks. Subsequent to their empowerment, students can really embrace a risk-taking activity like learning a new language or academic skill without feeling incomplete.
1. What is most important to you as a teacher?
Most important to me is to work with students in such a way that they begin to realize that they are transformers of the world; that whether they recognize their agency or not, they are the shapers of tomorrow's world. If they can really feel this on a visceral level, they will seek to do the things that bode well for tomorrow. They will be able to engage in honest dialogue with themselves about their goals, and subsequently communicate those to the right people to assist them therewith.
Additionally, I aim to help students see that they are no less complete simply becuase of a lack of formal schooling, English language proficiency, financial resources, citizenship status, or due to limited social capital. Rather, they are fully emotional, intellectual, cultural, social, spiritual, sexual, and political beings, who inevitably come from unique experiences no less fascinating or profound than any other. In recognition thereof, students feel empowered to take pride in their personal knowledge, and are less likely to feel deficient for any of the aforementioned lacks. Subsequent to their empowerment, students can really embrace a risk-taking activity like learning a new language or academic skill without feeling incomplete.
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