Instead of Christmas Cards

I wish I had a good reason for not writing Christmas cards.  Instead, I have excuses:  The end of the semester is a very stressful time, and a few years ago we decided that cards are one thing we could  forgo to try to keep some balance.

We do give the money we would spend on cards to charity - honest, we do - but again, that's an excuse, not a reason.  Lots of other people with more stress, less time, and less money give more to charity AND write Christmas cards.  

That's lousy, I know, especially because we enjoy getting cards from friends and family.  And this year, there was one that I found to be particularly meaningful.  So, now, in lieu of sending you a card, I'm sending you the letter SOMEONE ELSE wrote as his Christmas card.  I hope that you find the letter as meaningful as I did, so that by the time you reach the end of it, you'll have forgiven my shortcomings.

A close friend of mine walked  into my classroom and tentatively asked me to  edit the letter he was sending this year.  I offered only the tiniest edits, shared my enthusiasm, and asked him if I could share his essay with my friends.  He said sure.
 
I've read many meaningful Christmas essays, but this one captures my feelings like few others.  I hope you find in it what I did.  It is by my close friend Tim Leet.

Merry Christmas, friends. 

Stefan

It’s cold outside.  Eight honest degrees and even colder with the wind.  The snow on my unshoveled driveway crunches under my car tires, and the string of Christmas lights that came loose from my gutter in yesterday’s storm swing sloppily in the wind.  Judge me neighbors, if you must, but fixing the lights and clearing the drive will have to wait.  It’s too cold and crunchy outside. 

Inside, it’s a different story.  The walls are strong against the wind and every room is warm.  Three feet to my right and through a double-paned window is the gusting, crunching cold.  Yet, I sit and write this letter in a t-shirt.  To my left I can find food behind every cabinet door in the kitchen, and the coffee in my mug is luxurious.  It’s all some kind of miracle, isn’t it?   What have I done to deserve such comforts?  My daughters and wife sleep soundly upstairs, untouched by the cold and oblivious to the suburban embarrassment of my sloppy lights and unshoveled drive.  I have replayed the film many times but find nothing in my life’s story that warrants these gifts.

A friend once told me that we cannot accept a gift that we could not give.  I have pondered this nugget for years.  When I look right and face the deadly cold through my window and then turn left and contemplate the abundance and warmth of my kitchen, I am humbled by the extravagant gift of my daily life.  I can barely accept it.  What Grace has placed me on this side of the window?

Christmas is a time of extravagance.  We give gifts and sing old, familiar songs loudly.  We decorate our homes beyond all good sense.  We bake with real butter.  Why all this excess at Christmas?  Cynics will talk about economics and skeptics of how shared rituals bind societies together.  Fine.  Boring, but fine.  I will cast my lot with the happy folks who embrace the extravagance of Christmas as the only sensible response to the extravagant gift of our lives. 

You are entitled to your own thoughts concerning certain events said to have occurred in Bethlehem two thousand years ago.  Might I modestly suggest that, at the very least, it is the story of a most extravagant gift? 

So bring on the mechanized reindeer and inflatable yard decorations.  Festoon your home with lights, bulbs, and plastic figurines.  Find a quiet place and ponder the big questions.  Christmas is a magical holiday bursting with contradictions I choose not to resist.  I can, with no sense of irony, reflect on the Mystery of this season while locating just the right place to hang my dogs’ Christmas stockings.  Don’t resist absurdities like these.  We live by the grace of extravagant gifts we cannot comprehend.

Eventually, I will shovel my driveway and return the lights to their proper place.  Order shall be restored, but it can wait for a warmer day.  In the meantime, I will continue to ponder the mysteries of the season from the warm side of my window.  Christmas unites the spiritually profound and the profoundly ridiculous.   Come to think of it, so do we.

Merry Christmas!

My Marathon, Part One: This Is Not The Day That I'll Die

Course Map for the 2010 Columbus Marathon

It was the toughest thing I’ve ever done.

Granted, I’ve not had a tough life, so that’s not saying so much.  But it was hard, harder than I expected, and I had to dig deeper than I knew I could.  And that, I think, is what changes you.  That part, glimpsing a capacity that you didn’t know you had, that is what drives people to do this crazy-ass, unnatural, unhealthy, stupid, amazing thing.

It was the Heathers’ fault, actually.  I didn’t know this at the time.  Shortly after running the half marathon, my first, which was hard and exhilarating and euphoric for me, I was at a bar with a number of friends.  Sean and I were talking to two Heathers, both runners, both attractive, and Sean, a running partner and, apparently, show off, said “I hope no one recommends we do the full, ‘cause I might go for it.”

“Sean,” I said. “Let’s do the full.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.  I think so.  Yeah.”

           

Five months later, I met another running partner – my unofficial coach – Tim, outside Sean’s house.  The sun wasn’t up yet.  It was 6:00 am on an October Sunday, chilly.  Tim called me over to his car.  “Listen to this.”  I got in.  He was playing Rush, and, with no fear of clichés on such a nervous and vital morning, we listened to “Marathon.”  And he and I laughed and joked and enjoyed that damn song so much, and then we went inside, and we took turns doing what nervous guys do when they’ve been hydrating for a week, and then we pinned on our numbers, loaded into Tim’s car, and headed downtown.

The “Tips for First Time Marathoners” website had warned us about the nerves: 

Whether you're a newbie or a seasoned veteran, making even the smallest decisions like what to eat and what to wear will feel like life changing moments during race week. 

Should I take my duffle or leave it?  Wallet and keys in Tim’s car, or in the bag?  Take the gloves?  It’s chilly.  We all stood on the pre-dawn street-lit sidewalk, taking minutes to decide, to undecide, to decide again, the smallest things, taking forever but rushing, because man-oh-man, I had to pee again.  

*

We started to walk the few blocks to Broad and High, the far end of the starting line.

We found a huge crowd and a million porta-potties, the far ones with the short lines. We stretched, we joked, acting  like middle-schoolers.

Eventually we were in our starting corral, in a sea of people.  Tim and I were in the last chute, having not registered with a previous marathon time.  Sean was smart enough to register with his half-marathon time – you could do that? - and was up in chute number two, where he was meeting a friend.   

Tim and me at the starting line.

Text message, 7:15 AM, from me to Brelle:  I have my phone (it will be hard to text in crowds, though.) I love you.

Tim and I waited nervously, excited, joking, chatting with Jason from Atlanta, drinking in the festival.  The nerves gave me tunnel vision, but I calmed my breathing and made it a point to look around, to enjoy the moment. The sun wasn’t breaking the horizon yet, but the sky was going from black to a rich blue.  It was chilly in shorts, but the shared excitement, the loud chatter, the sense of community felt important and fun.  Someone took our picture with my phone. The Danger Brothers were loud and were really good and were playing “Born to Run” to no one’s surprise.  They were playing on a stage right at the starting line, pretty far away, actually, up near Third.  Corral number four, where we were, was way down by the Palace.

I looked behind us.

“Tim,” I said. “Look behind us.”

Behind us was a scattering of  fifteen or twenty runners.  We were at the very back of the very last batch.

“Oh wow.  We’re really at the back, aren’t we?”

Just before the start.

Fireworks.  No shit?  That was cool.  Fireworks off of a rooftop, and the sun painted the first traces of gold into the sky, and way up there by the stage, people started moving forward.  Eventually, so did we, a slow walk with a huge crowd.  I mooed. Someone had to.

So, here we went.  I hugged Tim, thanked him, wished him luck, and he did the same, and soon we were moving toward the start line.  Watch your step, as piles of shedded layers were strewn and piled in the street.

“Okay,” Tim said.  “I’ll see you. Good luck.”

“Congratulations.”

“You too.”

While running, just after the start, with thumb.

Tim is a faster and stronger runner than I am, but months before, in my first real race, the Cap City Half Marathon, I paced with him for the first few miles.  This time, he disappeared off to the right and into the crowd.  I glanced over and couldn’t find him, and there I was, just me and 14,999 of my closest friends.

I started the mental strategies I had learned from my training book, the kumbaya shit that my more cynical, pre-training self would have scoffed at.  “This is the best run of my life,” I told myself.  And with the crowds and the music, the Columbus just-enough skyline, the rising sun, the chill in the air, it was easy to believe.   “This is the best damn run of my life.”

Except.

My legs felt weird.  A little tight, a little less ready than I had expected.  I had stretched while waiting – maybe not enough? Something was funky.  Oh well.  They would warm up.  Forget about it: My concentration was needed for the complex dodging and weaving needed to move ahead from the very back of the pack.  Would that narrow gap between those runners narrow before I got there?  Were those two ladies walking together, or just near each other?  Can I get around that guy without stepping on the curb?

Every hundred yards or so there was a different live band, plugged into a chugging generator, playing a gig at 7:30 am on a Sunday morning.  Rock, blues, folk, pop. Most of them were really good, they could really play.  I heard some exciting funk/soul coming up ahead.  And then there was a big enough gap in front of me that I could finally set a pace.

I took a minute, paid attention to how I was running.  “This feels good,” I thought.  I was aiming for around ten minute miles for the first half, slower than my training pace, but I’d only trained as high as twenty-two miles, never twenty-six, and they say the last six miles are the second half of a marathon.  Okay. I felt like I was running about a ten minute mile.  Perfect.  But, as I had been getting stronger the last few weeks of training, I was used to being surprised.  I would look at my Forerunner on my wrist and every time would see that I was actually running faster than I had thought.  So if this felt like what a ten used to feel like, I predicted I was running a 9:45 pace or so.  I should maybe slow down a bit.  Keep it at ten.  It’s a long run.

I glanced at my Forerunner.

10:15.

Huh?

Something wasn’t quite right.  These weren’t my legs. 

This was mile two.

Okay.  Don’t let that get into your head.  “This is my best run ever.”

Then, still on Broad Street, still the chill and autumn sunrise, I felt the first sign of sharpness in the top of my right foot.  Already?  I looked at my wrist.  Mile 2.23.  A new low.

The injury.

During training, I had injured my foot, enough that I had to walk and then bail sixteen miles into an eighteen miler, enough that smart people told me it was a stress fracture and I shouldn’t run, enough for x-rays and MRI’s and a cortisone shot.  When my doctor asked me how much I wanted to run this race, I asked him if I could mess up my foot for life, he said no. I said I wanted to run, that is was my last chance to run a marathon.

It wasn’t a fracture, it was inflammation in my meta-whosis-toe-joint thing.  Plans were made, try these pills, get new shoes, train like this, if not, I'll give you these other pills, keep me posted.  I rested and completed a twenty-two mile trainer.  W00t!  Then, days later, I failed a nine mile run at mile eight – the pain was sharp and brutal; I hobbled toward home looking like James Caan in Misery. I called my kid and made him drive to pick me up, his first night-driving, all alone, all illegal like.

I had finished the twenty-two mile trainer after a long rest.  So I rested my foot.   For two weeks before the marathon, I didn’t taper my training – I stopped.  Cold turkey.  Like a cold turkey that doesn’t run.  Thus, I suppose, the bad legs on marathon day.  But, I had hoped, a good foot.

Mile two. Foot pain.  Earliest yet.

MRI of evil foot.

Okay.  Now what?  To pill or not to pill.

Rule number one: Never do anything new during the race.

But if didn’t take anything, I would risk my foot getting worse and having to quit.

Take the pill.

I had been prescribed one Celebrex a day.  But for the long trainer, I had taken one pill the night before and another in the morning, so I did the same on marathon day, with another in my pocket just in case.

Three fourteen-hour-lasting, 200 miligram Celebrex for one run?

Yeah. 

Yeah.

I reached into my pocket.

Gone.

I emptied one pocket to the other -  my Gu, my phone - and checked again.

Gone.

In my head:  “Oh, fu. . .”  Pause.  “This is the best race ever.”

I pulled out some last resort bright orange generic ibuprofen I had thrown in my pocket just in case.  This was a just in type of case.  I downed three at the next water stop.

They went to my stomach, did a little dance to the soul / funk band, and started messing with me.

Could be a long morning.

*

For the next several miles I ignored the foot, the legs, the gut, and worked on my head.  I meditated, trying to concentrate on my breath, my breath only, being aware of the setting and the feeling, but breathing.

It was getting warm.  I pulled off my long sleeve T.  People just toss them, the clothes get donated to charities.  That’s cool.  Considering that, I had grabbed my oldest long sleeve T.

It was old.  Really old.  The graphics were completely rubbed off.

Me after the 22. And the shirt.

Old old shirt.

I sure had had it a long time.  Got it the first time an old band I was in played the arts festival.

I’d hate to pitch this shirt.

I tied it around my waist, counting on some friends who said they’d be cheering in Bexley.  I’m a cheap-ass bastard.

I found a groove.  I fixed my mood.  My stomach settled.  The foot pain didn’t seem to be getting worse, was just there. I was enjoying the morning, enjoying the sites, the people, even the run.  Especially the run.

“Stefan! Go Stefan”

I turned to my right.  There was Amy, a more than a co-worker, a damn cool lady whom I admire a lot, waving like mad, smiling like hell, so damn happy to see me, and me, so damn happy to see her.  “Amy!  Hey!”

“Way to go, Stefan!”

That cheering stuff?  It works.

Past St. Charles – cool rock band there – and the Conservatory – cool, odd folkies.  I was on my own at this point, in a crowd but internal, working on my head game, looking for the turn, wanting to keep to the inside.  Left turn into Bexley.  A slim chance the family might be here; I kept an eye out just in case.  Brelle had mentioned maybe Parkview.  “Really?”  I said.  “That’s mile four, pretty early in the morning to get the kids up and everything.”  She agreed.  Now here I was, scanning every face, just in case.

Pretty run – pretty means a lot to me on a run.  On a stretch of Parkview my foot reminded me that it was a problem.  I tried to stick to the center of the street, where there’s less grade, as if that would take some stress off the foot.  Plus, in case the family was on one side or the other, from the center I could get there.  It was hard to keep the center – it was crowded.  A lot of weaving through people on this narrower street.  It was then that I realized that all that weaving meant lots of passing.  I looked behind me, which felt like an amateur move, but, well, not many folks on the road were more amateur than me.  There were a lot of people back there, a big crowd going way back past my line of sight.  Having started at the back of the last corral, I realized I had passed them all.  My pace wasn’t great, but I wasn’t embarrassing myself.  That was cool.  I felt good.

Maryland to Drexel.  Bexley is beautiful, really: huge, verdant trees.  The grand old houses that I so often resented through a car window I now enjoyed, perhaps because so many of their occupants were lining the street to cheer for strangers.

And then a call:  “Stefan!”  And there were Beth and her daughter, my student, Meredith.  Good good friends.  Beth had been a training partner for the Cap City half.

“Hey, guys!”

“Woo!” or “Good job,”  I think, or some such.

I veered toward them, clawing at the knot at my waist.  Beth reached up and I tossed her my shirt.

“Sorry!”  I yelled as I passed.  I ran backward for a bit to face them.  “Thank you so much for being here!”  They yelled encouragement.  And it worked.

I was encouraged and excited and happy to see them.  But what a dick, I thought.  They come out here to cheer, I throw sweaty laundry at them.  Eagerly – like, as soon as I saw them, I started clawing at the knot.  “Oh thank God you’re here!  My old shirt!  My old shirt!”

Dick.

*

At the mile five water station I ate my first Gu, a carb and caffeine packet you squirt into your mouth while running. There’s a nice endorphin rush that follows.   I was getting more extroverted, starting to chat, to thank cops, to encourage runners.  “Nice pace,” to one runner who passed me.

“I need to sprint once in a while to get the circulation going in my knees,” he said. That was new to me.

I had to pee.  I had had to pee since Bexley, and here I was on Nelson Road.  I had passed a lot of porta-johns, each batch more tempting, but lines were long and the clock was ticking.  I saw a woman run out of the woods from a dirt path up to the railroad tracks.  That’s the place.  Should I run up there? Yeah, I should, right?  Think quick.  Take my chances, hope for, what, no lines?  And then I was past it. 

Damn.  I should have peed there.

Up there.  In those shrubs, just off the road.  There’s a guy peeing there.  Just past that. . . just passed that cop?  Okay.  Cop doesn’t care.  Stop hoping for something better. Don’t miss this opportunity.

I ran off the road, through the wet grass – “Socks, don’t get wet.  Socks, don’t get wet.” – and realized I was heading directly toward the peeing man.  Awkward.  I veered six feet to the left. He took off, I started.  Glory. By the time I was done, there were ten of us lined up facing the shrubs.  “Thank God for the Y chromosome!”  I yelled.  They concurred, and I rejoined the race.

Very cool percussion from a high school band.  At the corner of Nelson and Franklin Park, there was a huge inflatable arch over the road that said START, as if we’d only been warming up so far.  That could have been discouraging.  I still don’t know why it was there.

Other than a water station just passed the START sign, I have zero memories of running down Franklin Park.  I know I did – I’m looking at the map.  But it is a complete and utter blank.

*

 

A young lady with a group on the side of the road, cheering generic: “Good job!”  “Go runners!”  Just as I ran by she ran out of material and yelled, to no one, “Hello!”

“Hello!” I yelled back.  “How ARE you?”

Exagerated: “I am FINE!  How are YOU?”

“I am fine!  Thanks for asking!”

“Okay! Have a nice day!”

“You too!”

Best cheer ever. 

*

Mile eight.  The foot pain was getting pretty sharp pretty fast, and I was nervous.  On my long training run, the pain started at mile six – two miles earlier than usual --  but eventually plateaued.  This time it seemed it would keep getting worse. 

Just past the bridge a guy was playing an acoustic guitar and singing “American Pie.”

“This’ll be the day that I die,” he sang.  “This’ll be the day that I die.”

“This is not the day that I will die!” I yelled.  Approval from other runners, and we chanted.

“This is not the day that I will die!”

Stuff About Stuff About the Brain

When teaching an SAT prep class recently, I went on frequent tangents about metacognition, or thinking about thinking. On the last day, I decided to give the students a list of some my sources. Before I knew it, I had filled a chalkboard - from memory - and I realized for the first time how interested in this topic I really am.

I offered to email them the list, and since I typed it up I'll share it here as well. I'd be interested in your thoughts and recommendations.

These are some of the things I have read, listened to, watched, am reading, or intend to read related to the mind, brain, and metacognition. Some are great, some are good, some are only peripherally on the topic. My strongest recommendations are marked with a (!) because I found them particularly interesting, powerful, or fun.

TED Talks (20 minute videos for streaming or download)

Sir Ken Robinson:How Schools Kill Creativity (!)

Dan Gilbert: Why Are We Happy? (!) and Our Mistaken Expectations

Jill Bolte Taylor: My Stroke of Insight (!) (The talk is great. The book is okay with some great moments.)

Blog:

The Frontal Cortex by Jonah Lehrer


Podcast:

Radiolab
especially episodes "Stochasticity," (!) "Choice," and "Morality" (!) (podcasts also available for free at the iTunes store.)



Books:

The Happiness Hypothesis (!) by Jonathan Haidt and the related website.

Blink by Malcolm Gladwell (interesting and sort of a classic, but takes some big leaps)

Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell (same. Still, interesting.)

NurtureShock by Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman [especially, but not only, chapter 1, (!)] Or, like me, you could start with this interview.

Mindset by Carol Dweck. I haven't read this yet. I've seen her speak, and I've read a lot about her research, especially NurtureShock chapter 1. This research has a significant impact on my approach to teaching. And raising kids. And living.

How We Decide by Jonah Lehrer. I'm reading this right now and enjoying it. There is a lot of overlap with the other books, blogs, and podcasts listed here.

Proust Was a Neuroscientist by Jonah Lehrer (based on recommendations and reputation. I haven't read this yet.)

Tricks of the Mind by Derren Brown. Derren Brown is the British David Blaine, but with less flash, more brains, and lots of skepticism. The book is fun and is filled with tips for using your brain. I freaked my kids out by using one of his techniques to remember a list of 50 random words, in order, for days. For fun, check out some of his videos on YouTube (!). Brown is an entertainer, not a scientist or journalist, and admits that some of what is does is "showmanship." Still, the way he manipulates people by knowing how brains work is fascinating, even if he does maybe cheat a little.

Joan Benoit Samuelson

As part of an amazing lecture series, this lady came to our school today:


I went last night to hear her speak, and heard her again today when she addressed the students.

As part of her introduction, the Head of School said something I had heard him say once before, when Cal Ripkin was speaking at our school. Quoting a remark by his own headmaster when he was a sophomore, he said "If you have the chance to see someone who is the best in the world at what they do, you go."

I'm hyper-critical of speakers, and she had some habits that normally bother me. But I found myself inspired in spite of myself. She told an amazing story - her life and career - she got some laughs, and she gave the "marathon = life" metaphor real relevance and depth. She said lots of good things, but one thing in particular stuck with me. She said it in the evening lecture, not to the students. I wish she had repeated it. It has the flavor of an old nugget, but I don't think I'd heard it before - or, at least, she put it in a context that made me listen.

She was talking about goals, short-term, intermediate, and "pie in the sky" goals. And she described "pie in the sky goals" this way: What would you do if you weren't afraid of failing?

Well, I thought about that. And I came home and started a new project.

Also, I'm training to run a half-marathon in May. Still talking my knees into that one.

So, here's to speakers who make an impact.

Patton Oswalt on Teaching

This post has profanity in it. But not mine.

I came across Patton Oswalt's blog today - not sure why. He's a comedian and actor; he was in The Fan, which I didn't see, and he was the voice of the rat in Ratatouille, which I did see but can't spell without looking up. He wrote a New Years post on phrases he hates, phrases that are not invited to 2010. It's called "These Phrases Are Not Invited To 2010." One of the phrases he is not inviting is "Those who can't, teach."

I've read a million saccharine posts and viral emails about how wonderful and inspiring we teachers are. They're not condescending at all! We love that! Here's one of them. I've seen it many times, most recently sitting on the lunch table during Faculty Appreciation Day. Skim it:

The dinner guests were sitting around the table discussing life. One man, a CEO, decided to explain the problem with education.

He argued: "What's a kid going to learn from someone who decided his best option in life was to become a teacher?"

He reminded the other dinner guests that it's true what they say about teachers: "Those who can...do. Those who can't...teach."

To corroborate, he said to another guest: "You're a teacher, Susan," he said. "Be honest. What do you make?"

Susan, who had a reputation of honesty and frankness, replied, "You want to know what I make?"

"I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could."

“I make kids believe in themselves when no one else will.”

"I make a C+ feel like a Congressional Medal of Honor and an A- feel like a slap in the face if the student did not do his or her very best."

"I make parents tremble in fear when I call home"

"You want to know what I make?

"I make kids wonder."

"I make them question."

"I make them criticize."

"I make them apologize and mean it."

"I make them write."

"I make them read, read, read."

"I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, and definitely beautiful over and over and over again, until they will never misspell either one of those words again."

"I make them show all their work in math and hide it all on their final drafts in English."

"I make them understand that if you have a dream, then follow it...and if someone ever tries to judge you by what you make or what you do, you pay them no attention."

"You want to know what I make?!"

"I make a difference."

"What about you?"

You tell him, Susan!

Of course, if they had left the camera running, the story would end with the CEO's response: "120 million dollars a year."

(Susan should also make them learn the rules for quotation marks.)

But here's a response to the "Those who can't, teach" saw that rings true with me. Oswalt captures the truth of it in a way that I hadn't heard before. Here:

"Those Who Can, Do. Those Who Can't, Teach"

Bullshit.

Yes, there are shitty teachers. There are unimaginative, by-rote educators who take no joy in their profession. Maybe they went in full of idealism and energy and got beaten down. Maybe they never had it. Yes, they exist. But the bulk of teachers -- at least, the ones I've encountered in my life -- teach because they are truly passionate about a subject, concept or discipline. They don't take any pleasure in the amassing of property or finance. I know that must sound like low-grade insanity, especially these days. They want to keep kicking open new rooms and dusting off windows in their minds and souls. They get a truly endorphic lift from delving deeper and deeper into something -- an author, an epoch, a science -- within which they perceive a teasing glimmer of the infinite.

And since there's only so much someone can read about a subject or person or book or piece of music, they create new strategies for revelation. One of the surest is to see the thing they love through untrained, unbiased eyes. In other words, students. Semester after semester, year after year, sometimes generation after generation, they watch how the changing world warps, diminishes, or builds up this thing they've become obsessed with.

People who toss this phrase off were probably shitty students, and were too dull to spot the passion in the eyes of their quality teachers. These were the assholes I encountered at college, who "studied for the test", and bragged about how, "I'm never gonna read another fucking book or listen to this faggy-ass music ever again..." and became lawyers who can't spell and who nod their heads to the same five Bon Jovi songs over their buffalo wings at Bennigan's.


I love that. Here's my favorite part, other than that whole Bon Jovi, Bennigan's cheap shot:

They get a truly endorphic lift from delving deeper and deeper into something -- an author, an epoch, a science -- within which they perceive a teasing glimmer of the infinite.

You tell 'em, Rat-chef man. Now take that last royalty check and buy your high school theater teacher a Mercedes.

Acting is Hard

It's, like, really hard.

If I return to directing, this will be a good thing for me to know .

For my first audition, I prepped. I worked on the monologue, tried different approaches, played around. And I think I did pretty well. I did, actually. I got called back, right?

But the call-backs were different. In the scenes I was called back for, I only had a couple of lines to make an impression. I worked them out a little, made some choices.

After about an hour of waiting during other characters' call-backs, we (all of the Mr. Gilmers, Bob Ewells, Scouts, and Jems) were called into a room where the director and the already-cast Atticus and Judge were sitting. And we went through the scenes.

In my many years as a director, I took for granted that I should be able to ask a new actor for a certain approach, and they, you know, should do it. Eventually. I understood why they didn't do it right away. But I never really got it. But, it turns out, it's hard. Acting, I mean.

Really, it is.

All that TV you watch, all those movies, and you have your opinions about who can act and who can't, but really you secretly think they're just moving around and talking, right? I thought I knew better, but I didn't. Since my audition, I've been amazed at how good real actors are. And I haven't been watching Meryl Streep or Deniro movies. I've been watching Arrested Development and Modern Family. Actually, I watched the same episode of Arrested Development four times in a row, and even the lamest actor (I'm not naming names, David Cross) amazed me.

(Why did I watch the same episode of Arrested Development four times in a row? Because I write self-indulgent lesson plans, that's why.)

As I watched the other Mr. Gilmers do the scenes, in a couple of cases I thought "Oh, I'm better than that," but, really, I'm probably not. I realized sitting there that it wasn't just about having a particular approach or trying to look natural, although neither of those are a cake walk. Those are the base-line minimums, even in a little community show like this one. [Just about] all of the actors had that. The hard part is doing all that and being interesting, even with - especially with - a character who doesn't do all that much.

I had my approach to the character. In the scene, Gilmer, the prosecuting attorney, is questioning young, naive Mayella Ewell, the victim. Since he was on her side, and she was shaken, I let him be nice to her, but condescending. It makes sense, from an English-teacher analysis point of view, which, duh, is the wrong point-of-view to use, because it isn't dramatic.

Which makes it sound like if only I had chosen a different approach. . . But I don't think so. Cuz you know what? Acting is hard.

Talking to my wife on the way home, I said "If I were the director. . . hello? Are you there? Hello?. . . Is this my phone or yours?. . . Can you hear me? I can't hear you. Hello?. . . Oh, hi. If I were directing, I would cast two of the other guys in this role before I would cast me." And she said nice things, but, really, what could she say? She wasn't there. And, well, I'm not much of an actor, but I am a good director. So nyah.

And he did. The director, I mean. Cast one of those guys. If I could, I would tell him that he made the right choice. Cuz he did.

Did it sting a little? I think so. It's hard to tell. The very minute - nay, second ("nay"? See what even a little theater does?) that I read the disappointing email, a teacher came into my classroom and told me some unrelated, emotionally loaded news that had me angry for the rest of the day. I had a hard time sorting out whether I was over-reacting to her news because of the casting, or if it was the other way around. Either way, it wasn't the worst day, but it wasn't the best, either.

But okay: I was bumming a little. The thing about being called-back is it makes you want it.

Will I audition again? Maybe. It would be harder next time, because now I know how easy and fast it is to slide from "doing it for the audition" to "I want this part." And now I know how hard it is to say the lines, and know when to move, and figure out what the hell to do with your arms.

My daughter got an audition notice in the mail today. She's going to try out. I admire her courage.

There are adult parts, too.

Challening My Inner Anti-Atticus

[Note: So I wrote some of this at home and some away from wireless and some was cut and pasted from another blog, and now I can't seem to get all the fonts looking the same and all purty-like. Sorry. Deal.]

Wrote this last night:

I auditioned for a play tonight.

That's not like me. Here's how not like me that is: Last time I auditioned for a play, Bobby Ewing was on his deathbed. David Lee Roth was the lead singer of Van Halen. Girls were wearing rugby shirts and leggings. Klaus von Kiltzing had not yet won the Nobel prize for his discovery of the quantization of electrical resistance.

That means that I was sitting in a backstage room of the Riffe theaters tonight, surrounded by people who looked like they knew what they were doing more than I did. I was filling out a form. And on the form, when it asked for previous roles played, and at what theater, I had to write the name of my high school. I am forty-three year old balding man leaning on my high school credentials.

Let me be clear that I don't anticipate a role in this play. Maybe - maybe - oddly tall townsperson number 3. Truly, I was in it for the audition. I was in it for the fear and nervousness, the newness of it.

Continued writing this afternoon:

The stars were aligned. I have been thinking a lot about my middle-aged brain, how much it benefits from new and novel experiences. I’ve been thinking about my creative life, and how isn’t it is of late.

Then, one Facebook evening, Artie Isaac posted an audition call. Artie is a board member of Available Light Theater. More importantly, he’s a guy who decided in mid-life that damn it, he loved acting in high school, so he started staging shows so that he could get back on stage. And on Facebook, he posted this audition call. It hits all the right notes for my “what the hell” chorus:

The following comes from here

Your Invitation to Act

I'm on a mission.

I'm looking for people who want to try doing what I'm doing. I am acting on stage as a way to raise money for a worthy not-for-profit theatre company.

Why I'm Doing It It's for a lot of reasons. Mainly, I enjoy it.

But that's too self-serving to admit. So here's my public reason...

This not-for-profit theatre company — let's just call it "Available Light" — has a do-gooder attitude about serving everyone in the community, without regard to anyone's ability to pay for fancy theatre tickets. So all their shows offer tickets at the awkward price of Pay What You Want.

The shows I am in, however, are designed to generate funds for the otherwise risky Pay What You Want offer. So — for these shows only — we charge a minimum price ($15) and swoon whenever anyone pays more than that.

Selling Out
We call these shows "sell outs." We mean that in both senses of the word:

Economically, we seek to sell out at the box office. So far, we've sold approximately 3,000 tickets to the shows wherein I have tripped dangerously close to "acting." We actually sold out twice during the most recent run.

Artistically, we recognize that we are (somewhat) selling out by choosing plays that are more popular than the more challenging and original fare of Available Light's regular season. It's not a real soul-sucking artistic sell out: we manage to find plays that are deeply meaningful and satisfying. They're just popular — is that so wrong?

Who I'm Looking For
I seek:

1. People who want to try acting. The ideal candidate has not been on stage as an actor in many years — or ever. This person feels like a ham, but canned and ready to come off the shelf.

2. People who seek a self-actualizing experience. This might feel (in the ideal candidate) like a gnawing hunger for a new creative risk and — hey! — maybe acting is the right risk.

3. People who want to be immersed in a worthy text. The next show is To Kill A Mockingbird, arguably the best novel ever written. There is no better way to read a book — than to read it with friends learning how to act the book.

4. People who are willing to work on this. The ideal candidate will come to rehearsals, ready to work. Some roles are smaller than others. For those who want dip a toe in the water: townspeople. For those who want to jump in: there are lines to be memorized.

5. People who are willing to audition with Ian Short. (See details below.) At the audition, the ideal candidate will have some natural presence and will respond to direction — and be a person that Ian can see filling one of the roles. You don't have to be a pro. Amateurs encouraged and trained!

6. People who have a large social network. The ideal candidate will attract a couple hundred people to buy tickets. Perhaps those so-called friends just want to see what the heck is [Louie] doing. That's OK. These are fundraisers, so selling of tickets is important.

Can you think of this person? If so, let me know.

Even if this person is you.

So last night I found myself sitting in a small room with a bunch of strangers (and one loved one, who would perhaps prefer my discretion about that part of the story.) I probably wouldn’t have been there for any other play; as an English teacher, I’ve had a long association with To Kill a Mockingbird. In fact, my oldest son’s name would be Atticus if a woman much smarter than me hadn’t pointed out the length of our last name. It would have been quite the gangly moniker; even the most restrained teacher would have a hard time not rolling her eyes when taking attendance. But I love To Kill a Mockingbird. I imagine when Harper Lee dies I’ll have another essay to write.

Not that I felt I had a shot at Atticus. First of all, Artie stages shows so he can be in them, so the Atticus role was filled, I was sure. Plus, frankly, I didn’t think I had much of a shot at all. An open call for what is basically a community theater show, but with a highly respected theater company – I figured every between-jobs actor and up-and-coming theater student would show up. People who’ve been working at acting. Really, I was in it for the audition.

So I found a monologue on-line, something appropriate to my age and the tone of the show. It was a near miss. (Isben? Seriously?) And I spent some time prepping it; certainly not memorizing, but finding beats and marking it up in the way I’ve taught students over the years. And I got pretty nervous, especially on the drive downtown. Nervous is a lousy feeling, but I remembered that being nervous was a big reason I was doing this, fighting brain calcification and all. But the nervousness faded – mostly – when I walked into the room. I made it a point to be friendly, I concentrated on the loved one, and I had the pleasant if somewhat awkward distraction of an old friend in the room, a former rival, of sorts. He was there with his son.

“So, are you auditioning?” I asked.

“No. No no no.” He gestured to his boy.

“Oh, you should.”

“To be in a show? With what time?” he asked, grinning.

“Well, what? You’re going to drive him to practices anyway, right? You’ll just be sitting in the car.”

Small talk, and I found a seat. A couple minutes later he got up and signed the sheet. We grinned, I made some joke, he joked back. I felt kinda good about that.

I got called into the room, I did my monologue. I ended up having a really good time with it. It felt good. I didn’t embarrass myself, and that was gratifying. They said they’d email the callback list that evening. I wished them luck and told them I looked forward to the show, either way it worked out.

Then I went home and stayed up late watching Brazil with my kid. Love that movie. But I got mad at him for constantly checking his text messages – “Look, if we’re going spend time together, spend the time here, okay?” – a common anti-iPod and cell phone refrain for me. But after scolding him I realized it meant I couldn’t check my email either, which sort of messed me up. Cuz, okay, I was in it for the audition – really, I was. But it would be nice to be called back, you know?

And, surprise surprise, today I’m still in the game. I’m back in that room today, right now, with a larger group of strangers, and one old friend-slash-rival, (and, sigh, no loved one) all of us mumbling over stapled pages we’ve been handed to prepare. I’ve been called back for Mr. Gilmer, defense attorney. That’d be fun. As far as stage time and number of lines, that would be more fun that this other part I’ve been thinking about today. But you know what would be awesome?

Boo Radley.

Iconic character. Only one line.

Reading the lines for Mr. Gilmer, it was fun to imagine: the anti-Atticus. But Boo Radley? That sure would make these conversations more fun at school:

“Hey. I’m in a play. To Kill a Mockingbird.”

“Really? What part?”

See?

So, as I sit here, here’s the score, honest and for true:

“Mr. Gilmer.” Seriously? Awesome. Wow. Thanks.

“Boo Radley.” Oh, great. Awesome. Much less stressful, far fewer rehearsals, great name part. (and then it occurs to me that I’m probably way to old for that part.)

“We’re sorry, maybe next time.” Oh, thank god. I really have no idea how I would have found the time to do a show.

So, s’all good. I’m really here for the audition. I can feel my frontal cortex de-calcifying as I sit here.