On Talking About Prime Numbers With a Math Teacher (When I Am Just a Lowly High School English Teacher)

I am an English teacher (and thus not a Math teacher). I was mussing with the in-house math guru today at work, helping him make a powerpoint using a "fly-in" effect and we discussed "what is a prime number?"
And How I Failed Miserably to Explain Prime
    I took a stab at a cursory definition and said, " it's a number divisible by itself and two!" My colleague chuckled, "Remain an English teacher, Greig. Your definition could be any number! A prime is an integer greater than 1 whose factor is only itself and 1".
    Albeit, I can't remember a sufficient definition for a prime number, but I find it fascinating that (1. There are an infinite set of 'em and 2.) There is no way as of yet to determine the pattern of how they appear on the number line. Mathematicians are hard at work, though.
    Four primes exist between 1-9. But, how many between 1,000,000 and 3,000,000? Is there a pattern? And why so many primes between 1-9 but so few between larger sets of integers, like 600,000 - 700,000? The questions never cease!

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Let's Go to the Museum: "Oedipus Wrecks" in the Ninth Grade English Classroom

In this post, I write about a recent Ninth Grade English lesson based on the New York Times Learning Center curriculum where we turned our classroom into a museum full of objects based on the Greek Tragedy Oedipus the King by Sophocles.

Museum Exhibition of Oedipus the King
In all periods of my Ninth Grade English class at De La Salle High School in New Orleans, we created a museum exhibition for Sophocles tragedy Oedipus Rex.

Students create a puzzle game based on
Oedipus the King in a Ninth Grade English class.

In every corner of the room galleries were set up to showcase different significant objects from the play: the noose, the brooch, the crown, the walking stick, the nail, the masks the actors wore, to demonstrate non-linguistically the themes of the Ancient Greek tragedy.

In quadrant one museum-goers played the memory game, trying to remember different objects from the play. Can anyone remember where the brooch went? If you look carefully you can see one museum-goer chose a noose to demonstrate the noose Jocasta chose to commit suicide; I thought they performed the act with appropriate cheer.

Ouch.

I am glad we didn't have demonstrations of the brooch.

One group of students brought Oedipus cupcakes.


One group had sword fights to act out the fatal battle between Oedipus and his father at the crossroads. Clever. But, I heard one girl say, "He wants to kill his father?"

I liked the Oedipus crossword puzzle the kids created on the smartboard. That was fun. I found "furnace" and "citadel".

But, I could not get the smartpen to work. Doi *me imitating Homer Simpson*. So we had to remember what words were previously discovered.

I noticed that the success rate for the project was high. I should try to implement more projects like this one in the classroom. What do you think? I think it is important to try to encourage students to express in a non-linguistic form the themes of a piece of literature. Students react to thematic significance when they see the potent art of the literary piece brought to life. Isn't this what the Greeks did? They did not sit around in a classroom and underline important passages. In a way, it is the artistic expression of the work. It is a way to bring the work back to life; to take it from the textbook and reify the dramatic action.

I got the idea for the project from a New York Times learning center lesson plan using the idea of Orhan Pamuk's new novel the Museum of Innocence. In his new novel, every chapter is devoted to an object the main character Kemal associates with his ex-lover. We read the article in class and discussed ways we could create our own museum of innocence for Oedipus Rex. Fun stuff.

Well, I am off to attend a birthday party for my cousin. He turned sixteen today. Ain't that sweet?

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H is for Home

Parts of the drop ceiling in my apartment fell in the kitchen.

Is it trite to speak of home? Cliché, maybe. But, home resonates. At the moment my home is in disarray.

Case in point: last night, plaster from the ceiling crumbled and fell in hard portions on the kitchen linoleum. I did not wake up from the din, but I was startled in the morning (in between brushing my teeth and finding a perfect maroon tie) to find the kitchen bespectacled with jagged chunks of plaster. "Is there a rodent in my attic?" I asked myself, half startled and half bemused.

Going from the ramshackle that is my apartment, to the structure of school, I enter another home: a weird conglomeration of bells and roving students, lecturing professors, and due dates, exams, lunches and recess. School is a strange form of home that merely serves as another version -- but for me, a strange anodyne -- and I cringe to confess this fact, because one's vocation is not supposed to be one's home.

Do I find myself grading papers, only to look at the clock notice it is already six o'clock?

This is the tragedy of home as school. Alas, my life is fail. Or, as one of my students would say, "Epic Fail! I hate my life!"

So, today, to rectify this unhappy occasion, I set out to spruce up my "home" and make sure next week I will not end up sleeping at my professor's desk.

My task before me is to make my home the same as it was in August. I notice the pile of dishes hidden beneath the shorn plaster. I notice books unread. And OMG! I have to complete those homework assignments and finish reading those essays.

I stop for a second, in the middle of writing this first installment of an alphabiography, which I have decided to impose on myself as an assignment -- I figure if I am making my students complete this project, I might as well do the same — I have until October 15th — eeekkk and I probably have loads of grammar and spelling mistakes. Is there anything here that is home? True home? Not artificial or cliché home? The sound of the streetcar whizzing by frequently and hurriedly? Is it the fresh pot of coffee I worship every morning — to quote Anne Sexton -- "All this is God, right here in my pea green house."

Home is an unhurried thing. Is it metaphysical? Probably not. Is it the edifice of a house? Or is it the collection of a family? The association of friends?

I know one thing is true: home is unequivocally the evocative longing to diminish the alone. It is the wish of the solitude to unite with the One. It is the prayer of the worshipful to unite with their God. It is the hope of the teacher to successfully complete one more successful assignment; it is the proper buttering of the toast; the perfect rendering of prose into poetry, the sublime nature of one's hope (albeit striving) for ? ... and that is where I stumble ... lost again in the mystery of home.

I do have one final concrete image for those out there who detest abstract thought. The apple pie Americans who need a palpable definition. Home is where the heart is? Home is on the range. Home is for breakfast. Home fries. Homie. Dog. G. Out.

Life Lesson: Home is what you make it. Ahh, isn't that trite enough? But, I think I will go and wash those dishes (yeah, right he says).

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10 Notes on Being a High School Director

Being a High School Director:

Photo by Kal Visuals on Unsplash

1. Never underestimate your actors' potential.

2. Always try to find SOMETHING an actor is doing well even if everything they are doing seems destined for failure.

3. During rehearsals, the actors perform for you so make them KNOW you are paying attention to them. During the show, they still perform for you even though the audience believes they are performing for them and the actors believe they are doing it for themselves.

4. Allow actors to feel out their roles. BUT some people need more coaching. Be flexible and intuit what an individual needs. Be specific in giving hooks. (I am working on getting better at this).

5. I have not figured out rehearsal pacing yet. When do I tell them to be off book? When do I yell at them for not knowing their lines? What is the fine balance between sternness and generosity?

6. When there is little less than one week before showtime, work with what you got. Don't add anything more.

7. SHOW the LOVE

8. The actors internalize your comments so choose your words carefully.

9. When directing use VERBS. For example: "Look Angry" is a bad stage direction: instead: "Prowl around the stage like you are a tiger in a cage" is more specific and doable.

10. It will all come together (albeit, a few SNAFUs)

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A Ten Year High School Reunion and Teachers

   We celebrated the tenth year our class from Mandeville High School graduated and went on to bigger and better things. Even though a high school reunion is très weird, I actually wallowed in the weirdness. Apart from not recognizing one of my friends from school AT ALL (which was very embarrassing) I really had loads of fun. Last year, I had gone to a high school reunion with a friend and it was horrible. Albeit, I got über drunk but that is beside the point. So, I must admit I had low expectations for this reunion. My friend Melanie convinced me to go (here we are together).
It is like going to a review of your life that you have to own up to people you may not really have desired to supply a status update (or they would be on your twitter).
   I found out some of my classmates are now working for Microsoft; another is a professor; another one is a stand-up comic and one is a urologist. A few unemployed and lots of moms and dads.
   I’m a former-monk-now-school-teacher-cum writer. No matter how you shake it: a reunion is a battle of comparisons. “So, what are you doing now?” is the question rampant in the room. At the reunion I spoke to someone who had been following my blog when I was on my road trip this past summer (see previous entries); she told me unsolicitedly she enjoyed reading my stuff. She said she was waiting for my novel. Hmmmm. I want to write a novel but I am afraid of the solitude. Hah. I can only write holed up in coffee houses and in between frequent masturbations.
    After that, the writing process, between cups of coffee and some smokes, becomes arduous and I miss flesh and blood people. I figure to give my fictional character life I should enter back into the human circle. So I have a note to my readers: the novel I have yet to write will not be on the scale of Les Misérables but it won’t be the puny exercises of the Spiderwick Chronicles either (who wants to pony up ten bucks for a cheap pleasure that can just be as easily gotten with a trip to the Public Library?). Although, I loved the movie. So, I think, for now, I will have to consign my dreams to the prison chamber of my mind and satisfy my would-be customers with ephemeral writings with adjacent pictures. This blog does not have a theme. I will need to focus on theming my blogs in the future but … If I could find a job writing I would quit teaching today. I do not feel like teaching. I know. It is a sin to say such a thing, especially when you are a teacher … but I have to say I put in my resignation the other day. I will not be back at my school come Fall of 2009. I have five months until I am unemployed. I need a job. I need to finish writing my thesis (I know … it is long overdue) I need to pay a traffic fine I incurred in Ozona, Texas ($300 and there is a warrant for my arrest). So, if you send me an email and I do not reply, you can safely assume that I am behind bars writing my novel. My criminal record is the reason I have not given detention to any of my students in the past five months. If they only knew what was on their teacher’s record. So, for the record, I do not dole out punishments anymore. Although, the quality of mercy was not strained. For, yesterday, the last day of school, a student had his iPhone splayed out on his lap during the final exam. These are juniors, so they know better. Come on. I thought to myself. You do not do that during an exam, especially the final exam. I went up to him and said, “Are you crazy? Give me that.” He obediently gave over the phone. I figured I would return the device after the exam was done. But, then I thought, “what was he doing with the phone? Was he text messaging answers to another student? Jesus.” This is the easiest way for students to cheat: “what’s the answer to number 9?”. Students love to one-up the teacher. Teaching, I have learned, is a battle zone where altruism does not exist. It is a battle of the One versus the many — and I do not mean that in an ontological way. Or, as a veteran teacher told me, “teaching is like keeping a herd of horses at bay".
   But back to the story: just as I confiscated his phone, the assistant principal walked into the room. I said to her, “Here is a confiscated phone” and she said to the blanched-faced student, “Get it after the holidays.” After she left the student said, “Why did you do that?!”  The other students were exceptionally jubilant that I had caught him. I am sure in the future, when he is thirty, at his high school reunion, he will still be convinced I scarred him for life.
   The entire class of twenty-seven had bright smiles on their faces — there was communal satisfaction. When the exam was completed, one of the students gave me a Christmas card. Inside was written a note thanking me for teaching her and that she would miss the class (I get a different bunch of students next semester). Newton comes in handy here: for every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction. It applies to physics, but could easily be applied to the classroom.
Café Luna New Orleans, Louisiana

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La Troupe De La Salle Presents The Sword in the Stone

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That time I directed a high school play  — Frank Levy and Bonnie Bess Wood's adaptation of The Sword and the Stone.
Update!!! 
To all my Blogger and Facebook friends: I have been working with a cast of twenty-five young people for the last two months. We are performing The Sword in the Stone. The story tells the tale of how the young boy Arthur grew up and became the legendary king of England. Frank Levy from Stories in Motion wrote the play. He adapted the story from the ancient legend for a contemporary audience. The show is funny and poignant and full of energy. We had our opening night this week and the show was a success. If you all could make it to tonight’s performance through Saturday (doors open at 7:00 and the show starts at 7:30) it would be great! Tickets are five dollars at the door at De La Salle High School on the third-floor theater in the Brother Arsenius Student Center. Parking is in the school parking lot on Leontine Street and St. Charles Ave. between the Jewish Community Center and the school. The show runs an hour and a half with a fifteen-minute intermission.

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Jocks and Goths

Jock or goth — geek, nerd, slut, queer, poser, wimp, shrimp, hippie, prep, emo — or in Shakespeare’s day, “You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!”; walk into any high school in the United States and you could probably pick out any of these above mentioned categories — even the Shakespearean ones.  Or, if you are not versed in the taxonomical nomenclature of your average high school student, talk with one.

Luke Bernard (note: some names and identifying characteristics have been changed), a high school student in a mainly white, upper-class suburban neighborhood, told me about the gangstas, the wiggers, the nerds, the geeks and the posers at his school.  He said, “The gangstas in my school are the rough, tough black people.  They buy the knock-off versions of the coolest brands and wear them for awhile and when they’re bored, they get a new pair.”  He then told me there are a few goths, if any, and no one wants to be called a queer.  He did say there are, “the wigger kids.”  According to him, these are white kids who try to act gangsta.  “Some pull it off well,” he said, as if a proud thespian performing Shakespeare.

    Candace, a girl from the same neighborhood spoke to me about the skaters.  They are to be found in the nearest abandoned parking lot, with affixed decals on their boards which promote a favorite band or political expression (“Bush Sucks,” exclaims one).  “Skaterz,” as one boy from the inner city of New Orleans, told me, “Get a bad rap cuz people, mostly cops are looking to arrest us.”  In one recent issue of Skateboarding magazine that he holds in his hand, there is an advice column on how to evade the police if the cops catch you doing an ollie on public property.  The mag advises the best way to avoid the police is to run when you see them and hide in a secure spot. 

    And then there are nerds.  Luke told me that a nerd is somebody who is not able to socialize with other kids and desperately tries to make friends but no one wants to be friends with them.  “Not even the skaterz?” I asked.  “No.  There is one girl — she is so sheltered that I don’t even try to talk to her.  She is trying to be someone she’s not.  The geeks —”  I asked him to explain what a geek was: “anybody who plays too many video games.  They talk about it a lot.  To the unaided eye me and my friends would be considered geeks.”

    The geeks know HTML code better than they know about sex and the nerds sit around discussing World of Warcraft or The West Wing.  The wimps and shrimps are bludgeoned because of their lack of height and the preps come to school with collared shirts with insignia emblazoned on their lapels — purchased by their yuppie parents. The emo kid wants to slit his wrist because his girlfriend dumped him and the poser is like a chameleon who wants to be who he’s not.  “You’re a poser,” Luke explains, “when you say you’re a goth.  Or when you have to tell everybody you’re cool.”  Greg, a senior in high school, said that the queers limp their wrists and exclaim, with mucho drama, “O My God!”  But apparently, not all gay teens are so demonstrably limped wristed.  Greg is mentioning merely one possible of homosexuality among men.

But Luke, Greg, and Candace are no different from most of us when it comes to labeling others.  When I was in high school, I was dubbed a nerd, because I liked to read books — but I didn’t see myself that way.  I just like to read books.  I imagine that is true for the guy who skates.  He likes to skate.  Or the girl who cheers on the football sideline.  She likes to cheer.  But I understood, even as a kid that there is an entire collection of labels conveniently used to pigeonhole people into little boxes, especially in an environment where the true search for self is squashed.  Or, worse — killed.

   Whether it be a Dilbertesque office space, the virtual geography of MySpace or a shiny Sunday School, there will be the vast and vicious panoply of name calling and storytelling.  The kindling sticks and rough stones hurled to hurt are rampant in our society; and we all feel like abused Holden Caulfields.  If we have been name called as a child, we cannot help to remember it with a certain sense of bitterness.  And as adults, we may use different labels than the current generational code, but the idea is the same.  Whether you are a square or a fag, the exclusionary nature of name calling is a rather territorial penchant human beings have, originating probably from our primate cousins.  Have you ever seen Chimpanzees make fun of each other? 

    Whether it’s nature or nurture, I don’t know, but we perceive others through a preconceived framework that neatly sizes up our world comfortably and securely.  We make up stories, some urban legends, some truth, some blurry on the dividing line between reality and illusion so that our worlds can appear less complicated than it really is.

    The perceptions our stories are based on are preconceived schemes stored like templates, like cookie cutters in the brain.  The brain processes external stimuli by applying learned labels to distinguish one thing from another.  This way of perceiving the world is talked about in psychology as Gestalt theory.  Red from black.  Fat from skinny.  Ugly from beautiful.  And Jock from Goth.

    From these basic forms, we can know that a leaf is a leaf based on all the leaves we have leafed through.  We know Luke as Luke because he is imprinted in our mind as a schemata.  If Candace gets a facelift — even a slight facelift — or gets new glasses, the schema shifts and we do a double take when we see them.  “Hey, Candace, is that you?”  “Yeah, it’s me!”  “Oh!  Didn’t recognize you with the rhino rims!”

    What happens to these monikers, such as jock or goth, is that they develop into messy, but powerfully persistent narratives.  Some of the stories we conjure up about other people are harmless.  Some of the stories we create are attempts to understand ourselves.  As Luke, above, mentioned about the posers.  We create identities as a way to search for our own.  Like the Twain tale about a prince who dressed up as a look-a-like peasant to see what it was like to be poor and insignificant.

    Other stories we tell are more dangerous.  The dangerous narratives are those conjured out of fear and ignorance.  Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinosfky chillingly demonstrated the dangerous narratives people create in  their documentary for HBO, Paradise Lost: The Child Murders of Robin Hood Hills, about three teenagers in a provincial Arkansas town who were convicted for the murder of three children in a secluded river bed, ostensibly, because they were satan worshippers and dabbled in ritualistic sex and murder.  The modern-day Salem Witch trial found the boys guilty without substantial physical evidence, but a strong, powerful narrative convinced the jury they were guilty.  The truth was they were “Goths.”  The kids wore black and listened to Metallica.  But this was enough for the town to pronounce them guilty.

    Stories like the Robin Hood Hills murder describe the powerful force of narrative and the way that it replaces truth as the convenient litmus test for who is innocent and who is dangerous.  The childhood ditty, “sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me,” not only is false but belies the fact that words can not only hurt but strung together into a powerful enough story, can play into the generalities we construct to make sense of our world, into myths that are ultimately destructive.

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