My Winterim class' study of Harry Potter involved heading down to Los Angeles and visiting the Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Universal Studios Hollywood. I wanted to document a few of my memories here--albeit quickly. Thanks for your indulgence. Day 1 We met at the school at seven in the morning, loaded up twenty kids and six chaperones into four vans, and headed south. I'd broken the trip into four segments, arranging it in such a way that I could lead a discussion in each car with each group of kids. We discussed a couple of portions of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. The conversations were pretty similar--done on purpose, as I wanted to give them all the 'same' lesson, inasmuch as was possible--but they were good. I liked them, at least. We arrived at our Air BnB in good time--very few delays, even within the thorny California traffic--unpacked the cars, and made some spaghetti dinner. The students entertained themselves with Disney Plus' The Simpsons and chatted and relaxed. We even got to bed at a decent time, with only needing three forceful reminders from me to be quiet when it was time to go to bed (which was only required the one time). Day 2 After arising and breakfasting, we went down to Sunset Beach, which was essentially empty. The students played in the sand and surf--very cold surf, as it was only in the mid-sixties--until it was time to have another class. We discussed Lupin from Prisoner of Azkaban, as well as exploring some of the fears that we have (in relation to the Dementors and the Patronus Charm). Though having the beach pretty much to ourselves was nice, the sun and the lack of facilities forced us south to Huntington Beach where we had another hour or so of class, plus some wandering around time. It was here that we, again, lost a student in the bathroom. (By 'again', I'm referencing the time when, in Cambridge, England, a student went to the loo without anyone knowing and, as a result, was left there for an hour and a half before we realized what had happened and found her. Yeah. Good times.) The kid had gone into a bathroom to change without telling anyone that he needed extra time. So Gayle and I found him just as he exited the stall, oblivious to the fact that the group had moved on. After that, I assigned four kids to be the Head Boy and Girls of their respective houses, tasking them with the responsibility to do a head count so that we could avoid that happening again. Once finished with the beach, we returned to the cars and drove home. There, we continued the classwork that we still needed to do, then piled back into the cars to go to Downtown Disney, which was only about ten minutes from the house. The problem was, the parking at Downtown Disney was exorbitant. In the end, we decided that we would drop off the students and a couple of chaperones, then drive the vans back to the house. From there, we ordered an Uber, which got us back to the park for, maybe, six bucks. We tried to enjoy the Downtown Disney vibe, but one of the students brought a harmonica, which prevented him from getting in (they didn't want him busking, I think). Rather than sitting and waiting for us to come take care of it, he wandered away--as if that makes any sense--which required additional work on our part. I wasn't particularly happy with that decision of his. Still, we eventually all made it through security. The kids were let loose--on the precept of the buddy system--to look at what was there. (Part of our Winterim is to study marketing; what better place to see it done than at the park of the masters of all marketing, Disney?) Gayle and I enjoyed a churro together--it's one of her favorite treats--and looked at some of the merchandise. I noticed that, last time I was there, I had been on the lookout for something that I actually wanted to buy. I ended up getting a metal model kit for Cinderella's castle, mostly because I like castles. (It sits on my bookshelf now--though I almost never remember that it's a Disney landmark.) Suffice to say that Disney is not a key component of my childhood. I mean, it's fun--Disneyland is great and I like going there--but there's little about the Mouse that makes me truly excited. Being in Downtown Disney that night, without having been in the park at all, made me feel even less inclined to pay any amount to anyone for anything (churros excepted). Without the brainwashing of being in the park, my interest in the merchandise was basically non-existent. We hired another Uber to get us back to our vans, then returned to Downtown Disney to pick up the students. Once home, we had a nice dinner. For the most part, my wife cooked the food with a student or two to help while I organized the shower schedule and kept students rotating through. (With only two bathrooms in the house, it required a lot of discipline to ensure that everyone had time to bathe.) After dinner, we had one of the houses--yes, I broke up the twenty students into the four Hogwarts houses--help on the cleanup. Day 3 This was an early day, as we wanted to make sure that our tickets worked and we could get into the park. To that end, we left the house in Anaheim at 8am. Los Angeles traffic conspired against us, and we didn't get to the theme park until 9:30am. Then we struggled with figuring out parking--we wanted to park at the Metro station nearby and just walk to the park, but there were signs prohibiting that. While that probably wouldn't have mattered, I happened to pull into a stall that was within eyesight of an attendant. Since there wasn't any other option, I decided to fork over the $28 to park in the parking lot. Still, despite these hiccups, we were able to get everyone through security, get some pictures, and head into the park. We decided to meet at the Three Broomsticks for lunch, then everyone went whichever way they wanted. Gayle and I decided to start at the Wizarding World, since that was our entire purpose in being there. We had our robes on and everything--why wouldn't we head straight there? Because it's January, the weather was quite cool--and, indeed, by the end of the day, was feeling downright cold--but it also meant that the park was not well attended. Gayle and I stood in line for the Flight of the Hippogriff ride, which took seven or eight minutes to get to the front of. (Probably a bit too long of a wait for a ride that short, but that's okay.) Then we and a couple of students went into the reason we were there: Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey. We walked at a steady pace through the Hogwarts queue, enjoying the recreations of the different statues described in the books and seen in the movies, looking at sundry props and listening to the talking portraits. Maybe five minutes later, we were on the ride. Gayle and I have been on the ride before--we went to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Universal Studios Orlando a few years ago--but that didn't change how exciting it was to be on it again. I've grown a lot as a person and as a reader since then, and I have a different relationship with Rowling's world now. Getting to "be there" to such an immersive extent was really enjoyable. Slightly shaken about, we then wandered through Hogsmeade and enjoyed the different shops' sundry charms (while suffering the mild panic attacks set on by the prices of everything). We swung out of Hogsmeade long enough to watch the Kung Fu Panda attraction, which was like watching a video game in a rumbly seat…we didn't go back. By then, it was almost time for lunch, so Gayle and I hung out at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade until it was time to eat. Because of how the trip was supposed to go, we had to figure out a way for the students to be able to enjoy the food there without them all cracking open their wallets. In the end, we bought four Great Feasts (large meals with ribs, chicken, corn, potatoes, and vegetables) and thus fed the kids. When we were done, we headed onto the Universal Studios tour, which took a solid hour or so. It was really cool to see some of these sets for films I'd seen--and a bunch for movies I'd never even heard of. The entire experience was enjoyable--especially when we saw some of the dinosaurs from Jurassic Park. Since the Jurassic World ride was closed that day (and the next, as it happened), this helped scratch the dinosaur itch. With that done, Gayle and I explored the lower lot of the park, descending the escalators until we got to the Jurassic World attraction. We arrived just as the velociraptor, Blue, came out for pictures. We watched as it made its angry noises, clacked its mighty jaws, and terrorized some of the smaller guests. Gayle and I got in line and got a few pictures with the creature. We then went on the Mummy ride and the Transformers ride, both of which are close to the Jurassic World section. That essentially finished off our first day in the park. Of course, we still had a commute to contend with. The distance from our house to the park was just over 30 miles, but it still took almost two hours to get back, since the traffic was so bad. Fortunately, we made it with little damage, though I'll admit that the car was pretty quiet--almost everyone was dozing after having gone through such a long day. We got home, made some tacos, fed everyone, did our shower routine, and called a lights out. Most kids, I'd guess, were asleep within a few minutes. Day 4 Originally, we thought that this day would be like day 2: classes on the beach, maybe something fun in the evening. However, through a good deal on the tickets, we actually had a total of three days' access to the park. So, since we couldn't afford lunch for all three days--it wasn't in the budget--we decided to hold class in the morning. Students could then eat the lunch provided by the school or, if they wanted, wait until we arrived at the park. The commute, being in the middle of the day, was much shorter. We dropped off the students (buddy system!) at the Universal City Walk drop off point, then I parked the car in the metro station as before. With my other drivers, we headed to the shuttle that took us up the hill and into the park. Meeting up with Gayle, she and I made sure the students were set before heading into the park ourselves. We decided to take in the shows, watching the Special Effects show and the Water World stunt show before returning to Hogsmeade and browsing the shops. We had to find some souvenirs for our kids, so we passed some pleasant time that way. We also ate lunch at Three Broomsticks again, this time ordering a butterbeer to go along with the shepherd's pie. We went on the Forbidden Journey again (why wouldn't we?), then took in a couple of the rides we'd missed from before--the Simpsons and the Despicable Me rides (which were the same and not particularly noteworthy; the Simpsons ride, strangely enough, was always the one with the longest queue--sometimes as long as 45 minutes--which I can't understand; it's not that good of a ride). We ended our evening by watching the Animal Actors show, which we enjoyed. By then it was getting late and quite cold, so I used a Starbucks gift card a student had given me for Christmas to buy us some hot chocolate. The return trip was long and fairly uneventful, though we did see the remnants of one of the wrecks--a compact car had gone under a pickup truck, with the truck's bumper all the way to the windshield of the car--and we got home safely. We had breakfast for dinner, and as the evening was winding down, one of the students said she was going to jump into the icy cold pool. After all, we'd brought our swimming suits: Why not use them? It was a moment of decision for me: I could indulge them, let them do the dumb thing, and roll my eyes at them; I could forbid them, dropping the disciplinary hammer on them; or I could join in. I decided to do the last one, in part because my purpose in the trip was to find ways to give them memorable, important experiences. What better way than to leap into the icy pool with them? There were probably eight or so of us lined around the pool. I told my coteacher to count us off, then, at three, we all leaped in. The temperature outside was, I would guess, in the high forties--the water was not so warm, methinks. I immediately set out for the side of the pool, shrieking that I'd made a huge mistake. To my surprise, my coteacher--who was not in her swimming suit--was in the water, too: She had jumped in when she'd shouted three, having taken off her shoes and set aside her phone. Other than that, she was in her clothes that she'd been wearing all day. We climbed out--I set about trying to hug Gayle with my wet body--and spent a good portion of time shivering. After an hour or so of getting the showers taken care of, we turned in for the night. Day 5 As part of our final day in the park, we arranged to get--as much as possible--the students in the park for the maximum amount of time. We left early, though we still arrived a half our after the park opened. Dropping the kids off, Gayle and I went to park in the Metro station, only to have the kiosk refuse to register our cars. We decided that it was the sort of thing that we'd have to figure out later, so we went ahead and took the shuttle to the park. Since the Jurassic World attraction was now open, Gayle, my coteacher, her parents, and I went straight there. The queue waiting time said ten minutes, but we essentially walked on, our plastic ponchos covering our Hogwarts robes. We got fairly wet the first time through, but I demanded on going again. And again. Three times in a row--each one as easy to get on as the first. The second experience was the most unexpected: At the end of the ride, the T. rex lunges out of a dark recess, roars at the tourists, then the boat goes down a steep hill, landing with a splash. Well, something must have happened with the boats at the dock, because though Rexy came out and roared at us, we didn't move forward. The dinosaur did her thing, then ducked her head and retreated, no longer interested in us. We sat, waiting to go down. At last, we moved forward and it plunged us down the hill. We immediately turned to the Mummy ride, which we were able to walk onto straight from the queue. That's always a fun ride, I think, though they have changed it a lot since I last was on it: In the past, they had more Brendan Fraiser doing his thing…this one did not. And this is, I think, one of the real problems that both Universal Studios and California Adventure have to deal with: They aren't timeless/classic properties. Sure, Transformers and superheroes are popular now, but ten years down the road? No one will really care--much like no one cares about Brendan Fraiser's version of The Mummy. Yes, some properties really stick around, but most don't. Disneyland itself is the attraction--the whole place is its own classic, nostalgic, timeless area. Some things change, obviously, but its core identity remains. Not so with these other parks. The sun was out, and though the day was warm, we were still wet; we sat at a table to dry off and try to figure out what was going on with the parking situation. After some time, my coteacher said she'd figure it out and that Gayle and I should go enjoy the park. So we went on the Transformers ride. However, a woman in the row in front of us vomited, so we weren't really interested in sticking around. Heading back to the upper lot, we headed to Hogsmeade (easily our favorite part of the park, regardless of whether or not we were there for a Harry Potter Winterim) where we got lunch--fish and chips, plus a hot butterbeer (which I very much liked)--and breezed through the shops. As it was the last day, it was time to start making our souvenir decisions. We didn't want to burden ourselves with too much stuff, though, so we only looked. The Flight of the Hippogriff was walk-on, so we did that. Then, we decided since we were in Hogsmeade, we would go through the Forbidden Journey at our own pace, enjoying the queue much more than we had the other times. We went slowly, letting groups pass us as we stared at the detail poured into the design. We spotted the sword of Gryffindor in Dumbledore's office (and we listened to both of his lectures); we spent time watching the four founders of Hogwarts verbally spar from their paintings; standing in the Defense Against the Dark Arts class, we got to watch Ron accidentally start a thunderstorm, then make it snow. Honestly, a big portion of the fun of that ride is the queue, which is a testament to Rowling's imagination and the ride makers' commitment to creating an exceptional experience. With that ride done, we were feeling pretty satisfied. There wasn't a whole lot else to do--we'd gone on every attraction (save the Walking Dead one, which I wasn't in the mood for)--and time was quickly slipping away from us. We bought ourselves one last butterbeer and pumpkin juice (say what you will, but I love both of those drinks; and they're expensive enough to make it feel like you're drinking gold, good heavens). I saw that the line to Ollivander's Wand experience was short. On a whim, I said we should go in again. It was walk-in speed, so we were soon corralled into the first part of the shop. Boxes of wands--thousands of them--spread upwards to the ceiling on their crooked shelves. We waited only a moment before the hidden door swung open and we were ushered into the actual wand-selection room. I was secretly hoping that Gayle or I might be picked--as I looked around, there weren't any children and we were the only two in Hogwarts robes (I in my Ravenclaw, she in her Gryffindor). The wand-matcher began her speech--the same one we'd seen on an earlier day--and prowled the room. Her eyes lighted on me. "Ravenclaw," she said, "do you have a wand?" "No," I said, though that's only partially true: I have a wand. However, I've never been selected for a wand. "And you, Gryffindor," she said, turning to Gayle. "Do you have a wand?" "No." "Come forward, both of you." Gayle and I did as asked, smiling with excitement. The wand-matcher spoke about how wands work, giving a very similar speech to what Ollivander says in the book and movie. She picked one box--one "made" of ivy (they're all plastic, of course)--and pulled out the wand. She handed it to me and asked me to cast the Unlocking Charm. I waved the wand, said, "Alohamora!" and, instead of opening up some drawers, a pile of wands almost fell from a shelf. "Good rebound, but clearly not the right wand," said she. Turning to Gayle, she presented one of oak and asked my wife to light up the room. Gayle pointed her wand to the ceiling and said, "Lumos!" A lightning storm began. "Not the right one, no, I'm afraid not…" The wand-matcher paused, then looked at the two of us. She picked up the two wands and switched them between us. A light illuminated us, a burst of air blasted, and angelic singing filled the air. "Those are both dragon heartstring cores--and they come from the same dragon. That means their cores are twins. We call them brother wands," said the wand-matcher. She then went on to explain what the different types of wood meant and some other similar things. We thanked her as an assistant helped box them up. We were then ushered out and given a quick explanation about the wands. "Wizards must pay for their wands, so it's $55 per wand. If you choose not to buy them, please return them to me." It didn't take much deliberation to decide to keep the wands. Not only had they "chosen" us, but they were the kinds of wands that allowed us to interact with some of the shops in the park (by using the wands in certain locations, "magical" responses were possible, including making paper flit about, music boxes sing, and a dragon to be awakened behind a locked door). We paid for those wands, as well as an extra one for our middle son's souvenir. We cast spells, purchased final merchandise, and finished our time at Universal Studios Hollywood. Day 6
We left the Air BnB early, having cleaned up and packed up with surprising efficiency. Our trip home was uneventful, save that there was quite a bit of snow and wind once we made it back to Utah. Still, we all arrived home safely and in good time, which was nice. I'm glad to be home, even if the weather disagrees with me and the politics here is weird…not that that has anything to do with my past week, but…y'know…it's always there. Final Thoughts Multiple times whilst in Hogsmeade--usually during our meals--it was important for me to try to sit back and soak in what was happening. With all the stresses, improvisations, and tweaks, the trip was a difficult trick to pull off. That's how they always are, of course, but it was more difficult than in the past. (There were reasons for that, none of which interesting enough to go into here.) So it was important for me to try to really relish these fleeting moments of being in these places that mean so much to me. Yes, I recognize that the Wizarding World of Harry Potter wasn't created so that I could have moments of peace: It's a moneymaking venture (and it earned a lot of our money, let me tell you). And that's the tricky part: The cash desire has led to a value that's beyond what's within the park. The memories that the trip generated will be fond ones; I'll reflect on this time with warmth for many years to come. All possible because of money--and the lust for it--that has given me something slightly more ineffable. It's an uncomfortable alliance between the base desire of greed and the human value of ascribing and embracing worth. In the end, though, I have to accept it on its own terms, and be grateful for the time that I have. I hope that this will be something that really sticks with me, something that remains throughout the rest of my life as being a worthwhile effort and a wonderful memory. More than anything, it helps to underscore the importance of forcing meaning onto moments: Like the empty plastic cups of butterbeer, the temptation is for the moment to pay for itself only, to not allow it greater import and worth in our lives. It takes conscious effort to appreciate things as they are, when they are. Here's hoping I can internalize that lesson. One year ago, I had just returned from my third trip to Europe. During the time that my Winterim studied the World Wars (though, to be fair, it was much more focused on World War II), I tried as hard as I could to suck up as much exposure, experience, and history as possible. Occasionally, I would stop and simply marvel that I, an average high school teacher from the empty expanse of the American West, stood in places that I had only heard about. It was simultaneously humbling and inspiring.
The memories of my unique experiences last year were rekindled when I talked to some students who had gone to Europe for this Winterim. Their purposes were different than those of the previous trip, but seeing their excitement, yearning, and happiness at having learned about other parts of the world--for some of them had gone to Thailand, others to Costa Rica--reminded me of why I keep my European trip's pictures on a constant loop on my desktop. And it reminded me--again--of why I throw around the #imissengland on my Twitter account on a pretty regular basis: England feels like home. Now, that isn't to say that I have a childish connection--or, more accurately, a childish nostalgia--for the country. I didn't get to visit it until a few years ago. No, it's instead something more…primal. With the exception of the traffic (which is terrifying to a Yankee like me), what I saw of England was just…amazing. I know that part of that was the tourist-trap view of the country. We didn't see a strike or have to deal with the harsh realities of being an actual citizen entail. Our experiences were all positive, and that certainly adds to my own rose-colored glasses when it comes to England. But I felt something different when I was there, something different from what I've ever really felt. I've lived in exactly two states in my whole life--Utah and Florida--and those two are so different that it's a wonder they're in the same country. I have spent a little less than a month of my life outside of America. I don't know much about what it's like in other parts of the world. These feelings of belonging, then, are attuned to something more basic, more instinctive. Obviously, my book learning of the places I've visited has given me insights that others of my tour groups didn't understand. Seeing, for example, the obelisk in the center of Paris makes me chilled, knowing that thousands of Parisians were guillotined there, right where the bus is gassing its way past. And don't get me started on Stratford-on-Avon and what it meant to me to make that Bardolic pilgrimage and stand, stunned, at the Shakespeare Birthplace and the Holy Trinity church. That connection of my career as a history teacher to the places I've taught and learned about is certainly part of the whole experience, but I don't feel that it fully explains it. After all, I know about the end of the Second World War and what Hitler was doing to Berlin, yet I didn't feel the same sense of profundity as I do when I'm in Great Britain. Once our ferry docked and we had officially arrived in Portsmouth (I think that's where it was), a blanket of contentment settled over me, the sort of relief that comes when you've had a long day and at last returned to your house and find that there isn't a catastrophe or mess or problem that needs to be dealt with or cleaned or solved. This sort of feeling means that I'm somehow willing to forgive the history of the British Empire its horrors and atrocities, as if their brilliance and beauty were built independent of their brutality. I have a harder time doing the same thing to America, where even saying that we haven't begun to pay back what we've done to the native inhabitants and the descendants of kidnapped slaves puts me at odds with many. I'm definitely American in a lot of my sensibilities (except guns), so why do I feel a tugging within me to get back to England? Indeed, why do I say "get back", as if I'm absent from my true place? When I finally married my wife, I didn't feel as though I had, at long last, found a piece of me that was missing. We had known each other for years before we'd wed, so her presence in my life was a constant for a pretty long time. But I know a lot of people feel like they only became whole once they found their soulmate. It is that particular emotion that I felt for England when I arrived. The hardest part for me to reconcile is that I really can never go to my ancestral home, at least not longer than a visit. Buying a drafty thatch-roofed cottage in Warwickshire, sipping herbal tea and writing as I gaze out at a field of sheep? That's not the kind of life I could lead, not because I wouldn't want it, but I wouldn't want to pay the price necessary to get there. I have a great life in Utah. I have so much beyond what I need that it's embarrassing. My family's roots and experiences are valuable and valued here, and I have a place--a good place, a worthwhile place where I'm making (I hope) a real and tangible difference in the lives of many people. I would never want to give that up. I would never want to try to raise my family far away from the grandparents or cousins that are building the scaffolding off of which my children will construct their futures. To abandon that in favor of a dream that is sweeter in my mind than it would be in my reality is ludicrous. Foolishness. Bad decision-making. And yet… I don't know if I will ever feel really at home here. I guess I'll just have to live with that. One of the hardest things about doing a one-off class like Winterim is the fact that there's no roadmap. Whenever it's time to teach Pride and Prejudice again, I know what to ask of the students. There are assignments already created, journal questions already drafted, and conversations already anticipated. But Winterim? No, it's fresh every time.
Even the fact that this is a "repeat" Winterim for me hardly means a thing. I pulled more from my dinosaur Winterim from a few years ago more than I did the original Interactive Media as Literature Winterim that I cooked up back in 2009. Yes, we played some games in class and talked about literature, and, yes, they had 90 minutes a night of gaming homework to do, most everything else ran differently. A result of this is the complete blindness of expectations. I have a sense, an idea, of what I'd like to see at the end, and general shape of the course is in my mind, but the execution is volatile. Students, for example, come in with myriad differences that I have to adapt to. While accommodating kids is a normal aspect of the job, because of the lack of concrete experience, it's much harder to adapt. Any correction can feel overblown…or too minute to matter. Since there isn't prior knowledge, it can become more of a balancing act than I'm used to. Another area where the execution changes is the way that the class as a whole is operating. Are the students in their groups getting along? Is the stress of the work wearing them down and making them petty? Are the things we're talking about making sense to them? Every teacher knows that they only have one chance with each lesson they teach, even if they can improve between class periods, but the "homerun or run home" feeling is enhanced by the Winterim's unique opportunity. This year, I definitely felt that the most important stuff about video games--the mind-changing way of looking at life through a gaming lens, as well as new ways of conceiving and discussing the game--was lost during the second half. That wasn't my intention, but, as I mentioned before, I was simply too tired of carrying the conversation to push the critical theory any further than I did with them. Maybe if I'd had a different group of kids, I could've put more emphasis there. But that's also an area that showed me how I should change my teaching part way through--a modification that, I believe now, was the right step. That was the shift from critical theory to seeking out more opportunities to play. For the most part, the students were good sports about the discussions, but they preferred to have video games to play. (That being said, more than once I saw half the class looking at their phones rather than paying attention to the enormous screen projected on the whiteboard as their classmates worked through a level of Portal 2.) And that was something that helped change my way of looking at games. For a long time, I believed that schedology (design), narratology (story), and ludology (enjoyment) were needed in equal measure to make for a great game. And I still believe that, to a large extent--at least, for the absolute best games. But there's a lot to be said about focusing on schedology and ludology and letting narratology guide and answer questions about the previous two, rather than having it be a fundamental aspect. This shift in my own thinking is something that I need to ponder more, but the change was appreciated. Staying stuck in one's normal way of thinking gets tedious. The largest modification of my expectations, however, had to have come from my own thoughts about what I thought about the kids' projects. They were tasked with conceptualizing their own video game, complete with control concepts, potential art direction, and level design. As I worked with them, I got a sense of each group's strengths and weaknesses. I thought that I had a pretty good grasp of which games would do really well and which groups would likely stumble. I was completely wrong. The game that I best liked--I understood its idea, I loved its art design, and the entire premise made me want to play the game--had some troubles in its final days of development. One of the group members fell sick, and the rest of the group had a hard time finishing what they wanted to get done, with some of the members sitting around, bored. The game that I felt was weakest and most derivative--the one that had the least amount of artistic vision and cohesion--ended up as the second place winners in our intraclass competition. This happened for me on personal levels. Some of the students that I judged as being the ones I would least like ended up being pretty good*. Others that I was relying on to help carry things along turned out to be reluctant to speak up or participate. This is a constant lesson for me--one that I try to subvert by having ankle-high expectations when I first start working with students (less room for disappointment that way)--and though it isn't always one I remember, these gentle helps propel me toward internalizing the lessons that I ought to have figured out by now. At the end of this level, I feel like I put together a pretty solid Winterim. It's not the one that I felt the most emotional connection to (England, Harry Potter, and European tours fit into that one), but it's not the one where I felt too disconnected or uncomfortable with it (the short film and the garage band ones would fit that bill). It was an enjoyable time, the kids learned a lot, and, when I told them thanks and goodbye, there was a sense of something unique and special coming to an end. That much, at least, met my expectations. --- * This was only true in a couple of cases. For the most parts, the kids I didn't like at the beginning I didn't like very much at the end, either. But they're in ninth grade, so what could I expect? What If
Hypothetical situation: You have a lesson prepared for the class you're teaching. The ages range from about fourteen up to almost eighteen, so there's a diversity of age to take into account. The vast majority are boys, but there are a few girls. They're pretty good kids, so while you don't have to babysit every moment, you know that if there isn't structure, things will devolve rapidly. Your lesson includes using some technology that you have at home. As you're getting ready, you repeat your mental notes about all the components you need to have in order to ensure your lesson goes off well, but your parental duties start to interfere with your concentration. Time slips away, and you're in a rush so that you don't get behind schedule. Traveling the thirty minutes from your house, you get the parental stuff finished and arrive at school. Whilst there and preparing for your lesson, which begins in twenty minutes, you realize that the technology that you absolutely have to have for the day's lesson was accidentally left behind. What do you do? Now, if this sounds too close to home or detailed, don't worry: This didn't happen to me. (And thank you for being worried about me. That's very nice of you.) But it almost happened to me. See, for my video game Winterim, I decided to invest in a PlayStation VR headset and controller scheme. It has been a major success of the class, with the students all eager to take their turns on the equipment. In order for a VR headset to work, a complicated chain of cables, boxes, and receivers has to be put together. Because a school classroom is not one hundred percent secure--and because I have to work on my own homework and research by playing games--I bring the PS4 and the VR back and forth every day. I've become pro at the assembly and disassembly of the entire set up, and can usually do the whole thing in about five minutes. One day last week, however, I had--for whatever reason--missed one of the crucial components for the VR. (For those who are interested in the minutiae, it was the PlayStation Eye, a powerful camera that is used to let the PS4 know where the VR headset is and processes the movements of the player.) Usually, I pack all the pieces into a single laundry basket (which is still in surprisingly good shape, considering how much use it's been getting) so that I don't have to worry about having it all in the right place when I get out of the house in the morning. As I was about to walk out the door, I gave the family room one last visual sweep--and I spotted the Eye. Gasping at my near-miss, I scooped it up, put it in its proper place in the basket, and headed off to school. Crisis averted. But it made me wonder: What would I have done if I had arrived at school without that piece? I need it for the class--I purchased it for the class. How would I have handled the mistake? There could be options: I could talk to a coworker and ask him to cover for me whilst I went home to snatch what I left behind. But it's a good 45-60 minute drive to and from school, depending on traffic. That's a significant chunk of time. Additionally, because it's Winterim, every day's work is the equivalent of a week's worth of seat time. I wouldn't want to waste so much time. And what would I have them do? Well, that much I had covered. The students are working on projects within groups. They all know what they need to do, but they have to figure it all out and put it together, which requires time. Normally, I have them work in the afternoons, reserving the mornings for class conversations and class gaming. But flipping that around wasn't unheard of and I could easily have them work--whilst under the supervision of my friend--on their projects during my hasty retrieval. But that's expensive. Cost of gas, inconvenience to coworkers. What other alternatives would I have? In my case, I still had some of my video game console there. Though the VR wouldn't work, the PlayStation 4 has plenty of games that can be enjoyed. Despite the fact this almost-catastrophe happened last week, I can't remember what particular lesson I was teaching that day. But I could easily have pushed through with that. As I said, half the day is set aside for them to work on their projects, so I would only have to scramble for the morning session. We could have relied on the PS4 to play any number of games, letting the controller pass around as needed, perhaps even playing some of the four-player games so that more kids could play at a go. But what if the PlayStation didn't work? Or what if I had forgotten something more crucial, like a power cable? (That one did happen, but I happened to have a spare.) Without a gaming system, it's a lot harder to teach a class about video games. If that had happened, I would have thought about the kind of video games that we would have played to demonstrate my point. Let's say that we were going to be talking about level design that day anyway. In the twenty minutes before class, I would have scanned through YouTube, looking for a no commentary video of someone playing, say, Uncharted 4, and drawn students' attention to important aspects of what we were seeing on the screen. If I needed to use time that would otherwise have been used on the gaming system, I could ask the students to pull out their notebooks and write for ten or fifteen minutes about what we'd just seen. This would give them time to process and synthesize their thoughts, plus provide fodder for a more interesting discussion. Now, what if the internet was down and I couldn't get YouTube to work? Those notebooks don't need WiFi, so I would queue up the day with a thought-provoking question for the students, let them think about it, then I would have them rearrange the desks and facilitate a Socratic circle about the topic. Relying on our shared passion and excitement for video games, we would be able to then push whatever idea I asked about. The point is, I wouldn't be "filling the time" or trying to generate "busy work" for the students. There are a lot of different ways of learning, and while I would prefer my original plan, I try to always have something in my back pocket for when that plan goes awry. The quality of any of these alternative plans is debatable, but that's the case with even the carefully considered and constructed lessons. I think there are a couple of takeaways from this little thought experiment: 1) Teachers are professionals who have had training and years of experience so that they can handle less-than-ideal circumstances with a bunch of kids in a single place. While your mileage may vary with the type of lessons I outlined above, they're lessons that could work and be memorable and worthwhile to the students and the broader vision I have for the class; and 2) If you've ever had a lousy lesson, there could be a lot of factors going into the experience that you had. Maybe there was, as in the case of one of my wife's coworkers, an emergency at home because your house was burning down. Or, in the case of my own life, your newborn child needed immediate heart surgery or else he would die. Those are extreme cases, but it's important to keep in mind that the human life of the teacher often impacts on the lessons the teacher is trying to teach. So, after almost 1,400 words, I guess I'm saying, try to cut your teachers some slack. They're doing their best and not every circumstance is ideal. Oh, and I don't think it's too much to say that there are plenty of jobs that are that way--so maybe we should all be a bit more patient. One of the most important things, in my estimation, when appreciating art is to consider the ways in which it influences and perpetuates problems. By learning to recognize these areas, future art can avoid, subvert, and disassemble (re)iterations that perpetuate damaging conceits and concepts. Some art is available as critique without future iterations: The classics of literature aren't going to be changing in response to changing mores, for example. Other art is content in being a problem, even when nestled into the context of its time: The propaganda of the Third Reich can demonstrate that point. Nevertheless, both contemporary and modern art (and I don't necessarily mean "modern" in its sense of modernity and postmodernity and other appellations, but rather the idea of art that has happened in a more modern sensibility--which, broadly speaking, is probably traceable back to the Enlightenment) will find themselves in dialogue with their audience in a way that historical art can't. Video games are the most current form of modifying artwork that I can think of. In many instances, video games have the potential to tug at the way we see the world in all the best ways, utilizing their immersive and interactivity as new modes of expression. Video games, being as nascent as they are, likely won't fully realize their beauty and worth and artistic merit any time soon--and that's why video game criticism is so important. I don't mean critics. I don't mean reviews. I don't mean game bashing. I mean careful, thoughtful, and in-depth contemplation and criticism of the medium. Because video games were birthed into a postmodern world already equipped with tools and terminologies crafted to criticize sundry forms of art--up to and including the godmother of the medium, which is cinema--there hasn't been an art/theory parallax through which criticism must traverse. The language was, in many of the most important ways, already available. Unfortunately, that language is dense. It takes time, training, and a willingness to approach what can be uncomfortable and unfamiliar. And those who are most interested in the game are not necessarily those who are familiar with the semiotics of criticism. The Venn diagram of those who understand critical theory and its purpose and those who game is pretty far from being a circle. What ends up happening--in my experience, anyway--is that critical comments are perceived in the pejorative sense, even when they comments weren't intended that way. This goes back to the idea of the language of critical theory being established but misunderstood: Criticism in its literary sense doesn't mean dismissing a work or passing judgment on its work. Now, do some theorists also make judgments on the caliber and quality of the critiqued art? Yeah, certainly. Everyone ought to be allowed that freedom to express opinion. However, the gamer theorist, using the tools of both gamer and theorist, explores the game in a way that is dissimilar to a video game review or summary. There's more to look at this way, and the areas observed that are lacking are pointed out this way in order to gain greater insight and push toward an improvement in future iterations. (And, as software, video games are all about iterations.)
However, if someone isn't familiar with this concept, there's a real possibility that the criticism leveled at the subculture as a whole, or even individual titles, ends up sounding like attacks. And in a subculture that's built around the agon of digital agony, when something attacks, the gamer attacks back. From where I sit, this has led to unfortunate--and sometimes even violent--repercussions for those who have generated the criticism and those who feel that a critic of their subculture is an insult to their identity. While cultivated and purchased identity is its own issue, this complicated through-line in the video game subculture has generated an allergy toward important and necessary critiques. Today, I discussed gender representation in video games with my students. While the conversation was pretty positive, there were definitely pockets of resistance to the assertion that sexist tropes and stereotypes were problematic or damaging to women. It likely won't surprise you to learn that most of the class is male. But what ended up--I hope--being more important and more memorable, especially for the boys who didn't think sexism was a problem or that video games contributed to it, is that the girls in our class who spoke up said something that they boys hadn't heard of before. That they wanted to play more games, but knew that their gender was going to make the games less enjoyable. That they were worried about what would be said to them in online games when other players learned that they were girls. That they felt dogpiled and diminished because they weren't playing at the same level as the attacker. And I hope that the boys actually did what Navi had been shouting at them so obnoxiously again and again: "Hey! Listen!" I'm a cishet white male and their teacher, so I have mountains of authority that they're programed to respond to, but having the students hear from the mouths of those within their peer group--from those who (again, I hope) they consider friends--changes some of what I said to them from theory to praxis. I really do hope that some of the kids listened attentively enough to begin thinking more critically and sophisticatedly about the media they consume. Is it a problem that women are portrayed a particular way again and again? Well, yeah. Media absolutely modifies the way we perceive the world. It's not just video games that perpetuate sexist stereotypes or racist worldviews; everything that's promulgated has a point of view--either of building and sustaining the status quo, or one of the myriad alternatives--and it's naïve to assume that it doesn't. If I can help the students to start breaking out of their preconceived notions and insular contemplations of the world--if I can get them to listen to others--then, hey, maybe I'll have done a good job after all. Today was an exhausting one.
For my Winterims, I try to figure out ways in which I can create unique opportunities for the students, rare chances that they couldn't (or likely wouldn't) get anywhere else. In years past, that meant studying Harry Potter and going to Orlando to visit his theme park; bouncing through a Nevada desert, Michael Jackson blaring in the back-half of the bus, in search of Triassic footprints; or figuring out a way to watch all three Lord of the Rings films back-to-back-to-back, complete with catering and snacks and everyone falling asleep at one part or another throughout the twelve-hour experience. This year, I pulled an old trick--but with new kids, so they didn't know that I've done this sort of thing before. Using the funds allocated for the class, I ordered breakfast from Kneader's, lunch from Chick-fil-A, and dinner from Domino's Pizza, along with twenty liters of sugary sodas, a few gallons of milk, and some orange juice. Why get all of this food? Well, so we could play video games for ten hours, of course. It took a lot of planning and work to pull off a day like today. According to my watch, I walked over seven miles, all throughout the corridors of my school, bouncing from classroom to classroom as I tried to balance kids' experiences on the VR and making sure everyone was having a good time. We had fighting games, old school games, shooting games, and racing games. There was no schedule, so kids could pick up and move around, going from genre to genre, jumping in where they wanted. One thing, though, that I made sure to do, was cut the games off and send everyone to the cafeteria together. It was important to me that the food not be an optional thing. See, I remember some things from college. One of them was the intro to anthropology class that I took in the Computer Science building on UVU campus. In it, the professor said that having humans eat together created an opportunity for something else: Conversation. When the mouth has to open up anyway, language spills around the food. In the case of teenagers, jokes tend to spill out. Laughter is released. Friendships and relationships strengthen. Though not all of them were necessarily friends before the Winterim started, my hope was that I gave them this rare opportunity, this brief chance to forge a new memory. As I write this, I have my computer screen arranged in such a way that I can see the photos from Winterim 2017, during the rare opportunity I had of visiting Europe. Shots from the Normandy countryside, or snippets of my wife's face, awestruck as we looked at the great architecture of the Old World roll by, reminding me of some of those great memories. Though the World Wars Tour was not as intimate--and, therefore, not as powerful--as my first trip abroad, I certainly don't want to forget it. I worked hard to find ways for the students to craft lifelong and worthwhile memories during their young adulthood, and taking them to a concentration camp, to Omaha beach, and to the Imperial War Museum (among many, many other places) gave them those moments. This year, it was video games. I know that sounds tawdry in comparison, but the point of Winterim isn't to travel the world: It's to make something important. For these kids today, eating good food, playing games, and laughing with their classmates was what they needed, what they wanted…what they got. And I hope they don't forget that. Winterim 2018 has been quite a different experience than Winterim 2017. The latter was a whirlwind tour of Western Europe, sliding from Germany to Belgium to France and then to England. It was a life-changing and profound experience, fueled by eagerness despite jetlag and a deep sense of history. Though there were some (read: many) mistakes in my approach to that tour, I think of the World Wars Tour as a highlight of my life.
This year, I'm playing a lot of video games. The difference is pretty stark, but I have to say that I’m feeling almost as tired as I did in Europe. There are plenty of differences in what I'm doing, so the stresses and exhaustion come from different sources. Last year, the worry of keeping the entire tour going, managing the many cogs and moving parts, ensuring that the students didn't get lost, and hitting all the cues made for a wonderful--if difficult--experience. This year, for the first time in nearly a decade, I'm teaching a Winterim alone. So I have no one to help share the load, no one to whom I can delegate. That is one of the largest reasons why I'm struggling with this year's course. The other thing about now versus then is what I'm trying to accomplish. Last year, there were all sorts of things that the tour was accomplishing, not the least of which was helping students to understand the World Wars in a more personal, intimate way. Because of where we were, I didn't have to teach them: The history was part of the air we were breathing. This year, I'm striving to broaden the students' minds and understanding of a critical theory about video games, while at the same time giving them a hands-on experience of trying to design and conceptualize a game of their own. This process has been…rough. I need a second pair of hands, but getting it was never a possibility. Feeling scraped thin, I have to rush from one classroom to another to keep the students on task, help troubleshoot ideas they have, and give recommendations based upon the lifetime of video games I've played. See, in one classroom I have a VR headset organized, giving students a chance to play the latest-and-greatest video games. (I should say, they're really enjoying the VR and the purchase was definitely the right move. Perhaps the only right move I made.) Since the equipment is delicate and expensive, I feel like I need to make certain that things are going well with the VR kids, but also have to orbit those who are working on their own game designs. This has left me physically drained, as I am on the move constantly. The second half of each day is where we both play games as a class (one student uses the controller and the rest of us watch…and laugh whenever there's a mistake) and discuss the critical theory of video games. The intellectual energy expended here is immense, and whenever I have heady or difficult topics, I find that it only works to talk about them when the class is willing to meet me halfway. Alas, I don't get that from this group. Now, that isn't to say I don't have good conversations, or that some of the students aren't participating well. Quite the contrary. There is a lot of interesting work being done, from an educational and intellectual level, that makes me happy. But I'm also working with a younger age group than I'm used to. While the class has students from ninth grade up through senior year, about half of the students come from the ninth and tenth grades. That makes the class more distractible, dozy, and dopey than I'm used to. Having to exert so much authority just to keep the class on task--a job that isn't alleviated by the older students who aren't focusing well, either--is emotionally draining. Put it together: physical drain + intellectual drain + emotional drain = one tired teacher. More than that, I get the sense that the students are indulging me by having these "conversations" but really, they just want to sleep* or play another video game. And while playing games is, obviously, a big part of the course, it isn't the only part of the course. Years ago, after going through this Winterim with my first group of students, one of the kids commented that he preferred the conversations about games more than the playing of them. Yet this group can't remain focused (or awake) enough to have more than superficial comments and ideas. I can't blame the students exclusively, of course: There's a lot of stuff that I could do better. I could give them more time to play (though some kids sleep through that part, too, so…), more time to design, or change the topics that we discuss to try to fit into something that they're better equipped to talk about. The problem with implanting any of these things--all of which I control--is that it defeats the objective of the class that I set out to accomplish. The point of the Winterim is to help prepare them for the work force (which I'm doing by having them simulate working as video game designers) and challenge them with academic rigor (which I'm doing by critically analyzing the hobby they love). So I feel constrained by the expectations which I've set out for myself, but I also feel like a bad teacher because I'm not making the class worthwhile for them. We've now completed two weeks of the three-week course, and I'm feeling more frustrated and less excited about what I'm doing than I have at any other time in my Winterim history. Considering this is the tenth Winterim I've led, that's a significant statement. What about solutions? Well, I'm a bit tapped out. I mean, aside from things like, "Get more sleep!" and "Eat better!", I don't know quite what to do. At this juncture--with a video game day planned for tomorrow (13 January 2018) where we eat a lot of food and play a lot of games and that's about it--I'm unsure what move to make. We're too deep in for any major shift, but I'm immensely dissatisfied with what I've done. In the past, I would give the final two or three days to the students to finish up with their projects. This year, though, seeing them fumble their time away (in some cases), I'm not feeling that generous. But the idea of having to teach them despite themselves throughout the final four days isn't a very exciting prospect to me. And that's why I don't know if I have any solutions. This, by the way, is one of the hard things about teaching (and, I imagine, a lot of other jobs, but I don't know those as intimately; it's a real thing in the education profession, though): Because there are so many personalities that generate the milieu of a classroom, there are some times when control is wrested from me. I can't control the specific kids who enroll in the class--I have to handle what I get--and I can't control their behaviors. I can only modify my expectations. And, in certain cases, there isn't the freedom to do that, either. Hence the sense of frustration and powerlessness roiling about my mind and heart. I suppose there are ways a better teacher than I could take care of this discrepancy, but I don't know where to go for that sort of guidance. See, each day of Winterim equals about one week's worth of a normal term's instruction. So I've essentially taught two months of classwork in the last two weeks, and I have another "month" to go. That wrinkle is one of the things that exacerbates the problem. In a normal term, irritating classes are 1) only with you for an hour or so a day (assuming a seven- or eight period long day), and 2) offset by other classes and other students. In other words, there's some variety. Though the quantity of days spent with the rough classes is greater, the time with them per day is smaller. In the case of Winterim, none of those coping mechanisms applies. Add to that the pressure that a teacher always has of performing perfectly with every lesson, but take away the chance for any sort of refining process, and it's little wonder that I'm feeling out of sorts. And here's the thing: I don't want to give up. I feel like what I have to offer these students is worthwhile and meaningful. I want them to use this class as a way of improving themselves and the world and becoming more aware of how they consume media. I think this class is important. I want them to find ways to explore games in a way that's deeper. I want them to recognize that, just because they're playing games, it's not just a game. Maybe that's it. Maybe I feel too close to the agon of it all, turning it into an agony. Maybe I should just…let be. But I don't think that would make me any happier with the results. --- * This is a particularly frustrating thing I'm dealing with, as our school, which normally starts at 8:00am, pushes back our classes by another hour. So the students aren't supposed to be to school until 9:00am, and they only take this one class--meaning that they aren't doing extra school work for anything else. They literally have one job, yet they still can't get enough sleep? It's maddening. Teaching Video Games
Due to low enrollment in my Shakespeare Winterim, in which we were going to attend a special workshop in Staunton, Virginia and do lots of Shakespeare stuff, I had to pull out my first Winterim, dust it off, and propose it again. The thing is, a lot has changed in the video game world since 2009, and though I still play often, I'm not nearly as involved in the subculture of gaming as I once was. Having three kids now (instead of the one I had back then) is a part of it. Life commitments are larger now, and I'm also older--and, therefore, more tired--than I was back in the day. One of the differences between my first class and this one is that I'm having the students create something, rather than talking for a couple hours, then playing video games for a couple hours. This change is more satisfying to me as a teacher, but it's also hard on the students. They're having to work together to conceptualize a video game that, had they the skill and ability, they'd want to see made. I let them work the last two hours or so of the day on these projects. The advantage is, the kids are quickly seeing how difficult it is to plan and put together a video game; the disadvantage is, the work is exhausting and I'm only on Day Three. Part of the exhaustion is mental: We're reading the book Gamer Theory by McKenzie Wark and having to train the kids in a crash-course approach to postmodernism, deconstruction, and critical theory in general takes its toll. I'm on my feet, explaining complicated terms and ideas as simply as I can (odds are good you haven't had the experience of explicating what "gamespace", "atopia", or "allegorithmic" mean--in part because they're all words invented by Wark--and that's fine; let me tell you, though, it isn't the easiest thing I've set up for myself). I try to spice things up with playing games--usually for twenty or so minutes at a go--that help clarify and demonstrate what I'm trying to convey to them. This is a different tact than I took in '09 because I have a larger game library, for one, and for another, I have a bigger game vocabulary that I can draw from. Sometimes I use YouTube videos to give samples when I don't have the game itself. Take today, for example: To grasp the second chapter of Gamer Theory, the kids needed to understand The Sims. Not the newest stuff that you can get, but instead the original game from the late '90s, early aughts. I dug through YouTube and found someone who recorded his/her playthrough of the game, from the loading screen to the interior design aspect of the game, and even to the social life that is the core mechanic of the game. At the end of the viewing, the students had an idea of the game, but they were lost about the appeal. (And, to be frank, it's sort of a "you had to be there" reason why The Sims was as good as it was.) By far, the aspect of the class that has them the most excited (aside from the homework, which is 90 minutes of gaming a night, plus some reading and writing) has to be the VR. About three weeks from the end of the semester, I realized that I had to get my Winterim really cranking, which would require a great deal of research on my part. I double checked that I had the budget that I was assuming I had, then began placing orders. I had the school buy PSN cards for downloadable games; I wrote up purchase requisitions for games I've had my eye on but haven't picked up yet; I realized that I had a unique opportunity of putting the students on the current front-line of video games. Because I have a PlayStation 4, I was already equipped to get a VR headset. So, taking advantage of post-Black Friday sales, the Winterim budget was used, in part, to purchase a VR bundle. It was a good move. Yes, I'm benefiting from it. After all, I've had to keep the VR headset here at the house for my personal research, but it's been a hit with the students. Now, this particular group of kids is bigger than my first class by over double. I originally had eleven students--only one of whom was a girl. This year, I have twenty-five students, four of whom are girls. Having so many students is a great change, in my opinion, but it's also made it more difficult from a logistical position. How to give each kid some time on the VR when I have to split it up with so many? My solution has been to take the five groups of five that are already working as a team to conceptualize their video game and having the group play some VR games. I have to facilitate the movement through the games, making sure that everything goes smoothly--which has been part of why I'm so tired; there's a lot of walking around and being on my feet that I have to do now--but it's been worth it. The students anxiously await their turn beneath the goggles and have a good time while there. And, so far, only one kid has had to pass because she knew her stomach wouldn't be able to handle it. While one team is on the VR headset, the other four groups are spread out, talking about their games and trying to solve the different issues that they have before them--all while trying hard not to be distracted by the video games going on in the background. So, while the day is intellectually stimulating, as well as a hands-on, real-world application of something that they're interested in, it really takes a lot out of me. This isn't a complaint, but instead an explanation why my essays may not be particularly interesting or well done right now: I'm expending a lot more energy than I was expecting on a Winterim that's designed around video games. There are worse ways to spend one's day. My job history is a surprisingly short list: I worked at a telemarketing company back between high school and into my first semester of college; I got a job at a home security company where I answered phones to set up people's accounts; at the same time, I worked retail at a computer store; I worked at a telemarketing company for two days once; a web-design company hired me to edit copy; a high-stakes testing company I worked with also had me edit copy; I got my job teaching.
While that may seem lengthy for a 34 year old, I would argue that, with maybe a couple of side jobs here or there that lasted no more than a couple days, that's a pretty robust list of my work history. For me, laying it all out like that, I see a consistent and persistent phone experience (which likely explains why, to this day, I hate talking on the phone with people) and that the majority of my working life is tied up in the last one of the list. I mean, from high school to graduating college, I had four different jobs. After college, I had three--and I'm still at my third one. Though I have a lot of experience and exposure to phone workers and retail workers, I never did work in the food industry or the service industry. I mean, I'm an English teacher, so it's likely that when I tell people that they either start mentally checking their grammar, as if I'm judging them (I am), or they get a politely interested look on their face. I can almost hear their minds formulate the words, "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach," but a desire to maintain working relationships prevents them from saying those words aloud. But despite that discomfort--and the occasional gassing of a political opinion on what it means to have state-sponsored schools--I don't get a lot of flack for my career choice. On the whole, people are grateful that there's someone who looks after their kids so that they don't have to, and many are gracious in complimenting my profession. But if there's one level of arrogance that I suffer from, it's how I think of janitorial staff. Despite watching a wonderful documentary called The Philosopher Kings, which documents the philosophies and thinking of janitors on university campuses (campi?), I still find myself almost disdainful of people whose careers involve picking up trash. Okay, that may sound worse than I think: I have the impulse to feel that way, which I resist and remind myself of the quality of humans who are around me. I push against this bizarre impulse--as I have to do with many of the strange thoughts that swirl through my head on any given day--because failing to instantly accept the humanity of the person in front of me is a personal failing, a moral failing, and a correctible failing, too. So, though I say that I sometimes have "disdainful" or "arrogance" when I think about janitors, I really mean to say that I allow my disdain for an activity (which, if we're honest, is a gross--though not the grossest by any means--job) to seep into my feelings about the person. One of the large benefits of having served a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is that it opened my eyes to the broad beauty of the Latino community. I served in Miami, Florida, where I met Hispanics from almost every Central- and South American country. This helped me see how hard they worked, how vibrantly they lived, and how enthusiastically they embraced the best parts of themselves and their cultures. And, because of how our post-capitalistic country works, those same people often find themselves in janitorial and cleaning services when they make their way to America. That massive dose of empathy has helped me reject more readily my feelings about janitorial staff, and I try to thank them and smile at them and acknowledge them when I cross their paths. I try to bring my students' attention to the hard work they put in, even when it's imperfect, to help keep our school clean and presentable--and that they should work harder themselves to clean up after their own messes, so as to become better people and to lighten the load of others. But sometimes I forget myself. Sometimes I forget that I have changed something, made a mistake, or misplaced something, and I blame the wrong person. Today was that sort of an instance. Back before the Winter Break, I set up my classroom to be able to facilitate my conversations about video games. I had a friend help me thread an HDMI cable through the false ceiling so that I could plug in my PlayStation 4 without kids tripping over the other cords, I set up a soundbar so that we had worthwhile speakers--I spent a good hour or so getting everything set up. Near the end of that preparation, I set aside the box in which the HDMI cable had come, thinking that I would put some of the other cables away in it and keep everything nice. Winter Break came. It was mostly me being sick and trying to not feel sad, so not the bets of times. As New Year's Day ended, I realized that I wasn't really tired, despite it being close to midnight. By two o'clock in the morning, I still wasn't tired. The insomnia finally faded about 3:00am, but my alarm still went off at 6:50. Running on, I'd guess, no more than three and a half hours of sleep, I left out my frozen berries--which, by the time I got home, were no longer frozen--and, upon getting to my classroom, I stood shocked to realize that my box of cables was gone. Missing. AWOL. I felt a spark of rage and blame ignite in me. The stupid janitors had thrown out my box! Why would they do that? What was I supposed to do now? I was already out of sorts because of the exhaustion, and the day hadn't even started properly yet, and already I was seeing red. I had to be in a collected, happy mood to give the right impression to my students' first day of Winterim, yet now I was scrambling to figure out how to put all of the pieces together for the day with my lost cables being, I supposed, moldering in a landfill somewhere. At the day's end, I noticed that none of the markers in my classroom were black, which is a pet peeve of mine. Colored markers are all well and good, but nothing's as awesome as black on white. Scrounging around in the desk drawer, I found, to my surprise and chagrin, the very cable that I had left behind two weeks before, tucked somewhere safe so that I wouldn't lose track of it. I immediately felt contrition. I had harbored hard feelings against the janitors--who had done no crime, because I now remembered that I had disposed of the box myself at the end of the day back in December--all day long because of a mistake that I had made. The ill-will was entirely of my own doing and the frustration that "they" had caused me really came from me. This was a humbling realization. Though I hadn't reported them, I had groused to some of my coworkers, and now I see that my complaints, spun out of my own error, has engendered additional malcontent in others, to say nothing of the fact that I, essentially, lied to my friends. They, of course, commiserated. See, we've had some problems with the janitorial staff before. They aren't perfect--much like I'm not, quite obviously--but they didn't deserve the additional intellectual animosity that I had heaped upon them. I guess my takeaway is a reminder more than a new lesson, because I, apparently, forget to hold back blame until it ought to be rightly assigned. I didn't do any real harm to the janitors--I don't even know which of the staff it was--but I apologize, here, where they are unlikely to ever see it. In an attempt to make my problem feel beyond my control--and my own culpability--I played the blame game. And I lost. The circumstances that put me in the position I find myself in currently are pretty straightforward: I proposed a Winterim to travel to Staunton, Virginia to go on a Shakespeare-related trip. Five kids signed up, including one who wouldn't be able to go to the Winterim because of bad grades.
As a result, I had--for the first time in nearly a decade--been denied my Winterim. This meant that I had to scramble to figure out what I was going to do, as all my plans were now toast. I decided to pull my Video Games Winterim out from the past, dust it off, and give that a go. A lot has changed in the gaming world since I started my teaching career. Now that I'm on the cusp of teaching this class, I'm feeling overplayed. In the past month or so, as the Winterim has become funded and I could collect more games and peripherals to use during the first three weeks of January, I have spent easily a hundred or more hours playing video games. I've tried a lot that I wouldn't normally do, such as Child of Light (a side-scrolling RPG), What Remains of Edith Finch (more of an interactive movie), Batman VR (a murder mystery game in virtual reality), The Last Guardian (an escort-mission game that was one of the best ones that I've played), and many, many more. I replayed Final Fantasy VII (and will likely write an essay or two on that experience) and have found that some of my oldest experiences gaming are the best. With my end-of-year sickness being so horrendous this year, I found that I was too exhausted to play video games before Christmas hit--that's right: I was so sick that video games were too much effort--and that has put me into a "cramming mode" of gaming. Often it's because I want to--last night, for example, was a choice between reading a new book and playing Portal 2, which went in favor of the video games--though sometimes it's because I'm close to finishing something and I need to put it down. I realize that it doesn't sound like a large sacrifice, but anything done to the exclusion of all else can easily become work. That's the case right now. I got Injustice 2 for Christmas and I'm pretty close to beating it--at least, I think I am; narratively, it's finishing up--but the idea of picking up the controller again is, honestly, hard to justify. I'm enjoying the game and I like how they're working the storyline (there may be another essay in there, too), but there are other things I'd like to do with my life. The irony of this is that I'm essentially putting in all of the effort that I'm expecting my students to do, albeit in a more pointed manner than they will, because I have assigned all of the students to play at least ninety minutes of narrative-based video games every school night, then write about it in a journal. I wrote about 900 words today in my journal about video games, including details about the way my boys and their friends interacted with the VR--all of which is a good "practice what you preach" approach to teaching. But it also means that I'm wearing myself out on the whole prospect before I even start. The last thing I want to do is teach this class without passion. This is a recurring issue for me, though: I know about something, I want to teach it, I love teaching it, but I get stuck in this level of exhaustion and boredom (that may be the wrong word) that doesn't really reflect how I truly feel, but interferes with my ability to enjoy my topic. Example: One of my favorite things to teach is Enlightenment philosophy. I usually not only communicate what it is better than I did this year, but I've always been happy and excited to teach the lesson. Not this year. I don't know what it is, but the stuff that I used to thrill at, though it is still near and dear to my heart, no longer gets me excited. I didn't particularly enjoy much of anything that I taught in my 10th grade classes, which alarms me. Is the same thing happening before I even get to the class? Have I overplayed--over extended?--myself too much? If so, how am I supposed to recharge if the things that I love don't do that? I'm in an editing phase with my writing, so I'm unhappy with every word I've put into the manuscript. I'm burning out on video games. I don't want to read any Shakespeare--or much of anything, for that matter. I know part of it is the residue of my sickness, but…what will I do if I don't love what I love any more? |
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