Building My Philosophy

I hope my future students give me a thumbs-up, too.

This weekend I have been developing my philosophy of education. Though I had to do it now for my education class, it is something future employers will ask me to define. Thus it is a rather vital part of my future career that I build my philosophy of education.

The philosophy I developed is based largely on the philosophies of progressivism and social reconstructionism. These revolve around students working together to improve society. I also favor the focus on criticism that postmodernism creates, as well as the supportive and open classroom it tries to build. Finally, I still value the traditional subjects and liberal arts education promoted by perennialism. Essentially, I believe that schools and teachers should strive to develop well-rounded students who collaborate to take what they learn and apply it outside the classroom to create a better society.

While detailing my philosophy, I worried that I was being too idealistic and even attempting to include too many beliefs. My ideal curriculum, for instance, seems almost impossible to attain. I suppose that is what a philosophy is for, though: to have a basis on which I form my eventually classroom. I don’t necessarily have to incorporate everything I wrote. I simply have to have a clear vision of what I believe so that everything I do in the classroom supports my beliefs.

Not So Giddy About Glee

This person looks almost as crazy as the women of "Glee."

Over Sunday brunch at Qdoba Mexican Grill, my roommates and I began discussing one of our favorite guilty pleasures: the TV show “Glee.” Though we love the show and play (and sing) the songs constantly around our house, we discovered something that made us uneasy today. Whether purposefully or not, the writers of “Glee” seem to be saying something malicious about women. The differences between the male and female characters make this clear.

The male characters are all attractive, reasonable men. Though they make some poor choices occasionally, they have their wits about them. Mr. Schuester, played by Matthew Morrison, is a good-looking teacher who just wants to be happy and see his students succeed. Nearly all of the male students, such as Finn (Cory Monteith) and Artie (Kevin McHale), are portrayed as typical high school boys; they are confused and hormone-crazed, but mostly nice guys.

Then we have the women. Terri Schuester (Jessalynn Gilsig), Mr. Scheuster’s wife, pretends to be pregnant to keep him around, even offering to take a teenage mother’s baby. That teen is Quinn (Dianna Agron), who—despite being the president of the Celibacy Club—cheated on her boyfriend and got pregnant. The diva Rachel (Lea Michele) displays her craziness nearly every episode by driving everyone around her nuts. And Sue Sylvester (Jane Lynch) takes the cake with her vengeful antics and odd schemes, such as attempting to marry herself.

These vast discrepancies made my roommates and me wonder if the writers realize what terrible stereotypes they are perpetuating on this show. Certainly not all women are delusional enough to fake pregnancy—and not all men are angels, either. I hope the producers realize this and make the show a bit more realistic in the near future; that is, as realistic as a musical show can get.

A Lesson in Education

One school visit has possibly turned my future upside down.

On Thursday I visited Omaha South Magnet High School for my education class. Throughout the semester I have thought I would eventually teach in an elementary school, but my visit to this high school has me questioning this choice. Omaha South has a focus on the performing arts and information technology. While the students must take all of the required classes, they center their education on these areas. The students who attend this school, then, are motivated to be there and have a passion for much of what they are learning.

It was a ninth grade honors biology class that got me thinking about teaching in high school. The environment was relaxed, and the students seemed excited about what they were learning. Though none of them attends this school to learn biology, the teacher had helped make them enthusiastic about the subject. She also said that she encourages them to “take ownership of their education,” which helps make is relevant to them.

The relaxed atmosphere and the ability of the teacher to relate to the students really made me wonder if I could fit into this level of education. Would I be able to make it as a high school teacher? My focus would be English or journalism, so the atmosphere of my classroom would be somewhat different from that of a biology room, and not all of the students would be like those at Omaha South; I could not even guarantee I would be in a magnet school (which I would love). Perhaps the most important thing I took away from this school visit, then, was that I really could picture myself teaching in this school. Now I just have to choose between children and teenagers.

All Aboard

I have a hunch that many of us secretly wish we could take a train to the North Pole.

This evening, my roommates and I hosted an ugly Christmas sweater and appetizer-based dinner party. We cooked all day, cleaned the house, turned on the seasonal music and lights and donned our most hideous sweaters and sweatshirts. When our guests arrived, we filled our plates with hummus and bruschetta and settled in with ABC Family’s 25 Days of Christmas on TV.

Tonight’s movie was “The Polar Express,” the 2004 computer-animated film based on Chris Van Allsburg’s popular children’s Christmas book. The book is magical and held a special place in all our guests’ memories of the holiday season. One friend even mentioned her family reads the book every Christmas Eve.

It was interesting to note, then, that few of us liked the movie. I tried throughout the evening to figure out why. Was it the typical argument of a book just being better than the movie? Was it the plot elements the screenplay added—such as a scary drifter character on top of the train who fights with the little boy—that strayed too far from the original story? Or was is the slightly creepy effect of computer-animated people? I lean more toward the last possibility. (Why not hire the actors, rather than simply using their voices? The conductor looks just like Tom Hanks anyway.) I realized the answer may be a combination of all three problems. For those of us who grew up reading the book, the movie’s twisted storyline and weird computer animations are too much of a departure from the enchanting original story. Perhaps the producers would have done better to make “The Polar Express” a short film rather than feature-length.

But no matter the issues with the movie, it provided a nice opportunity to see the connection we all had with the story. For a children’s book, it has made a remarkable impact—at least on a small group of college students. 

Foiling Grandma

My grandmother is the ultimate money saver.

Last weekend, I stood in my grandparents’ kitchen, drying the dishes after a large Thanksgiving dinner. Cleaning up after 34 people is quite the task and requires a team effort, so one of my uncles stood next to me, washing the dishes, while another uncle and an aunt put them away. As we talked, we laughed at a plastic container we couldn’t lose; the company does not make it anymore, and Grandma would be mad. At one point, Uncle Ray, the washer, turned to us and furtively held out a used whipped cream tub.

“Quick,” he whispered conspiratorially, “hide this in the trash before she sees.”

I quietly laughed at our scheme with the others. It is a familiar scene in Grandma’s kitchen: when she leaves the room, we throw away items we find ridiculous. A survivor of the Great Depression, farmer’s wife and mother of eight, my grandmother is a testament to frugality. Not only does she sew her own aprons and grow and can her own food, but she also saves everything. And I mean everything—store-bought food containers, tin foil and plastic bags—you name it, we’ve washed it in Grandma’s sink for reuse. While we love her homemade items, most of us roll our eyes and secretly dispose of the others. We understand why Grandma is the way she is, but we really don’t like washing Ziplock Bags. 

Recently, however, I’ve started to wonder if her frugality could teach many of us a lesson.

Each Thursday evening, I drive to campus to attend my night class, Literature Philosophy and Economics: Critical Representations of Commercial Life. I spend the 10-minute drive listening to NPR economic news on the radio. It seems fitting, considering I am headed to a class focused on our economic history. While tonight’s news seemed to be positive—apparently the stock market has been performing well—the headlines often have largely reflected the dire state of the American economy and the fears it has generated. After listening to brief stories about businesses failing and high unemployment, I sit in class, listening to my professor blast consumerism and capitalism.

Surrounded by this, I can’t help but think of my grandmother. We laugh at her stingy saving habits, but with each reused piece of tin foil, she breathes s bit easier, knowing her economical behavior will pay off. Perhaps the next time I wash her dishes, I will defend her Ziplock Bags so they may see another day.

A Touching Salute

Sheeler honors the Marines, fallen soldiers and their families through quiet moments.

My first encounter with Jim Sheeler’s story, “The Final Salute,” came not from the written story but from the award-winning photographs that ran with the story. I don’t recall where or when I saw the photo story, but the pictures certainly made an impression on me. They showed caskets and family members, poignantly demonstrating a young widow’s grief after losing her husband in the Iraq War. I remember them even now, a few years after having first encountered the photographs. The images of Katherine Cathey rubbing her swollen belly on her husband’s coffin and keeping vigil at the mortuary during her last night with him have been etched in my mind. When I began to read “The Final Salute,” then, I was skeptical that Sheeler could tell the story as movingly as the pictures had. Fortunately, I will remember this story now as much—if not more—for its words as for the photographs.

The primary method by which Sheeler produced such a memorable piece is through telling the story in a respectful and intimate manner. Sheeler easily could have made this an exposé on the ways in which the military fails grieving families, highlighting funerals that haven’t been paid for or tactless ways in which they are informed about their loved one’s death. While Sheeler mentions these, he certainly does not focus on them. The focus of the piece is instead the emotional process of Steve Beck and the families he encounters. Again, Sheeler could have exposed their tribulations by bluntly describing their sorrow. Instead, however, he creates quiet, touching moments that display the families’ grief while hinting that life goes on. While the Burnses are going through Kyle’s belongings, for instance, we see their happy memories as well as their sadness. Sheeler treats Beck the same way, juxtaposing his love for his wife and children with the desolation he shares with the families. Through these poignant moments that—rather than expose grief—allow us to experience it with the families, Sheeler brings us into this story to create a connection between readers, Beck and grieving military families.

Today, we continually debate and doubt the current battles being fought by the United States military, and we often look at the armed forces through the lenses of controversial policies and scandals overseas. In the middle of this turmoil, Jim Sheeler has written "The Final Salute," weaving a moving and memorable story that allows us to escape the controversy and see some of the real people involved in these conflicts. By focusing on the support and brotherhood of the Marines and their families, Sheeler challenges us to look at the military through new eyes and, if nothing else, to remember the true sacrifices made daily for the rest of America.

The Sound of Discomfort

Our instruments may be different, but as a pianist I read the same notes as Bell.

On May 2, 2010, “60 Minutes” on CBS aired a story called “The All-American Canal.” It was an exposé on a California waterway that many illegal immigrants try to cross to get into the United States. Hundreds of human beings have died in the canal, yet the government does nothing to make it safer. The people interviewed clearly were of the opinion that the lives of illegal immigrants simply do not matter. I watched this story with my mouth open, gaping in disbelief at the TV. I couldn’t accept that this type of injustice—this level of indifference—could occur within my own country. Why did my fellow citizens think it was all right to continue to let people die in this canal? Though the piece aired just before my final exams while my mind was occupied with other activities, the story stayed with me. Even now, six months later, the details still disgust me.

Sometimes discomfort signifies good journalism. Though “The All-American Canal” may not have been the best piece of journalism to come out of “60 Minutes” and may not win any awards, it is one of the few stories that has not left me even after half a year. Likewise, I expect Gene Weingarten’s “Pearls Before Breakfast” to stay with me for quite awhile. I had already heard the tale of Joshua Bell’s experiment in the Washington D.C. subway station, but Weingarten’s use of description and provocative questioning made me look at the story in a new way.

Throughout the piece, Weingarten uses flowing, precise description that, though perhaps flowery at times, painted a complete picture of this artistic experience. Though the readers were not present in that subway, we get a true sense of how Bell’s playing looked and sounded. In a mere three sentences, Weingarten compares Bell’s appearance to Donny Osmond, Zorro and the Beatles, miraculously yet effortlessly connecting the three ridiculous images. As to Bell’s abilities, Weingarten writes, “He played with acrobatic enthusiasm, his body leaning into the music and arching on tiptoes at the high notes. The sound was nearly symphonic, carrying to all parts of the homely arcade as the pedestrian traffic filed past.” He even beautifully describes the passers-by as engaging in a “grim danse macabre to indifference, inertia and the dingy, gray rush of modernity.” These perfect details bring the readers into the subway, inviting us all to be members of Bell’s early-morning audience.

As listeners, then, Weingarten presses us to think about various questions he poses. He draws on various sources—philosophy, poetry, filmmaking, even the band The Cure—to ask us why so many people simply walked past Bell without taking notice of his music. Why did these commuters ignore this phenomenal musician? He points to some possible answers, such as Americans’ busy lives, our depreciation of beauty and even the prevalence of technology. The most important question Weingarten asks, however, is not stated in the piece but rather implied. If you, the reader, were at L’Enfant Plaza that morning, would you have stopped to listen?

This is where I get uncomfortable. Weingarten’s details and philosophical musings up to the end of the piece convinced me that I certainly would want to stop and listen; it seems like a beautiful experience, and I do not want to be someone who ignores beauty in everyday life. As a woman who played the piano for 10 years, I should appreciate Bell’s music, efforts and courage even more than most others would. This is not reflective, though, of how I actually act. I rarely give money, or even stop to listen, to musicians on the streets of Omaha, Kansas City or any other city in which I may be. This summer, I walked past hundreds of street musicians all over Europe. Saxophonists, guitarists, violinists and even organ grinders serenaded me through Europe, yet I paid them little mind. Instead, I made a mental note that there was music in the air and walked past.

My indifference upsets me. Perhaps it does not bother me as much as the deaths that take place in “The All-American Canal,” but I still regret my own disregard for the beauty around me. Through details and provocative questions and references, Weingarten uses “Pearls Before Breakfast” to not showcase his writing skills but to make readers feel uncomfortable with their own habits. Hopefully I can ease at least this discomfort, taking time to listen to the music.

An organ grinder entertains Parisians and tourists on the Rue Montorgueil.