It is time to come back to the details of history, and knowing this has been on my mind, but the real action of opening a book and reading like a teacher did not come back until today. I have spent most of my time today learning again about the 20th century. I think this back to school business for teachers has its own rhythm. For some it starts in late July. For me it starts, really starts, now. All sorts of teachers are back to finding their groove.
You've heard me talk about being a generalist and choosing to delve deeper into some things. But not all things?
Well, some of that has to be the 20th century. For as much as I might know about this time period, I don't think my own history teachers ever got to the why of it. And until now, I haven't either. Why did Russia do what they did in the 60s? Why did we not do XYZ in the 70s? What do you miss when you're not living in the times? What do they miss without yet knowing things in hindsight?
These are the questions on my mind.
But the reading of text when thinking like a teacher is not the same as it is in the deep summer month of July. I sat here all day, eventually so into this one book that I was slumped in the chair and my coffee became cold, and there was nothing to be heard but silence. Open windows, always, please, so there was the rustle of the breeze. A passing car. But mostly, this blissful, soon unheard of, silence in my life. (Because school tends to be, consistently, rather loud.)
Just me and one book. Slow thinking. Time to wonder. The discipline of sitting through and rereading things about politics that I never understand at first glance. (This is where the secret fears of the history teacher linger if I do not catch them and find the discipline to learn.) Looking at the presidents from different angles. Asking MYSELF instead of a million other people 'Do you agree?' Studying the pictures, even.
It. Is. One. Of. My. Last. Summer. Days. And. I. Have. Soaked. This. In.
One thing I will say is that it's very good practice to be the student and wonder about the answers to things instead of just sending out the questions. Or being Socratic or moderate when a kid asks me about something controversial. I like learning. And sometimes it is hard work.
I don't think I realized until today just how much fear was preserved in American culture after the second world war. People seem settled to me when they're building Levittown, as compared to landing on the beaches of Normandy. But lots of times they were scared. And the book I was reading told me that, and asked me to put that into the picture. I like to see humanity in this subject. It helps piece it all together.
A few years ago, when teaching the Cold War, I was lost in the grief of losing my friend Kari at the end of the school year. Instead of grading much, I was thinking about the car accident and the unborn baby and Kari's husband John. The fact that I had book work from the previous year was my best consolation, and for once, kids learned solely from the book in complete silence while I sat at my desk and tried to breathe and form words. For a time, they were dried up.
But now I get the Cold War from a variety of angles like never before. I can actually explain Reaganomics fairly well. I know the dates of the Vietnam War way better, and why China was actually involved. And what kind of a person Ho Chi Minh really might have been. I know more about the ambitions of presidential administrations and Russian history weaving its way into ours, and what people did and did not say about the generations before them. I'm glad I know more of the whys inside of such a huge and recent century.
Today I also read an article online about advice to Millenials. A Baby Boomer was talking to Millenials and writing about what she wished for. And one of the things was that she wishes Millenials, with all of their brilliance and enthusiasm for 'what next', would recognize a significant perspective shift that has occurred.
She says it might be more natural for Millenials to ask for better systems, but they must also know that generations before were more often told to do what was best with what exists. And make that better.
This hit home because I see it in conversations in my circles...this subtle difference in addressing change and what has been. Sometimes I feel like a horribly off base person with the bold things I say. I say things very naturally that I don't think I'm wrong to believe in or say, but (some) older people have looked shocked. And sort of relieved and soft in the next minute, but mostly initially shocked. Like when I talk about what I believe about women and exercise. Or not being talked to in a certain way and calling someone out on it. Or even being sort of anal retentive about recycling.
This is not so astonishing now, but they say to me that they are glad I know these things early on, instead of waking up to the possiblity of them when I am 50.
Sometimes I hear the tinge of resentment and feel the tension of the generations. "If they only knew..." Boldly asking for what is better is not the same as singularly working with what exists and making it better. I like the staying power found in adding more to what has been. I also like asking for better and being loyal enough to be a part of it and see it through.
The article was more advice and hope for understanding than any major statement about the times. But I liked her words. And they jolted me. And lots of times that's what words are supposed to do.
You might be wondering if I just sit around and read now that school is almost here. NO WAY. I love reading, but I also love patios and drinks and St. Paul and bonfires and night games. Tonight it is this...a casual evening with my coworkers who, way beyond teaching, have just become some of my very best friends.
Cheers to the end of the summer, gratitude for what has been, and the excitement of a new school year.
No comments:
Post a Comment