—Mr. Mohr, where you from?
—New York.
—Oh, I thought you was from Asia or something.
—No. Do I look Asian?
—Well, your computer is in that other language.
—French.
—Yeah, French.
—France is in Europe.
—Yeah, okay. Do you speak French?
—Oui.
—No, you.
—Yes. I speak French.
A small part of my work with the Mississippi Teacher Corps takes the form of blogging, but not here. Recently I had a “free-write” assignment, and took the time to bemoan one of the great failures of public school education in Mississippi—a little beast called “homeroom.”
I have yet to put the “finishing touches” on my classroom. These would include
This is my super-secret, off-limits, who-knows-what-he-does-back-there area:
The television above my desk is useless. And while we’re on the topic of unnecessary expenditures, I should mention that I have been given a “SMART Board,” which you will be able to pick out in some of the following photographs. It’s leaning against the chalkboard. Yes, it will be mounted directly on to the chalkboard….
Looking over my class are Thurgood, Jesse, Ella, Marty, and Rosa, whom I found hanging out in my teacher-cabinet a few days ago:
And the following poster I find hilarious, likely because the word nothingness (as opposed to nothing) reminds me of what an eighteenth century Frenchman might say. I will try to work this one into a lesson someday.
And I thought an SJC advertisement would be a nice touch. Maybe one of my kids will go there. Here’s to keeping “high expectations.” I wonder if we have ever had a Mississippian at the College. I mean someone other than Faulkner, and Twain doesn’t count because he was from Missouri.
I’ve been cleaning out the cabinets and storage places in my classroom this week. It’s exciting, but I wouldn’t call it “a good time.” It’s a quirky room.
Here are some shots from each corner.
Do you notice anything odd about the room?
Now I know: a typical storm in Mississippi floods my street and front yard in five minutes.
One of the two indoor hallways that makes up the main section
At the end of the main hallway above, there is a courtyard. It is not just for looks. Though students have their lockers inside, the hallways to all the classrooms are on the exterior. Few classrooms connect directly to the indoor hallways.
I just like the way this sign looks:
Our beloved mascot is, oddly enough, the same as that of the high school I attended in New York:
Here are some photos corresponding to the trip Larissa and I took on Saturday to Indianola and Sunflower:
And this is what my car looked like, on that trip, with my table “riding shotgun”:
This is the bayou that runs through Indianola, about two blocks from my house:
Here’s the outside:
And some of the inside:
Larissa and I went down to Indianola yesterday and spent the night with a friend in town. She, while working here as an intern for the Teacher Corps, developed an interest in seeing the Sunflower County Freedom Project in action. They had their annual “Freedom Day” performance, showcasing the work done by first-, second-, and third-year participants (grades 7-9). It was a lot of fun. I might get involved with SCFP during the academic year to work with the older kids.
I also used the trip as an opportunity to take down my full-size dining room table that I got for free from a fellow Johnnie. It was quite a task to fit it, in pieces, into my Buick Century, and also quite a task to get it out. But I triumphed. I also got keys to my new house. So exciting!
It was a nice trip. Low-energy. I met some TFA people along the way who seem like a nice crowd. Now I just need to pack the rest of my junk and relax. I will go down this week again for a literacy conference, and then drive up to Kentucky to visit some family. Only one question remains: Which audio-book shall I listen to?
I have started a blog—marmor infidum—for my work through the Mississippi Teacher Corps (MTC), which will govern large portions of my time for the next two years (that is to say, the work will be time-consuming, not the blog). Occasionally I will direct any readers here to public posts there, and vice versa. I anticipate keeping all my posts there public, but some of them may explore “sensitive content” and be hidden from anyone who has not joined the Vox network and asked to be a part of my “neighborhood.” Needless to say, I won’t refer anyone to those posts. I will still be posting here with my “non-professional” content, of course, and hopefully more regularly than of late.
One of my bosses gave an introductory speech today in front of the first-year teachers in the Mississippi Teacher Corps, the program through which I am living and working in the Delta for the next two years. He said he disapproves the language “high expectations” and “low expectations.” We should not have any expectations, he advised.
Now, upon reflection, I see that it is impossible not to have expectations. It is even good to have expectations. But what my boss is driving at, if I am to agree with his advice at all, is the question of that about which we have expectations. He was saying, I think, that we should not have high or low expectations about the kids we’ll be teaching, the conditions under which we’ll be teaching, etc. But I don’t like the language of high and low expectations, nor can I see myself, in any honest way, having no expectations.
So I would like to abandon my boss’s language in an attempt to take in (at least in part) his advice. I’ll turn instead to Kierkegaard: “He who always hopes for the best grows old and is deceived by life, and he who is always prepared for the worst grows old prematurely” (Fear and Trembling, Eulogy on Abraham).
As I recall my past self to my present self, I see that I have been like the latter kind of man depicted here, like him for a long time, since I was around sixteen. Maybe as a boy I was otherwise, and maybe as a boy I decided to be like this man, always prepared for the worst, grown old in heart so early. This would be like the man who has low expectations, in my boss’s language. This would be someone who had moralized and learned to despise the world in a sophisticated way—a La Rochefoucauld who tries to turn all virtues into vices. He sounds like a wise old man, but is only old (in heart) and not necessarily wise. It is sadly what I became.
The first man, who hopes for the best, would be like the man who has high expectations. This man is doomed to a different kind of failure, a failure to genuinely live and experience and grow, though he grow old in his disappointments.
“But Abraham had faith,” writes Kierkegaard, “and therefore he was young.” The old man and the prematurely old man, then, are the unfaithful. The one unfaithful because he believes according to his own wishes, puts trust in a self-made lie, and the other because he only trusts himself, if even that. Abraham trusted in the promise given by God. In my boss’s language, Abraham had expectations neither high nor low, but he did indeed have some expectancy; he expected exactly what was promised to him, something no one without faith could ever expect. The measures of high and low are within the realm of what is possible. Abraham expected the impossible, for what was promised was impossible when it was fulfilled.
So I must fight against that prematurely old man in me, the one who hopes for worst in order to defend himself against the heartache that comes from infidelity, the pain from disaster, and the wretchedness from failure. I must have faith, joy, be at peace, be young. And I must not let myself become the self-deceived man who refuses to acknowledge heartache, pain, and wretchedness. I must have faith, joy, be at peace, be young. This faith means that I will take heartache, pain, and wretchedness for what it is: there should be no defense against it, and no excuse to brush it aside.
Now my next step is to listen, to hear what God might promise me in Mississippi, so I’ll know exactly where to aim my expectancy—not high, not low, neither to the right nor the left, but right at what has been promised.
