Scaring Students Stupid (Not to be confused with scaring stupid students)

Last evening was great fun! It was then that the RA's put on a Ghost Tour for any students who wished to join. Here in town it is a great tourist thing for people to pay big bucks for an evening program in which they have a guide with a lantern lead them around and tell them ghost stories associated with various historic buildings in the area. Last year during the summer program some students signed up for one of these. But again, it is a signficant outlay of money to do so. This year we hosted it ourselves for free. Some RA's did research on various ghost legends and other creepyish tales, bought citronella candles, drew out maps, assigned guides, appointed storytellers, and voila, we had our own ghost tour.

We broke the students up into three groups of about fifteen each for this after-dark event. A guide (i.e., one of us) then led them around with a candle to various historic spots, and at each place another RA told them a story. I was appointed to tell a tale at an elementary school.

My story went like this. In the 1960s the school was integrated for the first time, to great opposition. Two African-American boys went missing one day. A couple days later someone thought they saw some shapes in the dormer windows of the school's attic. A search was made up there, where they found furniture arranged like a court room. Next to the court room were the boys, hanging dead from the rafters. Their faces were painted white. Although it is suspected that the school janitor, a staunch segregationist, might have killed the boys, he was never brought to trial. No one was ever convicted of the murders. It is suspected that the janitor might have lured them up there, tried them for integration, then carried out their execution. Since that time, people have said that late at night they can see shapes in the windows. Also, students occasionally hear noises from the attic, like children playing and laughing. And school administrators have said that they have found the furniture mysteriously rearranged to look like a courtroom.

With this framework for the story, I was left to embellish as I felt to, and to present however I wanted. I took great pleasure in this liberty, adding a part about the myesterious laugh the janitor gave when questioned about his role, and demonstrating it for them all. And I told the story in as dramatic a fashion as possible, in as scary a voice as I could manage. The students appreciated this, I think, as the other story tellers didn't seem to go for the dramatic flair approach. With my story they were seeing a side of Iron Fist they were unaccustomed to seeing, weaving a tale of murder, mystery, and mass hysteria.

In addition, I managed to arrange a little pre-story surprise for all three of the tours that came my way. This is how it worked. Right before me another guy gave a story in his spot, next to a certain wall. His story was set in the 1920s. Back then, a young couple went to jump this wall at night, which is kind of a tradition with some students around here. Being the gentleman he was, he went first in order to help her over after him. He waited, but she never appeared. Finally he went back over to find her throat slit. An insane man from a nearby asylum had escaped. Apparently he committed the murder, having lurked in the nearby bushes before attacking the unsuspecting lady. Over the years following several other maidens met a similarly untimely demise in the same fashion, next to the wall, supposedly by the same man who continued to hide out in the nearby bushes.

After hearing this story, the students were led by candlelight on a narrow path through a wooded area. In the darkness it was a downright creepy area, complemented on occasion by the hoot of an owl, or some such nocturnal creature. Here it was that I set up for the Big Scare. Before each group came, I left my candle on one side of the path, and with cat-like tread moved into position about fifteen feet on the other side of it. I put on a dark hooded rain jacket, despite the moderate evening temperature, just to look a bit more scary. After each group started to pass, I rushed out of the woods with a blood curdling scream. Well, at least as blood curdling as a guy can manage. For a couple of the groups I yelled out something about young maiden's throats. And for the last group I added what I thought was a nice touch, that of dancing about a bit like a madman.

The reactions were splendid. I freaked out a good number in each group. The last one's response was especially delicous, with several deafening screams. One girl told me after that she thought for a second that I actually was a madman, and not just an RA attempting to scare her. According to her it was one of the most frightening moments in her life. Other girls were similarly scared. And one guy admitted that he also was a bit scared. (This is a highschooler mind you. Such an admission from a young man is rare!)

During the last time I told the story, one girl had to leave. Apparently I made her cry and freaked her out a lot. I felt bad about that, but then learned that she had cried to a lesser degree at some of the other stories as well. So apparently she had issues that were not entirely my fault. Regardless, it did little to dampen the overall feeling of pleasure I had in once again entertaining (or freaking out) a crowd.

The Mystery and Wonder of Technology

I am amazed and gratified by the technology that influences my life today. Two examples right now stand out in my mind. First, my ID card here at college. It does everything! A little piece of plastic with a magnetic strip gives me access to our dorm, all three floors, at any time, with a simple swipe through the reader. (Actually, sometimes it takes several tries, but that's besides the point.) But the students' cards limit their access to the floor they live on. And they are not allowed access after 11 P.M. How does that work? All I can figure is that there's a little tiny clock in each card reader that reads the strip, which is encoded with various time limitations or not. However it works, way cool! But there's more! It also holds our meal plan. With a simple swipe of the card, we're granted access to the cafeteria three times a day. In addition, it can be charged with money to use in snack machines, copiers, laundry, etc. Moreover, it provides access to checking out books at the library (at least it did when I was a student!) How one little magnetic strip can keep track of two separate financial-type accounts (food and cash), dorm access, and library access is quite beyond my knowledge. It almost seems like magic.

A second piece of great technology, one that I put in the life-saving category, is my Palm Pilot. Back in the dark ages, otherwise known as the first semester of my teaching experience, I kept attendance in one book, and kept track of grades in a second book. I calculated grades by hand. But we have to report grades in one form or another eight times a year. And each category--homework, tests, quizzes, etc.--is given a different weight. Then there's the semester exam, which per school policy has to count as 1/7 of the grade. Needless to say, when you start adding up 10-30 different grades with differing weights for over a hundred students, that results in major math issues, much calculator work, and loads of time. Like hours of time. Enter the palm pilot, a hand held computer that fits in my pocket and goes with me everywhere. With a nice piece of teacher-friendly software, it allows me to track attendance and grades. It gives each grade the appropriate weight I tell it to. And it calculates most of the grades automatically. It can even generate reports on attendance, tardies, and grades on each student. Presto! Much time saved and many fewer math errors. (Computers tend to be error free when it comes to calculations.) To top it all off, it gives me gravitas. I give some of my classes a grade based on their in-class performance. They have learned that when I reach for the Palm in my pocket, that means trouble, as I'm usually lowering their grade. Call it fear of Palm. It helps keep control. And of course being the egomaniac that I am, control is what it is all about.

Grade keeping is the best thing about my Palm. But there are peripheral benefits as well. There is all kinds of cool software you can get to go with it. Right now I'm trying the Oxford English Dictionary, which has about 240,000 entries. Contemplate the possibilities. It's awesome word power at your fingertips! (Speaking of word power, one of the high school students here referred to "docents" at Monticello in her online journal entry. Her vocab for one so young puts me to shame.) And it has a word of the day feature, which is way cool, and a great way to educate my students! Today's word? "Sipe." Definition? "A groove or channel in the tread of a tyre." (Yes, it has English spellings in definitions.)

With such technology at my fingertips, I can pretty much die happy.

Contained Breaking Loose and Dancing with Professors

Saturday night was a first for me. I decided to take some time off after a stressful first week and go bar hopping. While doing so, I had great fun dancing at several night clubs, showing off my talent at moving equally vigorously to hip hop, rap, and Madonna. I also met a few girls and managed to get a date with a very attractive blonde from Bosnia...

If the previous paragraph shocked you, maybe you should stop reading. Though fictional, it was a test of your tolerance for the unusual event I am about to outline. If truth can be stranger than fiction, I suppose it can also be uglier. So if you thought less of me after reading the above paragraph, stop reading now. For what you are about to read is NOT (nearly) as fictional.

What was the deed of evil in which I was involved? It was something you might expect given my job description, spending a weekend supervising five dozen teenagers very much in tune with the pleasures offered by the world, F, and D. I helped to chaperone/supervise a dance party. Disgusting, isn't it? Yup, it was. But it was not of my doing. Some of my co-workers wanted to organize it, and I didn't feel that I could stop it. So I worked to make sure it stayed somewhat under control. It was odd, because I felt like I was merely controlling the breaking loose. For students were certainly breaking loose. I wonder if that's how Aaron felt when the Israelites were making the sound of war in the camp? Was he supervising to make sure they weren't behaving too horribly as they danced around their newly-fashioned idol?

Anyway, it was quite a sight to see fifty or so students gathered to dance, while I and others watched them like hawks to make sure they weren't dancing "inappropriately." Ironically, the organizers actually did have dancing standards they enforced. Yet the whole thing seemed rather counterproductive, because we're trying to keep students from sneaking out together, or doing what many worldly teenagers are wont to do.

***Philosophizing warning here: You might have to engage your brain in reading this next section, so skip it if you don't want to exercise your grey matter, or if there's little there to use.

It was interesting to contemplate afterwards what my basic reaction was to these teenagers doing their thing, and how it is different from what it might have been a few years ago. Some time ago, hearing about a dance would have been purely theoretical. I didn't go to them, and I didn't generally interact with people who went to them. Without being able to put faces to the event, I would have simply looked askance at the activity, probably with a self-righteous attitude. I'm not sure I would have gone as far as the pharisee did standing next to the publican, but I certainly would have condemned the dancing. Now is it wrong to condemn displays of sensuality and worldiness? Certainly not. But now I recognize such activity as the logical outcome of a life that is centered around self, and not around Christ. And I see these people as real people. Seeing the activity and people in this manner has resulted in a greater tolerance of it. These people have not yet been redeemed, so what can you expect? Does this mean I think it's less wrong? No. Does that mean I sigh and cry over it less? I hope not.

Another reason my attitude has changed is because I can see myself among the dancers. If it wasn't for the upbringing my parents provided for me, and for my redemption at a young age, I know I could easily have found myself in that crowd, moving to the music, having a good time, and making a general fool of myself. I even secretly suspect I could have been one of the better dancers. This is not because I have any natural ability for dancing, but because I have the ability to cast aside inhibition, which is half of what makes a good dancer at occasions such as these. I hope this different attitude is one that is more like Christ. I've heard someone say that Jesus' harshest words were reserved for religious leaders, for people who should have known better. He had more compassion and patience with those who simply didn't have a clue. Since I consider most of these teenagers to be in the latter category, how can I do anything but view them as Christ did, with compassion and love?

***End of philosophizing section

Now on to a different topic. While observing the dancing, I was reminded of an excellent essay I read in grad school, entitled "Dancing with Professors," which alludes to people standing on the sidelines during dances. However, it primarily talks of the turgid and tortured prose many academic people use, and why. (In other words, it criticizes people who write using words and sentences that are hard to understand.) I was delighted to find it published online at this website, and highly recommend you check it out: http://trc.ucdavis.edu/bajaffee/NEM150/Course%20Content/dancing.htm
For anyone with college experience, I think you will appreciate and be able to relate to what the author, Patricia Limerick, talks about. It is also helpful for those of you wondering what college can be like. And if you think prose in college is turgid, multiple it by a factor of three to get an idea of what my grad school experience involved at times.

Supreme House for a Supreme Justice

It occurs to me that we may have John Marshall to thank in part for the current situation our country's judicial system is in, where judges reign supreme. For it was he who gave the courts some real power by establishing the principle of judicial review in cases like Marbury v. Madison. . .

But enough of the history lesson. On Friday I had the opportunity to ride with the post-Revolutionary class to Richmond and see John Marshall's house. He had quite the rags to riches story. The eldest of fifteen children (who all survived to adulthood, a remarkable fact in the eighteenth century), he had little money to his name when he first started out, but quickly became very wealthy, in part thanks to his law practice. He had a large house built in Richmond, and later an office building next door that housed his practice. Though the house was not quite on the same scale as the Lee's, it was bigger than anything I'll likely own this side of heaven. That it was built with brick in the mid-eighteenth century speaks to its wealth. Marshall also had a black house servant, which further suggests his affluence.

Other interesting details about Marshall and family: he was a tall man, about 6' 2". His wife, Mary Ambler, was a slender creature, and only about 4'10". Despite her delicate condition, they had 10 children, and 6 of them survived to adulthood. Marshall didn't marry until age 27. So Kristi, maybe the postponement of marriage is a cyclical trend of some sort. Back then men didn't marry until they had some means to support a family, which explains his late marriage. His wife was 11 years his junior, came from a wealthy family, and apparently had no qualms about marrying at 16. This may seem early, but the subject of my master's thesis, who lived roughly in the same place and time, actually married at 13 or 14. So in comparison 16 seems almost spinsterly.

Annoying Announcers

Have you ever noticed how annoying some announcers can be? I know some places, such as WEEI, like to rip apart ESPN's Chris Berman for his play by play. I agree it can be pretty bad at times. But I especially dislike the ones who are blatantly biased AND have annoying quirks about them. I've been watching WGN carry the White Sox-Red Sox matchup, and those guys out of Chicago win the prize for annoying behavior. I suppose I should be grateful, as I'm outside of New England, don't have the Direct TV baseball package, and therefore wouldn't be able to watch the Red Sox if it wasn't for WGN. But show a little professionalism in your announcing, will you?

Examples of poor broadcast behavior: "The score's 1-0 after half an inning in favor of the Red Sox, with the good guys coming up." Ok, it's fine to wish the team you cover will win. That's understandable. But calling one side the "good guys" is something that should be left to the fans, NOT announcers.

Whenever a White Sox pitcher strikes out a batter, the announcer blurts out "Hee gone." Sounds a bit like "Hee haw" in It's a Wonderful Life. Why can't you stick to something a little more basic, like "He struck him out!" Instead he has to sound like a cowboy from Chicago. Apparently he doesn't understand the history of his own city. Cowboys drove cattle to railroad loading stations many miles away from Chicago, after which they were shipped to the Windy City. Cowboys don't belong in Chicago!

When the White Sox load the bases, the announcer doesn't stick to the traditional description of "The bases are loaded." Instead, it has the be "The sacks are packed with sox!" This inevitably happens whenever it happens. I suppose this is supposed to sound clever? But I think it sounds dorky. Fortunately it hasn't been too frequent, so I haven't had to endure hearing this phrase too often.

By the way, for anyone who thinks I am simply biased, and annoyed because the announcers are not favoring my home team, that's not true. I agreed with a die hard Mets fan last night on the insufferable behavior of these guys! Yes, a Mets fan! I'm sure people who watch Red Sox broadcasts pick up on things the announcers say that favor the World Champs. But it's far more subtle. And if you ever watch these WGN broadcasters, you'd have to agree with me that Remy, Trupiano, Orsillo, and Castiglione are far more palatable, no matter what team you root for.

Stratford Hall and Agreeing with Feminists

Yesterday I went with a group of students to Stratford Hall, the birthplace of Robert E. Lee. There were four vans that went on this particular group, one van per seminar group. I was expecting to ride along and let the instructor do the driving. But I got asked last minute to drive for one of them. The reason? She (her name is Andrea) had been remiss in doing her reading for the discussion she was supposed to lead that day. Why? She had gotten to the point of no return in the latest Harry Potter book, and had stayed up to finish it! Amazing how even grown adults (I think she's in her thirties) get sucked into the rage. Nevertheless, we had some interesting conversation on the way up. Although Andrea didn't characterize herself as such, it's safe to say she's a strong feminist. We talked about everything from my thesis (of which she was very jealous) to Phantom of the Opera to Britney Spears. In her past life she worked eighty hours a week in Milwaukee. One of her jobs was an usher at a performing arts center there, and Phantom came to town for the summer. So she ended up hearing the show numerous times, and all the ushers had it memorized. Both of us agreed that the show was very dark. She added a comment about it promoting men's power over women, or some such comment only to be expected given her perspective. Yet I couldn't disagree with her. Can someone who is familiar with the show suggest it promotes something other than female submission to a dominating--and male--power?
A student played his ipod through the stereo system on the way, and I had the "pleasure" of listening to a wide variety of music that I am not accustomed to hearing. Ever heard of the hamsterdams? They seem to be a copycat of the Chipmunks, but with more of a rock flair. Quite amusing, if not disturbing. And then Britney Spears came on. Andrea said how much she loved Britney because of the fodder it provides her with, I suppose to show how much popular culture objectifies women. The music was basically promoting something close to abuse. (I won't go into detail.) Andrea made the comment about how 25 percent of teenage girls have been in an abusive relationship, and how you know something is wrong when Britney Spears makes abuse sound attractive. Again, I couldn't disagree with her. It's interesting how popular culture is despised by people coming from such different perspectives.
We finally got to Stratford, and had a nice tour of the building. It's extremely large, about 10,000 square feet. A large brick building, it was shaped like an "H." It had two "widow's peaks" on it, where the inhabitants could sleep or pace when the weather was nice. The interior was set up to look like what it was in the eighteenth century, actually prior to Robert's birth. The wealth of this plantation family was very evident, although ironically Robert's father made poor investments and actually spent some time in debtor's prison. I especially appreciated getting a better idea of what an eighteenth century plantation house looked like, as the subject of my thesis was a plantaton mistress from the same time period. After the tour we had a chance to see the grounds and the outbuildings. One amusing thing pointed out to us by the instructors (not by the tour guides!) there were the reconstructed slave quarters, built in the 1930s or later. They were palatial in nature, built with brick, which would have been extremely expensive. As such they were historically inaccurate. There's no way that the slaves would have had such nice accomodations. This inaccuracy might be the result of some nostalgic southerners in the 1930s wanting people to remember slavery as a more benign institution than it actually was. Or it might have simply been overzealous caretakers wanting to make the outbuildings as majestic as the house. Either way, it's rather deceptive.

What's in a name? Just call me Iron Fist

One of the challenges I've had this week has been learning the names of the sixty-two students here in the program. Although it's not totally necessary--"hey you" can suffice for three weeks--as head RPA (or RA) I feel it my civic duty to make the effort. Plus, those who know say that you command more respect, love, admiration, etc., when you remember a person's name. But this week has involved more than just learning the students' monikers. Before the program began, the male RAs got together and assigned nicknames to all of the guys. We then made up pink colored buttons for them to wear, which have their nicknames prominently displayed, with their real names in small print. This has been great fun. We decided to give them nicknames either randomly or by association. In other words, we didn't use physical description or personality to name them. For examples: Kurt has become Fanzie; one student whose name sounds like a history professor here has become The Professor, so of course his roommate had to become Gilligan; and someone with a "ho" in their last name has become Santa. The other nicknames we assigned are The Franchise, Polo, Mama, Milwaukee, Bull, Knuckles, T-Bone, Frenchie, The General, Mountie, Little Italy, Magnum (his initials are P.I.), Napoleon, Little Joe, Ox, and Chili. To top it all off, my personal favorite, and a very popular nickname among us RAs, is Lunchpail. Fortunately he came to the program in rather un-rotund condition, or else I might have felt sorry for him. The guy RAs also took nicknames, which include Poland, Commodore, Baxter, and No Show. As the point man here in the dorm, the one who will be involved in any and all necessary disciplinary measures or whatever, I am Iron Fist.
At our first dorm meeting we passed out the buttons and told all the guys to wear them. We made a big thing of it, and it has been satisfying to see the lemming mentality of these guys. These otherwise cool teenagers have entered into wearing a pink nickname! Some of them were a little hesitant at first to adopt them. Little Italy, who flew in later, especially had a problem when he was presented with his. But he felt better after he heard some of the other nicknames! And all of them have adopted them to one degree or another. In fact, I just heard someone call for Mama as I am writing this. The women RPAs also adopted the nicknames. In fact, they held meetings with their girls in which they expostulated about how the Iron Fist would have to get involved in things if they didn't behave, and how you didn't want to mess with him. Pretty much everyone knows me by Iron Fist. I have quite the persona now. It's really quite amusing.
I was just displaying some of my eyebrow raising abilities to some of the students, and one of the more ditzy girls (she's a cheerleader--enough said?) expressed a desire that I would get my brows pierced so she could grab the piercings and play songs with them. Can you imagine? I laughed really hard.

Back in Ole Virginny

I'm finally connected to the internet, so I can post about miscellaneous facts of interest in my recent past. I'm also back in the home state of Washington, Jefferson, Lee, and many other famous people. Some people say Virginia history is really where it's at, that it had much more influence in the shaping of the U.S. than those Puritans in New England. Whether that's true or not is for another time, but either way it is a great place to study history. And that's what I'm involved in once again. No, I'm not back to continue graduate studies. Instead, I'm working as the Head Residential Program Assistant for a pre-collegiate program in American history. Basically, there are over sixty high school students from all over the country here to take a history course for college credit. Very cool stuff. (And some rather hilarious stories will follow about the students here. So stay alert!) Anyway, my first stop before moving into the dorm was an overnight stay with a grad school classmate and her husband in Virginia. I discovered Nancy to be a kindred spirit in grad school, as she was a dedicated Christian. I found this out even before I moved to VA, after several of us entering the master's program at our school started emailing each other. She let everyone know in one of her first emails that she was a Christian. How cool was that! Later conversations with her revealed an intriguing fact about her: she never really had a conversion experience. This only became apparent to me months after I was satisfied with her genuine Christianity. I gave her the campus crusade diagnostic test on IM one time shortly after my first email contact with her, which she passed with flying colors. (If you were to die tonight and God were to ask you why He should let you into heaven, what would you say?) A long time later I heard more about her experience. She had grown up a Methodist thinking she was religous enough for heaven, but only gradually came to realize in college that being good is not enough to make it. Anyway, she blows out of the water any theory that says you must have a specific one-time experience to claim salvation, even though I think having that experience is something helpful to look back to if you should ever have any doubts. Anyway, I digress. Nancy became engaged to a dedicated Christian during our year of grad school together, and it was nice meeting and spending a little time with him. I attended their wedding down in Lancaster, PA, on New Years Day 2005. She had offered to have me stay with them anytime. In need of a place to park overnight, I took her up on the offer.
While with them we had some great conversations about history and God. I also attended a men's Bible Study with Dan, and almost lost the lower half of my jaw to the floor when he started making comments like "I've been reading the Bible recently, and feel like as Christians we need to do more to celebrate. Why aren't we keeping all of the feasts that are in the Old Testament? I want to talk to my pastor about this. I think maybe we should be keeping them. People have to be attracted to Christianity, and if they can see the joy involved in our celebrations, that is one way to draw people." Later, I had the chance to talk with him and share how my church had been led to celebrate the feasts under the gospel, and how it was also a way to look ahead to what God will do. I was also brought up short a bit when I realized that I don't think I have the celebratory attitude that God intends us to have each time we attend a Feast. If that's the case, shame on me. So let's prepare to rock the House come September!

This is a Test

For nine years I have suffered. Yes my friends, prepare to hear a short tale of woe. I'm picturing myself on a shrink's couch as I write this, so you can be the sympathetic psychologist. You see, it was nine years ago that I entered the world of email. It was a very long time ago, back when email was meant to be free (kind of funny how that slogan has bitten the dust, no longer embraced by the company that once touted it, isn't it?). I was a neophyte to the world of email. It just wasn't done in our house. And then the rage became a reality. I heard about the chance to sign up for a free email account, and did. Now remember, this was back in the day when email was a novelty. It wasn't as common as air. Those who had accounts were almost as rare as a Red Sox championship. So, in the process of signing up for an email address, I was a bit stupefied as to what address I should use. Well, it's mail, isn't it? And you usually attach your name to your mail, don't you? So isn't it logical that the address should be linked to the name? So the chosen address ended up being my name. Alas, this was at a time when the world of email addresses was relatively virgin and untouched. I probably had the choice of the coolest names. But in my ignorance I chose practicality over coolness. Since then I've regretted my move. Every time I see a creative address, it's like a knife pierces my heart. The number of stab wounds is large. O, that I had had a heart to know and to choose a creative email address! There's no point going back now and rectifying my error by coming up with a new one. Besides, the coolest ones are long gone.
I am attempting to make up for my almost decade old error with this blog name. And it is also a test to determine how good a baseball/Red Sox fan you are. Schillsbloodysox is not some sort of British profanity. So if you thought it was, you fail the test. If you're somewhat knowledgeable about baseball, you may recognize that "bloodysox" might be an allusion to the world champion Boston Red Sox. It is. If this is the limit to your analysis, you get a "C." But if you also know that Schill is the nickname for the Red Sox ace pitcher, you get a "B." However, you pass with flying colors if you recognize that the entire term is not only an allusion to the Red Sox, but also to two of the more famous games in their recent history: Game 6 of the 2004 ALCS, and Game 2 of the 2004 World Series. For it was then that Curt Schilling had his ankle sutured up in order to pitch in both frames, while the blood seeped through his right ankle for the world to see and admire. Some say it was ketchup for effect, but I suspect that's a rumor started by an operative of the Evil Empire. Amazing what jealousy will do to one, isn't it? Anyway, I have now cleansed myself from using practical but boring names, and am now embracing my creative self. I almost feel like a liberated man.