Before a Winter Storm, Why Not Cook Tiki Masalas Samosas with Chutney? I Mean, It Seems Welcoming, Right? Right?!

After putting a long day in at the office, and knowing I was recording another episode of The Write Time, I decided to try my hand at Samosas with Chutney, and the worked perfectly in the soup and cracker bowls my mother purchased for me a few Christmases ago. They were delicious...so much so that I wish I had company over for dinner. 

During the recording, I received a text message from the University that the campus is closed tomorrow because of the storm, which is a good thing, because it frees me to plow, keep the home in shape, and to grade. Besides, I went to Big Y in the a.m. yesterday with all the 90 year olds prepping for armageddon, so I have groceries to last me throughout it all. Yes, it will be 50 degrees by Thursday, but finally we're getting a taste of winter in southern Connecticut.

I love a good dinner, especially when it isn't common fanfare for a Monday meal.

I also am hopping on Ish's soon-to-be invention project of a pencil wrapped in eraser material so you can always rub out mistakes. I told him I want to be wrapped in erasers, too, so that I can rub out the mistakes I make, as well as fellow humankind. 

If only it was that easy. 

I could be Eraser Man and eradicate the universe from human stupidity, especially that which exists pervasively in the United States. I am sure I'd have full-time obligations (and I'd hope that it comes with good insurance benefits and retirement). 

It's always a bonus to get a snow day, and I worried some that ZOOM culture would deny young people and educators from a surprise day off. Yes, I can host an evening class via online technologies, but I don't want to be that person who takes away the joyful tradition of getting a few extra hours of relief. So, whatever it is we were going to accomplish tonight can wait a week. 

I'm okay with that. I hope they'll be, too.

In like a Lion, March. I see you. 

Great to Visit The Taft School Yesterday and to See the Powerhouse Gina Ludlow & to Carry Writing Our Lives Traditions Forward

It's a Monday morning. The sun is bright and skies are blue, but I want to go back to bed under warm blankets. I can't, of course, but pissing and moaning seems accurate for the beginning of a new week. Actually, I need groceries and grading is at the forefront. Grading & Groceries, a memoir.

It's a tradition at Taft to rub Abraham Lincoln's nose as you walk by, hence the bronzing of his nasal passages as all the students take in serious. The swipe is real, and I'm sure he might be found guilty of spreading germs, colds, and stomach bugs, too. 

The school is like Hogwarts...the hallways huge, tall, and mythical. I looked for Moaning Myrtle in the bathroom, but all I found were tampons. They had all gender spaces to pee, which I found interesting. 

Darius Phelps was great. He arrived safely from Brooklyn, and I got to drive north of Waterbury to see another part of Connecticut....a space which seems to have been forgotten. The way to campus was through very depleted towns, forgotten bridges, and homes that are in disrepair. It was almost 3rd-world, and I wonder why the State has neglected such space. It didn't seem real.

It was also more mountainous than I expected, with glacier rock collections in all directions. Beautiful and historical, but not what I expected to see, especially since graffiti was sprayed upon most of the rocks. Odd that a school with such high tuition would be surrounded by such poverty. Then again, look at Yale. Seems to be a Connecticut thing.

Okay, time to get this mind and body working. Thank you, coffee. You make the day after Sunday that much more tolerable. 

One more day of February. Phew. And it looks like the lion will win this year. 

With Thanks to @kwamealexander for His Work, His Inspiration, & All That Is Still to Come. Looking Forward to Today's Writing Our Lives Workshop with @dphelps1113

Before the was even a single written word, there were poems and chants...rhymes and songs...about births and deaths...marriages and battles...Our people would gather around a central fire...and listen to the storyteller. ~ Kwame Alexander, The Door of No Return, (p. 341)

Gina

She texts a message,  

of poetry, an invitation,

this psychologist, 

mother of two,

working to enhance

minds, to help them to grow,

to honor history,

and to offer

the opportunity to 

the young people

 to write. 

Kanye

sends me a text

asking what I'm doing.

He'll be a father soon...

so many years away from

being 15 when he disappeared

from high school

only to show up on Mt. Pleasant

7 years later wanting to talk,

needing to heal....

to learn how to feel.

I tell him I'm rereading 

Kwame's new book

and share the title.

You're always reading 

that guy.

He knows

Cape Coast Castle.

He knew

the stories. 

The shores. 

The door.

Ampain.

Krisan.

Darius

I met him through the book of faces,

this scholar & poet

who heals in self-archeology

of words, who teaches 

the minds of younger souls

about language, storytelling,

and the rhythm and flow

that arrives from 

moving proudly in 

loud silence, & 

I wonder if 

Writing Our Lives

may open another door.

Prudence Crandall

I knew of this teacher, 

this school for young ladies

in Canterbury, Connecticut, 

offering knowledge to a few

before they came at her

with severed cats

to scare her away.

Through her

I met a brother 

who was tried

by the Star Spangled Banner,

before I realized

I was taught 

to sing out of key

since the beginning,

being taught not to ask

questions that 

would lead me

to today.

Kwame

writes these books

that children have always needed

- the joyful crowing from 

Roosters with guitars

and frogs that surf...

... the bond of twins, 

basketball or soccer,

and the way narratives

make sense 

when sung in 

a chorus of wisdom.

I can't help but

think back to teaching 

at the Brown School,

corner of 1st 

& Muhammad Ali,

knowing his becoming

would one day 

iinfluence my own.

Edem

He sees the book

I'm reading for the 

second time & says

I've been there - to 

the door in Ghana. 

It was near the 

refugee camp

where I lived

before I came

here. Met you. 

We knew its history,

going elsewhere

beyond.

He was once 15 

now he's 31, 

making his way

one job at a time

in this land of 

chaos, education,

and hope.

Marcelle

knew that community,

opportunities for young people

to gather as writers,

countered the many 

stories written about youth

that wouldn'tcouldn'tshouldn't

through  weekend

festivals for 

these young poets,

artists, and doers

that began to make the world 

a better place. 

How could I not be

wrapped in purple?

Royalty? The brilliance

of the sisterhood...

...the brotherhood...

that helped lead the way

to such work today.

Mark

a cousin

who began hooping

with hope in 

Zimbabwe,

skills 4 life, 

teaching me

the art of being

an intellectual

Robin Hood

of living

the philosophy of

Ubuntu.

Community

is a poem,

the braiding of words

that play on a.m. 

radio.

I am, because we are,

and listening to The Great Whatever

how could the 

be inspired?

these adolescents

in a new country

learning how

to become the sun.

Today

we write. 

We dive head first

into the magic box

to rhyme, play,

make meaning, 

and carry forward

the story.

This gift of Mpatapo

bound in a 

flight of

language

that many 

have helped

me to sing.

We dive in.

And we fly.

Looking forward to the workshops ahead.

 

Last Night, I Was Reminded Why Working 14-Hour Days Are Most Important. It's So Karal Has Free Rein of a House to Sleep. It's Always on My Lap

Poor Karal had a rough Friday. After we got up, I went to campus to work all day, and returned to walk her, only to go to dinner with Kathy Silver and to leave her alone again. It's no wonder she feels the need to crowd my space when I finally settle down to call it a day. She needs my warmth to counter the winter-cold and to sleep on me, no matter the position. It's precious and also overcrowding for this man who has chosen a rather solitary life. 

It doesn't matter what I do beyond this house, as long as she has my lap to lay upon when I'm in the house. I've never had a dog attach to me so much.

I got my falafel that I've been craving (thanks, Kathy) and we problem-solved the insanity of another work week. Well, we broke a meal together.

I need today, cold and all, to hunker down in grading in planning land, as I'll be losing most of Sunday to CWP-Fairfield word. For this reason, I welcome the puppy love to set forward the weekend.

Turbulence is in the air nationally (as it usually is) and I once again recall Phillip Roth's The Plot Against America. I think it is because last week's genealogy work that I'm hyper sensitive with how hate is fueled to ignite the ignorant. I used to teach the Holocaust with disgust and frustration - how could that ever happen? Yet, I look around at the divisions today and I think, "Well, here, we are seeing exactly how it starts." 

And we can only wait to see. 

Guess Who is the New Meet-Greeter at Animal Companion Hospital? Mr. Ethan! His Customer Service is Stellar & the Drool Charms All Who Enters

Yesterday was Karal's yearly physical with a few shots (and what an extracted anal gland or two?). Not only did we get to see Ken, Stephanie, Patrick, Winter, Maude, and Mae-Mae, Mr. Ethan also was their to check us in and to investigate that their customer service was top notch. 

It was. It always is.

I personally think every animal hospital should have greeters in a Metallica toboggan. 

All is well on the dog front, and afterwards we traveled to Possible Futures to pick up more copies of Kwame Alexander's The Door of No Return for a community poetry event on Sunday with young people at the Tate School. Always great to see Lauren Anderson. 

The morning was spent working on a grant and wrestling with pesky Excel sheets, as well as editing the introduction for an upcoming special issue of Writing & Pedagogy. I also slogged my way through emails, assignments, and to-do lists. 

Truth is, too, that Kathy Silver bought me a pillow lavender spray and I kind of became addicted. I'm out, and I'm worried about my sleep so I went on a quest to go into the girlier sider of local stores until I found a replacement bottle. It's not the same, but it will suffice until I get myself to a Bath & Body Shop for the squirt I've grown accustomed to. In could be in my head, but since I've been splashing my sheets before hitting the pillow, I've slept like a baby...well, like an Ethan after some baby-grub and a bottle. 

The Color of Royalty, Passion, Womanhood, and One Happy-Go-Lucky Undergraduate Student During Yesterday's Somewhat Miraculous Turbo Course

24 hours before my class was to be held, I learned that I was getting two Community-Engaged Learning Associates (CELAs), undergraduates who took the course with me last year. I Zoomed with them Tuesday night - both sophomores - and asked how comfortable they were with taking on leadership roles. They said, "we both want to be teachers, so let us help." 

Amazing. 

You can always find the math/science majors because the first thing they do is coordinate crayons accordingly, to make the coloring efficient. 

The CELAs were so helpful and throughout the 2.5 hours I kept walking over to them to ask, "Do you see how this works? The students are engaged and learning, and we have time to discuss the design and what is and isn't working? If you had all the instruction from a sage on the stage, you couldn't move around, interact, and mentor the conversations at each table." They responded, this is cool. 

The day began with a coloring activity. They are visiting 1st grade classrooms in a few weeks and I wanted them to recall instruction from 1st grade classrooms. Step one: draw something you love, especially if it is at Fairfield University. Step two: write two or three sentences about your drawing. The third step will come when we visit 1st grade classes. At first they were like, "Are you kidding us," but soon they were doing it, laughing, and talking about being in 1st grade. That was a win. 

My CELAs wrote a series of questions on the board based from this week's reading, and after we each read an individual children's book and analyzed them for purpose, audience, inclusivity, and exclusivity, I asked, "Who knows what a fish bowl is?" 

Only two students did. Now, I haven't lead a fish bowl in years, but recent graduate students informed me that it was on a Praxis test for teaching and they didn't know what it was. Easy fix. We fish bowled questions from the reading and for 45-minutes the students worked through higher order-thinking skills together. The CELAs wrote their major points on the board. 

This allowed me to jump in with slides I made summarizing the readings for the week (with quotes and page numbers) to say, "Well, your conversation parallels the chapters we read this week. Let's talk about the difference of me lecturing you, or you coming to similar conclusions through guided dialogue). I didn't know how it would go, but it we marvelously. 

We also worked through teacher-interviews assigned to them (with models) and brainstormed possible inquiry questions for the 2nd half of the semester. 2.5 hours of engagement with no breaks. Pretty amazing. 

Next week, we visit a children's literature exhibit at the Pequot Library, and return for more readings/inquiry work the following. Then off to the K-8 classrooms the following two weeks to put some of the reading/coloring into action.

I predict many schools will be delayed because of ice this morning, but my personal region looks to be only cold rain. I'm sure kids and teachers across the state are doing snow-dances trying to bring the storm to their towns so they can get an extra day off. 

For me? I'm looking forward tackling a billion and one items on a much-growing to-do list. If we happen to be stuck at home, this works out great for me. 

Kendall College and Career want their students to think about life in the future: Pizza and friends should be a selling point...I'm sure.

Wondering if Bed Head is Appropriate for 8 A.M. ZOOM Meetings - Actually, This is an Older Picture But It Represents Where My Head is Right Now

Another marathon Wednesday, where I will do what I can do and have to totally okay with that...I spent most of yesterday preparing for the crazy of this hump day, and I believe all the ducklings are aligned appropriately, and I'm anxious to get into grading and writing mode tomorrow and Friday. I didn't expect my 3rd day of a long weekend to be slurped into genealogy land, but it was a thrill to research bloodlines and make connections. This is what happens when a creative mind is given an extra day. 

If I was a bird, I'd have the gift of flight. I'm a human, so I have the gift of bed-head.

Working on campus with undergraduates today after two weeks at Central High School and I'm looking forward to gathering their thinking, their wonders, and their understandings of readings. Next week, we move to Pequot Library for their exhibition on the history of children's books and I'm also prepping them for their community engagement with Kendall College and Career Academy in Norwalk. Working with schools is the joy of the work I do. 

This is 51. There's more to be done.

And I'm watching national movements against democracy, against teaching, and I'm wondering if we're in the cultural shifts that come with pandemics, technology, natural disasters, and ignorance. It's not a comfortable feeling, especially when one's life is dedicated to the future through the investment of teachers and young people. I've been feeling too Chicken Little of late and need to get out of my 'sky is falling' mindset.

I simply want to put scholarship into action and put forward investments coming my way.

Found Myself in a Rabbit-Hole of Research After Finding a 2007 Children's Book with Poems by @ProfessorEA and Marilyn Nelson at Possible Futures

Dr. Alfred Tatum advised me once, "Don't be ahistorical." I was preparing work on my dissertation with 8 African-born male refugee youth from Liberia, Sudan, and Somalia and their in- and out-of school literacy practices. As a protege, his influence has been with me ever since. I also saw his influence throughout the brilliant work of Dr. Gholdy Muhammads thinking in Cultivated Genius. Inspired by them both, I realize the importance of framing culturally and historically responsive literacy in all the work I do...which is why reading more about Prudence Crandall, an inspiration left 149 years ago, had me intrigued.

A few week's ago, while picking up copies of Torrey Maldonado's Hands at Possible Futures in New Haven, Connecticut, I purchased a copy of Miss Crandall's School for Young Ladies & Little Misses of Color, which Lauren Anderson had on display. I've come across Prudence Crandall in readings over the years, and more recently, Chitunga asked if there was any relation. I knew the Crandalls had U.S. origin through Elder John, founder of Westerly, Rhode Island in 1661, but not until finding Elizabeth Alexander and Marilyn Nelson's poetry book with pictures by Floyd Cooper did I jump into more  lineage work. I wish I could do this for a living (or am I?)

Long story short, I spent a few days reading more about Prudence Crandall (1803-1890), her history in Canterbury, Connecticut, and the school she founded to educate freed women from forced, slaved migration backgrounds - an act resulting in racial violence against the school and her eventual departure to Kansas, where she continued to speak on equality, equity, and justice. Her younger brother Reuben was a doctor who labored, too, for the rights of emancipated individuals. In fact, Francis Scott Key, a slave owner and colonialist, was the prosector who went after him in D.C. to fight his stance of educating all Americans.

Francis Scott Key lost the trial. Yes,  the same individual who wrote the Star-Spangled Banner (too much here to develop for a single blog post).

Needless to say, the researcher in me hasn't been able to stop, and in the flaps of Miss Crandall's School I began tracing family lineages of both Prudence Crandall and my own last name. Prudence's line of Crandalls arrived from John Elder's son Joseph (1661-1737), whereas my Crandall line can be traced all the way through John (1649 - 1704), the eldest boy. Prudence Crandall was 7 generations down, whereas I am 11away, with bloodlines arriving from two Crandall sources (cousins) who married in 1786 and settled in Chenango County. Prudence was cousin to the same Crandalls who would eventually spread Crandall-ness to Sherburne, New York. Who knew?

I've only begun to unravel the connections and am sort of like, "Drat. Distracted again," as I didn't anticipate using Ancestry.com and a series of other digital spaces to map out as much as I did...especially, making the Waverly, Rhode Island, connection. Chitunga and I have been drawn to Providence and Newport over the years, but never had a reason to stop in Westerly, Rhode Island. I am now interested in visiting there, as well as Westerleigh, Gloucester, England where Elder John was from. 

I'm also interested in learning more about the lineages of Henrietta Bolt, Elizabeth Douglas Bustkill, M.E. Carter, Jerusha Congsdon, Mariah Davis, Theodora Degrass, Amy Jenner, Polly Freeman, Eliza Glass, Ann Eliza and Sarah Lloyd Hammond, Mary and Sarah Harris, Elizabeth Henly, J.K. Johns, Harriet Lanson, Ann Peterson, Maria Robinson, Elizabeth N. Smith, Catherine Ann Weldon, Ann Elizabeth Wilder, Julia Williams, and Emilia Wilson - the young women who attended Ms. Crandall's school. 

As an original colony with access to the sea, whaling and the barbaric slave trade are historically documented. I'm now  interested in the stances taken by Reuben and Prudence during their years, as well as the details that moved Crandalls all over the United States, including Chenango County in New York. 

I might be reaching a bit, but my lil' sister (who is most Crandall in my family) takes the features of my dad, aunt, and uncle...as do my cousin Mike and Pat). Interesting to learn, too, that Lucille Ball, Garrison Keillor, Katharine Hepburn, and President Glover Cleveland's wife, Frances Folsom Cleveland, also have bloodlines traceable to Elder John. 

For me, I knew Crandalls from Sherburne, New York (grandparents, aunt, uncle, and dad): Milford ended up in Amagansett, Bobbie in Louisville, then Northern California, and Morris (Butch) in Clay, New York. As I think about the dispersal of my father's siblings, I can easily see how quickly heritage bifurcates to new places and different spaces. 

There's so much more work needing to be one. But today, I need to get back to work. 

Major Revelation at Sunoco Yesterday as I Filled My Tank (This is Important Y'all): My @SauconySneaks Match My Subaru!

These days, it's the little things in life that keep me fighting onward. I know I have a Saucony sneaker addiction, and I've moved to not only running and walking in Sauconys, but also buying shoes to wear with professional attire: t-shirt, sport coat, and jeans. It makes sense and it makes me happy. Although my left toe continues to pop through every style I buy, I still am an advocate of their product, their comfort, and their funk.

Yesterday, while pumping gas in my Crosstrek I realized, "Wait, these new kicks color coordinate with my whip. I had no idea."

I want to freeze time and let this be my look forever, but I know even the best sneakers don't survive the wear and tear of time, even if they color coordinate with the vehicle I'm driving.

It won't last, but for now I'm going to be a little more cocky than usual, simply because I'm exiting ol' Kermit with sneakers that match. Well, sort of...in a color-schematic-kind-of-way.

And I need this on President's Day. Go ahead. Impeach me. 

The Greatest Gifts Always Arrive with the Simplicity of Company & Growth - the Dogs Always Know Who They Love Most

Day three of birthday celebrations were a few beers at Dockside with friends. Chitunga, Leo, Bev, Oona, and Pam treated me to a gorgonzola burger and pierogis, and I was gifted socks, Basil Hayden, and a few hours to talk with the kid about his move to Iowa, his next steps, and a more than enthusiastic interlude with Karal, who refuses to give him any space.

She knows. I know. Time is precious. 

We talked, I learned the plan of action and dreams, and Karal provided tongue licks, toys, and a more than hyper tail whipping in every direction it could. 

Hard to believe all these years later a lateral move will bring him to Des Moines, sincere happiness with his choices, and the possibilities of all still to come. 

It was hard to drive him to LeMoyne in Syracuse, but two degrees and a career later, he's on his feet, ready for big moves, and ready for the self-definition still to come.

We sipped the Basil Hayden, exchanged stories, and laid out a mini-plan for his big, 18-hour drive trip to a new state. He's secured an apartment near his office, knows his money will go further in the midwest, and has readied himself to be (quite frankly) totally like me -- on the move to figure things out on his own terms. His new apartment has a guest bedroom, so I'll have a place to stay when I visit (and I told him, "Trust me, you'll be more than ready for me to leave").

And so, my 51st birthday celebration can come to a close. The stories will continue. I cannot be prouder of the human being he's always been and continues to be. We stood in the kitchen and looked at Leo's painting of Papa Butch. It's special, and I know one day I will gift that artistry to him.

Cat Stevens, I'm singing "Father and Son," as it has played in our household for many years. To quote the Mandalorian, "This is the way."

The Things That Bring Me Joy - Knowing that @LBility's Students Will Have an Experience with Text That Lures Them Into Reading and Global Awareness

A woman said to me yesterday - a non-educator and Fox News consumer - that the reasons teachers are leaving in droves across the United States is because of the Woke curriculum being force upon them. When probing it further, she reported it's all over the news. I had to scratch my head, simply because I don't know of a school in the United States who are forcing books upon kids. Rather, I know that some books are more relevant to the heterogeneous populations in schools and when these books are brought into them, the young people devour them, want more of them, and engage in higher order thinking skills that are championed by state and national standards. 

In the six or seven schools I attended this past week, the vast majority of teachers had little opportunity to teach, because districts were mandating test preparation in order "to improve reading scores," bypassing opportunities to read any substantial text. Instead of good books and engaging conversations, students were given test prompts and assignments to set goals for themselves to do better on these tests during the next round of testing that will come next week. In others words, teaching has been replaced with teaching and reading has been kicked out of the classroom, except for test-instruction.

27 years teaching has helped me to value teacher expertise, youth voices, practices that work, and intellectual curiosities that schools find helpful to teaching, but this has quickly become restricted by top-down administrations. Brilliant, hard-working, and passionate educators (heck, I was one of them) leave K-12 teaching because their hands are tied, they can't do what is best for kids, and the nation has politicized instruction with this anti-school sentiment. Stellar teachers cannot shine if they are eclipsed by imbecilic paranoia on a few news channels and the frenzy over state test scores that do little to offer insight on reading proficiencies. 

This is why I cherished Lossine Bility's call yesterday after he sent me a photo of him reading one of the classroom books I gave him and Abu for their schools (class sets). In his words, "The kids are all reading. Administrators have even taken note." Why? Books like When Stars are Scattered, a graphic novel, teaches young people about immigration, refugees, global inequities, perseverance, hope, narration, and truth. This is the enemy? Well, to some people. 

Reading has become scorned and, alas, poor instruction prevails as it fails the young people in our schools. Book challenges harm what schools are designed to do...to teach young people to be readers, thinkers, writers, and doers. 

I'm going into the weekend frustrated: we need awesome educators, kids deserve the best schools, but our systems are failing both. I'm not sure that the lobbyists and capital-manipulators who wish to decimate public schools should have the upper hand, yet the do (and poor Florida. I'm so sorry for all the young people there). We should be fighting this nonsense wherever we can. 

Find good books. Listen to teachers. Volunteer at a school and observe for yourself what works and doesn't work with the minds of youth. Don't tweet, repost, or listen to idiots who are simply fabricating falsehoods out of their ignorance and fear.

Read. Get an education. THINK.

Greatest, Unexpected Gift of a Lifetime: a Painting of Butch (I'm a Son of Butch) as Crafted by a Friend, Leo Robinson. Touching on All the Levels

It was a busy birthday, but Leo said he wanted to stop by and could contend with spastic Karal, who was more than thrilled to have a guest on Mt. Pleasant. I got a beautiful birthday muffin (and Roast Beef horseradish sandwich) from the incredible Tim Huminski at Joel Barlow High School. Mr. Dave Wooley did me right with an old fashion, a gourmet burger, latkes, and a red velvet cake for dinner, and Leo came by with an original painting of my father that he did based on a photo off Facebook (and my father said, "Hey, that's me. How'd he do that?"). 

Every time I look in the kitchen I'm thinking, "Yo, dad. What are you doing here?"

I love it. 

I will say that with Facebook messages, texts, emails, and calls, the 51st birthday did me in. I like low key, silent days where I can get the most work done, but I appreciate all the correspondence and I'm humbled by the love and support. 

TGIF. I simply want a day in the office, to catch up, to plan ahead, and to ready myself for the weekend. It is overwhelming to get so much attention in a 24 hour period, but I loved it all. It's soul fuel, and I feel it all. 

Here's to 5 decades and one year. Let's hope there's many more to come.

And as I post this, Karal is spazzing to go out for a walk. But it's raining! She has to wait to 3 pm when it all blows away. 

And On His 51st Year of Life (How Has It Been Another Year Already) He Simply Finds Solace in the Fact It Really is a Box of Chocolates

These arrived on Sunday as a sent gift from my mom from Hercules Candies in East Syracuse, New York. I heard about them from a friend in Kentucky who said she saw a show they produced on one of the streaming video services. For Valentine's Day, I sent a box to my mom, and soon after, saw a video about Orca whales. The skinny was how the mama whale does all she can to feed her male baby as much food as she can so he's the biggest whale in the sea. I guess my mom, who also saw the video, thought it was smart to fatten me up, too. They look delicious and I can't wait to share with others. Items like this can't be in my house. I am my mother's son. 

Today, I return to scoring high school portfolios then to put out fires from my University office. Although I have grading to do, I also accepted an invitation to have a Wooley-cooked meal, and really I just want the company. The food is always great, but I think it's important to take a step away for a meal, too, especially on one's day of birth.

This day also belongs to Mama Orca...as it is his birthday, too. She's the one who pushed a manic, crazy, hyperactive, over-ambitious lover of words from her body. But she already got her chocolate and if history of the last few years repeat itself, Papa Orca probably ate them all which would throw Mama Orca into a Tizzy. I'll have to ask Sister Orcas if this is true. 

I need treadmills, not chocolate, but aging is about finding a way to enjoy both. I know if I eat one, I won't stop, so they are still sitting in a box.

Now, I'm simply looking at the life clock hoping the next 14 years until retirement go with less stress than the past few years have been. I love the work I do and am very fortunate to do it as I do. I don't know, however, if such leadership is sustainable and I need to pay attention to the crossroads and follow the intersections that reveal themselves to me. If I can continue the work I love - then joy will follow. But if that work continues to face obstacle after obstacle, I will have to make decisions for my mental, physical, and personal well-being. 

In the meantime, I will enjoy my day reading as many high school portfolios as I can and dousing myself in the joys of awesome teachers and the hard work of their students.

51 years, huh? How'd that happen!?! Birthday Happy to Me.

There's Not Much That Will Lure Me Into a School at & 7 a.m. Except Writing Portfolio Scoring Days at Joel Barlow High School

Once a year, usually birthday week, I'm invited to read as many writing portfolios as possible at Joel Barlow High School in Redding, CT, to offer them a score, and to give students feedback. I began this work in 2012 and have not missed a year yet - why? It reminds me of all the work I used to do in Kentucky with the state portfolio assessment and I'm simply excited that at least one school is promoting writing K-12 with feedback that really matters. 

It's always stunning, and I'm thankful for Timothy Huminski, who follows in Jack Powers' footsteps, for having me back every year.

Seven hours of scoring portfolios, followed by four hours of teaching, followed by a day in community-engaged learning in Bridgeport, followed by seven more hours in Redding is what it's all about. It's fuel for the rest of the year - hope reestablished beyond campus where the real work occurs.

Am I tired? Yes. but it's okay. It's work that matters and it is beyond inspiring. I just wished administrators, scholars, and teachers across the nation could join in on the excellence. I'm also sad that this used to be normal in Kentucky, but then disappeared. 

The kids lose out. They deserve to have their writing promoted in all content areas as they work through schools on their road towards careers. 

The other fascinating thing about Joel Barlow is they have a fantastic chef who caters food for all the students but also for those of us visiting for the day. The chicken burrito was delicious, and can you imagine if all cafeterias offered fresh chocolate cookies? 

Now, time to head back into school - this time for ESL instruction, but I'll be back to portfolios tomorrow. The pep is returning to my step.

Accentuating the Positive on they 14th Day of February Love, I'm Simply Going with Simplicity (Serenity) of the Fig Newton

This is a simple story really. Somehow on Saturday, after picking up my bib for the Run for Refugees race, I stopped at Big Y and grabbed items to sustain me for the week, including a sale item which is very rare...money off of Fig Newtons.

Now, Fig Newtons were a staple in Papa Butch's lunch diet (as were Snicker Bars) and my mother was faithful of packing them every day for my father. As I grew older, and hungrier, the very snacks that my father enjoyed became ones that I favored, too. I would sneak them when I could (but mostly got caught and yelled at). 

It wasn't until I was on my own and had to pay my own grocery bills that I understood why. These are not cheap products. In fact, Fig Newtons are on the more expensive side of cookie-delicacies, and I grew out of the habit. This is why I was surprised they were on sale this week and cheap. I threw them in a cart, and forgot about them, but yesterday when I had to sprint to campus, I packed a couple with a banana, some almonds, and an apple. I ate them on my way in and instantly smiled. Fig Newtons are good.

And they made me happy. I kept channeling them meeting after meeting, stress moment after stress moment, as I realized I'm working on the impossible like so many of my colleagues, trying to host optimism along the way. As my anxiety and stress rose, I kept thinking about my lunch - those Fig Newtons - and I realized, "It's all good. At least this week I have a different cookie than I usually offer myself." 

That, and Dr. Campbell brought me a molasses cookies from the Pantry. How could I not be happy?

I keep thinking that there are economists and social theorists much smarter than me who have been studying the exploitation of the labor force for centuries. Colonial empires who wanted to put the riches in the hands of the elite were scolded some as societies advanced, but there remains an administrative class who wants to get the most out of the work from the fewest employees possible so that they reap the benefits of wealth (I think about Veruka Salts's father having his factory workers dig into Wonka Bars so that his precious daughter could stop her whining and keep her authoritative brattiness....hmmm...sounds sort of familiar in many cases today). 

For now, I will channel the Fig Newton. I love it. It make me temporarily happy. And for that I'm thankful. Today begins at 7:30 a.m. and continues until 7:15 tonight. With this noted, employers still act as if employees aren't doing anything. It is something...

...again...something that is way above my pay grade, unless I choose to go into administration so I, too, can do the same, which is very, very doubtful. 

Monkey See, Monkey Do. Cynderballz is All About Her Monkey Business. It's Bananas, I Know. Achoo. God Bless. Tissues, Huh?

I ran the 5K...not the whole way, but most of it, and now I'm feeling it. Every muscle and bone aches in my body, but it's all for a good cause. I came home from the run, and there was an Amazon package awaiting me. I opened it and it was an air-packed, but when I cut into it, a monkey morphed before my eyes and I thought, "Oh, a monkey. I wonder who sent me a monkey."

Then I turned it around. I was like, "What?"

I saw the opening in the back and thought, "Surely, mom, Casey, you sent me something but I don't think it is what you think it is." That's when I saw the zipper and when I opened it, I thought, "Must be a banana goes inside," so I put a banana in and went back to the package for directions or an indication who it was from. It definitely wasn't a banana dispenser. 

I then thought, "This is perverted, and I'm sending it back to Amazon." I went on with my day until Cynde called and asked if her gift arrived. It had, and I reacted with a harsh scolding that the monkey was ornery and I'm sending it to her."

"Bryan," she said. "It's for your car. The arms wrap around your car seat and you store tissues in it."

"Um, Cynde, let me know you your monkey," which I did and she got hysterical. She was crying. She couldn't stop laughing. "I don't think your tissue holder should look like this." 

"Well, you always by us crazy gifts," was her response. 

Well, I do...

..but, I mean...

Cynde. "Really?"

Now, to get this monkey into my car so that the next time Pam asks if I have napkins in my glove compartment as she honks her nose, I can say, "Reach around you. Cynde sent me a monkey, and he's got everything you need."

God bless, us. Everyone. 

Well, It's My Favorite 5K of the Year - Run for Refugees in New Haven, CT. Now, About that Running Part...Not Quite Sure What I'll Actually Do

It's a Super Bowl Sunday tradition. Drive to New Haven, run 3.2 miles in support of a phenomenal cause, then come home, grade, and hopefully find chip dip somewhere. I picked up my shirt (which will be added to all my shirts - I seriously could dress myself in Run for Refugees attire alone...I have enough of them). 

Yesterday, Karal and I went for a long hike, too, and upon return and sitting all day grading, my bones started to ache. It's age. Whereas once upon a time I could go for my run any minute of every day, as I've grown older, I've learned I am better for running at peak moments. I just don't what they are anymore.

The last time I ran the race was 2021, when we ran virtually. Last year, still injured with a sliced head and other shenanigans, I walked, all with the goal I'd be ready for this year. Um, nope. But I may try to jog/walk. I'm simply afraid that if I run, something else will happen to my body that will set me back. It's hard living in this fear...I suppose a race day is not the time to find out. I will go, do what I can, and totally soak in the joy of the moment. It is remarkably inspirational.

And I set a goal to get all grading done so I could take Sunday off, and hit Monday hard with planning and writing. I went to bed, though, knowing I didn't meet my grading goals. That always puts me in a foul mood, and I begin cursing myself. But, I did as much as I could, wondering how many other professions need Saturdays and Sundays to actually DO the work we're paid to do. There's little time in the week, especially when meetings are called and monopolize all the minutes. Then there's the teaching thing.

I'm not sure if 14-hour days, 7 days a week, 364 days a year (with Christmas off) are sustainable. But that's what I've been doing for 13 years at the University....and they keep piling more and more on the faculty, with less and less support. My colleagues across the nation are reporting the same. If you run a non-profit as a for-profit to pay administrators more, well, this is what we get. It makes the trustees happy, but people are breaking, cracking, leaving, and stressing...so, perhaps this is historical. It can't last this way, I don't believe. 

Same for K-12 schools and they run completely different. They are so inundated with top down mandates and with their horrible pay, they are realizing it is not worth it any more.

For these reasons, I need to run. Sweating the worries away is helpful, and I don't really sweat when I walk. So, we'll see what today will bring.

People are still dying for a chance to have an opportunity in this dream. And I know I whine from a very, very privileged space...it simply makes me want to do better for them and their children in our schools. But these cultural and systemic divides are are to comprehend sometimes. 

This is My Favorite Photo from the MLK Youth Leadership Academy @FairfieldU, Honoring Dr. King through the Inspiration of @TorreyMaldonado

The FORCE. Published Writer to
Writer in the Making

Several years ago at a Penguin Random House event at the National Council of Teachers of English, I was introduced to a writer, Torrey Maldonado, and I immediately was intrigued by his work. The energy he brought to a room was immeasurable and his quick wit, hip-hop brilliance, and humor made me realize I needed to know more. I read his books, did workshops with them in schools, and then slowly gained a fan-based friendship.

Fast forward. I learned he was also a teacher in Brooklyn (Brooooookkkkkklllyyyynnnnn). I knew he was a writer that teachers needed to know as his books resonate with readers, K-12, and allow teachers to have soul-to-soul, heart-to-heart, and mind-to-mind connections. The kids love it. The educators see the values of his work with their students. It was a no-brainer to invite him to The Write Time. That recording remains a favorite of NWP audiences.

Teachers as writers. Writers who teach. 

I also knew that Hands was coming out this year, January, and after reading an advance copy, that I wanted to feature the book at the 2023 MLK Youth Leadership Academy. This was the 10th time I've hosted this event, and I can't do it without channeling Dr. Yohuru Williams, who remains the giant whose shoulders I stand upon. I watched him for two years and then I knew exactly what to do. I also brought the Writing Our Lives tradition of Dr. Marcelle Haddix at Syracuse University. The rest has been history. 

I purchased 150 copies of Hands and gave teachers and youth copies for our celebration. Anyone who has been to one of my Writing Our Lives workshops knows that I often do a hand activity. Trace the hands. Think about your hands. Brainstorm 10 ideas (one for each finger)...Brainstorm 10 more....read models, then set kids to work. It works every time. 

This year, however, Torrey Maldonado offered to ZOOM-surpise the kids and to read an excerpt of Hands.

They were mesmerized. They were hooked. They were over the moon. One girl wanted to know, "How do you know how to do this? to write for kids like us?"

He simply said, "I was you. I now teach you. I get it." 

Another young man wanted to know why he'd choose kids like him as an audience for the work. I captured this photo...the young man's hand, Torrey's hand, and I thought, "This is the force."

The force, it is.

I couldn't be more proud of the teachers, the young people, the individuals who made the event possible, and the writer/teacher, Torrey Maldonado, for giving so much joy, focus, and integrity. 

Later, my interim Dean texted me to say she's never seen anything like that. "You're in your element, Crandall," she said.

Truth is, it's our element. When young people have adults who believe in them, who get them, who write with and for them, and more importantly, who listen to them, there's no Stormtrooper, Sith Lord, or Clone that can stop them from fighting their inner strength.

As the author said, "Miles Morales is in them all. They just need to tap their Spidey-senses"

Yesterday was a beautiful day and I am thankful. The young people...all 120 of them...were dazzled and inspired. This is what it is all about. 

Can't Help But Recall Monty Python's The Holy Grail. "Tis but a scratch," as the Days are Sisyphean with so Much Ground Hog's Day

It's a bad analogy, but I've been telling everyone I feel like a turd being flushed down a toilet, hoping he can find a way to swim out of the predicament. It's not true. I have more free will and agency than that, and I have my sense of humor. It's like watch the wounded after a war, and being told by the medics, "Now it's time for a way to heal yourself. How can you fix what just happened so that it doesn't happen again?" 

Is it military training? 

Well, the good news is that K-12 schooling has trained me for what matters most...the investment in relationships, doing what is good and right (perfect for today's MLK Youth Leadership Academy with 120 young people and celebrating Torrey Maldonado's Hands by putting the new book in the hands of readers. I also get to work with teachers today and that is a total joy.

I'm a free-bird, who doesn't respond well to clipped wings. I know too well why they sing.

So once again I'm reaching into my treasure chest of love, joy, laughter, and those who do the great work I admire (including the books they write that make a difference in the lives of young readers).

Today is one of my favorite days of the year....a tradition handed down to me from Dr. Yohuru Williams, who has modeled, demonstrated, offered, and lived integrity throughout his life. I'm fighting onward because of him. 

When All Else Fails, Dive Into the Joy and Rejuvenation of What Matters Most. Beautiful Teachers, Wonderful Youth, and the Possibilities of Human Togetherness

I know teachers are hurting. I know youth are, too. I'm attesting that scholars in higher education are feeling the same way. We are all Covid-Creations, and I'd write post-Covid, but we're not quite there. Yesterday, teacher William King explained to a crew of 20 pre-service teachers that the mission he has is to teach young people to be Citizens of the World, up and beyond governmental and institutional bureaucracies. They need to learn the importance of reading the word and the world (yep, Freire). For English Learners with multiple linguistic capital, he explained how being a teacher of immigrant and refugee youth helped him to be a scholar of the globe...to be invited in its richness and complexities, the challenges and the joy. 

We didn't know if we'd be able to combine Fairfield University students with EAL classrooms, but at the final second, all fell into place and so much rejuvenation occurred: for teachers, for young people, for soon-to-be educators, and for this guy...who has lost purpose and meaning as a result of egos, hubris, resistance, and institutions. It only took 15 minutes before the restoration began. The joy of learning, the importance of democracy, the importance of mentorship, and the power of literacy. 

A few towns over, the same became true for another 20 young people visiting a K-8 school who also struggles with funding, shortages, curricular gestapo, and frustration. There is a way towards beauty. Our systems work tirelessly to stop it from happening, but when it finds its way, magic occurs. 

I didn't realize how much I needed a fix of young people working with college students, scholars working with educators, until it occurred yesterday as a result of two community-engaged courses. 

Too many in positions of power like to squawk words and name terminology, but they stand in the way of putting such language into action. I was reminded yesterday, that scholarship in action is mentoring, demonstrating, guiding, and addressing at its core. And it's not easy, because the fight is real.

Brilliance and wonder are both possible. We simply need to fight all those that stand in our way. 

Yes, mom. You were part of this, too. Now go get yourself a piece of chocolate. 

It's Been a Minute Since I've Recited the Serenity Prayer, but It Was Engrained in My in High School as a Peer Tutor, and I Find Myself Saying It a Lot in Adulthood

I supposed if it all made sense, we'd simply make sense of it and move on. 27 years in education, however, has taught me that you need to reach in, go for walks and runs, and remind yourselves of these simple words. The "wisdom to know the difference" is the most important part.  

I focus on integrity, on joy, and on future possibilities. I cut through the crap quickly to see what will work and won't work, drawing on my education, my lived experiences, and my teaching. Yet, so many who move up into leadership positions draw upon the quest for power, foolishness, and quite often stupidity. Yet, here we are....predicting what would come, knowing it would come, warning it would come, but being ignored. It came. And it's sad. And the destruction is deeply felt by many. It could have been prevented, but that's now how chaos chooses to work. 

Cassandra's curse is upon many of us.

And so the cycle repeats. 

2023. Serenity. At the crossroads of everything, I continue to choose integrity,  to choose joy, and  to choose future possibilities. And I will look around at all that falls as it does simply to say, WTF? For real? With it, I try to make art. What else can we do?

The Gods ARE CRAZY. 

Or, they're sane and humans are nuts. That's more likely the correct story. 

Prayers up for all living the insanity right now. Not sure if they will be heard, but I love / to believe / in hope. 

Yep, Mr. Shakespeare. "Love is a Smoke Made with the Fume of Sighs." I Will (no pun there) Return This Home to Normal Scents. It Only Makes Sense

I can exhale knowing that the dead rats on the 2nd floor have pretty much evaporated scent-wise. Now, the ones that met their doom in the floorboards of the dining room are letting their stench go. They are evaporating their carcasses. I keep hoping it will soon be gone, but when I come home from work, it's the first thing I smell. I have deodorizers everywhere and immediately burn candles and incense sticks (thank you, Patrick Kelly). 

This all throws me back to college dorm rooms in the early 90s, and the intentional hippy smell that radiated from many a space. I haven't burned them since those days, but kept the stash given to me by Patrick for a rainy day. Or smelly one. Like a house full of dead rodents. Seems highly appropriate. 

My goal this morning was to wake up at 6, write until 10, get a haircut, head to campus for 5 hours of meetings, then teaching until 7:15. Waking up at 6 gives me space to get ahead of it all, as every one knows that nothing gets accomplished in meetings. And it worked...I even finished an upcoming episode of The Write Time to be recorded this week. 

Dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind.

Or burnt incense sticks. Poof. Up in smoke, but a much better smell than decaying mouse meat. 

And I can't help make the connection with Tiffany Jackson's White Smoke. I drove around campus for an extra 15 minutes yesterday to finish the book. As usual, Jackson writes like no other. I wanted to bottle up the smells in my house to ask her, "Is this the scent you were describing in your ghost story?"

I'm sure it was.

Perhaps mice are to me, as bed bugs were to Marigold.

Karal Didn't Want to Say Good-Bye, and Did a Dramatic Departure, Leaping in Mimi's Chair to Give Final Kisses to Papa Butch

 ...and then she slept the entire way home on the thru-way. 

Normally, I take 17, but I thought I'd stay safer on the flatlands with more traffic (and there was much more traffic...actually takes 45 minutes longer to pay for the faster route). Not my preference, but with the temperatures from the weekend, I didn't want to hit any froze patches, nor to get stuck on the side of the road in villages where no one lives. 

Truth also is that on Saturday, when I went to Wegmans for my parents, my check engine light came on. It showed that I had low tire pressure, an emission problem, and a hill-climb something or other. It seemed odd that is sparked all that when it was -10 degrees, so I waited until I got back to my parents and looked it up. Reports showed that it is common for check engine lights to come on after frigid cold weather. Well, on Sunday, when I got up and left Syracuse, the tire lights went off, but the Check Engine light stayed on. I made it safe to Stratford, met Tunga, walked the dog, and then when I headed out for dinner, the lights no longer came on. I think my Subaru simply wanted to be in 45 degree temperatures for a while. Hoping it stays that way. 

Yes, in case you're wondering, there is still the smell of dead mice in my house, but it's not as bad as it was. I talked to my neighbors who live next to the decaying house (who has recently redone all the siding) and they said, "Yep, their house was infested with mice as soon as they started construction. All the critters living in the walls needed somewhere to go and they built nests in their garage." They showed me pictures of their furniture and in one week at Christmas, while they were away, the mice chewed their couch cushions and left feces in all their baby things (they just had a baby). They stayed away for two weeks and had the house fumigated. This must be when they chose to investigate my house and found Edem's bedroom on the 2nd floor. Needless to say, we've made a pact to report any suspicious activity to one another. They reported the man who resided his house is trying to move.

I can't imagine what the inside of that house looks like. For years, we've watched raccoon and possum climbing out of the upstairs windows. It's a mess. 

I'm hoping this phase will be short lived. It's been cold, they're nesting, and their habitat was taken over. It's simply gross. 

Finally, I'm thankful for the boxes and boxes of books that have arrived. One week away, I probably could open another book store. It's a love circumstance of my life since The Write Time began. I just wished I could have more authors on every month!

Princess Karal Would Like to Thank All her CNY Fans for a Wonderful (if not Frigid) Stay & Wishes All Well Until She Returns Again

That was a fast week. Good food, warm blankets, wonderful walks (until everything iced over), and very loud televisions. WHAT'S THAT? Oh. I SAID, "VERY LOUD TELEVISIONS." 

Huh. Oh, you get it.

We finished off the final night with a pot roast, roasted potatoes, focaccia bread, and Cynde's Mac-n-cheese. We also got a Syracuse game in (and they won), as well as many more chews on the toys Karal has hoarded on Amalfi Drive. Boo-Duke. I was rooting for UNC.

But now we are heading back to CT for a crazy week of 14-hour days. It's all good. I knew they were coming, and I'm prepared for them. It's the game I've chosen to play. 

More importantly, I can't wait to finish Tiffany Jackson's White Noise, one of the best books that have hooked me in a long time (and I don't do ghost stories too often). I have a few more hours left and this trip will allow me to finish.

I'm also looking forward to get my mail, to sleep in my own bed, and to be in the pace of the Crandall routine once more. The fridge is full, they won't starve for long, and I feel bad that Cynde needs to return to her daily routine of running errands. I tried to give her a break (no one asked her to make Mac-n-cheese....she just did). 

And with that, we travel onward.

Fancy Smancy, Wanky Swanky. Coldest Day of Winter & We Break Out the Hoffman Hotdogs to Warm Our Hearts. An Amalfi Drive Story.

The buzz was for fish, and in the background Mike was texting about pizza possibilities. I know myself, and definitely know my parents, and began thinking, "There's no way in hell any of us are going outside in these temperatures. Even Karal walked outside with trepidation. As her nose hit the temperatures she turn right back around. I already scoured the freezer and knew there were Hoffman hotdogs on display. I figured they'd be better in my stomach, and so that is what we had for dinner: green beans, rice, and wieners. Can't go wrong with CNY's greatest treats.

And it's not even summer. 

We woke up this morning to -18 degrees and by 10 a.m. it should reach 0. The high today is 20, but it will keep on climbing. I'm glad I'm not in New Hampshire with the -108 degree windchill. That doesn't sound like fun at all.

Today, the goal is to stock the folks up with more goods as, I know this is hard to believe, mom is 100% out of chocolate. When I made her Sundae last night there were no candy bars to crush, Peanut Butter cups to smash, or Godivas to grind. How could ever single drawer where she stashes her candies be empty of her treats? These need to be replenished, because they are her lifeline.

Hoping Wegmans isn't too insane. I also wish I had a car starter before taking off to get groceries. All will be well.