Borderland

An exploit during my first year of college (1971) that seems worthy of recall right now was jumping from an airplane for gym credit. In those days, in Eugene, Oregon, there was an alternative menu of courses for students interested in nontraditional ways to meet the general requirements for graduation. I decided, What the heck, skydiving and yoga beat jumping jacks any day. I have a mild fear of heights, and why I chose to do this is just because…

We met in the gym a few times a week and learned how to pack parachutes and jump off stuff (like the balance beam) and land with a little roll to the side. We were told that landing a real jump would be about as hard as jumping from a roof 12 feet off the ground. To complete the course we had to take an observation ride in an airplane. Jumping was optional.

We took off from a small airstrip in Springfield near a lumber mill. I remember this because when we were up in the air, the pond near the mill was way easier to see than the landing spot. The jumpmaster times his commands so that the skydiver has a very good chance of landing back at the airstrip, and we were instructed to promptly follow his orders. His first command was, “Get out.” I have to say, getting out of the airplane was much harder than letting go of it. Standing on a little step, holding a wing strut, and going 90 miles an hour 3000 feet off the ground, there is nothing left to do but let go. So when he said, “Let go,” I did.

After my heart slipped back down out of my throat and I could breathe again, I started hunting for the airstrip, my landing spot. There was a very big pile of sawdust, the pond, a smelter spitting a column of smoke, roads and forest, and somewhere around there was the airstrip – which I couldn’t visually find. I regret that I never once looked up at my chute – which I was supposed to do to make sure it opened properly. Obviously, I assumed it had opened, which was the first of two mistakes I was about to make.

I was all business on the way down, trying to find the runway. There was little need, because by the time I saw it, I had the sensation of the ground rushing rapidly toward me, and I doubt there was much I could have done to steer myself anywhere then. My landing was not graceful. Instead of turning sideways to my horizontal path, I faced into it, looking down. When I landed, the impact drove both my knees hard into my face. Nothing broke but a little pride, and briefly, my sense of balance. I decided right then that the gym credit and the story was all I wanted from the experience.

Ground rush, though, has become my favorite metaphor for the end of summer break. Signs of the return to school have begun to appear. I got an email today from the principal announcing the dates when the school office would reopen, etc. There was also a hint that I might not be teaching the grade-level I’d planned on. Huh? I’ve made an inquiry, and await a return call. I’m not going to say more about that now, except that I hope it was only a typo.

Meanwhile, Sarah Puglisi had this to say about creating “on her feet” and being flexible :

Sarah has learned the minute you have a “plan”, you now do not probably have a lesson for someone in that room. Because you will over ride them….

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I can change and alter myself in relationship to the children, their responding, with my eyes on the goals. And that’s what I can do.. It might also be worth contending that for exactly the reason I teach as I do, scripts are really being put in place.

All I do know is that if we model what we want to produce it would seem a child might have a basis for belief or for confidence in an adult who can do what they say. A notable turn off for many kids is that dichotomy. In my case it would be then lessons need to have the flexibility to grow from the needs as they are seen in real time, grab insights , suggestion, direction…

This has particular resonance for me because I can only begin to plan for the kids as I get to know them. Before I meet the class, my plans are as general as the list of names I’m handed. After we begin working together, I learn about their interests and their abilities, and I imagine ways to present the “big picture” that I have in mind.

This year, that big picture is going to include an opportunity that I applied for, to work as a partner teacher with a science teaching fellow in an NSF funded program administered by the university. This program makes a grad student in one of the science disciplines available as a classroom resource. They help develop science lessons, locate resources, and provide technical expertise. And we have a budget.

They promote inquiry based activities, which I plan to integrate with web technology, reading, writing, and multimedia publishing. Our new science standards come on line this year, as well, which are also inquiry based. Looking forward to all that; planning, but tentatively, at this point. Hope the landing is even just a little bit graceful.