It’s one of those immediate political litmus tests. The White House Domestic Policy Council issued a report on the National Museum of American History, aka the American History Museum on the Mall in Washington, D.C. Using the museum leadership’s own words and actions, the report said this: “Museum leadership has explicitly adopted an ideological framework that no longer treats the American story as a shared national inheritance to be taught or celebrated, but as a political instrument to divide, dispirit, and discourage our citizens.” Predictably, the blue side of politics and the news media were outraged; the red side of politics said, “Tell me something I don’t already know.”You can read the report yourself and decide. It’s 112 pages, but the executive summary is succinct.
If you were asked to name the Founding Fathers, you would probably say George Washington, John Adams, and Thomas Jefferson. You’d think a minute, and add Benjamin Franklin and James Madison and perhaps John Hancock, he of the large signature on the Declaration of Independence. And there are others, of course. But another one, who didn’t sign the Declaration and wasn’t featured in stirring patriotic poems or songs, deserves better recognition for his more-than-significant contributions to the American cause. And his name was George Whitefield.
More than 30 years ago, media and education critic Neil Postman (1931-2003) warned against the proliferation of media technology, including the use of computers and related devices in classrooms. It took us more than 30 years to begin to learn he was right. I read sevral of his books, and I still have a copy of Technopoly: The Surrender of Culture to Technology (1992). Emily Wenneborg at Front Porch Republic just read another Postman work, Amusing Ourselves to Death (1985), and she discovered the theme and ideas it contains have gone supernova.
I’ve read poems that are filled with tenderness. I’ve read poems that have an edge. But I can’t think of a collection I’ve read that have both tenderness and an edge.
That is, until I read Instructions for Use: Poems by Arlene Demaris. Not only does she write poems that are tender with understanding, she also drops any idea of rose-colored glasses and smacks you with often-shocking reality. And what you realize is that this is life, with the good and the bad mixing together into one lump of what it means to be human. Or as Demaris writes, we forget “how much of us is salt water, how much of us is music.”
Every day was chaotic. Little if anything could be anticipated or planned for. I often looked at the office telephone (and my Blackberry; that was the phone we used) as the enemy. You answered a call, and your day instantly changed.
I learned that I wasn’t the only one dealing with chaos. The man brought in to take over the district’s finances (which were a train wreck; the district was not only technically but actually bankrupt) was a former corporate CFO. He dealt with impossible tasks every day. His wife later told me that she worried most about public meetings – Board of Education meetings, town halls, outreach meetings – because anything could and often did happen. She would look for me making a statement on TV news, and then she knew her husband was okay.
The district had all the problems of an urban school system – money problems, crime, declining educational standards and test scores, dropping enrollments, school consolidations. An outside management firm had been brought in to try to transform the district; school closures, budget reductions (the communications budget was reduced from $1 million to $20,000, and that had been spent by the time I arrived).
To continue reading, please see my post today at Dancing Priest.
Photograph by Wayee Tan via Unsplash. Used with permission.
We just finished watching our youngest son’s wife navigate the first two stages of motherhood – pregnancy and childhood. She was a trooper, and I spent a lot of time in simple, quiet awe. And now our and her families have been blessed with fraternal twin boys.
Poets have addressed motherhood probably ever since poetry first existed. Elizabeth Barrett Browning (”Mother and Poet”) and Christina Rossetti (“To My Mother”) come to mind, but even Edgar Allen Poe wrote “To My Mother.” Other poets who’ve written about mothers or motherhood include Gwendolyn Brooks, Sylvia Plath, Nikki Giovanni, Sharon Olds, Louisa May Alcott, Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, William Blake, and Sara Teasdale.
