dead messages

This is the email that I sent to the teachers:

I'd like to thank all of you for a great year. As we move ever-closer to the celebratory last day, and as you begin the process of collecting text books and other items distributed to the students, I'd like to remind you about bringing order and closure to your classroom set of laptops.

Please insure that all laptops are in their correct locations in the cart. Additionally, please make sure that all power cords are placed on their appropriate shelves, and that they are plugged in to the computers.

In advance, I thank you for maintaining the presentation and physical condition of your classroom set of laptops.

This the email I would have sent to my colleagues if I still taught a class:

Some of your laptops see those books on the other side of the room. They've noticed that when you collected them, you put them in neat stacks. In fact, they've noticed that you went so far as to take your left hand and smooth the stack from top to bottom, just to make sure that the books were in perfect order.

But some of your laptops are blind. Some of them are powerless. Some of them are lost. Let's listen to computer CFF-5:

Where am I? What shelf is this? I'm so tired. I'm running out of energy. Usually, I'm on a shelf, feeling myself getting stronger every minute, but recently, I feel depleted and soporific. And I can't see. There are all these cords dangling in front of me. But as bad as I have it, my buddy CFF-20, well, he's facing the wrong way. He can't even see out of this cart. And CFF-12, he's put one of his corners on me and he won't move. He can't move. He's not even in straight.

Why are those books treated so well? Don't we deserve equal treatment?

There are some parts of my new job that I dread. It's killing the joy of composing emails.

teaching a different kind of content

Amazing Coincidence:
In the space between 1:58pm - 2:03pm, two laptops embarked on similar paths to the cold, medicinally tiled floor.

One broke, the other sustained a mild concussion.

The students, in awe and merriment, said nothing.

And that's when I spoke:

I know that both were accidents, but what's most disappointing is that no one is taking responsibility and no one, absolutely no one, has said they're sorry.

One female student spoke. Out came a confessional that rang with as much sincerity as being side-swiped by a Prius:

But I did not mean to do it.

Absolute abdication in one, single syllable-filled sentence.

Amazing Timing:
On the Twit stream last night, Chris Lehmann shared a link. Carnegie Mellon professor Randy Pausch gives his 'last lecture' on Oprah. Mr. Pausch is dying from pancreatic cancer. He is married. He has three young sons.

In his lecture, Pausch urges that a life worth living is heavy with integrity. He points to the importance of apologizing, and outlines three elements of an effective apology:

1. Saying 'sorry'.
2. Admitting fault.
3. Asking how to make the situation better.

Amazing Flashback:
Seven years ago, while teaching Hamlet, a student decided to tell her classmates about her sexual escapades with her boyfriend. Shocked, I stopped the lesson by stating, "Well, I'm f-in' done."

I wrote the student up for inappropriateness. I included my reaction.

I earned a day off without pay, and a meeting with the superintendent.

At our meeting, he told me that environment, integrity, and respect matter more than content. He went on to say that the content is meaningless if the other three things were not firmly rooted in place beforehand.

To date, it was the best meeting I ever attended.

Amazing Foreshadowing:
I would call the teacher. We would decide that tomorrow's content needed to be put on the shelf. A different kind of lesson would be taught. Students would participate.

We'd start small, asking the students about protocols for handling the computers. They'd chime like Gremlins with answers.

"Two hands."
"No food."
"Close the monitor if you leave your seat."
"Keep cords from dangling out of the cart."

We'd tell them that the computers are things and that mistakes happen. We'd tell them about the absent apologies from yesterday. They'd sit silent like guilty creatures sitting at a play.

We'd show them Pausch's lecture. We'd ask them to think about the lessons Professor Pausch teaches. We'd solicit responses at the end of the video.

And they'd say:

"Apologize."
"It has three parts."
"Say sorry, admit fault, ask how to make it better."

And that girl might say:

"I'm sorry for dropping the computer. It was my fault. Is there anything I can do?"

And that would be the best example of content learned.

Ever.