Podcasts about freshman english

The journey to ever after.Based on a post by Senor Longo. Listen to the ► Podcast at Connected.THE FREAK; Part 6; The ConclusionOver the river and through the woods.The roads in this part of the Island are narrow two-lane secondary roads with low speed limits and frequent no-passing zones, but the traffic is typically light. I headed west until I ran into Route 25A. It runs along the North Shore all the way from Queens to Riverhead, the Suffolk County seat. From Riverhead the bungalow was only a half-hour away. There was no driveway so I drove onto the lawn, parking next to Mom's car, just before lunch. Carole and my other sisters ran out to see us and Kelly was excited to see them, as well. All the same, I slipped her leash onto the collar before letting her out. She sniffed Marie and Angela then licked Carole's face as I handed her the leash's handle. She ran off, leading our pet into the house. Barbara was laughing. “Quite a welcome, eh?”“Pretty much what I expected; they've wanted a dog for years, but my mom always said no. Maybe she'll change her mind one of these days.” I leaned across the seat and we kissed. Unfortunately, that was all we'd be able to do over the next week unless we walked down to the beach late at night, maybe for an evening swim. Hmmm, that was a really good idea.I carried our suitcase and Kelly's bed into the house while Barbara handled her food and bowls. I dumped the bottle of water that we'd brought for her onto the lawn after closing up the car. We never locked anything here, not even the front door when we left for the beach or shopping. I dropped everything in what used to be my room while Barbara set up Kelly's bowls in the kitchen.We changed into our suits and walked down to the beach after lunch. Mom was really old-school, insisting that none of us swim for at least an hour after eating even though I had debunked that as an old wives tale for years. Once again, my experiences at the public library had proven fruitful. My research had turned up more than a dozen articles; some scholarly; on the subject and all were contrary to the idea that digesting food could lead to a fatal “stomach cramp.” Barbara and I joked with my sisters as we strolled down the path.Our first trip to the beach had been in late March when the weather was cool. Today the temperature was in the mid-to-high eighties with only a light breeze. It was Barbara's first opportunity to see the beach's real appeal. Looking to the left and right from the bottom of the steps we couldn't see another living soul for almost a mile. The water was glass flat and the tide was coming in. I liked low tide for snorkeling and spear-fishing, but there were lots of rocks; some as big as a foot across only eight to ten feet from shore at low tide. There were only tiny pebbles and sand to walk on at high tide. However, I knew from experience that stepping on those tiny objects would hurt like hell once our feet were wet and the skin was soft. That's why I had told Barbara to wear flip-flops to and from the water.We had just placed the blanket onto the sand when Barbara smiled at me and said, “I can see why you love it here, Jack. I can't believe that the water is so clear and clean.”“It should be exactly like this every day unless the wind shifts and we get a nor'easter. Then the water will be rough and cloudy for a day or two. I'd have to say that high tide will be around four today. That means it will be later at night by the weekend. We can come down after dinner and go for a swim. It's only safe at high tide because of the rocks. Of course, there are other things we could do here on the beach; alone; together; in the dark.”“Imagination; that's only one of the reasons why I love you.” She reached up to kiss me then we walked together into the warm water.We swam out about fifty feet. It was my first chance to see Barbara swim. She'd never make the Olympics, but I thought she was much better than average. We swam and floated and showed our love for each other, getting out of the water only when we began to get cold. Even then I was recruited by Carole to be her diving platform. I lifted her so she could stand on my shoulders, only letting her dive when I knew she was in deep enough water. I stood there helping her for almost twenty minutes before I picked her up and threw her bodily into the water. “J.J.!” She acted as though she was pissed, but we both knew better. A few seconds later she began to laugh and I joined her as Barbara stood to towel me dry.I showed Barbara the rock I had told her about; the one we could dive from once the tide was high enough. We walked there around 3:30, climbing up the rear of the rock and diving off the deeper front then swimming back up its smooth sloped surface. We were on the rock when Barbara asked, “Where is our lot, Jack?”I pointed to a long staircase that ran from almost the top of the bluff to the beach's surface about two hundred feet away. “That staircase belongs to my friend Mike's family. You haven't met him yet, but you will. He's in the Navy now, but he lives there with his mother and grandmother. Anyway, our lot is just to the right of his; figure about 100 feet from the staircase.” I pointed so Barbara could see more clearly. We left the beach at five so we could walk up, and wash at the shower just outside the kitchen window. Once on the concrete base we could wash and dry ourselves without walking grass or dirt into the house.After dinner I suggested we get Carvel for dessert. Not surprisingly, everyone enthusiastically agreed. We closed the doors to keep Kelly inside and everyone piled into the Olds for the fifteen minute ride to Rocky Point. Most of us ordered cones, but Mom insisted that Carole get a cup; she was a slow and sloppy eater. We stood outside, leaning against the car as we joked and enjoyed our treats. It was dark and almost time for Carole to go to bed when we returned to the bungalow. That's when we learned that she would sleep in her sleeping bag in the room with my other sisters. “You deserve to have some privacy, but please remember that my head is only a foot or so from your bed so DO try to keep the noise down.” I laughed, but I could see the twinkle in Barbara's eyes. We turned in early because we had an early appointment with Mark Hanley, my friend's brother-in-law.We drove into Rocky Point again early the following morning to buy some pastries from the local bakery. Their donuts and Danish were great, but my favorite was the fruit ring; a 12-inch Danish crust filled with cherry, blueberry, and pineapple fillings. Everyone loved it so I bought two. We left to meet Mark at 8:50, walking down the hill to our lot.We wore jeans because the lot had yet to be cleared and there was almost certainly going to be a lot of poison ivy. Mark was right on time. We shook hands and walked onto the lot which I knew from the survey was two thirds of an acre; 150 feet by almost 195 with the land sloping up from the road to the top of the bluff. First, we talked about where to locate the house so we'd have a yard in the front and back then we got into the details of what we wanted; a family room and attached two-car garage, living and dining rooms, kitchen, two full bathrooms, and four bedrooms. We also wanted a screened porch in back where we could sit and enjoy the view. “We don't know much about floor plans so we'll leave it to you to come up with some ideas.” He agreed and gave us a few which we incorporated into the drawings he would make for us within the next week.Both Barbara and I had orientation scheduled for the second full week of September so we planned to stay on Long Island for almost all of the week of Labor Day before driving back to Somerville. We'd have the beach entirely to ourselves. The summer season ends on Labor Day which I had always thought was a shame because the weather in September is ideal for the beach and the water is perfectly warm; for Long Island, anyway.Mark phoned three days later, telling us that he had a few books of floor plans and had made a few scale drawings using them as a guide. He came the following morning at ten, spreading several large sheets of graph paper on the table for us to look at. He had given us exactly what we wanted and more. The basement held a two-car garage on the right with a large family room and small kitchenette on one side with a laundry room and lavatory behind a wall on the other. Also there was the oil burner and hot water heater and room for a workshop and storage.Upstairs the house was shaped in a “U” with the dining room, eat-in kitchen, and another lavatory on the left. The center was a large living room with sliding glass doors leading out to the screened porch. The other side held the master suite, three smaller bedrooms, and another full bath. Mark explained that he thought a vaulted ceiling in the living room and master bedroom would be interesting touches if our budget could handle them. He also suggested a tray ceiling in the dining room so we could have a real chandelier.He also showed us a typical colonial house, but commented that we'd have to remove a lot of soil to accommodate it. I thought that was a bad idea and told him so. He agreed, saying, ”I have to show clients a variety of plans and I always list the pro's and con's. You beat me to the punch on that one.” Barbara liked the U-shaped house so we asked him to put together a formal proposal.I remembered to ask about access to the attic, thinking about storage and Mark agreed to add a regular staircase rather than folding stairs near the kitchen to that area, also suggesting that his men place plywood flooring up there to accommodate us. Barbara asked if we could add doors from our bedroom to the screened porch. Mark agreed that would be a good idea. I knew that there would be dozens of additional decisions as the house progressed, but we weren't that far away. He returned the Tuesday after Labor Day with an estimate of $93,000. I wrote a check for $20,000 as a down payment when we signed the contract.Barbara and I took my sisters out for miniature golf and banana splits on Thursday night and on Friday we gave Mom and Dad who had driven out after work the night off by taking them out to the drive-in. It was a family movie; a comedy; that we all enjoyed although Big C fell asleep long before it was over. I carried her into the house around eleven then Barbara, Kelly, and I went for a late night swim.The walk down the path was aided by a flashlight as Kelly capered back and forth in front of us. I knew that I'd have to check her for ticks tomorrow, but that wouldn't take more than half an hour; less with Barbara's help.Once on the beach Barbara came into my open arms for the most passionate kiss of our trip. We'd had sex our first night; oral, a sixty-nine to keep the noise under control. Tonight we'd make glorious love under the moonlight, maybe in the water. That would be a first for both of us.I led my fantastic wife down to the water. The tide was ebbing, but was still high enough to enter the water safely. We had worn our suits, but they dropped to the ground in an instant. Holding hands we walked together into the water as Kelly scampered back and forth, barking, but not getting any deeper than her paws.I began by massaging Barbara's ass as we came together for a long steamy kiss. Her arms were around my neck and her legs around my waist. I moved my hands to massage what I thought were the perfect breasts, knowing that Barbara loved the sensation of my hands on her nipples and areolas. She got down to business by gripping my hard cock and bringing it to her molten tunnel. I was initially concerned about whether she would be lubricated, but my fears were unfounded. She shimmied down my shaft easily, moaning in ecstasy the entire time.Barbara laid back, floating while her legs moved up my torso. I must have been hitting that spot I hit when her legs were over my shoulders. I was driving into her at a brisk pace, but she was moving even faster. I thought it funny at the time that we were making one hell of a wave with every thrust. There was white foam all around us and that's not all. Our every movement resulted in a pale green light coming from the numerous comb jellies in the water.Unlike jellyfish, comb jellies have no stinging cells and, in fact, have no tentacles. They're basically filter feeders on plankton as they drift on the tide. There were probably millions or even billions in Long Island Sound, but unless you actually look for them you'd never know.We went at it furiously for only five minutes until I felt the familiar rumbling and Barbara shook wildly. I knew that she had cum when she screamed at the top of her lungs. The sound bounced off the bluffs probably for miles as I pumped her full of frothy white semen. I lowered her legs and held her tenderly for another ten minutes until she began to laugh. “We are definitely doing this again. I loved it, but I love you even more.” Then she showed it once again by kissing me, her tongue deep into my mouth.The rest of the trip passed quickly as we spent our days at the beach and our evenings entertaining my sisters, our late nights back on the beach making the most incredible; the most fantastic; love with my wife. Dad left early Tuesday morning as he did every week in order to get to work in time to eat some breakfast. We packed Mom's car with the suitcases in the morning and they left just after lunch. Barbara and I were alone except for Kelly as we waved good-bye to my family. We stayed until Thursday morning when I turned the water off, draining it out the hose cock and throwing the circuit breakers to turn off the electricity. Then I double checked the windows and front door before locking up the kitchen door and joining Barbara in the Olds with Kelly in the rear seat.The drive to Orient Point took just over an hour so we were early for our 11:00 reservation. I put the leash on Kelly and walked her near the beach on the side away from the ferry dock. She did her business and I dutifully cleaned up. We returned to the car just as the ferry was pulling in. Ten minutes later we were onboard and sitting on deck in the warm sun, knowing that we'd be in the shade once the boat turned around. We relaxed for the hour-long trip then drove north on I-95; the New England Thruway; all the way to Boston then west to Somerville.Kelly was obviously thrilled to be home. I had just parked in the garage when Barbara led her to the gate that enclosed the back yard. She bolted in, running around the perimeter at a wild pace causing us and our neighbor Paul, two yards away, to laugh wildly. “I'll be over in a few minutes with your mail.” We had just walked into the house when he rang the bell. We thanked him several times, but he just shrugged it off telling us that's what good neighbors do for each other. All the same we thanked him again, shaking hands before he left.We had a great weekend, taking Kelly into Boston for a stroll along the Charles River. We were stopped often by young children who asked if they could pet her. We went through the ritual of having her sit while I held her collar, sniffing the kids' hands, and then the energetic petting. It was great seeing the laughter and joy in the children's faces. Twice kids were afraid until I showed that Kelly would never bite them by pushing my arm into her mouth.Barbara and I made love; frantic monkey love; every night and every morning until Sunday when we spent the entire afternoon in bed, showering right after dinner and setting out our clothes tor Monday morning; the first day of orientation.I personally thought that most of it was a waste of time, but I did find the campus tour helpful as were the placement exams in English, math, and Spanish. I was exempted from Freshman English and from the math requirement. I was placed in Spanish 4 which I thought was appropriate. Barbara told me that she enjoyed her campus tour even though it was quite short. She found the placement exams “challenging.” On the positive side her freshman mixer was on Wednesday night while mine was on Thursday.I was challenged at the door to the gym where the mixer was held because I obviously had no Lesley Student ID. “This is my wife who is a student here. She wants to attend so she can meet some of the other freshmen. However, she is not going without me, just as I will not attend my mixer tomorrow evening without her. Don't worry; I'm not going to cause any trouble.” I pushed my way past him as Barbara and I entered the large open expanse. There was a huge canvas tarp over the gym floor, I assumed to protect the finish of the floor and there were several hundred chairs in a long continuous row all around the perimeter of the room. Canteens with soda and snacks had been set up at both ends of the basketball court.I led Barbara over to the opposite side for no reason other than to keep the entryway clear. We had a seat for a few minutes before getting up to dance. I was reminded of junior high with the boys and girls on opposite sides, neither quite willing to venture into hostile foreign territory so Barbara and I were the only dancers. That was okay with us. I had my hands around her succulent body while she moved into mine as closely as humanly possible.We had danced five slow and two fast dances when Barbara told me she was thirsty. I left her at the seats and walked over to the nearest canteen where I pulled two cold Coke cans from an ice-filled cooler. I saw that Barbara had acquired an admirer as I returned.“I'm flattered, but I'm really not interested.”“You're saying no, but we both know that you really mean yes.”“No, I'm definitely saying no to you. I mean it. Leave me alone. I'm a married woman.” Barbara held up her hand to show her rings.Then I heard her “suitor” respond. “Hey! That's okay; I love married women. There's no substitute for experience.”“That may be, but I think my husband would not approve. Oh, here he is now.”I handed the Cokes over to her as the jerk turned around. I had a scowl on my face as I reached out, taking his shirt and tie in my left hand. “This is your lucky day, little man.” There was terror etched into his face as I lifted him bodily off the floor and for good reason. I was at least eight inches taller and sixty pounds heavier and I was obviously all muscle while he was not. “I promised at the door that I wouldn't cause any trouble so I'm not going to take you apart. You were told no, weren't you? No means she's not interested so a gentleman would just turn around and try somewhere else. There are probably at least a hundred good looking girls here tonight. So, why don't you try your luck with those girls over there?” I pointed to a group of about ten standing about thirty feet away. “It goes without saying that you'll never approach my wife again. I'm right next door at Harvard and I promise I'll hunt you down like a mad dog if I hear even a single complaint from her lips. Do we understand each other?” He nodded quickly.I slowly lowered him to the floor, brushing away the wrinkles I had made in his clothes. Reaching into my pocket I found a ten dollar bill and pushed it into the pocket of his suit. “You'll need to have this suit and shirt cleaned and pressed. Now; get lost!” He did and that was the time I noticed the puddle he'd made. Looking at Barbara I laughed. “I think we need to find some new seats. There's a bit of a mess here.” She laughed, too then handed one of the cans to me. I opened it and took a long pull before leading Barbara away.Barbara waved to two girls who seemed to be walking toward us. “I met them at the tour and again during the placement exams. They're both from Massachusetts.” Barbara introduced me to Darla and Marianne. Even I ha

Ever had an eating disorder? Ever struggled with body issues? You're not alone! Today we talk to best-selling author and teacher, Brooke Heberling. Brooke shares her story of how and why she developed insecurities about her body and what her path to recovery entailed. She also breaks down myths surrounding eating disorders and how we can support those that are struggling with them. Besides being an author and advocate, Brooke has been a Freshman English teacher since graduating from Mississippi State University in 2007. Brooke also chronicled her journey in a fictional format in her best-selling novel Protecting Her Peace that debuted number 1 in its category on Amazon and Kindle. Check out her books here: https://a.co/d/aQJZgKs

Can one person truly make a difference? It's a question that many of us ask as we strive to increase our philanthropic impact. While there's no definitive answer, a quick flip through an old yearbook will likely spark memories of teachers who proved that the impact of a single person can reverberate through the lives of countless individuals. In this episode, Jared Payne, Peter Cook, and I pay heartfelt tribute to one such teacher, Brother Kendall Grant.______________________________________________________Start your Micro-Philanthropy journey today through the free course: https://www.udemy.com/course/micro-philanthropy_paycheck/Password: micro-philanthropy______________________________________________________Watch the podcast on YouTube: https://youtu.be/7sP1uVqSI6A

Alicia and Sarah go back to Freshman English as they discuss the Hulu original film, Rosaline. They discuss elements of satire and look at the film as an example of using alternative views of classic stories to teach students how satire can strengthen and modernize arguments made in the original text. At the end of the discussion, they talk about the things they've been reading, watching, and analyzing outside of the classroom.Literary terms of the week: satire, hyperbole, oxymoron, allegorySign up for the newsletter and follow us on Instagram, Facebook, or Twitter.Music by Craig HarmannCover art by Matt Holman This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit litthinkpodcast.substack.com

Storytellers With a Message  Lorrie Grant https://www.lorriedgrant.com/ ()Have you ever heard your parents or grandparents tell stories of their life and experiences? I have. I was raised by my grandparents for a good part of my life. I still remember sitting on the porch with my grandfather as he would reminisce. I loved those times and I still hold them precious. I share those stories of his and some of my own with my grandchildren (my kids have heard them all before and just roll their eyes now)!  But my grandkids, I wanted to share the stories with them so, perhaps, they might just share them with their children and grandchildren when I'm no longer here. Why am I bringing all of this up? I'm so glad you asked! Our guest today is Lorrie Grant. Lorrie is a natural born story teller! I've read some of her blogs and they are amazing! You get sucked right into the story! Amen! Lorrie is also an author of three published children's books, https://amzn.to/3ot6l8U (“Why is There an Elephant in My Basement?”) https://amzn.to/3otCkWm (“Little White Flies”) and https://amzn.to/3z49pgG (“I Am Beautiful Too.”) She is also a podcast host!  Praise God!  Her podcast is called, http://www.storytellerswithamessage.com/ (“Story Tellers with a Message.”) Amen! My first question I always start with is this. Other than that brief information I just shared, can you tell us in your own words, “Who is Lorrie Grant?” I read on your website that you almost failed Freshman English in college. Is that right? Can you tell us what first led you into writing? When I read that on your website, that reminded me of those times with my grandfather, which is why I opened with those comments. Those really are precious memories. I know you're wanting to pass them on to your children and I think you're onto something with these books. Tell us about the book, https://amzn.to/3ot6l8U (“Why is There an Elephant in My Basement?”)  What is that about? What is the point of the book? What is the take away for your readers? What age group are you targeting with your books and your writing?  Who is it you are writing for? The book, https://amzn.to/3otCkWm (“Little White Flies,”) I've heard of “Little White Lies,” but what is the https://amzn.to/3otCkWm (“Little White Flies”) about? Your book,https://amzn.to/3z49pgG ( “I Am Beautiful Too,”) this is a book about self-image and things like that, correct?  How do you communicate that message with this story? What is coming up next? What books are you working on now? You are also a podcaster!  Tell us about your podcast, http://www.storytellerswithamessage.com/ (“Story Tellers with a Message?”) How long have you been podcasting? What is the format and do you have guests? Lorrie, this is all so interesting. I feel I could talk to you for hours about this stuff. It's really great. Lorrie, this has been great. Where can someone order your books? Are they on Amazon? If someone wanted to get in touch with you, to ask a question or maybe to do an interview like this, how can they do that? How can someone get in touch with you? Folks, as I started this interview, I told you a story about my grandfather telling me stories, and how I have passed them and some of my life stories and experiences down to my kids and grandkids as well. That is what Lorrie Grant has done through her writing and her stories are so insightful and they will make you laugh and say, “Me, too!” to some of them. They really are great and they are very easy to read in just a couple of minutes. I urge you to go to her website and sign up to receive her blog posts. Be sure to check out her podcast by clicking the link below as well. And you most definitely need to order her books. Those links are down below as well. Order copies for your kids, your grandkids, the next door neighbor kids and even for your Sunday School classes. These books are great for reading to a group or individually...

Alternative Lifestyles and BullyingCSE in OREGONSince we are 12 years ahead of Illinois, we know allot more about how this plays our in a public school setting here in Oregon,. Like the 8th grade middle school boy who was sexually harassed by a boy identifying as a girl. When the victim had finally had enough, he raised his voice saying, “Please leave me alone.” The boy identifying as a girl ran to the school office in tears, declaring, “I do not feel safe.” The school asked the victim to write his harasser a letter of apology, and to attend the other high school in the district, further away from his home. And there is more! The following school year the victim attended a school outside his district of residence. Two visitors came to his Freshman English class to talk about a new GSA Club and why others should join. The victim raised his hand and asked to be excused. Thee more students did the same. The teacher responded with an emphatic “NO,” stating she would not allow any bigotry in her classroom. Student club member recruitment is inappropriate during any academic class period. Students have the right to be excused from any instruction they consider is offensive or against their faith. The teacher was out of line. There is definitely a disproportionate amount of attention, and sympathy placed on LGBTQ students. I want to know if the survey was given to the student body at large, and what percentages applied to others representing the heterosexual students. I want to know if the age and maturity levels of those surveyed was taken into account. I know from my own experience raising three children, the accuracy of a survey given to minors is not reliable. And… what about other socio-economic and emotional factors impacting these students lives was not related to their sexuality?Support the show (https://www.parentsrightsined.com/support-the-cause.html)

On this episode, we're joined by Ms. Kretzinger/Mrs.Craig/Kristen. She's our Freshman English teacher and one of the only teachers in Franklin Towne who was brave enough to let us sit next to each other, leading to a 13 year friendship. We talk Franklin Towne days, her transition to a new school and new position, the effect the pandemic had on her, growing up in Northeast Philly, and CBD. It was a great time having her on the podcast, and it's one we really had fun recording and you'll have fun listening to. As always, like, subscribe, rate, and share, wherever you get your podcasts. Enjoy! Instagram: @devinntoughill // @lsr.studios // @_williamgregory // @kristenkret Twitter: @devinntoughill // @studioslsr Support Kristen's passion for CBD at the link below and be sure to give her a follow on Instagram. https://kristenkret.greencompassglobal.com/products --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app

https://astralcodexten.substack.com/p/book-review-sadly-porn I. Freshman English class says all books need a conflict. Man vs. Man, Man vs. Self, whatever. The conflict in Sadly, Porn is Author vs. Reader. The author - the pseudonymous “Edward Teach, MD” - is a spectacular writer. Your exact assessment of his skill will depend on where you draw the line between writing ability and other virtues - but where he's good, he's amazing. Nobody else takes you for quite the same kind of ride. He's also impressively erudite, drawing on the Greek and Latin classics, the Bible, psychoanalytic literature, and all of modern movies and pop culture. Sometimes you read the scholars of two hundred years ago and think “they just don't make those kinds of guys anymore”. They do and Teach is one of them. If you read his old blog, The Last Psychiatrist, you have even more reasons to appreciate him. His expertise in decoding scientific studies and in psychopharmacology helped me a lot as a med student and resident. His political and social commentary was delightfully vicious, but also seemed genuinely aimed at helping his readers become better people. My point is: the author is a multitalented person who I both respect and want to respect. This sets up the conflict.

Welcome the newest member to the book club - Visionary Fiction Author, Rob Springer. Rob's debut novel Organ Pipes of The Soul is 19 years in making. We talk about his publishing journey and why he enjoys writing. If you are looking for your next great read, Organ Pipes of The Soul may be just the gem you are looking for. To learn more about Visionary Fiction: https://visionaryfictionalliance.com/ You can learn more about Rob and purchase his book at https://organpipesofthesoul.com/ More about Rob Springer: I have been writing on and off since high school, eventually getting my BA in English with a creative writing emphasis. But life had other plans and instead of going into teaching, I found work in publishing. Along the way, the Twin Towers fell, my job was shipped to India, and due to that outsourcing, I had a chance to return to school at 62 years old, thus making me a late-life Master of Arts recipient. I wrote a whole new novel for my MA thesis, did more writing than I ever had, and started to teach Freshman English. I find myself at 67 a happily married spouse, a parent, a grandfather of two, and much to my surprise, a Deacon in my church. I have a modest media presence and a modest publication history in four of the volumes of my school's student/faculty publication, University of Indianapolis' Etchings. Meanwhile, this novel kept reminding me not to forget it, and the current pandemic has increased my motivation to get this story out. In my last editing pass, I finally knew I was ready. I hope you are pleased with this story. I hope you find it intriguing. It is meant to be thought-provoking but entertaining. I think you will find it both. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/bright-headed-publishing/message

Thank you for listening to The Liberated Educator Podcast with Dee Lanier and Ken Shelton. In this episode, the phenomenal Nadia Moshtagh Razi joins the CTP conversation covering C: Curriculum Design - Taking a look at having to design an African American Literature course from scratch while critiquing Literary Canon that is absent of black voices and perspectives. P: Power - Acknowledging that teachers have not been trained adequately to understand the history of racism is a challenge to who has the power. T: Technology - The intentional use of Nadia's Hyperdocs, with the support of the HyperDoc girls (Hey Ladies), to create authentic learning experiences around black culture in literature. Nadia Moshtagh Razi teaches Freshman English, African American Literature, and AVID at Foothill High School in Pleasanton, California. She is a SEED (Seeking Educational Equity and Diversity) leader, a level 2 Google Certified Educator, and a blended learning and HyperDoc expert. She has led initiatives throughout her district promoting equitable practices for students of color and LGBTQ+ students and advised the BSU and GSA student clubs. She is a Teach Plus California Senior Policy Fellow, publishing research and legislation on culturally-affirming school environments and teacher diversity. She earned a BA in English Literature and an MEd in Teaching & Learning from the University of California, San Diego.Twitter- @_MsRaziWebsite- NadiaRazi.comHyperdoc Girls  - Lisa Highfill (@lhighfill) Kelly Hilton (@kellyihilton)Kelly Hilton (@kellyihilton)Music - The Musica Hermit 

We talk to Keith  about growing up in Worchester, MA and playing hockey with his brothers at St. Peters high school. His dad was big influence on his hockey development growing up, since he was from Canada. Was spotted by the coaches from Yale and they showed interest in him playing at the school. Bart Giamatti former Commissioner of Major League Baseball was his Freshman English teacher at Yale and helped him become successful at writing.He also discussed  about going to Sweden to play professional hockey. He breaks down the difference playing in a different country and how they coach their players.Keith discusses about coming back to Yale as an assistant coach to Tim Taylor and other great stories about coaching in the NHL as well going back to Sweden to coach at the professional level.

Rosalie Sauceda grew up in San Joaquin County, graduating high school and the Army JROTC program in Manteca, CA. Upon graduation, she enlisted in the Army Reserves in response to the terrorist attacks on 9/11.  She later enrolled in classes at San Jose State University to pursue her bachelor’s degree and a Commission as an Army Officer.  After separating from the military, Rosalie inspired her husband to also leave the military so that they could begin raising their family back in her home community. Since returning, she has earned her teaching credential at the Teacher’s College of San Joaquin, and a Master’s Degree in Educational Entrepreneurship from the University of the Pacific, Benerd School of Education. She currently teaches Freshman English at Lincoln High School in Stockton, CA where she also serves as an advisor to Lincoln High School’s LGBTQ Organization, GSA (Gender and Sexualities Alliance). Thank you so much for joining us today at Educators, Not Robots where we humanize the educational experience. If you like what you hear, please leave us a review on whatever podcast platform you are using. Positive reviews help us reach a wider audience and share these incredible stories of every day teachers.

The Russians are a people who are serious about their rail travel. I began to grasp this point with a certain nuanced clarity as we took the train north. Our car was, to put it modestly, well-appointed. The bathrooms were spacious, nicer than anything I encountered in any building in Russia. It was so clean and inviting I felt inclined to lay down on the floor and take a brief nap inside. I could lock the door, so no one would disturb me.The Russian countryside passed out our window like an old-fashioned movie background circulating on a loop. It was difficult to know what we were looking at except lots of pine trees and a few minor villages interspersed throughout. The foreground pines zipped by, while the background pines lingered in the picture.Upon getting into the city we checked into our new residence, called Cuba Hostel. We were informed that we had not gotten the proper paperwork from our previous hostel (no surprise there). The Russian government likes to keep tabs on the lodging arrangements of tourists. We had apparently failed to register with the appropriate authorities. Once you move on from your initial residence, you cannot gain this paperwork. This was a little disconcerting given that we were going to skip around from hostel to hostel every two days or so for next few weeks. The girls at the front desk gave us a slight reprimand but told us that it wouldn’t necessarily be a problem. Surely we weren’t the only World Cup tourists who had the misfortune of initially lodging with a Russian host who couldn’t be bothered to fill out the correct paperwork.We spent that first afternoon wandering from pub to pub watching the games. Our first stop was at the bar next door to our hostel, where we ordered Chicken Kiev with a Kasteel Rouge. We were gratified to discover that every entrée comes with a gratis shot of whiskey—a practice which should no doubt be more widely adopted. Argentina and Iceland played to a tie. We made friends with the Iranians sitting next to us. We also became friends with the drunk Germans, though it wouldn’t be accurate to say we made friends because a drunk German typically considers anyone close enough to share a Prost or two as a natural alliance. We decided to move to another bar for the next game. We ended up underground in a sweaty “traditional English” pub. Every room in St. Petersburg boasts a mysteriously higher level of humidity than the world outside. The best outcome is a bit of additional moisture, the worst outcome is the scent of warm cheese and Russian body odor. We sat at a table with some Americans, from the midwest, who had spent the last four years teaching in Korea and Shanghai. As we left, we nodded goodbye to the Socceroos behind us.Aussie #1: “Go Australia!”“That’s right, mate!” I replied in a good natured, moderately drunken spirit.Aussie #2, obviously a very clever lad: “Good luck to USA in the tournament. Oh, wait…”To which I replied, “Good luck remaining influential in world politics.”Oh, wait.We went out to get a feel for St. Petersburg. If Moscow is arrayed as nested circles, then St. Petersburg is arranged as intersecting lines. Moscow’s center of gravity is Red Square, and everything emanates out from it. St. Petersburg features a number of main drags along which the prominent landmarks are scattered. We walked now along one of the most touristed main drags, then up toward the Church of Savior on Spilled Blood. The extravagant architectural sensibilities that produced St. Basil’s Cathedral—the one topped with exotic sour cream and dumplings—are more prominent in St. Petersburg than they are in Moscow, as Spilled Blood attests. It isn’t nearly as dire as it sounds. Though less celebrated than St. Basil’s, it is every bit as enchanting. It’s a church conceived by Pixar animators, with improbable spires plopped upon decadent columns. A magnificent, blood red brick structure festooned with elaborate dashes of color. It is a curious mix of eastern and western, resisting easy categorization—just like Russia itself. We stood for a few moments to take in it.The church was situated right next to the FIFA Fan Zone, which we went to investigate afterward. The Fan Zone was a large concrete swath of city set aside for fans to watch the game. They served beer there, as well as some game food. The most that it had to recommend it was that the television screen was large, the alcohol was attainable, and the venue was public. It was exclusively standing room. None of these were inducement enough for us to hang out around. So we retired for the evening.We awoke the next morning at 5am with the sun high overhead and spilling into our room. We heard the sound of partying on the streets, straining to perpetuate the festivities in transition from the wee hours to more substantial ones. There were chants in Spanish. We heard someone york in the bathroom adjacent to our room. Then we fell back asleep.When we had risen for the day we set off for St. Petersburg’s ethnography museum. We found it on a street several removed from one of the cities main arteries. We were the only people on the block. Thinking the museum might be closed, we approached its vast wooden doors, standing ten feet high, and tugged on them experimentally. They opened in an empty room with high ceilings, at least three stories tall. We walked over to the ticket booth. No one in line. I cheerfully engaged the ticket clerk, testing how far English would get me if I delivered it with a gracious smile. The lady, however, seemed indifferent to whether or not a warm body found its way into the museum. She mechanically slid us a ticket and a map, then we went to explore the exhibits.The display gave accounts of the various indigenous ethnic groups of the former Russian empire: Moldovan, Ukranian, Belarussian, etc. Each display featured a tidy alcove of life-sized figurines engaged in activities, such as fishing or weaving. Importantly, the figurines were not intended to be representations of what the people looked like—with ungainly carvings and over-exaggerated features—but just to give the feeling that a scene was taking place, with a person and an action. Each display had a wall of labeled paraphernalia germane to the societies in which the peoples lived. The displays were clearly put together with great care and admiration for their subjects. The little old ladies monitoring the exhibits, unlike most museum security, seemed like they would have responded with passion and knowledge if you had asked them about the exhibit they oversaw. Of course we couldn’t because we didn’t speak Russian. The exhibits were labeled in Russian, so we were unable to understand the specifics of them. We discovered a stash of laminated cards explaining what we were looking at, but we were disappointed to find that they too were in Russian. One of the monitors observed us looking over the card and explained to us, in Russian, something lengthy and involved that amounted to the effect of “Put the card back when you’re done.”We were unable to learn all that much about the indigenous peoples of Russia, except that they were more various than we might have supposed. But it was clear from the exhibits that each of these people groups, along with the contemporary brand of Russians, were a people who payed exquisite attention to detail. Their traditional garbs without exception were complex and ornately decorated, as if they had had all winter with nothing to do but spend it sewing and had used that time productively. Whoever constructed the exhibits shared the same keenness for nuance as the people depicted. My favorite were the dioramas. These weren’t your elementary schools constructions in a cardboard box. These were fantastic beyond anything I could have ever imagined a diorama to be. They were built in such a way as to convey the appearance of linear perspective. In a typical diorama, the figures in a scene are all the same size, and looking over it as a being of larger magnitude, you have the privileged perspective to view the scene as God would, everything all at once uncommitted to any particular vantage point. This description is merely factual and does nothing to give you the sense of how much goes into executing such an effect in three dimensions. Not so with these displays. One diorama showed a seamstress workshop. The sewing stations in the back were smaller than those in the front, like they would be in an oil painting, giving the scene an appearance of depth. I was hugely impressed.Another of the dioramas was of an entire town. Every detail was carefully implemented, all the way down to the texture of the thatched roofs. I got the feeling that I was seeing the same pride in the presentation of a model city that I had observed in the presentation of a real one in Moscow.My one regret from the museum was that I got the feeling that I was looking at a varied and diverse set of people groups, but I was unable to distinguish between them. I couldn’t even contextualize them geographically, because I couldn’t read the inscriptions. They didn’t have maps, either, which would’ve been a big help. Even with that in mind, it was a delightful showcase of, in the words of the museum’s introductory video, the “universal and synchronism of culture of the Russian empire.”We were ready for a coffee break and presently found a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop on our walk back toward the main drag. I got a cup of coffee and a donut. It is well known that Europeans give Americans s**t for their croissants. And they’re right. Americans just don’t have the wherewithal to make croissants like Europeans do. I don’t care how good the bakery is. They’re not gonna make a croissant like you could get at even a mediocre boulangerie in Paris. What is less well recognized is that a symmetrical inability applies to Europeans attempting to make donuts. They just don’t get it. The proper execution of a donut is beyond them. Just as Americans don’t have the proper cultural legacy to do a croissant with that je nais se quoi, it’s not within the cultural repertoire of Europeans to get the significant details of a donut correct—from the springiness of the dough, to the proper surface tension when you bite into the epidermis, to a committed distinction between cake and raised donuts, to icing that doesn’t immediately call to mind molten plastic that is in the process of setting. Europeans couldn’t make a donut that competes with even a meager offering from Dunkin. This was, at any rate, the theory I emphatically related to Haily as I scarfed down my donut.Caffeinated and reveling in cultural superiority we made our way to the Fabergé museum. I must admit I didn’t expect much from a gallery whose most celebrated attraction is a collection of nine eggs. Big deal, right? But as soon as we walked in I was struck by a feeling of recognition. This was the same love of ornateness and convolution that had inspired the exhibits in the ethnography museum. Whereas the indigenous Russians developed complex ornamental clothing, the imperial Russians developed complex ornamental eggs. If the Moldovans or the Ukranians had had the proper equipment, no doubt they would’ve been churning out fantastic eggs all winter long. These eggs were the centerpiece of the collection, obviously—colored in glowing azures and low-on-the-horizon sunset, studded with diamonds and other baubles that made you comprehend why these ornaments are so expensive. They looked substantial enough that if you tried to pick them up your hand would immediately be pinned to the floor, like a mortal attempting to wield Thor’s hammer. They were ornate without giving the impression of being overly busy. Nothing was superfluous; if one pattern were removed, it would feel like it’s missing something. Even the rooms that housed the eggs were spectacular: gold-laced fenestration, moulding that commanded attention, and a chandelier that was, well, one big ass chandelier, which is the only thing that can separate one chandelier from another in my mind. The museum featured more than eggs, too. One case was filled with tea sets that would make Queen Elizabeth blush. This all felt like the logical extension of what we’d previously seen, and it was superbly satisfying.Now it was time for a drink. We repaired to a bar which we had identified as suitable establishment for day drinking (it was about 2:30). We were the only customers. We like being the only customers. Partially, it's about service. We don’t want to wait. Nor do we want to compete for the bartender’s attention. But we also like to get to know the person making our drinks behind the bar. That’s the difference between a chef and a bartender. The position of a chef is not customer-facing. A bartender plies her craft in the open. But these bartenders—Russian bartenders—were there solely to conduct business. They had no interest in banter or introductory dialogue, as is customary in America. Our relationship was transactional—what do you want? I’ll get it for you. You drink it. That’s it. We’d hoped instead that we might’ve made friends with the gentlemen before their shifts began in earnest and knocked back a couple convivial shots of vodka initially at our behest, then a round on the house, as a sort of celebration of a life and all that it has to offer. Alas.That night we went to the Fan Zone again. This time for the Mexico versus Germany game. Now the Moroccans and the Egyptians were out en masse. Both of these groups endeared themselves to us throughout our time in St. Petersburg. In the case of the Moroccans, you could not possibly imagine a friendlier group of people. I went around the city in my Portuguese Ronaldo jersey. The Portuguese and the Moroccans were slated to play one another the following week. Seeing my jersey, dozens of Moroccans came up to me and asked to take a picture. We may be adversaries tomorrow but today we are comrades, drawn together by the mutual respect inherent in a competition. It is an amazing sight of the World Cup to see people representing different cultures taking pictures together and acting in a congenial manner expressly because they come from opposing factions. The world can use as much of that as it can get, wouldn’t you say? The Egyptians, for their part, are very good at cheering. I didn’t meet a single North African who wasn’t a remarkably warm and agreeable person.Afterwards we went to Orthodox, the preeminent craft cocktail venue of St. Petersburg. Orthodox specializes in traditional Russian alcoholic beverages. We sampled Polugar (the Russian national drink, also known as "bread wine"), Chacha (a type of brandy, also know as "grape vodka"; Russians don't have command over an especially large array of alcoholic templates), and Khrenovukha (vodka made from horseradish root; this one infused with wasabi). Each of these base spirits was paired with a unique flavor profile, such as sea buckthorn. Afterward our stomaches felt as if they’d been experimented on by a Russian chemist. We felt finally felt culturally grounded in Russia.On our way back to the hostel, staggering jauntily through the streets of St. Petersburg, we stopped for funnel cake. Vendors are scattered throughout the streets of the city selling these absurdly delicious treats. The essential idea is to take dough, and wrap it around a tube which looks more or less like what you'd use to repaint your living room. Then you cook it on a wall of spits. After that, douse it in something sweet, like cinnamon sugar. Happiness ensues. While waiting for funnel cake, we chatted up some Moroccans. I can't honestly remember what they said, but I can tell you they were, as always, very nice.Crossing the street in Russia is like crossing Las Vegas Boulevard. The destination might only be 20 yards away, but it could take you 45 minutes to get there. It seemed we spent whole days waiting at walk signals.We walked to the Hermitage, which is known as a building of historical significance in St. Petersburg. What is less known is that it is also the world’s largest and most well-appointed doll house. It looks as if the architect was inspired by the finest playhouses available to young girls in 1950s America. It is so big that it is impossible to take in the whole façade in one view. It is also painted teal. Specifically, it’s the teal that a thirteen-year-old girl chooses when she’s bored of whatever the original color of her room was. It is a grand, feminine, and slightly surreal building.We made the long walk across the city's main bridge. It was hot enough to set brownie batter. After wandering streets that felt increasingly suburban, we chanced upon a vast, open compound. The compound, it turned out, was something of a lost and found bin of monuments and attractions. My favorite was a series of still shots celebrating Putin's presidency. They were printed out on posters the size of a large television. Each depicted a memorable moment of Putin’s term. Some of the events seemed significant, such as Putin gravely signing a document, German chancellor Angela Merkel nodding approvingly in the background. Other events commemorated seemed significant but in a different way. Take for instance a shot of ol' Vlad riding a horse bare-chested exposing the fleshy expanse of his upper body. It looked like someone had taken the kinds of pictures that a normal person would post on social media and printed them out and stuck them in the ground at the entrance to this fortress. I loved it.Among the other attractions on the premises was a tall and pointy church, several remarkable statues of giant, human-sized rabbits, like something out of Alice in Wonderland, a world-record-holding bug, and an exhibit on King Tut. We were unable to figure out what was remarkable about the bug, other than it certainly was a doozie.Then we went to the State Museum of Russian political history. Russian museums in general have the delightful benefit of being astonishingly cheap and of commendably high quality. They do on the other hand tend to have the drawback of being almost entirely in Russian. This is not especially helpful if this is not a language over which you have a solid command. They feature lots of details, not a lot of narrative. What was clear was that Russians have for most of their history been at the mercy—or lack thereof—of their rulers.Sated on Russian history, we made our back toward the city center. At length we passed a bus with the slogan for the Egyptian national team: “When you say Pharoahs, the world must get up and listen.”Oh, must they?The thing is, I’m sure this makes perfect sense in Arabic. Unfortunately it’s quite unsuitable for English. I think this is something that we tend to forget about unless expressly reminded of—just how differently sentiments can be expressed in different languages. Only when we are faced with the problem of translation (which we rarely are) does it become apparent. That being said, most World Cup national slogans are stupid, or at the very least lack wit.Poland’s for instance is, “Go Poland!” That must’ve required a lot of thought.But at least it’s a coherent thesis. Some countries are just not to be trusted in this respect. Consider Australia’s in 2014: "Socceroos: Hopping Our Way Into History!" Maybe it's best not to indulge the creative itch for sloganeering, if that’s not your strong suit.Here’s one that’s not so terrible, Senegal in 2018: “IMPOSSIBLE IS NOT SENEGALESE.” (Note that it’s not uncommon for teams to opt for all caps, presumably because it’s a more intimidating way of delivering the content than simply stating one’s slogan.) However, the slogan becomes a bit more suspect in light of the 2014 French motto: "Impossible Is Not A French Word.” See any similarities? Maybe the French wiped out the notion of impossibility during their colonial rule, who’s to say.Here’s a couple good ones from 2010. Denmark’s rather provocative claim: "All you need is a Danish team and a dream.” New Zealand’s rather casual: “Kickin’ it Kiwi style.”In the evening we set off to find an appropriate venue to watch the Belgium game. We stumbled upon a Belgian brasserie. We poked our head in and were disappointed to find that the establishment was full. Then a table in the back noticed my Belgium jersey and beckoned us over. We graciously joined them. The occupants were Belgian Moroccans, or Moroccan Belgians—at any rate ethnic Moroccans who lived in Belgium.“You Belgian?” asked one of them.“No,” I replied. They eyed me suspiciously.“Why Belgium?”I didn’t have a particularly strong answer to this.One of the Moroccans was a drinker, loud and emphatic. He pounded the table when an opportunity was missed by the Belgian national team. His friend, not a drinker, was stolid and gestured for his compatriot to calm the hell down. The non-drinker didn’t have a strong command of English. We made a brief attempt at an exchange in Spanish, and then in Dutch, both of which were more successful. It’s a rare moment on planet earth that someone is worse at English than I am at those languages. But there you are.After the game we went in search of further drink, unconstrained by association with the European lowlands. We found our way into an alley in which we had identified a cozy bar of interest the night before. We had declined to stay then since it didn’t have a TV to watch soccer. We took a couple seat along the back wall. The bar counter was three sides of a rectangle, each face with three or four seats. There were about half a dozen seats along the back wall. It was intimate. You could listen in to any conversation in the establishment if you were so inclined. Everyone there was Russia. No English menu, either. The bartender suggested some local fare: a Moscow Mule and a White Russian. We declined those offers. We managed two negotiate a couple mystery drinks—whatever the bartender found himself into at the time. We got the drinks. They were served high in sugar content, in accord with Russian preference. News spread through the bar that we were Americans. One of the men sitting at the bar leaned over to me. “My friend Roman wants to know," he asked, as if soliciting an illicit substance. "Why Belgium?”The cocktails frankly were not good but the people were and that’s just as well. That’s really the most that I can tell you because my notes from the night were not that helpful and my memories were not well retained in any more natural form. When a couple spots opened up at the bar we moved over to sit next to everyone else. We did eventually order a couple White Russians. It's a delicious drink, really. The barkeep served us another dealer’s choice, this time a Sambuca and cream (our new friends were not sophisticated palates).We saw the bartender serve a set of shots to another group of patrons. They were in vials. The set included a dozen shots in total. We ordered a round. We liked the look of it—real Russian chemistry—but it was far too much for us. We were pretty knackered at this point. So we shared with the bar. Needless to say, this act endeared us to the locals. To our left were a couple gentlemen with whom I got along with very nicely. They took a great interest in me. We suspected them to be homosexuals, so I won’t disclose their identities here since the Russian government doesn’t look kindly on that sort of thing. We spent most of the night conversing with them and then also, sitting perpendicular to us at the bar, with Roman and Roman’s friend. I impressed them all with my ability to spell Polugar in Cyrillic.Then we went back to Orthodox. We tried to convince our new friends—those of the unsophisticated palates—to come with us. It was, after all, traditional Russian alcohol. They politely had one drink, exchanged perplexed glances while they thought we weren’t looking, then took off. We ended up making friends with some Belgians. We discussed the Congo and the United Nations, or something like that. They were a very worldly pair. But we were not, suffice to say, in the best state to entertain nuanced political discourse.The previous evening I had filed a request for laundry service with the front desk of our hostel. Judging from her expression, I could not have saddled the young woman at the front desk with a weightier imposition. That morning I asked her if our laundry was done. She told me it wasn’t. “But we saw it in the drier with an hour left last night.” She gave me a pained look to confirm that I was going to make things difficult. The two of us went in search of my clothes. When after a couple minutes we were unable to locate them she sort of shrugged said, “don’t worry.”“I’m not not going to worry,” I told her. “I have no faith in you.”“It’s here,” she said indicating toward the dryer.“But these aren’t my clothes,” I said as I rifled through someone else’s delicates.She disappeared for a moment to do something else. I couldn’t tell what. I stood there and researched places I had already searched a couple times. She came back. “Don’t worry,” she repeated. “In here.”Then she reached into the dryer and pulled out a drawstring bag, which upon inspection was full of our clothes. This seems like it might perhaps have been worth mentioning at the outset.Laundry progress verified, we presented ourselves next at Kazan Cathedral. This is the most notable cathedral in St. Petersburg. It take up an entire city block, in two directions. Most of the building is a series of extended wings supported by columns, as if designed for a raised air strip, rather than a sanctuary. Entering the cathedral, you’re not struck with the same gravity that often comes with these kinds of churches. The difference is that Kazan feels that it has been preserved in a way other cathedrals are not. It is like walking into a living room where all of the furniture is covered in plastic. Everything might as well be covered in Saran wrap. The interior showed the same commitment to detail as every other cultural landmark in Russia. A long queue formed to offer a prayer in front of a small picture of Jesus. It seemed an extremely individualized experience. The visages of saints and important people in portraits hanging on the wall were noticeably different than they are in Catholic or Protestant traditions. There's something slightly unorthodox about Russian orthodoxy.Our main attraction for the day was a museum called the Kunst Kamera, the main anthropological museum of St. Petersburg. It proved difficult to enter. When we approached it from a main street, there was a small door marked “group entrance.” There was no one coming in or out, and it was too undistinguished of an entrance for such a large and significant building. We followed the building around down a side street. There was another, more conspicuous entrance. It too was labeled “group entrance.” We weren’t sure if the entrance was designed for us or for buses full of Russian school children. The queue was only a half dozen people or so, but they were lined up outside of the building waiting to get in so there were no officials to ask. We didn’t want to wait in line only to find that we didn’t qualify as a group. So we continued to walk around another side of the building down an even smaller street—a back alley, really. We found a small door marked “exit.” I’m not sure why it seemed to us that an exit was more promising than either of the entrances we’d found, but I think we were tired of inspecting doors. We tried it. The door opened, and we entered. At least that way we’d be inside.We wandered all the way through the lower level of the museum by the restrooms and the coat check only to eventually find our way back to the second “group entrance” we’d come across. This was what the people outside had been waiting to get into. We inquired with the guard, thinking it might be possible to sneak out through this door and join the line outside. Of course, it wasn’t. This was an entrance and therefore it is not in its nature to be utilized as an exit. So we walked back through the museum, back down the alley, and onto the side street. By the time we got back to the appropriate entrance the line was several dozen people long.The Kunst Kamera’s take on “anthropology” was more like a sort of human zoo or natural history museum. Each wing considered a different geographical area, and behind the glass of each case was a different tribe or people group. It was similar to the ethnography museum featuring the indigenous people of Russia in the contents of its displays, but it lacked the obvious sense of respect and admiration for its subjects. There were plastic life-sized figurines of people with exotic features and brown skin. Tools and primitive implements were arranged on the wall. It all had the feel of “isn’t this a curious specimen of a savage?” Not a good look for anthropology.Granted, material culture is difficult to interpret out of context (“What do you supposed they did with this baseball bat looking thing?”). But it really wasn’t put together in any compelling manner. The overall thesis of the museum was, “There are a great many places in the world and in each one of them the people make objects of various forms and complexions.” Not a terribly interesting or nuanced insight. It was like looking at a pile of bones and with an inscription that says, “Together these bones make a dinosaur. Use your imagination.” You don’t actually learn anything about the dinosaur from taking a casual look over an unstructured collection of femurs and teeth. It’s the same problem as a “Great Books” course you’d take in Freshman English. Yes, the collection is impressive. But it’s not about anything in particular. Really the only thing it successfully conveys is to exoticize the groups of people it features. It was heavily populated by tourists, too.I’d heard tell that there was an exceptionally peculiar exhibit in the museum but wasn’t availed of any details. I hadn’t thought much about it when I entered a wing innocuously labeled “First Scientific Collections.” I entered unaware. Before I could make note of the collection my attention was arrested by a thud and then an emerging circle of onlookers. A young girl, maybe thirteen or so, had just fainted. She was blond. Her mother was able to collect her off the floor and usher her into a chair by the window. A museum attendant came over to see if she was alright. I looked on at the excitement with interest. At first I didn’t actually associate the fainting with the display. I just figured that the girl had a condition in which she just keeled over from time to time. Or maybe she was eminently hung over. Who knows?But then I looked at the case that had temporarily relieved her of conscious bodily control. It was an exhibit featuring deformed fetuses, preserved in formaldehyde. I looked around and saw that the room was full of shelves with dead babies in jars, each with some striking defect, such as a comprehensive absence of limbs, or six eyes, or a hand where its ear is supposed to be. I would like to report that it’s not the single most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen. But I can’t. It was the single most disturbing thing I've ever seen. However the Russians and the tourists alike seemed unmoved. They looked on with a certain detached curiosity, as if they were staring at a collection of exotic flowers rather than pickled dead babies. “Tasteless” seems like a harsh critique for a venerable institution such as the Kunst Kamera. But the presence of judicious and thoughtful presentation by the museum’s curators was very hard to detect.And with that imagery to contemplate, we took leave of St. Petersburg and boarded a night train bound for Moscow.Next Episode:Thanks for checking out Season 1 of Notes from the Field. If you’ve enjoyed it, please consider becoming a premium subscriber. I’m trying to do more of this kind of travel writing in the future. But as you can imagine, it’s hard to have these kinds of experiences while also holding down a job. Your subscription goes a long way toward helping me to do that. Use the link below, and you’ll get 50% off an annual subscription. Thanks! This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit codykommers.substack.com/subscribe

TITLE Influence Comes From Service; I Just Need To Show Up And Be Myself GUEST Azul Terronez EPISODE OVERVIEW Author, Podcaster and Book Whisperer, Azul Terronez, was afraid to write a book.  He talks about not being good at reading and writing, and flunking freshman English at UCLA; he later learned he has dyslexia.  He’s helped authors who have become international best sellers, and he has a TEDx talk called What Makes a Good Teacher that has over 1.6 million views. Azul names his superpowers, which are traits of being Highly Sensitve—oberserving, connecting, listening & accepting. He discovers during this episode that he thinks he may be a Highly Sensitive Person. HIGHLIGHTS Azul loved telling stories, and he wanted to be a writer, but his teachers discouraged him because he wasn’t good at reading or writing Azul found out in his late 20’s he had dyslexia Azul flunked Freshman English at UCLA He became an English teacher (but didn’t have a degree in teaching) Azul could see words and how they work Although he wanted to write a book, he didn’t have access to a publisher and he believed he wasn’t good enough Azul taught his students how to publish books A student asked Azul where was his book, but he had been too afraid to write a book Azul signed up for Pat Flynn & Chris Ducker’s 1 Day Breakthrough Workshop, but had no book or anything to show he had a business He decided to write a book in 30 days (the workshop was a little over 30 days away) Azul wondered Can I make a living outside of being a teacher? Azul wrote the book The Art of Apprenticeship and sent it to a publisher the day before the workshop Azul became a principal and an administrator, but it was difficult because he had to emotionally manage adults If I play a role, I can be successful I could be very strong, but I felt isolated I felt supported, but distant I found the language to describe my experience I would feel so much It helped me help other people I noticed what I was experiencing Pat Flynn asked Azul to help him write his book, which became an international best seller Azul has been able to live all over the world He has a podcast called Born to Write QUOTES I just need to show up and be myself Influence comes from service I can show up and serve You can be yourself, and I will hold that space for you Acting is what I’m doing in Life. [studying acting in college] This will make me successful I was observant, sensitive, and I paid attention more I had to find the language to describe my experience I bring the story out of people I’m good at thinking ahead and anticipating what people need I helped kids blossom GUEST BIO Azul Terronez has been called a book whisperer  He helps leaders write and publish books that people love so they can create their brand, grow their audience, and increase their influence. His signature coaching program is built around the idea that creating books is about building the conversation that you want to own. Azul is the CEO of Authors Who Lead™ and the host of the top writing podcast Born to Write. His TEDx talk “What Makes a Good Teacher Great” has been viewed over 1.6 million times. Azul’s clients have included Wall Street Bestseller, Pat Flynn from the Smart Passive Income Podcast, Jadah Sellner co-founder Simple Green Smoothies and Dana Malstaff the founder of Boss-mom. He lives in San Juan, Puerto Rico.   PODCAST HOST Patricia Young works with Highly Sensitive People (HSPs) helping them to understand their HSP traits, and turning their perceived shortcomings into superpowers. Patricia is a Licensed Clinical Social Worker, who is passionate about providing education to help HSPs and non-HSPs understand and truly appreciate the amazing gifts they have to offer. Patricia works globally online with HSPs providing coaching. Patricia also facilitates online groups for HSPs that focus on building community and developing skills (identifying your superpowers, boundaries, perfectionism, dealing with conflict, mindfulness, embracing emotions, creating a lifestyle that supports the HSP, communication and more). LINKS Azul’s Links Website: https://authorswholead.com/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SteveAndAzul/ Instagram: @azulterronez Podcast Born to Write--https://coachazul.com/blog/tag/born-to-write-podcast/ Tedx Talk What Makes a Good Teacher Great-- https://mail.google.com/mail/u/1/#inbox/FMfcgxwDrRSjVrwJZgglRJJQvwjxDtsw?projector=1 Dr. Elaine Aron’s website—HSP Self-Test--https://hsperson.com/test/highly-sensitive-test/ Patricia’s Links HSP Online Course--https://unapologeticallysensitive.com/hsp-online-groups/   Website--www.unapologeticallysensitive.com Facebook-- https://www.facebook.com/Unapologetically-Sensitive-2296688923985657/ Facebook group Unapologetically Sensitive-- https://www.facebook.com/groups/2099705880047619/ Instagram-- https://www.instagram.com/unapologeticallysensitive/ Youtube-- https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCOE6fodj7RBdO3Iw0NrAllg/videos?view_as=subscriber e-mail-- unapologeticallysensitive@gmail.com Show hashtag--#unapologeticallysensitive Music-- Gravel Dance by Andy Robinson www.andyrobinson.com

Opening song downloaded in 2006 as podsafe music: DISCLAIMER This bonus episode of CraftLit likely belongs at the end of , but since the inciting incidents didn’t occur for several years, I’m putting it here, but with a warning - language and subject matter are NOT what you will find in the other 475± episodes of CraftLit. This is NOT an episode to have a first-listen with your kids in the car. To that end, I am well aware that there will be parts of this episode that will anger you. If you’ve listened to CraftLit for awhile you’ll know that I often hold information or comments for the end—it’s the theater side of me, wanting to book-end these essays so that they are dramatically and structurally consistent. But I’d be an idiot if I didn’t know you would have responses while you listen. I encourage you to use the recording app on your phone and switch back and forth between listening and responding so you have your thoughts in order. Then, when you’re done, you have the choice to send me the complete file at Heather@CraftLit.com OR you can call our listener line at 1-206-350-1642 and speak your mind. And, finally, You might be expecting me to deal with this topic through the lens of classic literature. With one exception, that will not happen in this episode. This is personal. This is nothing more than my thoughts—a culmination of 31 years of my experiences and thoughts—on this topic. We have faced many characters in complicated relationships where we in the modern world have very different responses regarding issues of consent. are not unknown to us. However, you may wish to hunt down the post by David Wong at (of all places) Cracked.com called . It’s both funny and upset-stomach-inducing—and written by a guy for whom I’d like to buy a drink if he’s ever in Eastern PA. 3:10 Before I begin, there is a transcription of this over at CraftLit.com/476. Included there are links out to everything I mention that is link-to-able. 3:51 Hello, The number of times I’ve been compelled to do something like this could be counted on a hand inside a very nicely knitted mitten, but , and comment threads I’ve been reading have pushed me to try—at least for we sane people—to end it. To begin at the beginning, my husband pointed out a month-or-so ago that every woman he knew had put a #MeToo hashtag on their feed. Sadly, none surprised him. However, he asked why I hadn’t. I was the only one he knew of who could have but didn’t. And I didn’t. 4:30 I mentioned–very briefly–my past a few years back on CraftLit and I left it there. For a long time it had defined part of me, but then I got married, then I had a son, then I was teaching HS the day we were evacuated from the tip of an island off the coast of North America when a plane tried to drop a building on us, then I had another son, then I became a podcaster, an author, a speaker—I outgrew simple definitions. There is nothing simple about the conversation that is swirling around us right now—and I say that as both a #MeToo and as a mother of young men. The mother of some rather justifiably nervous young men. 5:15 When I was teaching HS in NYC I learned something very important that I need to share with you: I knew nothing about being white. I mean, yes, if you’ve heard “Stupid Shit White People Say” you’ve probably laughed–just like me. Ha Ha. I get it. What I mean is I knew nothing about what being white looks like to anyone who isn’t. You might remember the spectacularly biting SNL clip of complete with what happens in the white world when anyone of color leaves the room. It’s hilarious. And it’s not. One of the most revealing conversations I ever had was with a class of recidivist freshmen. These 20 kids were massively in the minority at our very-college-focused NYC Public School. This was not their first time in Freshman English. It might have been their third or fourth, to be honest. Trying to figure out how to get them to want to strengthen their skills was more difficult than any teaching job I’ve had before or since and I probably failed to help at least half of them. But they sure taught me. I was particularly lucky because my students had learned that they could trust me—at least it seemed to believe they could. I sure hoped they could. This was well into my time in NYC and it was also at the height of the people-getting-jumped-for-their-Air-Jordan’s scare and we’d been working our way through annotating a NYTimes article on the topic in preparation for them to practice writing formal letters, like they might have to write to a landlord someday, only we were using a letter to the editor of the paper as a practice run. As we annotated copies and separated fact from opinion (and noted where we’d need more facts to support our claims) one boy made a comment about how there was nothing wrong with jumping someone for their shoes—as long as that someone was white. As the only white person in the room at the time, I asked for clarification. Near as I can recall the conversation went something like this: Me: Wait, what? Student: Well, you know, Miss. I mean, it’s mad wrong for me to jump someone like… Tyrik here (laughter) because I know it’s not like he can just, you know, go out and buy new Jordans. (“awwwwww”s) Me: Okaaaayyy… Student: But…you know, Miss. If you need a new pair, you’ll get a new pair. Me: Wait. Are you telling me that I should be able to buy a new pair of Jordan’s because I’m white? (Laughter) Student: (clearly baffled by my response and the laughter) Um…yeah… Me: George, how much money do you think I make??? Student: (still baffled) I don’t know…like…white people money? Me: (laughing) That’s an income classification? Student: (backpedaling) You know, Miss? Right? Like, you make enough. You can, you know, buy…stuff you want. Me: George, I’m a teacher. We don’t get rich being teachers. We get promised decent health care, and retirement, in exchange for not getting rich—almost enough to pay rent and eat. I’m not rich. Seriously. These shoes I got at Payless. I went on to break down how much I brought home every two weeks and what my monthly expenses were. My disposable money at the end of the month was about $30. The rustling in the room got louder as we worked our way towards that fact—a fact that the students brought up again and again in class when people made assumptions or worked off of stereotypes. 9:20 As different as my life was from George’s view of All White Folks—his understanding of the differences of how white folks live from the people he grew up with in his neighborhood wasn’t that far off. Things I saw our students do that I—at first—thought were SO self-defeating, so working against their best interests — were, often as not, learned survival skills. We had a whole cross section of girls who got to school late every day. Same amount of late Every Day. Why? Their moms and dads both worked, often more than one job and frequently in overlapping shifts which meant one adult was still on the way home from a late shift on public transit early in the morning when the other was leaving for an early shift. But there’s a baby. Baby has to go to daycare. Affordable daycare starts at the same time as school. Solution? The oldest daughter is responsible and she’ll be able to make up the work she misses at her school. Have her take the baby to daycare then go to school. Someone else will pick the baby up so the oldest daughter can stay late and get help, library access, or just a quiet place to study. Win-win. But it took several years for me to learn that. All the kids knew how it worked. One girl was shocked I’d needed to ask her, because duh, of course that’s what was going on. Opening the door and coming into class late wasn’t anything she needed to apologize or make excuses for, because it was just so obvious. Except it wasn’t. To me. Just like I thought wasn’t obvious. 11:18 Just like what published in the NYT about the charges of sexual misconduct about him. H is thoughts weren’t obvious either. It’s not about race. It’s not about beauty. It’s not about sex. It’s not necessarily about gender. It is all about power. 11:49 And even people with power never feel like they are the one in power. There’s always someone richer, better, stronger, meaner, more ruthless, more threatening, better looking than they are. So if you try to have the conversation with them as though they’ve got more power than you they’ll just “what about THAT person” and blow off everything you say. John Oliver did a lovely piece on - which is also known as the . Back to Louis CK. 12:40 I don’t know if, in the maelstrom of sexual predator reveals you read or heard his whole statement, but you should know what he said. All of it. Because I think it should be the gold standard by which we judge responses to this issue. Allow me to give you a smidgen of context for why I believe that. 13:00 In a nutshell, Louis CK struggled on his way up as a standup comedian. A lot. He and Mark Maron have spoken about their enemyship and their friendship and how the difficulties they encountered paralleled each other but how they ultimately found success—albeit in relatively different areas. I guarantee you, if a female comedian heard me say that she would have snorted. Quadruple that snort if she’s a female comedian of color. Because…seriously. It’s just so obvious. Sidestepping that rabbit hole for a moment and going back to Louis CK—it’s important to know that Louis CK - like George Clooney and Samuel L Jackson have famously said – Louis CK didn’t have success handed to him on a silver platter when they were young. He ate his share of cup-o-noodles and did a fair bit of couch surfing is what I’m saying. So If an up-and-coming female comedian had said to him, “Geez, it’s been rough going…” he’d be likely to say—justifiably—“Oh My God, I KNOW. There was this one time when I…” not necessarily as a way of him purposefully dismiss her struggles, but very likely thinking that he’s speaking to an equal or—at least—to someone on her way to being a professional equal. How that convo might have been perceived by the woman he was speaking to would very likely have sounded very different. He learned—the hard way—about power disparities. 15:05 We can learn from him that power disparities are invisible to those in power UNLESS they are given a reason to stop, back up, think, ask questions, sit with it awhile, and then find the cojones to say “mea culpa” and own their error. And we—the rest of the public, the couch-sitting judge and jury to these people’s social falls—we have to learn to allow them to do that. We say that we want people to own it. We say we want people to say they’re sorry, but when they do we’re as likely to attack them for that as we are for them denying everything. And that’s too bad because we know everyone makes mistakes. But it’s very rare that we see people who are actually evil—Goebbels and Himmler and Pol Pot and King Leopold evil—stalk other people to try to ruin their lives. Even the guy who assaulted me wasn’t evil like that. He was a privileged jerk who thought he deserved everything—and that included females—because, my God woman, why WOULDN’T you want him, Right? He had money, he was smart (smart enough to get away with it more than once…until he broke his girlfriend’s collarbone) he (thought he was) good looking…I mean, duh. Anyone who accused him of something that unsavory must just be bitter…or a bitch…or frigid…or a feminist. Because, I mean, who are they going to believe? Right? 16:40 At this point, you need to go listen to Ehren Zigler’s ShakespeareSunday.libsyn.com episode from Nov 12, 2017 entitled: Who Will Believe You? When you’re done, come back and pick up here. 17:10 Welcome back! So what have we learned? Sadly, that not much has changed since 1604, or, more accurately, nothing much has changed since… forever. But that isn’t helpful. Because I’ve raised two wonderful boys, one of whom isn’t unnerved about going to college on his own or of a possible terrorist attack nearly as much as he is of putting a girl in a position where he thinks she wants him to kiss her only to find that he’d misread the situation and is now labeled a predator. And the way things are flying around now, I don’t know that he’s wrong to feel this way. 18:02 If we can’t tell the difference between and adult predator of girls and young women—a predator so well-known that a mall barred his entrance—and a man finally “getting it” and owning what he did wrong, if we can’t respect a man taking ownership of what he did wrong and vowing to try to do better (knowing full well that history has it’s eyes on him) then my son is right. He should be scared—or at least very very nervous. But that’s the wrong lesson we’re supposed to be learning. If theater, TV, and film have taught us anything, it’s that bad things happen when people don’t say what they should say. If real life has taught us anything, it’s that people can get punished for saying the right thing to the wrong person and vice versa. If literature has taught us anything, it’s that we can’t learn, grow, and become better happier people if we don’t listen to Atticus Finch: we need to walk a mile in the other person’s shoes. 16:48 I’ve been talking a lot about Louis CK’s statement, and before I read it to you, I do want to make it clear: I know that for years Louis CK denied all of these allegations. I’m also aware that in Hollywood he has a manager and an agent and it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if, (a) they were male, and (b), if they advised all of their clients who found themselves in situations like this to deny everything. Why? Because it’s been a very, very, effective tactic. Let me read it to you now because you have to hear it—all of it—for this last bit to make sense. I want to address the stories told to The New York Times by five women named Abby, Rebecca, Dana, Julia who felt able to name themselves and one who did not. These stories are true. At the time, I said to myself that what I did was O.K. because I never showed a woman my dick without asking first, which is also true. But what I learned later in life, too late, is that when you have power over another person, asking them to look at your dick isn’t a question. It’s a predicament for them. The power I had over these women is that they admired me. And I wielded that power irresponsibly. I have been remorseful of my actions. And I’ve tried to learn from them. And run from them. Now I’m aware of the extent of the impact of my actions. I learned yesterday the extent to which I left these women who admired me feeling badly about themselves and cautious around other men who would never have put them in that position. I also took advantage of the fact that I was widely admired in my and their community, which disabled them from sharing their story and brought hardship to them when they tried because people who look up to me didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t think that I was doing any of that because my position allowed me not to think about it. There is nothing about this that I forgive myself for. And I have to reconcile it with who I am. Which is nothing compared to the task I left them with. I wish I had reacted to their admiration of me by being a good example to them as a man and given them some guidance as a comedian, including because I admired their work. The hardest regret to live with is what you’ve done to hurt someone else. And I can hardly wrap my head around the scope of hurt I brought on them… I’ve brought pain to my family, my friends, my children and their mother. I have spent my long and lucky career talking and saying anything I want. I will now step back and take a long time to listen. Thank you for reading. 19:25 When I was a kid, Atticus’ lessons seemed simple: I could usually figure out what I needed to, I could find the empathy in me that I needed to, just by imagining myself in someone elses’ position. That still works. Sometimes. But teaching in NYC taught me that imagination wasn’t enough. I had to actually get to know people who at a first—very superficial—glance were so different from me, only to find that our middle class upbringings, our relationships with our loving and supportive parents, our thoughts about love and life and career were all so similar as to be indistinguishable from one another. Until you factored in chances for success. One of my bosses in Hollywood told me a story once. He had an African American best friend in college, he’s Jewish. He laughingly told me how they used to have “woe is me” competitions, racking up all the ways people’s prejudices and unfair treatment had frustrated them. I was young and naïve and I asked who won. He stopped laughing and said, “we ended the competition when my friend pointed out that if the two of us were walking down the street, people might guess I was Jewish…but they knew he was Black.” In competitions like that, no one wins. Not even the people in power. 21:00 One more illustration In 2016 there was an article I read that profiled various voters. One was a tentative Trump supporter in the upper midwest. I’ll call him Frank, for lack of a better memory. He wasn’t comfortable with much about Trump personally, but it was better than what he’d personally experienced from the left. He’d served in a war, he’d come back, he’d gotten a job, he’d raised a family, he paid his taxes, he started his own business. It wasn’t easy, but he worked his tuchus off and got his kids into college—like you do—and then one of his daughters came home from college with a boyfriend. At his own Thanksgiving table, this embodiment of the American dream, Frank, was served a plateful of stereotypes from a 20 year old kid—you must be a bigot, classist, uneducated, small-minded, evangelical, gay-bashing, woman-hating, immigrant-fearing, gun-loving, war-mongering idiot. Frank was, as would many of us be, speechless. And enraged. Here he’d done what he was supposed to do. He started a business. He supported his family. He paid his taxes. He loved his daughters and wanted them to be happy, with bright futures—that’s why did did all the things he did. Not because it was fun. Not because he was following his bliss. Because It Is What You Do when you love your family. JUST like my student’s parents worked many jobs and paid plenty in taxes to provide a home and futures for their families. But Frank didn’t have anyone to yell at—he couldn’t yell at his daughter’s boyfriend—no matter how much the twerp deserved it. because a gentleman doesn’t do something like that. He didn’t have a place to go where he could protest this unfair treatment. He didn’t have anyone to protest against. And yes, there’s no question, Frank didn’t see all of the benefits that being white and male afforded him. Again, to those with less power, his power is very obvious. To him, all he saw was how much work he put into making a good life for his family and his kids. So Frank was unhappy. But he didn’t much like colleges. And he really didn’t much like the Left. And it’s kind of hard to blame him. 26:45 But I can’t help but wish that in moments like that, the Franks of the world could find a way to step back and calmly ask, “Wait, but why? Why do you assume that about me?” And then listen. Because if Frank listened to the Why, there’s a good chance that the more he heard and the more specific his questions got, the more he would expose the flaws in the stereotypes—and the more likely the Twerp would learn something he hasn’t learned at home—respecting your elders has nothing to do with deferring to them. It’s all about listening to them. Everyone does the best they can do with what they’ve got. No one sets out to be a failure or hateful—. And we are—as Madeline L’Engle and and a zillion other authors have noted—are always afraid of the unknown. And that’s where our current situation gets dangerous. Because if we can’t hear the difference between Louis CK’s —excuse the term—manning up to explain his actions and own his mistakes —NOT Yeah, I’m remorseful BECAUSE I GOT CAUGHT - — But if we can’t hear a cogent and serious reflection on how these things can happen and why men simply don’t see it, then we also won’t see the danger inherent in someone who blames the victim (or shockingly blames religious bias) and denies any responsibility for their actions. And that’s the way we perpetuate all of this. 28:35 To be crystal clear: I am not talking about the more clear-cut violent crimes. I am however, pointing out that as long as we talk about sexual harassment and rape and serial pedophilia as though they’re all sex crimes, the longer we’ll be missing the point and not solving the problem - and we’ll have perpetuated a false equivalency. The assault I suffered was a very different kind of crime from the assault survived by one of the young women in a support group I eventually attended. She was attacked getting out of her car, with her laundry basket, in sweats, no makeup, hair piled on her head. She was threatened at knife-point. She was terrorized. Her case seems like a simple and clear-cut criminal assault. She still had people—often official-type people and not just men—ask her if she actually saw the knife. Or imply that she was asking for it—because she was blonde, tan, and pretty. I, of course, have never found sweats and no makeup that appealing, but hey, what do I know? I’m not a rapist. 29:52 The betrayal that she and I felt, at being assaulted, at having our body touched by someone to whom we did not give permission, was the same. The betrayal we experienced at having people who should have believed us who should have been on our side, who should have helped, or should have at the very least, have tried to help us make sure that the perpetrator never hurt anyone like that again—the betrayal we experienced at having people who should have believed us walk away or turn their backs—was the same. The crime itself was different. Which is kind of the point. The chances of the guy who assaulted her being surprised by being accused of rape is pretty slim. You go out of your way to stalk someone, beat them, hold a knife to their throat, tear their clothes, and force them to have sex with you—I think you probably know that’s called rape. I’m talking about the squishier territory. The “I didn’t know” vs the “yeah, well you should’ve known” moments. The places I’ve been talking about where purpose and perception are blurred and power, career, livelihood, and reputation are the elephants in the corners of the room, standing there all but invisible to the person with the power. We have to learn to hear the choked and sometimes heartbroken “I didn’t know” for what it is: the sudden exposure of a power disparity that was always there but largely invisible and a cultural disparity that I’ve never seen explained as well as was done this last week by . 31:48 There is an important lesson, I believe, in watching someone accused of something like this, especially a public figure—with or without proof provided—say, “Oh my God, I don’t remember this, but for God’s sake, begin an ethics investigation, because we can’t just sweep these things under the rug.” There have to be standards. There are norms of behavior we need to respect. Because that kind of behavior—owning your mistake, allowing justice to run its course (with the belief that justice will, in fact, be just)—that is what we teach our children. That is what we tell them the world is like. So we have to act like it, too. Because the kids are watching us. There’s also an important warning in watching someone accused of something like this deny it ever happened, deny video footage, deny responsibility, or, most heinously, blame the victim—because as Louis CK and James Comey both demonstrated this year—the person in power does not think they have an unfair advantage. The person with less power, however, knows it. 33:10 It’s true in economics, it’s true in geopolitical conflict, it’s true throughout history, and it’s true when it comes to interpersonal relationships—those on the lower side of the power scale know a lot more about the higher end than the higher end knows about them. That’s why America strides around the planet like a big teenage bully, not caring—not needing to care—about how it’s perceived. Since WWII America’s had the power. I hope, that when the world shifts away from that, we can lose that bravado and learn how to deal with not being on top gracefully. I might be delusional. But I have to be hopeful because of my sons. 33:54 I don’t know that I can see a way through to a happy ending to the current spate of accusations. I’m not an apologist for the men being accused. I do think there’s a scale of egregiousness, and legality. However. I had a boss who once joked about me wearing a French Maid’s uniform at work. I laughed. I thought it was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. He laughed too, and we had a really spectacular working relationship for nearly three years. Did he ever touch me? Not once. Would he be in serious trouble nowadays for making the French Maid joke. I’m afraid he would be. Even in 1989 he might have been if I’d taken him seriously. But I listened. And I watched him. And I heard that it wasn’t a threat. Or a requirement. It wasn’t even a legitimate or realistic request. It was a joke. No bathrobes were involved. No hotel room meetings—not that there couldn’t have been. This was Hollywood. But I’ve been lucky to work for and with honorable men my whole life. Karmic payback for having crossed paths with a sociopath in college, perhaps. I like to think that I took what happened to me and learned some valuable lessons from it. Like trusting myself to know when it’s time to go without worrying about being told I was spoiling everyone’s fun, trusting my gut to know that what I was walking into was not a safe situation—without worrying that I’d be told I was being hysterical, and by not worrying about being called a bitch if I weeded out backstabbers and betrayers from my life. 35:35 One of the saddest things I’ve heard this year was James Comey’s testimony when he talked about begging the Attorney General to stay in the room—to not leave him alone with the president—because he knew power disparity there was real and he didn’t want to be alone without witnesses in case the President said something that would be either Illegal or putting pressure on him in a way that could lead to things that were illegal. The kind of betrayal James Comey experienced—watching the Attorney General walk out of that room—is exactly the kind of betrayal women have felt when left alone with someone they know is unsafe. It is the closing of the door that is the most terrifying. At that point there is almost nothing you can do to win. Society will label you with one negative no matter which way you come out of that room. You can either be a frigid bitch or you can be a whore. What you can’t be is deaf. 36:45 You can’t be deaf to the same kinds of stories coming from other people in similar situations—both women and men. Atticus would be disappointed. And slut shaming is done by women at least as often as men. Ask my dorm roommates. They got to watch it up close. But we—especially we—women have to be the first one on the scene pointing out that nothing we’ve heard yet—Not One Incident—has been about one person being attracted to someone who Just Wasn’t That Into Him. None of this has been about sexual attraction or chemistry or a date gone bad. It’s been about powerful people knowingly or unknowingly using sex as a threat. The threat is “I get to do what I want to do because I’m the one who controls—or at the very least, can affect—your future.” Some threats like that are completely unknowingly wielded. Because those in power know less about how that power is perceived than the people without the power. There are the unknowing wielders, and then there are the others. But how would a guy know which camp he’s in—really? He’s not a rapist in an alley with a knife. We know those guys are predators. We know they’re the bad guys. These guys are wearing suits! When in a position of power there are few people brave enough to be . Instead, powerful people tend to gravitate to those who agree—or seem to agree—with them until the world they live in shows them in no uncertain terms every hour of every day that everyone wants to do what they want them to do. So if everyone wants what you want them to do, how could kissing or touching this woman who knows you—how could that be any sort of violation? Because obviously, she wanted it. How could she not? 30:31 CraftLit listeners are some of the most amazing people I’ve met in my entire life…. People who care about words meaning what they mean. When we look at the language and rhetoric being used in all of these arguments, debates, and statements, help the people around you to take a step back and look at the language being used. We can tell so much—and in situations like this, that language is the only in-road we have to following Atticus’ advice. Because we probably can’t imagine what it’s like to be Harvey Weinstein. We might not want to even if we could. But is it easy to understand how an overweight, schlubby guy who grew up overweight and schlubby, might see getting anything he wants is payback for years of humiliation and being ignored by women? Looking at the way he defends himself, yeah. I can imagine that that is exactly what’s going through his head. Does it make what he did any less reprehensible? Heck no. The crime is the crime is the crime. A rose by any other name… It just means that solving the problem—helping him come to terms with what the problem is in the first place, is a different conversation. Violence, whether psychological or physical, that involves sex or sexuality, is never about sex or sexuality. It’s about power. And the sooner we can be honest with each other about these kinds of crimes and how we react to them—because our reactions are just as complicated, I would wager, as the reactions of the guys who’ve been outed—the sooner we can heal and move forward. And maybe—if we’re lucky—not see this happen any more. A girl can dream. But mostly, I hope that my friends and colleagues who are raising daughters are raising girls to be able to tell the difference between an honorable young man who does not have their best interests at heart. For the sake of my wonderful, beautiful sons, I hope that, as much as we’ve worked to make them kind, honorable, happy, good people, the same is being done by the fathers and mothers who are raising their daughters. 41:48 Because honorable people, embodied for my entire conscious life by my mother, my father, and Atticus Finch, are people who may be unaware that they’ve done something wrong, but when it’s brought to their attention respond by working to understand what went wrong and correct that wrong in whatever way they can. Dishonorable people are ones who may be unaware they’ve done something wrong, and when it’s brought to their attention—simply don’t care. I think we’ve seen several examples of both types of responses in the past year. And just like me with my students in New York, I didn’t know what I didn’t know about being white—until I had a chance to listen. Until I had someone brave enough to talk to me, honestly, and without anger. I got to be Frank, in a safe place where I was able to ask questions and—because I was safe, and not being attacked—able to hear the answers I was able to hear and understand the “what I should have knowns…because it’s just so obvious.” When it still wasn’t obvious. To me. Back then. Things I couldn’t have seen without help because you just don’t see the same view as everyone else when you’re the one on top. Literature is there to show us how to grow, how to act, and often as not how NOT to act and grow. That is one of the reasons why education, specifically in the humanities, is so vital. These are the reasons I’ve been hosting CraftLit for coming up on 12 years. I promise, on Thursday, December 14th, I’ll be back to sharing inside jokes with you and Dickens and the holiday spirit. But today I thank you for listening. And I hope you know that I’ve given you our call-in number for a reason. I’ve never shied away from reading emails or playing audio from you when you’ve disagreed with me and I won’t do it now. I also know from our long sojourn together that unlike the rest of the internet, CraftLit listeners respond to each other with kindness and compassion—you are my Finch-Family Community. You are the ones who prove to me, over and over again, that the world can be a good and safe and happy place. I know that once again, I’ll point to our online forums as The Only Place on the Internet Where People Still Have Manners When Discussing Difficult Things. Because you always listen. And think. And research. And share. And speak—always with compassion and thought and care. I’ve tried to do the same for you today. I hope I have. I like to believe that classic fiction and the people who love it can help us avoid a world run by or The Commanders in or the assassins in the fourth part of *. I believe—and I will continue to believe—that Humanity can do better than that. I have to believe that. Because like you, I love my children. And I want them, and yours, to have safe and happy lives. (This is the printing I read in school. No idea if it’s better or worse than others. It’s just the one I know) The FUN side of CraftLit returns on December 14, 2017 with the First Day of CraftLit?stories to light the holidays.

Beefcake #11 I'm a cheater. I always have been. I don't actively cheat at this stage of my life, but cheating is definitely inside of me. I have always cut corners and searched for the easy way. I read step one and then step five, if I  understand step five, I continue from there. I behave as if I don't really value education and tend to feel that I won't really have a use for it. It is almost as if the rules don't apply to me. My strategy of not having a plan has not played out according to plan. As it turns out, that dog really does bite. I don't like rules, I never have. I feel confined, intimidated, and frustrated by them. I see rules as authority talking down to me. I don't like being told what to do, and breaking the rules is my way of saying this. Amanda follows the rules. My brother follows the rules. My mom follows the rules. My dad...well, let's move on. My kids follow the rules. And, they seem to make life look easier than I ever did. Recently, Amanda, my mom, and myself were discussing rules and my disdain for them. My mom made the comment, "I have always been a rule follower. I feel as if the rules were designed to keep me safe. I have a respect for them." This really stopped me in my tracks. I have not really thought about rules in this regard. I have not stopped to think exactly why conventional wisdom, is conventional and wise. Rules are generally made by using mistakes of the past to make life easier, not more difficult. I just have always had a hard time seeing where following the rules and doing the work was really going to have a payout. I guess I like having rules, so long as it is only me who breaks them. I don't want to live in a lawless society, because I like being safe. I guess I only really like misbehaving, when everyone else is acting right. It must be the attention I crave. I mean, "what are the chances that I will ever need any of this stuff again?". That has been the focal point of my illogical logic. What are the chances? Well, in fourth grade, I procrastinated in doing my stupid leaf collection until the last minute. The day before it was due, I stole one out of my brother's room that had already been turned in and graded. I was delicately peeling the tape off of the construction paper, so I could transfer the leaf to new paper, with no markings. My mom knocked on the door, and I was busted. I spent the majority of the next morning in a puddle of tears while standing between my mom and my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Bailey, because my mom made me fess up. BTW- I turned out to have a career in landscape. The knowledge of tree identification would have sure been useful. On numerous occasions, I spent more time programming answers into my TI-82 calculator or writing in tiny letters and cramming it into the back slot, than I ever would have if I simply studied for the test. But, nah, I'll cut the corner. I got busted cheating on my health test in ninth grade and caused me and my best friend to have a falling out. I could have studied for it, but I was never gonna need to know anything about health. As it goes, I am co-owner of a business titled, Lift Heavy Run Long. It wouldn't have been the worst thing in the world to know a little about health and how the body works. In college, as the internet was still very, very new, I discovered a website that allowed you to download papers that had already been graded. The papers would show the student's grade received, as well as the teacher's comments. I had an assignment of writing a paper for my Freshman English class, and I was extremely intimidated. I probably spent three hours looking through papers on the cheating website, when I could have written the thing in two hours. I found a grade that was a B-, which was about what I thought the teacher would expect. It turns out, it was a high school paper and it earned me a D+ in college. As luck would have it, I could have used a bit of education in English,

Classroom 2.0 LIVE webinar, Featured Teacher-Tammie Pogue, August 15, 2015. We are so excited to have Tammie on Classroom 2.0 LIVE as our Featured Teacher for the month of August! This will be an excellent opportunity to learn about some of the great ways Tammie is effectively integrating technology into her HS English Language Arts classroom. She will be sharing her current and past experiences along her journey as a teacher focusing on "Tools Old and New for the ELA Classroom". Tammie Pogue teaches English I (all levels). Ms. Pogue has taught for 32 years in independent college preparatory schools in Texas as well as in her native Georgia. She is currently teaching Freshman English at St. John XXIII College Preparatory in Katy, TX. In addition to her secondary experience, she has served as an adjunct professor at Mercer University in Macon, Georgia. She holds a Bachelor’s Degree from West Georgia College and a Master’s Degree from the University of Maine. She was a Summer Fellow at the prestigious Klingenstein Institute of Columbia University and has also been the recipient of a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Humanities. Ms. Pogue was an early adopter of technology in the classroom, and she is currently on the planning board of Classroom 2.0, helping to produce weekly professional development webinars for teachers from around the world.

Classroom 2.0 LIVE webinar, Featured Teacher-Tammie Pogue, August 15, 2015. We are so excited to have Tammie on Classroom 2.0 LIVE as our Featured Teacher for the month of August! This will be an excellent opportunity to learn about some of the great ways Tammie is effectively integrating technology into her HS English Language Arts classroom. She will be sharing her current and past experiences along her journey as a teacher focusing on "Tools Old and New for the ELA Classroom". Tammie Pogue teaches English I (all levels). Ms. Pogue has taught for 32 years in independent college preparatory schools in Texas as well as in her native Georgia. She is currently teaching Freshman English at St. John XXIII College Preparatory in Katy, TX. In addition to her secondary experience, she has served as an adjunct professor at Mercer University in Macon, Georgia. She holds a Bachelor’s Degree from West Georgia College and a Master’s Degree from the University of Maine. She was a Summer Fellow at the prestigious Klingenstein Institute of Columbia University and has also been the recipient of a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Humanities. Ms. Pogue was an early adopter of technology in the classroom, and she is currently on the planning board of Classroom 2.0, helping to produce weekly professional development webinars for teachers from around the world.

  “Today,” I.A. Richards begins his 1936 lectures, rhetoric “is the dreariest and least profitable part of the waste that the unfortunate travel through in Freshman English! So low has Rhetoric sunk that we would do better just to dismiss it to Limbo than to trouble ourselves with it--unless we can find reason for believing that it can become a study that will minister successfully to important needs” (3). this is just what Richards sets out to do in a series of lectures at Bryn Mawr that eventually became the thin book The Philosophy of Rhetoric.   For Richards, a literary scholar by training and one of the founders of the Close REading and New Criticism, rhetoric had been for too long about disputes and argumentation. Instead he proposes that rhetoric should be “a study of misunderstanding and its remedies” and investigation in “How much and in how many ways may good communication differ from bad?” To this end, the proposes a sort of philological rhetoric, one where there is to be “persistent, systematic, detailed inquiry into how words work that will take the place of the discredited subjuect which goes by the name Rhetoric” (23). This description may rankle contemporary rhetoricicans. We like argumentation, and resist the idea that what we should be doing sounds like the very work schoolmarmn sentence diagramming, but Richards recognized that the way words work cannot be divorced from society.   But Ricahrds also broadened the idea of what rhetoric could be--not just strict argumentation, but an exporation of all language. “Perausion is just one of the aims of discourse” he writes. “It poaches on others.” This opens up rhetoric to more than argumentation, and Richards’ focus on words, words, words does not come at the expense of thinking about meaning.   In fact, he derides what he calls the Proper Meaning Superstitution, the fallacious ida that “a word has a meaning of its own (ideally, only one) independent of and controlling its use and purpose for which it should be uttered” (11). Instead “What a word means is the missing parts of the contexts from which it draws its delegated efficacy” (35). It’s all context.   In order to illustrate the importance of context, Richards gives the example of the metaphor, one of the four master tropes. He separates the metaphor into its two parts: the tenor and vehicle. the tenor is the thing behind the metaphor and the vehicle is the means of conveying it. So if I said love is a battlefield, love is the tenor and battlefield is the vehicle. That girl is a firework. girl is tenor, firework is the vehicle. So far so good? So metaphors, Richards says, “may work admirably without our being able with any confidence to say how ti works or what is the ground of the shift.” Richards gives his own, slightly outdated example “If we call some one a pig or a duck, for example, it si little use looking for some actual resemblance toa  pig or a duck as the ground. We do not call someone a duck ro imply that she has a bill and paddles or is good to eat” (117). Little venture into canniblistic imagry there, I.A., but, of course, we call someone a duck becuase they are “charming and delightful”--or we could call someone a duck if we were a little more british. But the duck example highlights that while some metaphors work because of a “direct remblance” between the tenor and the vehicle and sometimes because of a similar attitutude to both--love is like a battlefield because there are similar feelings to being at war and being in love. This all sounds like a lot of poetics, but it demonstrates Richards concern for the very small elements of communication.   Words are vitally important, down to the detail, for Richards. “Words are the meeting points at which regions of experience which can never combine in sensation or intuition, come together. They are the occasion and the means of that growth which is the mind's endless endeavor to order itself. That is why we have language. It is no mere signalling system. It is the instrument of all our distinctively human development, of everything in which we go beyond the other animals." (131)   Ultimately, he envisions a philosophical restructuring of rhetoric were “we may in time learn so much about words that they will tell us how our minds work” (136). Further, he goes on “It seems modest and reasonable to combine these dreams and hope that a patient persistence with the problems of Rhetoric may, while exposing the causes and modes of the misinterpretation  of words, also throw light upon and suggest a remdial discipline for deeper and more grievous disorders; that, as the mall and local errors in our everday misunderstandings with language are models in miniature of the greater errors which disturb the development of our personalities, their study may also show us more about how these large scale disasters may be avoided (136-7). The man who pioneered New Criticism proposes a New Rhetoric beyond argumentation.   for all that, you won’t read much rhetorical scholarship pulling on Richards. Back in 1997, Stuart C Brown pointed out that while most rhetoric students read the Philosophy of Rhetoric, or at least excerpts of it, rhetorical scholars don’t really pay much attention to Richards. Maybe they have a word or two of “faint praise” and ackowledge him as part of our tradition, but they don’t spend much time on him. Brown thinks this is a mistake and that Ricahrds “ established the basic argument for establishing a truly new rhetoric” (219) By acknowledging the multiplicity of meanings, the instabliity of langauge, Richards opens up space for rhetorical interpretation. Brown makes an indepth defense of the value of Richards’ work. But still, 1997 was a long time ago and Richards still hasn’t come to the forefront as a rhetorical influence.   that being said, we’ll get to spend a little more time with Richards, because next week we’re going to talk about Richard’s other major work--the Meaning of Meaning--so get ready to get hipster about your rhetorical theoretians next time on Mere Rhetoric.

Fog Hole Episode 4.75 ( Underground Recap Session ) Written by: Jason Roeseke The conversation concerning our Unsigned artists begins this week with an Freshman English lesson. Who or what is an Epoch? Thank you Wikipedia for explaining that, In the fields of chronology and periodization an epoch is an instant in time chosen as the origin of a particular era. The "epoch" then serves as a reference point from which time is measured. Time measurement units are counted from the epoch so that the date and time of events can be specified unambiguously. With that being said. thanks as well to Hot Fog not only for the great track, but for forcing us all to learn something new. At last we can fully appreciate your song Epoch of the Tyrant. Afterwards the guys talk about the voting snafu that caused Soundrise to be knock from their rightful place a top our Countdown. The song Western Tourture was a perfectly presented masterpiece, and the band should be proud. A special mention for "The Kids of Widney High" before the reviews move forward to Warmachine and their cover, not a cover, maybe a cover. Betrayed. Their ripping vocals, great production, and heavy sound had two judges drooling, but the many borrowed riffs left us all wanting more originality. Then finally we arrive at our Top Two Independents of the month. Chant brought it with a brand new anthem. An electronica assault named Revolt that was wrapped up in the perfect package. Not to be undone. Mutiny Within came with their multi layered track Become. While the judges had their pick, voting was again left to the fans. Thank you to the fans that voted on our Facebook poll question. A winner was chosen and announced in this very episode. As always please support these bands. They are the reason for this project. Also Help us by going to Jarcodes. Thank you for your time. Please come back next month to hear a brand new list of submissions. Jarcodes productions has been supporting the Independent musician for over a year, and with your help will continue to deliver the best original Metal, Rock, Alternative, and Punk sounds. Your feedback as always is crucial to our success and since we are a submission based podcast, We ask of every band and fan out there to help us in the search for new and raw Unsigned talent. Thank you