Do you believe in God? Then believe that I wake up every day and eat the shit outta some oranges. Because that’s reality. Breakfast is crucial. I’m talking spinach, eggs, and if I got some extra, then you know I got some mushrooms. Because I work too hard to not to. Ya feel me? That’s why I last weekend I got my Tercel detailed. Shampooed seats and everything. Because no matter who you think you are, the blind stares of a million pairs of eyes still judge. I don’t care who you think you are. I don’t care if you think you a lawyer. How you gonna be a man in a dirty Tercel?
TEACHER LIFE is a lifestyle. We got stress and character flaws that come from our lifestyle just like any other lifestyle. That's why I got fans in my trunk. I could be the best teacher anybody ever seen if given the chance, the opportunity, the experience, and the lessons from the people. I could be the best. But, right now, I don’t even wish to be the best, I just wanna be one of ‘em.
Now when I came out, I told you this was just about teachers in sweater vests with jobs. Then everybody had to open their mouth with an opinion. Well, this is how we gonna do this:
FORGET TEACHERS IN SWEATER VESTS. FORGET TEACHERS WITH JOBS. AND IF YOU WANNA BE DOWN WITH TEACHERS IN SWEATER VESTS THAT GOT JOBS, THEN FORGET YOU TOO! ALL YOU SWEATER VESTERS, FORGET YOU TOO!
And to all you still not getting it, visualize what you can't see--because you don't know shit about teaching, and you don't know shit about me. I'm a business man. I'm here to make money and bring change. This ain't a game. If this was chess, I'd be yelling "checkmate" three years ago. This is TEACHER LIFE. Tercel drivin' til we die!
Showing posts with label education. Show all posts
Showing posts with label education. Show all posts
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Judgment Day
Tupac believed that only God could judge us. Well, it’s a good thing he’s dead (Pac, not God), because this past weekend I was judging like Greg Mathis let loose on 26th and California, except I was doing it at a speech tournament in the middle of Corn Country. Here’s how it worked: For 10 bucks a round, I—guided by my lackluster credentials and finite widsom—got to decide which speakers would advance to the next stage of life.
My morning started out with a round of informative speeches. Here, I learned about robot fish, a home-made heroin substitute, and how to use of urine as an alternative energy source. As I ranked these speakers, I thought: Yeeeeah, if Pac were here, I’d judge the thug outta him. Then I thought the same thought in Spanish. But then I backed off because I thought Pac’s ghost might rip my face off, write thugmatic poetry on the back of it, and sell it as previously unreleased material.
While my first round of speeches was familiar territory, the next event (in which speakers recited dramatic stories) was completely new to me. Not having any idea of what criteria to evaluate these speakers on, I did what any good judge would do: I acted like I was listening and oathed to myself that I would name my first newborns “Thurgood” and “Ito.”
Next up was the extemperaneous round. Speakers had to prepare a persuasive speech on a topic given to them only 30 minutes prior. Subjects included politics, politics, and the decline of tourism in Portugal—things that I deeply care nothing about.
Today I shared my recent judging experience, provided some insightful observations based on that experience, and demonstrated my unconditional luv for Tupac. The day was also filled with tons of puns and a 2-star hotel, but a judge-l-man never tells all.
My morning started out with a round of informative speeches. Here, I learned about robot fish, a home-made heroin substitute, and how to use of urine as an alternative energy source. As I ranked these speakers, I thought: Yeeeeah, if Pac were here, I’d judge the thug outta him. Then I thought the same thought in Spanish. But then I backed off because I thought Pac’s ghost might rip my face off, write thugmatic poetry on the back of it, and sell it as previously unreleased material.
While my first round of speeches was familiar territory, the next event (in which speakers recited dramatic stories) was completely new to me. Not having any idea of what criteria to evaluate these speakers on, I did what any good judge would do: I acted like I was listening and oathed to myself that I would name my first newborns “Thurgood” and “Ito.”
Next up was the extemperaneous round. Speakers had to prepare a persuasive speech on a topic given to them only 30 minutes prior. Subjects included politics, politics, and the decline of tourism in Portugal—things that I deeply care nothing about.
Today I shared my recent judging experience, provided some insightful observations based on that experience, and demonstrated my unconditional luv for Tupac. The day was also filled with tons of puns and a 2-star hotel, but a judge-l-man never tells all.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Pop Pop for Beginners
In '94 I was listening to a lot of Bone Thugs-n-Harmony. I think everybody was. Between Thuggish Ruggish Bone and Foe tha Love of $ being some of the most requested jams on The Box—and I being 13 years old—it was hard not to.
One of the joys of listening to Bone was trying to figure out what these guys were saying (as anyone who has attempted to transcribe and decode a verse by Bizzy Bone can attest). But one Bone line that did not require an attuned ear was “pop pop.” This one was obvious. Pop pop was the sound of gunshots, as in, “We rippin' them guts with buck shots, pop pop.”
Per George Gerbner, my friends and I adopted pop pop into our everyday communication. We said it when Craig knocked Deebo the fug out, and we used it as trash talk when playing Samurai Showdown. For us, this phrase functioned not so much as the sound of a firearm but as the ultimate synonym for "in yo face!"
Over time, my use of pop pop faded. High school, college, marathons. All pop pop-less.
Years later, in grad school and in need a break from reading about Derrida (who, like Bizzy, requires a lot of decoding), I threw on some Bone, as those who need breaks from Derrida often do. The voices of Krazie, Lazie, Bizzy, Wish, and Flesh took me back to my adolescence—a time when I read comic books that were not about philosophers.
With Bone back in my life, the Bone-izms returned.
“What’s that?” Marj asked, referring to the two-count slap as we drove over a speed bump.
“It’s my antenna hitting the roof. Pop pop.”
Moral of the story? Language changes. The word "awful" was once favorable. Pop pop used to be rap lyric gunshot—now, it’s one of Derrida’s undecidables. People use it to describe sounds their cars make (ok, I use it to describe sounds my car makes), and cereals use it as their last line of defense. Pop pop is both accurate and un-accurate*, and neither accurate nor un-accurate, at the same time, both in the shower and out.
*Un-accurate is a Meta term. If Derrida is allowed to make up words, so am I. Pop pop, Jacques.
One of the joys of listening to Bone was trying to figure out what these guys were saying (as anyone who has attempted to transcribe and decode a verse by Bizzy Bone can attest). But one Bone line that did not require an attuned ear was “pop pop.” This one was obvious. Pop pop was the sound of gunshots, as in, “We rippin' them guts with buck shots, pop pop.”
Per George Gerbner, my friends and I adopted pop pop into our everyday communication. We said it when Craig knocked Deebo the fug out, and we used it as trash talk when playing Samurai Showdown. For us, this phrase functioned not so much as the sound of a firearm but as the ultimate synonym for "in yo face!"
Over time, my use of pop pop faded. High school, college, marathons. All pop pop-less.
Years later, in grad school and in need a break from reading about Derrida (who, like Bizzy, requires a lot of decoding), I threw on some Bone, as those who need breaks from Derrida often do. The voices of Krazie, Lazie, Bizzy, Wish, and Flesh took me back to my adolescence—a time when I read comic books that were not about philosophers.
With Bone back in my life, the Bone-izms returned.
“What’s that?” Marj asked, referring to the two-count slap as we drove over a speed bump.
“It’s my antenna hitting the roof. Pop pop.”
Moral of the story? Language changes. The word "awful" was once favorable. Pop pop used to be rap lyric gunshot—now, it’s one of Derrida’s undecidables. People use it to describe sounds their cars make (ok, I use it to describe sounds my car makes), and cereals use it as their last line of defense. Pop pop is both accurate and un-accurate*, and neither accurate nor un-accurate, at the same time, both in the shower and out.
*Un-accurate is a Meta term. If Derrida is allowed to make up words, so am I. Pop pop, Jacques.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
A History of the Future of Oral Communication
For the past two years, I taught public speaking to college freshman. The official number for the course was COMS 100, but I always referred to it as COMS 1000.
Why COMS 1000? Simply put, this course could not be contained to three place values. Solid speaking requires critical thought, the ability to relate to others, and a mastering of the present. You may be brilliant, but if you can't effectively communicate your ideas, you're finished. On the flip side, if you can communicate effectively, you can help the person with stale ideas and poor communication skills make way more money than you.
Calling the course COMS 1000 communicated significance, value, and a multidimensional theme that allowed me to work in lesson plans on the crucial issues facing young people today. Issues like time travel, reptilian humanoid invasion, the banana crisis, and the controversial hierarchy of Wu-Tang Clan membership.
COMS 1000 was different like that. Other instructors used famous speeches as examples. I used Snuggie infomercials. Other instructors played Barak Obama audio clips. I performed DMX impersonations. Other instructors had their students practice debate. I tried to hypnotize my class.
Though my hypnosis demonstrations always failed, along with my invisibility and levitation attempts, they are moments that I will always keep in my heart. Sometimes, I sit down with a cup of hot tea and reflect on my days as an educator.
Two Thursdays ago, I thought about the time when I wanted to tell my class that an audience is a living organism. Instead, I said, "An audience is a living orgasm." I played this off by telling them, "No, really. Your audience is like an orgasm. You want to keep them really engaged and excited throughout your speech."
Then I thought about the time when I held up three fingers and asked my students to tell me the three criteria for evaluating the credibility of a source. When they answered "authorship," I put my ring finger down. When they answered "sponsorship," I put my index finger down. When this left me giving my class the finger, I attempted to save face by saying, "At least this isn't as bad as my orgasm."
Teaching COMS 1000 was full of rewards. I can't imagine what would have happened if I had to wake up twice a week to teach a class that had only two zeros in its name.
Why COMS 1000? Simply put, this course could not be contained to three place values. Solid speaking requires critical thought, the ability to relate to others, and a mastering of the present. You may be brilliant, but if you can't effectively communicate your ideas, you're finished. On the flip side, if you can communicate effectively, you can help the person with stale ideas and poor communication skills make way more money than you.
Calling the course COMS 1000 communicated significance, value, and a multidimensional theme that allowed me to work in lesson plans on the crucial issues facing young people today. Issues like time travel, reptilian humanoid invasion, the banana crisis, and the controversial hierarchy of Wu-Tang Clan membership.
COMS 1000 was different like that. Other instructors used famous speeches as examples. I used Snuggie infomercials. Other instructors played Barak Obama audio clips. I performed DMX impersonations. Other instructors had their students practice debate. I tried to hypnotize my class.
Though my hypnosis demonstrations always failed, along with my invisibility and levitation attempts, they are moments that I will always keep in my heart. Sometimes, I sit down with a cup of hot tea and reflect on my days as an educator.
Two Thursdays ago, I thought about the time when I wanted to tell my class that an audience is a living organism. Instead, I said, "An audience is a living orgasm." I played this off by telling them, "No, really. Your audience is like an orgasm. You want to keep them really engaged and excited throughout your speech."
Then I thought about the time when I held up three fingers and asked my students to tell me the three criteria for evaluating the credibility of a source. When they answered "authorship," I put my ring finger down. When they answered "sponsorship," I put my index finger down. When this left me giving my class the finger, I attempted to save face by saying, "At least this isn't as bad as my orgasm."
Teaching COMS 1000 was full of rewards. I can't imagine what would have happened if I had to wake up twice a week to teach a class that had only two zeros in its name.
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