Usually? (or I must not shove my foot…)

Nowadays when either of our kids calls and asks to speak to me it’s almost never to see how I’m doing; in a strange but much appreciated way it’s to see how they are doing. Everyone needs a little perspective from time-to-time and for reasons all their own, that’s my job. Let me add, it’s not like I sit around waiting for one of them to call, but I’m happiest when they do.

Enter Anna. My God-as-my-witness-Heaven-sent granddaughter makes me glad I’m still alive; so when I got a text message about something that happened at her school, I was more than happy it included the line: So Mom thought it would be a good idea for me to ask you your opinion on all this and what you thought her decision as a teacher was/came from. Mom said you’re usually good at teacher stuff. (Usually? Why I oughta…)

When I was a kid every once in a while my mother would reference a tiny, little incident, that obviously wasn’t nearly as insignificant as it appeared. Without much detail, her story goes like this: In Patterson High School in the early 1940’s, there was a teacher who would assign “sentences” in response to misbehavior. (Do you remember “sentences”? I do. Unlike my dear, departed mother, I had loads of opportunities to acquaint myself with them.)

I must not chew gum.

I must not chew gum.

I must not chew gum.

I must not chew gum.

I must not chew gum.

Anyway, Ruth Osterman found herself on the wrong end of this particular teacher’s ire, and, according to the story, she was assigned the task of filling page after page with “sentences.” Here’s the thing: her memory was not sustained by her misbehavior or even by some miscarriage of justice. She didn’t remember writing sentences because of something she did; she remembered it so vividly because of something she did not do (or more correctly, something she was encouraged not to do.) Upon the advice of others with far more experience with such things, she was advised to fill out the front page as instructed, but to fill only the top half of all remaining pages because, as her friends assured her, the teacher would only review the rest of the pages by "thumbing" the tops of the pages.

At first glance Anna’s text message was conspicuous by its length. As a champion-Twitter devotee, she is a master of inference, so I knew that by virtue of the length alone, Anna’s story—much like Ruthie’s year’s ago—was not about misbehavior, not by a long-shot.

Here’s the skinny: the theater tech crew was directed to do something. Without the proper tools to accomplish the task, they improvised. As they made accommodations (as, I might add, tech crews are trained to do) laughter ensued. If I understand the story correctly, the teacher’s assessment of the “misbehavior” included some level of personal affront—hey, aine nobody likes to be laughed at,  right?

Anna’s message to me detailed the crime and also included visual evidence of the punishment: three handwritten pages copied from a textbook. (I’ll wait for you to reread the last part because by now you are sure you missed something. Let me save you three minutes—you didn’t. The punishment, apparently announced in anger, was to open a textbook and start copying, with the addendum that the next day’s lesson plan would be more of the same.)

Whenever Ruthie told me about “writing sentences” it was always about how anxious she was while considering her friends’ advice and worst of all that her parents would find out. My mother NEVER told her parents about the crime or the punishment. Anna told her parents and her dear, ole granddad before the ink had dried on the copied pages.

Ruthie worried most of all that the teacher would skip protocol and closely examine every page, and poor Ruth would go down in Clipper history as the one kid who ruined the good thing for the rest of the sentence-writing juvenile delinquents.

It was never about the misbehavior.

It was never about the misbehavior.

It was never about the misbehavior.

It was never about the misbehavior.

It was never about the misbehavior.

Decades later, the thrill that anxiety always creates was as apparent as if the sentences had been due the next day.

Before I responded to Anna I looked back at the message to make sure I was answering the right questions: So Mom thought it would be a good idea for me to ask you your opinion on all this…

My answer was: Your mother knows my opinion. Your mother has the same opinion. She wants you to hear it (again) from me. People who use words as punishment are working against the rest of us who are trying to get kids to love them.

I told her some other things, too. I told her that I should reserve judgment because as many, many (insert many “manys” here) of my students have known all too well; teachers sometimes lose their composure. (I think there’s a Biblical story about casting stones…)

I told her how easy it is to react emotionally. I should have told her how easy it is to forget that young teachers sometimes make regrettable mistakes. I should have told her how easy it is to forget that teachers are human…

Instead I told her how easy it is for me to want to shove my foot up the teacher’s ass.

I must not shove my foot up the teacher’s ass.

I must not shove my foot up the teacher’s ass.

I must not shove my foot up the teacher’s ass.

I must not shove my foot up the teacher’s ass.

I must not shove my foot up the teacher’s ass.

(I’ll wait for you to reread the last part because by now you are sure you misunderstood, let me save you a little time—you didn’t. It might sound like I’m kidding, but as Ruthie said many, many times “many a true word is spoke in a joke.”)

It’s just too easy to react emotionally.

Just as easy as it is to pass judgment.

Just as easy as it is to forget that the punishment has to fit the crime.

Just as easy as it is to forget that words must never be used as punishment.

Just as easy as it is to miss a teachable moment when it presents itself.

Just as easy as it is to misinterpret the behavior of silly-acting high school girls.

Just as easy as it is to give away months of hard-earned credibility in a few angry sentences.

Just as easy as it is to damage developmentally vulnerable children.

Just as easy as it is to take a deep breath.

Just as easy as it is to clarify expectations to the same dedicated theater tech crew who have served you anonymously without the glow of spotlights or the applause of appreciative audiences at performance curtain calls.

Just as easy as it should be to forgive the people you serve.

Just as easy as it should be to apologize, to smile, and to get back in the game.

It is just as easy to react emotionally as it is to copy sentences over and over.

***

Ruthie's teacher held the pages she had submitted just long enough to flip the tops of the pages before filing them in the bin. 

Ruthie held on to them for the next 60 years.

Het Concertgebouw (or Only Happy Accidents)

Het Concertgebouw

Knowing that we had a week in February to travel, we set our sites on Portugal. About three weeks ago we decided to delay our Portuguese excursion until April when the weather would be much better and use the Crocus Break (as this week is called) to visit our family in London. We also decided to start our vacation with an experience that was long over due for me.

Almost every week Debbie attends the lunchtime concert at the “Concertgebouw” in Amsterdam. One week I was able to go with her, but when I did, the recital was held in the “kleine zaal” (small hall). Because I have never heard any performance in the “grote zaal” (large hall) we decided to book a concert. Looking over the menu of choices was paramount to looking through the window of a toy store. There didn’t seem to be a bad choice. Finally and by using timing as the prime determinant, we selected Mozart’s Requiem—you know, a little light fare for a Sunday morning.

I know the Requiem. I have a bit of a special place for the Requiem. The day of my mother’s funeral I used it to pull from me the rest of the tears that I hoped would not embarrass me in public. I played it. I played it loud. I let it sink in to the extent that I could almost hear her threaten me one last time to “turn that down; and I mean it!”

View from our seats

When we were deciding I think really I voted for the Requiem as opposed to dozens of other choices because I wanted in some dark way to miss her like I did in the first hours after she died. It’s jock itch for the soul: the more you scratch it, the better it feels and the more it hurts.

Het Concertgebouw (The Concert Hall) is among the first examples of magnificent Dutch architecture that I saw on my first visit to Amsterdam four years ago. On that day, I planned to meet my cousin, Cindy (the same cousin we will visit in London) on Museumplein, the majestic grassy park leading to the Rijksmuseum. The Concertgebouw faces that and is where I departed my very first tram ride.

 

View from the King's Box!

In Amsterdam late in the1800’s the Park Hall theatre, notorious for poor acoustics was scheduled for demolition, and the Felix Meritis Building was deemed too small for world-class musical performances. At the same time De Amsterdammer (newspaper) assessed the state of the arts in town by writing, “While the leaders of all self-respecting cities abroad have made sure their cities are graced with good concert halls, our government has declared that these ill-fated ‘arts’ are not its’ responsibility.” With that in mind six illustrious citizens formed the “Provisional Committee to build a concert hall.”

 

Rijksmuseum

One of the first decisions of the committee was to hire Pierre Cuypers, the architect of the Rijksmuseum, which was already under construction. Cuypers’s contribution was to negotiate the purchase of the land on which the new concert hall would be built. Seeing it today amidst the sprawl of the city which seems to reach out from the urban center near Centraal Station with radiating streets and ancient neighborhoods all the way south to truly suburban satellites such as Amstelveen, it is easy to forget that by the time it was completed in 1886, the Concertgebouw was merely on the edge of town. In fact, it took two additional years to fill in canals, build access roads, and install street lamps. Het Concertgebouw held its grand opening on 11 April 1888.

Like I said, I know the Requiem, so when we found our seats, which were ostensibly behind the orchestra, I wondered where the choir would sit. When I sat down and finally looked at the program I had received upon entering, I wondered how such a world-class joint could give out the “wrong” program. When the pianist struck the first notes of “The Requiem” I wondered if these people had ever heard of Mozart!

Um…see what had happened…

The performance of The Requiem was, in fact, scheduled for this date, just not at this time. Hey, as tv painter Bob Ross used to say about his craft: there are no mistakes, just happy accidents. That day was one such happy accident. Hey, stuff happens.

The first half of the concert was Tweede Pianoconcert (The Second Piano Concert), op.102 by D. Sjostakovitsj, performed by Denis Matsuev and the Radio Filharmonisch Orkest. Instead of the weight cast by the overwhelming Requiem, we were given the gift of a truly astounding expression of joy. By virtue of our seats, we could see Matsuev’s hands move in breath-taking speed and accuracy from one end of his keyboard to the other and back again. It was to life as the Requiem is to death.

The last half of the performance was Rachmaninoff’s first symphony. Op. 13. Again, simply brilliant. A small amount of research revealed a bit of background that makes the performance even more special. Performed (badly) only once during his lifetime, the 1^st Symphony was the source of great angst for Rachmaninoff. Left behind when he went into exile and ostensibly lost until 1945, the symphony has since been recreated and currently deserves the reputation it has earned.

But Not in a Weird Way

A few Fridays ago a boy I know approached me on his way home having just remembered something (or more as I suspect waited until the coast was clear of his peers). He got my attention and said, “Um, Mr. Thanner…my, um, my mother got you something for Valentine’s Day.”

“Get out,” I replied as he ran off to retrieve the gift.

He returned to me with a small bag of what proved to be delicious-not-long-for-this-world chocolate hearts. Extending them for me to take he made doubly sure I knew that “my Mom wanted you to have these.” (Heaven forbid his chums would suspect that he was implicit in such a thing!)

I took them and said something like, “Your mom sent these?”

He shook his head yes and started to leave. 

He quickly turned back and added, “But not in a weird way!”

Klompen

Clara Maria

Every American over the age of fifty knows the story of Hans Brinker. OK so maybe a few don’t, but truth be told even fewer know that ole Hans is a total fabrication. Hans might be made-up, but the dikes holding back the sea surely aren’t because just about all of the Netherlands is below sea level. That little fact accounts for some very interesting realities. For one, the soil is rich--really rich; it ought to be, it’s reclaimed sea bottom. A short walk in the country along the bike paths (yes there are bike paths along country roads) and you’ll find seashells. Two, it’s muddy. Three, farm fields aren’t separated by fences. Canals cordon them off. Called ‘polders’, the fields are often gooey, sopping wet, absolutely gorgeous turf for planting. All of which brings us to clogs.

Klompen

Any illustration of little Hans with his finger holding back the Atlantic Ocean will also include classically Dutch traditional footwear--klompen, or wooden shoes (often referred to as clogs), which are far from fictional. Sold now to the same tourists who visit thinking everybody wears them, clogs are available everywhere tourists roam.

“Klompen” were once the preferred footwear of Dutch farmers and gardeners; and for good reason--it’s muddy! Wooden shoes could be easily scraped off and dried out, and they would last so much longer than other available materials. Nowadays klompen have been relegated to the gift shops.

Just my size!

Making clogs from Poplar

Last week while looking for a fitting way to spend a day, we visited Clara Maria, a 150-year old Cheese and Clog Farm. A working dairy farm, Clara Maria with the direct assistance of some hundred-plus cows produce specialty cheese with various added seasonings. Also, because the place is a magnet for tourists, birthday parties and school groups, they make clogs. Hey, clogs sell. And by the number of clogs for sale, they sell pretty well.

Waiting for a salt bath

Rotterdam

Rotterdam is not a typical centuries-old Dutch city; I knew that much. Before we decided to visit, just about the only thing I knew about Rotterdam was that the Germans made it a perfectly clear example of why it was in the Netherlands’ best interest to capitulate when Germany invaded in 1940. Killing a thousand civilians and leaving some 80,000 people homeless, the Luftwaffe destroyed much of the city center. Hitler promised similar results in other Dutch cities. The Netherlands surrendered after just three days. After the war, there remained very little Dutch antiquity to salvage, so it was rebuilt—to put it mildly.

 

Almost 800 years ago a dam was built across the Rotte River, and about 700 years ago the populated area that grew up around it was granted city rights by the Count of Holland. Today, Rotterdam has a population of almost 700,000 people, and the greater suburban area has more than twice that. Calling itself the “Gateway to Europe,” Rotterdam boasts the largest deep-water port in all of Europe and the tenth largest port in the world.

Rotterdam 1940

Living in Holland makes it easy to hate what the Nazis did. I mean that. Using unprecedented military intimidation they proceeded to conquer Europe. What they did to Rotterdam is among the best examples of the disregard for and the savage decimation of the cultural heritage of others. Walking the streets of Rotterdam and seeing the marvelously unique architecture reminded me time and again that none of it would even exist if not for three days of destruction from May 13-15, 1940.

The buildings are stunning. I wonder where else on earth such unique architectural design is even welcomed, let alone encouraged. It is as if the city planners will only consider proposals if the plans are outrageously singular. Oh don’t get me wrong—there are plenty of reminders of Dutch heritage. Amidst the extraordinarily exceptional modernistic designs can be found the seemingly misplaced treasures of the Golden Age—the few survivors of the bombardment.

Without a true objective in mind, we opted for a walking tour, knowing that the Markthal (indoor market) would surely be somewhere along the way. It was. Like other remarkable examples of ingenious architecture, the Markthal is a triumph of Dutch ingenuity. Replete with a four-story “car-park” and two stories of shopping and food vendors, the Markthal is awesome. The only complaint I could conjure was one first uttered by Yogi Berra: nobody goes there because it’s too crowded. I think Yogi was talking about this place. It was even hard to wander from one end to the other there were so many people.

Markthal ceiling 

A portion of the harbor

Locals call this "Butt Plug Gnome"

Centraal Station

 

To each his own