Wednesday afternoon, October 23rd. 54th St. & 6th Avenue.
Six young men--all juniors with high grade point averages--traveled with me, their U.S. History & Government teacher, to the twentieth floor of one of the most expensive pieces of real estate in Manhattan. Our destination: a private, one-on-one meeting with Mr. Jim Davlin, Vice President of Finance & Treasurer for the General Motors Company.
Mr. Davlin is a Wabash College alumnus, as I am. We found a connection to him via Mr. Steve Klein, Dean of Admissions at Wabash College. Mr. Klein has visited with two groups of students in the past at my previous school. We decided the quarters at General Motors' New York City nerve center were a step up from meeting in our school building.
The young men involved were enthralled by the confluence of unique events they found themselves within: first time in Midtown for most of these young men, new to the United States; first time meeting directly with a corporate executive and the dean of admissions of a college; first time in a major corporate office building. I hope the young men from HSLI were most captivated by thoughts of Wabash College. But it is possible that their favorite memory may be of the elaborately concocted pastries and counter of sodas that was at their disposal.
Sitting with Mr. Davlin for about forty minutes, students asked an array of questions regarding scholarships, financial aid options, sports, and activities. Students were then able to speak directly with the dean of admissions for another forty-five minutes. The young men were offered an opportunity to visit Wabash in the fall of senior year with all expenses paid if they are in the top ten percent of their class.
Most if not all of the students involved expressed interest in visiting Wabash at a later date.
On our way out into the marbled corridor, Cadillac commercials played on a flat screen tv mounted on the wall. A blazing blue GM sign behind the receptionist served as a backdrop for a group photo.
Reentering the mad rush at the end of a Manhattan workday, we headed past the Plaza Hotel along the southern rim of Central Park and back to the train station on Lexington Avenue. It was another quintessentially unique afternoon in New York City.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Conversations with Jacob; October 19th
Jacob Czerniak's birthday is December 7th. He will be the big 1-0-3.
That's a lot of candles.
I wrote about him a few times in the spring. His memory is pristine as he recounts memories from the World War II era. Too pristine, probably. If one ever needs a reminder in a dark time about how life could be worse, look no further than the numbers cut into Jacob's left forearm. They were carved in during his time in Auschwitz.
He is a survivor. This morning he mentioned his wife to me for the first time. I'd always been afraid to ask about her. But I knew he'd been married.
"She was my best friend...my best friend," he said.
She could never quite recover, however, from the death of her father.
In 1943, he was out finding food for his family in occupied Poland. He was shot down by Nazi murderers.
Jacob and her married and moved to Minnesota together after the war. He lived out there for a while in northern Minnesota. But his wife passed on at 72 years of age.
Jacob was a tailor. In snowbound Minnesota, he was in charge of alterations for men's clothing, primarily. Sometimes he altered a woman's coat, or whatnot.
Upon moving to New York City, he worked in a factory on Seventh Avenue called FellWo (not sure about that spelling). One owner's name was Fellman, the other was Wolf.
There he explained how he supervised clothes making. He wasn't on the assembly line. It seems he was in more of an advisory role.
"You are a very good friend," he tells me. "Thank you for being my friend."
Other times he likes to tell others, such as his former home aide Maria, "He is a gentleman." I don't know if that is really true, but thank you, sir.
I tell Jacob "thank you," as well. "You are my friend, too."
I tell him how my girlfriend is still asleep downstairs. "She has a lot of problems sleeping so she sometimes is up very late and then has to sleep in," I say.
"Tell your lady friend I'm sorry she has trouble sleeping," Jacob says. He asks about my lady friend all the time.
Today I finally wrote down his phone number. I had too because Jacob's hearing has not held up quite as strongly as his memory has. A relatively small price to pay, it seems.
He tears in half an envelope from an insurance company. I try to ask if that's okay, making sure he won't need that paper. But he charges on.
His area code is 718--usual for the Bronx. I jot down the number.
Moments later, I say, "I'm going to write down my number, too, in case you ever need anything. You can call me." My area code is 917--a newer area code for the region created during the explosion of new cellphone numbers. I jot down the number and pass it to him.
He takes a moment to reach for the light--a single uncovered light bulb on his worn kitchen table. He picks up the fragment of paper, examining.
"This is not good," he says. He seems disappointed.
"9-1-7...My number is 7-1-8..."
"Oh, that is my number," I remind him.
He replies, "Ohhh. I thought that was my number you had written down."
A moment later he looks at me and smiles in his big endearing way. He looks like a boy. Just like the boy who ran so fast in the 1920's. During those teenage years of physical fitness classes in school in Poland.
A boy inside the body of a nearly 103 year old man. A survivor. A friend.
That's a lot of candles.
I wrote about him a few times in the spring. His memory is pristine as he recounts memories from the World War II era. Too pristine, probably. If one ever needs a reminder in a dark time about how life could be worse, look no further than the numbers cut into Jacob's left forearm. They were carved in during his time in Auschwitz.
He is a survivor. This morning he mentioned his wife to me for the first time. I'd always been afraid to ask about her. But I knew he'd been married.
"She was my best friend...my best friend," he said.
She could never quite recover, however, from the death of her father.
In 1943, he was out finding food for his family in occupied Poland. He was shot down by Nazi murderers.
Jacob and her married and moved to Minnesota together after the war. He lived out there for a while in northern Minnesota. But his wife passed on at 72 years of age.
Jacob was a tailor. In snowbound Minnesota, he was in charge of alterations for men's clothing, primarily. Sometimes he altered a woman's coat, or whatnot.
Upon moving to New York City, he worked in a factory on Seventh Avenue called FellWo (not sure about that spelling). One owner's name was Fellman, the other was Wolf.
There he explained how he supervised clothes making. He wasn't on the assembly line. It seems he was in more of an advisory role.
"You are a very good friend," he tells me. "Thank you for being my friend."
Other times he likes to tell others, such as his former home aide Maria, "He is a gentleman." I don't know if that is really true, but thank you, sir.
I tell Jacob "thank you," as well. "You are my friend, too."
I tell him how my girlfriend is still asleep downstairs. "She has a lot of problems sleeping so she sometimes is up very late and then has to sleep in," I say.
"Tell your lady friend I'm sorry she has trouble sleeping," Jacob says. He asks about my lady friend all the time.
Today I finally wrote down his phone number. I had too because Jacob's hearing has not held up quite as strongly as his memory has. A relatively small price to pay, it seems.
He tears in half an envelope from an insurance company. I try to ask if that's okay, making sure he won't need that paper. But he charges on.
His area code is 718--usual for the Bronx. I jot down the number.
Moments later, I say, "I'm going to write down my number, too, in case you ever need anything. You can call me." My area code is 917--a newer area code for the region created during the explosion of new cellphone numbers. I jot down the number and pass it to him.
He takes a moment to reach for the light--a single uncovered light bulb on his worn kitchen table. He picks up the fragment of paper, examining.
"This is not good," he says. He seems disappointed.
"9-1-7...My number is 7-1-8..."
"Oh, that is my number," I remind him.
He replies, "Ohhh. I thought that was my number you had written down."
A moment later he looks at me and smiles in his big endearing way. He looks like a boy. Just like the boy who ran so fast in the 1920's. During those teenage years of physical fitness classes in school in Poland.
A boy inside the body of a nearly 103 year old man. A survivor. A friend.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Shirts & Pringles
For the second time this school year I had a shirt incident.
The day of new student orientation, I arrived at school in my crisp white shirt with tie ready to tackle a new school year. Immediately upon arriving at a teacher meeting that morning, Mr. S. asked: "What happened to your shirt? You spill coffee on it?"
I looked down at my right side and saw a huge light brown stain from the collar to and around the underarm area. I'd completely forgotten during the long summer break to attempt to remove this stain that appeared out of nowhere one day last spring after the shirt had sat too long in a laundry bag. I had quickly hung the shirt back up in my closet until this new fateful morning.
Luckily, I keep an old brown wool coat at school--a remnant from one of my first neighbors in New York, c. 2006. It smells a bit and usually sits around isolated in various closets but it definitely served its purpose for the orientation. I was sweating the whole time, though, in that summer evening.
This past Monday I arrived at school ready to tackle a new school week. Refreshed, rejuvenated. I soon realized upon my arrival that my habit of getting dressed in dark places in my bedroom had come back to haunt me. Whereas I thought I'd put on a conventional white undershirt, instead I had put on a shirt from this year's Scotland Run 10k race. Through my light grey shirt one could clearly see a blue image of the Manhattan skyline on the shirt's front and a loud pronouncement of the race name and a list of sponsors on the shirt's back.
After conferring with Mr. Reid and a student, Lissamarie, I realized there was no concealing this fact and went back to the closet to retrieve my smelly brown coat.
This was another hot, humid day, mind you, and I spent it sweating out whatever toxins may have been in my skin. So that was a plus.
In other news, Mr. Weber had a funny anecdote of a student a few days ago who was eating Pringles in class. When Mr. W. reminded him that food is not allowed in our classrooms--a rule we are enforcing this year--the male student proceeded to stuff the bulky Pringles container down the front of his pants.
Interesting how students react to rules in different ways...
The day of new student orientation, I arrived at school in my crisp white shirt with tie ready to tackle a new school year. Immediately upon arriving at a teacher meeting that morning, Mr. S. asked: "What happened to your shirt? You spill coffee on it?"
I looked down at my right side and saw a huge light brown stain from the collar to and around the underarm area. I'd completely forgotten during the long summer break to attempt to remove this stain that appeared out of nowhere one day last spring after the shirt had sat too long in a laundry bag. I had quickly hung the shirt back up in my closet until this new fateful morning.
Luckily, I keep an old brown wool coat at school--a remnant from one of my first neighbors in New York, c. 2006. It smells a bit and usually sits around isolated in various closets but it definitely served its purpose for the orientation. I was sweating the whole time, though, in that summer evening.
This past Monday I arrived at school ready to tackle a new school week. Refreshed, rejuvenated. I soon realized upon my arrival that my habit of getting dressed in dark places in my bedroom had come back to haunt me. Whereas I thought I'd put on a conventional white undershirt, instead I had put on a shirt from this year's Scotland Run 10k race. Through my light grey shirt one could clearly see a blue image of the Manhattan skyline on the shirt's front and a loud pronouncement of the race name and a list of sponsors on the shirt's back.
After conferring with Mr. Reid and a student, Lissamarie, I realized there was no concealing this fact and went back to the closet to retrieve my smelly brown coat.
This was another hot, humid day, mind you, and I spent it sweating out whatever toxins may have been in my skin. So that was a plus.
In other news, Mr. Weber had a funny anecdote of a student a few days ago who was eating Pringles in class. When Mr. W. reminded him that food is not allowed in our classrooms--a rule we are enforcing this year--the male student proceeded to stuff the bulky Pringles container down the front of his pants.
Interesting how students react to rules in different ways...
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Quit Doing Work! (huh?)
I guess it's not the worst problem to have. Serious behavior issues are yet to arise in my classes, knock on wood. It's mainly just been run-of-the-mill tardiness and typical teenage talkativeness issues. Plus, a dose of teen angst thrown in. But the year's been great overall for me so far.
However, my students have to learn to stop doing so much work!
Well, that seems strange at first glance. The reality is, students are losing sight of our school's standardized transitional times. This is when, for example, students are expected to pivot from fifteen minutes of Unison Reading into a large chunk of work time (either solo or interdependent). The other half of students already in work time then pivot into their Unison time. Near the very end of class--with six minutes to go in my classes--we all pivot to two minutes of putting away resources and then have four minutes for an individual student sharing with the entire class.
The problem now is getting students to put down work time materials to make those other pivots. We began emphasizing the importance of deadlines and college readiness and something must be sinking in. "Yeah!" for small victories because a fair amount of work is coming in each week. Some of our percentages are astronomical in comparison to students at other schools around the Bronx.
But that still leaves me with this new dilemma: Getting young adults to stop working so feverishly that they are late to Unison groups and are not taking the time to put away resources before a share. Also, how to round up those last few students for a share, as they write obsessively, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the rest of the class is now in the front of the room and a classmate is beginning to share a challenge, resolution, and goal with the class.
To my students: Keep on working...but also remember the transitions!
However, my students have to learn to stop doing so much work!
Well, that seems strange at first glance. The reality is, students are losing sight of our school's standardized transitional times. This is when, for example, students are expected to pivot from fifteen minutes of Unison Reading into a large chunk of work time (either solo or interdependent). The other half of students already in work time then pivot into their Unison time. Near the very end of class--with six minutes to go in my classes--we all pivot to two minutes of putting away resources and then have four minutes for an individual student sharing with the entire class.
The problem now is getting students to put down work time materials to make those other pivots. We began emphasizing the importance of deadlines and college readiness and something must be sinking in. "Yeah!" for small victories because a fair amount of work is coming in each week. Some of our percentages are astronomical in comparison to students at other schools around the Bronx.
But that still leaves me with this new dilemma: Getting young adults to stop working so feverishly that they are late to Unison groups and are not taking the time to put away resources before a share. Also, how to round up those last few students for a share, as they write obsessively, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the rest of the class is now in the front of the room and a classmate is beginning to share a challenge, resolution, and goal with the class.
To my students: Keep on working...but also remember the transitions!
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