Disneyland Closes At 35

Yet Another Semester

I have spent the last two weeks preparing for the beginning  of the Fall Semester 2010. I am struck by the fact that with the advent of each new semester there are more and more obligations to be met by professors, obligations that  seem to have little to do with the ability of the professors to teach.

In Texas, a new House Bill requires that every professor in the State of Texas post a Curriculum Vitae and Syllabus for every course taught.

This information must be posted on the college website and must be easily found on the Internet without regard to user name or password protection. The notion, as I take it, is that students should have complete information as to the qualifications of their instructors, as well as a complete record of the academic record of those who will be their teachers. That does not seem to be such a bad idea; however, it does take a good deal to time to comply with this new law and one wonders how important it is to the students to have this information.

My experience as an Adjunct Professor has taught me that most students care about and are concerned about a limited number of issues.

1. How much work do I have to do in this course?

2. How will I be graded?

3. Is there some way in which I can acquire extra credit? Do I have to do any written work or are all the questions on exams true/false, multiple choice or fill in the blank?

4. Is the Professor going to provide a complete review prior to each test to ensure that I have a good idea what the questions will be?

These are, not surprisingly I think, the major concerns of students in the majority of the classes I teach.

I do not doubt that I, as an undergraduate, was concerned with the same questions; thus, I am not really overly upset with the mindset I find operative in so many of my students. I can deal with these issues, and in reality I can deal with most all the issues associated with teaching in college. I have only a few bones of contention with which I intellectually wrestle.

I love to teach. I do not like paperwork. Never before, in any previous semester, have I been asked to learn, adopt and implement so many new computer applications and inputs.I am besieged with a multitude of new requirements that tax the ability of a 64 year old man who is not highly computer literate. I have complained bitterly to my wife, but to no one else.

I was complaining again this evening. My wife said, "The process of learning this new technology in order to meet the requirements for teaching on-line and preparing for your in-class courses keeps your brain active and allows you to teach young people which in turn keeps you young."

I suppose she is correct. She often is.

Recollection

The Greek philosopher Plato holds that we human beings enter this world knowing all that we possibly need to know. He says that soul precedes body and that soul knows everything.

The problem, Plato says, is that when the soul enters the body it is corrupted by the body and forgets what it knows; thus, learning is simply re-collecting what we already know. You might picture a fully formed puzzle being dropped onto the floor. The pieces scatter themselves throughout the room and have to be re-collected in order to put the puzzle together again.

We have, unfortunately, only one life in which to perfect the puzzle and most of us never do so. It seems to me that we attempt to force pieces into the puzzle of our life that do not, and will never, fit. We want certain things to happen in our life that are not included in our puzzle pieces. Many of our hopes and aspirations will never fit the puzzle that constitutes our life.

Some of us want women, or men, or jobs, or material objects that we will never obtain. Why? Because we don't have those pieces in our puzzles. Many of us spend our lives trying to find pieces for our puzzle that we simply do not possess.

I am considering all my puzzle pieces. The entire puzzle is almost complete. I wish there might have been more pieces, a bigger and more expansive puzzle, but it is what is is, and I must be content with that re-collection.

Last Flight from the Nest

My youngest daughter will be departing this coming Sunday to enter college five hours distance from our home.

She was a surprise baby. A big surprise. I recall envisioning, the day my wife told me that she was with child, the sailboat that I had hoped to purchase disappear forever over the horizon never to reappear.

I feigned happiness about the pregnancy, but was secretly horrified by the event. My older son was 23 and my older daughter 21 at the time. I was 45 years old, and of course realized that I would be 64 when she began college. Well, that time has come.

Of course I thought she was a most beautiful baby when she was born, and she quickly became the center of my life. I cannot now imagine not having had her in my life these past 18 years. Our relationship grew even closer when her mother was diagnosed with cancer when my daughter was 9 years old. My wife died 18 months later.

I had no family living within 400 miles and wondered how I would get her to school, to dance lessons, to soccer practice, and later to volleyball and all the myriad activities that come and go along the way. I'm not sure how we managed, but we did, and we had a good time doing most of it. Not all, but most.

It took three attempts to pass the driver's license test. She auditioned for modeling agencies 3 times and was rejected because she was one inch short of the minimum. I would not have allowed her to model in any event, but I had to endure the tears and drama engendered by the rejection all the same.

The existence of boys, boys with the same mentality I must have displayed at 16, added to the horror. That horror was mitigated to a degree because I sent her to a Catholic girl's school. The university she will be attending has 18,000 students and more that 9000 of them are boys.

Horror again rears it's ugly head. I dislike all boys aged 14 through 25.

She is going through Rush to see if she wants to be in a sorority. All I can imagine in my mind's eye, over and over again, is the movie Animal House.

I know that the feelings swirling around in my head and heart are much like the feelings being experienced by thousands of parents who are about to send their last child to college far from home. There is one difference. I am 64 years old, just like I knew I would be. I think it would be easier if I was 45 again; still, I managed to take care of her for 18 years, to teach her lessons that are important and to learn from her. She has enriched my life substantially. I would not trade her for an 38 foot sailboat, a yacht, or anything else.

The surprise baby turned out to be a wonderful surprise.

What does it Mean to be Mean-Spirited?

I'm not sure exactly what it portends to call someone mean-spirited. As with most terms the meaning is embedded in context and as part of a larger conversation. Those who support the Arizona Immigration law are often defined by television pundits as mean-spirited.

I believe part of the problem with the analysis of all emotionally charged issues, whether it be gay marriage, immigration reform, abortion, the death penalty etc., is that the contending points of view define all the symptoms but do nothing to resolve the core problem.

The Arizona Immigration Law is a symptom. It was legislated in order to address symptoms, not to solve the core problem. What is the core problem? I believe that the problem is the long-standing policy of not enforcing our immigration laws. The United States had, and has, a stated policy on immigration, but it has not been enforced. It always causes problems when policy says one thing and practice does another.

Having said that, it seems clear to me that those who suffer because of the disconnect between policy and practice are the thousands of illegal immigrants who came to this country in search of employment and a better life for themselves and their loved ones. They believed that the U.S. immigration laws were standing on clay feet and that the law would not be enforced.

Most of us fortified that belief. We needed immigrant labor. We exploited immigrant labor. We encouraged illegal immigration in our deeds if not in our speech.

Of course the immigrants are not the only persons who suffered. I think it is legitimate to say that criminality in many forms has been encouraged by government inaction relevant to illegal immigration. Drugs, human trafficking, and a long list of other crimes has been made possible by the decision to not enforce our immigration laws.

Be all this as it may, the question now is what should be done? Let me just cut to the chase. It is clear to me that all illegal aliens now living and working and striving in the United States should simply be granted amnesty and allowed to remain, provided that they do not have a criminal record, period. Illegals and their children born in the U.S. should be taken into the fold and granted citizenship.

The alternative is not viable and not moral. Envision truck loads of illegal immigrants and their families headed south on our highways like locomotives headed for the death camps in Nazi Germany. No one of any conscience can stomach that vision. The vision is not mine, but was imparted to me by a friend whose viewpoint I respect.

Then what?

Then we should have a reasoned and reasonable debate about immigration policy for and in the United States. But, that subject awaits a later date for discussion. For now we have to cease this endless prattle about the symptoms and solve the current problem.

What does it mean to be mean-spirited? It means to be intractable, not susceptible to reason, biased, illogical, and lacking human compassion. Let's not cast all the blaim on the illegal immigrants. We encouraged illegal immigration, aided and abetted that enterprise, and we need to make it right.

On Senior Golf

I became a novice golfer sometime during 1982. I worked on my game, became more accomplished by the mid 80's and able to shoot 95 or below in the 1990's. 95 is not, contrary to popular belief, a bad score, not if it is a truthful score.

I am certain that most public course golfers, such as myself, improve their lie, take multiple mulligans, miscount the number of strokes they have taken on each hole, or in some way improve their score by at least 10 points per round; thus, a truthful 90 to 95 is a good score.

I have not played golf more than once every 2 or 3 years for the past 7 years. Life got in the way. Upon the death of my wife in 2003 I became totally responsible for my job, my part time teaching and my 10 year old daughter. There was no longer any time for golf.

My 10 year old is now 18 and off to college one week from Sunday. She was a surprise baby, born when I was 45. I remember thinking how wierd it was going to be to be 64 years old with a Freshman in college. Well, that time has come.

I am now semi-retired. I no longer have the stressful job. I still have the part time college teaching. I have gotten remarried and have a help mate. I can now return to golf; however, I return as a SENIOR golfer.

I went out to the driving range twice and did not do too badly. I actually thought I could still post a score of 95 or less. I decided to join a Tuesday morning Senior league at a public course near my home. I arrived at the Pro Shop at 7:00 a.m., paid my money and took my chances.

I was teamed up with two other Seniors. One was, I think, younger than me, and the other a bit older. It should not have been a surprise that everyone in the Senior League is old. How did I end up playing with 50 old men?

These old guys were retired bankers, engineers, landscapers, cops, firemen, hippies from the 60's or construction workers. There were Vietnam vets and those who had protested against Vietnam. 

They were Hispanic, Caucasian, African American, Asian etc. It was a diverse group. Some wore baseball caps, some wide-brimmed straw hats, some had white socks that extended to just below the knee, some wore no socks at all. Some were dangerously thin, some overweight, and a few who appeared to be in great shape. But they were all old.

I am not old. So I told myself.

These old codgers should,  I reasoned, be fodder for my cannon.

The first guy teed up his ball, set up for his swing, and hit the ball straight down the fairway. His drive went at least 275 yards. I began to feel nauseous.

The second guy, the oldest member of our threesome, teed up, set up his swing, and hit the ball about 250 yards, allbeit a bit right of the fairway into the rough. I could taste bile in my throat.

I teed up, set up my swing, and hit the ball about 50 feet into the wet rough on the right side of the tee box.

The first three holes went pretty much like that. I wanted to jump in my cart, make a u-turn and head for the clubhouse. I was chagrined, embarrassed and humiliated; but, I kept at it. I did better from holes 4 through 18.

In the end I got my butt kicked by a bunch of old men.