Learning is Neat, Grasshopper

I love when my kids teach me.

I am a teacher. I teach English and coach football at Buhler High School, and I truly love my job. Every day, I have the opportunity to teach young people. Sometimes I get the chance to try and pen a world of wonder that is literature, and some daysI am fortunate enough to teach one or two students to see that world, to want to explore it for themselves, and to develop that part of their minds that allows them to learn on their own. On those special days, I am blessed to see a quiet kid put pencil to paper or digit to keyboard as she learns that there is something worth saying somewhere inside her, even if it hides behind some cloud of doubt or fear. On other days, I am able to teach a young man that he has more inside him than he ever thought he could muster up, or I have the chance to teach a technique that will allow him to overcome an opponent in the future. I get to play a small role in teaching young men that sometimes there is something bigger than themselves, and that being a part of that whole is meaningful.

The opportunities to teach are nearly infinite, and sometimes I regret that I let some of them pass by or actually stifle them in some way; you see, sometimes trying to be what so many seem to expect from being a "teacher" gets in the way of being a teacher. There are those times when I am not very good at what I do. I am trying to reduce the frequency of those times.

The most important chances to teach occur with my own children.  Emily and Dylan are amazing students. They learn quickly, and sometimes the lessons are not the ones that I really wanted them to grasp onto, but they do learn.

Now, don't worry; this is not one of those sappy "These are the lessons I have passed on to my seed" posts. It could be. I am not above that, and some nights, sappy is acceptable. But not tonight!

No, this is more of an "I am amazed by my kids" pride type of thing.

This weekend, we made a trek north to Ellsworth. There was a detour on Highway 14, so we had a little more time than usual. During this time, Dylan, for some reason that is not immediately clear, informed us that the masks that have long, beak-like noses were not developed to be scary in any way. They were actually worn by doctors who attempted to aid the victims of the plague in the late Middles Ages. The part that covered the mouth, much like modern surgical masks, was intended to protect the doctor from breathing in the disease. The long beaks were stuffed with flower petals. This provided a modicum of relief from the stench of the dying and dead. I did not know that. I love learning about that time period, but I had never learned that.

BOOM! Learning. Thank you, Son.

Prior to that conversation, during a brief respite from rocking out, hard, to a CD she had burned for me, Emily revealed that the artist who had created the cover art for Green Day's Insomniac painted under the name of Winston Smith. For those of you who should be ashamed of yourselves, Winston Smith is the protagonist of the George Orwell's 1984. At the time, she was not sure exactly why he had selected that pseudonym.  However, this evening, as I was cleaning up after supper, Emily came into the kitchen with the actually album cover art and explained that the artist had moved to Italy for several years, and upon returning to the United States in the early 1970s, he was appalled by the political and social climate in this country. As a response, he began to create artwork under the name of Winston Smith, who grew increasingly dissatisfied with the party and society of which he was a part. He rebelled in thought and deed, risking punishment for thoughtcrime while spending time with a woman for whom his feelings teetered somewhere between a desire to share carnal passion and a desire to pound her face bloody with his fists. Yeah, it is a great book. Read it.

Emily and Dylan each researched something, not because they had to write a paper over it or needed to know it for a unit test or the ACT. They researched a couple of little details because they found them interesting and wanted to know more about them. They WANT to LEARN. How can I not be ecstatic about that? How can I not swell up with pride, not only in their desire to learn, but also in the ability to uncover the answer they seek? How can I not marvel that Emily can make and elaborate on a connection between the band that sings "American Idiot" and "Jaded" and the dystopian novel that is firmly seated in my top six favorite pieces of literature? And how can I not be a little concerned that my son is exploring the Black Death?

My Mom told me a few years ago that she had to laugh about how much my son is like me at his age. I did not have the advantage of being able to pull up a seemingly endless number of webpages offering information, or misinformation, about a  plethora of topics, but I did love to learn about "stuff". I took some things apart, although it was usually not a machine as expensive as some of the appliances and electronics that my brother dismantled and failed to reassemble. We learned to learn from great teachers, and at the top of that list were our Mom and Dad. They read constantly, and they watched the news and "Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom". They listened when people spoke. They thought about things, and discussed them.

Regardless of how my kids choose to learn, I am glad in the simple fact that they want to learn. They read, they watch videos, they listen to people speak, and they think and talk about things. I love that. I love even more when they decide that they need to teach me something they have learned.

I love learning, especially from such cool teachers.

I Overstuff My Bierocks

This week, I tried something new. I had an afternoon off, and i bought a head of cabbage. Cabbage is cheap, and I wanted to make an Asian Chicken Salad for supper that night. However, after I got home, it struck me just how ridiculous it is for someone with my last name to have a head of cabbage and not use it to make bierocks.  I had never tried to make bierocks, and I am little ashamed that at the age of 42, I had not learned to do so. So, I made a slight alteration to the menu for the evening, and began my culinary quest.

For those of you who were neglected as children and never partook in the Bohemian delight that is the bierock, let me enlighten you. I actually looked up the recipe in what might serve as a form of kitchen scripture known as the Progressive Studies Club Bicentennial Cookbook. I now have it memorized. In short, bierocks are a mixture of ground beef, cabbage, and onions wrapped in dough and baked. It sounds so simple, and it is, but with the correct seasoning and the invocation of names of Grandma, Nana, and Aunt Lilly, something magical occurs. It is hard to explain, but you won't be disappointed. Some people add some sort of cheese. I am more of a purist, but to each his own. One act that I believe should be punished harshly is putting ketchup on a bierock. Ew. Those people would probably put ketchup on a ribeye too.

I must say that i was a little nervous. I made a small batch, which should tell you something, since i don't make a small batch of anything. I was not sure i could recreate the flavor stirred up by those masters of the past, and my family might not like it. I guess when the first response was Dylan asking, "So, how many of these can I eat?" I knew I had done a decent job. As tends to happen in my house, that meal led to either Emily or Heidi asking me the next night when I was going to make bierocks again.  So this afternoon, I fried up some hamburger, threw in a whole lot of chopped cabbage and onions, and turned out three dozen doughy bundles of goodness. For me, it was a decent way to spend a humid and hot Saturday afternoon.

I have come to realize that I really love to cook. I really love food. I am not a fancy, technical chef or anything like that. I guess I am more of a rustic cook. I don't really know what a lot of the techniques they talk about on Foot Network even mean. I know what some of my pots and pans are call, such as my saucier pan. I know the different between a chef's knife, paring knife, and fillet knife. I know the difference between stirring and folding. Sort of.  I can deglaze. Oh, and I know how to make a rue, as well as why I would want to. Beyond that, I just do what i think I am supposed to do to make things taste good. I a sure the judges on Chopped  would destroy me and send me packing after the appetizer round, but I really do not care.

Cooking does something for me. I feel as if I have done something worthwhile that produces immediate feedback. I am able to literally enjoy the fruits of my labors, and I get to watch as my family enjoys them as well. I swelled a little with pride the other day when Emily told me that the experiment that was Kohlsbalaya was much better that the canned version she had picked out from the store. Whenever I try preparing something new, usually without a recipe, and am not sure it actually falls into a particular category, I just tack Kohls onto what I think is the closest know dish and make it my own. Chicken Caccikohlsi, for example. That one turned out pretty well. The kids ate it anyway. I liked it. Of course, I like a lot of food. And since I cook, if it is quite what I like, I change it so I do. That is how I roll. I cook on our trip with the seniors each August. Either most of them actually like it, or they are just too polite to say they don't. So yeah, they like it. One year, One year, a senior liked what we had so much he continued eating until he could do nothing else but crawl into his tent and fall asleep even before we made s'mores around the fire. I took that as a compliment.

Sometimes, I wish I did not get so much out of cooking. I like eating what I cook. That has literally made me the man I am today, at least physically. I cook, I eat, I grow. I think it is worth it though. I can always walk a little further or bike a little longer if it means I can take a couple more bites.

And with that, I believe I should do just that. Exercise I mean. The bierock is not what one might call "lighter fare". and I have eaten a little more than my share today. It was worth it.

Dogma

"I'm Too Informed to Vote Republican." I saw that as the title of a page on Facebook. I later heard Rachel Maddow state, and I must paraphrase here because I do not have the transcript in front of me, that no one with any intelligence could ever take anything said by anyone remotely associated with George W. Bush's presidency seriously. On the flip side, as most of you know, when it rains on your wedding day (which is not ironic), your car won't start, or your NBA team flames out in the finals, you can simply utter "Thanks Obama!" and someone in the room will actually sincerely agree that President Obama is in fact the root of all evil. He is a Democrat, or to put it more clearly, a socialist, after all.

For those of you who have read Ramblings in the past, you know I am not overly political in my postings. Therefore, this one may seem somewhat strange, what with its clearly political opening. However, "political" is not a truly accurate description of this topic. The topic is dogma. Dogma is particularly prevalent in political circles, or at least on political television shows, both right and left leaning. Unfortunately, dogma is not limited to politics.

What exactly is dogma? Dogma is the title of Ben Affleck and Matt Damon film a few years back. Interesting cinematic offering. It had the angel of death, Jay and Silent Bob, and God in the form of Alanis Morissette. However, the definition of the word dogma is as follows: 
"Dogma: noun \ˈdȯg-mə, ˈdäg-\

: a belief or set of beliefs that is accepted by the members of a group without being questioned or doubted" ("Dogma").

Let me say here that I am in no way criticizing individuals who hold strong convictions or possess immense faith in what they believe. I respect those individuals and the ability to hold such faith. I am speaking of blindly following what is said, or blindly renouncing something, simply because it is from "my side" or "the other side" respectively. One side is always right; therefore, the other side is always wrong.  That is dangerous; after all, all absolutes are inherently false. (Roll that one around for a second.)

I refer to people being blindly dogmatic. 

When being blindly dogmatic is widespread, it scares me, regardless of when or where it is found. My daughter Emily and I were recently discussing how the modern media and how individuals sometimes choose to use that media to isolate themselves and remain ignorant of any view other than the one that they have chosen to grab onto. This could resemble in some ways the government use of technology and media to influence and control the public in Orwell's 1984.. Emily stated that in today's society, some people allow themselves to be isolated by particular forms of media, and choose to hear only what the sentinels of one view put forth. The telescreen is never changed, not because Big Brother will not allow it, but because the individuals have chosen their Big Brother and are unwilling to turn the dial. In other words, in order to accept the dogma that they feel fits them, they only allow themselves to be presented with information that supports and strengthens that dogma. By excluding any message that might contradict or question a given set of beliefs, or by refusing to even ask for support or logic behind said beliefs, individuals do not have to ponder the validity of their beliefs; therefore, those beliefs are indisputable. Individuals can be blindly dogmatic in politically, socially, or religiously. Any of those topics is a potential minefield for any discussion. I hope not to offend, but I will also admit that I know I have been blindly dogmatic at times as well. I am not proud of that, but it is the truth.

I guess where I am headed with this train of thought is that becoming blindly dogmatic seldom leads to rationale thought or positive movement; instead, it creates fractures and division. Take, for example, the Facebook declaration "I am too informed to vote Republican." The statement clearly indicates that anything a Republican might support or any idea identified as Republican in nature is inherently flawed and ignorant. The fact is that such sentiment is ridiculous. Am I frustrated with a Governor and numerous members of state and federal legislative branches who happen to have (R) next to their names when identified? You bet your sweet petootie I am. Should that mean that I cannot support our local state representative Steve Becker because he shares that letter and party affiliation?  I do not believe it should. 

I recently saw a video on Facebook that featured a young woman who lives in Washington, DC. She is an outspoken rap artist. She stated that she had been an Obama supporter because she felt his platform made sense to her, and that he deserved an opportunity because he could not do any worse than those in power at the time. However, she stated that she was no longer a supporter. She said the President has not followed through and had done little of what she had hoped he would do. She continued to say that she had taken heat for stating that she was not in support of Barack Obama. She was black, and therefore, had to support him. At this point in the video, her language become somewhat more colorful as she expressed frustration with the idea that she was somehow betraying her race by not blindly and loudly supporting every idea put forth by the President. She was listening to what was being said, examining what was being done, and sincerely considering them on their own merit. And yet, she was being harshly criticized for taking those intelligent actions. That is crazy talk. And yet, that is where we seem to be in our society today. It seems as if we believe that if you do not blindly follow the dogma  of a given ideology, you must not believe in anything. (I am trying to locate the video itself. I will try to post it later if I find it.)

Kansas used to be the rational state. We were firmly Republican, but our Republicans were fairly moderate, or at least willing to work with those across the aisle. We would elect Democratic governors if they made sense and did what was best for our state. We valued our right to live how we want to live, but we respected the fact that our neighbors might choose to live in a slightly different way, and that was ok, as long as it didn't mess up our lawn or spoil our barbecue. Kansas was too full of common sense to be extreme. We may have disagreed with you, but we were polite enough to listen to you before we told you that. We seemed to have drifted away from that. I say appears, because I do not truly believe that the bulk of our population is so close-minded that we won't listen to each other. Man of our leaders seem to have gone that far, but have the rest of us?

How do we combat blind dogmatism? We listen to each other, especially those who are from the "other side". By listening, we see how others view our position and our beliefs. In doing so, we are able to see ourselves more clearly. We can then examine why we feel so strongly and hold our beliefs so dearly. That leads to analyzing our beliefs and finding true support, or, sometimes, adjusting our views. That adjustment is not a weakness; it is a sign of intelligence. Now, changing our views with the wind is weak, just as refusing to hear what others say for fear that it might contradict our views is weak. However, hearing what is said, sincerely examining it, and moving forward, stronger in our beliefs or thoughtfully reconsidering, is a sign of strength. In listening, we will naturally take the reliability of the speaker into consideration, but the idea is still the most important thing. We may even take on a critical ear as we listen based on what we know about that individual's background or stance; however, that does not force us to immediately slap aside the idea. Likewise, we should listen with a critical ear to those who share our views, for it is just as easy to blindly accept what someone from "our side" will say without truly examining the idea itself.

I guess my goal for myself is this: I want to be the one who can say "I am too informed to vote Republican; I am also too informed to vote Democrat. I am informed enough to vote what makes sense, regardless of what letter is attached." I am not there yet, but I hope to move closer. And I refuse to listen to anyone who says I shouldn't.

"Dogma". Merriam-Webster Dictionary Online. 19 June 2014. Web. <http://www.merriam-

webster.com/dictionary/dogma"

Guilty Pleasures

Guilty pleasures. That is an interesting phrase. As I was driving home after working the weightroom this morning, I was struck by the idea of guilty pleasures. I earlier posted about enjoying the little things in life, the seemingly unimportant moments that add to our existence, the events or interactions that on the surface mean very little, but which allow us to appreciate the world around us. I guess the concept of guilty pleasures falls beneath that umbrella, but it is somewhat different.

You might be asking, "Well now, what exactly is a guilty pleasure?" I am glad you asked. Guilty pleasures are those experiences or moments from which one draw enjoyment or, as the phrase would indicate, pleasure, of some kind; however, it becomes obvious that one should not feel good about enjoying this. Hence the guilty aspect of "guilty pleasure". These guilty pleasures do not include such moments as sitting on the patio in the evening enjoying a moment of peace that Kansas has to offer, not does it refer to an hour spent doing nothing but sitting on the couch with a loved one pulled close. These times may not be truly "productive" in an entirely practical sense, but there is no need to question whether one should feel good about enjoying them. Nope, those at guiltless. I am not encompassing in this category such happenings as when an upperclassman saunters down to a power rack populated by freshmen so he can break wind. True, this one of those times when males laugh heartily if no ladies are around, but truly, this is not a guilty pleasure; it is just being a jerk.  "Ok," you are saying to yourself. "You have eliminated what is not a guilty pleasure, but what is?" Well, I will tell you.

One of my guilty pleasures is enjoying music which I really should not enjoy. I don't mean listening to Eminem or Jay-Z. Not Metallica, The Doors, or Nirvana. Not even Katy Perry or Ludacris. Nope. I can point out and argue value in listening to that music, most music in fact. No guilt in enjoying that. This is a category of music that is just, well, wrong. It is either simply vapid, somewhat inappropriate, or downright icky. For example, I drove home today and was forced to turn the stereo up, way up, because a little tune titled "Baby Got Back" had rotated into the playlist. Even worse, I can still lay down every line, spit every verse. And I enjoy it. Guilty pleasure. "Turn Down for What?" is on the list. Really, anything featuring Lil Jon. Yea-ah. Or a certain song by Nickleback. There is no way I can feel good about enjoying these tunes. But I do.

What else? Certain movies. Sure, I stop if Caddyshack, Animal House, Vacation, or Blues Brothers come on. What person with a soul doesn't? Those are classics. However, I also have paused to view more than a little bit of Dumb and Dumber and Napoleon Dynamite. Multiple times. Each. I feel a little worse about myself afterward each time, and yet I enjoy it at the time.

My guilty pleasures go beyond entertainment though. Food is a significant area in which I find pleasure and enjoyment, only to wonder, "What the heck, Kohls?" afterward. For example, I have a horrible habit of taking Doritos, or whatever they call the Kroger version of said snack chip (more on that later), and piling them in a bowl. "Don't beat yourself. Everyone eats chips," you say. I am not done yet. I pour copious amounts of hot sauce on the chips. And then I pile on handfuls of cheese. I microwave the entire mountain of nutritional heresy, and then I consume it. It is awful, really. Some of the cheese burns. There is always a puddle of hot sauce in the bottom of the bowl that has to be scooped up with soggy chips. For some reason, I enjoy this culinary atrocity, and if we have chips and cheese in the house, I will probably eat it tonight. Afterward, I regret what I have done. Then I lick the bowl and scrape the last bit of burn cheese out before putting the dish in the washer.

I think another action I have taken involving Doritos could fall under guilty pleasure. When my son and daughter were both rather young, we went to the store to buy groceries. I will admit that at the time, I convinced my kids that the Kroger brand chips are the "real thing" and that Doritos are actually the imitation version. I doubt either one still believes it, but I take pleasure in the fact that my offspring referred to store brand, less expensive chips as "the good ones" whenever we picked up chips, and I do not think they have ever actually had a bag of the "other kind". But I feel a little guilty too.

Or maybe not.