Tuesday, August 8, 2017

Retired Teachers Never Quit: Teaching about Gettysburg

I retired in 2008 but still have teaching in my blood. So I putter around with fresh materials, even now.

It beats golf.

If you’re interested in the Battle of Gettysburg, there are easy ways to put together a slide show for students.

(Feel free to borrow any that follow.)

First, I always made sure, when we did a unit on the Civil War, that students knew what the Rebel flag looked. 

We also talked about what it can mean today. And I was always surprised when African American students didnt know what the flag was about.





If you’re interested in using the photo above, this is a barn not far north of Cincinnati, as you head north on I-71. 

The roof has been painted the same way since at least 1972. Until recently a burned cross, symbol of the Ku Klux Klan, stood in a nearby orchard.

(It was finally painted over during the pandemic, I think.


Okay, I admit it: I did sneak over a fence one day and plant an Obama-Biden campaign sign next to the cross.

My wife thought I was stupid.

(She may be right.)




The map of Gettysburg above shows the position of the two armies on the second day of combat. Long ago, I learned you could cut out black and white art from old history books. You can pick up old books at antique stores and use their work without fear. Almost everything printed before 1930 is out of copyright. Most black and white art can be scanned into handouts for students to read.

This might be a good example. I love the story:



Like any good teacher, I brought my own experiences to discussion. True, I taught before everything had to be standardized and a teacher might be horsewhipped if they didn’t teach to the test. At age twelve, I developed an abiding interested in the Civil War, which had much to do with my later decision to become a history teacher. But I had an unrealistic view of what war might involve.

Still naïve, in 1968, I enlisted in the United States Marines and twice volunteered to go to Vietnam. I was both dumb and lucky and was never shipped out. During my teaching  I was able to bring in all kinds of combat veterans to talk to my kids. It wasnt hard to convince them to come in and spend an entire day, as Ive previously discussed on this blog. And in all the years the veterans came to talk I never heard a word they said that made me wish I had been personally shot at.

One veteran of Iwo Jima told me, after he talked to my classes in 2005, that he had nightmares for a month.





My old school still continues a program we started in 2003 to bring out veterans to talk to all our kids in several classroom settings. (SeeThe Veterans Come to Loveland Middle School.) We’ve had as many as twenty veterans come on one day. Some today are former students, who once heard other veterans speak, who have since served in Afghanistan and Iraq. Their tales are sometimes harrowing, sometimes make you proud of what these men have done. (We haven't managed to find any young female veterans to visit; but we aren’t giving up.) 

At least one young man, who was seated in my class on 9/11, told students in 2014 that he, too, had constant nightmares as a result of what he saw.

Because of my own background, and because of what veterans have told me (one Vietnam vet broke down in tears during his talk) I tried to make it clear to students there was no glory in war.

The two pictures above serve that essential purpose. The doctor’s kit from the Civil War (it’s a little blurry; I took it in 1978) includes a very noticeable saw—for amputating hands, feet, arms and legs. I chose not to mince words when talking about the carnage in any Civil War battle, or any battle before or since. The picture of the belt buckle struck by a Minnie ball was taken through the glass of a display case at the Gettysburg National Park Visitor’s Center museum in 2011. 

If I was teaching today, I’d ask students what the man who was hit must have thought. I assume he got knocked out and bruised badly. 

That would get students talking, I think.









Today, if you go, the battlefield at Gettysburg is quiet, even picturesque. The stone statues and monuments, the polished cannon in museum displays, have nothing to tell us about the great contest waged there in July 1863. (See above.) Of course, the job of any good history teacher is to put flesh and blood back on the bones of those who lived in the past, to breathe life into the story.

I never used many of these pictures myself, having taken them or reproduced them since retiring. But the examples of shot and shell (above) might help a class understand the destruction artillery wrought on every battlefield.

Another great way to assemble pictures for your class involves nothing more taxing, albeit time-consuming, than checking images available on the internet.

Yes, I remember: “time-consuming” sums up the endless work required of every teacher every day, every week, and every year.

Several artists produced (or produce) excellent work. Winslow Homer would be one, and anything he has is long out of copyright and can be used in almost any way. You can also look for the photographs of Matthew Brady. Two painters still working today stand out, Don Troiani and Mort Kuntsler. To assemble some of the images below, I purchased one of Troiani’s books at a used book sale, cut out the photos that seemed useful, and scanned them through my printer to my computer.

It cost me $3. You can make use of them if you like for free!!! Hey, I’m retired. I have an excellent pension!


This painting by Troiani shows members of the Iron Brigade, fighting on July 1.
The 19th Indiana, pictured here, suffered terrible casualties, losing 210 out of 308 men.



Troiani captures the drama of the battle on July 2.
General Barksdale, leading his Louisiana troops (shown waving his hat here) was killed.



I can't remember what unit this is, clearly Zouaves.
Scene by Troiani from the fight on July 2



If you go on vacation you may get some useful pictures yourself.
Here we look down from Little Round Top, a key point on the battlefield, particularly on July 2.



From this spot you look toward Little Round Top.
A Confederate sniper took post behind the stone wall and went to work picking off Union soldiers.


That sharpshooter himself was killed.



At a key moment on July 2, the 20th Maine, holding the line atop Little Round Top
ran out of ammunition.
Their colonel, Joshua Chamberlain, ordered a desperate bayonet charge and they held the position.
Mark Maritato's work, shown here, is also good.



Naturally, if you can weave more women into the story that’s wise. At least two female soldiers took part in Pickett’s Charge, one of whom was killed, the other wounded. (They Fought like Demons by DeAnne Blanton and Lauren M. Cook, about women who disguised themselves and served might interest teachers as well.) And the only civilian to die during the fighting was Jenny Wade.

Here’s how I told her story in a piece I prepared for my class:

Wesley Culp grew up in Gettysburg. Later he headed south to start a new life. In the summer of 1863 Culp, now a member of Lee’s army, returned to his hometown. On the evening of July 1 he visited his sister’s house. He mentioned a message he had for Jenny Wade, a childhood friend. By chance Culp had seen her Yankee boyfriend, Jack Skelly, in a Confederate hospital. Skelly was badly wounded but hoped to return home soon.

Culp told his sister he would deliver the message personally in a day or two. Instead, he died fighting, July 2. Jenny Wade was also killed—while baking bread—the next day. The 20-year-old was hit when a stray bullet ripped through the front door of her home, passed through a small inner room, cut a second door, and struck her in the back. Wade collapsed without a sound, never knowing what hit her. She was the only civilian to die at Gettysburg. Skelly never heard the news. He died on July 12, as a result of his wounds. Whatever message he had meant for Culp to deliver, Jenny Wade never had the chance to hear it.




High fashion in 1863.


The key event at Gettysburg—and likely the key event of the war—was Pickett’s Charge, a heroic but doomed effort by 15,000 men. There are all kinds of good details that you can use to bring the moment alive; but to keep this post shorter, I’ll just add a few of the pictures I’ve found.

Longstreet opposed ordering Pickett's Charge but was over-ruled by Robert E. Lee.



Climbing a fence in their path, Pickett's men take punishing fire.



Scene of Pickett's Charge from the Gettysburg museum.
At center a caisson blows up.






Were these  three Rebel soldiers lucky to be captured?
Painting by Winslow Homer.



Finally, if I may, I would emphasize the need to introduce the human element into discussions about war. 

In most textbooks, the death toll at Gettysburg is duly and dully noted. It’s just a number to students today. Try asking them how they’d feel if a father, brother, cousin or loved one was killed fighting for our country.

Make sure they feel.





The quote, above, comes from the battlefield museum.

The picture of the three young children was found after the fighting ended. Here’s the way I told students the story behind it:

Sergeant Amos Humiston, a Yankee from New York, was killed on the first day of battle. Soldiers rarely carried identification in 1863 and when Humiston’s body was found later no knew who he was. In his hands, however, he held a picture of three young children. Northern papers ran it under the headline: WHOSE FATHER WAS HE?

The children were recognized.

The photo was returned to the family. 


Anyway, if this material is of any use to any young teachers, then I’ve done my good deed for today.

Since Im retired teacher, I think Ill go take a nap.

***

(I have no idea why, but it seems hard to leave comments on my blog; I'm old and probably hit the wrong button somewhere. 

If you ever need to get in touch, email me: vilejjv@yahoo.com.)


Saturday, July 22, 2017

Student of the Month Nightmare

This is something I wrote for a monthly gathering to honor some of the best students at our school. I figure most teachers will relate:

I was grading papers late last night—and had already polished off my second Twix bar—because I hate grading papers and have to reward myself with sugar to make the process palatable. (I also eat four cookies each day at school for lunch. But this story is not about sugar addiction.) So let’s continue.

Anyway, it was well past midnight and not a creature was stirring in the Viall house.  You could have heard the Twix wrappers rustling if you listened. I was exhausted and needed rest.

Bleary-eyed from reading seventh-grade essays, I threw myself into bed and was soon fast asleep. 

At some point in the night I had a terrifying dream. I found myself in front of a classroom filled with seventh graders. Mist floated across the floor. There was a chill in the air.

Instinctively, I shivered under the covers. 

Then, in my mind’s eye, I looked closely at the pupils in front of me. They looked pale and deathly, zombie-like. I heard myself say, “Time to turn in your homework.”

The zombies chanted, “We don’t have it. We never do homework.”

“We’re all DEAD,” explained one of the corpse-like figures. He waved his ghoulish hand about, as if to indicate his peers, but a finger broke loose and flew across the room, landing on another zombie’s desk. 

A third ghostly figure explained, “I didn’t do the work. I forgot what page the questions were on. My mother says I have A.D.H.D. and can’t be expected to do any homework.”

“You never gave me the assignment, Mr. Viall,” another zombie-student claimed.

“I did. I did too,” I mumbled in my sleep.

“Can I go to my locker? I think I left my homework in my math folder,” said yet another pale dream student.

“Can I go to the bathroom now,” interrupted one of the near-dead. “When a zombie has to go a zombie has to go,” she added rudely.

“I didn’t do my work either,” said a male zombie in the back. “What do you expect? I’m a stupid zombie.”

“Shut up, you retard,” shouted the rude and also politically incorrect zombie girl.

Two other zombies were doodling on their notebooks and not paying attention to a word my dream-self said. 

At that moment Brent, one of the least motivated of the walking dead arrived late for class. “What’s your excuse for being tardy?” I asked with a pained look.

“I’m a zombie,” he replied. “We don’t move fast. We sort of shamble and stagger along, moaning as we go.”

“History is boring,” grumbled another gore-covered student.  “And you’re old and wrinkled,” he added with a leer.

Like I said: it was a bad dream…too many Twix bars…but even in a dream that hurt….

Then I looked again and rubbed my eyes. In the left rear corner of the classroom was a smiling young lady. She had long blonde hair and she looked like she was there to learn. And she had her paper ready to turn in; in fact, she was passing it up to the front of the room now. She handed it to the nearest zombie, who was wearing a cheerleader’s costume, who passed it to the zombie seated in front of her, who passed it forward to the zombie in the Devon Still jersey. (That’s a zombie with a heart right there, my subconscious told me.) Then I did a double take and noticed that the Still zombie was missing a leg. 

I took the lonely homework paper—and looked at the name: Hannah L-----.

I seemed to remember her. Wasn’t she the girl who did a great job in the play, Jessica of Troy? Wasn’t she the girl who exploded with delight when we had a fire drill? I never saw that kind of enthusiasm before! What was she doing in this dream?

The zombies seemed to have the same question. “Homework, hoooooooomework,” they moaned. 

The Still-shirted zombie groaned even more loudly, “Steeeeeers….Steeeeeeeeelers.” He seemed agitated, as if his soul could find no rest.

Then from another corner I heard a pleasant voice, “Mr. Viall, I have my homework, too, but I was wondering if the answer to #48 is right.” This girl had brown hair and glasses, and wore a look of concern upon her face. The zombies groaned in unison and shot her evil looks. But she paid them no heed. She was focused and not to be deterred by a few walking dead. 

I rubbed my eyes—at least I thought I did—and recognized…Andrea D-----!

With a start, I sat bolt upright in bed. “%$#@@& *&(^%$,” I shouted. “Today is student of the month.” I forgot to prepare anything. Now what do I do? 

I’ll have to fake it entirely. 

“Hannah and Andrea! I have to talk about both this morning. *&&^^%, I need a donut.” I stumbled toward the bathroom, wondering to myself: How many days till retirement?

Gradually, while I showered, I calmed down. This would be easy. L----- and D-----?

Piece of cake! Darn. That sugar issue, again. 

Two of the coolest students you could have in class. What’s so hard about talking about them? Darn. I hope I don’t have to follow Mr. Sharpless. His songs for Student of the Month gatherings are hilarious. A cream Danish sure would help....Wait, snap out of it, John, this is going to be easy.

Here’s all you have to say: You love having these two young ladies in class. Andrea had a 102 average one quarter but called you at home before a test when she couldn’t find the answer to…#48…on her review sheet. Tell everyone that she is always a hard worker—conscientious, studious, dependable beyond all normal standards, and it’s like having a college student in class. Show the people the puppet of Confucius she did for a project. And L-----?  Explain that she is a young lady who thinks for herself…mature beyond her years…a good athlete…yet hilarious in class, a young lady with a fine sense of humor who keeps you on your toes with her thoughtful insights. L-----…she carries a 100+ average too.

L----- and D-----?  What’s not to like. Just explain that you think both have the talent to become doctors, or college professors, or CEO’s. If either one is valedictorian for this class you won’t be surprised. 

If ever we have a woman president…I’d vote for either one. 


Okay, now I knew I was ready. I looked in the mirror and spoke calmly to my reflection: “Just tell the parents, ‘I love having these two fine young ladies in class.’”

***

I was fortunate to teach for 34 years and liked almost every one of the 5,000 students who passed my way. 

But it is true: not all of them could be relied on to do their homework.  If you would like to read more you might like my book about education, Two Legs Suffice: Lessons Learned by Teaching, available on Amazon today.


P. S.: Devon Still was a player for the Cincinnati Bengals. When his daughter Leah, age 3, developed cancer, the team started selling his jersey and donated all proceeds to the fight against childhood cancer.

Countless fans bought #75 Still jerseys and helped raise more than $1 million dollars for a great cause.

P.P.S.: My friend Jeff Sharpless is still doing the same kind of dedicated work millions of teachers do in classrooms across the nation every day. As a teen, he played guitar in a rock band, and as a teacher managed to create hysterical songs for all kinds of occasions, including a play we worked on together, called Jessica of Troy. (It was the story of how Jessica Simpson beat out Helen to win the title of the most beautiful woman in the world, and how the Greeks and Trojans later rumbled.

Hector takes a spear to the neck (student artwork).


Sunday, July 2, 2017

Donald Trump in Kindergarten

The young tyke sitting before her was unlike any kindergartner Mrs. Nixon, a veteran of 35 years in the classroom, had ever dealt with before. Once again, Donald was accused of causing serious trouble. Sometimes problems exploded in the lunchroom. He tripped, shoved and insulted other little children on playground. In class the boy was often disruptive and disrespectful.

She had seen and heard him insult and bully others during math and science and reading. Yet, when she cautioned him for his behavior, it was never his fault. He said those who complained about him were “liars” and “losers.”

“Donald,” she now said to the boy, “Juan says you made called him a wetback at lunch yesterday.”

“Who are you going to believe,” the little fellow responded. “Me? Or that Mexican? You know all Mexicans are criminals. His mother probably sells drugs.”

The teacher took a deep breathe. “Donald, you know it isn’t nice to mock Juan or anyone else. Remember the time you made Carli cry?”

Donald shrugged. “I told the truth. Can you imagine looking at that face of hers in the mirror every morning?” Then he shuddered in theatrical fashion. Apparently, he thought he was being cute.

“Donald…You know, several students say yesterday at recess you grabbed Brandi in a place where no little boy should ever grab a little girl.”

“One hundred percent fabricatedThat’s a word my Daddy taught me. Besides, we’re rich. That means I can do whatever I want. Daddy says I can get away with anything I do. Because, we are really rich!”

 “I’ve also been told you made fun of Serge during art class, Mrs. Nixon tried. You know Serge has a serious handicap.”

“He’s a stupid spastic. He can’t even finger paint,” Donald laughed,mimicking Serge’s flailing hand gestures. “Pretty good imitation, huh?” Donald asked with a smirk.

For a moment, Mrs. Nixon rubbed her forehead gently with her right hand. She had been trying for months to help Donald see how cruel his behavior was. She thought back to the day he tripped Megyn on an asphalt playground and she tore up her skirt and both knees. When accosted by the playground monitor, Donald replied, “She tripped me first. And if someone trips me, I trip them back ten times harder. He had laughed at the time over the monitor’s concern, saying of Megyn, “You could see blood coming out of her eyes, blood coming out of her wherever…”

The playground lady had simply pointed out that several children had watched Donald attack Megyn without reason. James watched him push her. “He’s a liar,” Donald had said, “and a nut job.” Ted also told the monitor Megyn was the innocent victim. “Lyin’ Ted,” the Trump boy had replied.

Now, Mrs. Nixon found herself at a loss for words. “Donald,” she offered, “how about if I mention some of your classmates by name and you think of something nice to say about each one? Could you try?”

The little boy narrowed his eyes and a scowl formed on his face.

“Barack,” Mrs. Nixon began.

“Not even born in this country! He’s a Muslim. And all Muslims are bad. And we should torture them. After 9/11, I saw a tape of thousands of Muslims celebrating in New Jersey when this country was attacked.”

An observer might have noticed that Mrs. Nixon blanched. “Donald,” she replied calmly, “no one else has ever seen the tape you claim you saw…”

She stopped short. She tried again: “Mika?”

“Dumb as a box of rocks.”

“Joe?”

“Hes a psycho.

“Arianna?”

“She’s a dog,” Donald sneered. “She’s ugly inside and out.”

“Rosie?”

“A fat pig.”

“Frank?”

“A total clown. Low-class slob.”

“Glenn?”

“A wacko.”

“John?”

“He’s no hero.”

“Donald,” Mrs. Nixon felt almost compelled to interject, “you know he told you not to insult the lunch lady when you mocked her after her son was killed in an accident. You backed down and wouldn’t fight. You said you couldn’t because your feet hurt.”

“He’s still no hero,” Donald fumed. He hated to be reminded of his own cowardly actions.

 “Bernie?” Mrs. Nixon began again.

 “Crazy.”

“Mitt?”

“A total joke.”

“Meryl?”

“Overrated. The other kids think she was so great in the Christmas play! She’ll never be a real actress.”

“Oh my,” Mrs. Nixon said softly. “Donald,” she tried again, “you have insulted almost the entire kindergarten class. You said we needed a wall around the playground to keep immigrants out. You said the other children would have to give up their lunch money to pay for it. Or you hoped they’d be deported.”

“I never cause trouble,” Donald whined. “Everyone hates me. They’re jealous. The other kids are losers. Scum. Animals. Thugs. They’re sick, biased, stupid, pathetic and sad! They are weak. They are weak and sad!!! I don’t need to apologize for anything. Everyone else is wrong.”

Mrs. Nixon groaned, as if in pain. 

She wasn’t sure what to do—except maybe retire as soon as possible. She couldn’t be sure what would become of Donald in years to come but she worried about what he’d be like as an adult. If he didn’t change his ways, he’d be absolutely insufferable. She blinked once, twice, and told him he could go outside for the remainder of recess.

Just as he reached the door, little fellow wheeled and said, “You know, you’re not a very good teacher. You’re old and your hair is unstylish. My father is rich. He can get you fired and you’ll lose your crappy job. You’re another loser.”

And with that the little shit vanished down the hall. 

Outside, on the playground, he studied the situation with a certain sly ability. He was looking for a fresh target, someone new and weak to attack.

Ah, why not knock down that kid with cerebral palsy! “Hey, you gimpy cripple,” little Donald shouted.


Yeah, he thought to himself.
  
Nobody tells little Donald J. Trump what he can and can’t do.