Leadership Academy Reflections

I'm in the classroom, teaching. Students a mix from different years and schools. Classroom hot, one wall an open window.

I'm at the front of the class. Behind me, a giant marionette, stringless, performing the same motions I make. I sweep my arm to make a point; the marionette, several feet taller than I, mimics my movement.

A telephone rings. A student, Michael D, who I had years ago, runs to answer the phone. I shout that students are not allowed to answer the class phone. Michael and I wrestle for the phone. I finally give up, let him answer.

"Hello?...It's for you."

Suddenly nervous, I retrieve the phone from Michael.

A female voice, plaintive, says, "Brad?"

My heart pounding, I reply, "Steph?" (Stephanie is an ex-girlfriend.)

"It's not Steph!'

Trembling, I hang up.

The dream ends.

Analysis: A lot of anxiety in this dream. Does the marionette symbolize going through the motions? Uncertainty about going back into the classroom after two years as staff developer? The marionette might also represent, since it's larger than I, restrictions (government, NCLB, administrators, my own administrative goals) Who's in control?  My career out of control?
Why is Michael  in the dream?  My past catching up with me? Unresolved business? Michael was a disturbed 15 year old, but not a bad kid. Eager to please, wanting to be accepted. Never really challenged me. Why is answering the phone so important to him? Sharing power? Finding a voice? Self-validation?
Then, why did I assume the voice to be Stephanie, whom I haven't seen in 15 years? Unresolved business? God forbid! The past calling to the present? And when answered, "It's not Steph," what does that mean? Whose is the female voice? My subconscious? My feminine side? The unknown? Future? Alternate possibilities?
That may explain my fear...so strong that I hung up the phone, only to immediately waken and chastise myself for hanging up on her. What would she have said next? Am I holding my own consciousness back?

I was most moved by the Civil War art exhibit in the back of the Rockwell Museum, particularly the photo, reproduced below, A harvest of death, Gettysburg, July, 1863 - by Timothy H. O'Sullivan.
It inspired me to create this drawing. Click on either image to see a full sized version.

Shakespeare and Company's production of Hamlet last night at the Founders' Theatre in Lenox was very enjoyable. The director, Eleanor Holdridge, managed to add a few original tricks to the staging, making it stand out from more traditional performances. Loud, unexpected crackling sounds. blinking lights (designed by Les Dickert), a stark black and white set (designed by Edward Check), and full use of available space combined to make this modern day Hamlet a sensory treat.

Jason Asprey was more than competent in the titular role. His physicality was one of his assets, enabling him to prance, jab, melee and riposte with ease and naturality. Elizabeth Raetz was excellent as Ophelia, her eyes sparkling one moment, brimming with tears the next. Her slight form and soprano vocals added poignancy to her role. Kevin O'Donnell brought all of the suffering but no filial playfulness to his role as Laertes.

Costume Designer Jessica Ford chose smart suits for the powerful, hip casuals for the young, and ostentatious colors for the comic. Gun-toting, fatigue-clad soldiers were an incongruous denouement to the sword-fighting  climax, however.

One can't help but find similarities between the Denmark of the play and the United States of today. Corruption, leadership by mediocrity, squelching of talent, and silencing of dissent resonate throughout the play, reminding us of Shakespeare's timelessness and relevance. 

Much is rotten in the state of Denmark, indeed. How can people of conscience, such as Hamlet, fight for (social) justice, work to depose those wrongly empowered, and still strive for love's fulfillment? If the system is mad, must we be mad to thrive? And must we, too, fall in order to bring down the corrupt and treacherous with us?

This production of Hamlet brings these questions to our consciousness, in a word that sorely needs expanded consciousness.

After Viewing A Defeated Soldier Wishes to Walk His Daughter Down the Wedding Aisle by Dario Robleto

My ghostly feet
in the boots I wore when I died
leave my trails in the dust.
My blood, no longer congealed,
now puddles in my wake.
My tears for my wife,
who loved me while she waited,
and who is now free to love another,
punctuates the sand beneath my treads.
But my daughter, my daughter, my joy of joys...
my love for you is so, so strong
that not even death can keep me from your wedding.
I am there with you now.
We are walking ever-so-slowly
arms entwined, eyes bright with hope for our futures
towards your young man.
You're thinking of him, not me
but I understand.
Still we continue, though the aisle grows longer.
For me, this aisle is the sand.
A desert without end.
I walk with you, for you, my beauty in white.

Click on any image for larger view.

 

A very meaningful, moving and provocative trip to the Clark Institute of Art. What follows are several observations and opinions about the art that excited me most.

Gerome's Thumbs Down is a powerful painting of a gladiator pit immediately after a violent contest has ended. The victor stands over his bleeding opponent, his sword raised triumphantly. The crowd unanimously and enthusiastically point their thumbs down to indicate their preference that the loser die.Crowd behavior portrayed brilliantly. The pleading loser is the focal point for me.

Rossi's A Young Woman Reading demonstrates Berger's contention in Ways of Seeing that in nudes, women are displayed for a male audience. Whole ostensibly reading, the woman in the painting seems aware of the presence of the artist, the viewer, or the voyeur.

Arthur Devis' Richard Moretan, Esq. of Tackley with his Nephew and Niece John and Susanna Weyland also validates Berger's idea of the wealthy landowner, in portraits, portrayed as lords of their domain, served by children, with their estates sprawling into the distance.

Claesz' 1640 oil painting Still Life displays succulent meats, fresh fruits, silver goblets, decorative furniture, and other signs of wealth. Berger wrote that oil paintings served to show off the wealth and taste of the artists' patrons. This painting is an example.

Edward Hopper's  Manhattan Bridge Loop, an oil painting from 1928, moved me because I see the exact place depicted in the painting all the time. I picture what that spot looks like now compared to how it looked 80 years ago. It evokes a sense of place with which I am very familiar.

One of my favorite paintings at the Clark is Van Gogh's The Night Cafe'.  Van Gogh wrote about this painting that he "tried to express the terrible passions of humanity by means of red and green." A man is slumped over a table, head in hands, while a loving couple sit side by side at a table behind him.  A man dressed in white seems to look at the viewer, his expression wistful. Two others commiserate drunkenly at a table.



Matisse's The Three O'Clock Sitting reverses the typical artist/model dichotomy in that the artist is female and the model a nude male. A mirror to the artist's right reflects the pair.

Sargent's A Street in Venice shows a narrow alley. A young man entreats a woman, his expression plaintive. The woman looks away, toward the viewer, in apparent rejection. It reminds me of a scene at the Pitcher's Mound the other night...

 

Click on image for full size.

Click on image for a larger, clearer view.

One of the aspects of Mathis' speech that I appreciated most was how soft-spoken he was. His passion underscored his delivery, but he didn't have to shout to get through to us. I actually take comfort in others' urgency. We are a community of suffering conscience, of higher consciousness discredited by authorities. I was comforted by Bill's queit, conscientious authority. He IS making a tangible, discernible difference.

He acknowledges the risks, not only professional, to moving against the corporate and political grain. I'm reminded of Albert Einstein's famous quote, "Great spirits have often encountered violent opposition from weak minds."

Where do I fit in? Mathis' presentation has forced me to stretch my boundaries. It has become unacceptably easy to rely on my romantic image of the roles I have played in the New York City Department of Education.  I have not been a leader. I have not been a follower. I have always been an iconoclast. My individuality has caused me to gain and lose numerous interesting and worthwhile positions.  I'm comforted by my integrity but disturbed about my failures. My iconoclasm must cease. I must take up the reins of leadership.

Another impression I'm left with from Bill's speech is that he's hopeful, and his hope is based on concrete steps, gains and possibilities. NCLB is up for renewal in 2007, he said. If the Democrats can get off their complacent asses, take a stand, take back the Congress (if the voters can feel that their voices are heard, that the election process  is fair and not rigged), then maybe NCLB will be voted out.

I tremendously respect Mathis for bringing his lawsuit against NCLB, trying to overturn it in Vermont. All the examples he gave of definitive steps, demonstrable gains, is cause for hope.

Chriss Hyndes, with the Pretenders, sings in Revolution,
"We can't just wait for the
Old guard to die
Before we can
Make a new start."

I am ready to make that new start.

How Do We Forgive Our Fathers?

 
How do we forgive our fathers?

Some of us make their misdeeds and faults our own.

Then we only have to forgive ourselves.

Some swear to become a different kind of parent, of man, of human.

Then we only have to discover our humanity.

Some rage, drink and drug.

Then we only have to manage our abuses.

Some banish their fathers from their lives.

Then we only have to deal with our loneliness.

A few may confront, may finally bring out their resentments, rejections and betrayals.

That makes the fathers feel guilty or defensive, which may cause them to revert,

to exhibit the behaviors that destroyed their families.

Some of us never forgive our fathers.

Some struggle for years to find the release, to fill the void, turn grief to art, to love, to hope.

Some of us deny, reconstruct our lives to erase our fathers’ misdeeds, abuses, betrayals, destructions; instead emphasize their love, their devotion, the flowers of joy plucked from the fields of memory.

Some wait til it’s too late. Their forgiveness rains tears on their fathers’ graves.

Some become their fathers.

Some embrace their fathers, but that is the most difficult.

Broken generations, brittle lives, love underfoot.

I beg for forgiveness…but not for myself.