Dad Starmer's Vacation

My dad ventured to the islands for a visit these past eleven days! Typically, his college sends him to the Dominican Republic or Columbia as the liaison to recruit students for summer programs. For the last twelve years, he expects beaches, sunshine, humidity and pristine pools on his spring break (lucky bastard!). This year, he got all that and then some, visiting Hawaii and having a guest room instead of a hotel room and, while many will argue that the locals have their own language, my father didn't have to struggle with his Spanish.


[Starmer Tangent]
In 2002, my father took me to the DR on one of his business trips. We strolled along cobble-stone roads and through the historic district of Santo Domingo, the Capital. In one of the shops, my father found a trinket he wanted to purchase for my mother. He pinched the trinket between his forefinger and thumb, approached a clerk, squinted his eyes, holding the tricket and, mustering his best Caribbean-Spanish accent, asked: "A que hora?"-- which means: "What time is this object?"
He meant to ask how much it was.


But never mind Spanish, Dad was in Hawaii and, for the most part, didn't need to struggle for coherency when interacting with anyone. 
Dad's flight was delayed for so long on March 16th that he actually missed his connecting flight to Honolulu. He rebooked his trip for the following day, and arrived at HNL at 2p.m. on Sunday, March 17 (Hobbes' birthday!). Nick and I picked him up at the airport and the four of us (Hobbes included!) catapulted into the eye of a tornado that spun us at disorienting speeds until it spit us out at the airport curb on Monday where we were all hugging and saying goodbye. 
Luckily, I have pictures to help us remember the week.


Within hours of Dad's arrival, Nick and I took him to the infamous Koko Head mountain and kicked his ass all the way to the top. It was a hazy day, but the view was still breathtaking. We occasionally paused on the vertical train track trail, and Dad would attempt to articulate his experience. The ever-inspiration-seeking writer sought to describe the hike so he may depict his experience in a short story, a poem, or just to Mom, Luke, Jake, Mindy and Cooper when he returned home. 

A reward twice over for me and Nicholas, Kona Brewing Company beckoned at us. Sandwiches, pizza and especially the sampler of island Kona brew greeted us at the bottom of the trail.

The rest of the week was but a blur. Dad soaked up sunbeams on a daily basis. We surprised Nick with some new furniture and some rearranging. Like ignorant assholes, Dad and I bought a bookshelf and proceeded to use our Starmer genes to put it together. For the loyal readers, you know my history with projects that require building. You may also recount that I graciously received my crooked-chromosome for building from my father. The very father who came to visit. Never mind the process. The bookshelf is built, and that's all you need to know.


Dad channeled his inner kelp and embraced the relaxations of beach-napping by the lagoons.

We even spent the week watching the NCAA tournament! Dad refused, on two occasions, to accompany me to work so that he could watch Syracuse advance. Unfortunately, Ohio State trampled Syracuse in the elite 8.... 

Dad's flight took off on Monday. He racked up the Hawaiian experience with monk seals, sea turtles, hiking, Kona brew, bad pizza, a tour of Schofield and Leeward, Pearl Harbor, Duke's, Honolulu, Waikiki and the east shore. But we couldn't let him leave before he swam with sharks. 
I scheduled our shark tour for Monday morning at 7a.m. (his flight left 12 hours later). We fought off H1 morning traffic and peaked the North Shore hill just as the sun was rising behind us. As we pulled up to the Haleiwa Harbor, Dad freaked out a little. There was a definite chill to the air that didn't inspire jumping into the Pacific waters. 

           

        




The boat ride three miles out was the most horrendous part of the adventure. Eighteen-foot swells rocked our craft as we slid down the backs of waves so steep, I was certain we would capsize. Dad's no help. He's famous for his melo-dramatic comments. The side of our boat would dip and smack against the waters surface and dad would grab onto me yell out: "Woooaaahh!" backed by a nervous laugh. 

By the time our boat reached the 3-mile buoy, Dad and I were far from enthusiastic about volunteering for the first round of cage bait. Comments from the boat crew, like "Don't all move to one side of the boat!" jolted shocks of electricity right through the tips of our nerves. So much so that I sure as hell was counting the people who were standing on the right side of the boat watching the first victims. 


By round two, I couldn't stand the slow up-and-down of the swells tipping the boat off balance. I volunteered our party of two. Snorkel masks sucking our faces, Dad and I stood at the back of the boat in our bathing suits, our hair prickled in the chilled morning air and our muscles spring-loaded in anticipation of .... damn well anything.


We climbed into the tank and held on for dear life for twenty minutes. Sharks ranging from big humans to small cars circled the cage. Waves as big as Beaudry Park sledding hill flushed over our snorkels, slapping our bodies against the cage, banging the cage against the boat. Dad's eyes bulged, magnified by his goggle mask. "Wow" was all he managed to say, repeatedly, for those entire twenty minutes. 


Dad is not a fan of the water though and a few times, I thought I saw a hint of panic sweep over him after a wave as he stared ominously upward, perhaps in anticipation that the next wave may lodge our cage under the boat---trapping us underwater to drown, or for the brave, slip through the metal bars of the cage and risk a true shark encounter in an effort not to drown. I watched Dad consider both options, as if he needed to have this backup plan ready for implementation by the next swell. Before the crew member could finish announcing that it was time to get out, Dad was already halfway up the ladder. 


"Well, what did you think?" I asked between my teeth, bent over the end of the boat, wrapped tightly in a towel, waiting for the violet abdominal contraction that would eventually make me purge my sea sickness.
"I love the boat ride and I love the sharks. But I hate the water." He stuttered, wrapped in a towel and sweatshirt, teeth chattering. 
Mom said it best later that afternoon. Dad is the only lifeguard we will probably ever know who absolutely hates the water.


Dad's trip was unforgettable. Nick and I are so fortunate that we have family who are traveling 6,000 miles to visit us on our little island. Before Dad's plane hit cruising altitude, our next visitor book his plane tickets. Michael Karpinski is coming in May-- and I think Kage is coming right before him!
We're still waiting for my brothers and Nick's parents to arrange their Pacific jaunts. Hop on it, guys!

The Road is Life

“Our battered suitcases were piled high on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.”
J. Kerouac from On the Road

Thanks Ashley!

Nostalgic Throwback

How far in the past must I dive in order to claim "nostalgic throwback"? Appropriately enough, social media spews images and youtube clips from my childhood. Gullah Gullah Island, The Busy World of Richard Scarry, The Berenstain Bears, Where the Wild Things Are and, of course, Little Bear.


Perhaps my tween years, full of pasty skin and bangs, bushy eye brows and diffidence produced something worthy of nostalgia. Summer nights hiding behind sheds and bushes, hide-and-seek to a teenager is called man hunt. Camp outs and sleep overs. Junior high dances and those first flutters of your heart. Discovering tight bell bottom jeans and boobs.


No, in fact, I'd rather not tumble into that abyss right now. Rather, I am inspired to compose this entry based on my dinner choices for the week.


Nick's transition into platoon leader is complete. He is officially the LT in charge. I know. I saw his office and watched him compile paperwork into binders (an organized man after my own heart <3). Now, he establishes himself. He learns about his soldiers. He preps for a mission to the Big Island in a couple of weeks wherein he and his platoon will build a couple of buildings. For those of you who know and love my Nick, you are already aware of his dedication, perseverance, hard work and perfectionism. It translates into everything he does, and (I could shout it to the world!) I love him for it! 


As such, late nights are starting to become the norm around the starmweber household. His arrival home by 7:00 p.m. might beg the question, "Do you feel ok?" or something similar, as seven would be early. I am already adjusting to this schedule change, and as a result, I have told Nick that I will no longer be making dinners for us. It's no fun cooking for one and neither of us truly love clammy left-overs. Besides, who wants to stuff their face with chicken and veggies and starches at 8 p.m.? Far too heavy for bedtime.But this new transition opens the door on nostalgia. Not for Richard Scarry or bushy eye brows. Rather, college. 


Ah yes, in college, I shopped for one, and I 'cooked' for one. I ate when I was hungry and didn't worry when I wasn't. With Nick working through the meals of the day, I've reshaped our grocery list. Enough substance for Nick to sustain energy throughout the day, and my old college eating habits. I made a list of my favorites. Enjoy this nostalgia flashback!


1. Cereal and toast: I remember sitting on the steps of a Vassar academic building with my friend Ashley talking about how much we love cereal. We talked about how we could perpetually refill our bowls until the milk was completely gone. Ash - I'm rediscovering cereal and toast! Though I feel extraordinarily guilty refilling my bowl repeatedly, the comforts of cereal for dinner are so fantastic. It reminds me of college and perhaps, indirectly, with my childhood as well.

2. Lean Cuisine Paninis: God I love these! They are one of my favorite meals! I used to make Lean Cuisine Paninis for lunch all through grad school! They remind me of my first plunge into student teaching. I would heat up a chicken ranch panini or a steak and cheese panini and some water and an orange and eat my lunch.... at 10 a.m.!

3. Canned Tuna or Chicken on Triscuits: My dear friend Lauren, who was my sanity and savior in grad school, turned me onto tuna on triscuits. Take a small can of tuna or chicken and a tsp of mayo. Mix it up with some salt and pepper in a tiny container. Then, spoon it onto your triscuit and enjoy! 

4. Hummus and Veggies: I could eat buckets of hummus and sliced veggies! I could eat it until it makes me sick!! I've discovered that in my (old) age that I've retracted from my love for hummus and pita. I prefer cucumbers, carrots and broccoli. Either way, the chick peas are full of protein and the veggies balance the meal. This also reminds me of Trident, one of my favorite Boston restaurants (miss you Min and Jake!)

5. Tomato Soup & Butter Sandwiches: I cannot deny that tomato soup and butter sandwiches are a direct line from my childhood. Mom - this is a serious question - where did you come up with butter sandwiches? Were we too poor for lunch meat? Regardless, I used to make this for dinner all the time in undergrad. Butter and bread are cheap and, when I used to shop at the commissary with Nick, hand held soups were wicked cheap. 

6. Grilled Cheese & Ketchup Sandwiches: Stop judging. It's delicious. If my Kage is reading, she knows exactly from where this awkward pallet derived. Freshmen year at Marist, IF I ventured to the cafeteria, I only ordered grilled cheese sandwiches -- to the point where the gentleman behind the counter knew my order and once, in passing in the hallway, called me grilled cheese girl. But I love it. I crave it. And, when I just googled "grilled cheese and ketchup sandwich" for my photo, one came up. So I'm obviously also not alone.  :)

7. PB&J&P:  Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with goldfish and pepperoncinis. I don't even need to elaborate. 

8. Cucumber, Sweet Red Pepper & Ranch Sandwich: On whole wheat bread with a little cracked pepper. So. yummy!

Cheers!

Think Too Much, Feel Too Little

Thanks Ashley !

A little reminder to prioritize the important things...

Live for those Weekends

"Live in the Sunshine. Swim in the sea. Drink the wild air."
Emerson

On Teaching

Last weekend, a friend, a scholar, former teacher and mentor, Jeanne Cameron, send me an article published by the NYTimes entitled Confessions of a 'Bad' Teacher. William Johnson, author of the article, articulates the disheartening, discouraging, gut-wrenching story of his own "evaluation" as a teacher, by administrators and other non-teachers, labeling him as a bad teacher. This is someone who was noted for his excellence in teaching a few years prior to his label of 'unsatisfactory' by New York City's State Education department. 


As a teacher, I feel compelled to blog about this article and about the atrocity of State Education Departments' 'evaluation' of teachers. I come from a family of teachers. My mentors are all teachers. I value education, its process and the people who lead our classrooms. Teaching is more than a profession; teaching is a lifestyle. 


Johnson talks about the endless self-critiquing that continues long after the lesson ends. He's right. My teacher training, my mentors and my own intuition have all taught me that the lesson isn't over when the class ends. I typically find that my drive home from school is outwardly silent. No radio. No ipod. Without consciously knowing, I usually bite at the skin on my inside right cheek. Jaw clenched. Inwardly, my mind is roaring-loud. 


I rewind the day's lessons and play them on repeat until I get home. I check my students' faces the first time through. Who truly understood the content? Who was faking it? Who wasn't mentally there today? The second repeat, I listen to my own words. Did I explain everything slowly, articulately, completely? How could I have changed my wording to create better student understanding? 


This self-evaluation continues into the night. It drives how I speak the next day in class, how I structure the next lesson, how I re-teach the lesson during office hours or even the next time I teach the lesson (months later).


And Johnson continues by discussing that self-evaluation is not our only evaluation: our students are the ultimate critics. They are the first to respond to the lesson. Are they disengaged? Ask any teacher you know how they know a student is disengaged. Head down? Cell phone out? Blank stares? Notebook doodles? And then, as a teacher, you adjust. You shift the lesson. There is nothing more painful as a teacher to teach a disengaged classroom of students. Conversely, I know immediately if the lesson is stellar. Their eyes sparkle. There is a quickness about their answers that is ignited by excitement. They get it. As a teacher, when we present a lesson like this, a lesson we engineered, edited, revised and  revised and edited again, the hair on our arms prickles. Our eyes pulse with wet shared-excitement. The lesson strips student reservation - the "I'm too cool to care" attitude - and the class takes off with momentum. Of course it doesn't happen every day. But I'll tell you this: Teachers want this. They want it every day, with every lesson and every group of kids. The aforementioned is the response we hope all our lessons elicit from all our students. And you better damn well know we strive for it. With every last lesson we create.


My mother taught me this process. My father taught me this process. Dale and Nancy, Julia and Michael and Kelley and Barb and Brian and Christine and Amy and every last one of my mentors taught me this process. We all share this lifestyle. We are all evaluating, adjusting, respond to student feedback and evaluating again. So who the hell conceived the brain-child that the best way to support teachers and better our education system is for non-teachers to bust into our classrooms, pen and pencil ready, ready to evaluate a content-area teacher on the basis of a snapshot of their classroom? 


Because, ah yes, a school is under suspicion if they do not produce a few "unsatisfactory" labels within this process.


I grok Johnson. I grok the frustration and anxiety every public school teacher harbors for this State-Ed inflicted process. I struggle with words to articulate to you how discouraging this is as a new teacher and furthermore, how disrespectful it is to the men and women who dedicate their lives to teaching.


This is beginning to mirror the literary fantasy of Harry Potter, when the Ministry of Magic sends in Dolores Umbridge to evaluate long-time faculty at Hogwarts (extinguishing many of their careers, including that of the Headmaster), to implement irrational decrees regulating teacher interactions with students, and to restructure the once-thriving educational environment into something heavy with ominous oppression. Surely this connection should be a farce; most would argue Rowling's novels are far from commentary on the United States. Sadly, however, if you wander into many classrooms today, the analogy seems more like one of Professor Trelawney's premonitions of the eventual inevitable, considering the current path traveled by our public education system.


So ponder this. Have a moratorium. Read Johnson's article. It's quite insightful. And build a partnership with your kids' teachers. You are both working toward the same goal of turning your children into thinking, caring, committed and loving members of their community. 

Modern Day Love Note

I texted this to Nick the other day while he was at work...

<3

26 of the Happiest Animals in the World

The shit that litters the internet is absolutely fantastic. I read this blog about the 26 happiest animals late last night and it indeed made me smile. 

Here's a preview. Happy Friday! 

(ps.. the rabbit looks like my grandma nonni. love!)