Thoughts on the Fort McMurray fire

As I write this the city of Fort McMurray in northern Alberta is in flames.  I've always been afraid of fire and to know the forest, that seems to be a place of solace and peace, is burning taking a city with it brings nightmare images. I look around my study at all the stuff and, while it is only stuff, it comforts me. Photos of my mother, my husband, my cousins and my friends hang on the walls. There is a painting of a polar bear labelled "Iceland 1945," that belonged to my father.  A friend of a friend escaped Fort Mac with only her purse and her vehicle.

This disaster is not about me.  I am safe hundreds of kilometres to the south and the pavement outside the house is still wet from a morning rain. Yet one of the things we humans share is our ability to imagine and as I look around me and hear Odie whistle his morning greeting from the other room, I do not stop my imagination from going to the heat, smoke, and terror of the fire.  What would I take? What would I most miss?  I hope I never have to find out.  I'm sure the people of Fort Mac hoped they would never have to answer those questions either. Now their homes are gone.

I wonder if the United Church my father helped raise money to build in the 1970's has been engulfed in flames. I see again the mirror my dad had beside his desk with a Fort McMurray sticker on it. These are small connections but they are connections none-the-less. What will we do now, the people of Alberta, the people of Canada to help those who have lost so much?  In Canada, a first-world country we don't expect that disaster can strike. We have so much, so much freedom, so much wealth, so much technology and yet, one spark can take all those things away. It leaves me humbled, horrified and hopeful.

When I first heard about the fire, lines from a poem by Christopher Wiseman came back to me. I've been thinking about giving away my poetry collection, haven't looked at it for years, and yet I was very glad to be able to walk into the basement, open up a box of books and find it.

This poem was written in the late 1980's, still its lines came back to me and speak to how humans in need and those who can help, treat each other. I hope Chris will forgive me for quoting the poem here. In addition to helping with practicalities in times of disaster, we can fiercely insist on making art for art nourishes what is best in us. My thoughts are with the people of Fort McMurray and all those who feel the impact of the fire.

The Fall and After

The longest day of 1987. A Sunday.

The beach warm and crowded. The tide out.
And there's a man, I'd guess over eighty,
In a suit, a tie, and polished shoes,
Walking, with a stick, slowly towards the sea.
He comes to eight stone steps leading down,
Begins, trips, pitches right onto the road

Below, landing face first, lying still.
No glasses, thank God, my first thought,
Right above him, seeing it all happen
From a third floor window, no phone there.
People come quickly, touch, then turn him,
Blood pouring from his head, his face
Scuffed and filthy, his suit knee torn out.

His eyes don't focus, seem sightless,
But he moves a little, as if in quiet protest
At being there in the road like that.
Someone runs for a phone, another finds Kleenex
And holds it to his head. They gather round
And for a moment it looks like a big family,
He an elder, hurt and needing help,

Trying to sit up, to not be a nuisance.
Now a woman, about thirty, is sitting holding him,
Bare arms cradling his head to her white blouse,
Lips moving as she talks quietly to him,
And I am suddenly crying, surprised
By the thick heavy sobs shaking me.
At last they come and take him away.

A few stitches and a new suit. But is that all?
I think perhaps he'll never try again
To walk towards the sea on a Sunday afternoon.
And the next day his blood is still there,
Though you couldn't tell it from the oilstains,
And people go down the steps and tread on it,
Walking across the road to the beach.

What will I take from this? Just how he
Plunged forward, as if diving into water,
Just knowing how old we get, how bodies fail us,
How people will run to help, and do their best,
That we are, deep down, still gentle,
And, in the end, all we can do is watch,
Say what words we can, and wait until they come.


Christopher Wiseman
Saint Andrews, Scotland
published in Missing Persons
copyright 1989
Sono Nis Press
Victoria, British Columbia

Lessons from a biting parrot

Odie on the microwave cart

Odie has now been with us for 7 years, 3 years longer than he was with his original family. As most of you know Odie is pair-bonded to Richard and Odie and I have had a rocky relationship right from the get-go. In the past year we have worked with a wonderful parrot / human trainer named Robin.  With her help I've been able to feel comfortable getting Odie to come out of his cage and onto his gym so I can clean his cage and give him clean water and new food. Things seemed to be going swimmingly and I had just finished an email to Robin delighting in the slow, but steady, progress Odie and I have made. I thought our next step together was to train Odie to go into his travelling crate so that, if needed, I could take him to the vet without Richard's help.  I could always throw a towel over Odie and bundle him into the crate and, if it were an emergency, that's what I'd do but I'd rather not.  It's an unpleasant experience for both of us.

Odie, it seems, had other ideas. Last Tuesday he climbed out of his cage and after following the target stick* ended up on the old microwave cart where we store his toys. In order to get there he needs to traverse a rope ladder and then a dowel ladder to the top of the cart.  He was a little wary about the presence of the crate but he did come closer little by little. I'm not sure what spooked him but he began flapping his wings, launching himself off the top of the cart and ending up on the floor. I have 'rescued' him from the floor a few times so I got down on my hands and knees and extended my hand so that he could come over and climb up on it. Yes, it made me nervous because we are running about 50/50 in the bite department when I do this.  He wasn't at all interested and began exploring under the dining room table and then wandered his way into the kitchen, mostly ignoring me.  I offered the target stick hoping he would come back into the dining room and I could persuade him to come closer to the cage or the gym so he could climb up. Not interested. When he headed for the living room I walked around him, giving him a wide berth and blocked his path. He puttered for a few more minutes with me offering the target every once in a while and him ignoring it.

He was still interested in the living room and decided to attack my shoe. I stood my ground.  After some more puttering around he made his way cautiously toward me and, instead of attacking the shoe, climbed up on it.  From there he proceeded to climb up my jeans. I wasn't really happy about this and tried several times to offer him the target stick as a perch.  He wasn't having any of it.  I began moving slowly and steadily towards his gym as he continued to climb.  Unfortunately for me, he got to my shoulder before I got to the gym. With his beak no longer involved in climbing he lunged at my ear and gave me a hard bite. I didn't throw him off although I was tempted to. I said crossly, "Odie, that hurt," and lowered my shoulder to the gym. He stepped off onto the gym without hesitation. From there I was able to target him into his cage and close the door before dealing with my bleeding ear and wounded ego.

The past few days Odie and I have been wary of each other.  He has been hesitant to target when out of the cage and last night he came out of the cage but didn't want to move to the gym.  I was able to get the food and water bowls out in order to clean them and I managed to remove the bottom tray, change the newspaper, and replace the it while we eyed each other.  There was no way I was going to stick my hand in that cage with him sitting on top of it guarding his territory.  I sat down at the table and waited.  He went into the cage and checked out the wooden pot that usually contains an almond, a treat for him when he goes back into the cage. I targeted him out onto the bridge that goes from his cage to the gym and he came out, touched the target stick, got his lick of peanut butter and then turned his back and returned to the cage. "All right, Odie," I told him, " I'm not putting any food or water in the cage until you move away from it."  I went and sat down again. I tried a few more times to target him onto the gym and finally he came reluctantly to the bridge and then to the top of the gym.  I moved the bridge away and replaced the food and water bowls. Then I targeted him back into the cage and closed the door.  The whole rigamarole took about 45 minutes.

Odie on his gym playing with a straw 

I know many of you are questioning my sanity, shaking your heads and thinking, "Why don't they just give the bird to someone else?" There are a number of reasons: he's just being a bird and, although it might not seem like it, I'm actually smarter than he is. We've come a long way and I still have hope that we will be able to achieve a state where we can exist comfortably together and neither of us is afraid of the other. When we got Odie we made a commitment for life, his or ours. I don't believe in disposable pets.  I understand that in some circumstances impossibe to keep a pet and it's necessary to find them a new home. Just because Odie is difficult isn't a good enough reason to pass the problem along to someone else.  I'm sure that's how we got him in the first place. Despite it all he is a member of our family as much as a cat or dog would be.

But defending our choice to keep him isn't really what this is about. Living with the ups and downs of Odie has made me consider the situations of others in a different light.  Odie is a bird. He has a cage and I can throw a towel over him, put him into that cage and close the door.  We are both safe.  What about the women, and men who live with an abusive partner? My ride on the emotional roller coaster of having an unpredictable parrot is nothing compared to what they face each morning when they open their eyes. When is he or she going to lash out?  If I'm careful, quiet, invisible can I avoid the screaming, slaps and punches? He/ she is so sorry afterwards.  Maybe this time it will be different. We have such good times when he/ she isn't drinking. I still love him/ her. In days before Odie I used to look at those relationships, shake my head and ask, "Why don't they just leave?  I wouldn't put up with that!"

What about the parents of a child, afflicted with a mental disorder, who try everything they know without success? What about the guilt as they say to themselves, "Why can't I be a better parent? Why can't I find a way to help my child? What have I done wrong? It's just  a stage; they'll grow out of it." If you want an exceptionally good, though not pleasant, read that details what it is like to be the parent of such a child I highly recommend When the Ship Has No Stabilizers: our daughter's tempestuous voyage through borderline personality disorder by Fran Porter. Calgary Herald Interview with Fran Porter  The book is available on Amazon and the proceeds go to McMan Calgary that provides services to at-risk youth.

While I've been working on this post I've taken a few breaks. When I heard Odie cheeping I uncovered his cage and opened the blinds in the room. We have whistled our morning greeting back and forth through the house. I have paused to go to his cage when he has called me with the whistle I taught him to stop him screaming for attention.  He has pressed his head to the bars so I can scratch it and now we are saying, "'morning," and "hello" to each other as I finish this up. Things are returning to an even keel after the fright-and-bite episode. I have often joked that Odie and I must have something to teach each other in this life.  For now I think that lesson is one of compassion.

Odie enjoys climbing on Richard

*Target training in our world
The idea is to offer the bird a target, in our case a piece of 1/2 inch dowel, to touch with his beak.  When he touches it I say a cue word to let him know the reward is coming and then give him a lick of peanut butter off the end of a chopstick. The chopstick keeps my fingers well away from his beak. If he lunges no treat, the target goes away and we try again in a few seconds. He knows the game very well and will sometimes choose to play and sometimes not.

Shades of Educational Grey

The current controversy in Alberta regarding Edmonton Public's 'no zero' policy came to a head yesterday when physics teacher of 35 years, Lynden Dorval was fired.  I have never met Mr. Dorval but his situation leaves me in turmoil.

I feel I have had a stake in each side of this debate at various times in my career. In one situation my team partner and I had a class made up of students who failed the previous grade. Often the cause was their poor attendance and the number of incomplete assignments. We told them that zero was not an option and that we would bug them until we got the assignments. True to our word, we bugged them and over the course of the year we got a lot more work than if the conversation had been, "I'll take a zero." "Suit yourself." Chasing the kids for assignments was exhausting and frustrating. I remember  being in my classroom after school the Friday before Spring Break started, looking at my watch, helping students finish assignments and wondering if I would make my flight out to the coast for a cycling trip.

My teaching partner and I were in an unusual situation with that particular class.  The other teachers at our grade level had agreed to accept slightly larger classes so that we could work with these kids who were at risk of dropping out.  We had the class for all the core subjects; they were only out of our room for options. It was one of the most rewarding years of my teaching career and I was fortunate enough to catch up with a handful of those students when I moved to a high school across the field four years later. They were hanging in.  Good news.

Let me emphasize that we had only 40 students for whom we were primarily responsible.  Numbers in most of the high school classes I taught ranged from 28 to 36, and I taught 3 classes each semester.  I was fortunate because some of my colleagues taught 4. If, while dealing with a regular high school work load, I had I tried to bug every student who didn't hand in an assignment until it came in,  I would have been frustrated that the kids who regularly completed their work were getting the leftovers of my time and attention.

Later on in my career I came into a setting where the policy of the department was to be firm on deadlines, down to the minute.  I remember one student coming to the workroom door and handing a paper to another teacher because her teacher wasn't in the room.  When the teacher who had given the assignment returned she was angry: she had specified that the student was to hand in the paper after school and this was noon hour.  She declined to grade the paper and the student received a zero. She reasoned she was teaching the student the importance of following instructions, punctuality and responsibility.  She was doing what was best for the students.

I had difficulty in that department.  I couldn't bring myself to be as firm about deadlines as my department head wanted.  I negotiated with kids when the deadline came and they hadn't handed in their assignments.  I closed my door as much as I could and tried to keep my head down.  It didn't work. In one situation a colleague came into my room when I was allowing a student who was terrified of public speaking to make up an assignment for me rather than having her present to the class. If a student didn't present to the class they were to receive a zero. The colleague told my department head and, I was in trouble - again. I was on the receiving end of an angry outburst that ended when I said, "So what would you like me to do?  It's not the student's fault."  I was doing exactly the same thing my department head was doing: what I considered best for the students.

In the light of Lynden Dorval's situation I'm lucky it was my department head and I who disagreed. I was deliberately going against the department's policy.  She was my immediate 'supervisor.' I was doing what I felt was right.

I wish I had an answer to the 'to zero or not to zero' question but in 30 years of teaching I never found one.  Some kids will play you.  Some will get in over their heads and desperately want you to throw them a life preserver and you hope that if you do they will be grateful and learn the lesson.  Some kids will come through if you trust them and show them that their work is important, and some kids will get discouraged and cease to try. Of course, all teachers want students to learn lessons that will help them become productive and thoughtful members of society. In addition, my wish for my students was always that they move in the world with compassion.

So when I read of Lynden Dorval's case I am torn.  I put plenty of zeros in my mark book during my career.  Did those zeros reflect a student's true capability?  No.  Sometimes the student would turn in  very high quality work, once in a while.  Should that student, because she can do high quality work receive a high grade based on 2 assignments out of the 30 the rest of the class has completed?  Do you reflect the lack of a body of evidence by giving an incomplete in the course, that is, by withholding credit? What percentage of assignments is a student allowed to miss and still receive a grade?

And what about timing? Is it reasonable to expect a teacher to grade assignments at the end of June that were given in January? How much does a student learn by doing a whole lot of work as the course comes to a close? Reporting periods end; school years end and how do students and teachers fit themselves into this framework?

Part of the joy and the terror of teaching is to constantly answer the question, 'What is best for this student.'  I admire those in classrooms who daily face this question and live with the ambiguity it engenders and I am sad when power struggles endanger the delicate balance that allows teachers to answer that question in good conscience and with compassion.