Resolute

I'll make this one quick.

I'm not big on New Year's resolutions anymore. I used to love them. I made lists of all the spiffy life-changes I'd be enacting over the next twelve months. I made big proclamations in front of drunk people. Frankly, I was pretty cocky.

I was also all talk.

Over the years, I've ratcheted down my goals. I've gone from Resolving Large ("Gonna skydive in 1994! Woo Hooooo!!"), to Resolving Moderate ("Gonna learn the guitar in 2000! Bring it on!!"), to Resolving Realistic ("Gonna wash the car in 2009! AW YEAAAA!!").

The problem isn't in the scope of the resolution. There's nothing wrong with thinking big. It's in the specifics you pledge, those pesky details you commit to, that come back to bite you on the ass in March. (March sucks in this way. It should be National Hypocrite's month. That's usually when I realize I've given up on whatever I swore to accomplish.)

Resolutions are fine. We shouldn't shy away from them just because we're afraid to look back in a year and be embarrassed that we didn't write that novel, face climb K2, or be the first person to patent that ingeniously simple little nasal strip device. (Someone beat you to it, dude. And that guy deserves every cent of his millions, as far as I'm concerned.)

So I don't make specific resolutions anymore. In fact, I only make one big one. Same one, every New Year's Eve:

Be better than last year. Just better. Better father, better husband, better teacher, better writer. Better pirate. Better man.

Some days I blow it. Most days, actually. An extraordinarily high number of the days. But every once in a while an opportunity presents itself, and I remember that being better can mean doing something very small. Being a hair more patient with the Mini-Pirate when she gets frustrated by math. Being a little more aware when Saucy comes home from work in the evening and eyes the kitchen with dread. Reading a student's work just a little more slowly and carefully, especially when they too want to Be Something Better.

So here's to becoming better at whoever you are this year. Now what do you say we grab 2010 by the neck and show it who's boss? You with me??? Then let me hear it:

YARGH.

Merry Christmas. This Time for Real.

So. Christmas. Holiday. Yuletide. Wassail-ization.

Our house looks awesome right now -- seriously, it's as if Christmas walked in, shook itself like a wet golden retriever after a bath, and sprayed yuletide all over our nice furniture. We have an beautiful tree that, despite/because of our annual family tribulations looks so good it belongs in Martha Stewart Can Suck It magazine. Snow globes. Sprigs of holly stuck on stuff. Stockings hanging. The platoon of scary, glaring nutcrackers on display in one corner. General coziness abounds.

Normally, I manage to find my Festive by the middle of December, after checking a few of the regular holiday boxes:

1) Diving into the shopping wilderness to do some good old fashioned retail hunting/gathering, like the cavemen did at Christmas time. Screw that Internet. I say, if you want to buy presents, you should do it while wearing pants. You know, enjoying that communal experience with other shoppers, elbowing little old ladies in the eye sockets at Best Buy before they can grab that last Wii off the display.

2) A round or two of ice skating with Mini-Pirate at our favorite temporarily manufactured rink at the Hotel del Coronado (it's like $20,000 to skate for two hours in a space ABOUT the size of a Monopoly board, but come on -- ice skating within hearing range of the ocean? That's definitely a cool So Cal thing.)

3) Four or five viewings of some favorite Christmas movies (We favor a frothy seasonal blend of A Christmas Story and Die Hard).

A little over-the-top caroling conducted in the privacy of our home to avoid angering the neighbors, a couple awkward holiday work parties where the boss walks around with mistletoe hung whimsically off the belt buckle (always funny, right? Right?), and we're there! Merry Christmas! Nog me up, Smithers!

But: SaucyWench and I have had some difficulty embracing that warm happy shiny fuzzy Christmas spirit this year. Just a bit. It probably wouldn't be overstating things to say that we'd both like to take a sledgehammer to Christmas' kneecaps this year.

The other night I was wrapping some presents for the Mini-Pirate, and I started yelling at the wrapping paper for ripping too easily when I tried to maneuver around a box's corner. ("Stupid frackin' paper with your grinning Santas and crappy crap crap STOP TEARING LIKE YOU'RE GODDAMN KLEENEX.")

Is what I'm saying.

It's because 2009 was a rough year for a bunch of people we know. Friends and family members have experienced job problems, money problems, health problems, and a general potpourri of life crap. We on the Didactic Ship have had our share of challenges this year as well, but it's been particularly tough to see hardship fall on various close friends and family members. You hate it when people you love are sad -- it's that simple.

"I don't know," SaucyWench and I said to each other at one point this month, "maybe it's just what happens as you get older. Life is designed to get tougher, not easier."

Yea, maybe.

And yet these people that we know, regardless of the shit 2009 chose to heap on their shoulders, still gathered up their kids, dressed everyone up in nice clothes, and posed for Christmas cards. We received more than usual this year. Everyone looked so durn pretty and smiling and, well, together. I know the backstory behind the photos -- it takes 50 shots to get one where the kids have their fingers out of their noses, where grumpy dad fakes a convincing enough

smile, etc. The cards get sent out by the bundle, and the sentiments are pre-printed.

But these cards from our friends are currently displayed in our living room, and when you look at them all together, they all offer the same message:

We have everything in the world to be thankful for. And you never know what new stuff we'll be thankful for next year. Let's all find out together.

And so that's what we'll all do.

We ourselves, uh, didn't get around to sending out Pirate Family cards this year -- so this is it. Maintaining this 6-month-old blog has put me in touch with many important people. People I know, people I miss, and people I've never actually met yet am still thinking about. So Happy, Happy Holidays to everyone that we love, which is a ton of people. We're in your corner and rooting for you, just like you're doing for us.

Now begone. That's all the sentiment you're gonna get outta me.

Making Students Cry for the Holidays

In honor of the holidays, I made a student cry today. I say it's not my fault. You tell me if you think otherwise.

This is Finals Week at my school. And just to reiterate for newcomers -- this is college. I have a nice, streamlined system for collecting final papers from students: I sit in the linoleum paradise of my office, and students have a three-hour window to stop by and turn stuff in. They hand the essays over, I praise them for their outstanding ability to meet a deadline, they lie and say our class was the best one ever!, and I wish them luck in their future endeavors. Then they scramble to get out the door and begin the process of wiping our class from their memory banks. Probably with a quick succession of jager bombs.

So I'm sitting in my office today, collecting papers, watching the clock. Everyone has until noon. I've told students about today's deadline weeks ahead of time: "I'm leaving at noon. Don't be late. This paper is worth 25% of your grade. Don't be late. I won't be checking my email later. I won't accept anything late. Don't be late. I'm hardcore about deadlines and you know it. Remember The Usual Suspects?" I say to them. "Remember Keyser Soze, the guy who disappears without a trace? At noon on the 15th, I'm gonna Keyser Soze my ass outta here, and not reappear until Spring Semester."

It's a whole speech. I give it every year, and at this point it's honed to perfection.

Here's the thing: One student always blows it. Inevitably, one student always misses the deadline and takes a zero on the last paper. Every semester, I predict who it might be. Sometimes I'm right, sometimes I'm not.

This year, I predicted it would be Joey McFakeName.

Joey is a good guy. He's smart. He's a good writer. Joey McFakeName's main problem this semester has been procrastination. He was late to class a lot, missed deadlines, failed to follow instructions, etc. Yet he was great in discussions. Yet he showed an enthusiasm for everything we talked about in class. Yet he wore a cool fedora.

At 11:57 this morning, I look at my watch and realize I haven't seen Joey. Students have been filing in and out all morning, handing me their papers and wearing expressions that I can only liken to that of the pilgrims when they gave the pox-infected blankets to the Indians: For you! No, really, it's a gift! No, it won't give you diarrhea, back pain and pustules! Joey hasn't shown up yet, and we're down to the wire.

I take no joy in giving students zeros. I like Joey. I think Joey is cool and on the side of Good. I have no doubt that a heart of gold beats beneath that Bob Marley T-shirt and second-hand blazer.

At 11:59, Joey shows up. He's sweaty and breathing hard. I'm relieved until Joey says, "I, uh, have a problem."

No, Joey! No no no no! Come on, Man, sack Up! Be All You Can Be! Make It Happen! Bring It To the Table! Or some other combination of manly exhortation phrases! Just show me you can rise above your own self-imposed limitations and be the smart guy that I know you are!

"My paper's not quite done yet," Joey says. He's staring at his shoes.

"Joey," I say, "what happened?"

"I procrastinated." He's a senior. He's probably 21. But when he says this, he sounds ashamed, like it's third grade and he forgot his styrofoam model of the solar system for Science Day.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear it. I'm about to pack up and leave."

"I know you don't accept late work --" he starts to say, and I want to stop him right there. If you know this, I think, then shouldn't we be done here?

But he continues: "--but I was wondering if maybe I could email it to you today. I can have it done in like two hours."

Two more hours. That's all he wants. This perfectly nice kid in the goofy hat who's maintained a great attitude in a class that seniors usually hate to take. Who's taken his own lackluster performance in stride with a shrug and a smile all semester, knowing that in the big picture of the universe, school isn't really all that galactically important.

He was never bothered by receiving zeros for past missed work. But if he gets a zero for this final paper, he can't pass the class.

I tell him I'm sorry, but no. Of course. Teachers (and pirates, incidentally) are very strict about deadlines. We have to be. It's not about punishing students who are late, it's about maintaining fairness for the other students who get work in on time. I say this to Joey McFakeName. I explain that it's not about coming down on him -- it's about fairness for everyone. I tell him that I think he's smart, a good writer, a good guy, but if I accepted late work from him, I just couldn't justify it to my other 93 students who worked hard to make the deadline.

As I explain all this, I'm aware of two things: 1) My voice is sounding more and more like a father who tells his son, "I'm not angry, son. I'm just disappointed." 2) Joey's eyes are welling up.

Oh Crappity Crap.

It's hard enough when female students cry over stuff like this. When guys cry, it's even more uncomfortable and awful and awkward and I know there's probably something sexist about why it's worse when it's a guy but I can't help it and it's just BAD.

He stands there for a second and he's about to cry, and I'm sitting in my chair and we're both wishing for vortexes beneath us to open up and swallow us fast. Instead, Joey holds out his hand. He's got a sheet of paper. He voice cracks when he says, "I do have this," and when I take it, he turns and walks out quickly, gone.

I read the sheet, which has just a couple of typed paragraphs. It's a letter to me. It begins, "Dear Mr. Smith, I know that I didn't perform well in your class this semester, and that I continually failed to meet your expectations. But I wanted you to know that I think you're an oustanding teacher, and I can see how much my writing has improved under your instruction. I particularly appreciate how..."

ARRGGGHH. He won't write the final paper, but he'll craft an eloquent, grammatically flawless letter that now makes me feel like the biggest asshole in academia. Damn you, Joey McFakeName.

I'm still not going to let him email me his paper late. But now I have to feel shitty forever.