Content.

Today:
Filing papers for 4 hours.
Puddle-walking and a little more snow.
Reading articles (2 more to go!) about mental health in schools, character education, and special education assessments for next week.
Video chatting with Will and Sawyer- twice. I love those boys.
Dinner with roommates.
Scrabble and TV with roommates.


Tomorrow:
Breakfast with roommates.
BYU basketball game with Mormon friends.
Dinner with Mormon friend.
Stake fireside.

Sunday:
Oscar party with roommates = ridiculous jewelry and make-up. And food.

... And that's a good weekend.

The Long Version- Kicked to the Curb.

So I posted the quick version of this story on facebook, but for those of you looking for more detail, or for those of you who don't facebook-stalk me (which I'm sure you all do- I mean, what else do you have to do with your time?) here is more detail.

This morning I had a meeting on campus with the other interns from MHS and our supervisor. I had arranged to have it there (I was incredibly excited about the lack of an hour commute) so I had to be on time. I got on the bus up where I live and took it into the square.

The scrolling sign over the bus windshield said "Route 78- Harvard Station" but inside, the electronic announcements were saying "Route 74- Service to Harvard Station" (There are 4 buses that go into Harvard station from where I am; the 78 and 74 are two of them. It was odd the signs didn't match.)

Anyway. Every time someone got off the bus, the bus driver said, "Thank you, have a good day!" He was a portly older man with silver hair. I thought he was friendly.

The bus drove into Harvard Station. Knowing I had some extra time and the bus makes a big loop, I thought I'd just stay on to get closer to where I wanted to be. (See, the bus route is more like a needle. Most of the route is the long skinny part, but I wanted to be on one side of the eye, and we had just driven around the other.) I have only ever taken the bus into or out of Harvard Station. I have never stayed on to see the mysterious black deep that the bus somehow navigates to get to one floor to drop people off and another floor to pick them up. I was curious. And lazy. So today was my day. I had a little extra time and thought the bus driver was friendly, so I walked up and asked him if I could stay on and get off at such-and-such street.

He said,"I suppose." I thought he was being funny and sat down in the first row of seats, with my chocolate chip bread for the meeting and my feet dangling happily above the floor. He asked to verify where I was going, so I told him again.

We drove out of the bus port further away from where I needed to be. I figured the "eye of the needle" was simply bigger than I thought.

Having only seen this part of Cambridge on foot, I was enjoying the quicker navigation. Until he was stopped in traffic. He looked in the mirror and said, "You're out of control. You have to get off." I gave a courtesy laugh. And then he opened the door to the bus and I realized he was not joking.

So he dumped me out, there in the middle of traffic, calling after me, "Have a good day!"

... I got to the curb and looked around to notice if anyone else was as confused as I was. What just happened? I think I just got kicked off a city bus. I DID just get kicked off a city bus! WHAT!? I didn't even do anything! Ahh! I have a meeting to get to. Start walking.

I had to walk about 15 minutes to where I actually wanted to go, and I was late for my meeting (luckily my supervisor was late(r).)

Anyway. It was the most bizarre experience I've had on Boston public transportation yet, and that's really saying something. ...And now I'm a little scared to try to take the bus again tomorrow morning.

Peter Pan Adventure

Well, this is sure to be my most interesting bus ride on the Peter Pan from Hartford to Boston.

First of all, they jacked up the prices for the holiday weekend, which is definitely highway robbery (and aptly named).

Second of all, I got to the station at 3:30 and my bus wasn't supposed to leave until 4:15. I walked out to check if the bus was already here and there was a massive line of people. The loudspeaker said "3.30 express to Boston. Gate 8." Knowing the Peter Pan policy, I could have gotten in line and if they had a spot, they would've let me on. But I thought, "No, I'll wait for my 4.15 and get a good seat." (I recently discovered the handicapped row, which has double the leg-room.)

So I went back inside and stood around. I asked the lady at the counter where the 4.15 bus would be leaving from, and she said gate 8, so I went back outside with some other people to wait. I have never boarded a bus more than 15 minutes before it was supposed to leave, so I was content.

People had no idea what was going on, so I finally asked the bus driver. He said "I'll take your ticket." I said, "But this is the 3.30 right?" He said, "You have a ticket for the 4.15." "Yes," I said. "Then I'll take your ticket," he said.

... so I asked again, "Is this the 3.30 bus?" to which he again replied, "You asked about the 4.15." Ok, very tall, balding foreign man, FINE I will get on your bus. It might be taking me to New York City, but whatever.

So I got on and found a (crappy) seat. I asked other people on the bus and they said they were waiting for the 3.30 and some were waiting for the 4.15. As far as we can tell, they just started filling busses around 3 and when one got full, they left. So they started another one. Whatever. I don't know what's going on- I just know finally Tall Man came back, sat down in his little seat, and off we went at 4.15. So I guess it was the 4.15 bus... loading 45 minutes early.

But it's sure to be interesting. There is someone somewhere with ethnic food that is SUPER fragrant (I packed my chinese leftovers under the bus because I didn't want to stink up the bus... apparently others do not feel such courtesy towards their 59 fellow passengers). Something on the bus is whistling like a teapot. And there are two girls behind me who keep kicking my seat and are legitimately drinking from beer bottles in brown paper bags, and cursing. Really? Really?

Ok. Best go look at the road lest I barf.

p.s.- I did all my reading for classes up until next Monday, which I'm telling you because it rarely happens and I think I deserve bonus points.

UPDATE: We got to Boston in 1:45 (so the driver was clearly speeding...) and I went to go home by getting on the subway (T) and then another bus. But the T was delayed because of a police investigation at one of the stations between me and home. Mom (and the nightly news) told me there was a stabbing at 5 pm in the station.

Emails

I get a lot of emails from the ward listserv; like... probably 10+ per day.

Today had one that said the building that burned here (that's 10 minutes from my house and 3 minutes from school) is getting its steeple tomorrow morning! They put it out with an agenda; bring your lawn chairs everyone- it's sure to be a nail-biter! In all seriousness, I AM excited. That building needs to be done. So I don't have to commute 40 minutes to church.

Another one advertised free dental work through Tufts School of Dental Medicine. You get screening x-rays and if you have a medium-sized cavity, you get it filled for free and $100. I thought "That's a good idea! I haven't been to the dentist in a(n embarrassingly) long time. I should go; I probably have a cavity."

And then I thought, "No, no. That's a horrible idea. I have a feeling it'd only make me more terrified than I already am of dental experiences in the future." So no free dental work for me, I think.

Long weekend ahead- thank goodness!!

Word to the Wisdom Tooth

Please stop hurting me.

I am in an abusive relationship with one of my wisdom teeth. They've all done just fine growing in, if a little crooked, in the back of my mouth. But the last stubborn tooth to grow in is on the right bottom, and it insists on growing in a little more crooked than the others. It has been fine, hurting every now and then, but the last couple days, it's been hurting. I'm hoping it'll go away, because I'd rather not have emergency dental work done at this point.

But ever since Erin told me about her friend whose wisdom tooth grew in and broke her molars, I have been nervous.

So, tooth, please stop bothering me. I have been nothing but nice to you over the years, and I gave you all the growing room I could. Let's all get along please; all my other 31 have been just fine- why you gotta rock the boat?

"Basketball Jones" Would Be Proud

So today I feel like this:



because yesterday, I did this:



(Yes, exactly like that.)A girl in my ward organized a stake (well, singles' wards in the stake) women's basketball tournament as a throw-back to our YW basketball days.

I was excited about it.

There were four teams, and we all played each other and whoever won the most games won the tournament. So I played basketball for 2.5 hours. And of course, in true YW basketball style, there were pig tails and knee socks, one team that was super competitive and kept fouling people,a number of girls well-acquainted with the floor, a fair amount of travelling and double-dribbling, and much "jungle ball" as our coach used to call it. And of course final scores that never broke 10 points. Ah, the good old days.

But today many of the muscles from my shoulders to my knees are very sore.

... perfect conditions for sitting around watching football with roommates and eating junk food.

Moral Adults?

(CAUTION: This post is obscenely long...)

So in my Moral Adults: Moral Children class, we spent this week talking about self-esteem in public education and in parenting. Basically, the professor was making the point that somewhere in the last generation or so, parents and teachers have become so worried about making their kids feel good about themselves that no one is paying attention to whether or not they're becoming good people or getting good grades.

For some reason the argument in pop psychology and modern education seems to be "Make kids feel good about themselves and they'll learn better and become good people." But it's not true. Children from Asian countries are more likely to rate themselves lower on self-esteem measures than American students, and yet they have the highest rates of achievement. And, many criminals and bullies have very high self-esteem, which didn't seem to do them any favors in the realm of morality.

The idea of self-esteem education is not a new observation in the Dickerson family; ask my siblings or parents and you'll hear what we refer to as "self-esteem school." Using that term often also means Megan or I will remind everyone of her history project in middle school, which was a last-minute crap job, and yet the teacher gave her an A+++, or some such ridiculous mark. Self-esteem school. We also liked to jokingly refer to BYU-Idaho as such. Like the mother who recently asked Cromwell Middle School to abolish their honor roll because it marginalizes the kids who don't get put on it, parents are so worried about how their kids feel about themselves, that they're not paying attention to whether or not they actually deserve the praise they receive.

The professor argued, with research, that in fact, when kids receive empty universal praise from adults (like "you're great!" "Way to go!") they report feelings of indifference later in adolescence. They may feel good about themselves, but they've also learned that praise from adults doesn't mean anything. And they've learned that they can do no wrong. They've learned that they don't have to do good to feel good about themselves or to earn praise. They've learned that there's no need to put effort into developing any sort of moral compass because people will tell you you're great no matter what.

He also said a lot of things about how parents need to be parents and not friends to their kids; how parents need to encourage children to be good for being good's sake; not because it will make them happy (indeed, being good or standing up for what's right often won't make a kid happy; it will make him lonely.)

Anyway. I'm rambling, but the lecture was really interesting.

The professor likes to give us scenarios to think about. This week it was the following:

"You are the coach of an eighth grade traveling soccer team. You have told parents and kids that you're very interested in promoting players' "character", but you haven't defined explicitly what that means. You have worked to create a sense of "team" among the players, and all players play roughly equal minutes. But in part because you don't play your best players much more than your weaker players, your team has been struggling. The team has won 2 games and lost 4. Michael, a parent of one of your best players, Katie, calls you. He says that Katie is very frustrated that she is not playing more and that the team is losing. He also says he is frustrated as well. He also says that Katie's grades are not great and that this is the one place where she can really stand out. Michael says that if Katie doesn't play more then he will try to find another team for her."

His questions were "How do you respond to Michael?" etc.

Now. We were supposed to talk about it with the people sitting near us. I happened to be sitting next to my Harvard twin Megan (she's a twin, born on April 1st, 1988; I mentioned her before). We talked about it and seemed to quickly come to the conclusion that you would talk to Katie, and try to ask her to think about how the other players feel, etc. We might talk about how she could help the other girls learn, etc.

The professor brought the class together and opened it to discussion. I thought it would be a fairly tame conversation about how to teach kids it's not all about winning, etc. I thought that, until the first girl commented that she didn't understand why so many people encourage this "communist distribution of playing time." She went on to argue that it's not bad for kids to want to win, and it's not bad for kids to learn that if they're not good at something, they don't get to play.

Whoa.

And so the conversation continued with people arguing that kids who are bad at playing shouldn't get to play. One girl even argued, "I don't think it's fair to give everyone time to play. Maybe those kids who aren't very good feel guilty for their team's losses." I had just been sitting and watching people get fired up until I heard that.The professor then said, "Most of you seem to be arguing that the good player should get more time. Does anyone feel strongly about a different opinion?" Before I knew what was happening, I raised my hand. I said I WAS the kid that didn't get to play 8th grade basketball because my team wanted to win and I wasn't that good. I said I spent hours in practice and never got to play; my team winning didn't matter to me because I had nothing to do with it.

The professor acknowledged my point, and then one of my classmates piped up and said, "So we just have to encourage kids who aren't good at things to keep doing it? If it's not ok to tell a kid they're not good at something, how will they learn?"

I got annoyed with that too. It's not like if I had gotten playing time, I would have thought I was good at basketball. I knew I wasn't that good. Trust me; as a 13 year old, you know when you're not good at something. As kids get older, they'll learn very quickly that they're not as good at things as other kids are. Adults don't need to tell them. And if, in some anomalous twist of reality, a kid doesn't realize they're not as good as other kids, don't worry-- the other kids will tell him pretty quick.

Anyway. It just made me think, "You all must have been the kid who was good at soccer; you wouldn't argue for her to get more playing time if you were the kid who would have to sit on the bench for her to play more." It made me think "Your parents were the crazies who would call the coach about something like this. Your parents were the ones who yelled at the ref. on the sidelines." Ugh. And the most discouraging thought of all was, "In 20 years, my kids are going to be going to school with yours."

So after we have these discussions, the professor always gives what he thinks is a good solution. Of course he started by saying it depends on how the team was advertised. (If the team wasn't advertised as a group where everyone gets playing time, we might have more of a problem.) But in general, he agreed that kids in 8th grade shouldn't be split into groups of who is and isn't good at things; there's plenty of time for that in high school. He said kids should get a chance to play. He suggested that perhaps the problem was only Michael's and that Katie didn't actually care. He said the coach should talk to Katie and the rest of the team to get a feel for how everyone feels. Ultimately, he said if Katie DID care, someone needed to talk to her about learning to be a good loser, learning what it means to be a "team", and learning to be committed to other people and worried about someone besides herself.

So I felt vindicated. But a lot of people left annoyed. And I suppose some of you probably agree with the other people in my class, and you're probably annoyed. But anyway. I guess it partly just goes to show that my moral compass is more closely aligned with my 60 year old professor than with my classmates. Big surprise. Perhaps that's why most of my friends in high school were faculty members.

Ok, I'm done now.