Algebra 10-12 assignment; March 18/19

These days are designated HSPE testing days, so not all the classes meet each day.  We continued our work with multiplying polynomials today, as we got more work in with the FOIL method, as well as with the grid method of working with polynomials.  Larger exponents and polynomials with leading coefficients other than 1 were worked on together today before the students got started on their homework.

Assignment:  Multiplying Binomials worksheet #2

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Geometry assignment; May 27

After the long weekend, we went back to work today with our second coordinate transformation.  We worked on reflections today, identifying the line of reflection first and then making the necessary image from the original.  We went over several examples together in class before the students got started on their homework.

Assignment:  Reflections worksheet

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Algebra 10-12 assignment; Feb. 13

We went through some SMI testing in class today.  After finishing test, the students worked on a review worksheet that we will use as we start the next unit.

Assignment:  inequality worksheet  do all questions except #2, 7, 17, 18, 23

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Saturday morning catch--glory

Some Saturday mornings just about all I can find out here on so much flatland is a broad morning sky--which is not to say that a broad morning sky, one as multi-hued as this one, is chopped liver. This one was an immense kaleidoscopic showpiece. 

I sometimes think of landscape photography out here on the plains as if a what I record is a story. In this broad world, sky is always basically setting, like this. It's what's always there--a big, colorful dawn.

But really good stories require more than setting, right?  So what goes in front of that an immense morning sky is character. That's what I think.  That's what I look for.  Sadly, this morning I couldn't find a character, just couldn't.  

Okay, what you notice here is a single silo, no barn, no house--the morning sun is rising on something that, well, used to be.  Hey, that's both character and story.  But calling that silo a character is a stretch, isn't it? Really, all there is, here too, is setting. Glorious setting, but not much more.

Because the disappearing cloud layer just above the farmstead seems somehow to mimic what's beneath it, I thought this one might get me there.  What do you think?--is there character in this one?  I like the farmstead and the wispy fragments above it, but is it really "character"? Not really. But my word, it's a wonderful setting.

I had some hopes for this one, but last year's brome grass, a not-native species on top of it, is hardly striking. There's just not enough there there to be a character.

This morning, setting, breath-taking setting, was the whole huge story. 

I'm not beefing.  I could have done worse because conflict or not, the morning's glory was immense. The heavens declare, the psalmist says, which makes a dawn like this one into something of a preacher. 

I can live with that.  This morning, out north of Sanborn, I probably didn't create a story, but I was there in the pew for one remarkable sermon. 

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Book Review--Rez Life

This particular chapter of the job was a little racist. I was writing a book about members of the Christian Reformed Church in North America, and the publisher told me that I could choose the subjects myself but I had to include some New Mexico Native. I don't remember him saying that I had to have a real Indian, but I understood the requirement.

I called the reigning head of the CRC mission, a white man, a preacher, who let me know in no uncertain terms that he wasn't going to hand over a Navajo because he was, quite frankly, sick and tired of easterners like me coming around and asking to take a picture of some Tonto. Forget it, he said.  "What you ought to do," he told me, "is write the story of some Indian from the city."  He told me about a Chicago mission for Native folks, I listened, and, back again in the Midwest, wrote a story about a woman, a Pima, from the deserts of Arizona.

"Here's the deal," the preacher told me; "the future of the Indian is not on the reservation." End of story. This from a man who'd spent much of his life on the rez. 

That was a long time ago, 30 years ago or so.

A generation later, it seems to me that what that preacher said was flat wrong.  Already in 1973 at Wounded Knee and Alcatraz and almost every reservation in America, a movement one might call Red Power arose as if out of nowhere. It scared the dickens out of most white people, even made them angry because it sometimes felt like unrequited love--I mean, haven't we been good to you?--you know, that sort of thing. 

But the kind of consciousness-raising that occurred on American reservations gave almost all Native people something they'd lost, self-respect--or at least started them down the road to regaining at least some of what had been stolen, sometimes violently, from their very souls. A Winnebago woman told me she never felt as proud as she did the day in the late 70s, when her father took her along to Washington D. C. to protest.  

Today, most palefaces, like me, tend to think of reservations as wasteland battle grounds, dismal, drug-infested hellholes where misery begets a suicide rate beyond imagination. David Treur, a Ojibwa novelist and, now, non-fiction writer, doesn't back away from sad and violent images of reservation life. Horrors abound, and his new book, Rez Life, doesn't pretend that it's some redman's fantasyland.

But most Anglos might be shocked to discover that Treur sings the glories of reservation life without hesitation. "The truth to me seems to be that reservations are places of surplus," he told NPR in an interview.  "There's more of everything. There might be more hardship, but there's more joy. There might be more pain, but there's more opportunity. There's more of everything."

It seems to me that the preacher's crystal ball was clouded. It seems to this white man that reservations are, even to those who leave, home.

Treur uses the word reservation to define Native American life in a fashion I'd never thought of, a way that helps--or should--a white guy understand the lay of the land.  A reservation is a place that is reserved, he says. Some might think of it as a prison--as the preacher from Navajo land might have; but it's a place that's reserved. When white anglers get incensed about fishing, their ire is understandable--"what blasted rights do Ojibwas have to spear walleye or net 'em by the hundreds, out of season too, when we can't?"

The answer, Treur says, is quite simple: Ojibwas have been doing it for hundreds of years. It's a right reserved for them by otherwise worthless treaties that allow them to continue one custom of an ancient and honorable way of life. The law reserves their right to fish as their great-great grandparents did.

When, just a few years ago, I wrote a book about Navajo families who'd been part of that same Christian mission for generations, I was surprised to discover that all the tribal people I met and interviewed loved their home, their reservation, the sacred land all around. Today, just about half of the Navajo people don't live on the tribe's sprawling reservation, but more than half do, perhaps because, as Treuer says of his own, Red Lake, in Minnesota, "there's more of everything."

There's some history in Treur's look at his home, a good strong helping of American history. There's some fishing here too. And some good yarns, some tributes, some honor. 

But David Treur doesn't create a portrait that isn't real; it begins with the suicide of his own grandfather. Some parts will make any reader cringe. He says his own Ojibwa people overfished the lakes so badly that it took years to renew the walleyes. He is clearly uncomfortable with the absurd machinations most tribes, these days, go through to determine who is and who isn't a member. Casinos have made a few Native people ridiculously wealthy, and brought more education and better health care to reservations; but glittering gambling halls aren't heavenly. Those slots don't dispense better lives.

If you honestly don't know much about Native America, if you'd like to know more about life on the rez and get a good, healthy serving of the kind of history that will not only hold your attention but make you sit up and listen, then you can't do better than David Treur's Rez Life. It's a primer, a thoughtful, heartfelt look at the lay of the land.

More palefaces should read this book. In America today Native folks are far too invisible. They're human beings, not object lessons or talking points, but to know at least something of their story will do this at least--it'll make you humble, and, for a white American, that's a small, good thing.

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Algebra 10-12 assignment; Jan. 27

We spent some time today reviewing solving systems of equations by graphing with our entry task.  We then continued to study how to solve systems of equations by substitution.

Assignment:  Substitution worksheet;  #1-15 odd, 17, 18, 20

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Remembering Frederick Manfred--1912-1994 (x)

At his burial service up in the cemetery on the hill above Doon, his daughter read a story that was read again, later, at a memorial party he had himself ordered up, a story that later aired on National Public Radio, albeit altered a bit. That story epitomizes the relationship Frederick Manfred maintained with the faith tradition from which he’d come.

You can read it for yourself in his daughter’s memoir, A Daughter Remembers, but I’ll summarize it quickly. When the doctors discovered a rapidly growing brain tumor, Fred was scheduled immediately for surgery. An hour before, a young female hospital chaplain, someone Freya Manfred describes as “wearing a brightly flowered dress with a white lace collar and carrying a small white Bible,” dropped by to see him. Hospital policy.

When she told Fred that she was there to see how he stood spiritually, he immediately asked her about her background. She told him she was Catholic—although only by upbringing; and he told her in no uncertain terms that Roman Catholics had a great history. Do you know it?—he asked. She didn’t. Well, you should, said Manfred, and then, characteristically, began to hold forth on Aquinas and all manner of Roman Catholic history.

When he stopped to catch a breath, she bridged the question again—“But how are you doing spiritually? Perhaps I could guide you along,” she told him, sweetly.

“Have you read much philosophy?” Fred asked her. When she shook her head, he recommended Nietzsche, Wittgenstein, Schopenhauer, Plato.

No reaction.

“What about poetry?” Fred said, booming, I’m sure, and now on a roll.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe I should,” she said.

Manfred created a reading list—“Chaucer, Whitman—and don’t forget Dickinson, my personal favorite,” he told her.

Once again, she tried to broker her mission into the lecture. “I came here to find out what your relationship to God might be,” she said sweetly, stroking her white Bible.

And then Manfred told her that he simply wanted someone else. “My background was Christian Reformed,” he said. “You wouldn’t have one of those Christian Reformed guys right here, would you?”

“You mean a minister?” the young lady said.

Freya quotes him like this: “’No, just anyone who’s raised Christian Reformed. Someone who’s sick here in the hospital like me. Aren’t any of your patients Christian Reformed?”

The woman told her she didn’t think she knew of any, and he told her that if she’d find one to “rustle him up.”

“Rustle him up?” she responded.

“Bring him around here so I can talk to him. I like to argue with those guys—it perks them up,” he said. “Send him over and we’ll talk. It’ll do him some good, and me too.”

That’s a story Fred himself would tell, I’m sure, even embellish a bit, if he could. I feel his own voice in it, in me, as I tell it. I know he’d approve.

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Sunday Morning Meds--Destiny

“If the LORD delights in a man's way, 

he makes his steps firm.” Psalm 37

Thus saith the NIV.

The rough logic of verse 23 of Psalm 37 is not that difficult to understand:  when—if, even—the Lord likes what he sees in a person, he’ll give the guy or gal a break. Sounds fair. That’s the kind of God I can deal with. He’ll love us if he determines we’re worth his investment. I can deal with that.

Listen to this: “The steps of a man are established by the Lord,” says the New American Standard; “and he delights in his way.” Or how about the KJV: “The steps of a good man are ordained by the Lord, and he delights in his way.”

Seems a whole lot different from the NIV. Correct me if I’m wrong, but in the gap that separates the translations, you could float a whale of a difference. In the NIV, something reciprocal is occurring—“you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” That kind of thing, as if God almighty is shopping for a used car—kicking tires, checking mileage, looking for dings. If he likes what he sees, he buys. It’s that simple.

In the King James, God isn’t shopping. He’s turning out human beings, setting them on a charted course, and watching them go exactly where he’s determined they would, as if, in a way, he were spinning tops. But even that’s a lousy analogy because, once spun, the top-spinner has no idea of direction. Maybe he’s like one of those folks who love model trains. Get the cars out of the box, assemble the tracks, and let ‘em go.

What seems unmistakable in the KJV and New American Standard is that God knows where we go, when we stand, and when we stoop, our ups, downs, and all arounds. What’s more, he delights in watching it happen, in seeing what he in fact determined. He loves to watch us circle around the tracks he’s laid.

That’s a whole different God from the one looking for used cars—or so it seems.

What’s at the base of the difference is a pair of contrary ideas that are not arcane, ideas that have puzzled human beings for centuries, and prompted a whole lot of folks to walk right out of church: Are we free, or is everything about us pre-conceived, foreordained, predestined? Good folks, brilliant theologians, learned scholars have and will continue to disagree, I’m sure, as do—obviously—the linguists who work as bible translators.

Who’s right? Good question, and worth considering.

But what did the poet/King say? Where would he come down? What did he intend? And which translation, pray tell, is accurate?

Those questions don’t bother me a great deal because the passage is, first of all, a song. It's not an academic paper or theological treatise. Psalm 37 is all about comfort, about feeling rest and peace in the Popeye arms of the One who made us and who never ever leaves.

In the very next verse David will admit he’s an old guy, a fact which may well be key to our accepting the sheer joy of this line’s thickly upholstered comfort. I’m probably about as old he was when he wrote the song or offered the meditation, and I think I know why he wouldn’t care for the debates this kind of verse might incite. 

All he wants us to know is that when he looks back on his life—all of his life—he knows for sure that the God who breathed his own breath into the child who would shockingly become King of Israel, that God would never ever leave him alone. 

That God was there always, and will be, forever.  That's the comfort of verse 23.

No matter how you read it, is far less a proposition than it is a promise.

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An American story

In middle school, he played on a traveling basketball team, one of those who goes from burb to burb, later on even played a little high school football. His mother often sat in the stands. You couldn't miss her--she was the only one in the hijab.

The kid was no star, but he had a great laugh and the rest of the guys thought he was a scream, a fun guy to be around. Truth be told, he and his family--his father was a Palestinian, his mother a converted Irish-American--lived in a quiet, gated Florida community. They were not poor. That's no answer here. They weren't poor at all. Some reports maintain the family owned several grocery stores.

The mosque where he worshiped was so small they had no imam, just a dozen believers getting down on their knees together, operating as if they were some old country church with an elder reading the sermon. In fact, because they had no regular leader, this kid sometimes became one because he seemed to know his way around the Koran as well as, if not better than the handful of others who came together to pray.

He liked cats, and he was a big fan of the Miami Heat, which means, almost certainly, that he, like millions of others, loved to watch LaBron James toss crushed chalk into the air in James's own never-miss pre-game ritual. Who knows?--a navy blue Heat jersey, number 23, may still be hanging in his closet.

Back in June, he made a video of himself eating chunks of his American passport, then burning the rest. “I lived in America; I know how it is,” he said. "Just sitting down five minutes drinking a cup of tea with mujahedeen is better than anything I've ever experienced in my whole life," he said. "You have all the fancy amusement parks, and the restaurants, and the food, and all this crap and cars. You think you're happy? You're not happy. I was never happy. I was always sad and depressed. Life sucked. ... All you do is work 40, 50, 60 hours a week."

So much for the American Dream.

And then, "You think you're safe where you are, in America or Britain,” he adds. “You think you are safe. You are not safe."

All of this from the cut-up, a kid with a sparkling sense of humor often seen dribbling down the street in Vera Beach, the kid who turned a rock-hard pillar of faith. "I want to rest in the afterlife," he said in an earlier video. "There is nothing here--my heart is not resting here in this life." He told others that his transition into the violence of the Middle East was relatively easy, not difficult at all because "Allah made it easy for me," words of a true believer.

"Glorious is God, and thank God--this is a grace from him," he says in a tape released later. "When I came to Syria, I had nothing. I had no money to buy a gun and ammunition, now God granted me all of that and much more." 

Just a few moments before he and four other suicide bombers ran their explosive-packed truck into a target in Syria and killed an as-yet undetermined number of Syrian soldiers, he radioed his accomplices, "I can see paradise and I can smell paradise."  

Those in the know, fear that while Moner Mohammad Abu-Salha was the first American suicide bomber in the war in Syria, other Americans have been recruited, which is to say, there may be more.

And this:  "I have one word to say ... we are coming for you. Mark my words. You think you killed Osama bin Laden? You sent him to paradise. Just know that we are coming."

He was 22 years old.

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Circling the wagons

Even before yesterday's Supreme Court ruling in the Hobby Lobby case, Jonathan Rauch, in an article in the new Atlantic, warns evangelical Christians against what he calls "secession" from a world that's much wider than their own fellowship community. Rauch says evangelical Christians probably won't listen to anything he's saying anyway since he is, he says, a homosexual and an atheist; but he claims that if Christians "hunker down," they'll be taking a wrong turn.  

When Christians create institutions set apart from the rest of society, he says, it effectively takes them out of the conversation, the dialogue that goes on in our culture or any other. He doesn't want evangelicals to fold up their tents and withdraw to gated communities. He fears, he says, that rulings like yesterday's Hobby Lobby decision, will make it easier for Christians simply to walk away from secular society and create their own businesses and pet clubs and bowling teams and what not else. 

He says movements of believers both in to and away from secular society have waxed and waned in the American story, and now "perhaps were due for another withdrawal." 

My background is heavily secessionist. After all, I couldn't be a Boy Scout when I grew up; my church created an alternative. I went to a Christian school, even though kids from other Christian families chose the public school a few blocks away. Historians claim that Dutch immigration throughout the 19th and early 20th century was especially given to clustering, that most of those leaving the Netherlands came from only a few areas, and that when they arrived here they almost always went to places where other Dutch immigrants were already building communities. 

Rausch is right about secession waxing and waning among Christians. Those two impulses--going out and staying close--have empowered movements of evangelicals throughout American history; one is toward culture (think of prohibition and suffrage and, of course, abolition), and the other is away from culture (think prohibitions on dance, for instance, or movies). 

The truth is most of us have done both. What the Hobby Lobby case points at is separation once again, the determination not to let any government--local, state, federal--interfere with someone's freedom to worship. I'm not interested in a fight about whether or not the SCOTUS ruling was right or wrong; politics today is highly separatist itself. I am interested in the kind of face evangelical Christians bring to the world God so loved that he. . .well, you know the rest.

On the road to the Kingdom, evangelicals might say, there are times when, no matter how tired or hurt or grieved, you stick it out and keep on trucking, keep pushing those oxen to haul the wagons ever west.  But, there are also times when all you can do is circle those wagons, when the best offense is a stout defense, when standing still is the only way to go forward.

We've got advocates for both sides in the evangelical tent. In fact, those two contrary impulses belong to each of us and is in each of us. Sometimes we fight; sometimes we don't. Real life experiences generally helps us determine to choose our battles, not to fight them all.

The blessed genius is to know when to move and when to hunker down, when to go out into all the world and when to pull back the troops. There's a time to press on and time to secede, a time to scatter stones, as the Bible says, and a time to gather them.

Rausch says evangelicals have to pause and determine whether they want to be seen as "staying home with the shutters closed," especially during an era, he says, when young people have begun to equate religion with intolerance. 

We've done it before, of course, circled the wagons and stayed the heck out of the world. We may well do it again. May God give us the wisdom to know when to mix it up and when to stay put.

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Geometry assignment; Feb. 6

We continued working on similarity among right triangles today, going over how to use the geometric mean to solve problems with right triangles.  The three formulas that involve the geometric mean were introduced and used for the first time.

Short quiz tomorrow on perfect squares and working with radical expressions.

Assignment:  page 288;  section 8-1;  #16-26 all

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Canvas Rucksack Polka-dot Backpack for Teens - Cream

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Geometry assignment; March 11

We continued working with arcs and chords out of section 9-4 today.  We also did more review for the quiz tomorrow.  The key concept today dealt with determining the chord length once the distance from the center of a circle is known.

Assignment:  section 9-4;  page 347;  #1-13 all;  page 349;  Self-Test 1;  #1-3, 5, 6

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Algebra 10-12 assignment; Feb. 10

We went over our quiz from last Friday to start the period today.  The systems of equations test will be Wednesday this week, so we will be going over several more word problems before then.  We reviewed three different types of word problems today before getting to work on our homework.

Assignment:  Word problem worksheet  # 2, 5-6, 10-11, 12, 16

Test on Wednesday of this week.

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Algebra 10-12 assignment; May 7

After going over the homework and an entry task together, we spent time reviewing the various topics we had covered during our unit on radicals.  After going over several problems together, the students then worked independently on their review sheets.  Most the students finished and checked their work before leaving class.

Test on radicals tomorrow.

Assignment:  radicals units review sheet

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View from the Pew

What's it like for a town guy to live in the country?  Everything comes in spades--heat, cold, and, Lord have mercy, wind. But the skies are so abundant, so eternal, never once the same.

Sometimes scary, often breath-taking--sometimes more than a little gaudy. Always towering. Most mornings and most evening, humbling.

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Geometry assignment; 9/8

We reviewed a couple of problems dealing with the midpoint and distance formula before taking the quiz today.  The students had the period to work on the quiz, and when they finished they got started on their assignment.


Assignment:  Segment Addition and Midpoint worksheet

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Algebra 10-12 assignment; Feb. 21

We went over our homework today and did a final review before taking a quiz today on graphing linear inequalities.  After the quiz, the students then got a start on their homework assignment for the weekend.


Assignment:  Graphing Linear Systems worksheet

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Remembering Frederick Manfred, 1912-1994 (xi)

Frederick Manfred was dying, even though he didn’t believe it himself. Harold Aardema, his long-time friend from Doon, called me and asked if I’d like to ride up to Luverne with him and visit, so we did.

On the way up, Harold told me that he’d been a bit disappointed with Fred because his youngest brother, Ed, a life-long resident of Doon, a man who was as people once said, somewhat "slow," had recently died after a long illness. Harold lamented the fact that Fred hadn’t really paid significant attention to his younger brother during that time, hadn’t visited him as he should have. I could tell that Harold was hurt by what he thought was Fred’s inattention to his brother.

Harold knew Fred as a man, not just as a lion. I remember Harold telling me how Fred had stopped at his home in Doon and wept when his marriage broke down. Fred had just picked out a burial site in the Doon Cemetery, where he wanted to be buried, “guts and all,” as he instructed his children later. That day, on our way up to Luverne, Harold, in a mission of mercy, admitted that, in not paying attention to his youngest borther, Fred had let him down.

We spent an hour or so in the hospital, Harold on one side of the bed, me on the other, and Fred loved the visit—I know he did. But when the topic of Brother Ed came up, Fred turned to me and said, “You know, Jim, I always wanted to write a story from the point of view of someone like Ed—you know, someone not totally there. To get the voice right, you know? To get that right—wouldn’t that be something?”

Freya Manfred claims that her father told her that his brother Ed’s death affected him deeply, and I have no doubt that it did. But that day, at that moment in time, with Harold sitting just across the bed, Fred’s brother’s death seemed to me to mean very little to Frederick Manfred.

Throughout his life, he taught me so many things that I don’t know that I can possibly remember them all. But that moment I’ll not forget, coming as it did in the wake of Harold Aardema’s lament. When Fred looked at me and talked to me as a writer, I couldn’t help think of what I was already coming to understand about the process of writing fiction—how it is that sometimes writers who so carefully breathe their souls into their work can begin to love the worlds of their novels more than the worlds in which they live. Storytellers—the really great ones—can and sometimes do abide more comfortably in the neighborhoods they create than they do in the here and now.

“Writing,” the essayist and historian John Milton writes in his book, Conversations with Fred Manfred, “is the absorbing purpose of Fred Manfred’s life.”

That realization made me uncomfortable, and still does. But I wonder too, whether that very passion isn’t essential to creating really great fiction, really great art.

I know another story about Fred, about his drive, his passion, something which sometimes I believe is its own species of monomania. He gave his all to his work, everything—writing was a calling/obsession. I may well be writing these words right now because it was. He was a gargantuan figure, an immense presence, a writer first of all. If he weren’t, we all might not be remembering.

A friend of his told me this story. After fielding successive rejections and suffering the resulting pain, Fred rose up in anger. “I will not be stopped,” he told this friend. “I will not be stopped.” He was fiercely angry.

Such Promethean will, admirable as it can appear from afar, feels, in the wrong place and time, like the a cousin of whatever it was that pushed along Ahab, the Captain.

Once upon a time, one of my students, young and female, an aspiring writer, took it upon herself to visit Manfred’s house on her own. I don’t know what happened between them, but she told me, brimming with anger and bitterness, that she would never go back, accompanied or unaccompanied. He was, at the time, sixty years older—or more—than she was.

Frederick Manfred taught me some things that he didn’t think of as lessons in craft. He was, without doubt, my literary father; but I’ve come to understand, for better of for worse, that I’d never give up so much of what he did to be a writer. That too is a lesson I learned from him.

______________________

Tomorrow: conclusion

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Geometry assignment; 8/27

We went through out first lesson in the language of geometry today, taking some notes on several different word definitions and drawings that are needed to work through geometric problems.  The students then got started on their homework towards the end of the period.

Assignment:  section 1-2;  page 7-8;  1-20 all, 21, 22, 25

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