It is so utterly pointless to say anything about how long it's been since I've posted here that I'll refrain from doing so, mostly.
It's been a productive day, and as I take a break from writing up my next AP unit, it occurs to me that my students are probably stressing a little bit about this APA research paper. Rightfully so, to some degree, but sitting here on my porch I'm reminded of a story from my Phoenix days.
Oh, my Phoenix days. Post-Champaign, pre-Seattle. Definitely a lost year. Phoenix is a city without a soul, and living there bothered me a great deal. How I got there in the first place is a story for another post, Dear Reader. For now, what's important is insight from a guy named Jim.
My second job in Phoenix* was slinging lattes for the Scottsdale elite. Tucked into a strip mall on Hayden Road, Java City is no longer operational in the Phoenix metro area, but you've probably seen the kind of place I'm talking about: smallish cafe and bakery chain, catering to the stay-at-home middle to upper class types. If I sound bitter, it's because my customers could be nice, had they chosen, but were usually snotty.
A few doors down in the strip mall, a crafty Bostonian and former flight instructor named Jim opened a lobster business. Replete with Red Sox cap and "pahk yah cah" accent, Jim's entrepreneurial spirit found him peddling live lobsters to uppity Phoenix foodies at roughly a zillion dollars per pound. His store was furnished with exactly five pieces: two enormous lobster tanks, a rickety table, a stool, and a cash register. How Jim went from Boston flight instructor to Scottsdale lobster wrangler was never clear.
One day Jim and I ran into each other in the shared alley behind our stores. I was breaking down boxes and he'd just finished unloading a shipment of lobsters from the airport. I'd had yet another stressful day - spills, snippy customers, rude, Porsche-driving high school kids, etc. I must have said something about losing my mind.
"Paulie," he said, "let me tell you something I used to tell rookie pilots about losing your mind."
This should be good, I thought to myself.
"The first thing I used to tell pilots to do, when they lost control of the aircraft, was to set their watch to the clock on the instrument panel."
Ooookaaaay, I thought to myself . . . because, you know, when you're in a tailspin at 14,000 feet, it's important to know the precise time of impact.
"And do you know why I would tell them to do that?"
"No idea."
"Because it gave them at least a little control. It gave them something to go on."
I must have looked confused, because he continued.
"Whenever your world is caving in (whenevah yah wahld is cavin' in. . . ), you need something to cling to. Start with whatever you can. In a pilot's case, it's setting a watch. In your case, I dunno, maybe sweep the floor or something. Find something you can control, and control it. But whatever you do . . . do."
The cynic in me was speechless for a minute, no small feat when I was 24 and angry at the world. But you know, Jim was and remains absolutely right.
AP students, as we head into what will likely be a stressful unit, I encourage you to remember Jim's advice. When your lives get stressful, take action, however small, on that which you can control. You cannot write an 8 page APA research paper in one night. You can, however, spend 15 minutes trying to track down a source or two. You cannot reasonably expect to understand every nuance of APA style by checking a website in one sitting. . . but you can check how this citation should work in this particular instance.
Alrighty. It's been a looooong day of staring at the computer, and I'm cooked. Sorry I didn't get the Do It the Hard Way essays graded. That should happen this week.
*My first job is also a story for another post.
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