One Week Job

Friends of mine, Ian MacKenzie and Sean Aiken, have put their lack of direction to good use – and a good cause – with their One Week Job project.

One Week Job: The Documentary from Ian MacKenzie on Vimeo.

“Instead of take the first job that came along, he found a unique way of figuring it out: the One Week Job project. How it worked: Anyone, anywhere, could offer Sean a job for one week. Any money he earned for the work, he asked the employer to donate towards the ONE / Make Poverty History campaign. On his inspirational quest, Sean tried everything: Bungee Instructor, Dairy Farmer, Advertising Executive, Baker, Stock Trader, Firefighter, and more. Wherever he could find work, he’d go there, find a couch to crash on and immerse himself in whatever profession was at hand. And then he’d move on.”

If a student asks a question in a classroom, how many people hear it?

Lone Backlit TreeAfter a busy weekend I finally have a minute to share an experience with the sheer logistical aid offered by social networks – chiefly blogs and Twitter – during one student’s journey in writing her eminent person speech on Margret Rey, author of the Curious George books.

During our conference last week concerning her plans for both Night of the Notables address, as well as her ideas for a learning centre on Margaret Rey, Katie expressed an interest in using her speech to focus on a particular aspect of Rey’s life. After discussing ways to frame both the evening’s performance aspects and learning center, Katie set out to brainstorm ideas for each, and blogged a modest request to aid in the writing of her speech:

What people don’t know is that Margret Rey was Jewish and born in Germany in the early 1900’s. By the late 1930’s she was living and producing books in Paris with her husband. In 1941, Paris was proclaimed an open city, just waiting for German invasion. Margret and H.A Rey needed to get out of France fast.

They set out on what would became the biggest adventure of their life, carrying only some food, clothes, money, and the manuscripts for their books. Riding a couple of used bikes, the two rode South through France, eventually getting on a train to Lisbon, Portugal, then boarding a steamship across the Atlantic to Rio, Brazil. After four long months of travel, they reached New York where they began getting their childrens’ stories published.

I want to zero in on the moment when the couple realized they had to leave their home in France and journey to New York with their few possessions. I am looking for input on what this moment would be like. Escaping the Nazis, pedaling into the distance, not sure what you will find… I live in Vancouver and have no idea what it would be like to realize that you have to flee your home to escape war.

That same afternoon I sent a link to Katie’s post out to my Twitter followers, asking that they retweet the message to anyone who might help (in all fairness, I zeroed in on three particular Twitterers I believed to live and work in Germany, and sent the request specifically to them (again asking that the message be retweeted)).

Now, I have approximately 230 Twitter followers, which is perhaps above average for teachers new to Twitter, but the result of being an active member of a community of educators that encircles the globe.  I RT content from the people I follow, comment on their blogs, and link to them in my own blogging; if their classes are involved in projects, I “point” to them on Twitter or the blog. In short, I try to Pay It Forward, in some small way, every day. So when I come to ask, on behalf of a student like Katie, as I did last week, for people to help send a message to aid in someone’s learning, a few people do. In fact, three people do.

Out of more than 200, maybe not so impressive. But to add in the prospective audience of those four people brings another 4000 eyes into the fold.

And in the end, Ms. Anne Hodgson was able to join our class’ discussion (as were a few others), and lend a personal touch to Katie’s research of the Holocaust:

My mom was born In Germany in 1922, my dad, an American, came over in 1945. My (anti-Nazi) German family went into what is called “inner immigration” during the Nazi era, an option simply not open to the Reys and the millions and millions of Jews throughout Europe.

I don’t think we can really imagine what it means to have your entire life pulled from under you as the country that was your only home slowly but surely turns into a hostile environment. At first you know who is out to get you, those men and women in uniform with a clear directive. But later it all becomes very precarious, as people get “infected” by the apathy or opportunism that a totalitarian regime causes in those not strong enough to take a stand.

The timeline on this development was less than twenty four hours, involved five people doing something that took each of them a matter of minutes – once Katie had written the original post – and carried a message which introduced a student in Coquitlam, British Columbia with a personal connection to World War Two and the research of a children’s author in Munich, Germany.

Thanks to Anne for adding to our classroom last week, and to Karenne SylvesterDaniel Eisenmenger for helping to spread the Word!

Two Coquitlam Teachers: Sixty Blogs

This year I have been entering the classroom-blogosphere alongside Paul Aitken, who as a district middle school humanities teacher had a hand in bringing along a few of the students who found their way into the high school gifted program I teach. Through Twitter, our blogs, and even – occaisionally, when nothing else will seem to work – our district email (side note: is email becoming obsolete? Or is its purpose merely changing? ie. Can’t send attachments with Twitter DMs), Paul and I have bounced ideas about the burgeoning nature of our class’ blogging off one another, sharing materials and experiences in the way that technology allows (even though Paul teaches less than ten minutes up the hill from me).

In his latest post, Paul has cited concerns (anxieties? hesitations?) about beginning his class’ blogs, chiefly:

  • Getting the blogs off the ground
  • Maintaining the rigors of academic writing
  • Keeping things “civil” (Social responsibility)
  • And generating ideas & prompts for writing

As my high school class is a few weeks ahead in the blogging regard, here is the comment I left last night on Paul’s blog. As it sums up my reflections on blogging in class along the lines of his concerns, I thought I would share it here:

Your points of hesitation resonate with my introduction of blogs with TALONS, Paul. But I think the students will impress you if you create an environment of awareness around the notion that all they do and say is public, and lasting.

I have found that using blogs as a forum for supplementary writing – more reflective andor representative of learning that pieces of formal writing such as creative pieces or essays – leads to a more confident sense of written voice (that I don’t think can help but be transferred to academic writing) and creates countless opportunities for team-building or a sense of empathy between classmates (citizenship, even, if applied to the larger sense of community). Something in the public nature of bloggin forces them to take both writing, and their behavior more seriously (though I agree, sixes – and perhaps the young student caught testing our school’s firewall this week – could be prone to some initial missteps).

As for topics, I have used blog posts as moments for reflection upon, or representation of learning. At times, students are told only to have a post on a topic from the week’s classes written by Friday (this week’s theme statement “informal essay;” other assignments are more directed (the post outlining each’s RSS subscriptions) with criteria as to use of images, and layout. With the use of Google Reader to syndicate the entire class’ blogging (as well as the stream of commenting for each of the class blogs, including mine), every student is tuned to the others’ work, and the conversation taking place around each of the varied topics. Again, the public nature of the work leads students away from working in isolation, and the tenor has been supportive – with the grade tens taking a leadership role in helping to define project criteria in the Eminent Person stuff, especially – and engaging, without requiring too much pushing.

I am looking forward to the community among the class blogs growing, and continuing even once the current students move on. Not only do the blogs connect the classroom to other learners and experts across the globe, but the hub of a class blog remains a community open to its alumni if they chose to lend their presence. But it all does move slowly – I have only recently streamlined our blogging to be able to think of it as having just “begun.” The fact that it is being built up will probably only strengthen its eventual delivery.

I look forward to seeing it get rolling!

Access and Interviews (a story & some tips)

NinstintsTime and again I have confirmed my assumptions that asking kindly generally grants one access to opportunities normally beyond their reach. Stating my intentions clearly, and declaring myself a passionate and self-directed person, I have found repeatedly that people are willing to help out if the request is framed appropriately.

An example: A few years ago – after reading this book – my sister and I decided that we needed to go to the Queen Charlotte Islands. But after completing preliminary research we found that many areas of the islands we finswould want to visit – UNESCO World Heritage Site, Hotsprings Island, Tanu, Skedans and a host of other former village sites – were all but inaccessable without boats (either kayaks or greater, and a good deal more ocean knowledge than either of us possessed). Signing up for guided expeditions could cost thousands of dollars (as would the required kayak-purchases and requisite certifications), and yet we remained undeterred. I spent an afternoon on Google finding the email addresses of nearly every guiding outfit operating in the islands, and sent them all this email with our resumes attached:

Greetings,

I have sent you this email in inquiry of volunteer positions with your expedition(s) this summer. Based in Coquitlam, British Columbia, my sister – Melissa, 22 – and I – Bryan, 26 – plan to spend much of August in Haida Gwaii, and would be interested in exploring with you if such an opportunity might exist. I have attached our resumes and enclose these words of introduction on our behalf in the hope that they might deem us worthy additions to your group’s experience in the Charlottes.

At present I am a teacher in the Coquitlam School District (#43), where in my first year I am teaching grade four (social studies and art), as well as music, to students grades kindergarten to five. My journey toward education in this present capacity was born out of experience in the outdoors of the American South, volunteering and then working at a Boy Scouts of America summer camp in the Arkansan Ozark Mountains. For two summers I served as certified aquatics director, overseeing activities in our reservation’s pool complex and at the lakefront; my duties included managing a staff of ten and teaching canoeing, sailing and rowing, as well as swimming and lifesaving skills to approximately thousand Scouts in three years.

During my first year as aquatics director at the Gus Blass Scout Reservation (now Camp Rockefeller), Melissa joined our staff as a volunteer assistant director. A long-certified lifeguard in British Columbia, my sister’s experience in education stems from her work as a diving coach with our local swim club. At Simon Fraser University, she has studied Biology and will complete her degree this spring. Melissa’s focus has been marine biology and botany, which she supplemented with a 2006 summer semester at Vancouver Island’s Bamfield Marine Sciences Research Center. A recent interest has been sparked in her study of ethnobotany, and the relationship between our province’s first peoples and its indigenous plants, specifically traditional ecological knowledge.

At the end of our term at the summer camp, Melissa and I flew to Toronto and began a cross-country road trip that has set the tone for our summer activities since. We have enjoyed outdoor experiences that have led us to our present stations, and will inevitably be headed to the Queen Charlotte’s this summer in the vein of past August on the Sunshine Coast’s Nelson Island and in the forests of the island’s west coast. (To view the exploits of these adventures, see the various albums of this Flickr page: www.flickr.com/photos/bryanjackson/.) We are seeking an experience this summer in British Columbia’s holiest of places, and wish to lend any services, be they culinary or first aid (we could both become certified at our own cost if need be) in nature.

It is our sincere wish and hope that whatever we might do to aid in your group’s experience in the magical reaches of Gwaii Haanas would be appreciated in the most heartfelt manner, and we would invite further conversations about how this might come to pass if it should suit you. We are each outgoing young people with a flare for teamwork and adventure, and our credentials I hope speak to our ability to act as competent, valuable volunteers.

In addition to my email address, we can be reached at the following: 604 555-0000, or Melissa’s email: ______________

It would be a great pleasure to hear from you, Sincerely yours, Bryan Jackson

A great many of these email met replies which very apologetically outlined a variety of reasons they couldn’t help us out. But one company did reply, bluntly stating:

You can work for us and go along on some trips if you would like. Call us when you are here. Heron.

Driving PollyI had already read about Heron in Ian Gill and David Nunuk’s photojournalistic book Haida Gwaii: Journeys through the Queen Charlotte Islands. Raised in Rose Harbour (and on Hornby Island) Heron Weir is something of an emblem of the islands – his mother still lives at Rose Harbour year-round, easily one of the most remote places in coastal BC – and runs the still-locally-owned Moresby Explorers, on whose behalf he extended his brief invitation to Melissa and me. Lo, Our Ride Arrives

And sure enough, when we arrived, Moresby Explorers gave us food to eat, a roof over our heads, and – in exchange for our services doing dishes, making lunches for tours, and tagging along as extra hands on day-trips to refuel vehicles, pick up guests at the airport and ferry and other odd jobs as they crept up – passage aboard zodiac, kayak and float plane through, across and over the expanses of Gwaii Hanaas National Park Reserve and into some of the world’s most revered places.

Murchison Island SlumberAll of which would have cost a lot, you know, unless we asked. So it’s a good thing we did.

I’ve brought this up, as I generally do in class, to introduce students to the idea (and the ease, really) of calling, or emailing strangers in the hopes of obtaining an interview, a mentorship, or a favour with regards to their upcoming Eminent Person Study. Historically a hurdle for students in our program, it cannot be overstated the authenticity contacting a ‘real life’ expert lends to this type of research, less so for the information obtained, and more for the lesson that such requests, when worded correctly, are often granted.

With that, here is the advice I am including in the handout outlining the interviewing aspect of the upcoming project. As ever, feel free to add your own means of contacting expert assistance, or help clarify what I’m getting at here via the comments.

Find out who it is you need to speak to

Universities (and their web pages’ staff directory) are a good place to start, if your Eminent Person was involved in academic pursuits, or left their stamp on world history. In other fields, Wikipedia articles are often cited extensively (look at the bottom of the article), providing original source material for information: locate the authors – professors, journalists, etc – and see if they can provide insight (either becoming the interviewee themselves or pointing you towards your eventual subject). Also, if your person’s namesake or field of work is represented by a non-profit organization, such as a foundation or charity, seek out its director of communications, or public relations: they are literally paid to handle requests such as yours.

Show yourself to be serious, prepared and grateful for the help

  • State the purpose of your contact up front: I am _______________ and I am doing a research project on the life of ______________.
  • But avoid being blunt The above should take more than one sentence, and can include information you have already found on the person, or the field, a summary of how you found the person, or some background on the rationale behind your choice of Eminent Person or the project itself.
  • Humble yourself Be accommodating in setting up the interview, such that all the person must reasonably consent to is answering a few already-prepared questions. Acknowledge clearly – repeatedly – that your interviewee is going beyond the call by granting you some insight. Thank them for their time, even if they can only help by providing you with more phone numbers, emails and people to contact in their stead. Politeness (and here we will include grammar, spelling and formal language) will go a long way here.

Synthesize the results

What did you learn? What perspective or angle did your interviewee provide on your Eminent Person? How does this ‘stack up’ with the rest of your research? What do you need to know next? How will this information find its way into your project?

And of course: You should contact your prospective interviewee well in advance of needing the information. This will allow you to not be pushy in arranging a time to meet, talk on the phone, or receive an email.

 

West Coast Trail Pictures on Flickr

Port Renfrew

I’ve finally gotten around to uploading a few pictures from the Jackson Family’s Aborted Mission to Conquer the West Coast Trail. As our trip only lasted four days before being so rudely interrupted by the rapid expansion of volatile gasses, and was spent traversing the inland kilometers north of Port Renfrew, these are not the Greatest Hits of Coastal British Columbia, but are nevertheless record of the last few days of calm that were August.

The Long Way Home

Highway

As a means of solidifying many photographs and words written long ago (2002), I will be posting subsequent chapters to this initial endeavor here.

The summer I graduated from University, my younger sister and I worked at a Boy Scout summer camp in the Ozark Mountains, where I had interned the previous year. With the stowed paychecks of six weeks work in our backpacks, we went to Toronto and bought a car, took the train to Montreal, and visited Niagara Falls’ misty fury before heading west. Having taken root in the heart of the South for five years, the trip across our country was a fitting homecoming and definitive personal culmination of many things. This is the record of that voyage, and what I thought it meant at the time.

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Canada Day & Our Country's Parks

Last week I received an early-morning phone call

informing me that a friend of a friend had passed away over the weekend along the lengths of the Yellowhead Highway’s western flank, in Smithers, BC. Weary of the drive through the Fraser’s canyon and the sheer distance involved in traversing the province’s northern shoulder – some two thousand kilometers in all – I offered to provide vehicle and pilot to the expedition (this is where it can help to have vacationing teachers as friends) so long as we could round out the trip by cycling through the northern edges of the Rockies on the return trip. And at 11pm on the last day of June – last Tuesday – we resolved to leave the next morning for Smithers, and the funeral slated for Friday. The next morning, Canada Day, we stopped at Canadian Tire for a stove and several propane canisters, and lit out for the north.

In Chilliwack, we stopped at the Provincial Information Center by the Trans Canada, and procured nearly the entirety of the resources required for a 2500km road trip over five days: BC Parks & Road map, Camp Free BC guidebook, and regional parks descriptions for the Caribou, the Skeena, the Rockies, the North (yeah, simply, the North), as well as Lower Mainland and Coast. Aside from spending a night in Smithers in a hotel (whose drapes helped us sleep through a night that saw a mere three hours of night), we would live out of the car, making living rooms in campsites around the province.

I have made such voyages before, but never on such short notice. My sister and I have driven the country from Toronto to Vancouver, and spent a month in the wilds of Haida Gwaii, and yet even on a smaller scale, the ease our provincial parks put such explorations of our country’s natural beauty before our fingertips is a remarkable testament to that which we hold to be self-evident: that,

“as a public trust, [our parks] protect representative and special natural places within the Province’s Protected Areas System for world class conservation, outdoor recreation, education and scientific study.”

A. and I left for our trip on Canada Day, our national holiday, and set up tent, fire, sunset and the Tragically Hip on a perch above the Trans Canada Highway and Lac Le Hache. Far from a wilderness venture, our site was raked gravel, and came with sturdy picnic table, fire pit (and achingly dry pine that split and burned too easily), and also included waterfront view at $15 a night. From past experience, I knew that in driving aroundacross our country, the use of a Parks Road map will point out such overnight accommodations at two-to-three hundred kilometer intervals along Highway 1, but also many ulterior routes. But I had not truly contemplated how easy, how reachable, and how inexpensive such experiences could be, and realized that it showed an incredible amount of foresight for our legislators had written it into law that such plots, freckled across our highways and the natural expanses they lead to, be set aside to put future generations in touch with who they are, as citizens of Canada. To enjoy our parks is to view the country’s natural and human history in the spirit of the adventurous present, we thought that night, retiring to a sleep rock-a-byed by the rumbling of 18-wheelers on their night drives, winding through the capillaries of the Caribou.

The next morning we set our sights on the western reaches of the Yellowhead, to Smithers and the head of the Skeena Valley. With 700km to travel, and a date with a hotel that evening, we spanned our day around highway rest stops and campgrounds for meals and swims across the high country. Two years ago my sister and I followed the Yellowhead to its termination in Naikoon Provincial Park, on the Queen Charlotte Islands. But we misread the date of our sailing from Prince Rupert, and spent four days exploring the valley of the Seven Sisters, and the lakes along the Pacific Trunk Railway. Though not as awe inspiring as other corners of the Province, it felt on both trips as though I were exercising some patriotic duty to see and experience as much of my home as possible. Thoreau alluded to traveling in one’s home as important to that accomplished abroad, and while I don’t believe he imagined a sense of home reaching the lengths of BC’s farthest borders, I feel like these excursions make manifest this purpose.

With the funeral behind us on Friday afternoon we drove away from the afternoon sun, bound for Beaumont Provincial Park near Vanderhoof (the Geographical Center of British Columbia). But with the sun still high and the promise of the Rockies not far off, we drove through the northern capital of Prince George and found a Campsite Full sign outside Lake Pruden. Cause for momentary panic – as the long twilight had begun and Mt. Robson was more than an hour’s drive to our next such lodgings – we found that “overflow campers” had been diverted to the picnic area behind the beach. At the same cost ($15), we found ourselves baffled in the July moonrise accompanied by crying loons and the North’s trademark mosquitoes, black flies and noseeums, and retired to an early rest.

The next morning, still in the sun, the eastern border of the province barreled on toward us, opening the highway up into its cursive-writing dive into Mount Robson and the western Rockies. Mount Terry Fox reared up, bald and rounded at the edge of the highway, striking that chord that Douglas Coupland has spent a while tuning in each of our appreciation of the quintessential Canadian Hero. Looking up through the free steel binoculars in the rest area, I remembered standing at the foot of the man-made monument to Terry at the western tip of Lake Superior, and the furthest point reached during his Marathon of Hope. As a graduate of Coquitlam’s schools (just like Terry Fox), I didn’t feel myself a stranger to the mythology of the young man’s courage, inspiration, and the call to rise above, beyond and to become a symbol. But to be twenty two at the time and to see my young countryman in marble looking out at the greatest of the lakes was a Canadian moment rivaling any I have yet experienced.

Some few thousand miles west, into the promised land which Terry traveled as a picture of heroism which defies description, I looked up at the mountain bearing his name and thought about the land between these honoured points, and that it is the fabric of our country, our home, and diverse as the people who live upon it. But each of us is bound to this sense of distance,  and the immensity of our separation. In distance we are yet close.

At Mount Robson, we stayed in the spray of the Fraser headwaters as they begin their teeming glare out of the belly of the province to spill the land’s sediment into the Pacific. Here begins the highway that the Northwest Company would utilize in its efforts to reach the ocean; how much hope welled within those earliest explorers – Alexander MacKenzie, Simon Fraser & David Thompson, among others – when they sensed that these streams were to be the culmination of a continent, the end of the future? I waded into the freezing waters on Sunday morning, waited for the numbness to take my feet and shins (though in the meantime worried I would throw up from the pain of doing so) and submerged myself in the broiling eddy of the main current, stumbling and rolling against the riverbed before coming up.Later in the day, A. and I would each swim in the Thompson before stopping for a final night on the shores of Lac Le Jeune.

It may only be a Canadian ritual 1  to ceremonially immerse oneself in the waters of the various regions of one’s country, or in the least is exclusive to countries – where through frigid temperatures, dangerous currents or predatory animals – where rivers, lakes and the seas command human respect. Where the opportunity presents itself, I keep a tally in my mind of the local bodies of water I have swum in: from the Adriadic, Atlantic and Pacifics, to the Frasers, Thompsons Rivers, Cultas and Pure Lakes, among a host of others. I was raised a water child, swimming before I could walk, and to emerge from these waterways is to become a citizen of these places.

“I have been for a long period among the Rocky Mountains, but have never seen any thing equal to this country, for I cannot find words to describe our situation at times. We had to pass where no human being should venture. Yet in those places there is a regular footpath impressed, or rather indented, by frequent travelling upon the very rocks. And besides this, steps which are formed like a ladder, or the shrouds of a ship, by poles hangining onto one another anc crossed at certain distances with twigs and withes (tree boughts) suspended from the top to the foot of the precipices, and fastened at both ends to stones and trees furnished a safe and convenient passage to the Natives – but we, who had not the advantages of their experence, were often in imminent danger, when obliged to follow their example.”

Simon Fraser

Having journeyed north through Cache Creek and the Fraser Canyon, winding through Hell’s Gate and what must have seemed the apocalypse to Simon Fraser and his band of Norwesters, we spent Sunday passing through Valemount, Barrierre, Clearwater and the country north of Kamloops where Fraser first came south, along the Thompson. With the ghosts of the high country fading, we discarded the relics of the north en route back to life, civilization, and pavement.

We made it through Kamloops, filling up on what would be our trip’s final tank of gas, and stopped at Lac Le Jeune on the Coquillhalla Highway for our final night in the tent. RVs rumbled through the afternoon taking up sites, and

the moon rose on a cloudless, bugless night. We lit an early fire with a surplus of wood, and listened to a large family playing Wolf and the Townspeople up the hill from our site. Our fifth night out, we slept soundly amidst crickets in the surrounding grass.

Civilization came calling early the next morning however, with an industrial weed-whacker tackling deep swaths of the cricket-grass before the sounding of the dawn’s first rustling birds. Yawns and bed-headed tenters emerged quickly – checking watches, craning their necks to the overcast sky – and by 7:30 the camp was fully stirring, as the weed-whacking parks employee had continued his rounds through each of the campsite’s four concentric rings of sites. Our dusty wares were stowed and we stopped for coffees before arriving in Port Moody in the rain, 2512km under our tires in five days.


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  1. I say that this could be a Canadian phenomena based on two experiences: When my sister and I found ourselves within a stone’s throw of the St. Lawrence, in Montreal, grasping the history that had sailed that canal in the preceding four hundred years: as Canadians, something of us is born in rivers and lakes, as they meant the birth of our country. In BC, we are witness to not only the proximity to European and Native interaction with the land, but the millenia which have sculpted salmon’s relationship to the land within its waters. Such is this impulse in British Columbians that on a recent trip to Copenhagen with a large group of Canadians, several were instinctively drawn to diving from the corner of a busy downtown intersection into the channels of the Copenhagen River, yielding many inquisitive stares from the uninitiated European observers.