A Southern Missive

As a child, every Saturday night was spent in my Dallas home (3103 Lanoue Street) watching the long stream of Country Music shows—I believe it was Channel 11. All my life I’ve known of Ernest Tubb, Porter Wagoner, Charlie Pride, Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, Johnny Cash, the Wilburn Brothers, Loretta Lynn, Roy Clark, Buck Owen, Merle Haggard, and the many other country singers who were popular in that era. Listening to that music and those songs had a subtle yet permanent effect. I learned many of the Classic Country songs by heart, and to this day can still recite them word perfect. It also gave me insight into the music business. In addition, my father—who worshipped country music—would tell me stories of many of the performers.  As a result of this childhood experience, I have so much country music trivia in my head that I’m sure I could easily win Jeopardy if country music were a category.

The country music muse–no doubt a hard-drinking, dancing, sexy one—must have been at work on me. My brother, Jimmy, paid little attention to those shows, but I sat there week after week mesmerized. Some of the songs were so sad that I cried in my iced tea. (We had no beer in our house). Sometimes I admit, the music was bad, but I still sat there, perhaps because of the fascination of the horrible.

My exposure to country music was constant, beyond Saturday night TV. When in the car, only country music on the radio was listened to. When my father returned from work, he usually worked on his race cars—he had a roadster, then a dragster—and he raced (and won) quarter mile drag races. After that, he would clean up, eat supper, and then play and sing country music till it was time for bed. Enough for now. I’ll pursue more of my musical life in future blogs.

When I’m depressed, there’s one song that’s guarranteed to make me feel worse: “Don’t Speak” by No Doubt. Great, moving song. I understand it was #1 on the charts for three weeks when it first came out. I listened to it a half-dozen times while driving to work. Here are the lyrics I found at: http://homepage.ntlworld.com/gary.hart/lyricsn/no.html

You and me
We used to be together
Every day together, always
I really feel
That I’m losing my best friend
I can’t believe
This could be the end

It looks as though you’re letting go
And if it’s real, well I don’t want to know

Don’t speak
I know just what you’re saying
So please stop explaining
Don’t tell me ’cause it hurts

Don’t speak
I know what you’re thinking
I don’t need your reasons
Don’t tell me ’cause it hurts

Our memories
They can be inviting
But some are altogether
Mighty frightening

As we die, both you and I
With my head in my hands I sit and cry

Don’t speak
I know just what you’re saying
So please stop explaining
Don’t tell me ’cause it hurts
No, no, no
Don’t speak
I know what you’re thinking
And I don’t need your reasons
Don’t tell me ’cause it hurts

It’s all ending
I gotta stop pretending who we are

You and me
I can see us dying, are we

Don’t speak
I know just what you’re saying
So please stop explaining
Don’t tell me ’cause it hurts
No no don’t speak
I know what you’re thinking
And I don’t need your reasons
Don’t tell me ’cause it hurts
Don’t tell me ’cause it hurts
I know what you’re saying
So please stop explaining
Don’t speak, don’t speak, don’t speak
Oh I know what you’re thinking
And I don’t need your reasons
I know you’re good, I know you’re good, I know you’re real good
Oh la la la la la la la la, don’t, don’t

Push push darling
Push push darling
Push push don’t tell me ’cause it hurts
Push push darling
Push push darling
Push push don’t tell me ’cause it hurts

At Bastrop High School, we are entering the last six weeks of the school year. It’s hard to believe that the year is nearly gone. I’m contemplating what I’ve actually done for my students. I know many have learned much, actually learned more than they intended to, but for others, what I and they have accomplished is hard to measure. Several of my students have won money and recognition from winning essay contests—some appreciate this more than others—some I feel have barely made any progress. In fact, some may have regressed.

I must turn in grades today or tomorrow. The number of failing grades in my sophomore classes is mind bogling. I assure them that it’s nothing personal on my part, just simple math. Many of those failing are good kids, and I like them, but it’s rather sad to know that I care more about their bad grades than they do. I really do try to set them up to succeed, but I can’t do it for them, and I certainly can’t give them a grade they haven’t earned. That wouldn’t be fair to the ones who expended the effort to make decent grades. I think that sometimes the system feeds their apathy. For example, when I taught in Dallas, we weren’t allowed to record a grade lower than 50.

What am I to do about these students with these failing grades? I suppose I must give them what they’ve earned, then be ready for the fallout from the whining children, the few concerned parents, the several angry students and parents who can’t understand how an F is actually now part of their permanent records. I hate report card time. After they come out, I must plan a very busy class. A teacher really shouldn’t use class time to explain the grades given. These discussion always degenerate into a yah-yah and arguments. I don’t argue with students. I do say, “It’s nothing personal. It’s just simple math.”