Reflections on Winnie the Pooh Day

Today was yet another annual Winnie the Pooh Day in Jim Smith's AP Calculus class at Williams High School.

Of course, it's been two years since my Winnie the Pooh Day, as I graduated in 2004, but today was my brother's Winnie the Pooh Day, and so I have been inspired to reflect on mine.

What is Winnie the Pooh Day, then? Each year, on the last day of classes at Williams High School, when the AP Calculus class meets for the last time, Mr. Smith (who is famous around these parts for his relentless nature, his odd sense of humor, and his bow ties) teaches each calculus class the last lesson, in which he commends them to the world on the other side of the bridge. Graduation is a week and a half away still, but this last day of classes is what truly marks the moment in which he must let go of the students (most of whom he has had for two years) so they can continue. And the primary source material for this last chapter in his educational relationship with these students is, fittingly, the last chapter of A.A. Milne's "Winnie the Pooh." It is an emotional occasion: thoughts about growing up, Mr. Smith (who hereunto had seemed like such an ice man) typically cries, the graduating AP Calculus students present Mr. Smith with a picture of their class to hang on the wall next to all the other students he's shepherded.

It's an odd tradition, isn't it? A calculus teacher hanging pictures of his of classes on the wall and crying when they leave? Perhaps we would expect this from drama and music and dance teachers, growing emotional as an artistic relationship must go in a different direction, hanging pictures on the wall from concerts and stage productions. But a calculus teacher? Furthermore, I'm a music major. I owe so much of where I have been able to get in my career thus far to the musicians who have shaped me and loved me and taught me, but here I am on this day reflecting on the wisdom of my calculus teacher. And I hardly remember a blessed things about calculus.

How strange it is to mark the passing of time. How strange to hear my brother speak of Winnie the Pooh Day and to be floored by the fact that already two years have passed since I occcupied his proverbial shoes. How frightening to watch things be born and grow and fade so quickly. And how compelling that the feelings of my Winnie the Pooh Day, now two years ago, are so well etched in my memory that writing this post makes my heart turn in a way that is both something of the past and something so familiar.

I've always been a complete wimp in so many ways. Mr. Holland's Opus pretty consistently brings tears to my eyes; so does at least every other church service I attend; so does that scene in Almost Famous where a spontaneous sing-along of "Tiny Dancer" brings reconciliation when nothing else could. But I find more and more, lately, that things are so intense (and often so beautiful) that tears form in the corners of my eyes - and I am often so embarrassed! I nearly cried at an NPR story about piano lessons one time! Come on!

But as I sit here today and reflect on Winnie the Pooh Day, I think about how the end of each year finds a few tears in the eyes of the famous Mr. Smith, the calculus teacher who pushed us so hard, who made us so angry, who intimidated us so powerfully. And I laugh at myself for being such a baby, but I wonder if these tears are revelatory in the truest and most powerful sense of the word. I wonder if they aren't the perfect way to help us keep track of time.

I wish that I had written "On Reason and Imagination." It was cool.

For the record, the subject has little to do with what I intend to write. But seriously, I remember reading "On Reason and Imagination" in Mr. Bennett's class and it was so...well...neat.

First and foremost, the reason I actually decided to write something is because i'm in the middle (well, not at all to the middle yet, but you catch my drift) of reading Donald Miller's Searching for God Knows What, partly because I liked Blue Like Jazz quite a bit (we don't agree about everything, but it's a fantastic book), and partly because Donald Miller will be the keynote speaker for Montreat Collegiate Conference 2007, and as a member of the planning team, I feel somewhat responsible to fairly well-versed in Mr. Miller's work, especially as I believe we are naming the conference "Searching for God Knows What," after Don Miller's book.

That being said, there's a part I want to quote. It's very insightful:

...I had always suspected language was quite limited in its ability to communicate the intricate mysteries of truth. By that I mean if you have to describle loneliness or how beautiful your sweetheart is or the way a rainstorm smells in the summer, you most likely have to use poetry because these things are not technical, they are more romantic, and yet they exist and we interact and exchange these commodities with one another in a kind of dance.

Don Miller's words actually remind me of another instance that had me wanting to reflect in this blog. I can't remember exactly what song was playing, but it's incredible to me how much emotion we (or, at least, I) wrap up into the music to which I listen. I mean, they say smell is most closely tied to memory (and I buy it: Montreat has a particular smell, for example), but surely music has to run a fairly close second, especially for some of us. I mean, put on some old school Vertical Horizon ("He's everything you want, he's everything you need..."), and immediately I will think of my strange friendship wih Megan Williams in eighth grade. Or play Ani's "Angry Anymore" and I will certainly think of Montreat and other elements of the summer after my freshman year. I can pretty clearly recall the intense emotional state I entered when we sang "In the Beginning" in the final performance of You Can't Stop the Beat! (our original musical revue) my senior year. Strange, isn't it? And beautiful, too? I think so.

Let me also record one more quick reflection. It's a good thing that not many people read this blog, because I honestly don't want this next thing to be a huge deal, but I do want to spend some time with it. You see, this past week, something made me think of Montreat – a youth newsletter or something – and it finally occured to me that I was too old to hang out at youth conference, there would be no college conference this summer (I had been blessed to be on the leadership team for that last year), and I am too young to be a small group leader at youth conference. So after five straight summers of spending at least some time at Montreat, it occured to me that I had no reason to do that this summer (though I would probably stop in on the drive back to Nashville, just to look around and feel God's presence in that place). Not forty-eight hours later (read: very soon after), I received an e-mail from one of the co-leaders of recreation at youth conference weeks three and four, and she told me that her partner in crime had needed to drop out and that my name had been passed along when she was looking for a replacement – all this to say that I will be co-leading recreation at Montreat Youth Conference weeks three and four and I am ecstatic! It's just so funny how all that worked out. Amazing.

I think perhaps my normal elevated tone is a bit absent from this post. And I am afraid I have said nothing profound. But it surely is nice to write about life, even if only one person will read it. Even if that one person is me.

Nuestro Himno

How about a little question and answer?

Q: Does the United States have an official national language?

A: No. Just as we have no official religion, we have no language.

That being said, let us consider the following:

We Americans are a unique nation of immigrants united by a common language and a belief in principles expressed in our Declaration of Independence and our Constitution, not by our race, ancestry or country of origin. That is why the Pledge of Allegiance to the American flag, the Oath of Allegiance for new citizens, and the National Anthem – all important symbols of our national unity – were written in, and should be said or sung in, our common language, English.

These are the words of yet another frightened-of-immigrants Republican, Tennessee Senator Lamar Alexander. Alexander, along with fellow Tennessee Senator and Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist, introduced a resolution on the Senate floor proclaiming that the national anthem should always be sung in English. Here's what I'm going to wager: folks like Lamar Alexander are not as opposed in principle to the idea of a Spanish translation of the National Anthem as they are scared of being caught in a situation when that version might be sung and they might prove the ignorant ones.

The reason that our national documents are in English is because that's what was spoken. If things should change, so be it. In my view, the singing of the National Anthem in Spanish is a testament to the beauty of the idea of America: just imagine, we could be singing the National Anthem alongside one another, in a million different languages, and all know that we mean the same thing. That, you frightened Republicans, would be more powerful than you'll ever hope to be.

You people and your red state of mind are ruining my country. Stop, please.