As a teacher, I use an assortment of tools, including the ever-popular test.  Akin to the dentist’s pick, the exam is a useful device: it can probe the weaknesses in a student’s understanding, establish areas of strength, and— to some extent— provide motivation.  Don’t want the pain of a little metal poker sticking you in a dental soft spot?  Brush and floss.  Don’t want the pain of a vocabulary quiz jabbing at your lexicographical cavity?  Study and read.

So tests are useful.

Recently, though, I was reminded of a second type of assessment pain, dimly remembered from my student days, an anxiety that grows in the interstice between the completion of the test and the announcement of results, like mold in the grout between tub tiles.  After the multiple choice ordeal or hand-cramping essay, we wait, aware of the possibilities, truths that are buried in the exam results; yet we are dependent on the grader and his ability to cram grading into his life, to see if we passed or failed or earned marks somewhere in between.

When I was a student, I dreamed of a time without tests.  Adulthood, I reasoned, doesn’t require me to put pencil to paper, doesn’t require me to remember and regurgitate facts, doesn’t demand that I draft that essay by the following day for a major grade.  Now that I’m in the land of adults, of course, I realize that the tests have moved beyond pencil and paper, for the most part.  And the grades are hazier.  No clear-cut 93% on my essay.  Just a self-judgment, followed by a few words from readers.

Sometimes, though, we do take tests that promise clear results.

Several times in this blog, I’ve written about my decade-old argument with cancer.  I haven’t mentioned my bout with the same malady a year ago, mostly because the experience felt too raw.  And now, it may have returned for a third time.  I am waiting for another set of results: several weeks ago, one of the markers in my blood was elevated, so I repeated the test.  I could have cancer again.  Maybe.  Or maybe not.

I’d like to think that the waiting gets easier.  Now that I’ve moved beyond pencil and paper, I should also move beyond the mold of anxiety.

I can’t though.  Like my students, I am hoping and fearing the results.  I am waiting.

Robin Follet lives, writes, and cartoons in North Carolina.

I spent this past week in the mountains of western North Carolina, completing a teaching seminar.  When I wasn’t working, I was wandering outside.  The first few days, replete with lots of sunshine and twittering birds, won accolades from my compatriots.  My favorite time, though, was midweek, when the rain appeared.

The soft mist that morning transitioned into a harder downpour in the afternoon, one that beckoned for a walk.  So I donned my jacket, walked along the berm, and stepped onto the short trail.  I hiked the steep path, watching for the roots slippery with rain, shortening my stride on the steep sides of the hill.  Not too long, this path was nonetheless more than I’ve seen in several months.  It traced a squiggle, up and down the bowl-side of the hills.  White and purple wildflowers were just starting to push through.  The trees, their branches blurred with possibility of new growth, crossed their stark fingers overhead, but I could still see the far side of the valley, torn swatches of clouds hovering over clefts in the hills.

The short, short hike echoed other trips I’ve taken: challenging runs along trails, where I commanded myself to push one foot ahead, one foot ahead, one foot ahead; hand-in-hand strolls with my wife, where we laughed and talked so much that we lost our way; excursions of wonder and tears with my daughters where we balanced fascination with flora and fauna against the limitations of young legs.  So even though I finished the hike in fifteen minutes, I was actually walking a multiplicity of trails, experiencing an accordion collection of days.

By stepping on the trail, I stepped outside my immediate life.  Sometimes, we all need a little distance.

Robin Follet lives, writes, and cartoons in North Carolina.

I am amazed at how quickly daily exercise moves from the optional category to the absolutely required column.  Ten, fifteen years ago, I could exercise with infrequency.  Granted, I never garnered fantastic times, but if I felt like a quick thirty-minute jog around the neighborhood, I could slip on my running shoes, stretch a little, and zip out the door.  Or I could eat a bowl of ice cream.  Or I could brave the enclosed gym and over-amplified bass of bad pop songs so that I could lift weights.  Or I could hammer out a ten-mile mountain bike ride.  Or I could lounge on my couch, reading assorted novels.

My body has grown wise to my ways, however.  This year, I have discovered the necessity of constancy.  Now, along with aerobic fun, I comprehend the continual need for core strength and flexibility.  My back, with the help of a physical therapist, has informed me that— if I want to continue biking and running— I need to strengthen the stomach and dorsal muscles while simultaneously loosening all the tightness in my body.  And I have to stretch and grunt and aerobicize according to a basic schedule.  In other words, as I get older, I have to work harder to maintain my health.  If not, my body will really start hurting.

Somehow, I have to learn to love crunches in the same way that I enjoy mountain biking, even though I would prefer to spend my time grinding up or barreling down dirt trails.  And while I did go through an iron phase, I was never a fan of lifting weights, or stretching rubber bands, or doing one-armed push-ups.   But now I have to be.  So, as soon as my back stops chastising me, I’ll be looking for another sport/exercise to add to my oeuvre, something that will challenge the muscles that I’ve been ignoring for too long, something that I can complete week to week.

Constancy, my back reminds me with every twinge.  Constancy.

Robin Follet lives, writes, and cartoons in North Carolina.

While perusing assorted blogs, news articles, and Internet sites (no— not THOSE sites) this past week, I read two wildly different pieces.  Though both explored the role of the liberal arts in our culture, the first— a reader response to a local news article— implicitly excoriated any profession that hinted at creativity.

The grumpy writer was responding to an on-line report, one that described how an artist lost her city job because she fell asleep too often during the workday.  The ex-employee stated that she had a problem with narcolepsy.  The former employers couldn’t comment.  The artist’s salary was mentioned.  And, like children unleashed in the bumper car pavilion at the local amusement park, the critics were off, debating the pros and cons with different assumptions.

One writer, however, took a side path.  In earth-scorching prose, he lambasted the authorities and society and whomever for paying an artist the unrighteous sum of $55,000 per year.  (A quick note: if you don’t live in a major city, this is a good salary)  At the very least, cut the salary in half, the writer opined;  he also offered a few other choice observations about the good things that could be done with that money, rather than wasting it on a needless occupation.

Sometimes I am amused by ranters; occasionally, offended; and, every once in a while, mystified.  What still puzzles me about this writer’s response, what pulls me back as if I’m scratching at a scab on my knee, is the writer’s implied understanding of the role of an artist.  Because I don’t know this person, I can only imagine that he sees performers and painters and designers and writers as periphery to our lives, as silly dabblers.  They add nothing to our society beyond a few frills.

Makes me laugh, of course.  I want to find this person and point to his car, to his house, to his faucets, to his television, to his furniture, to his clothes, to his watch, to his yard, to his walls, to his streets, to his grocery market aisles.  I want to ask him,

Where would we be without the artists?

The second article, an Associated Press article, quoted Supreme Court Justice David Souter discussing the necessity for a solid understanding of history and the liberal arts.  His views in brief:  we need a liberal arts education so that we can understand ourselves and our impact on the world.

Of course, as the product of a liberal arts education, and as a teacher, I naturally gravitate toward Souter’s views.  We need to understand the context of our surroundings, of our actions, of our trajectories.  Visuals in particular, and art in general, are ways of understanding the ordering our lives, of giving meaning, beauty, and expression to experience.  So why not pay an artist a salary, one that will allow her to live a comfortable middle class life?

Long live David Souter.

Robin Follet lives, writes, and cartoons in North Carolina.

With the advent of warmer weather in the Northern Hemisphere, you have an excellent opportunity to view the Coachus soccerus, (or the Coachus footballus, according to the rest of the world).  While these wild animals can grump and intimidate, just a little knowledge will allow you to interact with them successfully.

Remember, Coachus soccerus can be divided into three sub-species: The Number Eaters, the Chalkboards, and the Lost Travelers.

We can recognize the Number Eaters courtesy of several distinct traits.  First, they use illogical phrases (“give 150%,” for example.)   They keep close track of their wins and losses over the course of many seasons.  They rarely smile during a contest; instead, they are in a constant state of bellow.  Winning is everything, so rules are guidelines, and sportsmanship is another name for “losing philosophy.”  The Number Eaters can be recognized by their red faces, distinctive stomps, and tendency to mutter bad words in between loud roars during the match.  Under no circumstances should you approach a Number Eater before, during, or after a game.  In fact, choose the point equidistant between two matches should you have any questions or— heaven help you— criticisms.

The Chalkboards may use illogical phrases occasionally (up to 10% of their speaking time), but they do not employ those phrases with the frequency of the Number Eaters.  The Chalkboards do know, in general, how many games they’ve won and lost over the past few seasons, but they also remember the stories of normal kids showing unexpected brilliance.  The ‘boards bellow, chirp, admonish, and praise.  They may even offer a positive comment to a member of the opposite team (the Number Eaters would rather eat a soccer goal dipped in shin guard sweat).  Development is everything, so a team can win even if they lose (The Number Eaters projectile vomit at the thought).  The Chalkboard can be recognized by the chalkboard clutched in its hands as it awaits for the opportunity to explain a concept to its brood.  It may stomp when excited, but it also has the ability to smile.  Approach with a grin and a compliment after the game or season.

The Lost Travelers know little about the game.  Typically, they are other birds who have been cajoled into the role of soccer coach, simply because they have been involved in the fields of baseball, football, or basketball.  They rarely keep track of wins and losses, mostly because they have few wins.  They may bellow, but usually at the wrong times.  Sometimes, through study and practice, they mold themselves into Number Eaters or Chalkboards.  Other times, they remain Lost Travelers, rolling a ball into the middle of the field and telling the kids to “kick it hard.”  Wins would be nice, as would development, but both concepts are unknown to them.  The Lost Traveler can be recognized by its furrowed brow (it was probably pressured into the situation, after all) and general lack of knowledge of the game.  Approach the Lost Travelers with compassion, understanding, and offers to help in any way possible.

Remember, all coaches are— at their core— shy animals.  Have a clear understanding of their goals, and you will get along with them winningly.  Oh, and snacks after the games help, too.

Robin Follet lives, write, and cartoons in North Carolina.