Multiple Intelligences

Howard Gardner's theory of Multiple Intelligences includes the following areas of intelligence:

Linguistic intelligence ("word smart"): Logical-mathematical intelligence ("number/reasoning smart") Spatial intelligence ("picture smart") Bodily-Kinesthetic intelligence ("body smart") Musical intelligence ("music smart") Interpersonal intelligence ("people smart") Intrapersonal intelligence ("self smart") Naturalist intelligence ("nature smart")

Gardner is a famous professor of education at Harvard and all good teachers know his stuff backwards and forwards. In 1999 he added "Existential Intelligence" to the list. This is the ability and propensity to ask big questions about existence, the meaning of life, and one's place and purpose in the world.

The other day at the Gifted and Talented workshop I attended we took Gardner's Multiple Intelligence test to find out where our areas of strength lie. I scored 100% in the following areas: Musical, Intrapersonal, Verbal, and Existential. I scored 0% in the Logical/Mathematical. The other areas were between 20-50%. This really alarmed me. While it was no surprise that I scored high in certain areas, it was disheartening and actually scary to consider the disposition of a girl walking around in life, singing little songs incessantly (musical), analyzing her thoughts all day and night (intrapersonal), talking or writing about her thoughts in volume after volume (verbal), asking the BIG questions over and over and over (existential)- and all the while this poor creature hasn't a lick of logic in her brain! Oh, my! Most of my cohorts found less extreme results. Their little bar graphs looked less severe and more moderate, bars standing tall without hitting the ceiling or floor; balanced.

The trick becomes how to help this girl get through life. How likely is logic acquisition? I want to marry Spock.

It's time, time, time

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4xdhwXIzFKY

A little Innocence

This is the most moving poem I have ever read. I love it. When I first discovered it I read it to my friends over and over, one friend at a time. One friend simply said, "Poignant." Yeah. That's what it is. It captures the essence of everything I try to be and why I try so hard. Virtue; innocence; it's everything. It makes every other nobility, admirable quality, or sacred feature possible. It must come first. It lays the foundation. It is the shining diamond in a very, very weary world. This poem makes me contemplate repentance, the atonement, restitution, resurrection. E.e. Cummings was a genius. I cannot tell you how his words stir my soul. Please enjoy this little window into innocence.





Cummings

who were so dark of heart they might not speak,
a little innocence will make them sing;
teach them to see who could not learn to look
--from the reality of all nothing

will actually lift a luminous whole;
turn sheer despairing to most perfect gay,
nowhere to here, never to beautiful:
a little innocence creates a day.

And something thought or done or wished without
a little innocence, although it were
as red as terror and as green as fate,
greyly shall fail and dully disappear--

but the proud power of himself death immense
is not so as a little innocence.

Time

I can be so impatient. I often think or even expect things to happen the instant the notion occurs to me. What are the odds that would realistically coincide? Desire and gratification, seconds apart; dream on. It's time to swallow an enormous truth: Grace knows what she's doing. The grace of great things needs to be respected. Rushing things always creates a mess. No masterpiece was ever created in haste. It's okay for babies to crawl. It is wrong to ask them to walk prematurely. It is wrong to scoop up a handful of seeds and demand that they be trees now or else! The same applies to people. I am guilty of wanting seeds to be trees. Sometimes I want trees out of myself when I haven't even planted my seeds yet, much less consulted experts on soil, watering, and fertilizers. Living life in a mad rush is for the birds. It's probably not even for them, actually.

What If?

My parents have been happily married for over forty years now. They met when they were 14. My mother, a wonder to behold, thought my dad was a little arrogant and annoying at first. He teased my mom a great deal, as he adored her at first sight and didn't know how to navigate the waters of elation he found himself in. Over the years, he grew on her. He himself was as cute as can be and was probably hard to resist. They got married right out of high school and then my dad went to Vietnam. My brother was born a year later in Hawaii. My dad lived on a naval ship for years. His letters to my mother make me cry; so full of longing, sincerity, and adoration.
I've received a lot of love letters myself over the years. I have been serenaded so many times. I've heard it all. I'm just not impressed anymore. I can't tell you how many times I've received poetry. But was any of it real? What was the aim? I find I don't care as much as I wish I could. I'm afraid something has died in me, something I can't retrieve or recover. I wish I could hide but one can never hide from one's self. I have to face it. What? Okay, here's what I'm wondering, is love kind of passe? Is it a thing of the past? Antiquated? Old fashioned? Obsolete, even? I just don't see it around. I see a lot of people who want what they want at whomsoever's expense and as quickly as possible. That I see in spades and barrels. But I don't see what I see in my parents in my world. Are these just different times?
I am disenchanted, to say the least. I've believed so many lies in my lifetime. When men look at me, I think they see something they'd like to play with. I can't tell you how sad I think that is. Commodities and people are different things, aren't they? What if real love is extinct?

My friends, chapter 8: Jessica

Living in Chicago was so hard. As I watched people shoveling their driveways, scraping their icy windshields, and wearing seven layers of clothing I wondered whether they had ever realized there was another way to live. IN TEXAS! My ethnocentrism was born and entrenched that year. I found life to be insane up there. I didn't get it. I thought the term "howling winds" was purely literary. I was wrong. In the fall the wind ripped through my neighborhood with forlorn moans that made me think of trains headed to a graveyard of lost dreams.
Being from El Paso, Texas, I had grown up primarily with Latins. I was in a bit of culture shock. I met a lot of people from eastern Europe in Chicago. Their faces were so different from all the faces I had known and loved. They were angular and distinct, with sharp noses, jaws, and cheek bones.
I lived in a really hoity-toity village called Wilmette. Mostly old money there. I found a darling, little, old apartment building and called it home. I remember noticing the little swastikas in the tiles of the entryway. The building had been erected in 1922 by Germans. Germans still owned and operated the building. It was a really beautiful place with hard wood floors, crystal door knobs, and charming woodwork around the window panes. Lovely backdrop for a very, very traumatic year.
I taught fourth grade that year, just a couple miles from where I lived. It was wonderful that I had found a place so close to school because I hated driving in the snow and ice. During my orientation I met a girl I'll never forget. Jessica would be teaching third grade. She was friendly, approachable, and simply gorgeous. We sat on the bus together on the way to a luncheon for all the new teachers in the district. I noticed her Chicago accent and she said I didn't sound like I was from Texas at all. I always get that, even in Texas. She told me about her job history and how she had been at a school that operated more like a prison of sorts, not just for the kids but the teachers felt that way as well. We shared our hopes for the coming year and jumped into action as we prepared for our kiddos.
Jessica is a work horse. She was up at the school making it happen, day and night, for what seemed like weeks, if I'm remembering correctly. I was impressed by all her cool ideas and classroom decor. She was highly motivated and skilled. Our principal loved her from the start, and for good reason. I had a very different relationship with our principal but that's a story for another time. Suffice it to say, Jessica was something of an inspiration to me and I found great comfort in her friendship.
Jessica was the kind of girl who liked getting people together. She organized many a fun evening. I'll never forget the night at the Dueling Pianos. We danced and sang 'til our troubles were gone and our voices were, too. She got all the new teachers talking and hanging out. We went to countless restaurants, clubs, and movies. She took me to China Town, a Cub's game, and the Symphony in the park. She made it a great year.
Jessica taught me bowling etiquette: never bowl at the same time as the person in the lane next to you. She taught me a little bit about school politics: never have your kids write persuasive letters to the superintendent about the cruelties of non-air conditioned classrooms. Oops! She taught me how to navigate on the L-train. She also taught me a fair bit about how a real friend responds to tragedy.
I had kept my marital problems quiet. No one knew I was in the middle of the trauma of my young life. My husband told me, one Christmas morning, he had fallen in love with his study partner at law school. She was married, too. Interesting situation because they hadn't been having an affair at all. He explained that he loved her but he hadn't told her and would probably never tell her. It just wouldn't be right, after all, because she was happily married. He respected her happiness too much to disrupt her life with his potent love. Wow! How very loving and considerate! Never mind what the information did to me! I don't think that ever occurred to him. We talked about what we should do. He said he wanted to try and work on our marriage and that even though he no longer loved me and probably never did in the first place perhaps he could find a way to love me, somehow. It didn't seem like the most attractive option. I moved out. After six years with him, I knew he was incapable of love. His selfishness knew no bounds and it manifested itself in countless ways. I knew it was a sinking ship.
Jessica was one of the first people I told. "I had no idea anything was wrong!" The sad thing was, I was so used to feeling invisible and nearly worthless in the presence of my husband that I didn't even realize something was especially wrong myself. I had been staying with a friend from church when Jessica asked if I would be interested in helping her house-sit for a family who was in Europe for a few weeks. I agreed. She listened to the story of years of disappointment and grief. She cried with me. She hugged me. She took me into her family and they just treated me like another daughter. We really bonded. I took enormous comfort in her companionship.
I contemplated staying in Chicago after my divorce. As fate would have it, my old Texan principal called and asked me to come back to Austin. His drawl was so comforting. After much prayer and contemplation, I knew it was the right move to go home. Jessica was sad. I was, too. In the midst of a whirlwind of tragedy and trauma I had found a true friend. She was the silver lining that year.
I've been back to Chicago just once since that year. Of course, I stayed with Jessica. As expected, we had a lot of fun and when it was time to leave there was an agonizing pinch in my heart, knowing there is only one Jessica like mine, and she lives very, very far from me. Jess, thanks for making my darkest hour one of my finest. You are truly one of a kind. You are a miracle. I love you.

Rainbow Connection

Listen to this! Me and my friends recorded this song a year and a half ago. We made a few hundred dollars for my school doing so. To dreams! To love! To the pursuit and the victory, the mystery and and the solution. For the lovers, the dreamers, and .......me.

Banjo: Doug Mumford
Violin: Ivy Portwood
Guitar: David Francis
Vocals: Kristin Ferrell

How to Be Charming

How to Be Charming
By
Kristin Ferrell

You may find it strange
Or even alarming
But this is a poem about how to be charming.

In the days of your grandma,
Maybe even your aunt,
Kids were asked to be charming
But they said, “We can’t!!”

And the reason they couldn’t was simple, it’s true.
What they lacked was the poem
But that’s not true for you.

Being charming is more
Than merely having good taste
It’s more than your words
Being smart and well placed.

Charm is something we do
To be kind and sincere.
It’s about serving others
Without guile, without fear.

A charming soul
Is honest and true.
She says what she means
And she follows through.

When he feels like a cry
He’ll let the tears flow.

When you’ve stepped out of line
She’ll sure let you know.

Being charming means
Showing great self-control.
Never gobble three cupcakes,
Two croissants, and a roll.




Never hog all the limelight
For yourself with loud talking.
Stay away from idle gossip,
Foul jokes, and cruel mocking.

When a friend has a secret
To put in your ear
Make sure that you keep it
And let no one else hear.


Be the kind of true friend
That a buddy can trust.
For others to trust you,
Staying true is a must.

An expert in charm
Will try cool new things
From eating with chopsticks
To bouncy foot springs.

He’ll eat sushi for dinner;
At least, he’ll give it a try.
She’ll learn a new language
And speak it with pride!

Part of the charm game
Is remembering names.
Never call a guy William
If his real name is James.

People love to be remembered
And it’s kind if you will.
You’ll make tons of good friends
And their trust you’ll instill.

Charming people will look you
Straight in the eye.
They speak with a confidence
You really should try.

It feels great to be sure
Of yourself and your worth.
Charming people all know
They’ve been priceless since birth.

If you’re charming you will try
And be helpful and clean.
You’ll fold up your clothes
And keep your mess lean.

You’ll help your dad scrub off
Some pots, pans, and plates.
You’ll help your aunt Mona
Get the vines off her gates.

When a charming person finds
That she can’t quite agree
With another’s idea or philosophy
She will kindly decide to stand on her ground
And it’s all right with her if no agreement is found.

Charming people have talents,
Both great and small.
They can sing a cantata.
They can balance a ball.

They also remember
The great talents of others.
They love to clap loudly
For their sisters and brothers.


When somebody says
That you’re great at the tuba
Or skilled at the easel
Or fantastic at scuba…

Do you turn tail and run?
Turn twelve shades of red?
Do you say, “No I’m not!”
With three shakes of your head?

Being charming means
That you know that you’re splendid.
Take a compliment with a “Thank you!”
And smile like your friend did.

An expert in charm
Knows the value of doing.
She will read, write, and listen.
She has goals worth pursuing!

He’s got lawns to be mowed
And plans to be made!
He’s got homework to do
And marbles to trade!

Being charming can mean
That you keep right on dancing
When your muscles are aching
And your feet tired of prancing.

You keep playing piano,
Even when you feel weary
‘Cause you’ll WROCK at the concert!
And your mom’ll be teary.

You just keep right on truckin’
‘Cause you know in the end,
It’ll be worth the work
And the time that you’ll spend.

Being charming is NOT
For the faint-hearted or weak.
It is for the courageous.
To the victors I speak!

You can do this,
My heroes and heroines gallant!
Being charming will help you
In each race, ride, and talent.

You deserve a fun life
Full of friendship and meaning.
I really do hope
It’s this message you’re gleaning.

Charming people are made up
Of little white lights.
They’re made up of holidays,
Music, and kites.
They're made up of days
And made up of nights.




You can be charming!
Why, you’re half there already!
Stay happy and curious.
Be tactful and steady.

Let the world see your smile,
All gleaming and pleasant.
You’re a gift to the world!
The most precious, rare present.

You’ll meet plenty who’ll say
It’s not worth the endeavor
But you’ll know the truth,
And you’re much more clever.

Being charming is worth
every pinch in each bend.
Go out and try it!
I dare you!
THE END

Energy

I have a lot of nervous energy lately. I've got something bubbling in my blood and I'm not sure where it wants to go. For a while I was thinking it wanted me to go to grad school. That didn't work out this time. I didn't get into the program I applied to. I won't feel too defeated, considering two of my letters of rec came after the deadline and I applied late, as it was, with "special permission". Maybe next year. It occurred to me though, I am pretty lucky. I love my job! I love being with those kids every day! I love teaching them. I love the things they say. I love their faces and voices and drawings and all their wonderful ideas. No two days alike. It's lots of work, true. It's often grueling, insane, frustrating, impossible, and yet it is always and ever magical. There's something of elation in watching little kids learn something new, realizing what they can do, noticing they are getting better at things. It's beautiful! But how long can I realistically do it? And what am I to do next? Where am I to go? I looked into a few different options. Things didn't pan out or didn't feel right. Could it be that I just need to see my current life with new eyes? All I know is, when I got off the plane coming back from Salt Lake, my heart flooded with love for Austin, Texas. It was interesting. I keep wanting to start a revolution and maybe all I ought to do is live my life, as little as it seems, with grace and integrity. When I teach my kids every year about the term integrity I tell them integrity is doing the right thing no matter who is looking. Instead of conquering the world, maybe I'll just do my little life with integrity....no matter who's looking.

First Grade

First grade had a lot of firsts in it. Lost my first tooth. Wrote my first long essay. Got my first real scar. Fell in "love" for the first time. Scott Boaz was the most mystical experience I had ever had. He was new to our school. Sadly, he wasn't in my class. He was in Ms. Paul's class next door. I was in Mrs. Crumley's class. My teacher was the mother of my best friend, Leah. Leah was really smart and really goodie goodie and I always had the feeling that Mrs. Crumley sort of thought I was not a good influence. Even when I was in her class I always felt like she thought I was too grown up for my own good. She was always making comments about how pretty she thought I was, but her face didn't look happy about it. It was weird. That was the first time I remember feeling embarrassed about my looks. I wasn't trying to be pretty but I had the distinct feeling that Mrs. Crumley thought it was something of a crime in any case. Anyway, I think she wasn't the only one who thought I was pretty. Scott Boaz, big brown eyes, short, spiky, blond hair, tall (at least three point five feet tall), and he had his permanent teeth in front! Well, at least it looked like they were coming in nicely. I remember seeing him for the first time in Spanish class. Those of us who passed a certain test got to take Spanish every day for 45 minutes while other kids had Reading. It was wonderful! And he was in there! That meant he was smart, too! I knew it! I noticed he was a little shy at first but in no time, in a matter of days, we were talking, laughing, playing, and getting into plenty of trouble. We played this game a lot like tag except instead of tagging me Scott would pick me up and carry me around the playground until his little legs gave out. Ha! Poor little guy. I thought he was so cool and so smart. He spoke Spanish a little strangely but not everyone has a great accent right away. He came from some place like Iowa or something. First grade was full of drama and intrigue thanks to Scott. Years went on and we never became legitimate significant others but I'll always have a special place in my heart for my first love, Scott Boaz.

Biography

In second grade this week we are learning about biographies. The students study the lives of some of America's favorite authors, artists, presidents, musicians, sports stars, and civil rights leaders. They also interview a fellow student and write their bio. Inevitably, I get interviewed, too. I always seem to have an odd number of students.
These activities got me thinking. What would I want my real bio to look like? I mean, at the end of it all. When I'm 97, what is it I would liked to have done, seen, been. What sort of character did I fashion out of the raw material I was given by my progenitors? Let's just suppose I've lived a third of my life already. The truth is I may die tomorrow, but for the sake of this entry, let's suppose I die in my nineties. I'd say I'm off to a decent start. I spent my childhood getting into sufficient amounts of trouble, making exactly the wrong sorts of friends, and having a ball. (ha, ha!) But really, I did have a wonderful childhood.
Just yesterday I was telling a true story about kindergarten. For some inexplicable reason when I was five I got it into my head that I had a duty, nay, a mission I had to perform, for the good of humanity and to soothe the curiosity of my own, very voracious and painfully raucous young mind. The project: a dig. I had about ten to twelve little kindergartners under my task mastering hand and voice. I distributed the appropriate number of shovels and buckets. I outlined the plan in some detail: we would dig in a certain area for as long as it would take in order to find one of two things: China or Hell, and we wouldn't be stopping until one of them was located. Little Jason dared to inquire, "But how will we know when we get there?" My expression was probably beyond exasperation at this point. I can see myself smacking my own forehead. "You'll know, Jason, because you will either see Chinese people walking around or you will hear the trumpet of Satan blaring! Now, DIG!" Leaders are born, not groomed.
The kids were digging like little machines. I circulated, checking their work, providing encouragement and occasional reproof. We diligently pursued our goal each day at recess. I was so avid I actually had a hole going at home as well. My vigor knew no bounds. I had my two little brothers digging, too.
I forget how the project lost steam. Both sites gradually lost all attention. We gave in to less intense pursuits: hopscotch, gossip, swings, red rover, jump rope. And now the world will never know what we might have found. The sting of lost dreams is so hard to bare. Alas, I carried on, somehow.