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Abstract: This is the second part of a collection of poems showcasing the personal exploration of a teaching identity grounded in grief experiences, one of the aspects of identity educators carry into the classroom. The use of poetry permits an open theological exploration in which the author examines aspects of his life through the lens of religious allusions and imagery including the creation narratives, Cain and Abel, and Hannah. Specifically, the author engages the experience of growing up in a family impacted by the death of his brother who died prior to the author’s own birth. The experience of being a “substitute” and a “teacher” is represented  within the poetry. The series begins with childhood encounters with loss and moves through life and teaching experiences marked by grief. Good and Evil: The Second Account of Creation When I first learned there were two accounts of creation, I was confused. Then, I was delighted. Maybe this one made more sense. I can’t remember if this optimism was a default disposition or a performance to please. Now it’s both. In the day that the Lord God made my family, no ambition was yet in my mind and no anxiety had yet sprung up– for I didn’t yet know what those words meant, and there was no teacher there to help. But a sinkhole would envelop the earth, and I couldn’t breathe enough to cry– Then the Lord God formed my faith from the ashes of the dead, and breathed into my nostrils the breath of new life, and I became a living being, well, living enough. And like Adam, such a miraculous origin story couldn’t keep me from ruining everything. But the Lord God kept busy, planting gardens and putting people in them. So I likewise kept busy, making more work for myself, too: a research agenda. I was never good at gardening, so when God went east to garden, I went west for my formation. Fortunately, God was there, too. I tried to be pleasant and good, like the trees and those worthy of affection, but the tree of knowledge always seemed more appealing to me than the tree of life. That’s why I ended up in graduate school— the rivers’ pull stronger than I expected. Now I teach ethics to teenagers and wonder if any of us were supposed to know the difference between good and evil in the beginning.   The Ordination to the Professoriate The Lord closed Hannah’s womb, and her rival mocked her. Hannah wept and wouldn’t eat. My parents wept but couldn’t stop eating. Hannah made a deal with God: “If you give me a boy, then he will be yours.” Dad told me his deal was the same. Eli said she was drunk, though she was intoxicated only by despair. I still shiver thinking of the time he was both. Sure enough, Samuel was born. And soon they ordained Hannah’s grief. Grief– the great teacher. Samuel and I – bargaining chips for the divine. What will they do when they find out they hired Anxiety disguised as achievement? Anxiety with a capital A. Untenable seeking tenure-track. Ordination is supposed to be a reordering, and I was always great at following orders, so it seemed a bit inevitable. Hannah dropped Samuel off with the priest, and the bus dropped me off at the megachurch. “Here I am,” we both muttered.

I continue pondering about clowns and clowning as I try to figure out how to engage my classroom with performance and clowning. I continue to contemplate the song[1] that asks: What is it that you give me? That has no measure, nor ever will? The clown is the purest excess, the figure of the exaggeration. The clown’s actions are always too much or too little. They carry something more than what is human, that which we all lack, that we owe, that we hope for, that is known to be lost. The clown is life’s box of surprises, Pandora’s box, the lost key to our desires. The clown is the poet of Manoel de Barros who will irrigate the fields with a sieve. What will it be? What has no remedy, and never will? What has no recipe? The clown has the remedy for all the ills in the world, but always forgets the exact recipe for things. It is also a risk because the clown offers us a mirror of ourselves that can frighten us, that makes us revolt. And that’s how it is, either the clown has the medicine but forgot the prescription, or they have the prescription but didn’t take the medicine. A disaster. What will it be? What happens inside us That shouldn’t? That defies the ones who are absent? The clown always defies authorities because they don’t even know what authority is. In the world of clowning there are no real hierarchies. The ones shown are only for the performance. The clown is an anarchist, they make their own laws. The clown lives solely and exclusively on the joy they desperately seek and give. They live in disregard of every law, of every yoke, of all suffering, of all pain. As the comedian Leo Bassi said, “The buffoon respects nothing and no one, be it the president, the emperor, himself, or even God.” What will it be? What is made of brandy that does not quench? What is it like to be sick of a revelry? The clown’s joy is the shadow of all our sadness. Their show doesn’t want to change the world, but just to offer a laugh, like brandy, to make life more bearable, to be able to take another step, to believe once more. The clown is always sick from their revelry, since their revelry is a flame. What will it be? That not even ten commandments will reconcile Nor any ointments relieve Nor all the breakers all alchemy Nor all the saints Clowning is a covenant without promises, a faith without beliefs, a convent of stupid monks who live off in an animist world. When they pray, they get the order of prayers wrong, when they email the prayer they send it to the wrong saint. They confuse the Orixás, call Jesus “Genésio,” think Ave Maria is Maria Bonita, offer padê for Exu while praying to the Holy Virgin, not really sure if she actually is a virgin. They call Buddha “my king,” Jesus “my comrade,” and Muhammad “my partner.” With all due respect! But don’t doubt the clowns, those holy knotty monks! In their shows, some of them carried the magic of witches and learned alchemy from magicians, dances from shamans, and spells from Spirits. What will it be? What has no rest, nor ever will? what has no limit? The world is so complicated now that the task of laughter is an endless, restless task. Joy puts a limit on hate, debunks anger and undoes the knot of resentment. Only joy has no limits in all its immoderation. Only a happy people will engage the revolution! What is it that you give me? That which burns me inside, what happens to me? That which disturbs my sleep, what happens to me? Ask any clown what’s burning inside and what’s more than heartburn. What makes the clown lose sleep is the quest to find a new way to make somebody laugh: a new face, a new choreography, a new tumble, a new song, a new shame, a new trip, a new look. What is it that happens to me? That all the tremors come to shake That all the ardors come to fan me That all the sweat comes to soak me That all my nerves are begging That all my organs are cheering What a fearful affliction makes me beg Clowning, like poetry, is the art of wonder; of the unkempt, disorganized chest; of the incessant search for a fullness that, it seems, was promised to us somewhere. However, the clown never searches for things to fulfill their heart. A flower is enough to fulfill the clown’s heart and make their green nose happy! Clowning is the fullest acceptance of our glorious limitations and its full celebration. Clowning is feeling every organ of the body vibrating and making it all laugh. Clowning is the ability to be kin with other species, to see the earth as a glorious place where billions of other worlds live. Wonders without end! Clowns try to learn to laugh like the animals do. Clowning is the art of listening, of listening where no one knows how to listen. Clowning is knowing how to look where no one else sees. And making people feel heard, seen, and welcomed. The art of clowning is pointing to our broken and breakable hearts, to the most exact compilation of the index of our faults. Clowning is thus our most complete translation. What is it that you give me? That is not ashamed, and never will be That has no government, and never will That has no sense What makes a clown a clown are their mistakes, their faults, their scattered pieces, their stupidities, and their open view of themselves. They know, with the qoheleth, that trying to go anywhere is running after the wind. But they love the wind! They’ve already made so many mistakes, they’ve already tripped over their own feet, too; they’ve done a lot of nonsense; they’ve already hurt a lot of people, they’ve already saddened so many others. But clowns don’t carry the guilt or shame of what they are because they know they are incredibly imperfect, exuberantly limited. They learn along the way. They change! They carry within themselves the feeling we carry within us: a simple, vulnerable, malleable, and vertiginous matter, and it is from this matter that we are all made. Oh, those clowns… they are a joke. What a joke! [1] The conversation is with the song “O Que Será que Será” (“What Will Be Will Be”) by Chico Buarque.

Part Four: Ritual is a Form of Activism Engaging ritual as an individual or as a collective act of embodiment challenges ideas about the source and nature of our intelligence and for some it challenges ideas about how we arrive at knowing. As a form of activism, ritual invites us into the process of restorying that counters colonizing stories which perpetuate cultural and gender hegemony. Rituals also take the diverse traditions of old narratives and gives them meaning for the present context or need. The restorying in ritual also centers diverse intelligences (bodily-kinesthetic, environmental, rhythmic, visual, auditory, social, etc.,) in a nonhierarchical manner. It affords us to remember our own story in relationship to the transcendent, to remember a people’s story in relationship to the unseen yet felt power of spirit. Our ritual restorying is another form of both our personal and collective agency. Ritual focuses on lived and innate capacities that are in operation to benefit us and community. Imagine that – using our intelligence for our personal and collective benefit, not for institutions or capitalizing agendas. We get to use our restorying in ritual to practice “being” while welcoming others into the same practice. This is primarily the role of community participation in ritual; to show our authentic selves. Whether it is the restorying of a grief ritual, the restorying of a ritual for renewal and rebirth, a ritual of covenant or a ritual of invocation; the community’s role is to authentically show up. Here is where ritual begins to counter models of acceptability, belonging, worthiness posited by dominant forces or groups that exclude, marginalize, and perpetuate othering. If the intent is transformation and ethical change, ritual can construct a valid and mutually beneficial pathway for creating community strong enough to hold one another’s truths. 

Like many colleagues, a great joy of teaching is mentoring students into employment. I was well mentored, and I hope I have done well by my students. Recently, I received a call from a former student who has been serving in the local church and now wants to turn their attention to joining a faculty. While enrolled in graduate school, I knew them as a creative, capable, and dynamic student. I was delighted when they wanted to talk about the prospects of joining a faculty. During our conversation, they asked all the right questions and was well-prepared, having studied the school to which they were going to send their application. I knew the school and I thought they would make a good fit with the faculty. But as we talked, I developed reservations. I realized that the school was in the middle of the country and in a rural section of the state. I asked my former student if they had considered what it would be like to live in such a different culture and be surrounded by such different political climate than the one they had known for the last ten years. With some hesitation, they said that they did not think the location of the school mattered if the position was a tenure track job in their field. Ugh!   There is more to a successful career than the right job. What of the quality of life afforded to you by the geographic location of the school? Yes, learning to flourish on a faculty requires attending to the professional aspects of scholarship.  Equally, or in some cases more importantly, flourishing also requires attending to the personal and familial aspects of life. Where you reside, where you call home, where you locate yourself and your family is critically important to your teaching and teaching life. Location matters. BIPOC colleagues have a particular challenge when trying to live in rural areas, in middle America, or in predominantly white spaces where the police and the neighbors assume you do not belong in those neighborhoods simply by profiling your raced and ethnic body. What do you do when the quality of life within commuting distance of the school is inadequate - inadequate for the needs of your family, or even dangerous? Racial ethnic colleagues struggle with: finding hair salons, barbershops, hair products, body care, medical care locating foods of their ethnic preference or religious need romantic options for socializing making friends from similar culture or backgrounds adequately prepared schools for children jobs for spouses religious temples and churches gyms and recreational spaces which feel welcoming holy day and holiday celebrations Yes--we can always drive an hour or more for these services and products. But the critical question is--what is the toll upon us and our families when our job location means that we must live in hostile towns, hostile neighborhoods, or in spaces that are not attuned to our cultural identities and needs? Issues of cultural compatibility, if not thought through, are potentially detrimental to a teaching career. Consider… Colleagues who are single or whose families have not relocated are especially vulnerable to feelings of isolation and loneliness. Trying to find community in spaces for which race and cultural identity are in the minority is especially challenging when living alone or apart from family and established relationships. Colleagues have reported that their children attend schools as “the one and only” of the student body. Children feel isolated, exoticized, bullied and alone. Colleagues have reported insufficient medical knowledge and medical care for ethnic specific ailments. Colleagues have reported being afraid when people in the grocery store or hardware store ask, “where are you from?” or “why are you here?” The clear message is that you do not belong here. The message is that the stranger in the community is deemed as being strange. Colleagues have reported being afraid to vote during elections for fear that they will be targeted for violence since their vote will not align with the popular vote in that town, county, or region. Colleagues have reported receiving support from school administrators when abused by a local police officer. We are glad for the support from the school, but what does it mean for this colleague to continue to live in a place of fear--where the police are known to violate civil liberties of Black and brown bodies?  In some cases, the locations are familiar enough, and navigable enough, to sustain a modicum of wellness as you work a job at the school. But living in years of being uncomfortable and feeling alone can take a toll. It has a price.    What is at stake if you live in environments that you experience as being harsh, unwelcoming, harmful, or isolating? I have heard of three kinds of approaches to engaging this complex problem of location: Plan for the place where you are uncomfortable to be only temporary; plan to remain in the location for only a short amount of time; plan for the next position where you are more comfortable and know that your discomfort is only for a limited amount of time. Develop a new imagination for culture; learn to accept the culture of the new location; find pockets of friends, allies. Learn the nuances of the town, neighborhood and adapt for the long haul. Commute – be in the space as little as possible through a hybrid schedule; commuting, digital workspace and flexibility might be a key to survivability. Negotiate at hire to work from home when home is a space of compatibility and safety. In all cases, home must be a sanctuary adequate to sustain your teaching and teaching life.  By the end of the conversation with my student, I had persuaded them that investigating the town and imagining how they would live there is as important as preparing for the job. I am supporting my student through the interview process. Should they be invited to join the faculty, they will be ready with a strategy of ways to make that place their home.

Just as we are gaining aplomb in maneuvering all of the bells and whistles of Zoom, Facebook Live, and Flipgrid, technology pushes the academy to catch up once again. The world of Artificial Intelligence and robot technology is at the door, not waiting for anyone to open it, but forcefully dismantling the hinges. As many institutions turn their face towards another academic year, faculty, staff, and students must also come vis-à-vis with that which mimics human likeness but which lacks flesh and blood. ChatGPT and its kin models are causing many professors to reboot syllabi, reconstruct lesson plans, and reorient course construction. ChatGPT or Chat Generative Pre-Trained Tranformers is a type of artificial intelligence. This AI is in essence a chatbot that communicates with people in a proto-human fashion. It also has the “intelligence” to generate unique texts. ChatGPT answers questions via prompts humans provide, composes essays, offers advice, and even gives wellness tips. This generative AI automatically produces content as if it is merely chatting. Whereas the most known model is ChatGPT, there are other forms of generative AI tools. Swimming in the AI waters are Microsoft Bing, Google Bard, OpenAssistant, Hugging Chat, Trinka, AutoGPT, and RizzGPT, to name a few. So not to leave Jesus out of the mix, a newly developed Christian ChatGPT, or BibleMate, purportedly fosters spiritual growth and development. Sounds okay, right? It’s another resource for students, yes? Perhaps this tool could carry some of the teaching water? A Bible supplement can’t be bad, can it? Maybe. Maybe not. There could be some benefits to ChatGPT and its family of AI. Students have another research tool. If anyone needs a quick fix, ChatGPT immediately answers when asked. With so much online learning precipitated by Covid-19, such generative chats could lead towards additional academic access. Furthermore, the text-to-speech formats may assist with able-bodiedness and neurodiversity accommodations within the classroom. AI as a teaching tool has the potential to abet grading, creating syllabi, and the developing of ideas to boost classroom participation. However, where there is good, there is naturally downfall. Because ChatGPT continues to generate the more it is engaged, a student could use it to yield a complete research paper. However, these AI tools do not craft citations. Thus, any professor will give much academic shade to such non-sourced work. After all, the point of a research paper is to discern how well one has engaged scholars who agree and disagree with a declared thesis. The “P” in ChatGPT could stand for “plagiarism.” Additionally, ChatGPT does not guarantee accuracy, nor explain the source of its information. Thus some models provide anachronistic information or refer to events or topics through a specific period or year. Occasionally, what these AI tools proffer is incomprehensible. There is more. My point here is to start the conversation…. Standing on the cusp of another year in the hallowed halls of academia, the question of whether to AI or not to AI is a critical one. AI has been around in some form or fashion for decades, and it is not going away. Dare I say students probably know more about its use than professors. Yet all is not lost. To lessen any angst or disgust take a free course. There could be a way to integrate ChatGPT or the like in one’s classes. Professors could use it as a teaching tool to pin improper citation methods and point to inaccurate information, then pivot to sound research methods and personalized class assignments which cannot be “generated.” Again, there is more. Here’s to starting the conversation. Actually, here’s to continuing the dialogue as the ChatGPT train has already left the artificial intelligence station.

Abstract: This is the first part of a collection of poems showcasing the personal exploration of a teaching identity grounded in grief experiences, one of the aspects of identity educators carry into the classroom. The use of poetry permits an open theological exploration in which the author examines aspects of his life through the lens of religious allusions and imagery including the creation narratives, Cain and Abel, and Hannah. Specifically, the author engages the experience of growing up in a family impacted by the death of his brother who died prior to the author’s own birth. The experience of being a “substitute” and a “teacher” is represented  within the poetry. The series begins with childhood encounters with loss and moves through life and teaching experiences marked by grief.   In the Beginning: The First Account of Creation Orientation: As the students and their families file into a multipurpose room somehow simultaneously drab and new, I allow my mind to wonder about the myths these students carry about their families’ creation. Without meaning to, my mind falls backward, remembering how in the beginning, when God created my family, I must’ve been somewhere in the formless void as darkness began to cover the face of my parents, while a wind of grief swept over the face of my community. I recall the darkness hiding them on his birthday, the anniversary of his death, and the holidays.           I wish there weren't so many holidays. Then the great Teacher said, “Let there be Zachary,”           and there I was. And I saw that I was supposed to be good, and so I separated myself from the darkness…           or at least, I tried.           My teachers loved how hard I tried. I called the light ours, and I called the darkness mine. And there was anxiety, and there was laughter:           my childhood. I come to my senses. Anxiety and laughter linger as I pick up the microphone and welcome my new students to the end of their childhoods. “Today is the beginning…”   Accidental Cain Reading my course evaluations, I realize I may be too sensitive. “This reading was impossible.” one student wrote.           “Literally impossible.” I begin my investigation and piece together the evidence for why my textual selections           missed the mark. But then I get lost in another long-winded lecture to an audience of one, thinking about how we are here, together, right now, on this floating rock, in outer space, something that’s always seemed impossible to me.           Literally impossible. Why am I here? It’s impossible that I killed my brother. I was born two years after he died.           Literally impossible. Yet until the age of twelve I asked myself the questions the Lord asked Cain,           “Where is your brother?”           “What have you done?” I listened, and I heard my brother’s blood crying out from the ground.           It was sad music that I could barely hear, but it left a ringing in my ear. So I became a wonder-er and a wanderer, and I made my way to the land of Nod, east of Eden,           But even after I turned twelve, and then seventeen, and then thirty           the ringing never went away. I was too scared to ask to watch the home movies so I could know what he sounded like. I wondered what his embrace would feel like– would he have been the kind of big brother that hugged his baby brother, or would he have withheld his affection to toughen me up? Maybe I wouldn’t have been so sensitive, then. I pictured the car crashing again and again. Did he die upon impact? Did he know he was dying? Was there part of him that ever wanted to die?           Mom wanted to die, so maybe that’s why she loves him so much.           Maybe they had that in common. I don’t think we’d have much in common at all. An unnecessary worry, but such worries are my currency. Why wouldn’t God just accept Cain’s sacrifice? Maybe Cain was too sensitive, too. Maybe I’ll find a video for next semester.   Sonny In moments of solitude, I stare intently at the strange wooden case of what’s left of your life, a child playing secret agent, but feeling like a detective who is also the lead suspect. I examine the trophies and books and what I think is your wallet, with a note your teacher confiscated. You never were a fan of teachers, Dad said. I’m too afraid to open the case. I’m as trapped as your belongings: a carefully curated catastrophe. Now you show up in dreams and nightmares, and people chase you But you shush them, or you turn to mist. And I sit in a strange kind of envy, an outsider among those who miss Sonny.