The Kids Who Create (and Blow Up) Worlds (and Cover Them With Lava)

“Okay..Mr. Leif, the first thing you have to do is make a shelter. If you don’t make a shelter, the mobs will kill you (creepers, most likely, but ghasts, zombies, spiders, slime, and silverfish are also out there). Just use your pick to dig through the trees, and grab the logs when they appear. Use those logs to make sticks. Use those sticks to make a crafting table.“

“And remember, Mr. Leif, you have to kill a cow. If you don’t kill a cow, you’re not going to have food, which means you’ll starve. Also, you’re going to need the the leather that you can make from the dead cow.”

These are the exact words spoken by one of my students during seventh grade lunch recess, which takes place during seventh period (that would be 12:36 to 1:20, for those who don’t have our school schedule memorized). 

This student was trying to help me stay alive. I was, after all, playing the “Survival Mode” of Minecraft, not the “Creative Mode,” which, for some reason, all of my students tell me to avoid at all costs. 

So it’s survival mode. Yes. I must survive.

And I’m realizing that it’s going to take a long, long time for me to have the slightest idea how to survive. 

Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself. For those you who know about Minecraft, just…just skip a whole bunch of paragraphs. You don’t need to read it. Go play whatever video game your parents let you play.

Okay, now…for those of you who’ve never heard of Minecraft (meaning, I’m going to guess, an awful lot of parents who are utterly bewildered by their child’s fascination with Minecraft):

“Minecraft” is a low res game (the graphics are blocky, as if this is a game from the late 1980s), and it’s a first person game in which you build things as opposed to shoot at them. You start out with a simple tool, and with this tool—with which you dig resources, starting with wood—you gradually build more tools. Having then built tools, you build a dwelling, and as you keep doing this, you start acquiring tools that allow you to collect ever more specialized resources, which in turn allow you to build more specialized things. 

Or, to put it another way:

Minecraft is a game where you go from prehistoric to civilized human, and, once you’re there, gives you vast power over the world you’ve built.

I still haven’t really played “Minecraft,” but I’ve watched my seventh graders play it, and I’ve watched them explore it, and I’ve watched them establish domination over their world, and furnish it with incredible structures (there are single-player versions, where you’re the only settler, and, therefore, God). 

I find this incredibly cool, but I must point out something: 

Every boy who plays this game likes to blow things up, and/or cover everything with lava.  

Every last one of them. 

Yes, you can create gunpowder in this world, and it seems that once boys have built their virtual palace and gathered all of their earthly needs, their legacy, when people in this Minecraft World write about them, will be “He was a cruel God who blew up endless things, and covered whole cities with lava.” 

Yes, I have seen an entire mountain covered in lava. 

I believe the student who did this said something like “Mr. Leif, come over and look at the mountain that I covered in lava.” 

This is what middle school boys would do to the world if they had dominion over it. 

Which is why I think girls should play Minecraft. 

To be sure, I know that many girls enjoy blowing things up, and probably enjoy the prospect of covering the earth with lava. 


It's just that I think girls would do other things besides blow things up and cover them with lava. I'm sure they would create certain zones in this world where you could blow things up (and cover them in lava), but then have other parts of this world in which people exchanged ideas on such topics as “what else is there to do besides blow things up and cover the world with lava?”

Soon girls would, I don't know, be organizing virtual dances in these worlds, and everyone would immediately feel comfortable dancing, no one would be awkward. Every style of dancing would be in fashion at these dances, so even jumping up and down would be an acceptable dance move. 

In this virtual world, many male and female Minecraft players would meet while jumping up and down at one of these virtual dances. Then they would each think that the other looked cool just jumping up and down, and would subsequently start to hang out together in the real world as well. Aw...

Then they each build worlds in which, from a distance, you would see that the entire world was a carefully designed mosaic portrait of that person they met at that virtual dance, a portrait that you could only see when you traveled through virtual outer space. 

And of course, by this point, having created space travel in this virtual world instead of blowing things up, girls would create whole galaxies of worlds whose inhabitants live in harmony and dress well. 

And the boys in these worlds do other things besides blow things up and cover them in lava. 

So now, perhaps in this other place, girls would finally get a chance to show a guy the right way to build a world. 

The Kid With the Neon Green Racing Flats (Not Running Shoes, Racing Flats)

"They are RACING FLATS,  Mr. Leif, not running shoes."

So said the email from the owner of the racing flats (not running shoes) shown in the photo above. Said student would also like me to add that she plays the cello, is a high honors student (not simply an honors student, she would like me to clarify, but a high honors student), took Math Research (which entails so much more work than the general research class that I teach that they really should call it Honors Research, or, more appropriately, College Level Research), and, presumably, solved the country's debt crisis before lunchtime.

I have written a paragraph about this student, and already, I am tired.

I suspect that this student does not sleep. Or, quite possibly, said student is like rechargeable batteries, where she talks (a lot) and moves around (a lot) and does (a lot) of things (well), and then, quite suddenly, says "Tired, must sleep," and simply lapses into a coma-like sleep for a couple of hours, after which her eyes snap awake, and she says something like "Awake. Day begins," and once more starts doing (a lot) of things (well).

I was not like this in middle school.

Okay, to be sure, I did stuff. I acted in shows. I played drums in the band and orchestra, and was, in fact, the section leader. I was in honors classes.

I was not, however, a high honors student.

I was one of those kids who drove teachers mad. I scored high on aptitude tests, but somehow couldn't quite make the jump from the standardized tests that measured my intelligence to academic tests that measured my grade point average. When it came to academics, I was often...average.

Anyway, about this student:

She is a middle school student, and she runs a mile in six minutes.

...and here we get to the heart of the matter.

Okay, when I was 19 and in the best shape of my life, I ran a mile on a whim. Granted, I ran it in jeans and a tee shirt, and I ran it at night, so I couldn't check the stopwatch setting on my wristwatch to push myself a bit more. Still, I cranked out a respectable 5:51.

In other words, as an adult, I was only able to beat this student's time by nine seconds.

Such things are humbling. And if you work in a middle school, that is only the start of it. For if you really get to know your students, you will find out that there are countless people who are already, in their early teens, doing things better than you ever did (or will do) them in your life.

In other words, I have had numerous students who I know could run circles around me athletically, musically, and academically.

You get used to it, and you learn humility; if you don't have this humility, I can't see how you'll make it as a teacher (or, in my case, a school librarian). You learn to accept that many, many people will do many, many things better than you. And having accepted that, you are free to do something genuinely life affirming: you can cheer these students on. And having done that, you are then free to notice something equally wonderful: this is a great way to make a living.

Too often, there are news stories about kids doing awful things (particularly now, the day after Halloween). You would often think, from reading these stories, that the next generation is basically a brainless, shambling zombie attack, bent on nothing but destruction.

The more that I embrace my central tenet of this blog--to write nothing but positive things about students--the better I feel about the future.

Today, when I was discussing my writing of this blog entry, a number of other students said that I should write about them.

"Fine," I said, "just come in tomorrow ready to talk about something you're proud of."

I know that the more I do this, the more students will approach me (I hope) about aspects of them--their accomplishments, their abilities--that they want the world to know about. I know, if this becomes a steady source of writing, that I will often write about students who already have a level of mastery of various skills that will leave my abilities far, far behind. This, I now know, is a great, great thing.

This student is already a better academic, a batter athlete, and a better musician that I will ever be. Good. There are many other students like this student.

I want to talk to them, and I want to write about them. So many of them embody what journalist Pete Hamill called "The Talent in the Room."

And Pete Hamill writes far better than I ever will. Trust me. Click here if you don't believe me, and you can read some of his stuff and see for yourself; this guy rocks.

The Kid Who Gave Me a Shoutout

One of the things that takes some getting used to is the fact that people actually take the time to read the things that I post. 

Astonishingly, it would appear that my readership has grown to the double digits. 

My ode to a student who dares to wear steampunk welder's goggles (which you can read here) made me nervous for a day or two. I feared I would get email from concerned relatives of the student, saying that I had somehow traumatized said student by mentioning him in my blog.

Surprisingly, the opposite was the case. I got some genuinely kind emails from folks (not just this student's family) saying that it was wonderful that I wrote about this student. People need encouragement and approval, they said, and to let this student know that there's an adult who prizes their individuality is an awfully good thing. 

To which I say: this works both ways. 

I would love to tell you that I'm able to work without the slightest concern as to whether students respect me, or, for that matter, like me. I would love to tell you that I am able to make all of my decisions without the slightest thought as to my own ego. I would love to tell you that I completely, thoroughly, totally understand that school is all about the students, and that as a teacher (okay, librarian), 100 percent of my concerns involve nurturing my students intellectual and emotional growth, and I'm able to completely shut out any desire for their approval. 

Alas, I am human. 

I know. I get it. I cannot let concern over student approval get in the way of the need for a disciplined and well-run classroom. I cannot let this concern get in the way of stepping in when I see student disrespect of any kind, be it for the school, for teachers (and librarians), or other students.

(I need to stop, by the way, and underline something: ESPECIALLY OTHER STUDENTS. Few things bring me closer to the boiling point than witnessing students disrespecting other students, either through physical torment, or even more insidiously, through verbal taunting. Anyone who said "names can never hurt me" never attended middle school. Hating is real, and it destroys the soul, particularly in this modern age of social networking; I find it disgusting.)

(Oops...another digression before I go on. I don't have too many iron-clad rules for my blog, but one of them is this: I WILL ONLY WRITE POSITIVE THINGS ABOUT MY STUDENTS. There are a number of teacher blogs out there that complain about students; this will not be one of them.)

So...anyway. About receiving student approval:

Heck, it's a nice thing. 

Yes, the graphic at the top of this blog entry is from a student's Tumblr blog, and the student in question sent me a link to that entry. I would be lying to you if I told you it didn't make my day. 

When you work in a school, you live in something of a vacuum. You don't really know what students think of you behind your back. There is, after all, that vast world that exists beyond the boundaries of school, which is that world of The Rest of Their Lives, when they talk about what they really think of you, and, occasionally, empty those thoughts into their text messages, their social network posts, and, yes, their blog entries.

It is a life affirming thing to have a student let the world know that you are doing the right thing. 

To that student, I offer my sincere thanks. 

(And, by the way, to said student, I offer my sincerest apologies for not including a link to your Tumblr blog. It is worth explaining why, and in doing so, might help shed a light on the minefield that is writing about students at the school in which you work.)

(The world of the middle school student--in fact, the world of anyone between the ages of about 11 and about, oh, 30 or so--is replete with expressed thoughts and feelings that may not always contain words and ideas appropriate within the walls of a middle school. I do not use these words or expressions in school, and, in fact, to set an example and be a role model, I don't use them in this blog.) 

(I want students to express themselves. At the same time, I have a reputation to uphold. Alas,  posting links to student blogs invites an avalanche of implications and insinuations that will tie my writing to my student's lives. Sadly, even in the virtual world, I must draw a line.) 

(So, though I don't provide a link to this student's blog, I nonetheless, once again, offer that student a sincere thanks for the shout out.) 

(And by the way...the zombie thing has to do with a research project I have students do in which they study how to survive in the event of a zombie attack. As any reader knows, this is a valuable and useful skill to teach the future of this country.)

500 (Or, a Writing Ritual)

I need to get to sleep, because I'll be getting up at 5:30 tomorrow. I will then shower, shave, and get dressed, but I won't put on my button-up shirt over my undershirt just yet.

I need to write first, and It's not as comfortable to write while wearing a collared shirt and tie. I need to be relaxed. I listen to Brian Eno's "Ambient" music while I do this. I've referenced Brian Eno's "Ambient" music in another journal entry; I love that music.

I now know this: I'm a morning writer, and I have a quota: 500 words.

It doesn't take long. I'm working on the first draft of a novel, and I just put the words down. I've charted out the plot. I know where I'm going. I write 500 words, and it advances the plot by another inch or so.

I didn't do this until recently. For more than 20 years, I kept journals, dumping random thoughts onto many, many computer screens over the years.

And until recently, that personal obsessive writing (I called it "comfort food writing") was pretty much all the writing that I did. Then I went to Los Angeles. I have no idea what it was about Los Angeles that snapped me into this groove, but now I can't get through a day without writing 500 words of fiction.

I do it this way: I pick one project (I have a whole bunch of other projects lined up), and I call it my JWTDT project. This stands for "Just Write the Damn Thing." I have no idea whether it's any good. I don't care, really. I just want to finish it, polish it, and then be able to say "hey...I wrote a book."

Then I will start another, and this next project will, too, be a JWTDT project. After I'm done each morning with my 500 words, I'll spend some time revising the previous JWTDT project.

I will write these books one after the other.

I'm in good company with this sort of thing. Anthony Trollope wrote every morning for three hours, making sure to write 250 words every fifteen minutes.  If he finished a book while he was in the middle of writing session, he would write "The End," and then start another book. That's the way I am, and that's the way that I'll write.

I've already gotten into this mode that doesn't dwell too heavily on how good this is going to be. I know that whatever I write, the next thing that I write will be better than the previous thing that I wrote.

And once I write those 500 words of JWTDT writing, I'm free. Free to write emails to friends. Free to write a stream of consciousness rant. Free to scribble an outline for a vague plot so that it starts to take shape.

It used to be 500 words of journal writing, and then 250 words of fiction in the morning. Now it's in reverse. I write those fiction words, and then type out my journal entry. I often pick up my uke in the middle of these sessions and strum a few chords. Right now, I'm teaching myself to play a classical ukulele version of "Waiting Room" by Fugazi. I am enjoying it, and making progress on shifting from F Minor to C# Major. Soon I will learn the chorus; it's tricky.

I don't have much more to say about this. I write every morning. On weekends, I'm going to shoot for 1,000 words. that's 4,500 words a week or, if I just write 500 words on the weekends, it's still 3,500 words.

Anyway. Tired. Bedtime. Good night.

The Kid With the Steampunk Welder's Goggles

To all my loyal readers, all half-dozen of them: you're rolling your eyes, I know. Steampunk has become a cliche. You've been all over this stuff for years, what with your manual typewriter computer keyboards, your penny-farthing motorcycles, your round-trip tickets to Europe via airship, and your autographed copies of The Difference Engine. 

As for me, I had no idea welder's goggles were such an integral part of the whole steampunk getup until one of my students came into the library wearing them. 

I asked to try them, and immediately, I wanted a pair. 

I now have a pair. They make me happy. 

When I ordered the goggles on Amazon, by the way, every comment said "Great Steampunk Goggles!" 

I felt behind the curve.

My affinity for welder's goggles, by the way, had nothing to do with the steampunk thing. I like them because I liked Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog. Also, the goggles make me look like one of the scientists from La Jetee, or as if I belong on the cover of Thomas Dolby's The Golden Age of Wireless. 

Now, about the kid:

There's something life affirming about a middle school student who wears a Victorian vest, a pair of welder's goggles, and proudly carries around "The Steampunk Bible." It would be one thing if this were a middle school trend, but no; this kid is alone. 

Most of us would never have been able to pull something off like this back in the crushingly conformist environment of middle school. This kid, however, does it effortlessly. 

One of the best parts of my job is seeing a student who has the courage to be different, to completely be their own person. I meet a number of these students, as they often seek refuge in the library either after school or during lunch recess. They are not out of sync with the world; the world is out of sync with them. 

It gets better. 

As this kid showed me his welder's goggles, he talked about how he took a pair of 3-D glasses, and, with a Dremmel, fashioned a pair of 3-D lenses that fit inside his welder's goggles. 

So he wears welder's goggles to 3-D movies. 

This kid deserves a medal. 

I know that among the geekeratti, steampunk is mainstream, past its selling date. But it's still barely on the radar here at middle school. And this kid is there, with his welder's goggles, thinking of plans, no doubt, to create a clockwork interface for an Ipad, and to use, in the place of a cel phone, a flock of passenger pigeons. 

Priceless.

A Real Sentence Concerning the Vicious Cycle of Livestock Bullying Other Livestock

(With the warmest admiration for William J. Rapaport, professor of many, many disciplines, SUNY Buffalo. Obviously.)

(And by the way, Professor Rapaport's website is here, and the Wikipedia article about Professor Rapaport's sentence is here.)

Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo.

Let me explain.

The above sentence describes a sad but true fact about bullying: victims of bullying often become perpetrators themselves...often upon the very beings that their assailants push around.

This phenomenon is particularly apparent when the livestock in question are buffalo. Not bulls, not cows; only buffalo.

And specifically, it is particularly noticeable when the livestock come from Buffalo, New York.

To simplify things, let's call those livestock "Buffalo buffalo."

Furthermore, it is necessary to describe the kind of bullying that takes place. Simply stated, these buffalo like to push around their own kind. They like to shove them hard.

They like to buffalo them.

Even more insidiously, they like to push them around--or "buffalo" them--in a style not found in any city but Buffalo, New York. In fact, so unique is this style of pushing around, this style of buffaloing, that when the perpetrator does it to another perpetrator, they are said to "Buffalo buffalo" them,

Put simply, buffalo from Buffalo, New York, tend to push around--or "Buffalo buffalo"--other buffalo from Buffalo, New York.

So Buffalo buffalo "Buffalo buffalo" Buffalo buffalo.

But it gets worse. The livestock that these bullies push around tend to pick on other livestock in the same fashion.

In other words, Buffalo buffalo that Buffalo buffalo "Buffalo buffalo" themselves "Buffalo buffalo" Buffalo buffalo.

Or, to put it more simply Buffalo buffalo Buffalo Buffalo "Buffalo buffalo" "Buffalo buffalo" Buffalo buffalo.

Or we could just lose the quotation marks, in much the same way that a track and field coach, upon commenting on one of his or her high jumpers choosing to vault backwards (as opposed to the traditional Western Roll) might just write, in correspondence, that his athlete tends to "Fosbury Flop it," choosing not to put quotation marks around "Fosbury Flop."

Then we could just write this sentence plainly, as a sad commentary on the cycle of bullying among upstate livestock:

Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo.

Tragic.

(And by the way: The Fosbury Flop is named for Dick Fosbury, who used his unconventional technique to win a high jump gold medal in the 1968 summer olympics in Mexico City. You can read more about it here).