Career Day, Part 2

Career Day Passes Without Incident

Career Day was, as Chronicle Assistant Editor Brian Mittge said, my chance to lead another generation of youth astray. 

I don’t think I led anyone astray, but the kids in my class did seem to enjoy themselves and might have learned something about journalism. This was my second foray into Centralia College’s sophomore career day, where a couple hundred kids from around the area come in for two one-hour sessions with their choice of professionals. I also presented two years ago, but missed last year while I was on holiday in Europe. 

My first session held eight prospective writers, with only one kid getting up and running away when I started a roll call. I split them into three groups and gave them their press release: a 20-year-old Adna man jumped off of a trestle and into the river, but fell short and injured himself. 

The kids could use info from the press release and from two sources: a “sheriff’s deputy” and one of the victim/suspect’s “friends.” 

The “deputy,” Eric, and “friend,” Cory, both of whom are high school students in real life, were given vague instructions on how to answer a few questions, and basically made up the rest of the information. They wound up adding that their friend was bet $20 to perform the stunt, something that wasn’t really out of the ordinary. 

There were only four kids in my second group (I’m pretty sure they were all next door at Tim Gilmore’s “How to be a Teacher” class) and so I let them work on their own. 

And then they met Yuliya (You-lee-uh) Kiro, a 16-year-old Ukrainian exchange student from Mossyrock. 

She took the “assignment” seriously, and managed to tear my “sources” to pieces, although they kind of walked into it on their own. 

Deputy Eric told the “reporters” that he arrived to the incident at 6 p.m., but Cory said it happened at 4 p.m. 

Yuliya accusingly asked Eric why it took him so long to get there. After telling her he was busy, he added that, “He was actually naked when he jumped,” thinking it would slow the intrepid reporter down. 

“Where is his clothes now?” she shot back, in her thick accent. 

“I wasn’t too worried about where his clothes were,” Eric answered. 

“Okay. So his clothes were lost,” she said to herself, jotting down notes. 

After grilling Eric for a few more minutes she moved on to Cory, where she asked if he was friends with Mr. Dor-shush (Dorsch). 

“Why didn’t you stop it?” she asked. Cory said his friend always did crazy stuff and survived. 

“How is it possible to jump into the river and fall on the ground?” she asked. 

“Uh, he missed the water,” Cory mumbled. 

Ouch. A 16-year-old, who admitted she would rather be speaking and writing in Russian, had just ripped up my two sources, much to my delight. 

Was it funny? Yes. Did everyone learn something? Probably. Did anyone get led astray? No, but there’s always next year.

Wait, I have a career?

Every once in a while I’ll get one of those “Wait, I’m an adult now,” moments where I have to stop, look around, and remind myself that I’m not 16 anymore. 

One particularly disturbing moment came two years ago, when Centralia College’s Education Talent Search program contacted me about Career Day. Initially I figured they just wanted me to cover it, but shortly thereafter I was shocked to realize that they wanted me to present. 

Despite questioning whether or not I was the best person to speak with authority to a group of teenagers about journalism (or anything aside from “the college lifestyle”) I took the gig and had a good time. 

In retrospect I was a little unprepared. This year I’ve been given a second shot at Career Day (I missed last year’s while on vacation in Europe) and decided to put forth a little more effort. 

My “students” will enter class at 10 a.m. today and be put to work (in groups of two) as journalists covering a story I made up about a kid jumping off a bridge in Adna. They’ll be given a “press release” I invented from the Lewis County Sheriff’s Office (any real journalist would know it’s fake, since there’s no picture of a smiling Steve Mansfield at the top) and information on how to reach two “sources”: one of the injured kid’s friends, and the “deputy” who responded to the call. 

The sources are friends of my little brother, who have been given vague instructions on what to tell the inquiring student-reporters. I’m paying one in burritos, and helping the other write a campaign speech in his run for ASB president. They shouldn’t be too tough for the students to track down, since they’ll be sitting at the back of the classroom.

Anyway, my charges will be provided with real Portage® Professional Reporter’s Notebooks and told to think up questions and interview the deputy and the victim/suspect’s friend. Then, in theory, they’ll write up a story (before deadline) and read it in front of the rest of the class, like a TV news reporter. I hate to have them do anything like a broadcast journalist, but it’s a lot simpler than asking the college to install a press in one room so we can print out a real paper (and I can barely run a Xerox machine, let alone a real printing press). 

There’s even a bonus: I’ll print the best story I read tomorrow in Thursday’s paper! Just kidding, but there’s always the off chance one of the groups will throw away the press release, interview no one and write something hilarious instead, which I would put in this blog. 

That’s the plan, anyway. There’s always the off-chance that the students will all skip my class and learn how to be chefs or lifeguards or astronauts or managers of the box factory or whatever. I’ll report back with more on my career day adventure later. 

Great Wolf Column

Note: This ran in Saturday's episode of The Chronicle. I couldn't find it online, so I'm posting it here, with the rest of my ramblings.  

Aaron Meets the Wolf

You can see it from I-5. It looks like a big red and yellow funnel sticking out the side of a hotel and, in fact, that’s exactly what it is. 

Great Wolf Lodge officials call it the Howlin’ Tornado and claim riders drop 30 feet per second on the six-story tube ride. Apparently the name “Shrieking Death Chute” was already taken. 

In all the buildup to my ride down the Tornado there was one thing that never crossed my mind. If the funnel itself is outdoors, and the tube leading into the funnel is solid red plastic, what’s the lighting situation inside?

And that’s the scariest part of the ride: if it’s after dark, there is no light inside. 

I climbed the steps for my first ride a little after 8 p.m. on Wednesday night. At the top, on a platform overlooking the rest of the water park, a lifeguard shouts directions and sets out a yellow rubber four-man tube, set against a backdrop of screams from the tunnel. 

You jump in and take off down a narrow, pitch-black gently sloping chute, with a few quick bounces before you literally fall into the funnel. 

Imagine being blindfolded and told to walk the plank, and you get the idea. The inner tube drops down one side, slides across the lowest curve of the funnel, and glides up the other side until you feel like it’s going to turn over. And, when it doesn’t, you proceed back across at a high rate of speed and do the same thing in reverse. 

Apparently the Howlin’ Tornado isn’t as shocking during the day. With light pushing through the yellow checkers you should have somewhat of an idea which direction you’re facing, where you’re going and what kind of an angle you’re at in relation to the face of the earth. 

In the dark, however, there are no answers. For all you know flying alligators (with night vision!) could be circling over the inner tube, picking off every third thrill-seeker like field mice to a hawk.

I’d like to give an exact time as to how long each trip down the funnel takes, but the clock seems to stop when you drop out of the chute. My best guess would be around 45 seconds. 

The lines were short; I never waited more than a few minutes on the Howlin’ Tornado, and the wait was significantly shorter on the other slides. The lodge was far from full, but even on a packed day I wouldn’t expect the crowding and lines I’ve seen at outdoor water parks on hot days.  

The lifeguards seemed cheerful and, out of a hundred or so kids I saw in the park, not one of them was frowning. There were plenty of adults running around with their children, but a cantina on a balcony overlooking the entire park provided a more relaxing option. 

That was just the water park. The suite I stayed in had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchenette, a fireplace and three TVs and was, in a word, huge; the Great Wolf Web site lists the price at $449 a night. I could see seven people (or about 12 reporters) sleeping like kings in the room. 

I tested out the arcade, which really made me miss Aladdin’s Castle in the Lewis County Mall. I also tested out the buffet, which (luckily) didn’t remind of Roy’s Chuck Wagon until I wrote this sentence. 

I was surprised to see a large group of parents and young kids, in pajamas, gathered in the lobby for bedtime stories and songs led by a smiling mechanical boy whose head and shoulders stick up out of an empty barrel. I mention this mostly because the first time I saw mecha-boy I wondered three things: How did he get into that fenced-off area? Why is he in that barrel? Why is his head shiny and the size of a basketball?

The kids, however, enjoyed the bedtime stories, and it kept them out of the arcade during prime Pop-A-Shot hours. 

I’ve heard a lot of complaints about Great Wolf over the last year and a half, mainly about the “you have to stay there to use the water park” rule. After checking out the park, however, I maintain that the policy is a good idea. Here’s why. 

People are driving in from several hours away and paying a few hundred dollars a night to stay at the resort. Since the hotel has almost 400 rooms, let’s say it’s half-full, with an average of five people in a room. That’s an even 1,000 people. Not all of those people are going to be swimming, so let’s knock off another 300 people. In one day, with a half-full hotel, there might be 700 people in and out of the water. These aren’t official Great Wolf figures, just a few I’ve estimated for the sake of argument.

The water park is big, and it is a lot of fun, but it’s not Wild Waves in Federal Way. It’s literally a fraction of that size, which is why it’s not open to everyone. Imagine, for example, the entire student body of Centralia High School wanting to take a field trip to the water park. That alone could more than double the park population, crowd the rides and ruin the experience for a six-year-old kid who travelled all the way from Canada just to hit a water slide without a half-hour line. 

Great Wolf is a business, and its product is a fun experience for families. Opening the park for day use could very quickly ruin that product. And if you’re craving an indoor water-park experience but don’t want to pay $300 for a room, go play under a bridge.

Besides, if you’re in line all day it’ll be dark outside when you get to the top of the Shrieking Death Chute — er, Howlin’ Tornado. 

WASL - MATH = WA-Sup?

(WASL test) - (math portion) = higher graduation rate

Complaining + (low achievement) = no Math WASL

Continued bailout plans + low accountability = What? I stopped paying attention weeks ago. No one’s ever really going to test me on math. 

They just can’t stick with the plan. 

The math WASL, the numeric roadblock looming on the horizon for Washington high school graduates, is no more. 

I’ve blogged about this before, and reprinted the last blog (from May of 2007) below. Basically, the math WASL is being phased out in favor of end-of-course exams. Once again, school officials and legislators are shouldering the blame for low math scores, and offering another easy way out. 

Here’s my favorite part of the whole debacle. Over 50 percent of the kids who took the test last year passed. That’s half. Half of the high school students in Washington, apparently, can do this. You literally only have to be average in order to pass. 

Is that setting the bar too high? It doesn’t seem like it to me. 

They’re taking this test, which the average student can pass, and tossing it (and the millions of dollars spent developing, improving, and training people to administer it). Why? Not everyone can pass it. 

What’s the point of giving out a test everyone can pass? That’s like running a race and telling everyone they’re a winner. It’s like going bowling and not keeping score. It’s like a three-hour soccer game that ends in a tie.

The whole point of the WASL is to make high school math courses matter. No one ever bothers to look at the students and place a little blame there. Half of them can pass, so why can’t the other half? Obviously SOME of these kids learned enough to pass the test. SOME of the teachers are doing something right. 

And what’s it tell the kids who actually paid attention in class, sucked it up, took on the math WASL and beat it? Perhaps ... this?

STUDENT_RICK: Alright, I beat the Math WASL! The world is my oyster! I have achieved! I will graduate, in an era where high school diplomas suddenly carry weight in the real world! My work ethic, determination and ability to retain conceptual knowledge are unparalleled!

STATE_O_WASH: Wrong. 

STUDENT_RICK: Huh? But I studied! I missed an entire season of basketball learning trigonometry! I quit my job and skipped at least two cool parties! I didn’t get a date for homecoming because I wasted all my time reading math books! 

STATE_O_WASH: Dude, that sucks.  

STUDENT_RICK: I’ve wasted my youth! I’ve — wait, why, exactly, is that wrong? Was there a mistake in my initial scoring?

STATE_O_WASH: Nope, you passed alright. The fact of the matter is, I don’t really care. Too many other kids don’t pass, so I tossed the test, bro. Here’s the new test.

STUDENT_RICK: This isn’t a test. This is a copy of my algebra homework from last week, with the answers erased. 

STATE_O_WASH: Nope, that’s our new end-of-course exam. We spent like $3 mill on that, bro. It’s replacing the WASL.

STUDENT_RICK: This literally has my name on the top. That’s my hand-writing.  

STATE_O_WASH: Hey, if you don’t like it, you can complain, but there’s only like a 90 percent chance we’ll change it to something easier. 

FLUNKIE_08: Whoa whoa whoa this be unpossible. 

STATE_O_WASH: (takes “end of course” test, throws it in blue recycling bin, hands FLUNKIE_08 a blank note card) Here, bro, just write your name on this and we’ll call it even. How many diplomas should I put you down for? Two? Three? Oh, wait, this is Washington, you don’t know what those numbers mean. 

FLUNKIE_08: I’ll take sixtwelve, please.

STUDENT_RICK: (transfers to private school)

All this is teaching anyone is that if you don’t like something, complain until they make it easier enough for everyone to pass. Although, the whole reason for the WASL was that math classes were so easy everyone could pass ... but that’s old news now. 

This is how I understand it. Instead of taking the state-approved, covers-all-bases math WASL exam, kids finish up their sophomore year and take an exit exam on that class. Maybe it’s geometry, maybe it’s Algebra, but they have to pass. 

At least, that’s what they’re saying now. When I started this job everyone was scared to death of the 2008 WASL math deadline. It got pushed back. 

Then they were scared of the 2013 WASL math deadline. Now there’s still going to be a sect of paranoid parents and educators worried about end-of-course exams, where they basically test you to make sure you’ve learned something from the class you were just taking. It’s just another step towards simplifying the test to the point of where everyone can pass. 

Also, it’s letting people like this win.

Here, in small print, is my May, 2007 WASL blog. 

Madness? THIS IS WASL!!!!!!Aaron VanTuyl   

(May, 2007) It's Wednesday morning and I've just learned that the Math and Science portions of the WASL test have been suspended until at least 2013 by Gov. Christine Gregoire. That means this year's junior class will still have to pass the Reading and Writing parts of the WASL to graduate, just not the hard parts.

"Can't do it?" state officials are asking. "Sorry, it's our fault. We'll just work on a solution for five more years. You can go back to using your math books as $70 fly swatters and sleeping through science lab."

Now, of course, the average Washington high school graduate will have strong language arts abilities and continue to struggle with math. They'll be able to read the menu in Olympia's most exquisite ethnic restaurants, breaking down dish names into root words to determine their ingredients and flavors. After dinner, however, they'll struggle to divvy up the check and give themselves headaches figuring a 15 percent tip on their $40 lobster bisque ($6, for those of you out there keeping track). As I've said before, the math section isn't easy. But as I've also said, it's not like the kids aren't prepared. They've basically been training for it for ten years by the time they actually take the test. They've been through an education system tailor-made to get kids passing the Math section.

Compare this with ancient Sparta (I saw Frank Miller's "The 300" fairly recently), where kids start agoge (military training) at age seven. Sure, it's an extreme example, but even that system had to begin somewhere. During the first few years, was IT ever postponed?

Spartan Mom Against Agoge: "Hey, there, King Leonidas, uh, I'm not so sure this is a good idea. I mean, we toss our young weaklings off a cliff to being with, and now about half our kids are living through this whole agoge training thing, and I don't think the dead ones feel too good about themselves. I'm all for a tougher generation, but don't you think this is a little hard-core? Shouldn't we put them through something they can ALL pass?"

King: "If they can ALL pass, what's the point? I guess when the Persians come, we can ALL share Sparta. How's that sound? Do YOU want to go ahead and give up your farm?"

SMAA: "Hey, I'm all for Sparta, I just want EVERYONE to have a shot at passing. Can we, like, have a few more options, or give them a couple extra tries before they die?"

King: "Listen, if your little Wussacles isn't going to pass, you're more than welcome to go throw him into the canyon yourself and have another kid. We've got lil' Spartans out there, eight years old, stealing and eating live chickens so they've got enough food to stay alive. Hercules himself would think twice before picking a fight down at the Spar Pub."

 SMAA: "Fine. Put too much pressure on them. They're just kids, you know. See what happens."

King: "They start off kids, but we make them MEN. A big chunk of 'em die. And we're the toughest army in the world. Deal with it." (kicks SMAA into a large, inexplicably placed stone well)

Now, I'm not saying all the kids in Washington should be able to pass the WASL on the first try. As my interpretation of King Leonidas pointed out, if they can all pass, there's no real point in having a test. And passing rates should be higher, but the teachers and school districts and parents and legislators should all stop hogging the blame. Everyone takes driver's education, but not everyone passes the driver's test. Does anyone have a right to blame their parents, the driver's ed teacher, the guy at the DMV, the car, or the government?

Of course not. I failed my first driver's test and my friends and family laughed at me for a week. I practiced, thought about it, and passed the second time. It's not that uncommon. That's what happens when kids run up against something tough: they're supposed to get worried. They're supposed to stress out. They're supposed to study. And, if they can, they're supposed to pass. If not? There's a laundry list of alternate options and training, including free practice, four more tries and at least two alternate assessments.

What good does a delay do? Nothing. Delaying the test is only going to reinforce the idea that the WASL Math section will never actually, really, truly, honestly be real. The delay looks like another excuse for state lawmakers and educators to sit back and idly wonder why more kids aren't passing the WASL. You want to know why? They don't think anyone's serious. Everyone's been telling them they can't pass and so they aren't really trying. Fail a few of them. Hold back a few diplomas and see what it does for the following year's numbers. It's the basic Spartan methodology.

Maybe they should stop short of throwing kids into canyons, flogging them to death during WASL training and making them steal pencils, pens and calculators with which to take the test. But tossing a few unearned diplomas into a fireplace might not hurt.

Aaron Goes to Oakville

(NOTE: REVISIONS AT THE END)

I covered the Oakville City Council meeting last night to learn more about their outstanding water (named tastiest in the state, actually). I always make a few mental notes during meetings like that with vague plans for a blog, but never follow through. Today, it turns out, is my (or your) lucky day. 

The meeting began promptly at 7:30; by promptly, I mean Mayor (and CHS shop teacher) Mitchell Smith was watching the second hand pass the big 12 and literally banged his gavel at 7:30 to call that meetin’ to order. 

First, the setting: the city council meets in the town library, so you have to pass through a short maze of fiction shelves on the way in. There’s four rows of old movie theater seats set up, church-pew style, for the audience. I counted six people in those seats, aside from myself, and seven sitting at the tables up front: four city council members, the Mayor, a clerk, and the city’s legal counsel. The lawyer had a large bandage covering his right ear, like he’d been attacked by a sparrow or something. 

Also attending were Dan “Aquaman” Thompson, the city’s Public Works Director and one-man city crew, and a sheriff’s deputy that looked A LOT like the guy who played Lloyd Braun (Matt McCoy) on Seinfeld. 

But today I’m talking more about my “other” job as a reporter: second-string photographer. I took a few photos at the city council meeting, but they were deemed “garbage” for two reasons. First, nothing cool happened. No one grabbed a full jug of ice-cold H2Oakville and dunked Mayor Mitchell or Aquaman. No one brought out a squirt gun and fired streams into the “crowd.” I would have settled for a good hosing, but got nothing. 

Second, I was really hoping that I could get a shot of the council members with tall glasses of tap water. Oddly, when I arrived, only one of the four in attendance was drinking water, and it was from an unmarked plastic bottle. Three others were drinking Pepsi, Cherry Coke and bottled tea. 

So, this morning, I headed back to the O-Town to try to meet up with Thompson and get a better photo. City Hall, I learned upon arrival, didn’t open until 9 a.m., so I had a cup of coffee (and glass of water) at Jag’s diner. The restaurant’s name, the cook-cashier-waitress-hostess told me, was a combination of the names of original owners Jack and Agnes.

My glass of water was iced, served in a plastic cup, and tasted ... wet. Apparently I have no business in the field of water judging (or, I’d pondered at that point, photography).

After my sample of the town’s finest fluid I found the ever-jolly Thompson and, after a discussion of trucks, real estate, lawyers, the Jag, and the ever-pressing fuel pinch, we proceeded to the site of a wayward wire or pipe. As Thompson was getting ready to break ground I snapped a picture, which I later recommended for publication with my water story. 

I was, sadly, overruled for a more “serious,” less “self-aware” photo (basically, one where Smilin’ Dan wasn’t looking directly into the camera and laughing). Here's my original pic, and a big thanks to Dan for his hospitality today. 

REVISION: This morning a change was made and the photo you see above was run with the Oakville water story; apparently there was some issue with glare in the other photos were deemed "garbage" (a common theme when I'm behind the lense). I have mixed emotions, because it sort of voids my blog, and at the same time puts the shot I liked in print (and on the front page). 

State Column

This ran in Wednesday's Sports section, but I felt like posting it here, too:

For each of the last four years I’ve been privileged to be a part of the media corps covering the state B (or, now, 2B) basketball tournament. 

Each year there’s a few moments, on and off the court, that define the competition, atmosphere and intrigue of the four-day, 16-team tournament. 

It’s the Northwest Christian (Colbert) student section chanting “DY-NA-STY! DY-NA-STY!” after taking a 1-point lead over Toutle Lake and sealing their third straight championship. 

It’s parents in dark blue state tournament sweatshirts with their kids’ names printed on the back, screaming at referees and cheering on their children. 

It’s two undefeated teams meeting in the semifinals, and neither bringing home the gold ball. 

It’s parents chipping in to rent a Hummer stretch limo for a group of high school girls, when it’s not even prom.

It’s the coach of that team sweating out a promise he’d made to get a basketball tattoo on Saturday if his team was in the finals. 

It’s Northwest Christian (Lacey)’s Airick Owens banking in a 40-foot runner at the halftime buzzer to tie the game at 24. 

It’s Elena Belcher shooting 3-of-4 from behind the arc in the first quarter and, for a moment, putting her older sister’s tournament record (8 in a game) in jeopardy.

It’s a middle school girl with orange and black face paint streaked from the tears streaming down her cheeks, waiting for her older sister after the championship game; it’s the older sister picking the girl up and carrying her into a crowd of fans. 

It’s three local teams among the four semifinalists; it’s the first-, second- and third-place teams from District IV taking home sixth-, second- and third-place trophies, respectively.

It’s Tom Kelly walking away from a loss, thanking his assistant coaches and gushing that he can’t wait to work on the next season. 

It’s Blake Anthony taking jogging onto the Spokane Arena court in a pair of beat up Air Jordan XIIs (one of the finest basketball shoes ever made). 

It’s Courtney May shooting 10-for-19, scoring 24 points and grabbing 10 rebounds to push her team to the finals, despite playing point guard, rolling an ankle and being listed at (a generous) 5-5. 

It’s also Hannah Pomeroy’s second round line: 1-for-3, 2 points, one game-winning jumper. 

It’s an unheralded squad from Mossyrock remembering, “Wait, we’re the defending state champs!” before jumping out to a 22-9 first quarter lead in the third-place game. More importantly, it’s taking that lead against a rival that won the last meeting by 20 and ran the table at the district tournament.  

It’s a crowd of about 100, from a town six hours away, waiting outside the players’ exit. ... to congratulate the losing team. 

Mossy 3rd, Toutle Winning

Toutle Lake is about to wrap up the state title. ... wait, I typed that too soon. NWC just hit a lay up, now it's 42-41 NWC with 4 seconds left.
Earlier today Mossyrock had a huge upset over White Pass, 60-46. The Vikes had lost to WP twice already this season, the last time by 20. Mossy came out on fire and won the first quarter 22-9, behind 14 points from Elena Belcher; she hit 3-of-4 from downtown, picking up a foul on one of them for a 4-point play. There should be a memo sent out to teams each year to NEVER LEAVE A BELCHER OPEN. Elena's older sister Lexi owns the single-game three-point shooting record, which she set her sophomore year.