Jun 12, 2020

Friday, 12 June, Chapter Three, “Two Formative Years Teaching at Pinkston High” >>>>> >A Teacher’s Journey from Southern Methodist University to North Minneapolis: Foundations for Overhaul of the Minneapolis Public Schools< >>>>> A Memoir >>>>> Gary Marvin Davison


I have always had an intuitive sense of the dialectic at work in my life. 


 

At this point, after 68 years and ten months on the planet, with thousands of books read, hundreds of articles and books written, and with a propensity to think all the time, I have a more formal sense of the dialectic producing a sequence of experiences, my awareness of which has given enormous continuity and cohesion to this, my one earthly sojourn.

 

Thus, I now have a better scholarly, intellectual comprehension of the dialectic.

                                                                                                                                                             

But I have always been aware of the dialectic: 

 

the impact that multiple forces have on my life trajectory and the advantages of being aware of those forces and the integration of them into the evolving circumstances of life.

 

Take the Hardy Boys;  Mike in grade 5;  witnessing segregated pools in Dallas;  the seriousness with which I took the message of th Gospels;  the vision of knowledge that came to me through my particular lens at Memorial High School and at Southern Methodist University;  having  Dennis Weltman and Bob Cooper and J. Claude Evans and Brad Carter and Ronald Davis and Barbara Reed enter my life;  moving seamlessly from coordination of SMU Volunteer Services tutoring and mentoring  programs into two formative years teaching at L. G. Pinkston High School---  an amazing flow of experiences of which I was aware at a highly conscious level, living, learning, thinking, integrating, deciding and feeling impelled toward future courses of action.

 

The Hardy Boys detective series of my youth was not the librarian’s favorite.  Considered formulaic and repetitive in style and plot, librarians at Dan D. Rogers would urge us to explore other reading material.  I did.  I loved stories, novels, and historical accounts of Native American life and heroes.  I loved books about horses, both fictional and nonfictional.  Here and there I read truly classical children’s literature:  Winnie the Pooh, Uncle Wiggly, the Grey Mouse saga, Beatrice Potter stories. 

 

But I most enjoyed reading about the adventures of the Hardy Boys in books turned out by the scores by an author I later found out was actually a collective of authors writing under the name, Franklin W. Dixon;  this collective also produced the  Nancy Drew series, but under the authorial name of Caroline Keane.  The Hardy Boys books must number 65 or so now;  by the time I was ten years old I had read most of the series that had then been cranked out, books totaling some 35 or so at that time.

 

Joe and Frank Hardy were respectively the younger and elder son of accomplished professional detective Fenton Hardy.  They idolized their dad and began to emulate him.  Frank and Joe got into all kinds of scrapes seeking to solve mysteries that loomed before them in their very exciting lives.  They were mid-late adolescents able to drive a car;  they could pilot an airplane and speed along rivers, lakes, and oceans on a motorboat.  I loved the combined intellectual excitement and physical challenge of the lives of Joe and Frank:  I helped them solve their mysteries and, always a very physical person and lover of the outdoors, I thrilled at their mobility.

 

Which brings me back to the dialiectic.

 

…………………………………………………………………………

 

I never wanted to be like other people.

 

This was not because I wanted to distinguish myself via peculiarity for the sake of being peculiar.  I just did not care what other people thought and I did find most other people’s lives notably admirable:

 

There was the treatment of physically challenged Mike in grade 5 and the segregated pool along Central Expressway in Dallas, two of my earliest introductions to human moral coarseness and brain-boggling stupidity.  By contrast, there was the radiant example of Jesus, preaching a startling new message, whether well-received in a given place or not, with the hutzpah to walk into the Temple, turn over the tables of the moneychangers, and rid God’s House of those who would make it a den of thieves.

 

With these indications of a life best led with individual integrity rather than according to societal prescription, came the positive vision of a life suffused with knowledge created by my experiences at Memorial High School and Southern Methodist.  And there was Dennis Weltman, with his humor and satirical but mirthful take on life;  Bob Cooper and J. Claude Evans with their visions of the Love of Jesus active in the world;  Brad Carter and Ronald Davis with their intellectual drive to communicate the importance of knowledge;  the dramatic entrance of Barbara Reed into my life;  the  seamless course taken from SMU Volunteer Services to Pinkston High.

 

While those experiences and conclusions drawn of my childhood and adolescence launched me into the world, the accumulation of experiences and the entrance of so many stellar people during the SMU years is astonishing.  I drew from and carried forth with these in all the reading, teaching, and living I did during the two academic years at Pinkston:

 

My personal and professional journey was in rapid motion, powered by the dialectic.

 

……………………………………………………………………………………

 

Barbara graduated from SMU with in degree in mathematics in May 1974.  She soon got a job as a computer programmer for a tax service company named Fast-Tax, then operating in Dallas close to LBJ/I-635 and Marsh Lane in Far North Dallas.

 

Barbara and I had no use for the traditional institution of marriage and to this day relate as life partners transcendently in love with one another, rather than as a married couple as conventionally understood:

 

In August 1974 we wrote our own ceremony, complete with musical selections Greensleeves and Morning is Broken.  Bob Cooper presided in his singularly loving manner.  Al Deright was in attendance and an usher, as was the Ol’ Dene.  Barbara’s family came from Albuquerque, mine from Houston;  sister Jan, by then a junior at SMU, was present.  Many of those who had been on our Living and Learning floors when Barbara and I were Residential Assistants during academic year 1972-1973 were in attendance.  We had arranged for the SMU Food Services staff to provide simple finger sandwich and soft beverage fare at a post-ceremony reception.  On the evening prior to the ceremony, Mom and Dad had asked to host a few of us (Al, Dennis, Bob, and the families) at a catered meal (Dennis still remembers the "flaming bananas") in a reserved room at the Hilton;  otherwise, Barbara and I paid for our celebration, at a cost to us of no more than $200.

 

Mom and Dad would never be happy that Barbara kept her own surname, nor would they be elated fifteen years later when we gave our very remarkable son Ryan the surname Davison-Reed.

 

I would persist in explaining my life decisions to my very conservative parents until their deaths in 2011 (Dad) and 2017 (Mom).  My approach has always been to go my own way but to jettison or repudiate no one who has been a towering presence in my life:

 

Dad and I had tremendously warm experiences together during his last years, but he went to his grave not really understanding my life commitments and convictions.  Mom had started at a similar place as did Dad but grew tremendously as a person.  She settled into her own position six feet under with a genuine appreciation of my life and a much greater openness to life’s wondrous diversity.  I loved Mom and Dad equally and judged my great efforts at communication no less or better spent for my ability to convince: 

 

In life, the victory is not in the result but in the quality of the effort, for the result will come in time. 

 

Thus, I loved Mom and Dad equally and treasured my time with both of them in their later years.  But in Mom I could see the fruition of my efforts, and I took satisfaction in her personal growth.  She went to her grave a much happier person for her willingness to grow.

 

…………………………………………………………………………………..

 

By May 1975, I had decided to pursue graduate studies in Chinese and East Asian history.  Barbara loved mathematics and had the vision of becoming a university professor but opted not to train to teach math;  instead, she decided to follow an evolving interest in non-Western religions and to focus also on East Asia.  She and I had traveled very different routes in our decisions to study East Asia:  I, as an overcompensation for not having the level of knowledge regarding the budding power of China that I considered important;  Barbara, as an extension of her exploration of non-Western traditions as an undergraduate:

 

Serendipity.

 

But my sense of youthful adventure dating from those Hardy Boy’s days had induced in me a desire to travel the United States for a year before going on to graduate school.

 

Barbara readily agreed.

 

The dialectic was in high gear.

No comments:

Post a Comment