Another fun filled day of New Teacher Training. Today's exercise in Jargon Justification was held at Dunbar High School, one of the old "colored" high schools. Actually, the OLD building, the pretty Deco one, is behind the current school. Dunbar now occupies one of those grotesque brown-brick, translucent-windowed '70s monstrosities that was built for air-conditioning but...surprise! isn't air-conditioned.
I've never quite figured out why the school was named for Paul Laurence Dunbar. The poet was famous in his day, but he was born and raised in Ohio, and if he ever even set foot in Baltimore it was probably only for a speaking engagement or, more likely, changing trains. He WAS black, however, and apparently it was crucial that a high school intended for black students be named for a black person.
Though almost nobody reads Dunbar's work anymore--it IS pretty schmaltzy--his name lives on across the country. He was a shining example of the "be a credit to your race" philosophy, and segregation-era institutions from New Orleans to Boston bear his name. Even if I'm not so fond of Dunbar's oeuvre, it's impressive that he's one of the VERY few literary figures to have garnered such public recognition in America's institutions. Well--there is Walt Whitman, whose home state of New Jersey has fanatically named everything from schools to rest areas for their writin' son.
Weird anecdote du jour from the wonderful world of Baltimore transit:
On the way home this afternoon I boarded the rather genteel #61 northbound car. I was followed by a flock of Koreans, all of whom looked completely terrorized. Apparently, only one woman was fluent in English, and she had been appointed ambassador to the world at large. Having boarded the bus, none of the group seemed quite sure how to get it to stop when they wanted to get off. One of the crowd must have noticed somebody pushing the little yellow ringer thingy, though, because around the Sunpapers building the whole bunch started gingerly fingering the yellow thingies. At Mount Royal avenue, the designated English speaker yelled "Train Station!", pushed the thingy and was able to escape the car, asking the operator to tell the others when to get off. The rest of the group, bereft of their connection to the outside world, were still casting looks of wide-eyed horror out the windows when I stepped off at 22nd street.
I've never quite figured out why the school was named for Paul Laurence Dunbar. The poet was famous in his day, but he was born and raised in Ohio, and if he ever even set foot in Baltimore it was probably only for a speaking engagement or, more likely, changing trains. He WAS black, however, and apparently it was crucial that a high school intended for black students be named for a black person.
Though almost nobody reads Dunbar's work anymore--it IS pretty schmaltzy--his name lives on across the country. He was a shining example of the "be a credit to your race" philosophy, and segregation-era institutions from New Orleans to Boston bear his name. Even if I'm not so fond of Dunbar's oeuvre, it's impressive that he's one of the VERY few literary figures to have garnered such public recognition in America's institutions. Well--there is Walt Whitman, whose home state of New Jersey has fanatically named everything from schools to rest areas for their writin' son.
Weird anecdote du jour from the wonderful world of Baltimore transit:
On the way home this afternoon I boarded the rather genteel #61 northbound car. I was followed by a flock of Koreans, all of whom looked completely terrorized. Apparently, only one woman was fluent in English, and she had been appointed ambassador to the world at large. Having boarded the bus, none of the group seemed quite sure how to get it to stop when they wanted to get off. One of the crowd must have noticed somebody pushing the little yellow ringer thingy, though, because around the Sunpapers building the whole bunch started gingerly fingering the yellow thingies. At Mount Royal avenue, the designated English speaker yelled "Train Station!", pushed the thingy and was able to escape the car, asking the operator to tell the others when to get off. The rest of the group, bereft of their connection to the outside world, were still casting looks of wide-eyed horror out the windows when I stepped off at 22nd street.
posted by Daniel | 11:53 PM
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