I am prone to ruts. I love the structure that routines provide, but often the comfort of the predictable becomes imperceptibly stifling. Soon I can’t imagine changing up the sequence of my day. Thank goodness for my children; they identify the furrows so effortlessly. And so it was on a drive home from my son’s preschool the other day. My children asked if we could take a different route home.

To get from the area around the Commons to South Main Street, we took a ridiculously circuitous route past the ski jump, down through Swedeville and then up through Esteyville. It was on Organ Street—that winds behind the old Estey Organ factory—that my son asked about the slate-covered buildings spread out below.

I explained that Brattleboro used to be famous for making reed and pipe organs; these gorgeous instruments were shipped all over the world, each one stamped with a tag announcing, “Brattleboro, VT” as its birthplace. This tickled him enormously. He then asked, “Well, what are we famous for now?” I explained that we have an extensive, thriving arts community. There are artists, poets and art historians in our extended family—so he’s been around art and artsy things his whole life—and yet he still asked, “But what do we make here now? What do we make that you can use?”

Now, he’s only 5 years old. He can be forgiven for not seeing the ways in which we consume art to help give our lives shape and beauty. But I still found myself turning over his question for hours. What do we make?  I love the satisfaction that comes from making something that others use.

Several years ago when I told a neighbor how neat it was that the old Daly Shoe building on Birge Street had been rehabbed into housing, I heard a surprising response.  An old Vermonter and lifelong Brattleboro resident, he responded, “When I look at that building, I get angry.  I just see one more example of how industry is being shut out of this area. We need jobs. What good is more housing without more jobs?”

I recently recalled this conversation after a reader, formerly from Westminster but now residing in Virginia, wrote to me following my column of December 24^th (Our Urgent Need for Economic Development). His heartache was palpable; he’d moved to find work and provide for his family. Now, years later, he still reads the Brattleboro Reformer online and ponders what could have been.  We should strive to make a place for those with generations-long roots in the area. I don’t want to be part of the New Vermont if we shut these important voices out of the conversation.

We are a generous people who monetarily support struggling families through numerous state programs. But there is strong resistance (or perhaps it’s inertia) when it comes to actively creating jobs. We must honestly face our suspicion of job creation. As an educator, I see one demoralizing result of the lack of economic opportunity when I peruse the weekly police blotter: former students involved in burglaries, drug deals, and general malfeasance.  I’m reminded of something James Baldwin wrote: “The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose.”

Our pride in our area’s quirkiness and creativity seems, at times, to edge precariously close to arrogance or, maybe willful ignorance. At the recent CEDS (Comprehensive Economic Development Strategy) kickoff meeting for the Southeast Vermont Economic Development Strategies Group, a participant claimed that in Windham County, “We are actually ahead by being behind.”  I’ve tried, but I don’t understand this reasoning.

Recent college graduates can’t find work that will pay off their staggering student loans. Working parents can barely afford childcare. This same speaker asserted that we should all “learn to live with less.” That’s cold comfort for the over 50% of school age children in our area schools who are on free or reduced lunch. Serve on a local preschool board and you’ll see financially stressed families.  They already are living with less, and the future looks awfully bleak.

Those of us who have economic security must not become inured to the need of others. And we must not imagine that our situation is the norm or that we can make monetary decisions for others. We want our area to be a place of creativity and artistic freedom, but as FDR argued, “True individual freedom cannot exist without economic security and independence.”  People who are underemployed do not feel the ease and liberty that permits inventiveness and imagination. Theirs is an exhausting struggle to simply meet basic needs.

My sister—an art historian and curator—has spent her entire career surrounding herself with beautiful objects.  She often says, “I love that I get to hang out with gorgeous stuff all the time.” Although she researches arcane and obscure bits of information, she’s absolutely pragmatic when it comes to understanding what it takes to support the arts. The arts need patrons.  Healthy businesses support the arts. We also need working families with some disposable income to frequent art events. It is this critical relationship that enables art to be widespread and not just available to a few lucky souls.

Economic development is an awfully complex issue; it involves demographic issues, workforce development, and education policy. But our attitude may be the biggest impediment to change. We cannot remain in the furrows; we must seek innovation for our town and region.

There will be important regional meetings in Bellows Falls, Wilmington, Londonderry and Brattleboro in March and May about Windham County’s Comprehensive Economic Development Strategy. Please attend.

This is not simply about money; it’s about the self-worth that comes from the making of things.

True confession: I’m a Bette Midler fan. Wait! Stay with me for a moment I’m not referring to Midler’s sappy “Wind Beneath My Wings” phase.  (I couldn’t get through her “Beaches” period without a shot of tequila, and even then it was difficult.) I mean the unpolished Midler of the New York City bathhouse days: Sophie Tucker jokes and outrageous costumes like giant hotdogs and mermaids performing choreographed routines in motorized wheelchairs. Irreverent. Unpredictable. Creative. Edgy. Simply put: Great fun! You can’t tell from looking at me that I will always carry a torch for that bawdy 1970s torch singer.

When I told my 8^th grade English teacher that I intended to do my year-end biography project on “The Divine Miss M”, Mrs. Edwards’ eyebrows shot to the ceiling. She muttered, “Well, we’ll just check with your mother about that.” To my mom’s credit, she’s always appreciated my eccentricities. After a brief interview, she ascertained that I was absolutely serious, so we went to the bookstore! She found a biography of Midler that didn’t seem to have too many questionable sections—but, honestly, how do you clean up the story of the gay men’s bathhouses in disco New York?—and she seemed just as excited about the project as I was. Who doesn’t love a singer dressed as a giant frankfurter? My mom, the Kung Fu-Fighting Grandma has her own idiosyncrasies. She’s equally comfortable wielding a fighting fan or singing with her choir at Carnegie Hall.

In my 20s, I hit a rough patch and was feeling somewhat lost. My brother invited me to go mining for Herkimer diamonds—double-terminated quartz—in Central, NY. We packed up his tools, including an immoderately-sized sledgehammer, and off we went. On a tiny plot of land that served as his refuge, he showed me the brute force—and tender finesse—required to coax one from the rock.

The beautiful metaphor of it all only now hits me; my brother has spent his entire life tending to diamonds-in-the-rough. That day was a revelation. The light refracted ever so slightly and revealed a facet of my brother that had gone undetected for far too long. I hold the memory of that day in reserve for those times when I need a touchstone for the essence of my brother. The sunlight, the clink of the tools on the rock, the syrupy scent of wildflowers and goldenrod at the edge of the property—all instantly recall a time when I unearthed a deeper truth about this kind and complex man.

Sometimes the secret life of humans reveals itself in daily rituals; you simply need to watch for it. There’s a group of women at my gym. I call them “The Amazons.” They gather together at dawn to put their bodies through a ghastly drill of weights, contortions and grunting—all infused with uproarious laughter. Thinking myself fit, I joined them for several weeks last year. But I simply could not keep up. Their “woodchopper” move—in which you swing a perversely heavy weight between your legs—just about did me in. Squatting, I found out, is an absolutely necessary move in one’s life. So now I watch them, and gain inspiration, as I clock the miles on the treadmill behind them.

These gutsy gals gather folks to them; their energy is potent. Although I don’t know their day jobs, I imagine them as “Insurance Adjusters by Day, Amazons at Dawn.” How many co-workers know of their secret fitness cabal?  How many colleagues know they dance with iron before the sun has properly shown herself?

I recently learned that a dear neighbor of ours who died this winter was a secret poet. I heard one of his poems at his memorial service; it tickled me that this diehard Yankees fan tucked a touch of the romantic beneath that worn baseball cap. Another neighbor lives for his hunting camp in the Kingdom but harbors a deep and abiding passion for the Beatles. It is the unexpected that brings to light those profound alcoves in which our whole selves dwell. This is the marrow of life.

When I taught undergraduate history, I assigned a book by Philip Deloria (son of famed Indian activist Vine Deloria, Jr. and history professor at the University of Michigan) called Indians in Unexpected Places. Deloria’s book invites us to expand our sense of what makes an Indian an Indian. He deconstructs archival photos of such seemingly incongruous images as Geronimo sitting in a Cadillac or a traditionally dressed native woman perched under a hairdryer at the beauty salon. Deloria challenges our notions about Indians and their relationship to modernity. He asserts that, like all Americans, native people have their own “secret histories”. Far from being anomalies, Indians who engage with modernity and fashion it to their own purposes are simply claiming their right to be complex, fascinating Americans who flirt with the unexpected.

When we are honest with ourselves, we all want permission to explore, to yearn, to seek, and to find beauty in the unexpected. And when we share these hidden aspects of ourselves, we offer up an authenticity that is both captivating and comprehensive.

Don’t hate me because of my Midler fetish; see it for what it is: An affirmation that our incongruities are actually the very core of our humanity.

When I was still fairly green, I took a position teaching history at an elite New England prep school. To say I was intimidated would not give my colossal anxiety its due, but the department head reassured me that he had confidence in my teaching chops.  When I worried that I didn’t have the breadth of historical knowledge required, he reminded me of my abiding curiosity: “I know you’ll study and learn what you need to in order to master it.” He viewed teaching as a craft; he promised to help me hone my skills. A  master teacher, he demonstrated both his confidence in me and his commitment to perfecting my teaching.

To improve our skills, he insisted that each teacher in our department use several prep periods each month to visit colleagues’ classrooms. We observed, took notes, and then met to share our impressions. These were rollicking conversations full of candor, support, humor and substantive discussions about curriculum and classroom management.  I rarely resented taking my prep time to observe my fellow teachers while they, too, honed their craft. Instead of feeling walled off in our own rooms, we were part of a cohort of committed professionals who learned from each other and could honestly share victories and defeats. I received regular, concrete suggestions for improving my teaching; it was very satisfying.

I left private schools after that wonderful job. I’d been educated in public schools and felt a strong pull to give back to the system that had shaped me.  As anyone who has taught in both systems will tell you, public schools are a different kettle of fish entirely. Yes, the children need the same things, and all students—regardless of income or background—bring a complex bundle of issues with them to school. But the external pressures on public schools are enormous. And these strictures sometimes limit creativity and innovation, especially when it comes to constructive and transformative feedback about teaching skills.

I never again taught in a school in which observing and analyzing my colleagues’ teaching was de rigueur.  There are many reasons for this. The demands on teachers’ time and energy—IEP meetings, behavior plan meetings, scheduling logistics, school-wide or district-wide initiatives, meetings with parents, planning, grading (heck, waiting at the sole copier!)—all greatly reduce the time available to do such observations. But, honestly, to truly master your craft, you must hone your skills.

Teachers are made, not born. That’s the assertion of Doug Lemov, and I believe him. Lemov—teacher, principal and founder of Uncommon Schools charter school consortium—set out to decipher why some teachers, despite their obvious dedication and hard work, simply could not raise the achievement levels of their students. Lemov refers to this as “a dispiriting exercise in good people failing.” After careful study of the habits of highly successful teachers, he developed Lemov’s Taxonomy, a set of 49 easily employed teaching techniques.

His ideas run counter to a belief held by many in the field of education.  Sylvia Gist—dean of the college of education at Chicago State University—summed it up for Elizabeth Green of the NY Times, “I think there is an innate drive or innate ability for teaching.” This conventional wisdom has been behind the nationwide push to fire “bad” teachers who don’t seem to have the right “Mojo” and replace them with those who appear to have the right inimitable magical teaching qualities. Lemov disagrees with this strategy, contending that the best way to boost student performance is to improve the quality of educators already teaching. Since we have almost 4 million American teachers currently in the profession, he has a point.

Lemov’s taxonomy is now a book, Teach Like a Champion. It outlines easily implemented teaching techniques that all K-12 teachers could adopt and adapt to their particular style of teaching. He asserts that tiny changes in your teaching skills can greatly improvement students’ focus and participation. For example:  Always stand still when you’re giving instructions.  Children often fail to follow directions because they simply don’t understand exactly what’s expected of them.  This advice is not exactly the Holy Grail, but it is unquestionably effective.  It is the essential foundation for a successful lesson. Green explains, “Lemov’s view is that getting students to pay attention is not only critical but also a skill as specialized, intricate and learnable as playing guitar.”

The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation recently completed a $45 million, three year study to determine the best means of teacher evaluation. It concluded that the evaluation process should be three-pronged:  based on student achievement, student evaluation of the teacher, and classroom observations by multiple reviewers. Although clearly a more fair and effective means of evaluation than simply looking at test scores, this process is sure to be costly and cumbersome. And in all likelihood will never be fully implemented. We must start taking the initiative ourselves.

I still cringe at what my uncharitable 8^th grade self said about some of my teachers. I didn’t fully appreciate the difficulty of what they were doing until I tried to do it myself. Teaching—on a bad day—can feel like a tightrope walk, naked, while being pelted with rotten produce. It is exceedingly vulnerable to invite others into our classrooms to observe. But I know from experience that my teaching greatly improved because of constructive feedback from my colleagues. I was open and amenable to criticism and suggestions because I knew they were climbing the crag and mucking through the mire alongside me.  If you’re a teacher, don’t wait for a school or district initiative. Round up some colleagues and get started.

Just set up some guidelines: no rotten produce allowed.

In 2009, Aretha Franklin created a minor scandal with her headgear at President Obama’s inauguration. Her stunningly large hat bow—so big it nearly blocked the view of luminaries sitting in the grandstand—was all anyone could talk about for weeks afterwards. Although many criticized the bonnet as being too much for the occasion, Franklin demonstrated her respect for President Obama by essentially dressing in her Sunday best. Surely a hat that she would wear to church to worship the Almighty appropriately demonstrates respect for a new president.

This inauguration, another bold, talented African-American woman is in the hot seat. This time, Beyoncé, has been criticized for singing along to a pre-recorded rendition of our national anthem. Although at first her decision to lip-synch might smack of laziness or impertinence, her choice actually indicates her deep respect for the president—something distressingly missing inside and outside the Beltway.

When the Queen of R-E-S-P-E-C-T first heard about Beyoncé’s lip-synching, she reportedly threw her head back and laughed. Franklin said she almost wished she’d made a similar decision. Franklin wanted to perform perfectly for the president, as did Yo-Yo Ma and Itzhak Perlman. They, too, played along to pre-recorded music for President Obama’s first inauguration, but it didn’t become a national scandal.  As Yo-Yo Ma told NY Times reporter Daniel Wakin at the time, “What we were there for was to really serve the moment.” Perlman felt similarly:  “The occasion’s got to be perfect. You can’t have any slip-ups.” Last week, Beyoncé echoed these sentiments:  “Due to the weather, due to the delay, due to no proper sound check, I did not feel comfortable taking a risk. It was about the president and the inauguration.” But she wasn’t afforded the same latitude as were the titans of classical music. This could be because she once performed in the unfortunately-named pop group, Destiny’s Child, but I think it’s racism. Many feel she, like the President himself, simply doesn’t belong at the inauguration at all.

As I watched the Beyoncé dust up unfold, I recalled an interview NPR’s Ari Shapiro had with a Romney supporter during the last presidential election. She’d complained vociferously about President Obama: “I just—I don’t like him. Can’t stand to look at him. I don’t like his wife. She’s far from the first lady. It’s about time we get a first lady in there who acts like a first lady and looks like a first lady.” In a subsequent interview she insisted that her comments had nothing to do with race, but there’s something about “Can’t stand to look at him” that highlights the real subtext.  Like others in the American electorate, she believes African-Americans have gotten above their station.

Remember the reprehensible T-shirt that popped up at an Ohio campaign event for Romney? “Put the white back in the White House.” Remember Sarah Palin’s racially charged critique of Obama that he was “shucking and jiving” about the terrorist attack in Libya? Or the absurd, insistent chatter about President Obama’s birth certificate; South Carolina Rep. Joe Wilson calling the president a liar during a joint session of Congress; and Mike Huckabee and Newt Gingrich’s race-tinged accusation that Obama has a “Kenyan mentality”?  On this last point, even conservative Washington Post columnist George F. Will voiced his concerns that such comments are so bizarre they hurt the Republican Party. These examples merely legitimize the flood of racist tweets on Twitter following Obama’s re-election and on the occasion of his Sandy Hook memorial speech.

Last year I spied an anti-Obama bumper sticker on a car in downtown Brattleboro that whipped my head around. It read, “B.O. stinks.” The “O” incorporated the same font and design from Obama’s campaign literature. In almost the identical spot, years earlier, I’d spotted another bumper sticker: “Somewhere in Texas, a village is missing an idiot.” Although equally disrespectful to President George W. Bush, the latter avoids a racial subtext about cleanliness and hygiene.

Retired Col. Lawrence Wilkerson—and chief of staff for former Secretary of State Colin Powell—said in an MSNBC interview last fall, “Let me just be candid. My party is full of racists.”  Wilkerson—responding to former NH governor John Sununu’s claim that Powell only endorsed Obama because he’s African-American—argued that Sununu’s beliefs are not singular. He asserted, “The real reason a considerable portion of my party wants President Obama out of the White House has nothing to do with the content of his character…and everything to do with the color of his skin.” Wilkerson, clearly disgusted by this pernicious element of his own party, is unclear as to what exactly to do about it, but I respect him enormously for naming it. There are legitimate reasons why true fiscal conservatives would oppose Obama’s presidency; there must always be room for lively, substantive dissent. But as Wilkerson asserts, the tent of the GOP must not become a refuge for bigots.

All American presidents are demeaned and mocked by pundits, press and other politicians. It’s tricky to balance respect for the President of the United States with our nation’s abhorrence of monarchical pomp and circumstance. George Washington was initially addressed by the affected and unwieldy title:  “His High Mightiness, the President of the United States and Protector of their Liberties.”  James Madison—the little big man dubbed the “Father of the Bill of Rights”—put an end to that. Although first Vice President, John Adams, complained that “Mr. President” was not deferential enough, the title stuck.

Sometimes I wish “his High Mightiness” were still in use. I’d love to see Arizona governor Jan Brewer’s facial contortions as she struggled to get the words out.  She, who demonstrated contempt and impudence when she wagged her finger in President Obama’s face last year, would not be the only one to choke on the glorious title. But hey, if it really became a struggle for her, she could always lip-synch it.

About ten years ago—in the midst of a conversation about my lunch—an envious colleague announced that she wished she could have such a tasty meal, but she didn’t cook. I raised an eyebrow, revealing my incredulity, but she was insistent: “I don’t eat anything I can’t make in the microwave.” I was both amused and baffled at her pronouncement, but it also saddened me. I thought it was an isolated incident, but now I see she’s part of a bona fide subgroup of our population.

Growing up in the late 70s and early 80s, I rarely ate dinner at friends’ homes. Whatever I was offered was usually a pathetic substitute for anything my parents had on the menu. My friends’ exotic Spaghetti-O’s, canned ravioli, and Swanson Dinners had their allure, sure, but attraction is sometimes curiously coupled with revulsion. We weren’t a family of foodies, but we did eat real food. And we all learned to cook. We once begged my mom to buy us TV dinners. She, who put soy nuts and assorted seeds in our lunches, long before it was fashionable (try trading those for a Ring Ding), wasn’t keen on the idea. She eventually relented; we took one bite and never asked again. It’s not true that enough salt, sugar and fat can make anything palatable.

My family missed the wave of processed food that heralded the end of American cooking and positioned Julia Child as the early champion of the real food revival. She was an unlikely food goddess. Raised in affluent Pasadena in the 1920s, Child (then Julia McWilliams) didn’t need to learn to cook; her family employed a cook. In Bob Spitz’s lively new biography, Dearie: The Remarkable Life of Julia Child, he describes the practical joking, cigar smoking, dangerously rambunctious child who would eventually become the icon Child. This privileged gal—who curiously would have been right at home in the scrappy Our Gang—didn’t seem destined for greatness in the kitchen. As one of her nieces told Spitz, the family joked that Child could burn water.

I used to imagine Child like a cooking version of Athena—sprung fully formed from the head of famed French food writer, Curnonsky (“The Prince of Gastronomy”). Or perhaps like Venus, emerging from an oyster shell, to whip up some exquisitely simple oyster dish bathed in the best French butter. But even Julia Child—who always loved to eat foods of all kinds—had to sort out why food was important before she could embrace food preparation. Living in Paris—for her husband’s Foreign Service job—Child discovered the tremendous value in cooking excellent food and in sharing that food with others. Food preparation and consumption became her raison d’etre; it connected her with the people, the history, and the culture she immediately loved.

And therein is the rub. Many of us have become disconnected from the cultural importance of sharing food and the familial value of preparing food together. Important beliefs, ideals, history, and creativity are passed along to our children across the counter and over the stove. Food—and family stories about food—connect me to my past and serves as a guidepost for me and my family.

There are so many compelling reasons why our food preparation and consumption rituals have fallen away. We are all so very busy now. The two income parent trap means there is less time for food preparation. Single parents have the additional, almost insurmountable, challenge of having no help wrestling the children away from the hot stove. And those parents who are partnered often feel like the cooking falls disproportionately to one person. (There’s a good reason Betty Friedan’s “Feminine Mystique” resonated with so many American women.) The cook becomes resentful and exasperated, and toddler mayhem just adds to the lunacy.  I think each night, “It’s a small miracle that I’ve managed to cook this dinner.” With two small children underfoot and my own work I want to get done, it would be far easier to rip open a package, pop it in the microwave, and call it dinner. But for me the cost would be too high.

There is overwhelming evidence that children greatly benefit from the ritual of family dinners. The Purdue University Center for Families’ Promoting Family Meals project has aggregated this information. Children who dine regularly with family tend to have better language acquisition, higher test scores, greater academic achievement and are less likely to do drugs or consume alcohol. Other studies indicate that these children have healthier relationships to food, are less likely to have eating disorders and eat more wholesome food. And—despite the ubiquitous, stale conversation starter, “How was school today?”—they feel more positively connected to their families

Many of us have disconnected from ritual of all sorts—not just food preparation. And we’ve become unmoored from those aspects of our lives that give each day genuine meaning. I take a stand each night when I prepare food and teach my children how to do it. Ritual is important. Family history is important. Sharing that time together, creating sustenance and meaning, enriches our lives and feeds us physically and spiritually. And although my adorable but irate toddler daughter threw a carrot at me last night during food preparation (bon appetit!), I’m still committed to keeping that time sacred.

Forget the down-to-the-wire fight over the Fiscal Cliff and the looming recycled brawl over the nation’s debt ceiling. There’s been another contest brewing this past year that’s erupted into a raging stew of distrust, rancor and derision. In the midst of the celebration of the 150^th anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation, a new book on Thomas Jefferson by Henry Wiencek—“Master of the Mountain: Thomas Jefferson and His Slaves”—presents a wholly unsavory profile of our venerated and complicated 3^rd President. The mudslinging over Wiencek’s book indicates that we still don’t know how to handle Thomas Jefferson.

Wiencek, an independent scholar whose previous work includes a highly respected book on George Washington and slavery, received remarkable attention for his new Jefferson book. He was everywhere this past year discussing his controversial hypothesis: Historians have given Jefferson a pass for too long; he may have been an Enlightenment thinker but he was also a cruel master. The general public loved the book, and it was widely praised by reviewers. The literati of historical research were not nearly so kind. Rutgers University historian Jan Ellen Lewis called it a “train wreck” that ignores contrary evidence, and senior historian at Monticello, Lucia Stanton, accused Wiencek of using “a blunt instrument to reduce complex historical issues to unrecognizable simplicities.”

Entertaining as these fiery accusations are, the most intriguing critique came from Pulitzer Prize winning Annette Gordon-Reed, a law and history professor and author of “The Hemingses of Monticello: An American Family.” Gordon-Reed blasts the book in an article on Slate.com entitled, “Thomas Jefferson Was Not a Monster,”asserting that Wiencek’s research “fails as a work of scholarship” and that his conclusions are based on “bizarre proof.” Gordon-Reed calls Wiencek’s work “an attempted takedown” in which “the third president appears as a demonic figure warped one summer day by a sudden discovery that being a slaveholder could pay.” You might think Gordon-Reed is an insular and stodgy academic who feels compelled to defend Jefferson’s honor. Not so.

I first read Gordon-Reed’s work while earning my MA in history over a decade ago.  Her provocative 1997 book on Jefferson—“Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings: An American Controversy”—unabashedly took on Jefferson acolytes who refused to believe that Jefferson could have fathered children with one of his slaves. Gordon-Reed—displeased with the previous methodology employed to research Jefferson’s relationship with Sally Hemings—set out to objectively examine the evidence as a lawyer. What she discovered was that the bulk of the evidence absolutely supported the position that Jefferson and Sally Hemings were sexually involved, but historians for hundreds of years had unequivocally dismissed the possibility.

Now some of those same historians—who bore her withering criticism of their myopia concerning Jefferson’s moral shortcomings—write blurbs on her book covers. Her exhaustively researched 2008 book on the Hemings family and their complex relationship with Jefferson won the National Book Award for nonfiction. And The Thomas Jefferson Foundation, which runs Monticello, concluded from its own internal research that Jefferson was almost certainly the father of Sally Hemings’ children. The exhibits at Jefferson’s historic home have been changed to reflect this acknowledgment.

Although Gordon-Reed excoriates Jefferson for his bigotry and gross paternalism evidenced in enduring primary documents such the Farm Book, she questions Wiencek’s scholarship and criticizes him for neglecting to credit previous historians in his work. Although it’s hard for lay readers to understand, historians are passionate about footnotes and citations; we get all goose-bumpy about what’s buried in the footnotes. That information is just as important as the story being constructed on the page.

Wiencek’s argument that Jefferson was a brutal master rests on scant evidence, but there is significant proof that Jefferson was a colossal contradiction.  Here’s what we do know: Jefferson almost certainly had a long-term relationship with an enslaved woman at Monticello, Sally Hemings, and fathered her children. Their relationship was well-known at the time in political circles and at his homestead. We know that he benefited from slavery in a variety of ways; indeed, gorgeous Monticello could not have been constructed or maintained without the labor of enslaved men and women. Many children were put to work in Monticello’s nail factory, and some may have been beaten by overseers that Jefferson employed. But despite this wealth, his profligate spending kept him financially insecure.   And despite his articulation of nation-begetting ideals about the universal equality of men, he did nothing to end slavery and never freed his own slaves. It is uncomfortable, to say the least, that he is one of our most admired Founders.

At times it feels as if it would be a relief to stick Jefferson in the nation’s attic—a sort of Presidential version of the mad woman hidden upstairs in Charlotte Brontë’s “Jane Eyre.” His hypocrisy and moral shortcomings, although not unique, are exceedingly troublesome for history teachers and students.

Students (both middle schoolers and college undergrads) have told me they felt cheated and duped upon finally learning the truth about his complicated and contradictory life. It is difficult to convey to an 8^th grader that Jefferson’s Enlightenment ideals transcend the man, and it’s understandable that students are dubious when we brush past the more troubling aspects of his character and focus on his nobler ideals. Like Jefferson’s historians who poke around in footnotes and comb through primary sources, we must become more comfortable with the disconcerting particulars—all those details that reveal both the great paradox and the prodigious genius.

I too am still wrestling with Jefferson.

So. Lance Armstrong would have us believe he had an Oprah-style “A-ha” moment—a critical instance in his life when he made a profound revelation about himself.  In his recent interview with Oprah Winfrey—the woman who made “A-ha” moments her stock and trade on both her show and in her magazine—Armstrong copped to some of his lies but revealed that his motivation was more akin to an “Uh-oh” moment: I’ve lost almost everything; time for a calculated appearance to save what little dignity—er, money—I’ve got left. After over a decade of unremitting lies, accompanied by adamant, indignant denials, Armstrong’s admission that he doped offers little catharsis for the sports public; his feet of clay have been glaringly obvious for too long. It feels as though there’s nothing left to mine in this pathetic, dishonorable story. But the actions of Armstrong’s foundation—an organization that has been spared much of the shame from the fallout from his vulgarly tardy confession—deserve another look.

The Lance Armstrong Foundation (LAF) learned from its founder the benefits that can come from being simultaneously pugnacious and sanctimonious. LAF is a notorious trademark bully, as I recently learned from a case involving two Vermonters, the I AM VERMONT STRONG (IAVS) charity, and Armstrong’s charity juggernaut.  Writing on the blog “The IP Stone: Deciphering Intellectual Property Law for Business,” Jamie Fitzgerald, a Vermont intellectual property lawyer with Downs Rachlin Martin PLLC, humorously details the maddening case. Her article “Confusingly Similar? Don’t Make Me L.A.F.” is a must read.

The now ubiquitous I AM VERMONT STRONG license plates—which generate money for Hurricane Irene relief in the Green Mountain State—were an outgrowth of a movement started by two Vermonters, Eric Mallette and Lyz Tomsuden even before the storm’s waters receded. Tapping into the buck-up, can-do spirit Vermonters so readily displayed in the hurricane’s aftermath, Mallette and Tomsuden began selling I AM VERMONT STRONG T-shirts to benefit Vermont disaster relief organizations, donating 100% of the profits to recovery efforts. Demand for the shirts was so tremendous, Fitzgerald explains, that “its empowering message of resilience went viral—so viral that copycats quickly surfaced,” and they needed legal assistance.

Fitzgerald took the case pro bono, and in late September 2012, IAVS applied to register the slogan I AM VERMONT STRONG as a federal service mark for “charitable fundraising to support disaster relief organizations.”  In short order, Fitzgerald received word that LAF threatened to oppose the registration claiming a strong likelihood that I AM VERMONT STRONG would easily be confused with LAF’s registered trademark LIVESTRONG. As Fitzgerald explains, when LAF sought and obtained an extension of time in which to file their opposition to the registration of I AM VERMONT STRONG, the IAVS application was essentially “held hostage for over three months.”

A few days before the opposition deadline, LAF sent a letter to Fitzgerald asserting that IAVS’s  fundraising efforts were “virtually identical” to that of LAF—a bold and absurd claim given that LAF’s fundraising is for cancer research and lobbying efforts in the field of cancer recovery. As Fitzgerald acknowledges, “Granted, getting cancer is a disaster, but not the kind that would find relief through I AM VERMONT STRONG’s fundraising efforts.”  Clearly, LAF’s lawyers were trolling for a fight; it’s what they do.

Laura Stampler, writing in Business Insider magazine, revealed last March that the San-Francisco based website Telemarkia placed the Lance Armstrong Foundation on its list of America’s top ten brand bullies. Stampler asserts that LAF—which is number two on the list, tucked right behind Kellogg’s—has concluded that it now has exclusive trademark rights to the words “strong” and “live.” LAF’s lawyers have threatened—among dozens of others—Headstrong Fight Gear, Born Strong Athletics and an apparel store with the earnest but cumbersome name Live the Beauty of Being Strong.

According to the Daily Beast’s Alex Heard, LAF spent nearly $500,000 in 2012 on perceived trademark infringements, money that perhaps should have been spent on cancer research.  Heard explains that in these situations the bullies almost always win: “Trademark disputes are not a level playing field. Big dogs can stomp little dogs by sheer dint of their financial might, and the companies being opposed are often small enough that the prospect of an extensive legal battle is terrifying.”

It would be easy to dismiss LAF’s amped up trademark policing as a case of IP lawyers on steroids. But there’s something bigger at work here. Whether it’s a for-profit corporation or a non-profit charity foundation, those at the top set the tone and shape the culture of any organization. In his Oprah interview, Armstrong admitted that he’d turned into a bully. Bizarrely, he blamed his willingness to torment others on his cancer diagnosis, saying, “Before my diagnosis, I was a competitor, but not a fierce competitor. Then I said I will do anything I need to do to survive. Then I brought that ruthlessness, win-at-all costs attitude to cycling.” He then directed his career and his foundation from this repellent position. Subordinates and colleagues got the message and acting accordingly.

Armstrong’s foundation has done a lot of good for those fighting cancer. But how awful that so many people were unwittingly drafted to prop up his house of cards. The ruthlessness and viciousness he employed to protect his lies virtually destroyed the reputations and careers of those who actually told the truth. And his bullying—mimicked by his foundation’s legal team—reached all the way to the Green Mountain State in the midst of our deep despair.  Thank goodness, as Fitzgerald says, LAF picked on the wrong 90-pound weakling.

My brother-in-law—who has spent the bulk of his career working in the financial sector—recently shared with me a revelation he’s had. Teachers now seem just as likely as Wall Street bankers to feel embarrassed to say what they do; they’re waiting for the litany of societal wrongs and why schools are to blame. Teacher morale is at a twenty year low, but now that teachers in Newtown, Connecticut took bullets for kids, he’s hoping there might be a little bit more understanding of what it means to be an American teacher.

The annual MetLife Survey of the American Teacher indicates that teacher job satisfaction has dramatically decreased over the past two years. The prolonged downturn in the economy, budget cuts at schools, and acrimony over high-stakes testing and teacher evaluations have all contributed to teacher dissatisfaction. One in three teachers now plans to leave the profession within the next 5 years because they are so disheartened.

I understand feeling disheartened. When I first started teaching, I didn’t worry about my personal safety, but this changed over the years. However, it was never the students who frightened me, it was the parents.

A special education teacher I know hid in her locked office whenever she saw a particular dad drive up to school.  He’d threatened her because he didn’t like the results of the special education testing his son received.  That same year, a science teacher in my building was bullied by a parent because she didn’t like a particular assignment. The parent stormed into the classroom at the end of the day and mocked the teacher—in front of students, including her own child—saying, “Oh, you’re scared! Look, kids, she’s scared.”

Often the incidents are not so dramatic but are nonetheless undermining and discouraging.  As a member of a middle school teaching team, my colleagues and I yielded to pressure to change our homework policy. The school board felt we were too lenient and should adopt a zero tolerance policy—no late homework. Any late assignments would be given a zero with no opportunities for make-up.  When the next report card rolled around, a member of the board, seeing that his son was failing several classes because of his strict late homework policy, wanted an exception for his son. He evidently felt no shame in asking for a dispensation.

Then then there are the incidents that are so absurd that you feel you must be on some version of Candid Camera. I once had a parent—breasts barely contained by what, in some circles, apparently masquerades as a shirt—call her 7^th grade daughter a “slut” at a parent-teacher conference.  She snorted, “Look at yourself! What kind of message are you sending with those clothes?” I glanced at my male colleague and his raised eyebrows that said, “Oh, Becca, you’re taking this one. There’s no way I’m talking about breasts.” Needless to say, I didn’t feel the parent was totally present in my later discussion about her child’s work ethic.

Then there was the parent who shrieked vulgarities at me because my team of recess monitors took the students out on the playground on a day that she deemed too cold for her child. Or the time when I worked as a long-term substitute in a school library, and a parent reported that she knew another parent was purposely not returning books so that she could “get back” at the school about some decision she didn’t like. Then there was my buddy who was threatened with a lawsuit by a parent because she was part of a group of chaperones who suspended a student for bringing alcohol to a school function.

But despite these outrageous incidents that might force even Mother Theresa to throw in the towel, the MetLife teacher survey indicates that teachers who work in schools in which there is a lot of positive parental involvement report double the job satisfaction.  They also have a much stronger belief that things will improve. I know these findings to be true.

I could write a column about all the wonderful, dedicated parents who support our schools and our teachers, but these are not—unfortunately—the ones we remember first at the end of the day. And to be fair, I could write a column called “Kooky, Ineffective Teachers I’ve Known”—and I just might do it for balance—but there’s no getting around the fact that teaching is a very difficult job and some outrageous parents make it so much harder.

The Sandy Hook Elementary School tragedy forced many of us to question our elemental understanding of humanity. But for teachers it had an additional quality of defilement.  Schools—to dedicated educators—are sacred places of promise and potential. The utter desecration of a place of emotional and intellectual shelter is simply crushing. Teachers need the support of their communities now more than ever. Take a moment this week and thank your child’s teacher and the support staff in the building who all contribute to our students’ health, safety and intellectual stimulation. Educators are not perfect, but trust me, in all likelihood they’re well aware of their shortcomings.

Teaching can be an exceedingly lonely job, and educators need to hear from the regular parents because the scary ones make an awful lot of noise.

On my ipod, tucked between Ella Fitzgerald’s swinging renditions of Rodgers and Hart tunes and Lady Gaga’s gaudy, campy, driving dance beats, is an American jazz classic: the Dave Brubeck Quartet’s “Take Five.” Written by Paul Desmond—Brubeck’s longtime collaborator and saxophonist in the group—its catchy sax phrases and unusual 5/4 time signature helped  make Brubeck’s 1959 album Time Out the first American jazz record to sell over a million copies. This is all the more remarkable given that Dave Brubeck almost became a veterinarian and couldn’t actually read music. With Brubeck’s death earlier this month at the age of 91, I’ve wondered who’ll be the next jazz genius to reimagine the form and propel it once again into the American mainstream. Esperanza Spalding—28-year-old bassist, composer and vocalist—is the gal.

If you have Justin Beiber fans in your life, you may know Spalding as that shameless hussy who beat out Beiber in the Best New Artist category at the 2011 Grammys. His angry, adoring legions took to the internet immediately following the broadcast to indignantly protest her win—and to alter her Wikipedia page; they injected bits that proclaimed that Spaulding had won despite the fact that nobody had ever heard of her. At that point, she’d already performed at the White House, the Nobel Peace Prize award ceremony and the David Letterman Show; clearly, Beiber’s fans don’t frequent these venues.

In the lead-up to the Grammy awards, the jazz world’s elation at her nomination was obvious, but few thought she’d actually win—despite her tremendous virtuosity and creativity. Gil Goldstein, a co-producer on her album Chamber Music Society—which united her classical roots and her passion for jazz—said  before the awards, “I’ve been kind of joking, saying it would be nice that if once in a while, the best new artist would be someone who reads and writes (music).” Her sincere and warm acceptance speech revealed her own thorough astonishment at her victory. But now just two years later, she’s been nominated for three more Grammy Awards, including Best Jazz Album of the Year. She has arrived.

Like Brubeck’s childhood on a California cattle ranch, Spalding’s upbringing did not have the trappings that often portend musical prominence. Raised by a single mom in a rough neighborhood of Portland, Oregon, Spalding endured a longtime illness as a child and later dropped out high school because—she explained in a recent Smithsonian magazine profile—she just couldn’t seem to find her place.

Her story could easily have had a very different trajectory than the one she’s enjoyed these past few years. But Spalding, like Brubeck, had a mom who both appreciated music and had a talent for it. Brubeck’s mother studied classical piano and almost became a concert pianist; Spalding’s mom nearly became a touring singer. These women instilled in their talented children the knowledge that music mattered. For Spalding, this meant that when she saw cellist Yo-Yo Ma perform on Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood at 4-years-old, she was ready to claim music as her calling.

In short order, she taught herself violin, and at the age of five auditioned for the Chamber Music Society of Oregon—a community orchestra open to youth and adults. She played violin with this group for 10 years, becoming concert master at 15.  Around this time she unexpectedly discovered her passion for the upright bass.

Spaulding describes her affinity for the bass as “waking up one day and realizing you’re in love with a co-worker.” The formidable instrument called to her and would not be denied.  So, with bass in hand, she began an illicit flirtation with the worlds of jazz, hip hop, funk and blues that soon turned into a full blown affair.

There’s much to love about this talented woman.  There’s that Angela Davis-esque pompadour standing at attention at the top of her bright and open face. Then there’s the ease with which this petite gal tames—no, more like sashays with—that gigantic bass.  Her video of “Overjoyed” is simply mesmerizing. What a treat to witness such raw talent cavorting with inventiveness and passionate expression. It is extraordinary, too, that she can convey such a range of emotions through those bottomless low notes.

Her astonishing talent aside, there’s something else inspiring and refreshing about Esperanza Spalding. She attributes her success and ample creativity to lively collaboration. When interviewers and reviewers comment on her huge musical gifts, she’s quick to note that she plays with a host of prodigies and she always learns from them.

But you don’t have to be musically gifted to benefit from dynamic collaboration. In his book, Group Genius: The Creative Power of Collaboration, University of Washington researcher Keith Sawyer argues that “collaborative webs are more important than creative people” and that organizations can foster group genius by encouraging “improvised innovation” and constant conversation. Sawyer dispels the myth of the “single flash of insight” in favor of innovation emerging from a bunch of smaller sparks. He draws strong parallels between the genius that surfaces in jazz jam sessions and the innovation that bubbles up in the business world when a team experiences “group flow”—that groove we feel when we perform at our peak. No doubt, Esperanza Spalding experienced this flow state many times during her breathtaking ascent in the jazz world, and Brubeck certainly thrived in his group’s collaborations.

As I welcome the New Year’s possibility and promise, I aim to wholly engage the power of spirited collaboration in my work.  I’m not angling for a Grammy, but I’m still excited to see what happens.

I greeted a Brattleboro acquaintance with the standard haven’t-seen-you-in-awhile question: “How are you doing?”  I received a most unexpected response: “Great!”  I couldn’t help but notice her reaction. Nobody ever says, ‘Great!’ so enthusiastically.   Turns out, after months of looking for work—and coming close to losing her house—she’d finally found a job. “It’s so important to have meaningful work,” I said. She shook her head: “Oh, this isn’t meaningful work. It’s not in my field. It’s not a dream job. In fact, I can’t believe I’m doing it. But it’s work. Period. And I can keep my home.”  There’s no getting around it. We have a genuine jobs problem here in Southeastern Vermont.

By just about every economic measure, the Windham Region is in decline. A presentation by the Southeastern Vermont Economic Strategies Group (SeVEDS) to the Windham Regional Commission last February laid out the bleak picture. This team—an affiliate of the Brattleboro Development Credit Corporation and made up of individuals from both the public and private sector in Windham County—initially formed to improve broadband and cell service in our area, but soon realized that our problems are much more complex than just bad communications services.

We lag behind New Hampshire, Massachusetts, the U.S.–and Vermont as a whole –in average wages, and our median age is significantly higher.  This decline in young workers will most likely lead to the further disappearance of jobs. As companies can’t find well-trained, entry-level workers, they will fill these positions with commuters from outside our area or will leave all together.  We’ve also fallen behind in technical skills. At a recent workforce readiness workshop offered by SeVEDS, in conjunction with Vermont Technical College and Community College of Vermont, regional employers sent the message loud and clear: We have to prepare our young workforce better.  In addition to providing them with specific technical skills required for jobs in our area, we must more effectively connect these workers with potential jobs.

The percentage of wage-earning residents in our county has also declined. We have a much smaller percentage of these workers here in Windham County, when compared to the rest of the state, and more residents who receive government subsidies or live off investments. So, we have growing sectors at the low and high ends of the economic spectrum, and no growth in between. Our residents tend to be more highly educated when compared to the rest of the region, but this has not translated into higher wages. College graduates earn substantially more in both Cheshire County, NH and in Hampshire County, MA.  This is partly because the percentage of residents employed by the private sector has decreased in our area while those employed by the public sector has increased. This seems to imply a lack of economic risk-taking needed to develop an energetic and innovative regional economy.

Risk aversion is completely incongruous with our reputation as an arts incubator. Our cultural offerings are simply marvelous: A thriving circus school, a dynamic youth theater, the Vermont Jazz Center. And on and on. There is so much creative energy here that it feels like the area can barely contain the resulting vibrations. But we can’t sustain all these dynamic organizations if we don’t improve our regional economy.

Growing jobs and business will not hurt our reputation as a funky and imaginative community. And it’s wrong to think that the problem is intractable. I had a good friend tell me recently, “You’re becoming a true Vermonter—you’re dabbling in all sorts of projects.” I felt a certain pride at her observation, but also a deep longing for my region. We shouldn’t simply resign ourselves to cobbling together bits of income, but instead be actively working to bring good-paying jobs to the area.

Thankfully, there’s been a lot of good news coming from SeVEDS lately.  Its Workforce Development Committee has recently partnered with the Vermont State Colleges to offer leadership and training events to support regional employers.  And this group will soon be steered by a most capable hand: Patricia Moulton Powden.  Powden—currently Vermont’s Deputy Secretary for the Agency of Commerce and Community Development—will bring her incomparable and much-needed experience and expertise to our region’s economic development efforts.

This excellent news is set against the backdrop of SeVEDS’s contract with ViTAL Economy Alliance to develop a Windham Region Comprehensive Economic Development Strategy (CEDS) for the 23 towns of Windham County plus Winhall, Weston, Searsburg and Readsboro. There will be public forums in March and May connected with the creation of this CEDS document.  Watch for these announcements, and then attend the discussions for two reasons:  First, we must all understand and accept the reality of our bleak economic landscape before we can get moving. Secondly, exciting ideas always bubble up when Vermonters put their heads together to solve a wicked problem.

I recently joined SeVEDS’s Workforce Development Committee; I’m deeply concerned about the long-term health of our regional economy. I want my children to have the option to stay and work in the area when they’re older, although they will almost certainly make other plans—despite my best intentions and machinations. In the past year, as I’ve watched several friends and acquaintances slip from the middle class, I’ve realized that we must be a both a vibrant arts community and a dynamic economic hub.

We all have a stake in this. Let’s not settle for an economy that barely keeps us afloat. Let’s create one that reflects the tide of creativity and innovation that surges here.