It was last period on a Friday afternoon and April was finally warming up. I had finished reading Wilbur's "The Writer" to my class, and finished coaxing out every last comment on metaphor and meaning that this crew was capable of on such a fine spring afternoon. Cruel to hold them captive in my classroom, and crueler still to ask them to follow this reading with an attempt at imitation. If it had been within my scope of authority to dismiss us all for the day, you can be sure I would have. But as it wasn't, I continued my month-long work of guiding these kids to finding their poet potential.
Most of the kids had settled in to write their own metaphor poems without much reluctance, but J, sitting front and center, had been squirming in his chair for the better part of ten minutes. When I finally made my way over to him, I leaned down to his level, resting my hands on his desk, and asked him how it was coming.
"Miss," he widened his eyes at me, "I'm not made for this."
I laughed, collapsed my head into my arms rested on his desk, and laughed some more. The delightful surprise of his dramatic (and poetic!) confession was the cherry on top of a long week of comically trying individual conferences and class-wide lessons. When I looked up at him again, he was gazing at me unamused, resigned to wait out my silliness until I was prepared to take him seriously and excuse him from this and all future creative writing assignments.
I share with J a looming suspicion that I am ill-suited for writing. Each day I wish that I was writing, and think about things I could write about, and how I could write about them, and how I might write the writing I'm reading better than it's written. But I hardly write. And so I keep this possibility in my mind that I could write something, maybe even publish something, and maybe by never actually pursuing it I keep it safe as an option.
My students mostly don't care about being writers, and feel certain that they aren't. But they are, I tell them every day. You can even be a good writer! The only thing you need to be to be a good writer, I tell them, is honest. I say this like it is easy, and as if this knowledge alone will produce words. But you've got to write too. You've got to write even when you suspect you might not be made for it.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Adios
Day One of the Poetry Unit and I am that gooey teachery pie filling that I turn into when my students spend a chunk of time bent over their desks writing intently. I mean, suffice it to tell you that I am writing this in eighth period, which is usually completely impossible because I have to keep shooting students death stares and getting out of my seat to stand intimidatingly close to the baddies. There are days where I have "written" in my notebook only for the show of it, scribbling incoherent nonsense about getting. myself. together.
But today is not one of those days. I read "Adios" by Naomi Shihab Nye to the students, and modeled an approach to poetry designed to help them understand and appreciate poems that can at first seem impossibly dense. Of course, I chose a poem that was not impossibly dense, so that they could master it.
Now master might be a strong word here, but they did contribute insightful analysis, in addition to the usual randomness. Best of all, when I asked them to imitate the poem's form, they did.
I realized during my first in-class reading of the day that I had chosen a poem that reminds me of losing my dad. I do that pretty often- fail to realize that the reason I love a poem or a passage is because it connects with this most intense emotional memory and experience. And then I'll be reading it again, sometimes in front of a classroom of students, and think: Oh shoot. No crying.
No crying today; lots of writing and reading. And that's really all that I can ask of a Tuesday.
But today is not one of those days. I read "Adios" by Naomi Shihab Nye to the students, and modeled an approach to poetry designed to help them understand and appreciate poems that can at first seem impossibly dense. Of course, I chose a poem that was not impossibly dense, so that they could master it.
Now master might be a strong word here, but they did contribute insightful analysis, in addition to the usual randomness. Best of all, when I asked them to imitate the poem's form, they did.
I realized during my first in-class reading of the day that I had chosen a poem that reminds me of losing my dad. I do that pretty often- fail to realize that the reason I love a poem or a passage is because it connects with this most intense emotional memory and experience. And then I'll be reading it again, sometimes in front of a classroom of students, and think: Oh shoot. No crying.
No crying today; lots of writing and reading. And that's really all that I can ask of a Tuesday.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Professional Development
I attended a writing conference on Saturday and even though I wasn't really looking forward to it, I still felt disappointed. This is so commonly the case with any PD I engage in. When I complained once about faculty meetings and department meetings and the lack of meetings that address the things I actually would enjoy some meetings about, my mom seemed confused as to why this would be. I felt frustrated when she asked about it, because I feel like people have been complaining about faculty meetings since the beginning of time and she should just understand that they are intrinsically useless and infuriating.
But actually, why?
Why is it so hard to address things of actual consequence? Why can't the people in positions of leadership in my field present practical and relevant information that I could use in my classroom? Or in my life? I would settle for information that I could just use in my brain, instead of the usual variety that squeezes into my vulnerable, open ears until my brain rejects it, violently.
When you have a captive audience, shouldn't it be a crime to lecture about minutia and run ragged the same tired, old party lines?
But actually, why?
Why is it so hard to address things of actual consequence? Why can't the people in positions of leadership in my field present practical and relevant information that I could use in my classroom? Or in my life? I would settle for information that I could just use in my brain, instead of the usual variety that squeezes into my vulnerable, open ears until my brain rejects it, violently.
When you have a captive audience, shouldn't it be a crime to lecture about minutia and run ragged the same tired, old party lines?
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Two Teaching Stories
#1. My class of comedians was in rare form yesterday. I'm starting a research unit on the current upheaval in the Mideast, and I wanted to introduce the topic to the whole class yesterday so that we all had a basic foundation of knowledge before they broke away into their groups for the rest of the unit. This is all to say that I needed a small degree of attention and quiet. It was clear from the bell that it was going to be a bit of a wrestling match.
Before I share with you my most impressive move, I'd like to say that I did ultimately subdue them, and they ended up completely engrossed in the lesson. But before that, I articulated this little gem of a direction:
"Guys. I'm not going to tell you a million times to stop talking. I'm going to...tell you less than a million times. And on the millionth time...I'm going to ask you to leave."
I was getting a few giggles before I even hit "less than a million times," probably because it was clear I had no idea what I was saying. One of my very well behaved girls shook her head at me and quietly said: "I really don't understand."
She sounds sweet, but she had a hint o' self satisfied smirk. Unfortunately, as she was 100% correct, there was nothing I could do but smile, raise my eyebrows and pretend that their little pee brains simply couldn't comprehend the divine wisdom of my words.
#2. I was giving a quiz on source reliability, which was fantastic because I never get to give quizzes. About ten minutes in, one of my students raised his hand and asked, in a leading tone, "We can make up a website, right?" "Yes," I answered offhandedly, eyeing a suspicious pocket of students who hadn't studied and looked pretty capable of cheating or charging out of the classroom to pull a fire alarm to avoid failing. But after a minute of them doing neither, I thought: wait, what? and went over to my desk to pick up a copy of the quiz. The only question that called for a website was one that asked students to identify an example of a credible source and explain why. When I got to the student's desk I found him writing "facts.org" and giggling a little to himself.
Before I share with you my most impressive move, I'd like to say that I did ultimately subdue them, and they ended up completely engrossed in the lesson. But before that, I articulated this little gem of a direction:
"Guys. I'm not going to tell you a million times to stop talking. I'm going to...tell you less than a million times. And on the millionth time...I'm going to ask you to leave."
I was getting a few giggles before I even hit "less than a million times," probably because it was clear I had no idea what I was saying. One of my very well behaved girls shook her head at me and quietly said: "I really don't understand."
She sounds sweet, but she had a hint o' self satisfied smirk. Unfortunately, as she was 100% correct, there was nothing I could do but smile, raise my eyebrows and pretend that their little pee brains simply couldn't comprehend the divine wisdom of my words.
#2. I was giving a quiz on source reliability, which was fantastic because I never get to give quizzes. About ten minutes in, one of my students raised his hand and asked, in a leading tone, "We can make up a website, right?" "Yes," I answered offhandedly, eyeing a suspicious pocket of students who hadn't studied and looked pretty capable of cheating or charging out of the classroom to pull a fire alarm to avoid failing. But after a minute of them doing neither, I thought: wait, what? and went over to my desk to pick up a copy of the quiz. The only question that called for a website was one that asked students to identify an example of a credible source and explain why. When I got to the student's desk I found him writing "facts.org" and giggling a little to himself.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Names for the Blog
Right now Bloggie's name is Schooled- but that is just a little too cliched. I'm very sensitive to things that are cliches and I would hazard a guess that 85% of the things that I write but I delete almost immediately are banished because they are really super typical and overdone. The other 15% that I delete is super original but really sucks.
Anything about being a first year teacher and being crazy stressed about it is out for the same reason. And also because I'm less stressed about it now, so I'm not in the mood for any title that reckons a Cathy cartoon Aak! Even as played by Liz Lemon as played by Tina Fey.
Also out are the multitude of simple, straightforward and generally perfect titles that have already been claimed because I am really, really late to Blogger.
Let's think. I usually like to turn to authors more accomplished than myself. I read this essay by Mark Doty years ago about composing one of his poems (A Display of Mackerel) that always stuck with me because he described the experience of writing something and only coming to understand what it was you were writing when you finish it- that your metaphor knew more than you. Could that work as a title? MymetaphorknowsmorethanI.blogspot? Oh man. It's trying too hard, and also- there is a phork and a smore in there and they are hogging the stage.
I'm back to thinking about titles that involve rulers and apples and lessons learned. Gag, gag, gag.
My dad had this quote on the wall of his office- the office he moved into after taking a hiatus from his established law career to pursue a more creative one in development- and I remember this conviction in him: "Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it." I remember him signing his emails "Be bold," even though my mom has no such recollection and so like so many things it is forever unknown. But maybe that- being bold. Beginning Bold.
In Faerie Queene there is this too: Be bolde, Be bolde, and everywhere, Be bold.
Even Shakespeare: Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.
I seem to have found a preoccupation, at the very least.
I could always name her Jane.
That was a little joke.
In the cellars of the night, when the mind starts moving around old trunks of bad times, the pain of this and the shame of that, the memory of a small boldness is a hand to hold.
John Leonard
Anything about being a first year teacher and being crazy stressed about it is out for the same reason. And also because I'm less stressed about it now, so I'm not in the mood for any title that reckons a Cathy cartoon Aak! Even as played by Liz Lemon as played by Tina Fey.
Also out are the multitude of simple, straightforward and generally perfect titles that have already been claimed because I am really, really late to Blogger.
Let's think. I usually like to turn to authors more accomplished than myself. I read this essay by Mark Doty years ago about composing one of his poems (A Display of Mackerel) that always stuck with me because he described the experience of writing something and only coming to understand what it was you were writing when you finish it- that your metaphor knew more than you. Could that work as a title? MymetaphorknowsmorethanI.blogspot? Oh man. It's trying too hard, and also- there is a phork and a smore in there and they are hogging the stage.
I'm back to thinking about titles that involve rulers and apples and lessons learned. Gag, gag, gag.
My dad had this quote on the wall of his office- the office he moved into after taking a hiatus from his established law career to pursue a more creative one in development- and I remember this conviction in him: "Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it." I remember him signing his emails "Be bold," even though my mom has no such recollection and so like so many things it is forever unknown. But maybe that- being bold. Beginning Bold.
In Faerie Queene there is this too: Be bolde, Be bolde, and everywhere, Be bold.
Even Shakespeare: Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.
I seem to have found a preoccupation, at the very least.
I could always name her Jane.
That was a little joke.
In the cellars of the night, when the mind starts moving around old trunks of bad times, the pain of this and the shame of that, the memory of a small boldness is a hand to hold.
John Leonard
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Bag Packing Event
Last night I woke up at 1:36 all grumpy and uncomfortable. Like I was disappointed to see that it was only 1:36 because I was ready to be done with this sleeping thing. So I did a mental check of my fluids and temperature, rolled out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen for a glass of water. It wasn't until I was standing at the open fridge, gulping at my glass by the light of the microwave clock that I realized why I was in a bad mood. I had been having a dream about school.
To be clear, it isn't the very thought of school that sends me into a funk. I really don't dislike the job that much. Really. It's these terribly mundane dreams I have about the school day! To the best of my memory, last night's dream contained a 54 minute lesson in which I struggled to get my 7th period class to stop talking to each other about whether Q was on drugs and instead focus on their work. Which is exactly what I did from 1:14-2:10 of my waking Friday. And while it wasn't terrible, it really didn't bear repeating. I believe the dream then continued to include a slowed down packing-up-my-bag event. That's right, in my dream I had trouble packing up my bag at the end of my school day, and so I had to do some rearranging that induced a low grade frustration connected to my eagerness to be done with work for the day, rather than standing at my desk trying to make all of my folders fit in my shoulder bag. This seemed to last for 45 minutes. (In real life, I'm way better at making my stuff fit in my bag.)
So you see? I'm cuddled warm in my soft bed on a Friday night, all the time in the world to sleep, and I'm dreaming in such a manner as to deprive my unconscious mind the ability to enjoy the time away from the classroom. It's self inflicted! And it's not even exciting stuff, like a fight in the lunchroom or a slow motion montage of me getting kids who hate teachers and hate school to read books and write poetry. You know what would be great? If instead of the 45 minute bag packing event, I could have a dream that featured me in front of the class, handing out hilarious jokes and bathing in raucous and delighted laughter.
Anyway, the glass of water and the bathroom visit helped my bad mood, and in the end I did feel grateful that it was still the middle of the night and I could climb back into bed. I gave my unconscious mind a stern look before I fell back asleep, to try to discourage this behavior in the future.
To be clear, it isn't the very thought of school that sends me into a funk. I really don't dislike the job that much. Really. It's these terribly mundane dreams I have about the school day! To the best of my memory, last night's dream contained a 54 minute lesson in which I struggled to get my 7th period class to stop talking to each other about whether Q was on drugs and instead focus on their work. Which is exactly what I did from 1:14-2:10 of my waking Friday. And while it wasn't terrible, it really didn't bear repeating. I believe the dream then continued to include a slowed down packing-up-my-bag event. That's right, in my dream I had trouble packing up my bag at the end of my school day, and so I had to do some rearranging that induced a low grade frustration connected to my eagerness to be done with work for the day, rather than standing at my desk trying to make all of my folders fit in my shoulder bag. This seemed to last for 45 minutes. (In real life, I'm way better at making my stuff fit in my bag.)
So you see? I'm cuddled warm in my soft bed on a Friday night, all the time in the world to sleep, and I'm dreaming in such a manner as to deprive my unconscious mind the ability to enjoy the time away from the classroom. It's self inflicted! And it's not even exciting stuff, like a fight in the lunchroom or a slow motion montage of me getting kids who hate teachers and hate school to read books and write poetry. You know what would be great? If instead of the 45 minute bag packing event, I could have a dream that featured me in front of the class, handing out hilarious jokes and bathing in raucous and delighted laughter.
Anyway, the glass of water and the bathroom visit helped my bad mood, and in the end I did feel grateful that it was still the middle of the night and I could climb back into bed. I gave my unconscious mind a stern look before I fell back asleep, to try to discourage this behavior in the future.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
One of the things I'm having trouble coming to terms with is the feeling as if this profession has stuck me forever in high school. When I was in high school I wanted to get the f out. I distinctly remember, though I repress it on an almost daily basis, looking at one of my younger english teachers as a sophomore student and thinking: She seems cool, but nobody who was actually cool would choose to be a teacher- to stay in school forever.
So how is it that I am slouched at my computer checking weather.com compulsively and pretending I don't think there is any chance we could get a snow day tomorrow? At least when I was 16 and slouched at my computer I had the comfort of feeling superior to my sucker teachers.
To further complicate my baseless sense of annoyance at myself, my students, simply by mirroring my own inclinations, are annoying the crap out of me too. Today a student in my fourth period class raised her hand and asked me if we will have off tomorrow. Not even did I THINK we will have off tomorrow. Will we. "We will," I nodded at her. Twenty six pairs of eyes widened in unison. "WE ARE???"
We aren't. We won't. But Ms. Smalley will be sleeping restlessly tonight anyway, having little dreams about automated phone calls from the district office.
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