The newest unit is structured around blogging: the kids have started reading Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe, and-- instead of writing responses via a reading journal or a study guide-- the kids are blogging.
It took hours and hours to get the blogs set up, since each one had to be done individually. But the rewards are already apparent: the kids have TAKEN OFF with these blogs!
What is it about the novelty of technology that entices them so? Students who haven't turned a scrap of paper in all year are writing insightful, creative, articulate blogs! The first assignment was to respond in some way-- be it poem, short story, analysis, or by elaborating further on an image-- to William Butler Yeats' poem "The Second Coming," from which verses, Achebe took his title. It's not an easy poem-- yet still, many of the kids who have balked at every assignment we've given them ended up writing a post, elaborating on their thoughts!
Needless to say, I am THRILLED.
AND, I required that they comment on one another's blogs-- and I've been blown away by how sweet they are to each other! They're encouraging, and kind, and bring up other points that the blog made them think about... I got the warm-fuzzies all weekend long, reading over them.
One of my primary goals as an English teacher is to instill a love for writing in my students; this blog project makes me think that we're beginning to inch towards that goal! Many kids are now posting other poems, or thoughts, or entries on their blogs. One of my new favorites was just posted today, by a ninth grade boy. It begins:
I sincerely hate the human tendency to get too scared to ask another person the simple question, “Hey, you wanna go out sometime?”
How do you not love that?
The blog project has been on my mind while reading over our assigned text for the week, from our Teaching English Language Learners book. Many of the examples of first or second-year teachers resonated with me: full of enthusiasm and a desire to teacher all students effectively, but also, not as familiar with students, families, or traditional methods of practice. We have several ELL kids in our classes, most of whom are immigrants from Africa. When writing papers, we ask these kids to turn in a first draft to my mentor teacher or myself, so that we can give them a good going over before the kids start their final drafts. In helping these kids go over their papers with a fine tooth comb, we give them the added assistance they need.
Of course, with blogs, the kids simply write to the best of their abilities, and then publish. However, what's been cool about starting this unit with Things Fall Apart, is that the other students are so quick to HONOR, and affirm the ELL students' African backgrounds. We're learning about Africa, and so these kids value the ELL students' contributions and insights. For a Powerpoint project that we're currently working on, which for most students has entailed researching Nigeria, the Igbo people, and themes of the novel, I had the ELL students create a Powerpoint that simply explained their experience. Through doing this, I hope to further affirm these students' contributions and experiences-- what a wealth of knowledge they have to provide our classes about life in Africa! Our book has spoken of the importance of validating ELL students, encouraging them, and including them as a valued part of the classroom. I hope that the efforts I've made are communicating that!
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
Those Days
Some days are so long.
Some days, you start work as early as 7AM, mentally choreographing a number for the spring musical by listening to the song on your I-Tunes, while you dry your hair and put on make-up to get ready for the day.
Some days, the school copier breaks down. And you have to get REAL creative, REAL fast to revise your lesson. And then sometimes, the copier gets fixed at the very last second, and you can carry on after all.
Some days, you can rhapsodize about Shakespeare, and the history of medieval and Renaissance England, and tell students about your own performance on the Globe theatre stage in London, and they listen, and they laugh, and they sit up and look at you with bright eyes and grins on their faces, and you feel so good.
Some days, the kids are great about doing an in-class assignment, and they work together, and you feel awesome about their progress.
Some days, you and your mentor-teacher read "The Merchant of Venice" out loud to your students with especially silly, exaggerated voices, and the kids giggle and follow along.
Some days, you have to end regular school by rushing off to grad school, and prepare for a big presentation in front of your other grad school cohorts.
Some days, the presentation goes great. You play your guitar, you teach your classmates a song (sung as a ROUND!) to describe your teaching philosophy, they all sing, it sounds great, and people tell you afterwards that they loved your presentation especially.
Some days, you go home wanting nothing more than to just get into your pajamas and watch a mindless sitcom.
But some days, you can't rest yet. You have to finish choreographing that musical number by scratching out notes in a script while eating dinner.
Some days are awesome. Class goes well; grad school goes well; you've prepared for tomorrow, and you feel GOOD about life as a teacher.
But some days... leave you EXHAUSTED.
So some nights, you're in bed by 9:30PM. And on those nights, it takes you less than 10 seconds to fall asleep.
But those are great days.
Those are really great days.
Some days, you start work as early as 7AM, mentally choreographing a number for the spring musical by listening to the song on your I-Tunes, while you dry your hair and put on make-up to get ready for the day.
Some days, the school copier breaks down. And you have to get REAL creative, REAL fast to revise your lesson. And then sometimes, the copier gets fixed at the very last second, and you can carry on after all.
Some days, you can rhapsodize about Shakespeare, and the history of medieval and Renaissance England, and tell students about your own performance on the Globe theatre stage in London, and they listen, and they laugh, and they sit up and look at you with bright eyes and grins on their faces, and you feel so good.
Some days, the kids are great about doing an in-class assignment, and they work together, and you feel awesome about their progress.
Some days, you and your mentor-teacher read "The Merchant of Venice" out loud to your students with especially silly, exaggerated voices, and the kids giggle and follow along.
Some days, you have to end regular school by rushing off to grad school, and prepare for a big presentation in front of your other grad school cohorts.
Some days, the presentation goes great. You play your guitar, you teach your classmates a song (sung as a ROUND!) to describe your teaching philosophy, they all sing, it sounds great, and people tell you afterwards that they loved your presentation especially.
Some days, you go home wanting nothing more than to just get into your pajamas and watch a mindless sitcom.
But some days, you can't rest yet. You have to finish choreographing that musical number by scratching out notes in a script while eating dinner.
Some days are awesome. Class goes well; grad school goes well; you've prepared for tomorrow, and you feel GOOD about life as a teacher.
But some days... leave you EXHAUSTED.
So some nights, you're in bed by 9:30PM. And on those nights, it takes you less than 10 seconds to fall asleep.
But those are great days.
Those are really great days.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Out of Reach
Today was sort of a depressing day.
The kids are starting a poetry unit with this renowned spoken-word-poet Seattle woman, who's coming in every Tuesday for the next ten weeks. She's great with them-- very encouraging, and affirming. The kids read some of their initial free-writes out loud at the end of class today, and I was completely shaken. The writing was STUNNING-- but in many cases, absolutely heart-breaking. One girl wrote about her alcoholic/drug-addicted mother. Another boy wrote about his uncle who was in jail for murder, and his mom who had died, and his dad who had been crippled. He ended it with saying in this strong, sharp-edged tone, "I'm Dan. And my life's been f*****." Some poems were funny-- one kid wrote about cake. Another girl started off with, "I used to think dinosaurs were real. But now I KNOW I'm a Gloriasaurus." But so many of them... were just shattering.
It's like these kids have finally found a venue through which they can actually TALK about what's going on in their lives-- and it's explosive. It's resounding-- but utterly devastating to witness.
Anyway. That gave me heavy boots.
And then Jane was supposed to come work on her paper after school, so I waited, but she didn't show, and I started thinking about all the different kids that have basically tried to scam us this week, with bogus excuses, and lies... And I just felt discouraged.
I decided to just go home. I got my things together, and began walking slowly down the stairs. The particular staircase I was on has big windows looking out onto the parking lot below, and I saw my latino posse, all gathered. The afternoon today was warm, and full of sunshine, and I squinted down at them on the staircase landing, just watching them.
There were George, and Raoul. There were Jose and Eduardo. I saw Miguel there too, who hasn't come to school in weeks. He's a junior, but was taking our freshman/sophomore English class a second time-- but I think he may have just decided to drop out. I squinted at his hand, which he brought to his mouth. Smoking. I saw a blonde girl, facing away from me. Was that Jane? Is that why she wasn't getting help on her paper? No, I realized. It's the Ukrainian girl. Miguel's girlfriend.
A mini-van slowly drove by them, and, as if on cue, they all began moving with purpose as if they were going somewhere together. Then, once the car was gone, they abandoned the act and resettled on a stair-case in the shade, like birds settling themselves on a wire. I just looked at them. Every single one of those boys is failing right now. I saw them talking, laughing, smoking. I never see Raoul laugh like that in class. He always looks so afraid.
I looked at them and just thought: I don't know how to help you.
Eduardo looked up at me, and a moment later, other heads swiveled up to look at the window. Caught. I walked down the rest of the stairs and went outside into the warm sunshine. Waved at them. "Is that Mikey there?" I called out.
"What?"
"Isn't that Miguel? I thought I saw him!"
"What? Oh! Yeah!"
Miguel stood up. "Hey!"
"Hey! How you been? We've missed you!"
"What?" he called.
"How have you been?" I called again.
"I can't hear you!" he called back.
I know, I thought. I wish you could.
_
The kids are starting a poetry unit with this renowned spoken-word-poet Seattle woman, who's coming in every Tuesday for the next ten weeks. She's great with them-- very encouraging, and affirming. The kids read some of their initial free-writes out loud at the end of class today, and I was completely shaken. The writing was STUNNING-- but in many cases, absolutely heart-breaking. One girl wrote about her alcoholic/drug-addicted mother. Another boy wrote about his uncle who was in jail for murder, and his mom who had died, and his dad who had been crippled. He ended it with saying in this strong, sharp-edged tone, "I'm Dan. And my life's been f*****." Some poems were funny-- one kid wrote about cake. Another girl started off with, "I used to think dinosaurs were real. But now I KNOW I'm a Gloriasaurus." But so many of them... were just shattering.
It's like these kids have finally found a venue through which they can actually TALK about what's going on in their lives-- and it's explosive. It's resounding-- but utterly devastating to witness.
Anyway. That gave me heavy boots.
And then Jane was supposed to come work on her paper after school, so I waited, but she didn't show, and I started thinking about all the different kids that have basically tried to scam us this week, with bogus excuses, and lies... And I just felt discouraged.
I decided to just go home. I got my things together, and began walking slowly down the stairs. The particular staircase I was on has big windows looking out onto the parking lot below, and I saw my latino posse, all gathered. The afternoon today was warm, and full of sunshine, and I squinted down at them on the staircase landing, just watching them.
There were George, and Raoul. There were Jose and Eduardo. I saw Miguel there too, who hasn't come to school in weeks. He's a junior, but was taking our freshman/sophomore English class a second time-- but I think he may have just decided to drop out. I squinted at his hand, which he brought to his mouth. Smoking. I saw a blonde girl, facing away from me. Was that Jane? Is that why she wasn't getting help on her paper? No, I realized. It's the Ukrainian girl. Miguel's girlfriend.
A mini-van slowly drove by them, and, as if on cue, they all began moving with purpose as if they were going somewhere together. Then, once the car was gone, they abandoned the act and resettled on a stair-case in the shade, like birds settling themselves on a wire. I just looked at them. Every single one of those boys is failing right now. I saw them talking, laughing, smoking. I never see Raoul laugh like that in class. He always looks so afraid.
I looked at them and just thought: I don't know how to help you.
Eduardo looked up at me, and a moment later, other heads swiveled up to look at the window. Caught. I walked down the rest of the stairs and went outside into the warm sunshine. Waved at them. "Is that Mikey there?" I called out.
"What?"
"Isn't that Miguel? I thought I saw him!"
"What? Oh! Yeah!"
Miguel stood up. "Hey!"
"Hey! How you been? We've missed you!"
"What?" he called.
"How have you been?" I called again.
"I can't hear you!" he called back.
I know, I thought. I wish you could.
_
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
"Do you WANT me to chase you down? Because I will."
And then, I did.
5th period was NUTS today. When Keith was asked to go out in the hall because he was being so disruptive, he decided to just split. As I saw him making a bee-line down the hallway, I leaned out the classroom door and suggested he work at a table near the room. He looked over at his shoulder at me, and kept on walking.
And so I said the thing. And then did the chase.
And we talked, and got things resolved, and he came back, and we outlined his paper, and then things were fine.
When I went back into the classroom, Craig waved his arms above his head and said, "Greta!"
"Craig, I'll have to help you in a second, I'm still working with someone else."
"Oh no-- I just wanted to know if the CHASE was over!"
I rolled my eyes and laughed. "Yes. The chase has been over for some time."
GadZOOKS. I shouldn't worry so much about looking young. These kids are going to make me ooold faaaaast.
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
On another note, our boys' basketball team has been accomplishing steady win after win; last night, they won a game that will take them all the way to state.
This is HUGE deal. We are a tiny school. Our kids are poor. Nobody believes in us. And our motley crew is going up against these small ritzy private schools and playing their hearts out and WINNING. Yesterday, the school declared an emergency field trip and, at 1:30, sent two bus-loads of kids down south to get to the game in time, which started at 3:00. We don't have cheer-leaders; at the last game I attended, two of our girls got up in front and led our school in makeshift cheers, while the opposing side's squad did flips and lifts and jumps in pristine matching uniforms. But we WON. Today, we had a pep rally-- something which almost never occurs, because we basically don't DO sports-- and the school hollered its heart out. I found out that one boy, who was homeless only a couple years ago, is being recruited by Seattle Lutheran and may actually be able to go to college on a scholarship.
And now we're going to state. How awesome is that??
5th period was NUTS today. When Keith was asked to go out in the hall because he was being so disruptive, he decided to just split. As I saw him making a bee-line down the hallway, I leaned out the classroom door and suggested he work at a table near the room. He looked over at his shoulder at me, and kept on walking.
And so I said the thing. And then did the chase.
And we talked, and got things resolved, and he came back, and we outlined his paper, and then things were fine.
When I went back into the classroom, Craig waved his arms above his head and said, "Greta!"
"Craig, I'll have to help you in a second, I'm still working with someone else."
"Oh no-- I just wanted to know if the CHASE was over!"
I rolled my eyes and laughed. "Yes. The chase has been over for some time."
GadZOOKS. I shouldn't worry so much about looking young. These kids are going to make me ooold faaaaast.
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
On another note, our boys' basketball team has been accomplishing steady win after win; last night, they won a game that will take them all the way to state.
This is HUGE deal. We are a tiny school. Our kids are poor. Nobody believes in us. And our motley crew is going up against these small ritzy private schools and playing their hearts out and WINNING. Yesterday, the school declared an emergency field trip and, at 1:30, sent two bus-loads of kids down south to get to the game in time, which started at 3:00. We don't have cheer-leaders; at the last game I attended, two of our girls got up in front and led our school in makeshift cheers, while the opposing side's squad did flips and lifts and jumps in pristine matching uniforms. But we WON. Today, we had a pep rally-- something which almost never occurs, because we basically don't DO sports-- and the school hollered its heart out. I found out that one boy, who was homeless only a couple years ago, is being recruited by Seattle Lutheran and may actually be able to go to college on a scholarship.
And now we're going to state. How awesome is that??
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Burned CDs and Burning Rubber
I was making copies in the staff lounge when Mike the Photography Teacher came in; this is a man I’ve talked to probably twice in my life.
“So how can I get one of your CDs?” he asked.
“What?” I asked, surprised.
“The kids are playing your CD in my class!” he said. “And they’re singing along, they know all the words!”
“What?!” I said. “Are you serious?!”
“Yeah!”
“Oh my gosh… I gave out some of those as prizes when we played Grammar Jeopardy in class—I can’t believe they’re playing them in your class--!”
“They LOVE it!” he said. “I’d really like one—you remind me of like a 70’s folk singer.”
“Thanks...” I said, turning red. “I’m embarrassed, but flattered.”
Another teacher came in. “You have a CD?” she asked.
“Well, I gave out burned CDs when we played Grammar Jeopardy, as prizes—but initially, I’d just brought in mix CDs of my favorite music. But then the kids asked, ‘Are these YOUR songs?’ and I said, ‘No! I’m not going to try to push my music off on you guys.’ But they said, ‘Well we’d want the CD if they were YOUR songs!’... So I brought in a couple of burned CDs the next day of my music... Oh my gosh, and they know the words??”
He smiled. “All of them. They really care about you. It’s obvious they really care about you. So what do you think, can I pay you for one?”
“No, don’t PAY me.”
“I insist, I’d want to give you something.”
“Well, buy me coffee then. But sure, I’ll bring one in for you.”
When I got back to the classroom, Viola reiterated the same thing. “I forgot to tell you! When you were gone last Friday, all the kids were talking about your songs!”
What a funny, unexpected start to a dreary, rainy morning. My favorite part was when he said, "It's obvious they really care about you." Good words.
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
Remember when I blogged about the students who were like peeing puppy dogs? Raoul is another one. Huge dark brown eyes with long lashes, a sweet temperament, a good heart-- and he never gets his work in. Some of my Latino boys have developed a trick with me: they ask for ONE MORE DAY to get it done, and give me some excuse for why that's valid. Usually it's because they were absent. (Which is usually because they were skipping class.) If I show any signs of wavering (which I usually do), they try to sweeten the deal. "How about for half-credit? Please?"
"Raoul, I need your reading journal."
"But I was gone."
"I know, that's why I need it now. It was due before break."
"But couldn't I have an extra day to get it in, since I was absent?"
"No, because it was due BEFORE break. You had an entire extra WEEK to get it done."
"You always say no to me! Why do you always say no to me?"
"I do NOT always say no to you, I have given you sooo many breaks, Raoul."
"No you don't, you always say no--"
"Raoul. This was due BEFORE BREAK. I will give you until the end of the day to turn in whatever you've got. If I don't see it by the end of the day, you're getting zero credit, and I won't accept it late. Okay?"
He grumbled and muttered.
"So DON'T FORGET to turn it in at the end of the day. Write it on your hand or something."
Raoul has done this before. He "forgets" to come back at the end of the day, gets his extra time, and then usually manages to get his credit.
In fifth period, one of the other Latino boys asked if he could turn his in-class assignment in at the end of the day, just to have a little more time. "Yes. And remind Raoul that he HAS to bring me his reading journal, otherwise I'm not accepting it at all."
"I will. Thanks Greta."
After school I waited. No Raoul. No George.
Grumpily, I packed up my stuff, and rehearsed in my head the conversations that I imagined ensuing the next day. "But I forgot!" "You must think I'm so stupid, Raoul..." They ALWAYS do this. Stupid peeing puppy dogs.
As I was driving away from the school, I saw the two of them along with some of their friends out of the corner of my eye, all waiting for their Metro bus. I whipped my car around in a U-turn and pulled up alongside the curb. Their eyes got big. I rolled down my window and smiled cheerfully.
"Raoul! George! I just wanted to let you know that you can slide your stuff under the door!"
"What...?" Raoul asked.
"When you go back to the classroom to turn in your reading journal. Because you were planning on doing that, right? Just go ahead, and slide it under the door!"
George untangled himself from the female he'd been draping. "What? You need my reading journal?"
"No, I need your in-class assignment, and Raoul's journal."
"Do you need anything from ME?!" their friend asked in panic.
"No Jose, you're fine."
Raoul had pulled his coat up over his grinning face. George turned to him, "Dude, I'm not done with mine."
"Or you can just give it to me now," I told Raoul.
"Noo... I'll go back and turn it in..." he said, grinning in spite of himself.
"Alright then. See you later!"
And I whipped my car back around and sped off. Lesson to me? No more allowing these boys to "turn things in at the end of the day." Lesson to them? I can, and will, HUNT THEM DOWN.
“So how can I get one of your CDs?” he asked.
“What?” I asked, surprised.
“The kids are playing your CD in my class!” he said. “And they’re singing along, they know all the words!”
“What?!” I said. “Are you serious?!”
“Yeah!”
“Oh my gosh… I gave out some of those as prizes when we played Grammar Jeopardy in class—I can’t believe they’re playing them in your class--!”
“They LOVE it!” he said. “I’d really like one—you remind me of like a 70’s folk singer.”
“Thanks...” I said, turning red. “I’m embarrassed, but flattered.”
Another teacher came in. “You have a CD?” she asked.
“Well, I gave out burned CDs when we played Grammar Jeopardy, as prizes—but initially, I’d just brought in mix CDs of my favorite music. But then the kids asked, ‘Are these YOUR songs?’ and I said, ‘No! I’m not going to try to push my music off on you guys.’ But they said, ‘Well we’d want the CD if they were YOUR songs!’... So I brought in a couple of burned CDs the next day of my music... Oh my gosh, and they know the words??”
He smiled. “All of them. They really care about you. It’s obvious they really care about you. So what do you think, can I pay you for one?”
“No, don’t PAY me.”
“I insist, I’d want to give you something.”
“Well, buy me coffee then. But sure, I’ll bring one in for you.”
When I got back to the classroom, Viola reiterated the same thing. “I forgot to tell you! When you were gone last Friday, all the kids were talking about your songs!”
What a funny, unexpected start to a dreary, rainy morning. My favorite part was when he said, "It's obvious they really care about you." Good words.
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
Remember when I blogged about the students who were like peeing puppy dogs? Raoul is another one. Huge dark brown eyes with long lashes, a sweet temperament, a good heart-- and he never gets his work in. Some of my Latino boys have developed a trick with me: they ask for ONE MORE DAY to get it done, and give me some excuse for why that's valid. Usually it's because they were absent. (Which is usually because they were skipping class.) If I show any signs of wavering (which I usually do), they try to sweeten the deal. "How about for half-credit? Please?"
"Raoul, I need your reading journal."
"But I was gone."
"I know, that's why I need it now. It was due before break."
"But couldn't I have an extra day to get it in, since I was absent?"
"No, because it was due BEFORE break. You had an entire extra WEEK to get it done."
"You always say no to me! Why do you always say no to me?"
"I do NOT always say no to you, I have given you sooo many breaks, Raoul."
"No you don't, you always say no--"
"Raoul. This was due BEFORE BREAK. I will give you until the end of the day to turn in whatever you've got. If I don't see it by the end of the day, you're getting zero credit, and I won't accept it late. Okay?"
He grumbled and muttered.
"So DON'T FORGET to turn it in at the end of the day. Write it on your hand or something."
Raoul has done this before. He "forgets" to come back at the end of the day, gets his extra time, and then usually manages to get his credit.
In fifth period, one of the other Latino boys asked if he could turn his in-class assignment in at the end of the day, just to have a little more time. "Yes. And remind Raoul that he HAS to bring me his reading journal, otherwise I'm not accepting it at all."
"I will. Thanks Greta."
After school I waited. No Raoul. No George.
Grumpily, I packed up my stuff, and rehearsed in my head the conversations that I imagined ensuing the next day. "But I forgot!" "You must think I'm so stupid, Raoul..." They ALWAYS do this. Stupid peeing puppy dogs.
As I was driving away from the school, I saw the two of them along with some of their friends out of the corner of my eye, all waiting for their Metro bus. I whipped my car around in a U-turn and pulled up alongside the curb. Their eyes got big. I rolled down my window and smiled cheerfully.
"Raoul! George! I just wanted to let you know that you can slide your stuff under the door!"
"What...?" Raoul asked.
"When you go back to the classroom to turn in your reading journal. Because you were planning on doing that, right? Just go ahead, and slide it under the door!"
George untangled himself from the female he'd been draping. "What? You need my reading journal?"
"No, I need your in-class assignment, and Raoul's journal."
"Do you need anything from ME?!" their friend asked in panic.
"No Jose, you're fine."
Raoul had pulled his coat up over his grinning face. George turned to him, "Dude, I'm not done with mine."
"Or you can just give it to me now," I told Raoul.
"Noo... I'll go back and turn it in..." he said, grinning in spite of himself.
"Alright then. See you later!"
And I whipped my car back around and sped off. Lesson to me? No more allowing these boys to "turn things in at the end of the day." Lesson to them? I can, and will, HUNT THEM DOWN.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Feedback
Andre--
I've seen good work from you, but this does not show what you're capable of doing. Viola and I have given you a LOT of extensions, and extra help, and grade boosts this year, but it's time you stepped up.
I know what you COULD be and I know what you CAN do. But being that and doing that are choices that you have to make.
Hope you do.
Grade: 54/100
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Theo--
This is what I think:
1.) You are a GIFTED writer. Many exclamation points.
2.) It seems like you will expound and dive in to prompts that INTEREST you, but only make half-hearted (at best?) efforts at prompts that don't.
3.) I suggest you be pro-active about this. If you don't like a prompt, talk to Viola or me about coming up with a "Theo Special" that you can actually sink your teeth into. (Are you looking into [name of an alternative school] for next year? That kind of student-led curriculum seems tailor-made for a smarty-pants like you.) (I mean that in a good way.)
4.) Don't NOT talk to us about coming up with a Theo Special because you think a Theo Special might mean more work. You are a GIFTED, TALENTED WRITER but we can't help you get better if you turn in lame responses to (what you may consider) lame prompts.
5.) Also, just, "in the real world" FYI... You WILL have to B.S. good writing to lame prompts. Sometimes, you'll just have to suck it up-- and it will benefit you to do so.
6.) But in the meantime-- let's get you writing about stuff you're genuinely interested in. Because the results are superb.
Okay?
Grade: 86/100
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Isaac, we've given you SO many second chances in this class... After you re-took the essay final, you told me you were going to start doing your best work the FIRST time around... But you only have 2 freewrites out of 5. :(
I'm disappointed Isaac-- I know you can do better than this.
Grade: 28/100
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Sothini is an African immigrant who is an English Language Learner.
Sothini-- you are a beautiful writer! Your language mechanics still have a little ways to go, but you've already vastly improved since the beginning of the year, and I am SO impressed with your descriptions, poetic phrasing, and analogies. Keep it up girl-- you are a WRITER!!
Grade: 87/100
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Wish I could have read your thoughts on the last two freewrites, Eduardo.
My opinion? You should go to college and major in creative writing. You've got a perceptive mind and a heart that KNOWS things. If you got your motivation up to speed, you'd be unstoppable.
I'D buy a book with your name on it.
Grade: 65/100
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I posted Amanda's thoughts about true love in an earlier blog.
Amanda-- I just have to say that I was so moved after reading the story about your dad-- especially when thinking about the sweet, positive, kind girl that it happened to. I mistook your cheerful spirit for naivete, thinking that maybe you just hadn't experienced real heartbreak yet-- but I see that life has been tough on you already. I'm so sorry for that. :( But I feel that much more impressed by your lovely, hopeful demeanor. Hang on to that hope Amanda-- life continues to be alternately stormy and beautiful, but HOPE is a life preserver that will help you stay afloat; it is one of the truest, most steadfast gifts we will ever have. Remember, in the darkest times, that light is around the corner-- and YOU have the kind of eyes that will find it.
I love your heart Amanda. You inspire me! :)
Grade: 98/100
I've seen good work from you, but this does not show what you're capable of doing. Viola and I have given you a LOT of extensions, and extra help, and grade boosts this year, but it's time you stepped up.
I know what you COULD be and I know what you CAN do. But being that and doing that are choices that you have to make.
Hope you do.
Grade: 54/100
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Theo--
This is what I think:
1.) You are a GIFTED writer. Many exclamation points.
2.) It seems like you will expound and dive in to prompts that INTEREST you, but only make half-hearted (at best?) efforts at prompts that don't.
3.) I suggest you be pro-active about this. If you don't like a prompt, talk to Viola or me about coming up with a "Theo Special" that you can actually sink your teeth into. (Are you looking into [name of an alternative school] for next year? That kind of student-led curriculum seems tailor-made for a smarty-pants like you.) (I mean that in a good way.)
4.) Don't NOT talk to us about coming up with a Theo Special because you think a Theo Special might mean more work. You are a GIFTED, TALENTED WRITER but we can't help you get better if you turn in lame responses to (what you may consider) lame prompts.
5.) Also, just, "in the real world" FYI... You WILL have to B.S. good writing to lame prompts. Sometimes, you'll just have to suck it up-- and it will benefit you to do so.
6.) But in the meantime-- let's get you writing about stuff you're genuinely interested in. Because the results are superb.
Okay?
Grade: 86/100
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Isaac, we've given you SO many second chances in this class... After you re-took the essay final, you told me you were going to start doing your best work the FIRST time around... But you only have 2 freewrites out of 5. :(
I'm disappointed Isaac-- I know you can do better than this.
Grade: 28/100
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Sothini is an African immigrant who is an English Language Learner.
Sothini-- you are a beautiful writer! Your language mechanics still have a little ways to go, but you've already vastly improved since the beginning of the year, and I am SO impressed with your descriptions, poetic phrasing, and analogies. Keep it up girl-- you are a WRITER!!
Grade: 87/100
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Wish I could have read your thoughts on the last two freewrites, Eduardo.
My opinion? You should go to college and major in creative writing. You've got a perceptive mind and a heart that KNOWS things. If you got your motivation up to speed, you'd be unstoppable.
I'D buy a book with your name on it.
Grade: 65/100
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I posted Amanda's thoughts about true love in an earlier blog.
Amanda-- I just have to say that I was so moved after reading the story about your dad-- especially when thinking about the sweet, positive, kind girl that it happened to. I mistook your cheerful spirit for naivete, thinking that maybe you just hadn't experienced real heartbreak yet-- but I see that life has been tough on you already. I'm so sorry for that. :( But I feel that much more impressed by your lovely, hopeful demeanor. Hang on to that hope Amanda-- life continues to be alternately stormy and beautiful, but HOPE is a life preserver that will help you stay afloat; it is one of the truest, most steadfast gifts we will ever have. Remember, in the darkest times, that light is around the corner-- and YOU have the kind of eyes that will find it.
I love your heart Amanda. You inspire me! :)
Grade: 98/100
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Disentangling
Written Jan. 27th 2009
Taught all day today and feel a bit knackered. I'm supposed to be responding to my grad school classmates in an online discussion right now, but I need to hit the refresh button on my brain first.
Therefore:
Blogging.
(When I first wrote 'blogging,' I wrote 'boggling' which would not be an inaccurate description of current self.)
Last week, I snapped at this boy named Chris. Chris is one of a few students that I think of as "peeing puppy dogs." They're totally adorable, but totally frustrating-- never getting their work in, making low efforts when they do, and plus, they lie all the time or tell stories to get out of stuff. Think of a little brown-eyed pup grinning up at you with this disarming expression... while pissing all over your new carpet.
"Chris, what is this?"
"My in-class essay."
"Yeah... but... you wrote a paragraph."
(Shrugs and grins.)
"And you brought it in 10 minutes early. You could have spent 10 more minutes on this. You know that we're looking for like five paragraphs, right?"
"I guess." (Grins.)
"Chris, this is lame."
(Laughs sheepishly and shrugs.)
"You can do so much better than this. This is seriously lame."
"Sorry..." (Grin.)
I heaved an angry sigh, and threw down his paper on the table. "Go sit down."
And he shuffled off to his desk.
I immediately felt guilty. Why didn't I leave it on an inspirational note? Is he really going to try harder if I just tell him he's lame?
After class I tried again.
"Chris. I don't want to just leave this by telling you you're lame. I think what you DID on that test is lame, because I know you can do better than that. Viola and I can't help you get better if you don't try. It's like basketball practice. If you show up and just sit on the bench, we're never going to be able to give you helpful pointers to improve your game. You HAVE to try. I really believe you can do better than this, and we can HELP you be a better writer if you GIVE that to us. Okay?"
He grinned shyly. "Okay." Then he paused. "Um... Greta? Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," I said, smiling. Finally. He gets it. This is one of those great moments.
But he burst my bubble. "How are your FEET so small?" he said, wrinkling his nose, and grinning.
ARGH. Today he wasn't even trying to be cute: he was just contrary and apathetic and rude. I thought to myself, "You're not even the peeing puppy today. You're diarrhea puppy." So I put him outside. When I went out in the hall to talk to him later on, he told me that there was, "a lot of drama going on, and he was just sick of it." I told him that I understood drama could make things frustrating, and that I would try to go easy on him-- but that he needed to meet me halfway. Who even knows if he was telling the truth. I know he doesn't have it easy. But does he have it as hard as he'd like me to think?
When I drove home today, I felt tired. It had just been a long day. I still feel tired.
Two songs came on the radio. First, "Washed by the Water," by Needtobreathe. Second, "Revelation," by Third Day. Both songs had been put on a "Hope" playlist, which had been created during a very stressful time of my life.
I remembered a picture I'd gotten in my head once, during that time. In my head, I pictured myself on a dark beach, sitting on packed sand with my knees clutched to my chest. On the shoreline in front of me, I saw endless piles of garbage. The sky over the ocean was dark grey and stormy-- but beneath that sky, there hovered a large, bluish spirit. She guided the waves in and out, to the rhythm of my breathing. In, and they washed up over the garbage, stopping just short of my toes. Out, and they took some of the garbage with them-- pulling cans and old plastic wrappers away to hide forever in the ocean's secret deep. She continued to guide the waves: in, and out. In and out. And piece by piece, the shoreline began to clear.
Then I pictured someone close to me-- someone that I've been worried about. It was Christmas morning in this picture, but this person wasn't celebrating. She was wrapped in string-- tangled up in so many strings, and each one was a spot of pitch from her past experiences, her burdened living that wouldn't let her go. One was her relationship with her dad-- and there were memory strings and conversation strings and disappointment strings knotted with just that one. One was her negative body image, and knotted there were magazine strings, and media strings, and comment strings, and mirror strings, and cruel self-thought strings. There were strings of financial stress, and strings of worldly expectations, and strings of an unknown fearsome future-- there were so MANY. So many: so so many. And she was so tangled.
But God was in the room-- it was Jesus this morning, but He wasn't His Christmas-baby self. He was a grown up, wearing khaki pants, and a brown sweater vest with a brown tie, and he had his sleeves rolled up. I don't know about His face, but it was a soft expression. And when He focused on the strings, they began to snap-- one, by one, by one. And she slowly gained movement. The strings began to untangle, and she became more and more free.
And then the picture went back to the beach. But this time, the sky was clear and blue. There was no storm; only a soft breeze. I was on my feet, in a white dress, and my head was up, and my shoulders were back. The beach was clear: it was only soft bleached sand for as far as I could see. I began walking along the beach, feeling that breeze whisper around my neck and through my hair, and I felt such a deep peace, and such a pure joy, and such a real freedom. And though I didn't see Him yet, I knew that God was walking towards me.
And I thought, "In the end-- it's just Him. We begin as free souls-- and we end as free souls. We become so burdened in the meantime. But He frees us from the garbage-- He frees us from the tangling. In the end it's all clear-- it's just that long, white beach."
Since then, when feeling overwhelmed or stressed, I picture those waves coming in over that litter-ridden shore, and pulling it out, bit by bit. And I breathe to the rhythm of the waves in my mind. Today, when driving home, I pictured Chris. And I pictured him all tangled up. And I thought, "They ARE all tangled up-- every one of them. They're so burdened and tangled and confined." I thought of Isaac, and Andre, and K, and all the kids I've mentioned over the last six months, and all the tough things I've discovered that they face every day.
Maybe my mission as a teacher is simply to help them with the disentangling. I know I can't articulate that in words like Jesus, or God-- at least not in public schools-- but I can articulate it through kindness, and encouragement, and belief, and respect-- even in ceaseless beleaguering. I can articulate it with words like Hope, and Freedom, and Peace, and Future. I can try to show them love that looks like a cleansing wave, or a snapped string, or a long white beach.
Taught all day today and feel a bit knackered. I'm supposed to be responding to my grad school classmates in an online discussion right now, but I need to hit the refresh button on my brain first.
Therefore:
Blogging.
(When I first wrote 'blogging,' I wrote 'boggling' which would not be an inaccurate description of current self.)
Last week, I snapped at this boy named Chris. Chris is one of a few students that I think of as "peeing puppy dogs." They're totally adorable, but totally frustrating-- never getting their work in, making low efforts when they do, and plus, they lie all the time or tell stories to get out of stuff. Think of a little brown-eyed pup grinning up at you with this disarming expression... while pissing all over your new carpet.
"Chris, what is this?"
"My in-class essay."
"Yeah... but... you wrote a paragraph."
(Shrugs and grins.)
"And you brought it in 10 minutes early. You could have spent 10 more minutes on this. You know that we're looking for like five paragraphs, right?"
"I guess." (Grins.)
"Chris, this is lame."
(Laughs sheepishly and shrugs.)
"You can do so much better than this. This is seriously lame."
"Sorry..." (Grin.)
I heaved an angry sigh, and threw down his paper on the table. "Go sit down."
And he shuffled off to his desk.
I immediately felt guilty. Why didn't I leave it on an inspirational note? Is he really going to try harder if I just tell him he's lame?
After class I tried again.
"Chris. I don't want to just leave this by telling you you're lame. I think what you DID on that test is lame, because I know you can do better than that. Viola and I can't help you get better if you don't try. It's like basketball practice. If you show up and just sit on the bench, we're never going to be able to give you helpful pointers to improve your game. You HAVE to try. I really believe you can do better than this, and we can HELP you be a better writer if you GIVE that to us. Okay?"
He grinned shyly. "Okay." Then he paused. "Um... Greta? Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," I said, smiling. Finally. He gets it. This is one of those great moments.
But he burst my bubble. "How are your FEET so small?" he said, wrinkling his nose, and grinning.
ARGH. Today he wasn't even trying to be cute: he was just contrary and apathetic and rude. I thought to myself, "You're not even the peeing puppy today. You're diarrhea puppy." So I put him outside. When I went out in the hall to talk to him later on, he told me that there was, "a lot of drama going on, and he was just sick of it." I told him that I understood drama could make things frustrating, and that I would try to go easy on him-- but that he needed to meet me halfway. Who even knows if he was telling the truth. I know he doesn't have it easy. But does he have it as hard as he'd like me to think?
When I drove home today, I felt tired. It had just been a long day. I still feel tired.
Two songs came on the radio. First, "Washed by the Water," by Needtobreathe. Second, "Revelation," by Third Day. Both songs had been put on a "Hope" playlist, which had been created during a very stressful time of my life.
I remembered a picture I'd gotten in my head once, during that time. In my head, I pictured myself on a dark beach, sitting on packed sand with my knees clutched to my chest. On the shoreline in front of me, I saw endless piles of garbage. The sky over the ocean was dark grey and stormy-- but beneath that sky, there hovered a large, bluish spirit. She guided the waves in and out, to the rhythm of my breathing. In, and they washed up over the garbage, stopping just short of my toes. Out, and they took some of the garbage with them-- pulling cans and old plastic wrappers away to hide forever in the ocean's secret deep. She continued to guide the waves: in, and out. In and out. And piece by piece, the shoreline began to clear.
Then I pictured someone close to me-- someone that I've been worried about. It was Christmas morning in this picture, but this person wasn't celebrating. She was wrapped in string-- tangled up in so many strings, and each one was a spot of pitch from her past experiences, her burdened living that wouldn't let her go. One was her relationship with her dad-- and there were memory strings and conversation strings and disappointment strings knotted with just that one. One was her negative body image, and knotted there were magazine strings, and media strings, and comment strings, and mirror strings, and cruel self-thought strings. There were strings of financial stress, and strings of worldly expectations, and strings of an unknown fearsome future-- there were so MANY. So many: so so many. And she was so tangled.
But God was in the room-- it was Jesus this morning, but He wasn't His Christmas-baby self. He was a grown up, wearing khaki pants, and a brown sweater vest with a brown tie, and he had his sleeves rolled up. I don't know about His face, but it was a soft expression. And when He focused on the strings, they began to snap-- one, by one, by one. And she slowly gained movement. The strings began to untangle, and she became more and more free.
And then the picture went back to the beach. But this time, the sky was clear and blue. There was no storm; only a soft breeze. I was on my feet, in a white dress, and my head was up, and my shoulders were back. The beach was clear: it was only soft bleached sand for as far as I could see. I began walking along the beach, feeling that breeze whisper around my neck and through my hair, and I felt such a deep peace, and such a pure joy, and such a real freedom. And though I didn't see Him yet, I knew that God was walking towards me.
And I thought, "In the end-- it's just Him. We begin as free souls-- and we end as free souls. We become so burdened in the meantime. But He frees us from the garbage-- He frees us from the tangling. In the end it's all clear-- it's just that long, white beach."
Since then, when feeling overwhelmed or stressed, I picture those waves coming in over that litter-ridden shore, and pulling it out, bit by bit. And I breathe to the rhythm of the waves in my mind. Today, when driving home, I pictured Chris. And I pictured him all tangled up. And I thought, "They ARE all tangled up-- every one of them. They're so burdened and tangled and confined." I thought of Isaac, and Andre, and K, and all the kids I've mentioned over the last six months, and all the tough things I've discovered that they face every day.
Maybe my mission as a teacher is simply to help them with the disentangling. I know I can't articulate that in words like Jesus, or God-- at least not in public schools-- but I can articulate it through kindness, and encouragement, and belief, and respect-- even in ceaseless beleaguering. I can articulate it with words like Hope, and Freedom, and Peace, and Future. I can try to show them love that looks like a cleansing wave, or a snapped string, or a long white beach.
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