Posted on

Writers Reading Writing Week.

No, I do not have hero-worship of Neil Gaiman. (Liar.)

Ever have one of those units of study that just globs along in the back of your mind? Well, after reading aloud this week* this thought inspired me: Why not create a mini-unit of writers reading their reading? I am constantly stressing to my students that writing is talking: and they can all do that. We are just beginning to really dig into the writer’s workshop protocols. I was asked two days’ ago what “writer’s workshop” model I use – I didn’t have a prescribed answer. I use the one from the Puget Sound Writing Project, part of the National Writing Project. It’s designed to create, first and foremost, a safe place for writers. I am so comfortable with it, I supposed, because of my fine art’s background. Throwing a painting in progress or sketch up on the wall for your peers to see is risky: I developed my diplomatic critiquing style from these days.

So: I need to throw this idea up on the wall and see if it sticks: Each day for two weeks (yes, there’s an assembly on Friday, earthquake drill, [not taken lightly – we do live in a dangerous geographical area] I will continue to read out loud, and have students listen to other writers reading out loud. We will continue to work on annotating text, and the text will be in conjunction with author’s voices. How would you approach this? Would you have them read the text cold, as a pre-assessment of comprehension, and check for their understanding after they hear the writer? I’m thinking Neil Gaiman reading Instructions would be especially good. (Wonder if I can find a version of him reading Chivalry, one of my favorite short stories? Or should I just put on black T-shirt and speak in a British accent?)

Ultimately, I want them to find their own voices. And since that is the big questions: “What are you trying to say, in your own words?”, they will write and then — speak.

Not quite sure what that rubric should matrix*, though.

What we say and feel doesn’t always fit in a box.

*Comments from students the past few weeks: This class is easy, it’s fun, do we have to go to our next class? I’m not trying to cause divisiveness; I just love reading and writing–dang, I love my job.

*Did I just make matrix into a verb? I am so confused.

Posted on

WIHWT: What prompted this?


Treated you like a rusty blade
A throwaway from an open grave
Cut you loose from a chain gang
And let you go
And on the day you said it’s true
Some love holds, some gets used
Tried to tell you I never knew
It could be so sweet
Who could ever be so cruel,
Blame the devil for the things you do
It’s such a selfish way to lose
The way you lose these wasted blues
These wasted blues
Tell me that it’s nobody’s fault
Nobody’s fault
But my own
That it’s nobody’s fault
Nobody’s fault
But my own
When the moon is a counterfeit
Better find the one that fits
Better find the one that lights
The way for you
When the road is full of nails,
Garbage pails and darkened jails
And their tongues
Are full of heartless tales
That drain on you
Who would ever notice you
You fade into a shaded room
It’s such a selfish way to lose
The way you lose these wasted blues
These wasted blues
Tell me that it’s nobody’s fault

Nobody’s fault But my own
Tell me that it’s nobody’s fault
Nobody’s fault
But my own tell me that it’s nobody’s fault
Nobody’s fault
But my own tell me that it’s nobody’s fault
Nobody’s fault
But my own
Tell me that it’s nobody’s fault
Nobody’s fault
But my own
Tell me that it’s nobody’s fault
Nobody’s fault

Nobody’s Fault But My Own: Campbell/Beck

Posted on

3:31

I wrote this post in my head yesterday, and now have a moment to give it its attention. (I am certain there are whole novels in my mind, if I could just drop them in a pensieve.)

Here’s the thing about this year; it is my fifth year of teaching. As my older son said this summer, just like in the fifth book of the Harry Potter series, it’s a long, exhaustive year, but a pivotal one for Potter’s narrative, as it is mine. It has been a year of change, surprises, curve balls, and the like, more so than normal. And one huge change is a choice I have made: I am going to put my family first for awhile.

Shocking, I know.

My own family really needs me. Over the years, they have supported my autopsy-esque turning myself inside out for work and career. I won’t say I am or was a workaholic, because to me that suggests a certain compulsiveness that overrides passion. I was (and am sure still am) very passionate about teaching. I am not sure if it’s erosion, dimensioned expectations, or regrouping, but after these years at the same tough middle school, and the two years of ‘teacher boot camp’ while earning my Masters, the summers of writing workshops, trainings, organizing, and yes…doing my National Boards last year (and having to redo Entry #1 again), I have put my family through a lot. I have put myself through a lot. I gained weight, didn’t play, and didn’t breathe.

In the past, I never understood those teachers who were so protective of their contractual day. I was always there with my hand up, willing to help, sponsoring say, the Anime Club (which I still miss), and spending hours cleaning my classroom, organizing lessons, filling out scope and sequence charts, and creating epically imaginative and engaging lessons. Saturdays? Just another chance for me to get the building key and come in a work for a few hours while my husband could handle home duties. (I probably shouldn’t say that laundry didn’t get done, or any other domestic chores -those were still mine; but he is a wonderful husband and father, and never once said to me “stay home.”)

A few teachers enjoy the matyrdom of sacrifice, while others simply relish the hours spent, unpaid, volunteering, with students to change the world. (Albeit many of these teachers do not have children of their own–not a judgment, just an observation.) I’m not sure where I fit in anymore.

This year, I cannot find the time for my family, myself, and the litany of demands, unless I take control over my day. Both my children are participating in music: one I drive in the morning, the other needs to be picked up in the afternoon. My husband reminds me that one reason I went into this field was so I could still ‘be a mom’ and have a job I loved too. I let that love imbalance me.

When I am teaching, my students know they are my priority. I see them. Yesterday a new student gave me an Orange Crush. For those of you who do not teach in tough, highly diverse schools, you may not “get” that the offering of food=love. My Samoan students call me  Mrs. Alofa (Love). (I apologize for the transliteration) and hold out sacks of Cheetos during reading time (I told them if they really love me, because I’ve lost weight, they won’t tempt me.) (And PLEASE – I did bring in some whole-grain, gluten free crackers I bought at Costco…)

Yesterday  they wanted me to continue reading The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie. (Yes, it’s rated PG13; I didn’t say the rough words out loud, and I have permission slips from their parents- calm down). I did read Chapter 2. It is the toughest thing I can read out loud. I cry, my words choke, and though many friends say I am a “pretty crier,” (whatever that means – I guess when my brown eyes well up, I look good?), my students see me turn myself inside-out. It’s a chapter about the futility of poverty. It’s about the death of a best friend. It’s about parents who want to give their child everything, but are weakened by their broken dreams. (I dare anyone to try to read that chapter out loud and not cry.) That level of emotion–they know I am honest with them, care about them, and do what it takes to ensure that their dreams aren’t wasted by doing everything I can to empower them: THIS IS WHY YOU READ. THIS IS WHY YOU LEARN, and TALK, and HOPE, and THINK.

And at the end of the day, I have chosen to not throw my own life on the pyre: it is not a choice bewteen the fruits of the land or the livestock. I don’t want to bear the mark of Cain. I just want to go home and make dinner.

So I need to go at 3:31. At least this year.

Postscript: Another acknowledgment to the betryal of teachers in our nation. We just want to work. We don’t want to be millionaires. We are taking nothing from you.

Posted on

WIHWT: Tough read-alouds

“I wanted to run faster than the speed of sound, but nobody, no matter how much pain they’re in, can run that fast. So I heard the boom of my father’s rifle when he shot my best friend.

A bullet only costs about two cents, and anybody can afford that.”

From: The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie.

Not sure I can read that chapter aloud again.

http://www.nea.org/readacross

Posted on

Por favor, empiesa a lear

I have said it once, I’ll say it again: I am at a distinct disadvantage being mono-lingual. Five or six years of French in high school and college barely left me with “Ou est la biblioteque?”

I love reminding my Spanish-speaking students that I am lost: asking a student today how do you say “Please read” in Spanish had them rolling on the floor laughing because I could not roll my R’s at the end of ‘lear’ as fluently as they (as fluently? Who am I kidding? More like, I think I just called your grandmother a donkey by mistake!)

With a bit more practice and patience I got it, and they were so proud of my success and their teaching skills. Just a reminder that sometimes showing how we (adults/teachers) make mistakes and take risks is so critical to building trust: and you know what? Once I said it well, they were justifiably proud. Gracias, estudiantes.

Postscript: http://radiolingua.com/shows/spanish/coffee-break-spanish/