I shared this personal narrative today during our College Comp Gallery Walk. Every student brought a piece to share, and together we provided positive feedback using Post-Its. It was a great experience for our learning community. Because I'm stressing the idea of authentic audience with my students, I decided I would share with my authentic blog audience as well. The rhythm pulsates. The band moves in sync. The steady beat of the bass drum echos my heartbeat. This is live music. My arms lift up like they aren’t my own. I close my eyes, allowing my mind to rest. Every note, every harmony, every strum. I am completely here, in this moment, with my husband by my side. I reach down to grab his hand. Our fingers intertwine perfectly without thought, and I squeeze. No, it’s not a dream. The music takes me over, reaches out through me. I don’t know all the words, but I don’t have to. My feet pound out the beat of the drum. This, to me, is worship, a psalm of David, a holy moment. As the crowd’s voices rise around me, I think, “Yes, I am standing on holy ground.” “When my time comes around, lay me gently in the cold dark earth. No grave can hold my body down. I’ll crawl back to her.” ----- Our relationship began with a lie. “Did you make that hat?” he asked, examining the golden knit hat I was wearing to protect my head from the frigid cold as we waited for the concert venue doors to open. “Um, yes, yes, I did,” I fibbed, wanting so desperately to impress this handsome stranger. “That’s cool.” I blushed, and so it began. “I hope we sit together when Jesus serves the wine so I can look into your eyes when I taste it the first time.” Later I had to admit that no, I didn’t know how to knit. But by that time he liked me for more than my cute hats. In the meantime I had learned to knit, and my first hat was a gift to the handsome stranger who would become my boyfriend and then my husband. After that first Waterdeep concert, we attended many. Live music was the catalyst for our love that first night at the New Earth in Kansas City, and it became clear in the early days of our relationship that music was also the fire that would keep us burning. “You are beautiful my sweet, sweet song. I will sing it again.” ----- We traveled to Chicago for the Swell Season, drove to Nashville for Over the Rhine, and stood at the front of the stage in Omaha for Bon Iver. Music was the backbone of our relationship. We cooked dinner together listening to Frank Sinatra or singing along to “Skinny Love.” On road trips we listened to favorite songs on repeat, memorizing the harmonies, drumming on the steering wheel, singing obnoxiously loud. We were just an audience of two, after all. “I told you to be patient. I told you to be fine. I told you to be balanced. I told you to be kind.” ----- And then we became parents. While the music to that stage of life wasn’t heard live, the soundtrack was still there. On the day we received permission to travel to Ethiopia to bring our sons home, we blared Waterdeep again, this time a song from their newest album. Their lyrics washed over us as we cried and hugged in the sunlit living room. We were becoming parents, and Waterdeep knew the perfect words that we needed to hear at that overwhelming moment and many moments to come in our early days of parenting. “It’s alright, alright, though it seems like a dark night in your dreams.” Suddenly, our time no longer belonged to us. Weekend soccer games, homework after school, and earlier bedtimes became our new rhythm. Instead of dancing in front of the stage, we danced in the kitchen. Instead of late nights in big city venues, the crickets sang a lullaby from the back porch. Instead of the Beirut or Indigo Girls station on Pandora, I was listening to Maroon 5 or Today’s Hit Radio. My life still had a soundtrack, but some of the tracks were unrecognizable, written in a genre I wouldn’t pick for myself. Looking back, though, I can now see that the music was always there. The preferred Pandora stations changed, and we went for years without going to a concert, but our house is rarely silent. A rhythm always pulses; the beat perseveres. Our children are being raised with music. But while I love my sons with every fibre of my being and like mothers everywhere I make sacrifices for my children, I slowly felt myself losing sight of myself. I rarely spent time getting lost in my own music while strumming a guitar or pounding out some chords on the out-of-tune piano. My time was spent helping with homework and doing the dishes and planning lessons and grading papers. I was a mother and a teacher, but gradually my roles as wife and woman grew foggier. I wasn’t done fighting for that, though. Nearly four years after becoming a mother, I again found myself at a concert with my husband. Getting there was a bit more complicated as we had to beg my sister to take the boys overnight. I also discovered that my more middle-aged body struggles to stay up until midnight. But still, we made it to see Hozier in St. Paul. In a strange way, as I sat in that auditorium letting his lyrics saturate my work-weary mind, I felt simultaneously like the middle-aged mother I was and the young girl I was when I first met my husband. I was 22 and 36; a carefree young woman and a mother of two. I was facing a wide-open future and looking back on years of struggles and joys. It was Waterdeep and Hozier, Bon Iver and Over the Rhine. “We lay here for years or for hours, your hand in my hand, so still and discrete.” The next day as we drove home from St. Paul, we listened to Hozier’s macabre love song, “In a Week” on repeat. We memorized the harmonies and talked about love and life and death. “You know, if the boys were here,” I began, “ we wouldn’t be able to do this. Jude would freak if we listened to a song on repeat.” “Yeah,” Chris laughed. “And we would have been interrupted about 47 times by now.” So we continued to sing and listen and talk and dream. But the silence from the backseat wasn’t exactly welcome as I realized I missed the chatter and bickering that usually echoes up when we’re all in the car together. “It was good to be away, to hear the music again,” I sighed. “Yep, and it will be good to be back home again.” I smiled at the blur of trees passing by my window.
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It’s time to start research writing in College Comp again. I will be completely honest: typically I dread this time of the semester. Students pick topics they are genuinely interested in, I push them to choose scholarly journal articles using the college database, they struggle to comprehend these articles, and then they force out pages of painful, dry writing.
It hurts all of us. This year I want to switch things up. I’m thinking back to my favorite writing experiences from college and beyond: the screenplay based on Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants,” the personal essay about the ending of a cherished friendship, the poem reflecting on my childhood on the farm, a deeply personal blog post about my struggles with post-adoption depression. Many of those writing experiences involved research of some kind, and they were all rich in ideas, but none of them followed the formulaic format of The Research Paper. Many years ago under the tutelage of the late Dr. Bill Broz, I wrote a multigenre paper about my development as a literary person. I included old photos, dialogue, poetry, a letter. The writing was rich in meaning, the experience itself memorable. I want to offer my College Comp students that same opportunity, to delve into rich meaning while playing with nontraditional forms. I want to frame the unit around a short informative essay while including other genres as well. Research will still be a component, but the end product won’t be so stifling. I want them to choose topics that really matter to them, that push them to take risks. But then this nagging voice enters: It’s not academic enough. They won’t learn the skills needed for college success. Not all writing needs to be engaging and enjoyable. Today I’m telling that voice to be silent and I’m getting to work on redefining this important unit. I would be so grateful for feedback, examples, and shared experiences of other teachers. Today was the National Day on Writing, sponsored by the National Writing Project. Last year I wrote this in honor of the day. I have approximately 76 blog posts bubbling under the surface here: an update on my reticent class, a tribute to the beauty of imitation poems, a reflection on some drastic teaching changes I've made, etc. Those posts will wait for another day, though. In honor of the National Day on Writing, we participated in an all-period writing marathon in College Comp. I gave 100 one-word prompts, set the timer, and let my young writers free. At the end of class, everyone chose something to share. You can find all of their responses here. Blake wrote this lovely poem: Tree After that first life-bearing seed fills the ground with gnarly roots and your initial leaf breathes that fresh spring air, After that strong summer storm fills the sky with lightening and rain, your branches stretch so far that you almost touch the dark clouds above, After that first piece of bark fills with a blackened mold and falls to the ground so lightly that nobody hears or sees, You whisper your last goodbye Before another seed takes your place. Carson wrote this stormy description: One. The first drop hits and is muffled by the blanket of dust that covers this world; blurring trees, rocks, people, into one immeasurable void. Two. Three. They hit in quick succession, puncturing the sand. Four. Five. Six. An increase in pace reveals the true secrets of the desert. Dust turns to silt and is washed away, brown fading to reveal every shade of foliage imaginable. These are the colors that make one fear God, for no man could match such beauty. Seven. Thunder cracks and the mountains answer, echoing his call. Eight. Blinding light allows for a single glimpse of a mesquite tree, smoldering and broken. Metal permeates the air. Another flash. Nine. The wind screams, ripping the fabric of the world as earth and sky rise to meet each other, boiling, dwarfing mountains. This is nature: unimaginable, uncontrollable, universal. The world pitches black. Ten. The last drop lands and the skies recede. Calm, blue, peaceful; once again baking the earth. Little is left behind as evidence of the storm, save a slight rumbling of frogs up from the riverbed, birthed by the storm. Graced in God's green with thunder in their throats. Tyler played around with fiction: My car was as black as night and more menacing than the dark knight. That's actually the reason I bought the car. Upon buying it though, I found it's more than just a car... It sounds crazy, but it's alive. Every morning it's in the same spot that I left it the night before, but something is always a little off. I came to the realization that it's alive while I was detailing the car and found drops of blood in the door jam. I looked to my hands fully expecting a cut to be there, but I was fine. It wasn't my blood. I drove to my parents house for our usual Sunday supper and was watching the news just before I left for home. I saw a car similar to mine cause a fatal accident and then drive away. The blood drained from my face instantly. My mom innocently commented "Wow! That looks just like you car." The words "Grim Reaper" were written in red on the windshield. I left right then and there. I went outside and the car was sitting there as if nothing happened. I drove home and decided to sleep it off and hope it was actually all a dream. The next morning I woke to find the car sitting in the driveway exactly like I had left it. I checked the news and nothing involving the car was there. It was all a dream. I got in the car and drove to work as I normally do. Relief covered by body as I was about to get out of the car. It was all a dream. I pulled the door handle to get out, but it was locked. I unlocked the car and tried again. Still locked. I tried the passenger door. Still locked. Just then, blood started dripping down the windshield spelling the words "Grim Reaper". The car started moving while I was frantically trying to escape. I tried stopping it, but it was no use. I was going to experience whatever the car wanted me to. After that point all that I can recall are the thuds and screams of the "Grim Reaper" claiming its victims. Bailey dipped his toe in fiction, too: Lucas stopped dead in his tracks. Near the bottom off the stairs was his father. Fear gripped his heart as his father's gaze went over him. His father's eyes were cold , like dark pool simply reflecting the image of the boy in front of him. His father sighed then walked out the door. Rachel wrote this reflection: I work until the late hours, because there's never enough time in the day. I work late because I persevere, quit, and pick it up again. I work late because I am an artist. An artist who dreams. And Megan, well, Megan wrote about writing: It was the 20th of October in the year 2015. Megan had just entered Mrs. Witt's classroom. As she made her way to her usual seat, she let out a sigh of relief. The room had a cool breeze, which was very refreshing after Megan's previous class, Adventure P.E., where she had just finished playing a very competitive game. Megan started to feel not so regretful about wearing a cardigan over a long sleeved shirt. And so Megan took her seat. She opened up her school-issued computer, and was greeted by a Google Chrome window with over 10 tabs open, all associated with her college plans. Although Megan was still unsure about what she wanted to do or where she wanted to go, she continued in the application process. But Megan did not want to think about college, so she shut her computer abruptly. Mrs. Witt entered with a bounce in her step, her shade-of-purple skirt adding an intense pop of color to the otherwise dull, neutral front area of the classroom. Megan noticed that the other students in the classroom still continued to chatter until they realized it was time for class to begin. Mrs. Witt walked around the room quickly, slipping small sheets of paper in front of each student. Megan reached to the top of her table and brought hers closer. The paper revealed a chart titled "100 Writing Prompts Challenge," with a cut off list below it. What could this be for? Megan wondered, her mind spitting out many possibilities. Megan's attention was brought to the front of the room as Mrs. Witt explained what the students would be doing that day for their quick-write. "You can write whatever you want." she exclaimed, "I will set the timer for eight minutes." And so she did. Megan paused, feeling panicked. She had no idea what she was going to write about, and she was terrible at making decisions. She then has a brilliant idea. What if I write about not knowing what to write about? Megan smirked, and began writing. She started off by writing about her experience while she was entering the classroom, and she tried to include as many small details as should could during her time limit. Megan wanted to end her quick-write by simply writing the words "so she stopped" at the very bottom of the paper. Her hand hurt, and although she still had three more minutes, (on a counting clock) she no longer knew what to write about. So she stopped. English 2 - 3rd period Frequently at the end of class I’m told, “Omigosh! Time goes so quickly in here!” That’s music to my English-teaching ears because it means that we’re engaged and learning. While I have a couple of students who require more time and energy, for the most part the class feels like a cohesive whole. We laugh together, share insights together, and learn together. Whether it’s an individual reading conference, a small group discussion, or a whole class activity, I hear the voice of every single student during each class period. As that group leaves my room, I feel energized and enthused about my profession. English 2 - 5th period Despite the lesson plans being exactly the same, this class has no chemistry. Asking a question to the large group results in seeing the name two or three hands raised, no matter what. I call directly on others to hear their voices as well, and I’m often met with shoulder shrugs. While I have some great one-on-one conversations with other students, the class as a whole has no energy. I’ve tried more pair-sharing before discussions. I’ve used new seating arrangements. I’ve tried mixing small groups in different ways. I’ve called on random students to get them involved. Still, I’m predominantly met with silence. It takes much less time to get through materials with this group because the discussion is so lacking, so I often have to come up with other activities. One day we were finished a few minutes early, so I let them sit in their seats and talk. Except there was no talking. It was complete silence until the bell rang. I felt like I have traveled so some strange dystopian land where teenagers no longer spoke out of turn. One boy in this class journaled about his current dislike of English class. Today I sat down next to him during his reading conference and asked for some direct feedback. “What made English class better last year? You won’t hurt my feelings. I’m trying to engage this class more.” “I don’t know,” he responded. “Any ideas why you don’t like English as much this year?” “I don’t know,” he repeated with a shoulder shrug. Ah, the shoulder shrug. At the end of class today I divided the class into groups of three or four to discuss some debatable statements about a story we read together yesterday. Prior to entering the group, students wrote down their own personal responses to ensure that everyone had something to bring to the table, so to speak. As I wandered around the groups, I stopped to witness one student pushing another to share. “What do you think?” he asked. “I disagree,” she answered. “Why?” Shoulder shrug. “But you have something written on your paper. What does it say?” Shoulder shrug. And that, in a silent nutshell, is the class climate I have inadvertently created. (I realize this class is a bit smaller and meets right after lunch. I’m sure those variables are affecting the climate somewhat, but I don’t think that’s the entire problem.) What now? I know some fabulous teachers who might read this. What would you do? Have you ever had a class situation like this? Any fabulous tips that are sure to get these kids talking? Do I distribute peppermints before class each day to get our energy renewed? Do I start each day with a game or song and dance routine? Can I convert myself into an interactive hologram? Should I make discussion more weighty in their grades? (That feels tricky, but I guess it’s worth a shot.) Anyone have luck with the Harkness discussion method? Please help. This silence is driving me to desperation. |
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