Open a document.
Watch the cursor blink. (What if there is someone on other end sending Morse code in those blinks? Does she need help? What can I do?) I can write. I will help by writing: gather some words. Sentences can help, but any words will do. Let her know she's not alone. But first. Open a new tab. Time to check the news. When this all first started, every day felt like a new century with enough news to fill a World War. Now, the stories bleed together, trickles of facts, stats, mask patterns -- creating pools of doctors' warnings, desperate parents, death counts. Too much. Return to the blank document. Find solace in the emptiness. But that blinking cursor still calls for help. The white space stares. A gaping mouth. A never-ending cave. The bottom of the ocean. An overflowing morgue. Maybe that girl behind the Morse-code cursor needs advice: Where should I order takeout from? Will the store have flour this afternoon? When will life return to "normal"? Will my parents stay healthy? Will my kids be okay? But you don't have those answers. Take a deep breath. She's still there, blinking, waiting for your words. They matter. So does she. Bring her to life. Begin to write.
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Rusty pines stretch high over the lake under the finally-blue, afternoon sky. Those towering trees have a Story to tell as they clap their hands in praise. Through breaks in their branches cobalt blue races to the shoreline, pushed by a Force outside of itself -- a rhythmic lullaby of rejoicing. That Force, that Story -- they are also in me. So I, too, sing a song of thanksgiving: For the breath in my lungs, the words flowing from my fingertips, the Truth that I am enough. For the beat of my heart, the laughter leaking from my insides, the Trust that I am loved. Thank You. Amen and amen. Today to start the new year in my classroom, I introduced my students to Naomi Shihab Rye's poem "Burning the Old Year." I reflect on this poem each year at this time, and my hope is that my students can take something away from it as well.
Sometimes in my writing classes we'll do an imitation writing. We learn best by copying the masters, right? One poem I like to introduce my students to is "Learning to love America" by Shirley Geok-Lin Lim. I also like to teach my students by writing with them. Last year at this time, I wrote this imitation. I'm trying to decide now, a year later, if I still feel the same way. I've experienced some inspiring hope in the weeks since the election, but I've also read horrifying news stories, and not the fake kind. America Love (in the style of Shirley Geok-Lin Lim) because its bravado knows no shame because the flat farmland of Iowa makes infinity feel like a possibility and because of mountains and swamps and rivers and oceans because I can use my voice because my sons are now citizens and call this desperate land their own because we all need a place to belong and I want them to know Home because I believe in change because I witness a powerful uprising and because I have to have hope or I would wither up and die because it is time -K. Witt Today in a young adult book
I read a violent rape scene Between two boys in a refugee camp Ariel was victimized. He was robbed and then he himself Became a thief. Isn’t it always about power? Last night I posted a blog About race and protest and my sons And in my blog I poured out my heart And how I was learning and growing And facing my Fear. (Should fear always be capitalized?) And then this afternoon during sixth period I saw it. I stood in the front of my classroom Looking out the sea of white students In front of me, and I saw it. Out my window in the back of a student’s truck A giant confederate flag. (I will not capitalize that word.) I thought of dylan roof. dylan roof would have hated my children. Does this student hate my children? Does he hate me for speaking Truth? (Truth SHOULD always be capitalized.) Did this student place his truck outside my Window today on purpose, To make a statement? Like the boys in my book Does he want power over me? Is that his statement? I will not let him win. I will keep using my voice. I will shout louder. I will raise my fist Or I will kneel. But I will NOT be silent. I am capitalized. **Upon further investigation, the flag in the truck was not a message to me. However, I've seen more of those flags in my little community lately. I'm not a fan, as I've shared before. I share this poem that I wrote, however, as a reminder to myself that I don't need to be controlled by fear. Maybe it was a message you needed to hear, too. Nov. 27: If you could bottle up the perfect day, what would it look like?
Waking up slowly Late enough to feel rested But still a sunrise Coffee with creamer Poised at my round oak table A journal and words A drive through mountains Sun cuts through majestic clouds A winding road chorus A hike with my sons Composing verse with giggles Leaves crunch: perfection Back home with family Injera, berbere, wine Preparing a feast Late night talk with Chris Warm, safe under the covers Nowhere else to be Nov. 24: What are your dreams for education in the future? "You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one..." -John Lennon Imagine a school without grades, where standardized tests are just antiquated methods read about in history books alongside Dick and Jane. Imagine a district with one team, where teachers and admins and board members sit with parents and students, working together. Imagine a system that isn't one-size-fits-all, that caters learning for individual students who then become world-changers. Imagine a curriculum that empowers through reading and writing that can get dirty and open doors and captivate. Imagine a world where equality isn't a mythical creature and your education isn't predetermined by your race or socioeconomic background. Imagine a country that celebrates rather than condemns schools and teachers' time and expertise is valued and the impetus for reform comes from the trenches. Imagine a teacher sitting at her desk, drafting a poem and realizing that she may be part of the problem as well as the solution. Imagine. Nov. 11: What is the most important ‘lesson’ you want to teach your students?
I have to modify this to ONE OF the most important lessons because, well, that's a really big question. In a world where everything competes for their attention -- where opiates and elixirs try to anesthetize, where life is scary and beautiful, threatening and hopeful -- I want my students to learn to speak up to advocate to think for themselves. My one wish would be that they would leave this room with the knowledge -- the sacred knowledge -- that their voice matters, that their words hold weight, that their actions bring change. That they have power. (Because it's really about so much more than iambic pentameter, Poe, and pronoun agreement.) So I model and instruct and provide an arena for opinions and voices and individual styles. I teach that revision isn't just a writing skill; it's a life skill, that reflection and change can renew. And also, I pray. We're knee deep in metaphors around here. The personification trips my students on their way to their seats. It's poetry unit time in English 2. To say I love poetry would be a grave understatement. At 18 I was memorizing "When You Are Old" by Yeats, by 21 my bookshelf bowed with collections of Dickinson and Rossetti and Browning, and at 24 my soon-to-be-husband was proposing with poems laced together with dancing ribbon. He knew the literal path to my heart. My stacks of journals overflow with favorite lines from Collins and Stafford juxtaposed with my own lame odes to Mountain Dew written during college science lectures. When my students directly and repetitively complain about poetry, I feel as if I've failed them. "Who ruined it for you?" I ask, but they can give no answer. It's like they were born with a visceral hatred. My zealous enthusiasm mostly meets exaggerated eye rolls. Through poem and activity selection, I work hard to engage students with poems. And I celebrate BIG TIME when they have an a-ha moment of understanding. Today we took a break from the reading and annotating and discussing and instead picked up some butcher paper and markers. We illustrated poems describing specific memories. This was a simple small group activity that took one class period. Students read a simple assigned poem, discussed the descriptive memory, and then worked together to create an accurate illustration based on the images of the poem. At the end of class, each group presented their illustration and read their poem to the class. We briefly discussed the images conveyed and the emotions wrapped up in the memories. Finally, each student turned in an exit card listing one thing they learned through this activity. Their responses proved the effectiveness of visualizing these memory-based poems.
"What I learned is that seeing a visual helps a lot instead of thinking about it." -B.J. (I don't think he realized that the visual WAS thinking. MY little secret...) "It is a lot easier to understand a poem if you draw out what it says." -J.C. "I learned that if you visualize it, it is easier to understand." -E.D. What are some of your favorite ways to engage students with poetry? I would love to learn new strategies! |
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