I love writing. I love weaving together a sentence, working in the delicate balance of saying exactly what I mean while also focusing on the art of language. Some artists work in clay or acrylics. I work in words. Lately, though, I'm stuck. In a former life I had another blog where I wrote openly about the challenges of adoption and parenting, about my journey with anti-depression meds, about life. And then I realized that it was incredibly selfish to process so honestly about my children and then post for the world to see. Now I'm here on this "teacher" blog, and I'm writing occasionally and publishing rarely. Sometimes I write about race; other times I muse about my faith. Occasionally I play with poetry, and mostly I write in rambling prose. But to what end? It's a question I ponder frequently. I have this incredible love of writing, of tracing words on a page and leaving my heart there in black and white. When I'm driving in my car to work or lying awake in the early morning, my mind is the page where words weave and tumble. Here at my little desk in my upstairs workspace, my fingers often can't keep up. I just have so much to say. But what is this writing? Is it a journal that in my self-aggrandizement I believe the world wants to read? Is it a blog with a unique, intended audience? Is it somewhere in the middle? I describe myself as a writer, but I've been paid for my words just once. I've been published in a newspaper twice. That isn't exactly an impressive resume. Not always effortlessly, the words come to me, but what do I do with them? For now, I keep writing.
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I teach people. Real people with real problems and hearts and dreams and favorite foods. Sometimes I forget that when I get annoyed with immature behaviors or overwhelmed in responding to student writing. Today, though, I remembered. During most semesters in my College Composition class, we celebrate with a literary luncheon, an idea I stole from my time with the Ozarks Writing Project. (Shout out to Keri and Casey!) Every student must bring some kind of food or drink item to share, but there is, of course, an academic component. They must also write a short essay explaining the significance of the item they brought. During class we share our food potluck style while each student takes a turn reading his/her essay to the class. We're hitting some Common Core standards for writing along with speaking and listening, but more importantly, we're connecting. Today Anjelica shared about her passion for Fanta after her time living in Mexico. Mari wrote about sweet memories cuddled on the couch with her family, a movie, and her mom's famous chocolate chip bars. We learned about Bryce's grandma hiding the monster cookies up high so he and his brother couldn't overindulge, and Ali wrote symbolically about how her family represents the various components of trail mix. Food brought us together, and so did our words. It will come as no huge surprise that our country's political climate has edged its way into my classroom. I've written before about the strict ideological views held by my students, and more recently I've been seeing it play out in their use of biased news sources in argumentative writing. After I read the sixth essay on the same topic using the same one-sided sources, I knew it was time to address the issue. Like many issues in my classroom, this was my fault. I had assumed my students (juniors and seniors in an upper-level writing class) knew the importance of using unbiased sources. I told them on the front end, "Don't use biased sources," but then after the fact I began to see that they truly didn't know the difference. (This is clearly being added to my curriculum for semesters to come.) However, I knew lecturing wouldn't help. I needed a way to help them visualize this issue. I did some quick research and came across an activity from this website. I divided students into two groups and gave each group a short fictional news article to read about a fellow named Sir Sam. In their groups they were directed to read the article and then create a list of at least six adjectives to describe Sam. I had each group come to the board and share the list. As you can see, each group's list was quite different, and in some cases their chosen words were exact opposites. (This was an accidental miracle.)
Next I asked one student from each group to give a quick recap of what happened in the article without focusing on the characteristics of Sam. Each group reported the same story: Sir Sam was fired. However, one article painted him in a flattering way, while the other...not so much. We then moved into a discussion of bias in the media. We talked about how using one-sided sources destroys our credibility as writers. I admitted my own weaknesses in this area. I like reading articles that support my worldview; I feel challenged when I don't. But in the end, my viewpoint is strengthened when I consider the whole picture. Finally I introduced students to some websites that will help them determine the bias in the sources they are considering. This lesson wasn't earth-shaking, and it did disrupt my previous plans. However, it was necessary. Now if only our country could take this lesson to heart. And then they all looked at me like I was crazier than they had originally thought. It wasn't the first time I had received such looks during my sometimes-unusual methods and strategies to get students to think differently about writing. (During the first week of class we do an activity with Play-Doh designed to get them to understand the importance of the writing process and the difference between their creative and critical brains. Some of their creations are pretty amazing.) My College Comp course starts with a brief narrative unit designed to get our writing legs under us. With mini-lessons from Barry Lane and Penny Kittle and mentor texts from Sherman Alexie, George Orwell, and David Sedaris, we work on descriptive snapshots and exploding a moment. Eventually we have a story. And then I introduce the importance of an impressive first line. We talk about dramatic leads and misleading leads. We discuss introducing the narrator and even (gasp!) starting in the middle of a story. Then my students bring in completed drafts, and I bring out the scissors, pulling on an experience I had as part of the Ozarks Writing Project at Missouri State University. The you've-lost-your-mind faces came this semester when I had them cut up their essays. Literally. My students are familiar with the language of revision. Early in the semester we talk about the definition of the word: to see again. This activity enables them to do just that. I modeled with a memoir I've been working on about my first year of teaching. My original first line was this: "From the early age of five, I knew that I would be a teacher." "What questions does that make you ask?" I challenge my students. "Um, nothing, really." I hadn't captured them, so obviously my first line needed some work. I took out the scissors and cut my narrative into strips across the page, attempting to keep my cuts at sentence breaks. Then without thinking, I shuffled the strips and taped them randomly together. "Your teacher is telling you not to think. I bet that doesn't happen very often," I joked. At this point Sophie muttered, "I don't know what you're doing, but you have a degree, so I guess I'll trust you." After cutting and taping my narrative together, my new first line was this: "In all of my college classes on learning and classroom management, I never imagined a scenario like this." "Now what questions do you have?" I asked. "Ooooh, what happened?" one girl blurted out. "This sounds like a good story. Tell us," another demanded. And just like that, I had a lead that drew in my audience. This line was from the middle of my original narrative, so now I had to work at flowing things together, but I knew that I would have a much more powerful piece of writing. This strategy doesn't work for every student. Some of them end up with crazy new leads that don't make sense, but it does give a handful of students from each class a new beginning. And the rest of the students still see the value. Sometimes in our learning, we have to look beyond the chronological narrative because sometimes not every story starts at the beginning. And that might involve a bit of blind trust. There's truth there for me as a teacher, too. Sometimes I have to let high school juniors and seniors play with Play-Doh and allow my classroom become a flurry of scissors and strips of massacred narratives. Sometimes, no, often, that is where the magic happens. 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. Sometimes reflection is painful. My reflections here will contain some ugly confessions. For the past three years as a working mom, I have never had enough time. I am rushed at home, in my teaching, with my husband. Life feels like a constant race. This first week back to school, however, I am slowly relearning the necessity of slowing down. I am reclaiming time to teach, to read, to write. In College Comp we are taking the time daily to quickwrite about a reading assignment or in-class prompt. We share our writing and take the time to examine writer’s craft. I’m also giving more time for the early stages of the writing process. We are slowing down in this class, experiencing the honey-dripping gold that comes in the early stages of the writing process. This is a task in my teaching I rarely took time for. I felt the pressure that comes with a dual enrollment class. Hurry up, write the essay, get the grade, move forward at an “academic pace” (whatever that is). That type of teaching resulted only in frustration, though, and mostly mine. My students’ early drafts were surface writing; their revisions often forced. Students willing to put in the time outside of class made some progress, but I didn’t see the growth in critical thinking and style I wanted to see. So I crossed some assignments off my list and decided to spend more time in each of my major units. We’re on our second stage of narrative, and we’ve even slowed down in topic selection. Yesterday I announced that we would be moving to a longer narrative. Looking to Penny Kittle (Write Beside Them) for inspiration, I instructed, “Select one moment from your life so far. Tell that story.” We’ve read mentors like George Orwell’s “Shooting an Elephant” and Sherman Alexie’s “Indian Education.” Together we’ve talked about stylistic choices and what makes a story worth telling. I’ve modeled my own prewriting and rehearsing for a memoir of my first year of teaching. Using the document camera I showed them my messy planning pages full of arrows and crossed out words and moments when the ideas came so quickly I could barely get them down. I want them to see that a real process is sloppy and non-linear, frustrating and then fulfilling. Last year I would have assigned the narrative, shown the text example, and set them free. Topic selection would have been an overnight assignment that involved no conversation from me. (See, this is the terrible confession time. I knew what was best for my students, but I wasn’t taking the time to do it.) This year, though, I walk around the room today, asking one or two questions of my students in the early stages of their narratives. “How’s it going?” I ask one student who is staring at a blank screen. “I don’t know what to write about,” he answers truthfully. “Look through your quickwrites and see if that helps,” I encourage him. He discovers a pattern: many of his quickwrites involve his friends. “Hmmm,” I question. “How old were you when you moved here? Did you have a moment when you finally realized that you were going to be okay with new friends here?” “Yeah, actually I did. I’ll write about football camp.” And he gets to work. Maybe he’ll stick with this topic or maybe he’ll switch, but the important thing is that I allowed that thinking process to take place. I gave the time for the conversation that led him there. As an English teacher I often feel like my life embodies the cliché, “Time is running out.” But really this week I’ve discovered that another cliché just might fit better. "There’s no time life the present." My writing class will look different this year, substantially so. We might not produce so many final drafts. Maybe we won’t get to the opposing sides essays we’ve written the past two years, but I think that’s okay. There is a beauty here in this process, and I don’t want to move so fast that I miss it. |
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