Thank You and Good Night (hm. should these be two words? hyphenated?)

This semester felt slow at times, but overall I am surprised that it is turning into the second week of December (Mondays are the beginning of the week in my mind).  


     Thank you to those of you that commented on my blog, although required as part of the assignment, I feel that the comments were helpful, thoughtful and friendly.  This assignment made me feel part of a community of thinkers, rather than just a class.  It is nice to interact!  As Mackenzie pointed out in her last blog, teaching can be a lonely profession. It is lovely to have the discussions and interactions of this course to file away.  I also like to think that the loneliness can be held off by creating a class room environment in which your students feel they can actively discuss and discover their own writing.  
    I am actually writing my Praxis paper on the blogging assignments- and how my perception changed over the semester.  I was very apprehensive about being back in the classroom, feeling a bit out of place and overwhelmed.  I felt like a nameless soul among people who already knew each other, and the blogging give me the opportunity to get to "meet" my classmates.  I only wish we had gotten to hear more of the memoirs!  Those and the One-pagers were the other windows into each of our personalities.  


Thank you!   

I had a Teaching Moment!

Last week I was watching my niece for an afternoon and she wanted to work on her special story book.  She has this kit that came with a big empty book with stickers and glitter and ribbon all with a fairy/princess/magic theme.  She had already written one story, but was very unhappy with how the ending had been written.  I told her that it was her story and if she wanted to change it, she could.  She was the author.  This big grin spread over her face and she ran to a marker.  She made Drew beat Harry in the battle, thus Drew won her hand in marriage and not Harry.  There was a big X over Harry's name, and in the margin she wrote "I changed the story because I can".  Love it! Love her! 

I need your help!

I am working on a project right now, and I really need all of your help if you will give me a couple minutes of your time.  In the comment section, if you would please include the titles of books that you remember being required reading in Jr High or High School, or ones that you are currently running into as required reading in your practicum experiences...I would so very much appreciate it!


Thanks!  

My bio

Here is my bio- I wasn't understanding that it was to be shared with my sophomores, and I think this affected my writing purpose.  This is interesting to me, as I find that I do self-edit what I am willing to share with what group of readers.  New lesson learned about my self!

Once upon a time, on a hot and humid day in late August, a little girl was born. She was born in the capital city in the middle of Iowa.   She was named Jackie after the Grandfather who held her first on the day of her birth. (He, she subsequently learned, was named Jack after a very good horse of upstanding nature and work ethic).  The family Jackie joined lived in a yellow brick house on a numbered street in a suburban life. 

Her mother taught Jackie the joys of squishing toes in the mud and eating watermelon by the slice so that juice would run down her chin onto her dress (she never liked to wear pants).  Her father taught her how to stand at the edge of a room and observe the ebb and flow of life and how to appreciate the advice and conversation talk radio gives.  Her older sister taught her how to be a good listener and friend, how to sneak late-night reading in under the covers, and how to deal with the heartache of crushes.  Her older brother taught her how to laugh at herself, how to give bear hugs and to appreciate the storytelling of video games.  Jackie would hang from the tree in her backyard and think about when she grew up she would be a ballerina.

Jackie thought:  I will be a grown up when I don’t have to finish my milk. 

            Her days were full of books and playing pretend and visiting her grandparents who lived 2 blocks away.  Her grandma taught her how to make spritz cookies, use a typewriter, and introduced her to literature.  Her grandfather taught her how to weave a good story, believe in wishes and to find a rabbit’s nest.  She would meander down to their house, thinking about how when she grew up she would be a dolphin trainer. 

Jackie thought: I will be grown up when I get to buy the kind of cereal I want at the grocery store.

              When she was 14 her place as youngest child was shifted when her little brother came into the world.  Her little brother taught her how to be patient, read a story with gusto, and how good it can feel to be needed.  Jackie would walk her brother to feed the ducks in the cemetery behind their house and think about how when she grew up she would be a history teacher.

            Jackie thought: I will be grown up when I get to go to bed anytime I want.

             She continued to do what was expected, and it was what she wanted. Jackie graduated high school and went to a small college, only to transfer the next year to a large University. She would walk the streets of Iowa City and think about how she perhaps, maybe, wanted to be a journalist.   With so much independence but no definite plan, she felt grown up, but not an adult.

            Jackie thought: I’ll be an adult when I live in an apartment.

            Despite the love and unconditional support of family and friends, Jackie felt there was more to see in the world.  She wanted to go to the places in the books she read. She wanted to see landscapes that were different from that of Iowa. Colorado taught her the beauty of mountains and freedom of wilderness. Wales taught her that people can be so similar yet live in such different places.  Boston gave her the courting years of her marriage, taught her how to commute.   She would watch the swan boats and think about how she was almost done with her training to be a librarian.  How she wanted to be a Children’s Librarian. 

Jackie thought: I’ll be an adult when I have my own cat.

            When she moved to New Hampshire she had no idea what to expect, but it gave her so much.  It was here that she had a career.  She spent her days reading books with gusto, teaching kids to believe in wishes, and sharing the power of literature.  It was while here she married her love who taught her how to appreciate a meal, how to be herself, and that a perfect day can exist.  She loved her job and felt that the only way it could get better was to be near family. 

Jackie thought: I’ll be a real adult when I have a washer and dryer of my own.

            Now she has returned, returned to the state where her family is.  And although she is still at times that little girl, she is now a better version.   Now she has memories of how the wind feels at the top of a mountain, sleeping on a ferry crossing the ocean, riding a train without having a place to be. She has photos of the fish in the bottom of the sea. She can taste the fresh seafood off the coast of France and smell the sea air.  She has pocketfuls of experiences both shared and private to reference when needed.  She now wants to be a school-librarian so she can work with classes of kids and guide them to their own answers. 

            Jackie thinks:  I will be a real adult when I stop experiencing new things.

            Jackie thinks: I hope this is never.  

More on LeAlan and Lloyd

Our America was incredible.  It drew me in, to hear the words of those boys is to hear truth spoken. 
I wanted more after watching the movie last night, so I took to the web.  


If you want to hear the original audio from the show:http://www.soundportraits.org/on-air/ghetto_life_101/


Here is a great overview, with links to additional audio sources: http://www.americanswhotellthetruth.org/pgs/portraits/LeAlan_Jones.php


LeAlan is running for Senate as a Green Party Candidate in Illinois!  http://lealanforsenate.org/


It is harder to locate what Lloyd is doing currently, as the last interview I can find is from 2001.  But maybe he wants it that way, and I can respect that.

Grammar makes me break into hives

I am at a loss. I am in need of a beginning grammar lesson!  I was trying to understand the examples in "Breaking the Rules"  but, well, me and i- I mean my and me- I mean.  I am confused.  My head doesn't understand the "right" answers.  I exaggerate a bit, but sadly not a lot. I am enjoying reading this. I honestly want to understand.  I wish I had knowledge of the tenses and what the terms mean, it would help me learn other languages. I feel like this should be a few weeks of readings and lesson examples! 


Here are the rules I do remember (and still use):


I before e, except after c. Or when sounding like A in neighbor or weigh.  


To find a prepositional phrase.  Use the sentence: The squirrel went ________the tree.  If it makes sense, it is a prepositional phrase.  (To, from, up, in, out, around...)  (This is a questionable one)


Conjunctions= FANBOYS
For, And, Nor, But, Or, Yet and So 


 I am really, really good at Mad Libs.  So I have that going for me.  


We should bring this style of teaching back: 

Thank you!

            I am compelled to write a big thank you to you all for being such an amazing audience last night.  I haven't shared my personal writing in a long time, and I told myself that I need to be brave and just read it.  I didn't think I would get so emotional, and I appreciate you all being the respectful audience one dreams of in a class.  The notes you wrote me are so thoughtful and positive- I feel like I received a bundle of little hugs!  
            I really enjoyed this class, and definitely want to use this exercise in my classroom.  I feel like we were a unit, a team.  It was incredible to hear everyone's pieces, to be taken into the world of  each classmate's mind.  More so than the blogs, this was a chance for us to get to know a real part of each other.
            I look forward to next week and getting to hear more!  

When a Portfolio Keeper is a Reluctant Writer

  The additional chapter I read was "When a Portfolio Keeper Is a Reluctant Writer". This chapter consists of two mini case studies of Jerimy and David, two reluctant writers of different ages.  Like with most suggestions to help those struggling student, there were points made that I feel apply to more than just the reluctant writer:  
    " The tutoring portfolio was so successful because it was 'underinvented' by his tutor; that is, she made few requirements, few interventions beyond serving as a highly interested and supportive audience."
    
   I can see how giving freedom within an assignment would give reluctant writers more control over the process and make it more appealing.   I can also see how this would appeal to a lot of students.
  
   Yet, when I look at myself as a student, I find that I struggle with this framework.  I wish I was more free with my writing- in that few guidelines would allow me to find a voice.  But I struggle with what is "expected". This horrible affliction of wanting a good grade trumps any freedom I may feel.  Even with this blog entry, the memoir and portfolio- I feel like there are unspoken expectations.  I need to be a bit brave and just go with it.  I may surprise myself with what I read in my own writing!

A chunk of memoir

I am having a hard time feeling like my memoir is telling a story.  What do you think of the beginning?

We were best friends. Jackie and Gwen. Guinevere and Jacqueline.

We met in Sparks- the preschool level of Camp Fire- and were fast friends.   We continued to be in the same Camp Fire group all through school and we spent all of our play time together.  Gwen and I dressed up in matching clothes each summer at camp so people would think we were twins. We signed up for camp craft and made fires side by side.  We slept in cots on wooden platforms side by side. We steadied each other when the mud got slippery as we creek walked side by side. Gwen was scared of spiders and I would grab the legs of the always present daddy-long legs and fling them out of sight. I was petrified of thunderstorms, and once we were on the camp bus on the way to a roller rink when a storm of Iowa-proportions hit.  The thunder shook the bus and the bus driver pulled to the side of the road and led us in singing songs at the top of our lungs to be heard over the smashing rain on the metal sides.  I sat trembling in my seat, and Gwen calmly took my hand in hers and squeezed.  She pulled me into the next verse of the song, swaying with her as she acted like a yodeler helped me forget my fears.  

My cat is attacking my homework

For real.  I like to sort and work on the floor of the living room, while he enjoying thundering romps across the room to pound his paws on my paper, leaving little crinkle dips in my homework.  So, some bits of my application to the TEP program are a bit disheveled.  Honestly-it was my cat.  I am just glad he has not taken to chewing on the corners, like he does the newspaper.

Admiral Dewi is a good topic for the blog. I got him about four years ago from a shelter in Bedford, New Hampshire.  He picked me out at the shelter, I have been told animals often do this. He was labeled "non social" and had been there for four months, never approaching a person.  I was admiring a very vain cat when a paw from the cage above tapped me on the arm and meowed a gentle hello. After a good 15 min cuddle and head butting session (and disbelief from the staff at the shelter) Bonzai II was part of my family.  He was renamed Admiral Dewi soon after.  He has fantastic strips that line up when he sits at attention, so he needed a title.  The name came from a song we used to sing at camp, the connection to the organizer of the modern library was a coincidence:

Dewey was the Admiral at Manila Bay
Dewy was the grass on the early morning may
Dewy were her eyes as she kissed her love anew
Do we love each other?
I should say we do!

Admiral has adjusted well to Iowa City, we have had house guests about five weekends already, and he has proved to be a good cat host and makes cuddle rounds in the middle of the night.  He had never done this before, and I am not sure why his personality has changed a bit, but it is amusing.  Admiral walks around chirping and talking.  He has been acting younger and more playful as well- and loves the bird and squirrel watching from our windows.
 I close this blog with two pics of the love:

Sent to publisher?

First Off:  I really need to handle a concrete portfolio in my hands. I am having a hard time with the "concepts" of rubrics and active learning exercise without handling them and experiencing the process first hand.  


 Secondly, I cannot get over a hang-up I have with the Wilcox article. 
Why are things "sent to a publisher"  What magical publisher is Wilcox sending student homework assignments to that they are getting published- let alone READ.  Has Wilcox figured a way past agents, slush piles, lengthy response time?  Is Wilcox sending writing to publishers as a reward?  As if to say "wow, this is really good. Let's send it to a publisher" ....whom you may or may not hear from before you move on to the next grade?  


Yes- this is a cynical response.  and No- I should not let this one method sway my opinion of the entire article, but I can't help but distrust the article.  Is the point that the teacher is doing something with the piece, rather than pinning it to a wall?  Why can't it be shared within the context of the school? Why can't the amazing piece be part of a compilation of amazing pieces to be shared via a printed mag or a website?  Why can't the active part be sending it to a Literary collection for teens?  Why "a publisher"?  


Actually, I think at that age, I would have more pride in the paper stuck to the fridge than sent off never to be seen again.  In fact, I want to make a giant refrigerator door on my class room wall. I will hang the stellar pieces up with magnets.  You are never too old for recognition.  I don't think this is passive if you encourage others to read the work.  Actually, if you can give the students the power to pick what they are proud of to be fridge work.  Proud to share with their peers. 


And yes, being published would be amazing. Beyond amazing.  But a bit of reality is needed as well.  What are the markets to which Wilcox sends the writing?  

Inspiration

The problem with school is that I am writing for school.  I am not writing for myself and therefore all my creative thoughts and magical tingly inspiration writing is on hiatus.  If I were not worrying about writing an intriguing, well-written, thought provoking, impressive one-pager for tonight I would instead being writing about a murder of crows.  

My husband and I like to take walks, find a nice segment of wildlife or some sort of nature and sit and observe. These are usually my most inspirational moments.  Bees copulating, ants swarming and killing a moth to then pull out it's eggs for dinner, crows playing musical chairs in the tree tops.  These are things that I can watch and at the same time let my mind wonder through storyline and characters.  We literally sat for over an hour one picnic watching ants take crumbs of baguette to their colonies.  

I am inspired by animals' actions and if there is any correspondence to humans.  I like to sit and watch people and make up their life stories.  One of my other favorite games is to "talk" for people that you can see but can't hear.  It is much better when you have someone playing this game with you.  

I love cemeteries for quiet.

I love the library for people's movements.

I love the grocery store for interaction.  

I am always inspired by reading.  I love voices and language style.  If I listen to a well-read audio book I will usually talk like the reader for a while without meaning to.  

But when it comes to writing for school- I am not inspired.  I am motivated.  These are two very distinct concepts.  Inspiration is emotional, flighty, unpredictable and for me.  Motivation is driven by my desire for good grades.  

Grammar?

I observed a Jr. High English class this morning and they started with a grammar exercise.  I was thrilled to learn that every day they start with a sentence in need of correction- to teach basic rules. It was also scary because I found myself utterly questioning myself and my instinct in what was grammatically incorrect.  I am going to have to study up on this!

I have opinions on the Oxford comma (YES) and ending in a preposition (A-Ok with me) but I don't know the actual 'rules'.  Do the rules matter?  What do you think?  

Grabbing Clarity

There was this moment in class yesterday where I wanted to hide out under the covers- because I was tickling that point of absolute honesty with my self and my story. It is a frightening feeling. Thank you Mike for being such an open listener- you let me talk through the moment as we workshopped yesterday. It isn't even that horrible of an act, but it is upsetting to me and how I see my character.

The exercise of writing down your thoughts as you write your words was fascinating. I never, EVER realized I thought so much more than what ended on the page. My thoughts (not words) were searching for purpose- for clarity- it was for capturing the scene as it was at that moment. My mind is a hazy dream and I am trying to make sense of the images floating there. Those moments of actuality that happened so long ago.

It got me thinking about this exercise from a language standpoint as well- how I think about meaning and intent when talking. I must do it while writing.   How do you get to the point of free form? I don't know if it exists truly. There are always factors in play. There is always the time of day, the temperature of the room, the desire to get to the next point for me.

The deeper we get into the memoir writing, the more I look forward to talking about how we as English teachers can put a value on it. I love what Bonnie said about grading the presence, not the quality. But there is a level of expectation as well. A level for an age, an individual. When I think of myself as an English Teacher, I think of myself as the type who pushes her students to achieve greatness (by greatness I think I mean discovering something about them-self through writing and reading) . This probably will involve pissing them off sometimes. And their parents. I think I can handle it.

I hope I can.

Creative Non-Fiction in the Classroom

Our discussion on teaching non-fiction, or the personal essay, or memoir- whatever you identify with- really got me thinking about the dynamics of a classroom.  I really did not like the idea of sharing a blog at first, as it is like be forced to read your journal to your classmates.   The more I thought about it, however, the parallel between this task and the actuality of teaching any form of creative non-fiction in a classroom is painfully obvious.


There is an aspect of teaching this area of writing that I felt was missing in the discussion last week- the chance to create a powerful atmosphere of respect and understanding among peers.  I imagine this can be a tricky task as teenagers, all people really, are so quick to laugh at what is uncomfortable or shocking real.  A really well managed writing class could be a safe haven for those struggling to identify who they are.  It could be a moving semester of personal growth.  It could unify people who felt like they never had anything in common until sharing a mutual feeling or experience though a story.   


Has anyone else watched that MTV show "If you Really Knew Me?"   If you haven't, a brief overview:  MTV sends groups of counselors that lead the students (or sometimes just the leaders of the cliques) in a day of sharing exercises.  It challenges the teens to really think about who they are within the context of their High School existence.  It is very powerful. (Pretty much every other show on MTV kills the happiness this one show creates.) 


Maybe a writing teacher needs to think about how they are leading daily challenges.  I was lucky to have amazing writing teachers throughout High School.  My senior year AP class was split into two semester- one semester with one teacher who taught us grammar, form, different necessary writing styles and we ended with a big ethnography project.  The other semester was personal and creative.  It was the most amazing class of writing workshops.  I recently ran into the mother of one of my classmates from this semester. I inquired after her daughter (a girl I would have never been given the opportunity to be friends with outside of this class.  Our social lives, our upbringing, our religion, were not at all in line).  I gave her the context of this class being our connection.  


 "OH" said the mother. "Was that the class with Mrs. D?" 
"Yes!" I said, excited for a conversation about this amazing teacher. "That was the best class, it influenced me in so many positive ways."
The mother paused with eyebrows drawn tight: "That was the class where you knew too much about each other."
I was dumbstruck- she departed.  


It was senior year.  We were all leaving for colleges and starting to find grounding as individuals.  I can recall sitting in Village Inn with my classmates eating breakfast before school and marveling about how I was eating with people I had not even spoken to prior to this writing class. 


That was the whole point. To get to know each other. 

Introduction

     Horace Mann is well known in the education world- but I did not know this until recently.  I have, however, loved a quote of his about books for a long time: "A house without books is like a room without windows. No man has the right to bring up his children without surrounding them with books, if he has the means to buy them."  

    I worked for 4 years running a Children's Department in a quintessential New England town.  It was a thoroughly rewarding job: filled with storytimes and homework and puppets and crafts and Summer Reading and so many wonderful interactions.  The best part of my job, the part I miss every single day since leaving, was reader's advisory. I poured over the journals picking books like Christmas presents, feeling this intense joy in ordering a new story with someone in mind who would love to read it.  I miss roaming the shelves, fingers dragging slowly along spines, imagining myself an apothecary picking the medicine to save someone from their woes.  I miss the child coming in a day- three days-two weeks later to ask for more.  

    My husband and I left Boston and our courting behind, we left New Hampshire and our first years as husband and wife to memories, packed up and traveled for six months.  We lived in France for most of it. These moments will to be told another time.

   I am here in Iowa again, where I was born and raised.  We are here to settle into a house with a yard (we hope). To eventually have cats and kids and joyful days. We want Iowa to be the memories of us as parents.  I want to be in the classroom with students who look out at the horizon and think about where they are. How the stories they read all began with someone who experienced something human that they decided to share.  

    I think everyone is a writer.  People write their day with the choices they make. With the stories they tell at dinner, with what they say in a status update on Facebook.  I define myself as a wishful writer.  I write in my head all day long, rarely preserving the tales.  I have taken courses and gone to conferences and submitted children's books for publication (and got rejected).  I have delved in deep for assignments- but I haven't yet figured out how to write for myself.  

   Horace Mann has another quote that is fitting for this entry:  "Do not think of knocking out another person's brains because he differs in opinion from you. It would be as rational to knock yourself on the head because you differ from yourself ten years ago."

   After ten years, I am back.