Young Authors

Pulling a nail out of petrified wood in below zero weather with your teeth is undoubtedly easier than getting 8th graders to write. “I don’t know what to write about!” “I don’t get it!” “Writing is stupid!” “How do you spell the?” You have all heard it. But when they start, when that idea starts to grow, when it gets legs, words like theme, protagonist, rising action, resolution, man vs. nature, all become part of your classroom vernacular. Damn! That is an incredible environment.
I strive for that, and sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t. Last week the district celebrated The Young Author’s Contest winners in a simple, classy, gathering. The winning and honorable mention authors were called to the stage and given a certificate. A local teacher, an incredible person, read an excerpt from each piece. The audience got a small slice of the heart-felt writing we were gathered to celebrate.
This evening was the highlight of my 15-year teaching career. A few of my students did very well, and I have to admit I felt an almost perverse sense of satisfaction. So many people in the district do not understand what we are trying to do here, but are quick to criticize-“They don’t teach any English over there at all.” Yeah, I got a little charge out of that. The students however provided the huge charge.
An ex-student of mine was a winner in the ninth grade poetry division. If you met this kid on the street poet would be the last adjective you’d imagine. Thug, gangster, wanna-be all would come to mind. How wrong you would be. This kid is a sensitive, caring individual who has been the primary caregiver to an elderly grandfather with Parkinson’s disease. His poetry was simple, concise, and teeming with emotion. After the ceremony I gave him a hug and let him know how proud I am of him. He reminded me of my role in his writing.
“You were the one that got me started Mr.T. Remember when we began writing poetry in class? I said I didn’t know how to write poetry and you told me, everything you say is poetry Will, just start writing it down.”
Another student won the 8th grade non-fiction category with his autobiography. Most 8th graders autobiographies would be pretty empty. Justin’s was brimming with detail. He wrote about the night of the fire, how we went out one door and the rest of the family used a different one. He wrote about the surgeries, the skin grafts, the skin harvesting, the fight against infection, physical therapy, months in the hospital, his incredible mother. As George shared an excerpt from this piece you could hear several gasps in the room. Tears were filling eyes, rolling down cheeks, and spotting clothing up and down each row.
Kids will write, and they will write well. But like that stubborn nail, it takes more than one person to loosen it.

I'm Back

As you can tell, it has been a while since I have added a post. Sorry. Joanne and I were in Italy for 10 days, then I was busy at school making sure there was "No Child Left Behind." I'm back, the posts will be piling up again. Read and enjoy and please let me know what you think.

Tears in Amsterdam

We knew where we were going, we weren’t sure how to get there. Joanne had seen a map, knew the general direction we should be going, and remembered the names of a few landmarks we would pass, other than that we were navigating on instinct. Time was not really on our side. We had a couple of hours at the most before we would make our way back to the train station. Taking off down a street we were pretty sure was the right direction we walked by a few cops, recognized the palace, turned right, buzzed by the Apple Store and suddenly we were confronted with a small que of people.
“This has to be it.” I turned to my wife. We took our place at the end of the line. Before we could ask if we were in the right place another group of obviously American visitors approached the line. One of the ladies was not very ambulatory. She managed to move with the help of a cane in each hand.
“Is this the Anne Frank House?” The American cane handler asked no one in particular.
“Yes”
The line moved very quickly. We were told the tour would last about an hour. A short video at the beginning of the tour nailed me; it was the beginning of my personal tour. If you’ve read her diary you are familiar with the people Anne Frank lived with, fought with, and relied on during her two years of hiding. Seeing Miep on video telling the story of Otto calling her into his office, confiding in her, asking her to put her own life at stake, while I was standing in that very office. My god!
We stood in Anne’s bedroom, the pictures of Ray Milland, and Jean Harlow still where she glued them up. We stood in the bathroom, the cause of so much distress for Anne and the others; we went upstairs and stood by the stove. I could see them making sausage, boiling lettuce, fighting about how many potatoes they should fry. Then, all alone, in a glass case, the diary. Anne Frank’s diary. Not an imitation, a copy, a facsimile. The diary.
I share a hometown with a Pulitzer Prize winning author. In high school I had some pretty powerful experiences reading the works of Willa Cather. Standing in her house, walking the streets she walked, but never had I been as affected, as touched, as moved as I was in the Anne Frank House. On that warm day in Amsterdam literature came to life, history came to life. Standing in front of that diary with tears filling my eyes, and a full hollow ache in my throat I knew, I just knew.