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.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
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.
“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.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Chairlift Chatter
Some of the richest conversations I have in my life take place on the chairlift. True, I’m usually the only one in the chair, but I have some damn good conversations with myself. More ideas for lessons and projects have been hatched with the wind in my face and the snow swirling in my eyes. For some reason when I’m perched on that seat with my snowboard swinging from my left foot my mind is clear, my intellect keen. But it’s the other conversations, the ones where the other side of the chairlift is actually occupied, that leave their mark. Several years ago I had a group of 4 or 5 sixth grade students who were equally fanatic about riding their snowboards as their teacher. Many Saturdays and Sundays that winter I would run into these little Johnnies on the slopes. The chats I had with whichever one of these junior flying tomatoes were priceless. We talked about snowboards, boots, music, movies, families, problems, fears, dreams---anything but school. I told my wife on more than one occasion I got more teaching done on a 5-minute chairlift ride than I could ever hope to achieve in nine months in the classroom. Today as I was thinking of some of those conversations in the lift line the operator hailed me to the front of the line to ride with another single. The chair swung around, my plopped down, we headed up the slope and I turned to greet my fellow chair jockey.
“Great day, huh” I chirped enthusiastically. My partner turned to me and smiled widely behind a huge pair of yellow goggles, and under a heavy hat and hood. “Is that you Mr. T?” Bam. Another conversation with a former student. In that short ride this young man, certainly not the best student I’ve taught, and one who on more than one occasion was on the wrong end of a blistering butt chewing, talked to me about things he had not spoken to an adult about in years. Problems with his mom and step-dad, his decision to move in with his dad, mistakes he made that led to a move from one high school to another, recent successes in the classroom. One of those conversations you just can’t have with your feet on the ground. Before unloading I wished him luck and invited him to keep in touch. He replied, “You know Mr. T you always rode my ass in class, thank you for that, you helped me more than you will ever know.” We unloaded and headed our separate ways. I hope through the course of all that chairlift chatter over the years I managed to make a difference in someone’s life, I know they made a difference in mine.
“Great day, huh” I chirped enthusiastically. My partner turned to me and smiled widely behind a huge pair of yellow goggles, and under a heavy hat and hood. “Is that you Mr. T?” Bam. Another conversation with a former student. In that short ride this young man, certainly not the best student I’ve taught, and one who on more than one occasion was on the wrong end of a blistering butt chewing, talked to me about things he had not spoken to an adult about in years. Problems with his mom and step-dad, his decision to move in with his dad, mistakes he made that led to a move from one high school to another, recent successes in the classroom. One of those conversations you just can’t have with your feet on the ground. Before unloading I wished him luck and invited him to keep in touch. He replied, “You know Mr. T you always rode my ass in class, thank you for that, you helped me more than you will ever know.” We unloaded and headed our separate ways. I hope through the course of all that chairlift chatter over the years I managed to make a difference in someone’s life, I know they made a difference in mine.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Gravitational Pull
“Hurry up, I’m not waiting all day.” The guy turned toward us and shook his head slowly as we sat idling in the boat. All eyes were on two teenagers standing at the edge of a cliff. The precipice was probably 50, maybe even 60 feet above the lake. Neither kid looked very anxious about jumping. “They have been up there for 20 minutes, I don’t think either of them has the balls to jump.” The man was sitting on the bank across the small cove from the wanna-be cliff jumpers and appeared to be talking to no one in general, or was it anyone who would listen?
“Are those guys with you?” I asked him as I deferentially watched the boys playing the “You go, no you go” game.
“Yeah I know the idiots, they’re my sons.” He quickly shot back with a wide smile, and a shy, fun-loving twinkle in his eye.
I looked at the other people in the boat with me. Jimmy Lee and Mama, The boys, my daughters, Joanne my wife. “I’m going for it,” I declared and was over the side of the boat swimming toward the shore like an otter at the zoo. The path up to the cliff was steep and greasey, at least for someone as wet as a whale and bare footed. It switched back a few times and was dutifully gaurded by large cactus and yucca plants. As long as you stayed on the path you were okay, stray a little and forget about it. Your feet would end up like Bruce Willis’s in Die Hard. Remember that scene? Dirty wife-beater, over-acted limp, blood trailing behind him like a Wildebeest’s placenta on Mutual Of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.
Upon reaching the summit I had to stop and catch my breath. Putting my hands behind my head and gulping in lung fulls I saw the two brothers about 20 feet in front of me, still dry, and still scared shitless. As I slowly approached the cliff’s brink they turned to look at me. The argument came to an immediate stop. I could see it in their eyes, feel it in their gaze, they were in awe, they were in the presence of a master, They were wondering, “what the heck is this fat old man up to?”
Sidling up alongside them I smiled and said, “How’s it going Johnnies?”
The older of the two, and neither of them were over 16, said “You gonna jump man?”
“I didn’t climb up here to crawl back down.” I looked one time over the edge, turned to wave at the occupants of the boat and jumped. What a rush! For what seemed like a minute I was suspended in air, I was Wiley Coyote. Just as I peeped out over the cliff across the bay gravity kicked in. The walls of the canyon rushed by, my eyes watered, my hair fluttered, and I reached down and protected my Jimmies. Splash. That was it.
I kicked to the surface, broke free and ripped off a Dukes of Hazzard quality rebel yell. Grinning goofily at the boat the only thought occupying my mind was “I gotta get up there and do that again.”
“Are those guys with you?” I asked him as I deferentially watched the boys playing the “You go, no you go” game.
“Yeah I know the idiots, they’re my sons.” He quickly shot back with a wide smile, and a shy, fun-loving twinkle in his eye.
I looked at the other people in the boat with me. Jimmy Lee and Mama, The boys, my daughters, Joanne my wife. “I’m going for it,” I declared and was over the side of the boat swimming toward the shore like an otter at the zoo. The path up to the cliff was steep and greasey, at least for someone as wet as a whale and bare footed. It switched back a few times and was dutifully gaurded by large cactus and yucca plants. As long as you stayed on the path you were okay, stray a little and forget about it. Your feet would end up like Bruce Willis’s in Die Hard. Remember that scene? Dirty wife-beater, over-acted limp, blood trailing behind him like a Wildebeest’s placenta on Mutual Of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.
Upon reaching the summit I had to stop and catch my breath. Putting my hands behind my head and gulping in lung fulls I saw the two brothers about 20 feet in front of me, still dry, and still scared shitless. As I slowly approached the cliff’s brink they turned to look at me. The argument came to an immediate stop. I could see it in their eyes, feel it in their gaze, they were in awe, they were in the presence of a master, They were wondering, “what the heck is this fat old man up to?”
Sidling up alongside them I smiled and said, “How’s it going Johnnies?”
The older of the two, and neither of them were over 16, said “You gonna jump man?”
“I didn’t climb up here to crawl back down.” I looked one time over the edge, turned to wave at the occupants of the boat and jumped. What a rush! For what seemed like a minute I was suspended in air, I was Wiley Coyote. Just as I peeped out over the cliff across the bay gravity kicked in. The walls of the canyon rushed by, my eyes watered, my hair fluttered, and I reached down and protected my Jimmies. Splash. That was it.
I kicked to the surface, broke free and ripped off a Dukes of Hazzard quality rebel yell. Grinning goofily at the boat the only thought occupying my mind was “I gotta get up there and do that again.”
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Please Pass The Gravy
“Please pass the gravy, and good lord are those marbles or lumps in the mashed potatoes?”
Ray Burns, as usual, was not the least bit happy about his meal. For forty years Ray and Twila Burns had been married. Nightly for forty years Twila lovingly prepared Ray a delicious home made supper. For forty years Ray whined about supper.
“This roast is tougher than the skin on my heels, these beans taste like they were soaked in a tub of smelly socks, I’ve had better salad in an elementary school cafeteria!”
Ray continued without taking a breath. The truly amazing thing about Ray, the art of his rant, is the more he complains, the faster he consumes the dish he is so brazenly bashing. . If he really hates something, if he finds something truly disgusting, if the recipe occupying his plate bumps Ray to the edge of nausea he shovels it in like a farmer pitching hay.
“This tepid tar you call coffee tastes like ughhhh ughhhhhh aaa.”
Ray’s eyes began to seemingly bulge out of his head as the color of his skin made a progression from a light crimson to a very disturbing shade of blue. Dropping to his knees he fixed his distended eyes on the back of his wife who was just finishing frosting a lovely German Chocolate cake, a recipe she’d seen on Regis.. His hands flew to his throat and a made a wheezing sound that resembled that chuff created by the last few pitful pounds of air escaping from a bicycle tire.
Ray’s face hit the freshly mopped linoleum floor with a dense clunk. Twyla slowly spun on her heel with a chocolate encrusted spatula in her hand and announced “Yes Ray, they are marbles.”
Ray Burns, as usual, was not the least bit happy about his meal. For forty years Ray and Twila Burns had been married. Nightly for forty years Twila lovingly prepared Ray a delicious home made supper. For forty years Ray whined about supper.
“This roast is tougher than the skin on my heels, these beans taste like they were soaked in a tub of smelly socks, I’ve had better salad in an elementary school cafeteria!”
Ray continued without taking a breath. The truly amazing thing about Ray, the art of his rant, is the more he complains, the faster he consumes the dish he is so brazenly bashing. . If he really hates something, if he finds something truly disgusting, if the recipe occupying his plate bumps Ray to the edge of nausea he shovels it in like a farmer pitching hay.
“This tepid tar you call coffee tastes like ughhhh ughhhhhh aaa.”
Ray’s eyes began to seemingly bulge out of his head as the color of his skin made a progression from a light crimson to a very disturbing shade of blue. Dropping to his knees he fixed his distended eyes on the back of his wife who was just finishing frosting a lovely German Chocolate cake, a recipe she’d seen on Regis.. His hands flew to his throat and a made a wheezing sound that resembled that chuff created by the last few pitful pounds of air escaping from a bicycle tire.
Ray’s face hit the freshly mopped linoleum floor with a dense clunk. Twyla slowly spun on her heel with a chocolate encrusted spatula in her hand and announced “Yes Ray, they are marbles.”
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Educational Consultants-Don't you just love them!
Education is a fickle field my friend. We love consultants, experts, and speakers to come in and tell us how to do our job. I mean, no matter how long you have teaching, no matter how successful you have been in your field there is some expert out there by god who can make you a better teacher. The ironic part about the whole process is-these experts, for the most part, have not done what they are experts at in years. So, I ask, how do you become an expert? There are several criteria.
1. Experts have to live at least 50 miles away from you. No matter how much incredible talent and expertise you have in your district, they are not an expert. They just live too damn close.
2. They have not been a classroom teacher since the Ford Administration. Current practinoners “don’t know shit!” Look around it’s a fact. To be an expert in the field you have to have been out of the field for at least 30 years.
3. Experts have never actually done what they are experts at. Again, a fact. Have someone come in to teach you how to use technology in the classroom. They are great at whistles and bells, they’ve just never used them in the classroom. Experts at goal-setting can spend days telling you how to do it with students, they just never have.
4. You must have an acronym. The more acronyms you have, the bigger an expert. PSDA, HEAT, LOTI, LMNOP. There is no way in hell you can be an expert at anything without an acronym. Can’t happen.
5. You must have a website. Hell, enough said there.
So my friends, to wrap it all up .Here is how to become an expert in education. Move 50 miles away from anywhere, quit teaching for a few decades, come up with a catchy acronym, design a web-site. You will be revered by all, in great demand, and acquire more wealth than you ever imagined.
1. Experts have to live at least 50 miles away from you. No matter how much incredible talent and expertise you have in your district, they are not an expert. They just live too damn close.
2. They have not been a classroom teacher since the Ford Administration. Current practinoners “don’t know shit!” Look around it’s a fact. To be an expert in the field you have to have been out of the field for at least 30 years.
3. Experts have never actually done what they are experts at. Again, a fact. Have someone come in to teach you how to use technology in the classroom. They are great at whistles and bells, they’ve just never used them in the classroom. Experts at goal-setting can spend days telling you how to do it with students, they just never have.
4. You must have an acronym. The more acronyms you have, the bigger an expert. PSDA, HEAT, LOTI, LMNOP. There is no way in hell you can be an expert at anything without an acronym. Can’t happen.
5. You must have a website. Hell, enough said there.
So my friends, to wrap it all up .Here is how to become an expert in education. Move 50 miles away from anywhere, quit teaching for a few decades, come up with a catchy acronym, design a web-site. You will be revered by all, in great demand, and acquire more wealth than you ever imagined.
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