Hastily written memories of the best of my teaching days.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
I'm circulating the media center, checking in with individual students as they read. We are working on writing on-demand essays, and their needs are so distinct that I've spend the last couple of days talking with each kid one-on-one. It helps their writing more than anything else I know.
I stoop down to listen to Melissa, who worked for hours on a narrative about her uncle's basketball team. As high school students, they served as her elementary role model, and she wrote a fabulous and sweet piece about how much they'd meant to her from afar.
We talk about her essay writing for a moment, but I know there is something else lingering. She is blushing a little. She looks like she is searching for words.
"You know my narrative I wrote about Jason and Chad?" she asks. I nod. I had urged her to share it with them, and the fragmented nature of the piece was quite sophisticated for an eighth grader's first narrative attempt.
"Well, my mom saw my uncle this weekend and got Jason's address. I'm going to send it to him to say thank you," she says, beaming.
"He'll love it," I say. "That's the power of writing."