58.

Here's a short and simple reminder with the start of a new school year.

I have a student, we'll call him Craig, whose name has come up constantly since he was a seventh grader. I can tell only three days in that he's full of energy, mischievous, and that the writing in my English class is not going to be his favorite thing.

I try to make a point to greet students at the door, especially early in the year when I am trying to learn names. Today, I asked him about his weekend on the way in, and he began telling me about an injury he received from one of his dangerous activities. I asked him a couple questions about another somewhat dangerous activity I thought he might be involved in, and he stood there and talked with me until the bell rang.

Obviously this was good for our rapport, which will make everything about instruction easier in the days to come. But there's something else. Today students generated their own ideas for writing. Craig is a kid who might sit there, claiming he has nothing to write about. But he immediately started working with ideas about one of his dangerous activities, and he did an awesome job. 

It's important to remember that some kids have to talk before they can write. And in order to talk, they might need someone to listen.

57.

I know, I've been gone a while. And I'm about to go on maternity leave, so it's doubtful there will be many teaching stories until next August. But this one kid has been on my mind, and I've been wanting to write about him, so I am giving in and just writing one post (that will make 2 this year?). Hopefully I'll be better next school year about logging these moments.

Anyway, let's talk about Charlie. Charlie has major work completion problems. He fails classes without thinking about it. He draws these amazing pictures during class, and I know that even though the game of school doesn't work for him, he could do great things someday if he could just figure out that some deadlines are important. I've been reading his fiction and poetry and talking about books with him for two years. But he's still failing my class.

We are writing character analyses about Romeo and Juliet right now. (Well, most of us are finished. Not Charlie.) I know that literary analysis is not the type of writing that moves and inspires people, but I can justify its worth for the thought process kids must undergo and the way it prepares them for so much of the "school writing" they will have to do. It is also a formula that once students learn, they continue to grow in confidence that they can put cohesive, supportive ideas on the page. So I acknowledge that kids should write MORE than literary analysis, but I think it has its place in the ninth grade English classroom.

Charlie sees no value in this type of school writing. But he has to pass my class. I keep him after school only to discover that he has not even started coming up with evidence to support any idea. I curse myself for not seeing this at any point during our three days of in-class work time (God forbid I was helping kids with their hands in the air), but then I lay into him about his work habits and how scared I am for his future.

"You can't keep doing this, Charlie. You can't just sit and do nothing for three days and keep expecting people to help you pick up the pieces after the fact. It is not okay. And I know that this type of writing is not ever going to to excite you the way that fiction does, but part of growing up is just doing things you don't want to do." There was probably more, but that was the gist of it. My frustration is palpable. (I am usually pretty good about giving kids infinite chances--for better or for worse--so when I am seriously irritated, I think kids notice.)

Charlie asked to work in the other ninth grade teacher's room. And I was actually grateful, even though I knew it was probably because I had hurt his feelings.

He came in to see me before he left, and we went over his outline and plan for the weekend. I pretended to believe him when he said he would get it done. I reiterated the points of my earlier soapbox speech, but I adjusted it to value him. "You are such a perfectionist. And you have writing in your life that you DO value, so much, that this type of school writing might always be a bore. You might not be able to sit around and get inspired. You might just have to pick a topic that you don't care about that much, but you can finish the assignment about, and just do the work. As your writing teacher, I hate to tell you to just settle for a topic, but it may be the only way that you can even get started."

He smiled. "I know that you think that's like the worst thing to say as a writing teacher. But you know me so well as a writer. And a person."

And just like that, Charlie can have a million more chances. And I will keep thinking about how I can make literary analysis a bit more applicable to his life.

54.

I know I never really signed off for the summer, but I'm back with stories from a new school year.  I'll try to post a wee bit more consistently than at the end of last year.  :)

Today, in an afternoon section of English 9, barriers came down.  I know it sounds dramatic, but it was dramatic.  It is scenes like this one that I live for in the classroom.  This class has a high proportion of kids that struggle with English and kids that lack confidence in writing as a result.  Students brought "Where I'm From" poems today, and I asked them to read them aloud in groups of four.  "Be brave!" I said, and each group member was to note at least one strong word choice in each poem read aloud.  After they'd had time to read and respond to each other's poems, each group had to choose one poem to share with the large group.  This poem could be read by the poet or by another group member.  

In one group, Chris, a student who has been a bit disruptive and surly for the last week shared his poem, which had great imagery and dark undertones that weren't present in some of the other poems.  The group agreed that Chris's poem should be shared, but Chris didn't want to read it.  Another boy, Dane, volunteered to read it for him. (Dane and Chris couldn't be further apart in terms of social circles and attitudes toward school.) Chris's face lit up and he agreed immediately. 

As the class applauded for the anonymous poet, Chris beamed.  

There were two other poems shared, written by students who lack confidence in writing, and they responded in the same way. I felt like they had a moment of thinking that maybe they could be successful in this class, in school.

As the students filed out of the classroom, Chris made his way to Dane.  "Thanks again for reading my poem," he said.  They had a genuine, unscripted moment of human interaction.  I was lucky enough to be there.

50.

I spent this evening with the delightful Ted Kooser, who reminded me of some tenants of teaching poetry and writing.  I plan to share them with my students tomorrow, and thought I'd share them with you tonight.

On teaching poetry and the experiences he wants kids to have with reading poetry:
"I want them to take pleasure it it.  The minute the poem begins to become a problem to solve, it's over."

On writing:
"I think we all ought to be writing about our families."  He said something about a memory you'd scribble on a piece of paper and stick into a drawer.  Years after the family members are gone, someone finds the piece, and "all of a sudden, back into the light they come."

"I love to write about the most ordinary things there are."

A glorious, refreshing evening.

35.

I am currently teaching an overage.  Five classes is considered full-time.  I am teaching five and a half (a writing elective that meets every other day) in exchange for an additional planning period every other day instead of every day study hall.  As an English teacher, it isn't worth it most days.

"Worth" it is a funny thing to think about it.  It's not worth anything monetarily.  The time difference is nominal.  Study hall is really the luck of the draw.  You might get 10 awesome kids who will let you use your study hall as an extra planning period anyway.  You might get 25 rowdy seventh graders who need to be taught study skills as they work.

At the beginning of the year, I didn't think I could do it.  I was burning out.  I couldn't read everything.  I had no idea how I was going to get anything published.

And then I realized I didn't have to do everything.  The kids LOVE my response on their work, so I try to give them that as much as I can.  But they can respond to each other.  They can be responsible for publishing.  Which is what I told them.  If you want to publish anything, you are in charge.  I will answer your questions.  I will help you.  But you have to design the layout.  You have to edit each other's work.  It is YOUR publication.

It is February 8th, and we haven't published anything this year.  To be honest, I've lost sleep over it.  I feel like it reflects poorly on me as the instructor.  I wonder if some of the kids are disappointed that we aren't publishing more.

But... today I sent it to the printer's.  I helped with compiling the final pages, putting it all together, filling out the order.  They did the rest.

And as I looked at it and prepared to send it away, I thought, This is worth it. I can see their faces as the look at the crisp color cover and open it.  I imagine their parents, finally open to a glimpse of their teenagers' worlds.  I am so proud of them.

It is worth the pride they will feel when they see it.  And next year, maybe I'll be able to do it in a way that I won't lose sleep.

33.

Eric is writing a pirate fiction story for his independent writing goal, and I was talking it through with him after school.  He didn't know where to start.  He's a creative kid who gets sucked into details and sometimes gets stuck in the minutiae, unable to pull himself out and finish the story.  I know this about him because he's also able to talk through his process.

"Well, if I were you, I'd probably make a list of scenes I want to include, and then pick one to start with," I say.

A few minutes later he comes back up to my desk.  "Okay, I know where I'm starting.  I'm going to write a scene where the family receives their invitations to go on the cruise."

This worries me a little because he's got this great idea about pirates taking over the cruise ship and the parents getting killed and the kids having to solve the problem themselves.  I don't want them to get stuck in the living room, double-checking their suitcases.  This is a common problem with kids learning how to incorporate detail into their writing: they want to incorporate ALL details.  I've learned to talk about the balance of showing and telling, not just showing instead of telling.

I consider how to address this with Eric.  And then I decide to be honest with him about my concerns, just as I would with an adult peer writer asking for help.  I wouldn't do this with all writers because they might let me in to unintentionally take over their pieces.  But Eric won't do that, and my speaking to him directly could save him hours in the long run.

"I think that's a fine place to start," I say.  "But remember that your action takes place on the ship.  And that's going to be an awesome story.  And I want you to get to it," I say with a smile.  He knows what I'm thinking.

"Yeah.  I promise I won't get stuck with them packing," he says, and starts typing.  It's a really good feeling to know what a kid needs and do your best to meet it.

28.

I am so lucky to do what I do--to be able to see my students' thinking developing on a daily basis.

We just set independent writing goals for the quarter.  Each student selected a genre and one or more areas of his/her craft and mechanics s/he wanted to improve.  They will also design their own rubrics (of course, I have to approve them) to think about what quality work in each of the areas means to them.

I have a really strong writer (we'll call her Emily) and I was so grateful to read her goals and rubric.  She plans to write fiction.  She wants to work on showing not telling and creative sequencing.  The thing that got me, though, was specific, straightforward, and insightful her rubric was.

For example, her "A" for showing not telling is "Perfect amount of sensory details but not too many.  Same with showing not telling" and her "B" is "Too much showing not telling so story becomes confusing."

For a struggling writer, her rubric would need to be more specific.  But she doesn't need it.  And she totally gets that you have to have showing AND telling to move a story along. 

That is pretty sophisticated stuff.

23.

Chad is a kid who frequently disengages from school.  He’s failing two classes. In September, we met with his dad, who shared how much Chad used to care about school.  He won the spelling bee in fifth grade. “I just want you to be a happy boy and enjoy school again,” his father said. 

Now, I have won him over with Nebraska football commentary (he was born in Lincoln when his dad was in school).  At some point in his back-to-back fifteen minute detentions for tardies, he decided to open up and laugh with me.  He still has late assignments; he still has detention once in a while, but sometimes, he is with me.

One of the options for student writing in the last couple weeks was a This I Believe essay.  Chad is in my room after school to finish his essay (never mind that I made him because it was late).  When he declares it complete, I look over his shoulder at a heartfelt, detailed, well-worded essay—about the virtues of Cornhusker football.  He is trying to print two copies but the printer won’t work.  I tell him he can email me my copy, but I know they weren’t both intended for me.

“Would you like me to print you a copy from my computer?” I ask.

Chad grins.  “I want to show it to my dad.”

22.

Kyle asks for response today on his "This I Believe" essay.  It's about his belief that most adults do not remember how difficult it is to be a teenager.

One of his teachers called his dad because Kyle put his head down on his desk in class.  At home, Kyle's dad said, "It's not that hard to keep your head up.  It's not that hard."

Kyle's next paragraph heads into a tirade about that sentence, listing all the things about being a teenager that make it difficult, especially when everyone around him is telling him that it's easy.

It's a rant-filled, angst-driven, completely teenage piece.  

And it is 100% his reality. 

I respond to him as a writer, pointing out sentences where his ranting detracts from the solid points he is making.  He listens.  

15.

I lean over Harry's desk.  He is a kid with shaggy dark blonde hair and an attitude problem.  He's brilliant.  He won't do homework.  He fails all his classes and there's no good reason for it.

He's in my writing elective; he's just mentioned that he's not planning on publishing in our print issue coming out in a couple weeks.  I'm checking in.  This kid has written an excellent biography and several short personal narratives that could be polished with minimal work.

"We're probably not going to have another chance to publish for several months.  I'd just hate to see you miss the opportunity," I say.

"I know.  I'm working on this story.  I just don't have anything that's ready, anything I want to publish this time."

His blue eyes meet mine.  I want to believe so badly that he will work hard on this story--that he will do what it takes to make himself proud.  "Okay," I say.  "It's your work.  It's up to you."

Harry has days that he gets minimal work done.  He also likes to socialize and stare off into space.  Today, he works the entire period, neat rows of blue ink in his writer's notebook.

I hope what he needs this time is a choice, a sense of control.

13.

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."

I move on to the next student.