dayzelines

I'm Moving...

2010-05-04T11:44:00.000-07:00

No, not to Hawaii. Or Alabama. Or even around the corner. I'm just moving my blog. It occurred to me that it might be nice if the URL and the title of the blog were actually the same. I know -- some of us have to get things messy before we can figure out how to clean stuff up :) Anyway, all posts will now be at More Than I Should Bear, morethanishouldbear.blogspot.com. In addition to the new address, I am developing a couple of new features, the first of which is Teacher Testimony, and a new look, which I am still fiddling with, so "bear" with me. Hope to see you at the new home!

Change...For the Better?

2010-04-24T22:40:00.000-07:00

We are not cisterns made for hoarding, we are channels made for sharing.
Billy Graham

I am making some changes to my blog and for the few of you out there who are on this journey with me, I hope the changes are only for the good. Essentially, I want to expand what I am doing here -- venture into some new areas in terms of my writing and sharing it with you. I have been following The Pioneer Woman and one of the many things I love about her blog is that she has a place for everything -- confessions, cooking, photography -- they each have their own space. As I have been writing the last few months, I have been inspired to do a variety of things, but I wasn't sure if they "fit." Looking at my house, my car, my classroom, you would never suspect that I adore organization, but I actually do. So, this is my first step. From now on, this will be the "control center" for my blog -- the place to begin. From here, you will be able to go to More Than I Should Bear to continue reading about how the various parts of my life -- teacher, mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend -- intersect and how I learn from those overlapping moments.

In addition to that, though, I am hoping to have a few new adventures here. I am thinking about sharing my poetry more frequently. I am thinking about sharing more about the craft of teaching, specific practices, lessons, issues associated with the classroom and education. I am thinking about sharing the stories of the amazing teachers we have serving our communities -- perhaps some interviews with educators making an impact on the lives of children. I have some more ideas, too (of course I do!) but I'll save those for later. Simply put, I am thinking about sharing. I want to do more because I love it so much. I hope you do, too.

Breaking Away

2010-04-13T11:17:00.000-07:00

A colleague brought a yearbook to school the other day from the year I graduated high school. It wasn't from my school, but the other high school in my city at that time. We were looking through the book to find a picture of the mother of one of my current students. (As a side note, I am a bit horrified that I have now been teaching long enough to have a student whose mother graduated from high school in the same year as me!)

On the same page as the student's mother's senior picture were pictures of several other people I knew at that time. My best friend early in high school, M-, was on that page and when I saw her senior picture it immediately took me back to some of the times we had shared together. I was definitely a rule-follower in high school (much as I am now), but I did have a few tiffs with my parents. These episodes were very rare though, and because of that, I remember exactly what they were concerning. One was about M-'s boyfriend -- a Robert Smith-styled guy with wild black hair, unusual clothing and the occasional red lipstick. I just couldn't understand why my parents were wary of this young man and reluctant to let me trot around Southern California as the third wheel with him and M-.

A natural part of a teenager's life is separating himself from his parents, becoming his own person, independent from and sometimes in direct opposition to the authority figures in his life. I did not want to hear my parents' opinions or cautionary tales because I wanted to prove them wrong as a means of becoming myself. Yet, even though I remember this feeling completely, I find myself doing the same thing with the students in my classes, particularly the seniors. The poor dears -- they leave their own parents each morning hoping for some respite, only to find themselves in my class baraged with even more advice and unsolicited words of wisdom. But I cannot stop myself. And sometimes, it helps.

For National Poetry Month, I have been sharing poems in a variety of ways with my students. On a few ocasions I have read poems I have written. Last week, one of those poems came with a Public Service Announcement. One of my cousins passed away at the age of 19 due to meningococcal disease. What she thought was a bad cold or flu ended up taking her life. I shared her story with my students and suggested they read what they can about the disease and decide if vaccination would be appropriate.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention states: "The Advisory Committee on Immunization Practices (ACIP) recommends routine vaccination of all persons 11-18 years of age with 1 dose of meningococcal conjugate vaccine at the earliest opportunity. Pre-teens who are 11-12 years old should be routinely vaccinated at the 11-12 year old check-up as recommended by ACIP. This visit is the best time for adolescents to receive meningococcal conjugate vaccine. Also, since the occurrence of meningococcal disease increases during adolescence, health-care providers should vaccinate previously unvaccinated pre-teens and teens 11-18 years of age with meningococcal conjugate vaccine at the earliest possible health-care visit.

College freshmen living in dormitories are at increased risk for meningococcal disease and should be vaccinated with meningococcal conjugate vaccine before college entry if they have not previously been vaccinated. The risk for meningococcal disease among nonfreshmen college students is similar to that for the general population of similar age (age 18-24 years). However, since the vaccines are safe and produce immunity, they can be provided to nonfreshmen college students who want to reduce their risk for meningococcal disease."

I followed this information with a poem I wrote one year after my cousin Amanda passed away. The poem is written from a mother's point of view, though I did not discuss the poem with my aunt. It was written before I became a mother myself; and when I read it now, it has an even stronger impact on me. I'd like to share the poem with you:

Birthday

I bought you twenty balloons
colored like licorice
          like sunshine
          like the Mediterranean Sea,
things you love, things you have never seen.

I bought you all twenty,
had them blown up big
and tied to curly ribbon.

They tug at my fist,
wanting me to
set them free, let them loose,
see them soar,
until they are only tiny dots
disappearing into distance, but
I
bought these twenty balloons
and I do not want to let go,
will not let go,
cannot let go.

I close my fist up tight
'til my nails are leaving half-moons
in my palm
and tears itch the corners
of my eyes,

but while I
blink,
the one in the middle
wiggles right out
and dances off to tomorrow.

I watch
                and I watch
                                               and I watch
squinting
until all I see is the space
it left behind.

                                                      While I blinked,
                                                      my baby danced out of my sight.

                                                      The tug is on my heart,
                                                      the half-moons on my soul.

                                                      You were only nineteen;
                                                      you will never be twenty.

                                                      And all I feel is the space you left behind.

I experience tremendous joy as a teacher. I care so much for my students and hope the lessons they learn in my class, both academic and personal, will inspire in them a balance of curiosity, peace and confidence that will allow them to find joy in their lives as well. And if that means sounding a bit like their moms at times, I think I am okay with that.   As parents always say, someday they will thank me for it.

Poetry Month!

2010-04-02T12:22:00.000-07:00

For National Poetry Month, I am celebrating in a number of ways. Daily, I am posting a short poem or line from a poem on my classroom whiteboard, posting a poem on my class website, and reading a poem (some of which I have written) to my AP Literature classes. I decided it might be nice to share some of my poems with you as we go through the month -- maybe not every day, but with some consistency :)

Here are the ones I read today and yesterday to my classes:

Bitter Winds
My father lies on the floor
     beside the sliding glass door, open,
     listening to the Santa Ana’s.
Almost 300 pounds, his heaviness looks odd on its side.
Getting up will take work, but
he cannot help himself.

He has never explained what it is,
what the witch’s wind says to seduce him to her side,
but – without fail –
her howl lullabies him.

I have heard tales, how the friction of her swirling winds
brings the devil out of people,
causes sleepless nights and high anxiety,
coerces some to commit crimes they would never consider
in the calm.

These winds that turn chaparral into fuel for fire
quench something in him.

Maybe it is her whisper
     blades of cut late summer grass
     brushed with her breath
which deepens to a mother’s moan
he thought lived only in his stomach.

Maybe her song is his,
as David’s lamentings are our own,
timeless cries giving voice to our shame,
giving voice to our need
for a home in God’s heart.

When my father lies on the floor
and listens to the wind,
I tease him for his adolescent devotion
          a boy lost in daydream of a girl
          who does not know his name.

But, what I wish I would do
is lay down next to him
     my own heaviness on the floor
so that I might finally hear
my father’s song.

On a Grandmother's Passing
English teapots and ruby rings
peridot bracelets
a cameo pin
Barbie dolls and black shoes

closets and cabinets cluttered
with what Grandma did not have time
to give away

Now the children
and their children
and their children
sift
through the things she had collected
the things she left behind
hoping to heal themselves with objects
just as she had tried to do
all those years.

But the Virgin statue on my mantle
and the bracelet around my wrist
really remind me nothing of
my grandmother,
a round woman worn thin as apron strings,
fragile like a hollow Christmas tree ornament,
but packaged ina a thick skin and snapping tongue.

She pranced, danced around her kitchen,
skin dewy from the heat,
eyes flickeringwith the flame of the gas stove,
eyes flickering with worry and want.

She was a woman
who wanted to be Scarlet O'Hara
or someone, at least.
Instead, she was
Evangelina turned Vangie
turned Susan,
turned Eve,
wife and mother,
grandma and great-ma,
enough for us,
too little for herself.

Baby Chicks and Spring Break

2010-03-20T22:59:00.000-07:00

Double the blessings? Double the trouble? My friend, K. had her twin girls about two months ago and finally has both little dolls under her roof together after they spent weeks at the NICU. While I know that she and her husband are thrilled with finally having both girls at home, the uncertainties of parenting are only beginning for them.

I remember those earliest days of being a parent and how many questions I had. There is that common joke about how kids don't come with an owner's manual, but there were seriously times when I wish they did! Recently, one of the dashboard lights came on in our car, and though Chad and I were pretty certain we knew why it had lit up, we were able to take out the Saturn book, look it up and confirm our original assumptions. Not so easy with a child who has a low-grade fever, or is rubbing his ear a lot or whose appetite has waned. Before we'd call the doctor with a concern, we had already spent hours determining when the phone call would be made -- "Okay, if the fever doesn't come down in the next two hours, we'll call." Situations are no more black and white as children get older. We have to determine when they are old enough to attend a birthday party without us being present, how much to fight over homework, how many cookies are enough...the list does not end and the answers are rarely clear. It is almost a relief when you can say "Yes, an apple would be a great snack for you!" or, "No, do not run out on front of the moving cars!"

The gray areas are the most challenging types of discussions I have with my students, as well, but they are also the most rewarding. This week I have spent time with a number of students who are experiencing incredible anxiety about college. These are not students anxious about getting in to college; these are students already accepted at a number of schools, who, nevertheless, are still plagued with stress. Some do not know which school they should attend; they are being pulled in various directions by friends, family, desires to experience a new life, but fears of leaving their old one behind. Other students are worried about maintaining a level of academic performance in order to avoid having their offers of admission rescinded. I know these young people come to me hoping I can tell them THE answer -- this is the school for you or yes, you will still get to attend your college even if you get a D in this course. But, I can't. I cannot guarantee them anything, any more than I could guarantee my own children that they would make friends in kindergarten or that their teachers would like them. Just like the mother of a newborn who is crying, these kids want the reassurance that everything will turn out well as long as they complete steps A, B and C. We often want a black-and-white, right-or-wrong, yes-or-no world, but every moment has shades of gray.

Ironically, I find that the clouds offer us the greatest opportunities for beauty. My sons' elementary school's motto is "We solve problems with our heads and our hearts." Shouldn't we all solve our problems this way? We need to act out of compassion and love and allow our ability to reason help us to determine choices with which we can live. As I guided the students who sought me out this week, I told each of them to try and make a decision that they knew in their hearts they would be fine with, regardless of the outcome. We often want to make the right decision, but I don't know if those exist. Instead, perhaps we could try to make the decisions that let us breath with more ease and help us to face future days with less anxiety and trepidation.

Of course, we do not wish for problems, but we know they are inevitable. And without them, we wouldn't know what it feels like to use our hearts and minds in collaboration to find hope, a source of light, in even the foggiest of circumstances. Spring Break would not be as invigorating if it did not follow the hibernating winter, but because it does, we can actually find peace in both. It is the grayness of the world that inspires me to fill it with love.

(Although we would probably pick a warm day at a SoCal beach over gloomy skies and parkas anytime! Thanks Alex and Marie for a pic that should make people smile.)

A Boy Lost

2010-03-12T23:15:00.000-08:00

Lucas: This equipment doesn't fit.

Coach: No, it's you that don't fit.

Yesterday, when I opened AOL and the first news story was the death of Corey Haim, I gasped. My students had just started to enter the classroom and they, of course, looked at me with concern. Even though I was fairly certain what their response would be, I said, "I just found out that Corey Haim died." As I expected, "Corey Haim? Who's that?" My freshmen were born in 1996, after I had already graduated from college and well after the years when Corey Haim was my biggest crush. In those pre-teen days, the crushes were many, but Corey Haim was the only celebrity I ever sent a fan letter to and when I got back a reply, with a signature that was in ink and not photocopied, I was sure that Corey had read my letter, been touched by it and somehow through the magic of the post office, we were now a part of each other's lives.

This week, my seniors wrote a response to the question, what is a life worth? We have been discussing how human lives are valued -- the different qualities that have been lauded and loathed in previous eras and the current estimation of what makes a life one of value. The response varied widely, from those who had definite and unshakable determinants of what makes one life more worthy than another to those who felt that placing value on a life was impossible, and even disgusting, because all human lives should be valued equally. As the students wrote, I considered how I would respond to this sort of writing exercise.

Tonight, I would like to offer this: A life is worth another life.

My freshmen are wrapping up A Tale of Two Cities right now and we have been discussing the redemption of Sydney Carton who offers himself up in Charles Darnay's place for execution so that the woman Carton loves, Lucie, can be with the man she loves, Darnay. Carton lives a rather sordid and sometimes despicable life until he meets Lucie. The goodness that she exudes helps him to be a better man and he tells Lucie to "think now and then that there is a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you."

As a wife and a mother, I know this kind of love. Each of my boys and my husband know that there is a woman who would give up her life to give them a life they love. Until my sons are old enough to make this type of statement for themselves, their lives have worth because of my willingness to sacrifice for them. At some point, their lives will have a renewed worth when they are willing to do this for someone they love. I pray that what I give to them, they will share with another.

As I think about Corey Haim, or any child celebrity Hollywood pretends to mother, but instead offers up on the altar of fame and fortune, I wonder if he had anyone in his life who he would have given his own life for -- if he had ever been shown the kind of unconditional, agape love that inspires one to be willing to put his own wants, desires, compulsions and addictions aside. If he had, perhaps he would have met a different fate. Now, he will always be a boy lost.

Seinfeld, Facebook and a Self Divided

2010-02-27T10:44:00.000-08:00

George Costanza could never be on Facebook. One of my favorite moments with George on Seinfeld is when he talks about how he cannot have the George he is with his fiance -- Relationship George -- come into contact with the George he is with Jerry and friends -- Independent George. "A George divided against himself," he proclaims, "cannot stand!" To have his worlds collide would cause a catastrophic explosion in George's estimation, killing Independent George.

One of my relatives is feeling the same way about Facebook. She has decided to remove herself from it because of her discomfort with the access she has to people's lives. Being only a few clicks away from knowing specific details about the lives of perfect strangers is disconcerting to her. Plus, she is not thrilled about her work "friends" mingling with her church "friends" -- these are spheres of her life she'd rather keep separate. This is one of many reasons why I probably will never see my mom on Facebook. The thought of acquaintances from thirty years ago traipsing through her page and seeing pictures of her and her family turns her stomach. Although the benefits are certainly there, she would not want to sacrifice her privacy for them. I respect these attitudes and understand how this change in how people interact with one another can be disturbing for those who have been able to experience privacy through most of their days.

Even though some people might turn away from social networking, with Facebook boasting millions of members, it is quite likely that each of us will eventually face these issues and have to find some kind of harmony among the spheres of our lives. Easy access and the addictive fascination with social networking make separating these various spheres of our lives very difficult. Is this going to result in more authenticity? We are losing the divide between public and private; will we be left with truth?

Somehow, I doubt it. In fact, the ease with which we can create an online persona and the lure of being something online that we are not in real life may prove to be too strong. Having lived in a world without status updates and profile pics, I am able to see how the way we present ourselves to the world has changed with technology. My students, however, have never existed in a world without a digital thread. Because of this, I believe my students will have an even more difficult time discovering their unique voices and sense of self. By trying to capture who they are in an "About Me" page and not having space to privately explore their identities, their vision of who they are must experience levels of distortion more profound than what adolescents have experienced in the past. For me, this is even more support for why I need to think carefully about how I interact with my students both in the real world and in the online universe.

As a teacher, I have always felt the tug-of-war between home life and school life. How much of my personal self do I share with those whom I teach? On an educator's list-serve I subscribe to, a recent hot topic has been teachers who are reprimanded, suspended or even fired for controversial postings to social networks.These are situations where the teacher is engaged in legal, but what some feel is questionable activity, such as drinking with friends or hugging a stripper. Some feel consequences are necessary, while others believe that what a teacher does on her private time is her own business as long as it is legal. Should teachers be held to a standard that is different than what those in other professions may have? Does being a teacher have to play a role in how I behave and define myself in my private life? Does a private life actually exist anymore?

Ultimately for me, the question becomes, what message am I sending to my students with my behavior? What choices am I making and what values do those choices represent? I am careful about what I write on Facebook, what pictures are posted and what cyber-trail I am leaving. I do not live my life in fear of what others may find, but instead try to be conscious of the online image I am crafting of myself and ensuring that it is in harmony with the person I strive to be in the real world. When 120 teenagers look to the front of a classroom each day and see me, I want them to find more than someone who knows how to write a compound sentence; I want them to see someone who models for them a way to live.

I am not Teacher Stephanie and Independent Stephanie, selves divided who cannot co-exit. I am just Stephanie, trying to live without fear of colliding with myself, trying to live a life of truth.

I Am the Tree

2010-02-19T23:17:00.000-08:00

I have accepted that I am the tree.

When I was young, I thought I was the bird. Don't we all? I imagined myself on the opposite coast, a fashion designer in New York. Or in another country, a novelist in London. Even once I was certain my life was called to teaching, I daydreamed myself in Portland classrooms, Austin classrooms, Atlanta classrooms. I thought to be educated and to be grown up was to fly to another place and begin anew, an identity untethered by my past.

But that was not to be. So here I am, a girl who loved school who is now in school every day. A girl raising her family in the same city that raised her. At times, that has made me discontent. I have wondered -- why didn't I go? Who would I be if I had? Is it too late? I tend to envy wings the most as graduation nears each June. My students, whom I love and of whom I am incredibly proud, tend to be birds. And graduation signals that they are just about to take flight. Often, a piece of me wants to go with them. Their lives are full of such potential, such possibility, so much left to be written.

As a teacher, I sometimes feel like I am standing still while the world zooms past me.Yes, in the 54 minutes I have each group of students in my class, we do some inspired work -- sophisticated writing, provocative reading, thoughtful discussion -- but once the bell rings, they are up and out the door, on to the next subject, the next teacher, the next assignment. And once those caps are tossed into the air, they are up and on their way again. But not me. I remain. Out of comfort or compulsion? I am not always sure.

This week, my students and I have been reading Thomas Hardy's Tess of the d'Urbervilles, focusing particularly on the role that time and place play in Tess's life. Also, we read a blog post by Jim Burke in which he discusses the sequoia redwoods and their ability to shift themselves into odd shapes in order to find the light they need to survive and thrive. We talked about Tess and whether the concept of thriving is even one she would be able to understand given the setting of the novel. And then I had to ask myself the question, what light am I seeking in order to thrive?

When I began teaching, I had an article published in California English titled, "It's a Pirate's Life for Me" which discussed why I loved teaching and how the search for treasure and the unpredictable, wild seas kept me engaged. I believe if I were to rewrite that article now, I would have to use a different extended metaphor. I am not on a journey in the classroom. I am not seeking a buried chest of jewels; I am reaching for what is illuminating and holy. I am grounded here -- in a discipline, in a school, in a community. My roots run deeply into a soil which has nourished and supported me.

It was then that I realized, I am the tree. I am where all those little birds break free from the confines of their shells and chirp from their nests. I thrive by being a place for others to tuck themselves away for a few months, but also a place providing them with a perch and a view. As they grow, they become able to stand on my branches, wings at the ready, and I can feel their tiny toes gripping me anxiously. Tentatively, they let go, some more capable than others. After a few seconds, they drop back into my branches to rest and then try again. Once they have mastered the art of flying, I know I will likely not see them until the seasons have turned, but I hope for them to return, if only to light upon a branch and tell me about the wonders of the world they have seen. Each time they come to me, I will be here. Another ring of circumference may be marking my insides, but my arms will be another foot closer to the sun.

We learn not only by going, but also by staying and stretching ourselves toward new understanding. By doing this, we are strengthened and able to provide shelter to those who need it while they ready themselves for flight.

While I may have known this intellectually, I am finally learning with my heart that we each have our own purpose. The birds need the trees. Plus, aren't the redwoods one of the seven wonders of North America? I'll take that.

The Queen of Silver Linings

2010-02-12T22:54:00.000-08:00

A couple of weekends ago, I was with my Academic Decathlon team at our first Saturday of competition. We arrived at the hosting school at 7:30 am and the temperature had not yet reached 50 degrees. Two of the girls from the team and I were walking around the campus trying to locate the rooms in which they would deliver their speeches. We were all three shivering and making comments about how it would be nice to feel our toes again someday. "At least it isn't raining," I said. (At the following week's competition we would not be so lucky!) One of the young ladies responded, "Oh, Mrs. Elliott, you are always the optimist."

Lately, I have begun to refer to myself as the Queen of Silver Linings. In some respects it is a title I claim with pride. I like being the Pollyanna of the group. I like believing that no matter how difficult a situation is that God's plan is to prosper me. I like turning someone else's sour perspective around so that she can enjoy the sweetness life offers. Not surprisingly, when I look for the good, I often see the good.

However, being the Queen of Silver Linings comes with its own share of challenges. I can be irritating. People need to wallow sometimes, and when I chirp some sweet tune, they don't want to hear it. I can also be ineffective. When I am the person who always looks on the bright side, who always thinks things can work, who always is willing to give new ideas a try, then my opinion becomes less valuable. And even worse than being ineffective, I can also be wrong. As much as I attempt to convince a student that he can do well in a particular class or encourage a colleague to take her concerns to someone with whom she's had a conflict, those situations do not always end in the way I'd hope.

But I think the most difficult part of being the Queen of Silver Linings is wearing the crown. It is awfully heavy and makes one quite noticeable. Though finding the good comes naturally to me, it causes me an undo amount of fear. I think I try so hard to focus on the positive because I don't want to face the negative; I don't have the confidence in myself to be assured that I can actually survive the negative. I also feel substantial pressure to be the one who keeps her spirits up and helps others to focus on the positive. My family, my friends and my students often look to me for the reassurance that everything will be okay. And as much as I smile and find ways to make them believe it will be, inside I am crying out for the same reassurance myself. I wonder if being the Queen of Silver Linings is worth it and consider handing the title over to someone else.

Last night, the Academic Decathlon Team attended the Awards Banquet. We didn't win as many medals as I was hoping for and we didn't place as highly as I had imagined we would. Each time I think about those kids and how hard they worked and what incredible people they are and how much they deserve to be recognized for their efforts, heaviness clouds up my heart. Part of me, a bigger part than I would like to admit, wants to immerse myself in the "we should haves" and "why didn't Is," wants to be upset and defeated. But each time one of those thoughts tries to color my heart, I imagine that little crown on my head. And I know that the right thing to do is to push away the weighty shadows, and allow the sunlight to appear. We had a number of students earn individual medals and we won first place in math. I want those students to enjoy their accomplishments and inspire us to do even better next year. I want them to have spirits of joy and hope, not pessimism or fear.

So, I smiled and I hugged and I patted them on the back and told them time and again how proud I was of them, because I really am. They smiled in return, patted each other on the back and contemplated what ice cream shop they should go to for a celebratory treat. I realized, heavy crown or not, it's good to be Queen.

Tarantino and Chivalry

2010-02-11T11:13:00.000-08:00

On more than one occasion, I have relayed to my students that I was not a girl who received much attention from boys in high school. This topic often arises during College Week at my school which is a time when teachers share about their college experiences with their students. Inevitably, I recount the numerous times in college when guys would literally elbow me out of the way so that they could speak to my roommate. High school had been no better and I am quite confident that I spent many an evening wishing for more attention from the opposite sex. I longed for romance.

Now, in my house full of men, I realize the old adage, "Be careful what you wish for!" is true. It is not uncommon when I arrive home in the evenings for all three of my sons to overwhelm me with hugs and kisses. Another familiar sight in our home is me in our over-sized chair with each boy sitting on or sidled up next to me. Combine the affection of my boys with the advances (welcomed, of course!) of my husband and it is clear that I am no longer undernourished when it comes to male attention. When people ask me if I hope to add a baby girl to the family (and of course I would!) a part of me is saddened by even the most remote chance that I may not always be the only girl in my family. Not only that, but I am really into raising my boys, and keeping in mind that I am raising future men, men who someday will have relationships and need to know how to treat women.

While I consider myself a feminist, I still believe that chivalry is a quality we should develop in our boys. This may come in actions we readily associate with chivalry, such as carrying a girl's books to class. This rarely occurs anymore -- which given the size of textbooks and the 7-minutes-only passing period -- I can sort of understand. But I see young women all the time carrying heavy boxes or moving large furniture without guys stepping up to help. I want to teach my boys to be the ones who notice when a girl has her hands full and I want them to be the ones who take her books, or the box, out of her hands. When someone does that for me, it makes me feel good, safe, and special. That's how I want my boys to make girls feel.

Chivalry can come in other forms as well. Recently, my husband and I were watching a Tarantino film together. We are Tarantino fans, especially appreciative of his use of dialoue and music. But with any Tarantino flick comes the violence. Usually, I can brace myself for that and even see the artistic purpose and value. However, on this particular night I was tired and a bit edgy. As the first violent scene of the movie began, I turned away and looked at the back wall. I stayed like that until I was sure all of the gunshots and massive injuries were over. Though I would have continued to watch the movie, my husband could see how agitated I was. And even though he really likes to be able to watch movies together, and we had been waiting months to watch this one, and he had been planning all day for us to have a movie night together -- he stopped the film. "Maybe you could blog tonight," he suggested. He was not upset or irritated, he was being protective of me and my emotional state. He was taking the box from my arms, giving me time to be alone and time to think and create. My heart fluttered.

This is romance.

Puddle Jumping

2010-01-26T22:11:00.000-08:00

After a week of being quickly herded from the safety of one dry building to another due to the rain, the boys were ready to stretch their legs and use their outside voices on Saturday morning. We trekked across the street to the school playground with our gear -- a football, a baseball, a mitt, a skateboard and scooter. But the truth is, we didn't need to bring a thing. Scattered across the blacktop were perfect puddles begging the boys to indulge.

All week they had been told, and rightly so, "Stay out of the puddles!" Chad has to make three trips a day to the school for drop-offs and pick-ups and trying to do that in the persistent rain with an almost-three-year-old in tow is not a challenge that needs escalation. I echoed his position when I first saw Lucas headed for the puddles. As parents we are often told of the great dangers in mixed messages. If Dad says no, Mom must say no, too, to avoid decreasing Daddy's authority. If a TV show is inappropriate to watch on Monday, it is inappropriate on Tuesday; otherwise, the expectations for our children are unclear. If we say do not lie, then we cannot lie in front of our children and still expect them to adhere to our rules. But this time, I broke the rules. And really, I don't feel too badly about it.

In my classroom, I notice that one of the struggles students often have is knowing when they can break the rules. I don't mean the "No gum in class" kind of rules; I mean the "Sentences do not begin with because" kind of rules. I find that my students have been told so many times by so many people what they need to write, read, solve and produce, that eventually they became almost incapable of functioning without a mandate to do so. Writing assignments are the worst for producing this sort of anxiety in them. How long should it be? Can we use the word I? Where does the thesis need to go? How many examples should I give? They often believe life would be so much easier if I provided a neat checklist that they could mark off as they went: Thesis? Check! 500 words? Check? Eleven sentences in each paragraph? Check!

But real writing, and real life, does not always work that way. One of the signs of a mature writer is knowing when certain practices are appropriate and when they are not. Profanity may be acceptable, and even demanded, when crafting a short story featuring seedy characters. It, most likely, is not as acceptable when writing a proposal for your employer. One of the qualities of a mature human being is the ability to consider the possible impact of a particular action and then to determine whether or not the action is appropriate, necessary or permissible.

I want my students to go into the world, not hemmed in by rules and regulations, but confident in their own sense of discernment and determined values. I want them to write with the same confidence, knowledgeable enough about writing conventions, audience, purpose and voice to be able to choose when to follow the "rules" and when to create their own.

I want the same for my sons. Puddle jumping is not an absolutely negative activity. In fact, it is one of those childhood pleasures most adults wish they had partaken in more often. No, on the way to pick up your brother is not a good time to soak your feet and splash everything within three feet of you, including your daddy. But a sunny, after-the-storm Saturday filled with nothing but time to waste -- perfect!

The Beauty of Afterthoughts

2010-01-21T22:50:00.000-08:00

I spend a lot of time thinking about things before they happen. When I know I am going to talk with somebody, I hear the entire conversation over and over in my head. Each morning as I drive to school, I envision the day's lesson plan from beginning to end multiple times. I compose blog entries twenty times over in my mind before I even get to the keyboard.

Yesterday, I was headed to the front door when I decided to throw on a scarf for a bit of extra warmth. I went to my closet and grabbed a handknit rainbow-colored scarf my aunt made for Michael when he was two. It wasn't a very long scarf given that it had been made for a child, just enough to wrap around my neck once to protect me a bit from the sharp air. Honestly, when I arrived at school, I almost took it off . But I didn't -- each time I glanced down and saw that splash of rainbow, I warmed at the memories of my little boy on Christmas morning playing outside with that scarf wrapped around him.

Every period that day at least one student complimented my scarf and several staff members did as well. Each time I was able to share my story of Michael, his chunky body bundled up, his blonde curls poking out from under his beanie, and the rainbow scarf bright as his holiday spirit.

Had I planned my accessorizing the way I normally do, I never would have chosen the rainbow scarf. My plan would likely have included something much less folksy and more in line with what others would be wearing. But then I would have missed out on all those opportunities to reminisce about my son who has grown well beyond those toddler days. In the busyness of the day, finding time for memories is rare.

Afterthoughts can come in so many forms -- a gift we buy spontaneously for a friend, a heartwarming PS at the end of an email, a word of encouragement as a student heads out the door. Planning and thinking certainly have their value and I don't foresee myself giving up on either anytime soon, but I also want to be sure I see the beauty in the afterthoughts, those moments, words, actions that occur when thinking stops and feelings begin.

Process Over Product

2010-01-18T22:05:00.000-08:00

When somebody asks me what I teach, sometimes I want to say, "People." I know the question is usually referring to the subject matter or curriculum -- "Honors English I" or Romeo & Juliet are the expected responses. I wonder if this is because in the day-to-day world of teaching we focus heavily on product, and the product that first comes to mind is not always the student. We create lesson plans, then collect assignments; we tally points and track test scores, ultimately determining a final grade to print on a report card. Ironically, we then get frustrated when our students become point-mongers and grade-grubbers rather than valuing their educational experience for how it develops them as human beings.

In AP English Literature this semester, I have been emphasizing process over product. (Alabama football has been a daily topic of conversation in my home since August, so Coach Saban's coaching philosophy has obviously influenced me!) I know that a grading system is necessary and that test scores aren't going to decrease in significance anytime soon, but can't we work toward success in those areas without making the class entirely consumed with them?

S. walked into class on Friday and said to me with sincerity, "I just have to say thank you for yesterday's class (when we had discussed some "great questions" raised in literature). We never get the chance to contemplate some of these big ideas and it was nice to have some time to think and discuss issues that are at the center of our human lives." I love teenagers, but more often than not, their worlds revolve around themselves. I tell them this is natural and that they will grow out of it (I hope!). So, when a student takes the time to thank a teacher for a day's activities which revolved around thinking really hard about unanswerable questions, I had to take notice. What made the impact? Discussion is not new in my classroom. Sharing ideas in small group also occurs frequently. So what was it that made a student actually demonstrate gratitude for time spent in my class? And she was not the only enthusiastic one. As I had traveled the room the day before and eavesdropped, I heard discussion after discussion that was questioning, insightful and, best of all, personally meaningful for the students.

I believe what has made the difference is changing our focus from the product to the process. I am asking them to care about how they are learning and how they are thinking, asking them to be the one who takes an idea to the next level, to be the one who raises the inspiring question or makes the most insightful connection. The focus has shifted from students completing assignment after assignment for me to students thinking for themselves. Students are not being assigned a particular set of chapters for reading; instead, they are reading at their own pace. Students are in discussion groups with other students who are at the same place in the novel that they are -- no penalty or punishment for not being as far along as someone else. Students are being asked to respond, react, reflect to their reading in authentic ways that make sense for them as individuals -- through charts or art or poetry. I can see that when the students believe that what they think has value, they are willing to share, and they are willing to consider the ways that others think. This becomes an environment rich for teaching -- minds open, hearts willing, souls stirred, curiosity peaked.

I know not every day will be one of intellectual euphoria. I know that there are still students in the class who are just putting in their time. My optimism does not blind me to the realities of teaching 17-year-olds in a public school. However, I still believe a shift, however small, has occurred. In the small world of C28, we are drifting away from amassing points in a gradebook; the points we are concerned with are the ones made in the texts we read, the discussions we have and the writings we craft. And through this focus on process, the product will be what we desire -- perhaps a fine grade in the course or a perceptive, engaging essay -- or, even better, a fine, perceptive, engaging person.

Blue Plate Moments

2010-01-14T22:35:00.000-08:00

N. gave me the blue plate right after college. We each had our little apartments and not nearly enough of what we needed to make a home. Tight budgets and even tighter spaces meant we got by on very little. When I opened my birthday gift that year and inside was the blue plate, I did think for just a moment that it was an odd present. A plate? Not a set of plates, but one single blue plate with a large yellow sunflower right in the center. "I saw it and it reminded me of you," she said, which is my very favorite thing to hear when I open a gift. It made me smile and it still does.

Fifteen years later, I have moved four times, married my best friend, had three children, taught more than a thousand teenagers at two different schools, and I still have my blue sunflower plate. I am the only one in my family who eats from it. I never decreed this or announced it as a household rule -- in fact, I don't think I have ever mentioned it at all -- but if the blue plate is clean, I am the one who uses it. My food always looks more delicious and mealtimes have a bit more joy on the nights I use my plate, much needed when I share the dinner table with boys who sometimes behave more like monkeys than children. It may seem silly or inconsequential, but my blue plate makes me happy. It is my little reward at the end of the day, a dollop of evening sunshine.

Sunshine is certainly something we need! It seems each day becomes crowded with bad news, gloomy forecasts and plans gone awry. At school, budget woes cause worries and we wonder what else can be cut. In class, students may be unprepared, disengaged or defiant. At home, tempers flare, toilets break, tantrums erupt. If we let ourselves, we can be completely filled up with what is wrong.

Instead, I try to seek out what is right. A freshman smiling after reading his Cisneros-inspired vignette to the class. A senior sharing news of her college acceptance, her voice giddy with pride and anticipation. My almost three-year old asking me to marry him and my husband taking my hand in his while we sigh from exhaustion on the couch. Right now, the quiet that allows me to hear these words in my head and the Haagen-Dazs Chocolate Sorbet waiting for me in the freezer.

I look for the blue-plate moments. More often than not, they are sitting right there, just waiting for me to notice them.

Did You Get That On Film?

2010-01-06T22:56:00.000-08:00

My mom called yesterday and told me that while re-storing her Christmas decorations in the garage she had come across some of my childhood toys and belongings. "I found a diary of yours," she said quite casually. Heart. Stopped. Remember, this is the same woman who has told me to be careful about what I write more than she has told me any other piece of advice. I have started and stopped so many different journals in my life that I have lost track of many of them. I always expect one to spring forth from a once-hidden nook and expose some wild secret. Maybe that moment had arrived! But then, I breathed. I am 36 years old, I thought. I cannot be afraid of acknowledging who I have been. Any diary she has found was from another life, one that has shaped me but no longer defines me. And then she said, "I'm pretty sure you wrote it when you were in kindergarten." Any lingering fears were now gone -- what could I have possibly written in kindergarten that I would be ashamed of my mother reading?

It actually was not the content that she was caught by, but the fact that at five years old I had kept a diary of legible, coherent entries at all. "Who does that?" she exclaimed.

Later in the evening, my husband and I watched a short documentary piece on Coach Nick Saban. Any of you following Chad's blog know that he is an Alabama Crimson Tide fanatic and looking very much forward to attending Thursday's National Championship game, so any coverage associated with the team becomes mandatory viewing. The documentary focused on Saban's childhood in Carolina, West Virginia, a town of 500. It was a sweet piece on a coach often described as gruff or unfriendly. The tenderness with which his hometown people spoke of him was sincere and let us see a different side of him. One anecdote that stood out to me, though, was when Saban's childhood friend recalled a time when they were young and he came over to Saban's house. He found Nick watching 8 mm film of a football game they'd played. "Want to watch film with me?" young Nick asked his buddy. Not exactly what kids usually want to spend their afternoons doing. Unless , of course, watching film is what you are meant to do for the rest of your life.

On New Year's Eve, my family and I watched Travis Pastrana break the world record for jumping a car over 250 feet across the Long Beach Harbor. As we waited for the climactic moment to arrive, we were shown home videos of Travis as a boy, maybe four or five years old, taking off on a motorcycle. Even at a very young age and well before he could even hope to have a license, Pastrana was already driving toward his future vocation.

No matter the vocation we choose, risks are involved. Saban is about to coach the biggest game of the year in college football and every decision he makes will be scrutinized. Travis Pastrana risks his life with the stunts that he performs and must find peace with his very possible demise each time he climbs onto a motorcycle or into a race car. But when we see footage of them pursuing these dreams as young boys, we don't criticize their lack of sophistication or the mistakes they make. We don't wish they had stopped and turned their attention to other activities. We find the vision of a child engaged in what will be his life's work tender and heartwarming.

As a teacher, I am responsible for guiding young minds and hearts. This is a risky endeavor at times. When I comment on an essay or critique a presentation, how will my words impact my students? When I write and share my ideas in a forum like this, will it in anyway influence their perceptions of me? Their parents' perceptions? My colleagues' perceptions? How much of myself can I reveal without making myself too vulnerable? I am just beginning to let go of the writing I did in my younger days and not let the lessons learned in various stages in my life haunt the person I am now. I am still trying to determine how I can pursue truth in my writing and maintain my identity and respect as a teacher. But one thing I know for sure, even if my mom doesn't have it on film, I was writing my life even back in kindergarten and I cannot let a little apprehension keep me from the big game.

Again, With Passion!

2009-12-31T23:17:00.000-08:00

Today I spoke with a woman who works in retail. She shared with me that her manager is not much of a motivator. Recently, the store fell just shy of their monthly sales goal. "Why," this woman asked, "didn't our manager tell us we were only a few hundred dollars short? Why didn't she call all of her friends and family to come in for an end-of-the-year spree? Why didn't she tell each of us employees that if we bought one item, the store would make its goal? Why didn't she do SOMETHING to help us succeed?"

The type of passion and enthusiasm it would require for a manager to do such things is woefully lacking in many a workplace. And when it is lacking in leadership, you can be sure it is lacking in the flock. Selling clothes may not be saving starving children or finding the cure for a debilitating disease, but that does not mean it cannot be something that is done with ambition and enthusiasm. Making the goal is not only about the money; it is also about a sense of accomplishment and pride that the entire team enjoys after reaching a particularly high standard that has been set for them. Such accomplishment is what helps us put our feet on the ground each morning instead of pulling the covers over our heads!

As we end one year and begin another, we are tempted to throw off our old selves and morph into new beings. Ones who eat well, exercise regularly and live in a peaceful, highly organized homes. We want to lose weight, throw out the clutter, stop biting our nails.

This year, I am encouraging each of us to add something into our lives rather than remove what is already there. How incredibly different would your 2010 be if you discovered your passion? And what if you took steps to act on that passion each day of your life? What if you then made it your career? Or what if you took your current career or role you have in your life and approached it with a renewed fire? The change it would make in our lives, and then the lives of others, would be awesome in the truest sense of the word.

Being a teacher in these times can be discouraging -- greater accountability, increased pressure, more restrictions and all with less support. Sometimes it can be tempting and even stress-relieving to complain about how impossible the standards set before us are. But imagine what would happen if, instead of stopping at the reasons why we cannot achieve, we went on to imagine and passionately pursue every avenue to make success attainable? What if we decided that each and every day we would approach our profession with passion and eagerness. In the end, if we reach our goal, it becomes a realization that the number isn't what matters; it's the unity and strength we get as a team of people, staff and students, who work toward it together. And if we don't reach the goal, we still have our individual dignity and a collective sense of pride.

Every year, I welcome over 200 ninth graders into our GATE Program. And among all of the information and advice I give to these college-bound, sometimes grade-obsessed students in our first meeting, I always include an exhortation for students to decide what kind of people they want to become, what passions they must pursue in their lives to be fulfilled as human beings, and then, if they make their educational decisions based on those ideals, they will not be disappointed when they leave high school.

This attitude, though, cannot stop when we are 18. Today, at 36, as the ball drops and people kiss their way into 2010, as my children fall asleep and slip obliviously into a new decade, I need to ask myself those same questions: What kind of person do I want to be? What passions must I pursue to be fulfilled?

And I am pretty sure that if I add all that passion, enthusiasm and fulfillment into my life, surely a bad habit or a few extra pounds will be pushed out. We can always hope!

Happy 2010!

Bawling at a Baby Shower?

2009-12-30T20:57:00.000-08:00

Last week, I went to a baby shower. I love baby showers with all that I am. I love them so much, I planned two of my own!

My friend, K., is having twin girls -- her first babies! When I received the shower invitation, I was thrilled. I hadn't seen K. in about seven years. In fact, the last time was when I was well into my own first pregnancy, so I could not wait -- not only to celebrate these girls-on-the-way, but I also relished the thought of a few face-to-face minutes with my dear friend.

I walked into the shower, saw K. and before I knew it, I could hardly speak. Tears welled, throat closed and I wanted to drop to the floor and sob. Not the reaction most women have arriving to a celebration of new life? I'm not so sure. I think we keep our emotions in check quite often and that if we wanted to be very very honest, there is a part of every mother that wants to let the water works turn on full blast each time she confronts the memory of her own pregnancy and childbirth experiences.

And that's what a shower is for, right? Not only to provide the new parents with the necessities -- diapers and burp cloths -- and lovely luxuries (K. got these gorgeous little crocheted hats for the girls that were so sweet I knew everyone in the room had an urge to taste them!). A shower is also a chance for women to gather and share their own stories, stories we never get tired of telling, but that everyone near us has heard more than they care to recall. Our pregnancies are the times in our lives when, as K. said, everyone is our best friend. Everyone wants to care for us, cater to us, ask us too-personal questions and offer unsolicited, but always well-meaning, advice. Any intimate detail now becomes a perfectly acceptable questions to ask -- boy or girl? epidural or natural? bottle or breast? what does your belly button look like? In K.'s case, she and her husband are keeping one little detail secret -- the girls' names. They've been chosen, but for now are only for the parents-to-be to enjoy. While personally I think this is a delicious treat they have given themselves, others at the shower were not as pleased and tried all kinds of clever tricks to get K. to reveal the monikers. She kept mum. Of course, like the silly games everyone resists, but would sell out their own mother to win, at the shower all of this is done with the grace and a smile. It is a baby shower, after all. And after months of being interrogated by medical personnel and hazed by her own body, the shower is the woman's formal initiation into the society of motherhood, Maternity.

I know my response was a bit odd and I did try to keep the tears back for most of the party, but I had really missed my spunky, incredibly wonderful friend. Now she is becoming a mother; and though I don't know the names of the baby girls she is about to bring into the world, I do know the joy, the heartache and the hope that lies ahead. I couldn't help but be overcome.

They Know the Ending

2009-12-29T08:56:00.000-08:00

My sons and I are reading Old Yeller. The boys are 7, 5 and 2 and they are totally into this book. Well, the two year old is more into swinging from the bed posts, but the other two -- completely engaged. A couple of times a week, as they wind down for bedtime, I read a chapter or two aloud to them. And no matter how long I read, they groan when I say it is time for us to stop for the night.

How I wish this was the same reaction I got from the students in my classes! And lately I have been wondering why it is not. As a teacher of 13 years, this certainly is not the first time I have pondered this idea. But this time, I am looking at from a fresh perspective. Instead of thinking about what is going wrong in the classroom and how that keeps students from being engaged in our reading, I need to think about what is right in the reading situation I have with my boys.

First, I chose a book for the boys that I believed they would be interested in due to the subject matter. They have been drawn in to the life of this young boy in rural Texas who has responsibilities they can hardly imagine. He hangs from tree limbs to mark and castrate pigs and I do not even let them use a butter knife!

Second, I made reading more about experiencing the moment than finding out "what happens." Often, that is all my students want to know, which is why SparkNotes is so tempting. Many of them believe that novels (or plays or even poems) are written to tell the chronological events of a story and to hold the reader in suspense until all is revealed in the end. But for my sons and I, the journey is the part we love. And because I am reading along with them, it is a shared journey. This sharing of the road is what drives us, not the destination. In fact, the boys know what happens at the end of the book (we are only three pages away from the tragic scene!), but that hasn't assuaged their interest in hearing the story. They are more interested in the how and why than they are in the what.

Finally, the story does not stop when we close the book. All of the novels we have read together, from Charlotte's Web to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, have become a part of our family experience. We bring up characters and conflicts we have encountered in these worlds in our daily discussions. We compare their experiences and responses to our own. My oldest son wants a dog and we have told him that when we move into a larger home, he can have one. In the meantime, we read about Travis and Yeller and talk about what is wonderful about loving a pet so much and what is also really hard about it. I have no doubt that sharing this story together will impact his own dog stories later in life.

Upon reflection, what makes the reading such a powerful experience for the boys and for me is that we all learn from it, about the characters, the time period, the conflicts and even more, about ourselves. So, even when the boys know the ending, they know the story never really ends.

What to Say

2009-12-27T23:04:00.000-08:00

Recently, I have started reading a few blogs. It is just like me not to read other people's blogs before diving into one of my own. I tend to hear about something and want to try it out before I see how others are doing it. But the problem is that I start, I stop, I start, I stop. And the stopping goes on for months and months while the starting is over in a snap.

Next semester, I want to get my AP Lit seniors blogging. I did this last year, another "dive in" experience without much research or guidance, and while I was pleased, I knew it could be more. However, in order for this to be the type of exercise I hope it will be -- authentic, meaningful, insightful and inspiring -- I believe I have to be blogging, too.

So, I decided to go against my nature and explore what others are doing to see if that might help get me out from under my comfy blanket of excuses. And it has! While it is a bit like shedding those covers in the morning in December (exposing warm skin to the bitterness of dark winter air), it is also invigorating. And what I realized is that I don't have to have something to say before I begin to write. I kept waiting for this avalanche of inspiration to engulf me and the only way to shovel my way out would be through words.

What I see now is that writing here is more like walking out into fresh snowfall -- I make meaning as I go.

Apparently the holidays have influenced my choice of metaphor -- being a Southern Californian who's never even been skiing, it certainly isn't personal experience. But isn't that how things work -- even that which we don't know, we do. And so I am not a 17 year old baker, or a well-respected marketing genius -- when I read the blogs of those writers this week, I found out not just what they thought, but what I think, or at least what I want to think about.

Tonight, that is what I have to say.

Seth Godin's eBook: What Matters Now

2009-12-26T23:32:00.000-08:00

What Matters Now: Something to read, something to think about in a moment of quiet or a moment desperate for inspiration.

Unity

2009-09-12T09:57:00.000-07:00

This week one of my classes participated in an event to commemorate September 11th. We joined a thousand other students and staff in our quad and formed the word UNITY. Our principal went up in a helicopter and took a picture of us from the sky. Of course, the unity came from a common desire to honor those lives lost and remember a significant event in our country's history. But it made me think about the concept of unity and whether our school community or even the small community within my classroom can be seen as united.

What does it take for unity to occur?

First, we must share a common purpose. As I watch students walk through the door into the classroom each day, I wonder what purpose they have for being there. Is it to learn? Is it to develop themselves into more thoughtful, reflective human beings capable of understanding how others experience life and communicating effectively about how they experience theirs? Somehow I doubt that this is why they enter the room. Mostly the enter because it is what they are supposed to do. The sense of obligation compels them. Part of my job, then, becomes creating an environment which encourages them toward the purpose I want them to have. I have to make being such a person as the one described above appear so interesting and fulfilling that my students want that for themselves. On five hours of good sleep a night, that's a challenge, but it's one I accept.

Second in developing this sense of unity is a common respect. We need to recognize that each of us in the room is unique, but valuable. Not tolerable, but valuable. In the world of the teenager, self seems to be the thing of greatest value, but if we are going to be a community of readers, writers and thinkers, we need to have respect for the reading, writing and thinking of others. I see my students walking a very thin line -- hoping to project themselves to their teachers and peers as "not stupid" and "not lame," but not wanting to appear to eager or engaged. To appear bored by the class or unmoved or even "above" the class is preferable to being seen as a kiss-up or a nerd.

The novelty of gathering on the quad with a thousand other students, of being part of a word so large we couldn't even tell where within it we stood, of being photographed from a helicopter circling overhead like paparazzi at a celebrity wedding would be almost impossible to recreate in the classroom on a daily basis. However, with the right voice behind the megaphone guiding each child into a place where he fits and contributes to the endeavor at hand, my students can move toward common purpose and respect. I know it will take longer than the twenty minutes, but the memory will last much longer.

Getting Smart

2009-08-26T21:48:00.000-07:00

I don't remember the first time someone called me smart. For a long time, I assumed smart was something I simply was through no action of my own. To a degree, that is true. We each are born with certain aptitudes, gifts, talents and mine happened to be learning things easily. But I am beginning to realize as I watch my own sons grow and welcome another group of 136 students into my life, that being smart is only something we are if we choose to be and if we work at it. The smart I was in 2nd grade certainly would not qualify me as smart today at 36.

So, how then do I encourage my students and my children to get smart, to be smart? Even in my Honors and AP classes, students label others as "the smart ones." All of them are in a class designed for advanced students and yet many do not view themselves as smart. And then others assume they are smart and do not work very hard at getting smart.

Smart is working hard to learn and loving the constant evolution of one's self as the learning occurs. Smart is taking school seriously enough to enjoy it. That is what I want to encourage in my children and what I want to inspire in my students.

Summer Musings #1

2009-06-17T15:19:00.001-07:00

So, last year I only blogged for the first couple of months and then life took over and I didn't return. But, now that the school year has closed and I re-read the posts from early in the year, I am re-inspired. I tried so many new things with my classes last year, that perhaps sustaining them all was too much to ask of myself. Now, I am reflecting on what I appreciated and enjoyed last year and I begin to imagine this coming school year and I am rejuvenated! Plus, how can I hope for my students to see the beauty and purpose of a writing life if I do not engage in a writing life of my own?

This needs to be a priority -- not only optimism, but also necessity for an authentic experience with my students compels me to pursue it.

Week 8: What is Easy

2008-10-20T14:57:00.000-07:00

Doing what is easy keeps us from doing what is worthwhile. Doing what is easy takes little thought and little effort, but the result is the same, very little. Why do we shy away from the tasks that truly challenge us? Why do we recoil from rigor and thoughtful reflection? Are we afraid of failing? Afraid of succeeding and having a new standard to which we must now adhere? Are we too busy? Too tired? Too scheduled? Too undisciplined?

I want to be a model for my students of what I expect of them as readers, writers, thinkers, and learners. I want them to see me engaged in analysis and evaluation. I want them to see me welcoming challenges and pursuing new ideas. I want them to see that a life of ease is not necessarily a life of joy. True joy comes from a confidence in one's self and a hope for the world around us. How can we have those things if we do not seek growth, seek failure, seek problems, seek solutions?

How do I get my students to stop choosing to do what is easy and begin loving what is difficult?

Weeks Three and Four: Cattle Rustler

2008-09-26T13:31:00.000-07:00

So, now, we're comfortable. They know me. I know them. Now the task at hand is to move beyond what is easy.

I am really excited about the prospects that the electronic portfolios students are designing will make available to us. The freedom, the engagement, the creativity -- these aspects make me excited to continue to work on this idea.

What is difficult though is getting students to really "dig in." I want them to delve so deeply into what we are doing that it has meaning for them beyond the classroom. I want to break them out of the "this is my assignment and I choose to accept it" mode. When we write responses to poetry, I want the room to be silent and for them to groan when I tell them to wrap up their writing. I want them to come into class and walk out of class heatedly discussing the day's reading and their work. Instead, I am constantly prodding them to get focused, think deeper, ask more questions, put away work from other classes and ultimately I feel like I am just begging: care, care, care. Excuse the vulgar simile, but sometimes it is like I am the cattle rustler, moving the sluggish beasts along :) What will it take to make the cows dance??

Maybe I need to model this more -- maybe they need to see me immersed in thinking, see me engaged with the ideas. I think I do this, but I don't feel like I am getting through as effectively as I hope.

How can I inspire my students to do thinking and reading and writing that feels good only because it hurts?

Week Two: Routine and Relationship

2008-09-05T12:02:00.000-07:00

It is only the second week of school and already it feels like we have been here for months. In some ways that is depressing -- if we are already a bit tired and a bit overwhelmed, how will we feel in March? But mostly, it is a reassuring feeling for me. The first week is filled with unknowns and the second week is filled with establishing routine and relationships. The wildness of week one has settled down and now I can start getting to know the young people in my classroom, getting to know who they are, how they dream, what motivates them and what is too much for them. I will spend the rest of the year doing this -- routine and relationships.

By routine, I am not implying that each minute of the class period is perfectly scheduled and offers no variance from day to day. I believe students should walk into class each day eager for what awaits, not dreading what they expect. However, as a former department chair of mine used to always say, I want them to know that in this classroom "this is what we do." Our methods for achieving our learning goals may look different each day, but I hope my students have a common understanding of the expectations we have of each other and the standard to which we are holding ourselves. I believe there is comfort in this, for myself and for my students. This is how we establish routine.

We aren't completely there yet -- I am discovering so much about my students and they are discovering who I am as their teacher. And I am sure that there is still a question about "what we do" in this class, but as we spend time each day engaged in reading, writing, thinking and sharing together, we move toward this common understanding and will be inspired to take risks and do our best in the safe and nurturing space of our classroom.

Week One: Anxiety Dreams

2008-08-29T13:52:00.000-07:00

My first few years of teaching always began with a series of anxiety dreams before the first day of school. These dreams would involve a wide array of horrible mishaps -- no roll sheet, no classroom, students throwing desks, etc. I have completed the first week of my 12th school year and while the anxiety dreams have subsided -- due more to my exhaustion after caring for three young boys all summer than confidence -- I still wonder if this will be the year that one of those mini-nightmares will come true. I love the first days of school -- sharpened pencils, eager smiles, fresh folders and neat backpacks, but I worry that trouble may be lurking.

So far though, this has not happened. Partly that comes from working in a fabulous school where our weak air conditioning and a great demand for advanced classes are among our only problems. But I think the positive first days also come from my sincere love of being a teacher. When students walk into my classroom, I am so eager to find out more about who they are, what their passions are, what dreams they have for themselves and I believe it is a privilege to be a part of those dreams becoming reality. Students put a little piece if their spirit into the hands of their teachers. I could take that and lay it on a table, never to acknowledge it again. I could squeeze it until it burst. I could dangle it over a trash can to humiliate it. Or -- and what I hope I do -- I could hold it tenderly and nurture it until it was ready to take flight on its own. What a gift we have been given in these young minds and spirits! I hope to appraoch each day with this attitude so that my students and I can reveal the best of who we are.