It seems like quite awhile since I posted last. I've been evaluating essays like a mad man for this RU Ready project another colleague and I are part of. At first it seemed like a good idea (about 3 dollars to read and score - via a rubric - 150 essays). But then the second part of the program began - to read and respond in depth to 13 essays. We were to keep our responses to each under 1000 words (if possible). It would have been a more enjoyable experience if it didn't happen to coincide with the freaking end of the quarter!
As I was devoting about 45 minutes to my first response, I though, "I haven't been paid this little since I was right out of high school and working for minimum wage." But the responses are in the mail.
Now I can get back to teaching. It feels like I haven't found my way in any of my classes yet. Now I can devote my full attention to them. That's when the good stuff happens. But then I remember that it's fourth quarter and devoting full attention to teaching is impossible. Just when I'm finishing the RU Ready responses, the quests for letters of recommendation flow in. Then the historical society program I'm involved in will meet in May. Then I have to work with all the kids who have missed class for any of the plethora of reasons: German trip, choir, track, baseball, softball, track, tennis, tanning sessions for prom (I'm being completely serious there), shopping, vacations, illness. It makes me wonder why we have school in the spring at all.
But I'm back (for the most part) and it feels good.
This weekend should be low key. No basketball tournaments. Kristie has to work for half the day tomorrow. So I'll try to sleep in a bit, but that usually never works.
I just checked out two books for this weekend, just in case. I picked up Robert Louis Stevenson's "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" and "A Study in Scarlet" by Arthur Conan Doyle. I enjoyed "The Hound of the Baskervilles" so damn much I couldn't resist getting the latter one. And I've always wanted to read Stevenson's short novel. One of my favorite books is "The Picture of Dorian Gray" and I think it'll be interesting to compare the two. In fact, I'm thinking of adding them to the College Composition reading list for next year (since we have to have a greater emphasis on Brit Lit to appease the AP people).
And I might even get around to finally reading my College Comp papers. The kids have been hounding me for them all week. Last quarter I was a dynamo. I read them, responded to them, and returned them in one or two days. That never happens. So I think I spoiled them. But after reading 150 essays by strangers for the RU Ready program, I'll be damn glad to read some essays from my own students for a change. And I'll be glad to do some real responding to them too.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
The end of the season
Our basketball season is finally over. And it's really OVER. Koko is moving on to junior high basketball and Kristie is done volunteer coaching after seven years.
Here are some images from the tournament (they finished 1-2 - both tough losses).
Here is Koko playing some defense. It's remarkable how much she has improved. Last year she rarely shot and just passed the ball. Now she likes to plant herself in a corner and shoot as soon as she gets the ball. She has a great shot - a little too much arc at times, but that'll come with time.
Here is Koko - goofy as ever. This was during warm ups. Always the ham.
Here are the girls pretending to nap before their final game.
The team (and coaches) flexing their muscles.
The mandatory 'goofy' pose.
Here are some images from the tournament (they finished 1-2 - both tough losses).
Here is Koko playing some defense. It's remarkable how much she has improved. Last year she rarely shot and just passed the ball. Now she likes to plant herself in a corner and shoot as soon as she gets the ball. She has a great shot - a little too much arc at times, but that'll come with time.
Here is Koko - goofy as ever. This was during warm ups. Always the ham.
Here are the girls pretending to nap before their final game.
The team (and coaches) flexing their muscles.
The mandatory 'goofy' pose.
A little debate
In the recent issue of English Journal, I came across an article entitled “Why I Won’t Be Using Rubrics to Respond to Students’ Writing.” This is something that’s been on my mind ever since I used a rubric to score 145 student essays as part of this RU Ready grant. I found myself getting personally involved in some of the essays, but I always had that damn rubric in the back of mind nudging me toward either “Not College Ready” or “College Ready.” I spent more time trying to dance my way around the rubric on many essays than if I would have just read them and wrote my comments all over them. I have no doubt what the students would have gotten more out of.
Rubrics are so cold and impersonal. Early on in my teaching career I liked them. They seemed to give me a checks and balances system. But now more than ever, I find myself second guessing them. Do I really need them to decide what is an A paper and what is a C paper?
So if it isn’t simply to grade writing, what is the purpose of the rubric? I never solely use a rubric. I always litter my students’ essays with personal comments and suggestions. Most of my students enjoy the personal comments. In fact, I just gave a prompt to my College Composition class asking them which type of feedback they preferred (rubric vs. personal comments) and the latter won hands down. I also asked them what feedback has been most beneficial. All said they liked the comments that I left since it offered them new ideas and different ways of seeing their writing.
What frustrates me about rubrics can be summed up in one experience from second semester. In my previous College Comp class, I had one writer in particular who only cared about her grade/score. For a narrative theme she wrote a great essay on her passion for shopping. It had voice and style. She used great details to create a vivid picture for the reader. She included her thoughts and added dialogue. It was wonderful. However, because of the rubric’s requirements, she scored a 44/50 (a B). She got it back and just glared at the grade. She didn’t look at any of my comments, the last of which was, “This is a great essay. I enjoyed every word. There are some run-ons and usage errors, but those are easy to fix. It’s not easy to write so vividly and with such voice, however. You should be very proud of this piece.”
But did she care about that? No. She was just angry over her grade. Finally I had to sit down with her and go over my comments. I said, “Who cares if your score was a 44. This is a great essay. I actually laughed out loud when I read it. And I could clearly see everything you were talking about. Look at how you effectively use dialogue. Look at how you weave your thoughts into your prose so you actively reflect on the situation. That is the good stuff. Yeah, you had several run-ons. So what? We can fix those much easier than we can get you to write with voice and to be vivid and clear.”
I like this quote from the author of the article, Maja Wilson, in which she suggests that instead of marking up a rubric, we should instead “make ourselves transparent as we read -- that we pay attention to what goes on in our minds and try to put our reactions and questions and wonderings and musings and connections and images into words -- that we give the students the gift of a human response.” I’ll take that over using a rubric every time.
What has always worried me is that the state doesn’t give any of the student essays they get a human response. Students get a score and that’s it.
Even scarier is the fact that there is now software out there that does the grading for us. Nearly every textbook company who presented to us talked about their essay grading software. Where is the human response in that. In a way I can see the benefit of such software - it gives students instant feedback (sometimes it takes days for me to get essays back to my kids). The software can show them their errors and offer pre-programmed suggestions. But where does this end? Many programs already check for grammatical errors as students type. What’s next? Type in your topic and main ideas and quotes and the software will organize it for you into an essay? God help us.
If it comes to that, I’ll buy my home town paper and become editor. I’ll never teach again.
In my surveys to my College Comp students, they all mentioned how they enjoyed my personal comments the most. Only one student said that he found the rubric scoring system helpful.
Now that I think about it, I know my favorite high school English teacher did use a rubric. I remember seeing one when I was moving some of my old folders and tablets out of Dad’s. But as I did when I was a student, I quickly skipped over that to get to her comments. I really didn’t care what the grade was. I just wanted to read what she thought of it. Indeed this fall during conferences, I had one mother tell me that she loved to read my comments on her son’s papers. Brady, the son, was a rare talent. As a sophomore he wrote at the same level as my College Comp students. In that case, the rubric was just one big circle around the highest scores and a total of 50/50 at the bottom. But the comments were where I could push him. He rarely used a fragment. There were no usage errors or paragraphing problems. Instead, I used my comments to urge him to use more dialogue and reflection. I pushed him to use key details to render his descriptions authentic. I asked him why he structured his essay the way he did. When his Mom said she liked to read the comments, I was a bit scared. But it was also good challenge.
Later in her essay, Wilson asks, “Do we want them writing for the rubric, or do we want them to write for themselves and for us and for all those who hunger for the human experience melded with language.” Now that’s a bit strong for me. I have very, very few students who “hunger for the human experience melded with language.” But I do have students who are eager to write about what they want to write about - the rubric be damned. In my Comp II class, one of my favorite students, Justin, is all fired up to write about his truck. But Justin, after having him in my American Lit class, reads and writes at an elementary level. So the rubric is going to bash his work. But I can temper that with my personal commentary, which, from the sounds of his brainstorming and thinking, will be very positive.
I guess this gets at the heart of why I try to teach writing. I don’t want students to fulfill requirements (write a descriptive essay using strong verbs and adjectives and underline a compound sentence in red). I will do it because it’s our department policy, and some believe that makes students better writers (and maybe it does). I want students to learn how to craft a piece of writing, not meet requirements. Now I’m running the risk of sounding a bit like Wilson and “the human experience melded with language.” I know it’s idealistic. But I think I can pull it off.
I’ll let you know in a few weeks.
Rubrics are so cold and impersonal. Early on in my teaching career I liked them. They seemed to give me a checks and balances system. But now more than ever, I find myself second guessing them. Do I really need them to decide what is an A paper and what is a C paper?
So if it isn’t simply to grade writing, what is the purpose of the rubric? I never solely use a rubric. I always litter my students’ essays with personal comments and suggestions. Most of my students enjoy the personal comments. In fact, I just gave a prompt to my College Composition class asking them which type of feedback they preferred (rubric vs. personal comments) and the latter won hands down. I also asked them what feedback has been most beneficial. All said they liked the comments that I left since it offered them new ideas and different ways of seeing their writing.
What frustrates me about rubrics can be summed up in one experience from second semester. In my previous College Comp class, I had one writer in particular who only cared about her grade/score. For a narrative theme she wrote a great essay on her passion for shopping. It had voice and style. She used great details to create a vivid picture for the reader. She included her thoughts and added dialogue. It was wonderful. However, because of the rubric’s requirements, she scored a 44/50 (a B). She got it back and just glared at the grade. She didn’t look at any of my comments, the last of which was, “This is a great essay. I enjoyed every word. There are some run-ons and usage errors, but those are easy to fix. It’s not easy to write so vividly and with such voice, however. You should be very proud of this piece.”
But did she care about that? No. She was just angry over her grade. Finally I had to sit down with her and go over my comments. I said, “Who cares if your score was a 44. This is a great essay. I actually laughed out loud when I read it. And I could clearly see everything you were talking about. Look at how you effectively use dialogue. Look at how you weave your thoughts into your prose so you actively reflect on the situation. That is the good stuff. Yeah, you had several run-ons. So what? We can fix those much easier than we can get you to write with voice and to be vivid and clear.”
I like this quote from the author of the article, Maja Wilson, in which she suggests that instead of marking up a rubric, we should instead “make ourselves transparent as we read -- that we pay attention to what goes on in our minds and try to put our reactions and questions and wonderings and musings and connections and images into words -- that we give the students the gift of a human response.” I’ll take that over using a rubric every time.
What has always worried me is that the state doesn’t give any of the student essays they get a human response. Students get a score and that’s it.
Even scarier is the fact that there is now software out there that does the grading for us. Nearly every textbook company who presented to us talked about their essay grading software. Where is the human response in that. In a way I can see the benefit of such software - it gives students instant feedback (sometimes it takes days for me to get essays back to my kids). The software can show them their errors and offer pre-programmed suggestions. But where does this end? Many programs already check for grammatical errors as students type. What’s next? Type in your topic and main ideas and quotes and the software will organize it for you into an essay? God help us.
If it comes to that, I’ll buy my home town paper and become editor. I’ll never teach again.
In my surveys to my College Comp students, they all mentioned how they enjoyed my personal comments the most. Only one student said that he found the rubric scoring system helpful.
Now that I think about it, I know my favorite high school English teacher did use a rubric. I remember seeing one when I was moving some of my old folders and tablets out of Dad’s. But as I did when I was a student, I quickly skipped over that to get to her comments. I really didn’t care what the grade was. I just wanted to read what she thought of it. Indeed this fall during conferences, I had one mother tell me that she loved to read my comments on her son’s papers. Brady, the son, was a rare talent. As a sophomore he wrote at the same level as my College Comp students. In that case, the rubric was just one big circle around the highest scores and a total of 50/50 at the bottom. But the comments were where I could push him. He rarely used a fragment. There were no usage errors or paragraphing problems. Instead, I used my comments to urge him to use more dialogue and reflection. I pushed him to use key details to render his descriptions authentic. I asked him why he structured his essay the way he did. When his Mom said she liked to read the comments, I was a bit scared. But it was also good challenge.
Later in her essay, Wilson asks, “Do we want them writing for the rubric, or do we want them to write for themselves and for us and for all those who hunger for the human experience melded with language.” Now that’s a bit strong for me. I have very, very few students who “hunger for the human experience melded with language.” But I do have students who are eager to write about what they want to write about - the rubric be damned. In my Comp II class, one of my favorite students, Justin, is all fired up to write about his truck. But Justin, after having him in my American Lit class, reads and writes at an elementary level. So the rubric is going to bash his work. But I can temper that with my personal commentary, which, from the sounds of his brainstorming and thinking, will be very positive.
I guess this gets at the heart of why I try to teach writing. I don’t want students to fulfill requirements (write a descriptive essay using strong verbs and adjectives and underline a compound sentence in red). I will do it because it’s our department policy, and some believe that makes students better writers (and maybe it does). I want students to learn how to craft a piece of writing, not meet requirements. Now I’m running the risk of sounding a bit like Wilson and “the human experience melded with language.” I know it’s idealistic. But I think I can pull it off.
I’ll let you know in a few weeks.
Monday, March 26, 2007
First day, Fourth quarter
I survived the first day of fourth quarter. It actually went quite well. Thirty four students in Brit Lit. It's packed. Then I have 16 in Comp II. But a few were absent today. One in particular, I hope doesn't show up. He will disrupt the rest of the class. It's amazing what one student can do to a class. It's quite a lively bunch. I enjoyed them. I finished with College Comp. It's a semester class, so no one new in there. Then it's lunch and prep.
Where has the year gone? There are only 41.5 days left until graduation. That means only 44.5 days until the end of the school year (for some reason we have graduation a week before the end of school). Of course, that only means that there are 163 days until next school year!
Where has the year gone? There are only 41.5 days left until graduation. That means only 44.5 days until the end of the school year (for some reason we have graduation a week before the end of school). Of course, that only means that there are 163 days until next school year!
Very interesting
Over the weekend I received this email (well, all of our faculty received the email) from a fellow teacher --
"Be kind- not only to our students who now have to "catch up," but also to our teachers who have to do the "catching."
The last 2 weeks of the quarter I have 98 student absent days. Of my 48 students this quarter that amounts to approximately 2 days per student per week. The majority of these were not due to illness but to other programs "borrowing" my students from my class. We have to be better to our kids. How can we improve our math and reading scores? Keep our students in class.
Any comments?"
"Amen. I'm glad you spoke up. I agree one hundred percent. Carol and her crew always scream about test scores, but when are kids ever tested on hockey, choir, or any of the other myriad of things they miss for?
You rock!"
"Be kind- not only to our students who now have to "catch up," but also to our teachers who have to do the "catching."
The last 2 weeks of the quarter I have 98 student absent days. Of my 48 students this quarter that amounts to approximately 2 days per student per week. The majority of these were not due to illness but to other programs "borrowing" my students from my class. We have to be better to our kids. How can we improve our math and reading scores? Keep our students in class.
Any comments?"
"Amen. I'm glad you spoke up. I agree one hundred percent. Carol and her crew always scream about test scores, but when are kids ever tested on hockey, choir, or any of the other myriad of things they miss for?
You rock!"
Friday, March 23, 2007
Another line
Here's another line I admire (taken from another revision essay) - "Love is the only antidote to time."
End of the quarter
As my second block American Lit kids are finishing their final TKM test, I am busy reading revised essays for College Composition. The original essay was based around them writing about a situation or event using two different tones. Leading up to this, I had students write a rant on anything they wanted. Then I had them look at the subject of the rant from an opposite tone. This wasn't easy. Then we wrote and read a few more things before I had them start on their final essay.
Most were good but nothing really exciting. So I gave them a chance to revise their essays. They are improved.
And in one essay, I found a gem. This student is writing about his decision to drop of out jazz choir. And when the teacher corners him in the hallways about why he missed, he writes this line, "I reached into my pocket and pulled out a lie." How great is that?
I was reading on the Bemidji State CAL dialogue page the other day where a soon-to-be student teacher asked, "How do you know when you've been successful with students writers?" In the back of my mind, I've been trying to answer that. And now I think I know - you've been successful when you read something written by one of your students that makes you say, "I wish I would have written that!" or better yet, "I never could have written that!"
Most were good but nothing really exciting. So I gave them a chance to revise their essays. They are improved.
And in one essay, I found a gem. This student is writing about his decision to drop of out jazz choir. And when the teacher corners him in the hallways about why he missed, he writes this line, "I reached into my pocket and pulled out a lie." How great is that?
I was reading on the Bemidji State CAL dialogue page the other day where a soon-to-be student teacher asked, "How do you know when you've been successful with students writers?" In the back of my mind, I've been trying to answer that. And now I think I know - you've been successful when you read something written by one of your students that makes you say, "I wish I would have written that!" or better yet, "I never could have written that!"
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Take over
I just saw this interesting story on yahoo news http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070322/ap_on_re_us/st__louis_schools;_ylt=AvU8XLzBc87MzwTft1KEvrHMWM0F
The St. Louis school district has been taken over by the state. It will be interesting, to say the least, to see how much better the state can do running the district than the district.
The St. Louis school district has been taken over by the state. It will be interesting, to say the least, to see how much better the state can do running the district than the district.
Call the rendering plant
I don't know how many of you know what a 'rendering' plant is, but the trucks used to pass by our old house in town. A rendering plant is where dead animals are processed into, well, who knows what? I used to see the big red dump trucks roar by and once in awhile I'd catch the odd cow leg or moose horn sticking out from the back.
I sure could use their services now because I'm worn out beating this dead horse.
But there is a silver lining.
Two things - first, during my second go around at reviewing in American Lit (this time it actually worked very well), Coy, a very shy and struggling student, piped up during his team's review turn and answered a very difficult question. His teammates loved it. I think he also smiled too. Second, one of my seniors (who I've taught in Comp II, College Comp, and now American Lit) had me pick out one of his senior pictures. I did and went to tape it to my desk (as I do with all the senior pictures I am given). But he said, "Wait. I have to write on it." One line from his note was "You taught me a lot about writing, and you taught me how to enjoy it more importantly." Those two things made the whole damned first hour debacle worth it.
I sure could use their services now because I'm worn out beating this dead horse.
But there is a silver lining.
Two things - first, during my second go around at reviewing in American Lit (this time it actually worked very well), Coy, a very shy and struggling student, piped up during his team's review turn and answered a very difficult question. His teammates loved it. I think he also smiled too. Second, one of my seniors (who I've taught in Comp II, College Comp, and now American Lit) had me pick out one of his senior pictures. I did and went to tape it to my desk (as I do with all the senior pictures I am given). But he said, "Wait. I have to write on it." One line from his note was "You taught me a lot about writing, and you taught me how to enjoy it more importantly." Those two things made the whole damned first hour debacle worth it.
Beating a dead horse
I lost it with my second block American Lit class. I had planned to review (Jeopardy style - with categories and bonuses and prizes) for their TKM final test tomorrow. But I mistakenly handed out a review sheet as class began. As we were trying to review, I noticed several kids working just on the review sheet. So I gave them a choice - we review as a class or we work on the review sheets individually. They agreed to review as a class.
We didn't get through ten questions of single Jeopardy when I looked up and saw several still working on their review sheets. I told them to focus, and a few of the smart ones caught on that I was serious and put their sheets away. Several of the stupid ones continued to just work on their sheets. I took a deep breath and went on with the review. I did so because I figured most were paying attention and deserved the review session (I was going to give the winning team ten bonus points to apply to their final test).
But I lost it when I asked a question and there was no answer, but at least several students were conferring trying to find the answer. I hummed the Jeopardy theme song, but no one had a clue as to the question. Then I said, "Final chance. Any takers." That was when one of the stupid ones raised her head and said, "What? What was the question again."
I lost it.
I shook my head, took off my glasses, rubbed my eyes, and then said, "Let's just shit can this whole thing. If you want to work on the review sheet, go ahead. But no one will get any bonus points on the test. The test is 100 questions worth 200 points. It will only be given tomorrow. Be there or be square."
Then I sat down at my desk and had to vent here.
Now the entire class is working hard on the review sheet. But what pisses me off is that when I try to do something unique to motivate the whole class and get them doing something 'out of the box' - most don't like it.
As I look up now, I see most working. Some are trying to finish the novel. Some are rereading the conclusion to make sure they get it. One kid is being a jack ass.
I guess this isn't a bad thing, but it just is frustrating when you try to get the kids to do something a little different (and research shows you have to start teaching out of the box) yet the kids are so conditioned that they want to just be given an assignment to complete instead of work in teams and discuss.
I guess it's just that damn time of the year where I start to wonder what the hell I'm doing.
Just this morning I had to run to the grocery store. There I saw a student who was in the first class I ever taught here. He asked me how the kids are. I found myself answering quite honestly, "Most are little shits. They aren't like the used to be. Maybe it's them; maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm getting to be an old crab."
The words were out before I could even check them. And they shocked me. Do I really believe this? I usually don't talk about kids this way. But after dwelling on that this morning, I realize that right now it is true.
Maybe it's because I expect more out of the kids than I ever have before, but I look at the class and see a percentage of students (a scary percentage) who have no damn chance. I have one kid who is raising his family. His Mom abandoned them. His father's occupation causes him to be gone for long periods of time. The kid has anger issues and health issues and God knows what else. At first, I really liked him. But now that he has started to think that we're buddies I can't stand him. I hate everything he proudly stands for - today his shirt reads "I Am Dirt." This morning he stopped in during my prep hour to tell me that he quit smoking but started chewing. What the hell could I say to that? I was busy as hell and said that he was swapping one ill for another. Then he started using the guilt trip saying how he didn't want to bug me because I was so busy (I told him yesterday that I couldn't help him because I was busy. He was stopping in to make up assignments from four weeks ago. And they're assignments I've given him already). So the kid already knows how to work the system. Should I have given him a lecture on how my father died from smoking and chewing? Is that all this kid needs is another lecture? Do I want to involve myself personally with a kid who has it in him to do some real damage to the school and student body?
What scares me is that this group of students is growing. So I spend so much time disciplining and that crap that too little learning gets done. Then what happens to the high end kids who I can never challenge because of all the dead weight?
Last night Kristie finished "The Giver." She was almost in tears. Poor Jonas. Yet, she read the denouement as optimistic and I always read it as pessimistic. This began a good hour conversation.
At the end of our discussion I thought, I wish my students (well, my American Lit kids) could have an experience like that. Or at least have a conversation like that. But I have to worry about all of them actually reading it. Then I have to worry about many of them being able to read it (don't kid yourself, I have several - if not more - reading at elementary school levels). Then I have to worry about many understanding it (even though TKM is not a challenging read). I have one girl - the one who said, "What? What was the question again?" who lacks higher order thinking skills. She didn't get why the people in "The Lottery" just didn't move away or not pick up rocks. She didn't get why the jury would convict Tom when it was impossible for him to have beaten Mayella.
Now those last couple questions can make for a great class. I can get her up the ladder of higher order thinking skills. I could if I didn't have to worry about reading levels, one kid falling asleep because he's diabetic and his Dad is a piece of shit who never feeds him properly, one kid who is carving "Jesus Freak" into his arm, one kid who scrawls all over my back desk and who barely says a word, one kid who is a conflict away from a school shooting.
You don't know how much I'm looking forward to my College Comp class coming in and watching the film "Crash" and then writing an evaluation of it. Why can't more of our bulk population be like them? What causes the drastic difference? Reading scores? Home life? Personality? Teachers? Guidance counselors? Friends? What?
We didn't get through ten questions of single Jeopardy when I looked up and saw several still working on their review sheets. I told them to focus, and a few of the smart ones caught on that I was serious and put their sheets away. Several of the stupid ones continued to just work on their sheets. I took a deep breath and went on with the review. I did so because I figured most were paying attention and deserved the review session (I was going to give the winning team ten bonus points to apply to their final test).
But I lost it when I asked a question and there was no answer, but at least several students were conferring trying to find the answer. I hummed the Jeopardy theme song, but no one had a clue as to the question. Then I said, "Final chance. Any takers." That was when one of the stupid ones raised her head and said, "What? What was the question again."
I lost it.
I shook my head, took off my glasses, rubbed my eyes, and then said, "Let's just shit can this whole thing. If you want to work on the review sheet, go ahead. But no one will get any bonus points on the test. The test is 100 questions worth 200 points. It will only be given tomorrow. Be there or be square."
Then I sat down at my desk and had to vent here.
Now the entire class is working hard on the review sheet. But what pisses me off is that when I try to do something unique to motivate the whole class and get them doing something 'out of the box' - most don't like it.
As I look up now, I see most working. Some are trying to finish the novel. Some are rereading the conclusion to make sure they get it. One kid is being a jack ass.
I guess this isn't a bad thing, but it just is frustrating when you try to get the kids to do something a little different (and research shows you have to start teaching out of the box) yet the kids are so conditioned that they want to just be given an assignment to complete instead of work in teams and discuss.
I guess it's just that damn time of the year where I start to wonder what the hell I'm doing.
Just this morning I had to run to the grocery store. There I saw a student who was in the first class I ever taught here. He asked me how the kids are. I found myself answering quite honestly, "Most are little shits. They aren't like the used to be. Maybe it's them; maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm getting to be an old crab."
The words were out before I could even check them. And they shocked me. Do I really believe this? I usually don't talk about kids this way. But after dwelling on that this morning, I realize that right now it is true.
Maybe it's because I expect more out of the kids than I ever have before, but I look at the class and see a percentage of students (a scary percentage) who have no damn chance. I have one kid who is raising his family. His Mom abandoned them. His father's occupation causes him to be gone for long periods of time. The kid has anger issues and health issues and God knows what else. At first, I really liked him. But now that he has started to think that we're buddies I can't stand him. I hate everything he proudly stands for - today his shirt reads "I Am Dirt." This morning he stopped in during my prep hour to tell me that he quit smoking but started chewing. What the hell could I say to that? I was busy as hell and said that he was swapping one ill for another. Then he started using the guilt trip saying how he didn't want to bug me because I was so busy (I told him yesterday that I couldn't help him because I was busy. He was stopping in to make up assignments from four weeks ago. And they're assignments I've given him already). So the kid already knows how to work the system. Should I have given him a lecture on how my father died from smoking and chewing? Is that all this kid needs is another lecture? Do I want to involve myself personally with a kid who has it in him to do some real damage to the school and student body?
What scares me is that this group of students is growing. So I spend so much time disciplining and that crap that too little learning gets done. Then what happens to the high end kids who I can never challenge because of all the dead weight?
Last night Kristie finished "The Giver." She was almost in tears. Poor Jonas. Yet, she read the denouement as optimistic and I always read it as pessimistic. This began a good hour conversation.
At the end of our discussion I thought, I wish my students (well, my American Lit kids) could have an experience like that. Or at least have a conversation like that. But I have to worry about all of them actually reading it. Then I have to worry about many of them being able to read it (don't kid yourself, I have several - if not more - reading at elementary school levels). Then I have to worry about many understanding it (even though TKM is not a challenging read). I have one girl - the one who said, "What? What was the question again?" who lacks higher order thinking skills. She didn't get why the people in "The Lottery" just didn't move away or not pick up rocks. She didn't get why the jury would convict Tom when it was impossible for him to have beaten Mayella.
Now those last couple questions can make for a great class. I can get her up the ladder of higher order thinking skills. I could if I didn't have to worry about reading levels, one kid falling asleep because he's diabetic and his Dad is a piece of shit who never feeds him properly, one kid who is carving "Jesus Freak" into his arm, one kid who scrawls all over my back desk and who barely says a word, one kid who is a conflict away from a school shooting.
You don't know how much I'm looking forward to my College Comp class coming in and watching the film "Crash" and then writing an evaluation of it. Why can't more of our bulk population be like them? What causes the drastic difference? Reading scores? Home life? Personality? Teachers? Guidance counselors? Friends? What?
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Here is Casey fresh home from his spring choir concert. They showcased their songs that they will perform on their Chicago trip later this spring. He is becoming quite the handsome young man (as my mom would say).
And when things get crappy around here, I think of this little lady and I'm reminded of all that is good and innocent and worthwhile and beautiful in this world.
And when things get crappy around here, I think of this little lady and I'm reminded of all that is good and innocent and worthwhile and beautiful in this world.
Last night
We just got a digital camera (Kristie's 80 year old aunt had one, so we decided it was time to get with it). I'm still getting used to it. Technology has so passed me by that it's not even funny. This camera came with two, yes TWO, user guides. One for basic and one for advanced. Unfortunately, I opened the advanced one first and about died. It might as well have been a guide to assembling a space shuttle.
Here is Koko working hard on her homework.
Of course, I had to get a picture of my sweetie for my screen saver.
And I had to get a couple of this kids too.
Einstein always plops down (and I mean that literally) on my back pack when I get home. Sometimes when I'm writing or grading papers, he'll go so far as to plop down right on my labtop or papers to get some attention.
Sometimes he even sneaks inside my back pack. If he didn't weight 25 pounds, I might actually wind up bringing him to school one day by accident.
And sometimes Micha joins in.
Here are our other two children. Joker (on the right) is always a well behaved gentleman. Kozy (on the left) is most definitely not. This is one of her rare relaxed moments (we call her our special needs dog. I just have to get her a crash helmet.) It wasn't long before she grew impatient with me and leaped up and almost knocked the camera out of my hand. She did leave a large wet nose smear across the lens though.
Here is Koko working hard on her homework.
Of course, I had to get a picture of my sweetie for my screen saver.
And I had to get a couple of this kids too.
Einstein always plops down (and I mean that literally) on my back pack when I get home. Sometimes when I'm writing or grading papers, he'll go so far as to plop down right on my labtop or papers to get some attention.
Sometimes he even sneaks inside my back pack. If he didn't weight 25 pounds, I might actually wind up bringing him to school one day by accident.
And sometimes Micha joins in.
Here are our other two children. Joker (on the right) is always a well behaved gentleman. Kozy (on the left) is most definitely not. This is one of her rare relaxed moments (we call her our special needs dog. I just have to get her a crash helmet.) It wasn't long before she grew impatient with me and leaped up and almost knocked the camera out of my hand. She did leave a large wet nose smear across the lens though.
The New Season of Survivor
I'm not a big fan of email forwards, but this one was excellent.
SEASON ON SURVIVOR
Have you heard about the next planned "Survivor" show?
Three businessmen and three businesswomen will be dropped in an elementary school classroom for 6 weeks. Each business person will be provided with a copy of his/her school district's curriculum, and a class of 28 students.
Each class will have five learning-disabled children, three with A.D.D., one gifted child, and two who speak limited English, one - no English at all. Three will be labeled with severe behavior problems.
Each business person must complete lesson plans at least 3 days in advance with annotations for curriculum objectives and modify, organize, or create materials accordingly. They will be required to teach students, handle misconduct, implement technology, document attendance, write referrals, correct homework, make bulletin boards, compute grades, complete report cards, document benchmarks, communicate with parents, and arrange parent conferences. They must also supervise recess and monitor the hallways.
In addition, they will complete fire drills, tornado drills, and [Code Red] drills for shooting attacks.
They must attend workshops, faculty meetings, union meetings, attend curriculum development meetings. They must also tutor those students who are behind and strive to get their 3 non-English speaking children proficient enough to take the FCAT and NRT tests. If they are sick or having a bad day they must not let it show.
Each day they must incorporate reading, writing, math, science, and social studies into the program. They must maintain discipline and provide an educationally stimulating environment at all times.
The business people will only have access to the golf course on the weekends, but on their new salary they will not be able to afford it anyway. There will be no access to vendors who want to take them out to lunch, and lunch will be limited to 25 minutes. On days when they do not have recess duty, the business people will be permitted to use the staff restroom as long as another survival candidate is supervising their class.
They will be provided with one 40-minute planning period per day but it may be taken from them to be used to cover classes or have additional meetings.
If the copier is operable, they may make copies of necessary materials at this time. They cannot surpass their daily limit. The business people must continually advance their education on their own time.
The winner will be allowed to return to his or her job.
SEASON ON SURVIVOR
Have you heard about the next planned "Survivor" show?
Three businessmen and three businesswomen will be dropped in an elementary school classroom for 6 weeks. Each business person will be provided with a copy of his/her school district's curriculum, and a class of 28 students.
Each class will have five learning-disabled children, three with A.D.D., one gifted child, and two who speak limited English, one - no English at all. Three will be labeled with severe behavior problems.
Each business person must complete lesson plans at least 3 days in advance with annotations for curriculum objectives and modify, organize, or create materials accordingly. They will be required to teach students, handle misconduct, implement technology, document attendance, write referrals, correct homework, make bulletin boards, compute grades, complete report cards, document benchmarks, communicate with parents, and arrange parent conferences. They must also supervise recess and monitor the hallways.
In addition, they will complete fire drills, tornado drills, and [Code Red] drills for shooting attacks.
They must attend workshops, faculty meetings, union meetings, attend curriculum development meetings. They must also tutor those students who are behind and strive to get their 3 non-English speaking children proficient enough to take the FCAT and NRT tests. If they are sick or having a bad day they must not let it show.
Each day they must incorporate reading, writing, math, science, and social studies into the program. They must maintain discipline and provide an educationally stimulating environment at all times.
The business people will only have access to the golf course on the weekends, but on their new salary they will not be able to afford it anyway. There will be no access to vendors who want to take them out to lunch, and lunch will be limited to 25 minutes. On days when they do not have recess duty, the business people will be permitted to use the staff restroom as long as another survival candidate is supervising their class.
They will be provided with one 40-minute planning period per day but it may be taken from them to be used to cover classes or have additional meetings.
If the copier is operable, they may make copies of necessary materials at this time. They cannot surpass their daily limit. The business people must continually advance their education on their own time.
The winner will be allowed to return to his or her job.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Work Time in College Comp
I'm always leery of work time in my classes. In my American List if I gave them 15 minutes of work time, that's 15 minutes wasted. In my Comp classes, that's not always true. In fact, most of them write in class. In my College Comp class, though, I decided to try giving them a work day. The results are mixed.
Many frankly asked if they could study for a test next hour. The ones who asked have high grades and I let them. Some are just visiting when they should be working - which explains why they are always behind. So at least I have proof to throw back at them the next time they ask for an extension or have an excuse. But most are working quite diligently.
But what I like most about this work time is that it gives the students a chance to drop their guards a little bit. They joke and laugh. One group of students - who will miss time for baseball and softball - are contemplating their make up essays (they get six absences, regardless of the excuse. After that they have to write a one page essay (of A or B quality) to make up for the time they've missed. This group is now brainstorming topics. I had given them an example of what one student did last semester - 111 things about me. Now this wasn't an essay, but it was better. I learned so much about that student and their unique views. In fact, that student had about 20 different essay topics in their list.
So this group just asked if they could write a list of different text message abbreviations. I said, sure. I'd love a glossary of terms. As long as they list what the abbreviation means. This one could be quite interesting. Another one was wondering if he could write on 111 odd things about people he knew. I said fine as long as he didn't list specific names and kept the subject matter appropriate.
Some of their make up essays may end up being more interesting than their assigned essays.
Many frankly asked if they could study for a test next hour. The ones who asked have high grades and I let them. Some are just visiting when they should be working - which explains why they are always behind. So at least I have proof to throw back at them the next time they ask for an extension or have an excuse. But most are working quite diligently.
But what I like most about this work time is that it gives the students a chance to drop their guards a little bit. They joke and laugh. One group of students - who will miss time for baseball and softball - are contemplating their make up essays (they get six absences, regardless of the excuse. After that they have to write a one page essay (of A or B quality) to make up for the time they've missed. This group is now brainstorming topics. I had given them an example of what one student did last semester - 111 things about me. Now this wasn't an essay, but it was better. I learned so much about that student and their unique views. In fact, that student had about 20 different essay topics in their list.
So this group just asked if they could write a list of different text message abbreviations. I said, sure. I'd love a glossary of terms. As long as they list what the abbreviation means. This one could be quite interesting. Another one was wondering if he could write on 111 odd things about people he knew. I said fine as long as he didn't list specific names and kept the subject matter appropriate.
Some of their make up essays may end up being more interesting than their assigned essays.
Third quarter winding down
Four more days of third quarter. I'll miss my second block American Lit. I wish I could say the same for my fourth block American Lit. I wouldn't miss them a bit. But unfortunately I won't get that opportunity since several of those students who make American Lit such a pain have been enrolled in my new Comp II class. I can't escape.
Instead of first block prep, American Lit, College Comp, lunch, and American Lit. I know move to Brit Lit, Comp II, College Comp, lunch, and prep.
So far I have 34 enrolled in Brit Lit. I only have 28 desks. So maintenance needs to scrounge up some more. However, in Comp II I only have 15. And my College Comp class stays the same.
Now I just have to dig myself out from under all of these papers. At least in American Lit I'll be showing a film for the next two days, so that'll give me some time to catch up.
Instead of first block prep, American Lit, College Comp, lunch, and American Lit. I know move to Brit Lit, Comp II, College Comp, lunch, and prep.
So far I have 34 enrolled in Brit Lit. I only have 28 desks. So maintenance needs to scrounge up some more. However, in Comp II I only have 15. And my College Comp class stays the same.
Now I just have to dig myself out from under all of these papers. At least in American Lit I'll be showing a film for the next two days, so that'll give me some time to catch up.
Monday, March 19, 2007
This weekend
The Tournament
Tomorrow we head to Warroad for the sixth grade basketball trip. We are taking Kory, her friend, and her friend’s sister. But when we get home from supper, there is a message from one of the players. This poor girl’s mother has not been to a single game. So the girl must find a ride herself to every game. To compound that, Kristie said on Thursday (their last practice before the weekend), the girl attempted to pay her registration fee (each girl - or rather their family - must pay $25) with a bag full of change. It just about broke Kristie’s heart. Kristie had already tried to call social services to see if they could help the family, but she never heard back from them. However, another coach took the girl aside and said she didn’t have to worry about the fee.
When Kristie returns the girl’s phone call, she notifies Kristie that she lost the jersey she loaned her from the elementary school (her mother either didn’t have the money or refused to pay for her jersey). Luckily, she found an old jersey of Casey’s to loan her. To compound that, the girl needs a ride to Warroad. Usually we wouldn’t think twice (there is another player whose parents are zero involved in her life who we routinely give rides to and pay for food when necessary) about such things, but we don’t have enough seat belts to cover everyone.
It just sickens me how so uninvolved some parents are. Now Dad didn’t make many of my games - other than in football - but that was because he was usually gone in his truck or farming. But too many are like poor this girl's parents (the girl whom we usually give rides). For one tournament this girl called and said that she needed a ride since her step-dad was in jail. Since he had several DUI’s, he was on work release. But he has to spend his weekends in jail. So that leaves her mother. However, never once have we even seen her. So when Saturday morning rolls around, we load every body up and head over to her house. As we pull into the alley, we see a Bud Light can lying in the snow. Koko gets out and dashes to the door. She pounds for at least a minute before there is a crack in the door. After a few more minutes, Crystal emerges looking like death warmed over.
On the way to the tournament she fills us in: her mother had several friends over for a party. They were drinking and carrying on. Her brothers were all in her room playing their PS2 (how is it that some parents can never make it to a game or afford to send money for their child to eat but they can find money to drown them in the latest video game systems?). So she tried sleeping on the couch, but her mom and friends were playing drinking games and blasting the radio. In the midst of this all - despite her telling her mom that she had a tournament in the morning - Crystal tried to get a few minutes of sleep curled up on the couch.
It’s a damn shame. Some kids just don’t have a chance.
*****
The tournament reprised
Well, it went pretty well. They finished second. Each team in the sixth grade section finished 2-1, except for poor Baudette. They didn’t win a single game. We trashed them right off the bat - something like 30-2. Then in the second game we lost to Roseau 24-28 in double (yes, double overtime). It was incredible. Never in my life did I ever expect I’d get so worked up over sixth grade basketball (and part of me feels ashamed that I do get so caught up in it - I’ll talk about that in a forthcoming essay). It was a game we could have won, but things just didn’t go our way. The thing I liked best about this game - and this was the highlight for me - was at one point late in the game Roseau’s coach asked for a conference with the ref. She was mad about an inadvertent whistle (the ref had no clue how to ref - and worse yet, he was the Warroad coach!). So while she was discussing this, there was a time out. Kristie huddled her team up and they were all focused on regrouping and getting things corrected. Since I was taking book, I looked over at the Roseau players. They were clustered together bickering at each other. They had lost their composure. I thought we had the game won at that point. But to their credit they put the press on us and we fell kind of fell apart. But we ended the day with another over time game - this time a win - in just one overtime - against Warroad 28-26. But since it was a round robin tournament, the tie breaker game down to points scored and points scored against. Warroad had an edge on us of about 8 points, so we came in second. Still it’s only their fourth loss of the whole season.
Unfortunately during the second overtime one of our players (the first one I talked about at the beginning of this entry) lost her cool (which she is quite apt to do). She slammed the ball down and it flew a good ten feet in the air. Now this would be grounds for a technical, but for whatever reason, the ref let it go (it was one of the few things he let go - he called about 45 traveling calls). But Kristie didn’t. She called her over and benched her. Of course, the player pouted. She never got up from up her seat to join in any time out discussions or even the post game talk. Again, I have to ask where she learned this? Yep, from home. Or whatever ‘home’ she has.
So Kristie benched her for the final game too. She told her - “I went out of my way to get you here. I gave you a school jersey, which you then lost. I let you use my son’s jersey. I talked to you twice already about playing with class. And despite all of that - you pull this!”
I would have kicked her off the team. But that’s easier said than done. I don’t dislike the kid. She just needs to learn a lesson.
Of course, out in the hallway after the games parents (me included) were talking over the games as if we were talking about global affairs. Where does this insanity come from? I can see getting caught up in the moment, but it’s sixth grade basketball! I think this little world of grade school athletics I’ve found myself caught up in speaks absolute volumes about where we are not only as a society but also as people. And we wonder why our kids are so screwed up. It’s simple: us!
Tomorrow we head to Warroad for the sixth grade basketball trip. We are taking Kory, her friend, and her friend’s sister. But when we get home from supper, there is a message from one of the players. This poor girl’s mother has not been to a single game. So the girl must find a ride herself to every game. To compound that, Kristie said on Thursday (their last practice before the weekend), the girl attempted to pay her registration fee (each girl - or rather their family - must pay $25) with a bag full of change. It just about broke Kristie’s heart. Kristie had already tried to call social services to see if they could help the family, but she never heard back from them. However, another coach took the girl aside and said she didn’t have to worry about the fee.
When Kristie returns the girl’s phone call, she notifies Kristie that she lost the jersey she loaned her from the elementary school (her mother either didn’t have the money or refused to pay for her jersey). Luckily, she found an old jersey of Casey’s to loan her. To compound that, the girl needs a ride to Warroad. Usually we wouldn’t think twice (there is another player whose parents are zero involved in her life who we routinely give rides to and pay for food when necessary) about such things, but we don’t have enough seat belts to cover everyone.
It just sickens me how so uninvolved some parents are. Now Dad didn’t make many of my games - other than in football - but that was because he was usually gone in his truck or farming. But too many are like poor this girl's parents (the girl whom we usually give rides). For one tournament this girl called and said that she needed a ride since her step-dad was in jail. Since he had several DUI’s, he was on work release. But he has to spend his weekends in jail. So that leaves her mother. However, never once have we even seen her. So when Saturday morning rolls around, we load every body up and head over to her house. As we pull into the alley, we see a Bud Light can lying in the snow. Koko gets out and dashes to the door. She pounds for at least a minute before there is a crack in the door. After a few more minutes, Crystal emerges looking like death warmed over.
On the way to the tournament she fills us in: her mother had several friends over for a party. They were drinking and carrying on. Her brothers were all in her room playing their PS2 (how is it that some parents can never make it to a game or afford to send money for their child to eat but they can find money to drown them in the latest video game systems?). So she tried sleeping on the couch, but her mom and friends were playing drinking games and blasting the radio. In the midst of this all - despite her telling her mom that she had a tournament in the morning - Crystal tried to get a few minutes of sleep curled up on the couch.
It’s a damn shame. Some kids just don’t have a chance.
*****
The tournament reprised
Well, it went pretty well. They finished second. Each team in the sixth grade section finished 2-1, except for poor Baudette. They didn’t win a single game. We trashed them right off the bat - something like 30-2. Then in the second game we lost to Roseau 24-28 in double (yes, double overtime). It was incredible. Never in my life did I ever expect I’d get so worked up over sixth grade basketball (and part of me feels ashamed that I do get so caught up in it - I’ll talk about that in a forthcoming essay). It was a game we could have won, but things just didn’t go our way. The thing I liked best about this game - and this was the highlight for me - was at one point late in the game Roseau’s coach asked for a conference with the ref. She was mad about an inadvertent whistle (the ref had no clue how to ref - and worse yet, he was the Warroad coach!). So while she was discussing this, there was a time out. Kristie huddled her team up and they were all focused on regrouping and getting things corrected. Since I was taking book, I looked over at the Roseau players. They were clustered together bickering at each other. They had lost their composure. I thought we had the game won at that point. But to their credit they put the press on us and we fell kind of fell apart. But we ended the day with another over time game - this time a win - in just one overtime - against Warroad 28-26. But since it was a round robin tournament, the tie breaker game down to points scored and points scored against. Warroad had an edge on us of about 8 points, so we came in second. Still it’s only their fourth loss of the whole season.
Unfortunately during the second overtime one of our players (the first one I talked about at the beginning of this entry) lost her cool (which she is quite apt to do). She slammed the ball down and it flew a good ten feet in the air. Now this would be grounds for a technical, but for whatever reason, the ref let it go (it was one of the few things he let go - he called about 45 traveling calls). But Kristie didn’t. She called her over and benched her. Of course, the player pouted. She never got up from up her seat to join in any time out discussions or even the post game talk. Again, I have to ask where she learned this? Yep, from home. Or whatever ‘home’ she has.
So Kristie benched her for the final game too. She told her - “I went out of my way to get you here. I gave you a school jersey, which you then lost. I let you use my son’s jersey. I talked to you twice already about playing with class. And despite all of that - you pull this!”
I would have kicked her off the team. But that’s easier said than done. I don’t dislike the kid. She just needs to learn a lesson.
Of course, out in the hallway after the games parents (me included) were talking over the games as if we were talking about global affairs. Where does this insanity come from? I can see getting caught up in the moment, but it’s sixth grade basketball! I think this little world of grade school athletics I’ve found myself caught up in speaks absolute volumes about where we are not only as a society but also as people. And we wonder why our kids are so screwed up. It’s simple: us!
Great quote
Another teacher just dropped this quote off --
"I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells.
Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living,
it's a way of looking at life through the
wrong end of a telescope, which is what
I do, and that enables you
to laugh at life's realities."
--- Theodor Geisel (Dr. Seuss)
That sums up, I think, what my classes are about. I guess that's why I fall into the self-expressive and understanding teaching style.
"I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells.
Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living,
it's a way of looking at life through the
wrong end of a telescope, which is what
I do, and that enables you
to laugh at life's realities."
--- Theodor Geisel (Dr. Seuss)
That sums up, I think, what my classes are about. I guess that's why I fall into the self-expressive and understanding teaching style.
Last week of the quarter
Whoa. What a morning. My room is even more of a disaster than usual. I have so much to read and score that I don't even know where to begin. Why do I do this to myself every time? Or rather - why do I let this happen every time? Kids scramble to get work in from the third week of the quarter. They come in right before leaving to get today's assignment. They expect everything to be instantaneous. And if I were more organized (more mastery, really), I would be.
But this too shall pass.
But this too shall pass.
Friday, March 16, 2007
The Adventures of a young warrior/writer
This week I've been watching my kids read "To Kill a Mockingbird." There is something addicting about watching a class full of people read. Some lie on the floor (I have to keep a close eye on these so no one nods off). Some recline in their desks. Some move their lips as they read. One student had her hand slapped up against her forehead as if in pain. I try to imagine the different stories and connections being made in their heads.
For some, I'm sorry to say, this will be one of the last books they ever read. For some it's the first real book they've ever read. And of course there will be some for never read it at all.
That got me thinking about the first book I fell in love with. In elementary school Mom badgered me to bring books home and start reading. Mom was a voracious reader - mostly Agatha Christie and other murder mysteries, so I was soon trudging through the Hardy Boys mysteries and a few Louis Lamour books. But then I found "The Book of Three" by Lloyd Alexander and was hooked forever.
What follows is a creative essay chronicling both my experience with the novel (actually "The Book of Three" was just the first book in a series of five based around the same characters) and how it affected my entire childhood universe. In fact, the oldest piece of my own writing is a short story (about three pages long - complete with rough drawings scattered amongst the prose) about a young warrior named Nhom (loosely based on Taran from Alexander's series and on Conan the Barbarian that I had recently seen on HBO) and his quest to Africa.
I.
Some of the most influential books I have ever read are the Prydain chronicles by Lloyd Alexander. There are five books in the series: The Book of Three, The Black Cauldron, The Castle of Llyr, Taran Wanderer, and the Newberry Award winner The High King. I was in fourth grade when I first encountered this land and its inhabitants. It was a serendipitous event when I found the first book, The Book of Three, tucked away in the library. The cover instantly captivated me: a shaggy haired youth, who I would later find to be Taran, was in some darkened wood facing down the most evil looking villain I had ever seen this side of Darth Vadar. The villain was riding atop a snarling white steed reared up on its hind legs. A crimson cloak flowed from his rippled torso, and he brandished a long sword high above his head. But what stood out most, however, was the villain's head. He wore a pale white skull that seemed to snicker and smirk. The eyes flamed and massive antlers sprouted from the skull. Basically he wore an antelope skull from hell. I would later learn that he was aptly named The Horned King.
I could not believe that the crummy little library in J.A. Hughes Elementary School contained something so cool. I had tried some books by Louis Lamour and Jack London, but this book was unlike anything I had ever seen. A banner in the library proclaimed "Don't Judge A Book By Its Cover" and that was our librarian's creed. But judging from The Book of Three, if it was half as good as its cover, I would be ecstatic. I was not disappointed.
II.
Taran, a young and brave warrior, and his stout blade, Dyrnwyn, fresh off a battle with a hoard of ravaging beasts in his home land, Prydain, strode into his home. He was in need of a feast and then rest. The hero stalked through the kitchen. His hand still rested on his sword's hilt. He was constantly ready for battle. The only possible threat could come from the cook's food. Luckily, she was preparing stew, one of his favorites. The warrior told the wench that he was in need of nourishment and a nap. Then he proceeded into the main room to rest his weary limbs.
As the young barbarian began to slip into slumber, his acute ears picked up a hissing coming from across the room. Without showing any alarm or fear, he cracked an eyelid and peered out through the mesh of eyelashes. His arms still rested on his chest folded across Dyrnwyn.
He spotted the intruder.
A great snake slipped into the room. Its head oscillated from one side to another in search of easy prey.
"Ha," the young warrior thought. "That is exactly what the snake can think. He'll feel the wrath of my blade."
So Taran continued to lie still, feigning sleep, until he felt the thing’s breath rustle his shaggy mop and trickle across his arm. Then just before the serpent could strike, he leaped to his feet, brandishing his sword.
The enemy, startled by the warrior's super human speed, backed away but continued to sway its head. Finally it coiled itself in the middle of the room for a final stand.
The warrior tossed his blade from one mighty fist to the other, testing the enemy's gaze and searching for weak points.
Finally, he spotted one and lunged.
The serpent had thick skin and easily rebuffed his lashes.
Then he noted a chink in the snake's scales and plunged his blade into the beast's swiveling head. In what should have been Taran’s shinning moment, his troubles really began.
A loud clanging and shattering sound erupted from the felled beast. Before the boy's very eyes, his enemy suddenly transformed - as if a sorcerer’s spell had been shattered - from a snake to a teetering fan, whose large blue plastic blades had suddenly been shattered.
Then thunderous footsteps stormed toward him, shaking the very floor. Before the boy's eyes his dwelling changed from a chamber to his living room. Instinctively, the young warrior looked for a hiding place. But it was too late, for the wench who had been preparing his feast, now changed into his enraged mother.
Taran dove behind the recliner.
“Come out from there! What did you do to my new fan?"
Uh-oh. Suddenly the boy changed from the mighty warrior Taran into a frightened nine-year-old who had just mortally wounded his mother's new rotating fan.
The footsteps came closer to the boy quivering behind the recliner. With the strength of the Cauldron Borne, she hauled him out from behind the chair by the scruff of the neck.
"How many times have I told you to keep that stick outside!" Suddenly, the blade in his hand changed from Dyrnwyn to a lathe taken from a snow fence and whittled sharp at one end and the hilt , replete with jewels and etchings, drawn into the wood with crayon.
"Get that thing outside now! I don't want to see you back in here until I call for supper," she yelled and set the boy down. He instantly bolted for the back door.
III.
The hero of this Prydain series is a young boy named Taran, an orphan who works as the Assistant-Pig Keeper for the wizard Dalban on his estate, Caer Dalban, and longs for adventure and manhood and excitement in his dull life. Taran was the literary equivalent of me. While Taran was often excluded for being an orphan, I faced my own form of ostracism for my weight. When I was in first grade I broke my leg and spent a summer sitting watching TV and eating. Thus I went from an average skinny kid to the fat kid in the class. So every time some nobleman insulted Taran for being an ignorant commoner, I felt his anguish. And every time Taran vanquished an enemy and saved his friends, I felt his elation and longed for the same kind of kind of success. Taran did all of the great things on the page that I longed to do in real life. Of course, I did do those things, but they were all in the real life of my imagination in the confines of my room or house or yard.
IV.
As soon as the child escaped near doom and fled to the back yard, the boy transformed himself into the valiant warrior Taran again. The stick in his hand was once more Dyrnwyn. One of his pant loops became his sheath for his all-powerful blade.
He scanned his terrain, which rapidly changed from a neatly mowed lawn to a deadly battlefield in Prydain. He strolled amongst the vanquished foes - which had once been dandelions - and dispatched any that were still drawing breath with a quick lash from Dyrnwyn.
The lone tree in the back yard suddenly became the warrior's refuge. The young champion scaled it and plopped his battle weary frame into his throne, which had previously been a tiny, rusty metal chair in his tree house. Indeed, the incident with the vicious snake and the evil sorceress (who apparently had owned the snake and was cursing him for its death) had nearly cost him his life, but he had escaped to fight another day.
Taran hadn't rested in his throne five minutes before he heard some rustling below the tree in the alley bordering the backyard. As the warrior peered down, the alley transformed itself into a barren, horse worn path that vandals and rapscallions traveled in search of victims.
"Well," thought Taran, "I will show them who the victim will be!" Then the boy peered over and found his next battle.
Below the tree house the neighbor's dog shambled over and began sniffing the trash cans. The trash cans were suddenly transformed into the boy's horse and his bag of loot. The dog was transformed into a vicious hell hound of the Huntsmen's of Annuvin, who served Arawn. If the hell hound was there, his master couldn't be far away.
"Let him come then," the boy thought as he slowly drew Dyrnwyn. "If they dare, they will find their doom, just like that wretched serpent," the boy thought a split second beforehe leaped into battle
The vicious hound yipped in surprise and was beaten away - with its tail between its legs - with several furious lashes. The boy's horse and treasure were once again safe.
V.
I still read, well re-read, the Prydian series once a year, usually over Christmas break. It is funny how I used to think the books were so long and thick, they average about 200 pages - with wide margins and large font. Of course, I can polish the entire series off in a day now, but I still savor them as much as ever.
The books change with every reading. And it is in this change that I can see my own evolution as a reader. I never realized the religious and mythological symbolism and allusions Alexander uses. As a nine-year-old, it never occurred to me that the character Medwyn in The Book of Three, is caretaker of a secret valley which is a refuge to all of the animals in the land. I noted how Taran observes a huge ship resting at one end of Medwyn's hidden valley and how all of the animals are in pairs. An obvious allusion to Noah.
Likewise in the final book, The High King, Taran defeats the dreaded Death Lord, Arawn, along with his band of undead warriors, The Cauldron Borne. Arawn is the antagonist of the series, yet Alexander never has him actually appear until this last book. And only then does Arawn take the form of a snake. Obviously an allusion to Satan as the serpent in the Garden of Eden.
In the third book, The Castle Llyr, Taran and his companions are at the mercy of a giant who is going to eat them. It is only through deception that Taran is able to escape. Again as a mature reader who has read The Odyssey I see the allusion to the Cyclops and Odysseus and his men.
I also gained a new respect for Alexander's handling of Taran. As a young boy, I wanted Taran to be indestructible and superhuman. I wanted each book to end with Taran victorious and revered by all. But I was always left a little disappointed. For all of his victories and conquests, he still remained so ordinary, so human, so much like me. Now I can see how deftly Alexander handles Taran's character development to render him authentic and genuine when he easily could have turned him into a comic book hero or a cliché.
VI.
Then later, when Taran was lounging in his tree, a piercing scream caused his warrior's blood to chill and the warrior to plummet off his throne and onto his steed below. Luckily his large bag of loot cushioned his fall.
"What are you doing digging in the garbage? I told you to get rid of that stick. Now come in and eat."
Again, the wonderful land of Prydain was suddenly transformed back into their backyard. He was no longer the valiant warrior Taran. He was again a nine year old boy whose mother was ready to go into his father's closet and find one of his spare belts and brandish his backside with it.
"Yes, Mom!" he called, dropping the blade instantly, which suddenly became just a wooden lathe. He brushed the refuse from his arms and hair. He flew in the screen door his mother held open, not daring to meet her glare and clenching his tiny buttocks together for fear of a lash from the belt.
VII.
For an entire week I was entrenched in The Book of Three. I quit coloring and playing during free time in school, preferring to hunker down in my desk and enter the other world of Prydain. There were times when the bus driver would repeatedly have to yell at me to get me to get off at my stop because I would be so engrossed in the book.
Unfortunately, I was rapidly finishing the book; the adventure was drawing to a close. Taran helped destroy Arawn's henchman, The Horned King. He was honored by the prince of Prydain, Gwydian. He had met the Princess Eilonwy and helped rescue her from her evil aunt Achrin. He unwittingly discovered the lost sword, Dyrnwyn, and gave it to Gwydian. This drove me crazy.
Taran found this all-powerful sword and had to give it to Gwydian because only those of royal blood could draw the blade from its sheath without injury. I felt Taran's pain and envy when he offered that magnificently jeweled blade to Gwydian. By the time I finished the last sentence on page 224, I was shaking with anger. To my nine-year-old brain I could not possibly fathom how Taran could lose out on both the sword and the princess, even though she was to remain and work on Caer Dalban, but Taran returned to being an Assistant-Pig Keeper. I remember fuming that had I written the book Taran would have won the sword, the princess, and promptly set out of all kinds of adventures.
Frustrated, I returned the book to Mrs. Purath the librarian. Then she said something I will never forget, "are you going to read the next book in the series?"
I was shocked. There were more? Four more to be precise. Over the rest of that school year I hoarded over these books as if they were my own personal property. I absolutely devoured them.
Then I noticed in one of our monthly book order forms that students could actually order these books. Needless to say before the school year was out I had my own personal collection of the Prydain series.
VIII.
I never really understood how profoundly this series influenced me. But it was from around that time that my first writing attempts can be traced. Young kids already have active imaginations. But this series somehow threw mine into overdrive.
Suddenly, my back yard transformed itself into Prydain. I, of course, became Taran. I was able to pry a long thin lathe from a neighbor's snow fence and whittle down on one end and draw a hilt on it. I even carved a tiny hole in the hilt and worked a toothpick into it, just in case The Horned King or any Cauldron Borne tried to sneak up behind me. One quick tap from my hilt and they would be wounded. This became my Dyrnwyn.
That summer I spent nearly every afternoon exploring or battling and vanquishing hordes of evil doers around the neighborhood. I must have been I sight. A plump nine-year-old wielding a sharpened fence post down the sidewalk.
Of course, in my mind, I was a whole land away battling hordes of evil doers trying to win Eilonwy's hand and destroy Arawn and become the High King of Prydain. I still have the original books and many of the stories that this series inspired me to write. There is not any amount of money that I wouldn't pay to be able to go back in time, even for a mere hour, and rediscover my lost Dyrnwyn and vanquish some more imaginary evildoers around the block.
IX.
After supper, which had been just a quiet meal between a boy and his still simmering mother instead of a mighty banquet in celebration of the day's victory, the boy went up to his room.
He had gotten off easy. No whipping, just grounding. As he climbed the stairs, he ceased to be the nine-year-old boy and became the proud warrior Taran again. He had narrowly escaped the sorceress's spell. He received no curse, but had been banished form Prydain and imprisoned in the high tower.
Worst of all, the sorceress has deprived him of his dear blade.
Taran plopped himself upon the lone cot in the cell, which had previously been his bed, replete with several species of stuffed bears and Star Wars bed sheets. The stuffed animals now became his cellmates.
"How long you been in?" the warrior asked the troll, who had previously been a koala bear.
The prisoners were not talkative. They were probably under a different spell, the warrior reasoned. Or maybe they were spies. That sorceress was cunning one. He began jumping on the cot in protest.
"Son. Knock that off. I'm warning you. Don't make me come up there," the sorceress screamed up at him, shattering his imaginary world. Again, the cell was his room.
Vanquished, he strode over to his desk and planted himself in the chair. He dug around beneath some Pac Man folders and found some clean paper. He also found a pencil that looked more like a carcass attacked by piranhas from all of the bite marks in it.
Then he began to do what seemed so natural to him, but which he had never tried before. "I'll create my own story. My own book. At least then I won't get grounded for breaking anything else," he thought. Maybe even the sorceress would be happy with it and shorten his sentence. "I'll tell the world my story," the boy thought and began to write "Nhom was on a ship to Africa . . ."
For some, I'm sorry to say, this will be one of the last books they ever read. For some it's the first real book they've ever read. And of course there will be some for never read it at all.
That got me thinking about the first book I fell in love with. In elementary school Mom badgered me to bring books home and start reading. Mom was a voracious reader - mostly Agatha Christie and other murder mysteries, so I was soon trudging through the Hardy Boys mysteries and a few Louis Lamour books. But then I found "The Book of Three" by Lloyd Alexander and was hooked forever.
What follows is a creative essay chronicling both my experience with the novel (actually "The Book of Three" was just the first book in a series of five based around the same characters) and how it affected my entire childhood universe. In fact, the oldest piece of my own writing is a short story (about three pages long - complete with rough drawings scattered amongst the prose) about a young warrior named Nhom (loosely based on Taran from Alexander's series and on Conan the Barbarian that I had recently seen on HBO) and his quest to Africa.
I.
Some of the most influential books I have ever read are the Prydain chronicles by Lloyd Alexander. There are five books in the series: The Book of Three, The Black Cauldron, The Castle of Llyr, Taran Wanderer, and the Newberry Award winner The High King. I was in fourth grade when I first encountered this land and its inhabitants. It was a serendipitous event when I found the first book, The Book of Three, tucked away in the library. The cover instantly captivated me: a shaggy haired youth, who I would later find to be Taran, was in some darkened wood facing down the most evil looking villain I had ever seen this side of Darth Vadar. The villain was riding atop a snarling white steed reared up on its hind legs. A crimson cloak flowed from his rippled torso, and he brandished a long sword high above his head. But what stood out most, however, was the villain's head. He wore a pale white skull that seemed to snicker and smirk. The eyes flamed and massive antlers sprouted from the skull. Basically he wore an antelope skull from hell. I would later learn that he was aptly named The Horned King.
I could not believe that the crummy little library in J.A. Hughes Elementary School contained something so cool. I had tried some books by Louis Lamour and Jack London, but this book was unlike anything I had ever seen. A banner in the library proclaimed "Don't Judge A Book By Its Cover" and that was our librarian's creed. But judging from The Book of Three, if it was half as good as its cover, I would be ecstatic. I was not disappointed.
II.
Taran, a young and brave warrior, and his stout blade, Dyrnwyn, fresh off a battle with a hoard of ravaging beasts in his home land, Prydain, strode into his home. He was in need of a feast and then rest. The hero stalked through the kitchen. His hand still rested on his sword's hilt. He was constantly ready for battle. The only possible threat could come from the cook's food. Luckily, she was preparing stew, one of his favorites. The warrior told the wench that he was in need of nourishment and a nap. Then he proceeded into the main room to rest his weary limbs.
As the young barbarian began to slip into slumber, his acute ears picked up a hissing coming from across the room. Without showing any alarm or fear, he cracked an eyelid and peered out through the mesh of eyelashes. His arms still rested on his chest folded across Dyrnwyn.
He spotted the intruder.
A great snake slipped into the room. Its head oscillated from one side to another in search of easy prey.
"Ha," the young warrior thought. "That is exactly what the snake can think. He'll feel the wrath of my blade."
So Taran continued to lie still, feigning sleep, until he felt the thing’s breath rustle his shaggy mop and trickle across his arm. Then just before the serpent could strike, he leaped to his feet, brandishing his sword.
The enemy, startled by the warrior's super human speed, backed away but continued to sway its head. Finally it coiled itself in the middle of the room for a final stand.
The warrior tossed his blade from one mighty fist to the other, testing the enemy's gaze and searching for weak points.
Finally, he spotted one and lunged.
The serpent had thick skin and easily rebuffed his lashes.
Then he noted a chink in the snake's scales and plunged his blade into the beast's swiveling head. In what should have been Taran’s shinning moment, his troubles really began.
A loud clanging and shattering sound erupted from the felled beast. Before the boy's very eyes, his enemy suddenly transformed - as if a sorcerer’s spell had been shattered - from a snake to a teetering fan, whose large blue plastic blades had suddenly been shattered.
Then thunderous footsteps stormed toward him, shaking the very floor. Before the boy's eyes his dwelling changed from a chamber to his living room. Instinctively, the young warrior looked for a hiding place. But it was too late, for the wench who had been preparing his feast, now changed into his enraged mother.
Taran dove behind the recliner.
“Come out from there! What did you do to my new fan?"
Uh-oh. Suddenly the boy changed from the mighty warrior Taran into a frightened nine-year-old who had just mortally wounded his mother's new rotating fan.
The footsteps came closer to the boy quivering behind the recliner. With the strength of the Cauldron Borne, she hauled him out from behind the chair by the scruff of the neck.
"How many times have I told you to keep that stick outside!" Suddenly, the blade in his hand changed from Dyrnwyn to a lathe taken from a snow fence and whittled sharp at one end and the hilt , replete with jewels and etchings, drawn into the wood with crayon.
"Get that thing outside now! I don't want to see you back in here until I call for supper," she yelled and set the boy down. He instantly bolted for the back door.
III.
The hero of this Prydain series is a young boy named Taran, an orphan who works as the Assistant-Pig Keeper for the wizard Dalban on his estate, Caer Dalban, and longs for adventure and manhood and excitement in his dull life. Taran was the literary equivalent of me. While Taran was often excluded for being an orphan, I faced my own form of ostracism for my weight. When I was in first grade I broke my leg and spent a summer sitting watching TV and eating. Thus I went from an average skinny kid to the fat kid in the class. So every time some nobleman insulted Taran for being an ignorant commoner, I felt his anguish. And every time Taran vanquished an enemy and saved his friends, I felt his elation and longed for the same kind of kind of success. Taran did all of the great things on the page that I longed to do in real life. Of course, I did do those things, but they were all in the real life of my imagination in the confines of my room or house or yard.
IV.
As soon as the child escaped near doom and fled to the back yard, the boy transformed himself into the valiant warrior Taran again. The stick in his hand was once more Dyrnwyn. One of his pant loops became his sheath for his all-powerful blade.
He scanned his terrain, which rapidly changed from a neatly mowed lawn to a deadly battlefield in Prydain. He strolled amongst the vanquished foes - which had once been dandelions - and dispatched any that were still drawing breath with a quick lash from Dyrnwyn.
The lone tree in the back yard suddenly became the warrior's refuge. The young champion scaled it and plopped his battle weary frame into his throne, which had previously been a tiny, rusty metal chair in his tree house. Indeed, the incident with the vicious snake and the evil sorceress (who apparently had owned the snake and was cursing him for its death) had nearly cost him his life, but he had escaped to fight another day.
Taran hadn't rested in his throne five minutes before he heard some rustling below the tree in the alley bordering the backyard. As the warrior peered down, the alley transformed itself into a barren, horse worn path that vandals and rapscallions traveled in search of victims.
"Well," thought Taran, "I will show them who the victim will be!" Then the boy peered over and found his next battle.
Below the tree house the neighbor's dog shambled over and began sniffing the trash cans. The trash cans were suddenly transformed into the boy's horse and his bag of loot. The dog was transformed into a vicious hell hound of the Huntsmen's of Annuvin, who served Arawn. If the hell hound was there, his master couldn't be far away.
"Let him come then," the boy thought as he slowly drew Dyrnwyn. "If they dare, they will find their doom, just like that wretched serpent," the boy thought a split second beforehe leaped into battle
The vicious hound yipped in surprise and was beaten away - with its tail between its legs - with several furious lashes. The boy's horse and treasure were once again safe.
V.
I still read, well re-read, the Prydian series once a year, usually over Christmas break. It is funny how I used to think the books were so long and thick, they average about 200 pages - with wide margins and large font. Of course, I can polish the entire series off in a day now, but I still savor them as much as ever.
The books change with every reading. And it is in this change that I can see my own evolution as a reader. I never realized the religious and mythological symbolism and allusions Alexander uses. As a nine-year-old, it never occurred to me that the character Medwyn in The Book of Three, is caretaker of a secret valley which is a refuge to all of the animals in the land. I noted how Taran observes a huge ship resting at one end of Medwyn's hidden valley and how all of the animals are in pairs. An obvious allusion to Noah.
Likewise in the final book, The High King, Taran defeats the dreaded Death Lord, Arawn, along with his band of undead warriors, The Cauldron Borne. Arawn is the antagonist of the series, yet Alexander never has him actually appear until this last book. And only then does Arawn take the form of a snake. Obviously an allusion to Satan as the serpent in the Garden of Eden.
In the third book, The Castle Llyr, Taran and his companions are at the mercy of a giant who is going to eat them. It is only through deception that Taran is able to escape. Again as a mature reader who has read The Odyssey I see the allusion to the Cyclops and Odysseus and his men.
I also gained a new respect for Alexander's handling of Taran. As a young boy, I wanted Taran to be indestructible and superhuman. I wanted each book to end with Taran victorious and revered by all. But I was always left a little disappointed. For all of his victories and conquests, he still remained so ordinary, so human, so much like me. Now I can see how deftly Alexander handles Taran's character development to render him authentic and genuine when he easily could have turned him into a comic book hero or a cliché.
VI.
Then later, when Taran was lounging in his tree, a piercing scream caused his warrior's blood to chill and the warrior to plummet off his throne and onto his steed below. Luckily his large bag of loot cushioned his fall.
"What are you doing digging in the garbage? I told you to get rid of that stick. Now come in and eat."
Again, the wonderful land of Prydain was suddenly transformed back into their backyard. He was no longer the valiant warrior Taran. He was again a nine year old boy whose mother was ready to go into his father's closet and find one of his spare belts and brandish his backside with it.
"Yes, Mom!" he called, dropping the blade instantly, which suddenly became just a wooden lathe. He brushed the refuse from his arms and hair. He flew in the screen door his mother held open, not daring to meet her glare and clenching his tiny buttocks together for fear of a lash from the belt.
VII.
For an entire week I was entrenched in The Book of Three. I quit coloring and playing during free time in school, preferring to hunker down in my desk and enter the other world of Prydain. There were times when the bus driver would repeatedly have to yell at me to get me to get off at my stop because I would be so engrossed in the book.
Unfortunately, I was rapidly finishing the book; the adventure was drawing to a close. Taran helped destroy Arawn's henchman, The Horned King. He was honored by the prince of Prydain, Gwydian. He had met the Princess Eilonwy and helped rescue her from her evil aunt Achrin. He unwittingly discovered the lost sword, Dyrnwyn, and gave it to Gwydian. This drove me crazy.
Taran found this all-powerful sword and had to give it to Gwydian because only those of royal blood could draw the blade from its sheath without injury. I felt Taran's pain and envy when he offered that magnificently jeweled blade to Gwydian. By the time I finished the last sentence on page 224, I was shaking with anger. To my nine-year-old brain I could not possibly fathom how Taran could lose out on both the sword and the princess, even though she was to remain and work on Caer Dalban, but Taran returned to being an Assistant-Pig Keeper. I remember fuming that had I written the book Taran would have won the sword, the princess, and promptly set out of all kinds of adventures.
Frustrated, I returned the book to Mrs. Purath the librarian. Then she said something I will never forget, "are you going to read the next book in the series?"
I was shocked. There were more? Four more to be precise. Over the rest of that school year I hoarded over these books as if they were my own personal property. I absolutely devoured them.
Then I noticed in one of our monthly book order forms that students could actually order these books. Needless to say before the school year was out I had my own personal collection of the Prydain series.
VIII.
I never really understood how profoundly this series influenced me. But it was from around that time that my first writing attempts can be traced. Young kids already have active imaginations. But this series somehow threw mine into overdrive.
Suddenly, my back yard transformed itself into Prydain. I, of course, became Taran. I was able to pry a long thin lathe from a neighbor's snow fence and whittle down on one end and draw a hilt on it. I even carved a tiny hole in the hilt and worked a toothpick into it, just in case The Horned King or any Cauldron Borne tried to sneak up behind me. One quick tap from my hilt and they would be wounded. This became my Dyrnwyn.
That summer I spent nearly every afternoon exploring or battling and vanquishing hordes of evil doers around the neighborhood. I must have been I sight. A plump nine-year-old wielding a sharpened fence post down the sidewalk.
Of course, in my mind, I was a whole land away battling hordes of evil doers trying to win Eilonwy's hand and destroy Arawn and become the High King of Prydain. I still have the original books and many of the stories that this series inspired me to write. There is not any amount of money that I wouldn't pay to be able to go back in time, even for a mere hour, and rediscover my lost Dyrnwyn and vanquish some more imaginary evildoers around the block.
IX.
After supper, which had been just a quiet meal between a boy and his still simmering mother instead of a mighty banquet in celebration of the day's victory, the boy went up to his room.
He had gotten off easy. No whipping, just grounding. As he climbed the stairs, he ceased to be the nine-year-old boy and became the proud warrior Taran again. He had narrowly escaped the sorceress's spell. He received no curse, but had been banished form Prydain and imprisoned in the high tower.
Worst of all, the sorceress has deprived him of his dear blade.
Taran plopped himself upon the lone cot in the cell, which had previously been his bed, replete with several species of stuffed bears and Star Wars bed sheets. The stuffed animals now became his cellmates.
"How long you been in?" the warrior asked the troll, who had previously been a koala bear.
The prisoners were not talkative. They were probably under a different spell, the warrior reasoned. Or maybe they were spies. That sorceress was cunning one. He began jumping on the cot in protest.
"Son. Knock that off. I'm warning you. Don't make me come up there," the sorceress screamed up at him, shattering his imaginary world. Again, the cell was his room.
Vanquished, he strode over to his desk and planted himself in the chair. He dug around beneath some Pac Man folders and found some clean paper. He also found a pencil that looked more like a carcass attacked by piranhas from all of the bite marks in it.
Then he began to do what seemed so natural to him, but which he had never tried before. "I'll create my own story. My own book. At least then I won't get grounded for breaking anything else," he thought. Maybe even the sorceress would be happy with it and shorten his sentence. "I'll tell the world my story," the boy thought and began to write "Nhom was on a ship to Africa . . ."
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Imagination
I could not have asked for a greater childhood.
My mom used to like to tell the story of how once my older brother Kevin, to get me out of his room so he could have some privacy, said, "Kurt, no one likes you, so leave."
Mom said she knew she'd never have to worry about my self-esteem when I quickly shot back, "That's alright. I like myself!" as I scampered out of his room with several toys loaded in my arms.
I think of that every time I see these pictures.
The Godzilla on my right still lives. He is perched high in my office at home. He is a favorite of Koko's. At the base of his skull is a level which, if pulled, causes his tongue to stick out. It's painted with red and yellow flames to imitate his fire breathing.
The desk just to my left was a present on my previous birthday. When Barb and Kev left for school, I'd sit in my desk all morning long until they came home for lunch. I guess I always wanted to be a student. I believe the box full of Legos is that same one in the pervious picture - though here I'm younger. It's Christmas - my favorite time as a child.
My mom used to like to tell the story of how once my older brother Kevin, to get me out of his room so he could have some privacy, said, "Kurt, no one likes you, so leave."
Mom said she knew she'd never have to worry about my self-esteem when I quickly shot back, "That's alright. I like myself!" as I scampered out of his room with several toys loaded in my arms.
I think of that every time I see these pictures.
The Godzilla on my right still lives. He is perched high in my office at home. He is a favorite of Koko's. At the base of his skull is a level which, if pulled, causes his tongue to stick out. It's painted with red and yellow flames to imitate his fire breathing.
The desk just to my left was a present on my previous birthday. When Barb and Kev left for school, I'd sit in my desk all morning long until they came home for lunch. I guess I always wanted to be a student. I believe the box full of Legos is that same one in the pervious picture - though here I'm younger. It's Christmas - my favorite time as a child.
Winter Wonder Land
It looks like mid December out. Big wet flakes that the wind blows horizontally outside the window. I think I'll take Koko sledding after school. By the time Kristie gets home it might be too dark.
*******
I don't know why I thought of this now, but the next time I teach College Composition (if there is a next time that is), I'm going to have each student set up a blog and publish their essays there. They'll also submit a 'hard' copy to me, but then they're really publishing their final work rather than just handing it in to me. I'll charge the students to read each other's and leave feedback. Plus with a video projector hooked up to my laptop (and wireless internet - oh yeah I'm dreaming), I could pull up their blog and have the essay right there.
Of course, I haven't thought of all the drawbacks yet. But there will be many I'm sure. But I need to shake up my classes some how. I feel like I'm being like MY high school teachers. That ain't good!
*******
The requests for letters of recommendation are starting to pile up. I was able to knock one off this morning, and it's pretty good too. But then so is the student. It's a pleasure to write one when that happens. The trick is to reflect on the student and try to capture their unique talents and attributes. But that can be hard since I haven't had many since they were sophomores. They must be hard up for references!
*******
I don't know why I thought of this now, but the next time I teach College Composition (if there is a next time that is), I'm going to have each student set up a blog and publish their essays there. They'll also submit a 'hard' copy to me, but then they're really publishing their final work rather than just handing it in to me. I'll charge the students to read each other's and leave feedback. Plus with a video projector hooked up to my laptop (and wireless internet - oh yeah I'm dreaming), I could pull up their blog and have the essay right there.
Of course, I haven't thought of all the drawbacks yet. But there will be many I'm sure. But I need to shake up my classes some how. I feel like I'm being like MY high school teachers. That ain't good!
*******
The requests for letters of recommendation are starting to pile up. I was able to knock one off this morning, and it's pretty good too. But then so is the student. It's a pleasure to write one when that happens. The trick is to reflect on the student and try to capture their unique talents and attributes. But that can be hard since I haven't had many since they were sophomores. They must be hard up for references!
The Year Has Gone Quickly
I know the year has gone quickly for when I looked at the schedule taped to my classroom door and it's first quarter's schedule. I thought I had been meaning to update that for a few weeks now!
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Wonders
You know this profession never ceases to amaze. I'm all bummed out on some curriculum budget issues, and I walk into my second block American Lit class to see damn near every student with their TKM books open and ready to read - if not already reading. Maybe the trick is for me to shup up and get out of their way.
Learning/Teaching Styles
Last Friday at our inservice we took an assessment that charter our teaching and learning styles. I had done this in the past at RA training. But I never really thought about it since.
I found the results very interesting. There were four areas where one could fall - Mastery, Interpersonal, Self-Expressive, and Understanding. In terms of being a learner, my dominant styles was Interpersonal (here is the overview from the assessment - "Interpersonal learners are sensitive to people's feelings -- their own and others'. They prefer to learn about things that directly affect people's lives rather than impersonal facts or theories."). I guess that sounds like me. I know, without a doubt, that I'm random-abstract all the way. I like to meander my way through my courses, rather than strategically mastering skills and completing activities. My favorite classes were always my writing courses where we had a paper due and we just were given time to complete it. There was never much in the way of requirements or objectives. That allowed me to feel my own way through my experiences and ideas. And I loved it.
My lowest score came in the Mastery area ("Mastery learners are efficient and result oriented, preferring action to words and involvement in theory. They have a high energy level for doing things that are pragmatic, detailed, and useful."). Well, that's not me.
My teaching style, though, is a bit different. I had a tie for my dominant teaching styles - Understanding and Self-Expressive. My learning style, Interpersonal, was a close third. Of course, Mastery was on the bottom. Again according to the assessment, Understanding teachers combine intuition and thinking. "They place primary importance on students' intellectual development." and Self-Expressive teachers combine intuition and feeling. "They encourage students to explore their creative abilities. Insights and imagination are highly valued." I guess there are worse styles to have.
Again my lowest score came in the Mastery area. This was no surprise.
Today in our common prep meetings we discussed this. I wasn't shocked by the Mastery style teachers and the Self-Expressive teachers. You could tell a mile away.
What I find interesting is what happens when we teach differently than we learn. I haven't wrapped my mind around this quite yet. But initially I don't think that's a bad thing.
To be honest, I never thought about it until this assessment. I just always began the day thinking "If I were a student, what would I want to do today in class?" and I went from there. I might have to rethink that some.
I also think it's good to have a variety of teaching styles in a department and school. In our English department I know we have a few Mastery style teachers. Our kids need their regiment and order. I also know we have several Self-Expressive style teachers. Our kids need their creativity and clutter.
I found the results very interesting. There were four areas where one could fall - Mastery, Interpersonal, Self-Expressive, and Understanding. In terms of being a learner, my dominant styles was Interpersonal (here is the overview from the assessment - "Interpersonal learners are sensitive to people's feelings -- their own and others'. They prefer to learn about things that directly affect people's lives rather than impersonal facts or theories."). I guess that sounds like me. I know, without a doubt, that I'm random-abstract all the way. I like to meander my way through my courses, rather than strategically mastering skills and completing activities. My favorite classes were always my writing courses where we had a paper due and we just were given time to complete it. There was never much in the way of requirements or objectives. That allowed me to feel my own way through my experiences and ideas. And I loved it.
My lowest score came in the Mastery area ("Mastery learners are efficient and result oriented, preferring action to words and involvement in theory. They have a high energy level for doing things that are pragmatic, detailed, and useful."). Well, that's not me.
My teaching style, though, is a bit different. I had a tie for my dominant teaching styles - Understanding and Self-Expressive. My learning style, Interpersonal, was a close third. Of course, Mastery was on the bottom. Again according to the assessment, Understanding teachers combine intuition and thinking. "They place primary importance on students' intellectual development." and Self-Expressive teachers combine intuition and feeling. "They encourage students to explore their creative abilities. Insights and imagination are highly valued." I guess there are worse styles to have.
Again my lowest score came in the Mastery area. This was no surprise.
Today in our common prep meetings we discussed this. I wasn't shocked by the Mastery style teachers and the Self-Expressive teachers. You could tell a mile away.
What I find interesting is what happens when we teach differently than we learn. I haven't wrapped my mind around this quite yet. But initially I don't think that's a bad thing.
To be honest, I never thought about it until this assessment. I just always began the day thinking "If I were a student, what would I want to do today in class?" and I went from there. I might have to rethink that some.
I also think it's good to have a variety of teaching styles in a department and school. In our English department I know we have a few Mastery style teachers. Our kids need their regiment and order. I also know we have several Self-Expressive style teachers. Our kids need their creativity and clutter.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
To Kill a Mockingbird, revisited
This is maybe the 20th time I’ve taught “To Kill a Mockingbird.” It’s maybe the 30th time I’ve read it. Yet, each time it relates differently to me. How’s that for reader response theory?
So far I’ve got one student who has already the whole thing. I think, though, I have a student or two who haven’t read a page. I think most will read the whole thing, but I’m under no illusions that they’ll all finish it.
I always like to note the students’ reactions. Each time I read it, the book becomes funnier. But most students miss the humor. When Scout tells her uncle, “That’s a damn lie” when he tells her he feeds his cats fingers are ears from the bodies he works on as a doctor, I chuckle and grin, some students chuckle too. Most seem confused.
Part of this is that our society has lost its sense for subtle humor. The students’ humor seems to range from absurdity, lighting your testicles on fire (see the “Jackass” films) to the pseudo intellectual rants (like those of The Daily Show on Comedy Central ). The genuine subtle humor of “To Kill a Mockingbird” is so far beyond most of them. If I were to slip going up to the white board, I’d get many more laughs than when Scout asks Atticus to “pass the damn ham” at dinner. If a student were to punch his buddy in the balls, they’d laugh harder than they do at the Scout wishing her father was a devil from hell because he is just so boring.
I know there are eternal truths built in to TKM. But it’s never been a struggle like this to get the students to connect to them. So many just can’t relate to the world of the novel. Maybe it’s time to pick a more modern selection?
I love TKM because it relates so very well to all of the stories we read to lead up to it. When Atticus talks about having to accept the Robinson case despite the uproar it will cause and the fact that he’ll lose, he tells Scout, “If I didn’t I couldn’t hold up my head in town, I couldn’t represent this county in the legislature, I couldn’t even tell you or Jem not to do something again,” I think of the hypocrisy inherent in “Young Goodman Brown” and how differently Goody, the Minister, and Deacon Gookin look in the forest than they do in Salem. When Jem’s rage builds when Miss Lafayette Dubose taunts Scout and him and he loses it finally and thrashes her camellia bushes with Scout’s baton, I think of Johnson from “Like a Winding Sheet” and how his tension builds and builds until it consumes him and he batters his innocent wife. When Scout thinks “After all, if Aunty could be a lady at a time like this, so could I” despite wearing jeans under her dress at a lady’s lunch, I think of “Doe Season” and how Andy goes deer hunting with her father and his friends and after killing a doe, she flees refusing to be called Andy, preferring her full name, Andrea. When I read about Mr. Link Deas standing up for Tom Robinson’s wife when Bob Ewell stalks her, I think of Tristan bashing in a bartender’s head when he refuses to serve One Stab, a Native American, in “Legends of the Fall.” In short, if pretty much connects to everything. Which is why it’s so damned cool.
It also connects to me differently each time. This time the part that resonates with me this time is how Atticus is able to find the best in people, no matter how ignorant, poor, or rotten they are. He knows each person has something worthwhile inside. That’s one reason he always tells Scout to try someone else’s skin on and see what the world looks from there.
This ties right into my classes. I know that many will fail. Even more won’t read more than a chapter or two of the novel, but that doesn’t mean their worthless. I have to remember to see what things look like from their eyes - spring is coming; part time jobs; baseball, tennis, track, and softball; prom; senioritis . . . all of these take precedence over American Lit. I suppose I could beat myself up trying to get them to read and giving reading check quizzes just like Atticus could beat himself up preaching his beliefs in public. But he doesn’t. He accepts people for whom they are. As Atticus says when Scout asks him if he is, as he's been called time and again by so many others, a "nigger lover," and he replies, "I certainly am. I do my best to love everybody . . I'm hard put, sometimes." He looks for the best and deals with the worst.
That’s what I’ve done in here. David, and his Godzilla feet, are going to fail. Justin will fail too. But they're nice kids. I've no doubt they're, well to borrow from a ZZ Top song, beer drinkers and hell raisers out of class, but they come to class every day and add their thoughts and laugh. They don't do their work. David nods off. Justin always pays attention. And he always folds his assignments up and puts them in his back pocket. He also reads at an elementary school level and writes there too. But they're good kids.
I want my students to be outstanding, eager. And a few are. Kyrie brings the novel home and reads diligently. Her homework is always done. She never says a peep. Jeremy laughs and does his work right before the bell, but his questions are dead on and he enjoys writing responses. Melda missed a lot of time early but now the work is pouring out of her.
Most are kids. But just kids. And kids aren’t always interested in what I’m selling this time of the year.
So far I’ve got one student who has already the whole thing. I think, though, I have a student or two who haven’t read a page. I think most will read the whole thing, but I’m under no illusions that they’ll all finish it.
I always like to note the students’ reactions. Each time I read it, the book becomes funnier. But most students miss the humor. When Scout tells her uncle, “That’s a damn lie” when he tells her he feeds his cats fingers are ears from the bodies he works on as a doctor, I chuckle and grin, some students chuckle too. Most seem confused.
Part of this is that our society has lost its sense for subtle humor. The students’ humor seems to range from absurdity, lighting your testicles on fire (see the “Jackass” films) to the pseudo intellectual rants (like those of The Daily Show on Comedy Central ). The genuine subtle humor of “To Kill a Mockingbird” is so far beyond most of them. If I were to slip going up to the white board, I’d get many more laughs than when Scout asks Atticus to “pass the damn ham” at dinner. If a student were to punch his buddy in the balls, they’d laugh harder than they do at the Scout wishing her father was a devil from hell because he is just so boring.
I know there are eternal truths built in to TKM. But it’s never been a struggle like this to get the students to connect to them. So many just can’t relate to the world of the novel. Maybe it’s time to pick a more modern selection?
I love TKM because it relates so very well to all of the stories we read to lead up to it. When Atticus talks about having to accept the Robinson case despite the uproar it will cause and the fact that he’ll lose, he tells Scout, “If I didn’t I couldn’t hold up my head in town, I couldn’t represent this county in the legislature, I couldn’t even tell you or Jem not to do something again,” I think of the hypocrisy inherent in “Young Goodman Brown” and how differently Goody, the Minister, and Deacon Gookin look in the forest than they do in Salem. When Jem’s rage builds when Miss Lafayette Dubose taunts Scout and him and he loses it finally and thrashes her camellia bushes with Scout’s baton, I think of Johnson from “Like a Winding Sheet” and how his tension builds and builds until it consumes him and he batters his innocent wife. When Scout thinks “After all, if Aunty could be a lady at a time like this, so could I” despite wearing jeans under her dress at a lady’s lunch, I think of “Doe Season” and how Andy goes deer hunting with her father and his friends and after killing a doe, she flees refusing to be called Andy, preferring her full name, Andrea. When I read about Mr. Link Deas standing up for Tom Robinson’s wife when Bob Ewell stalks her, I think of Tristan bashing in a bartender’s head when he refuses to serve One Stab, a Native American, in “Legends of the Fall.” In short, if pretty much connects to everything. Which is why it’s so damned cool.
It also connects to me differently each time. This time the part that resonates with me this time is how Atticus is able to find the best in people, no matter how ignorant, poor, or rotten they are. He knows each person has something worthwhile inside. That’s one reason he always tells Scout to try someone else’s skin on and see what the world looks from there.
This ties right into my classes. I know that many will fail. Even more won’t read more than a chapter or two of the novel, but that doesn’t mean their worthless. I have to remember to see what things look like from their eyes - spring is coming; part time jobs; baseball, tennis, track, and softball; prom; senioritis . . . all of these take precedence over American Lit. I suppose I could beat myself up trying to get them to read and giving reading check quizzes just like Atticus could beat himself up preaching his beliefs in public. But he doesn’t. He accepts people for whom they are. As Atticus says when Scout asks him if he is, as he's been called time and again by so many others, a "nigger lover," and he replies, "I certainly am. I do my best to love everybody . . I'm hard put, sometimes." He looks for the best and deals with the worst.
That’s what I’ve done in here. David, and his Godzilla feet, are going to fail. Justin will fail too. But they're nice kids. I've no doubt they're, well to borrow from a ZZ Top song, beer drinkers and hell raisers out of class, but they come to class every day and add their thoughts and laugh. They don't do their work. David nods off. Justin always pays attention. And he always folds his assignments up and puts them in his back pocket. He also reads at an elementary school level and writes there too. But they're good kids.
I want my students to be outstanding, eager. And a few are. Kyrie brings the novel home and reads diligently. Her homework is always done. She never says a peep. Jeremy laughs and does his work right before the bell, but his questions are dead on and he enjoys writing responses. Melda missed a lot of time early but now the work is pouring out of her.
Most are kids. But just kids. And kids aren’t always interested in what I’m selling this time of the year.
Sickening
I just received an email from a fellow teacher containing a most disturbing video. It’s entitled “Iraqi insurgents - gunship chaingun.” Now my problem with this crap is simply that it glorifies violence. I have no problem with our military killing Iraqi insurgents smuggling in weapons they will use to kill innocent people or American soldiers. No problem whatsoever. We’re having a war. Bad things happen. I know this.
My problem lies in the fact that video tape of a killing (actually three) is being sent around! Dr. Walsh and Dr. Koeslaugh had the X-rays and video resonance of my father’s lungs filling with cancer, but I don’t want that spread around. And I sure as hell don’t want to see it.
The problem with this glorification of violence is that it has a horrible effect on kids. I once showed a similar video - sent by the same teacher too now that I think about it - to a few students after school. They had heard of the video and wanted to witness it. I showed it to them because I wanted to see their reactions. Would they be as sickened as I was? No. One even went on to say, “Whoa. That’s so cool. I’d love to do that.”
Are you kidding me? You’d love to murder someone. I don’t care if they are smuggling in weapons - they are still someone’s father, son, friend. They are still fighting for what they believe in.
How would we react if an email containing the World Trade Centers crashing down from the point of view of Al Qaeda circulated. I’m not justifying what they did at all. It was horrible and atrocities like that should never occur. But I’m not Republican enough to think there isn’t another side to the argument, another side that makes us look like the vile weapon smugglers getting blown into a red mist on the video I just watched.
And yes, I just watched “300” over the weekend - one of the bloodiest movies ever. It’s based on the Spartan’s initial battle with the Persian empire. But I know that film was not real. It’s entertainment loosely based on historical fact. It’s the same with “Saving Private Ryan.” Those first 30 minutes are brutally unforgiving. I shudder and wonder if hell could be any worse than Omaha beach. But I too know that it’s a film. It’s entrainment closely based on historical fact. After watching “Ryan,” I felt sickened. I hoped such things would never come about again. I sure as hell didn’t think, “Whoa. That’s so cool.” And I sure as hell didn’t send it around as an email glorifying the horrors of war.
My problem lies in the fact that video tape of a killing (actually three) is being sent around! Dr. Walsh and Dr. Koeslaugh had the X-rays and video resonance of my father’s lungs filling with cancer, but I don’t want that spread around. And I sure as hell don’t want to see it.
The problem with this glorification of violence is that it has a horrible effect on kids. I once showed a similar video - sent by the same teacher too now that I think about it - to a few students after school. They had heard of the video and wanted to witness it. I showed it to them because I wanted to see their reactions. Would they be as sickened as I was? No. One even went on to say, “Whoa. That’s so cool. I’d love to do that.”
Are you kidding me? You’d love to murder someone. I don’t care if they are smuggling in weapons - they are still someone’s father, son, friend. They are still fighting for what they believe in.
How would we react if an email containing the World Trade Centers crashing down from the point of view of Al Qaeda circulated. I’m not justifying what they did at all. It was horrible and atrocities like that should never occur. But I’m not Republican enough to think there isn’t another side to the argument, another side that makes us look like the vile weapon smugglers getting blown into a red mist on the video I just watched.
And yes, I just watched “300” over the weekend - one of the bloodiest movies ever. It’s based on the Spartan’s initial battle with the Persian empire. But I know that film was not real. It’s entertainment loosely based on historical fact. It’s the same with “Saving Private Ryan.” Those first 30 minutes are brutally unforgiving. I shudder and wonder if hell could be any worse than Omaha beach. But I too know that it’s a film. It’s entrainment closely based on historical fact. After watching “Ryan,” I felt sickened. I hoped such things would never come about again. I sure as hell didn’t think, “Whoa. That’s so cool.” And I sure as hell didn’t send it around as an email glorifying the horrors of war.
Tuesday morning
It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything of significance on my blog. So instead of running at 5:20 this morning (I ran last night), I decided to get some blogging in.
I have so many ideas bouncing around that it’s difficult to begin. So much is happening that I need to write about - the wedding (less than 80 days!), parents, sixth grade basketball, our curriculum meeting, selecting our textbook and technology for our curriculum cycle, To Kill a Mockingbird, 300, Little Miss Sunshine, the end of the quarter, the 145 RU Ready essays I read and evaluated, our pets . . .
So I’ve got myself a cup of strong Star Bucks and I’ll just let the ideas loose.
“It’s amazing we (teachers) do what we do with what little we have left.” That’s a note I scribbled in my tablet from our English committee meeting last Wednesday. All day, every day kindergarten is either on the chopping block or has been cut and they’re trying to get it back. The middle school teachers are clamoring for their ‘school within a school’ program (it’s a program for non-special ed students who are struggling where they can be pulled out and placed in small classes and receive extra help) at the sixth grade level, which had been cut. One teacher said, “I can think of a lot of kids in the sixth grade who are reading at a third grade level, yet there’s nothing for them because school within a school has been cut from the sixth grade.” This caused one teacher to reminisce about all the programs they used to have - not just school within a school in grades 6-8 but also aides to help them and, I believe, school within a school for other subjects besides reading. But they’ve been cut over the years.
The same is true at the high school. When I started we had seven full time English teachers. But one position has been cut (actually, they just never filled a position once one teacher retired). Sure they will add a half-time position once in a blue moon when it’s absolutely necessary (45 kids in a 9th grade class), but it’s like trying to fix a gun shot wound with a Band Aid. (Now I know some will attribute this to declining enrollment. We don’t have as many students as we did ten years ago. Then tell me how the hell we still all have 30 kids in many of our classes?)
But now I see that it’s all across our district. Yet, schools are constantly pressured to prepare children for the global community, NCLB, get them through the NWEAs and MCAs, teach them the standards and benchmarks, introduce them to the latest technology, teach to their multiple intelligences, and on and on.
We could do so much more with these kids with, well, more. Instead we do are forced to do less with, well, less. And that’s a damn shame.
I have so many ideas bouncing around that it’s difficult to begin. So much is happening that I need to write about - the wedding (less than 80 days!), parents, sixth grade basketball, our curriculum meeting, selecting our textbook and technology for our curriculum cycle, To Kill a Mockingbird, 300, Little Miss Sunshine, the end of the quarter, the 145 RU Ready essays I read and evaluated, our pets . . .
So I’ve got myself a cup of strong Star Bucks and I’ll just let the ideas loose.
“It’s amazing we (teachers) do what we do with what little we have left.” That’s a note I scribbled in my tablet from our English committee meeting last Wednesday. All day, every day kindergarten is either on the chopping block or has been cut and they’re trying to get it back. The middle school teachers are clamoring for their ‘school within a school’ program (it’s a program for non-special ed students who are struggling where they can be pulled out and placed in small classes and receive extra help) at the sixth grade level, which had been cut. One teacher said, “I can think of a lot of kids in the sixth grade who are reading at a third grade level, yet there’s nothing for them because school within a school has been cut from the sixth grade.” This caused one teacher to reminisce about all the programs they used to have - not just school within a school in grades 6-8 but also aides to help them and, I believe, school within a school for other subjects besides reading. But they’ve been cut over the years.
The same is true at the high school. When I started we had seven full time English teachers. But one position has been cut (actually, they just never filled a position once one teacher retired). Sure they will add a half-time position once in a blue moon when it’s absolutely necessary (45 kids in a 9th grade class), but it’s like trying to fix a gun shot wound with a Band Aid. (Now I know some will attribute this to declining enrollment. We don’t have as many students as we did ten years ago. Then tell me how the hell we still all have 30 kids in many of our classes?)
But now I see that it’s all across our district. Yet, schools are constantly pressured to prepare children for the global community, NCLB, get them through the NWEAs and MCAs, teach them the standards and benchmarks, introduce them to the latest technology, teach to their multiple intelligences, and on and on.
We could do so much more with these kids with, well, more. Instead we do are forced to do less with, well, less. And that’s a damn shame.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Monday - week 8
Ten days left in the quarter. I'm swamped in papers and work. I should have gotten caught up last week, but I spent my time evaluating 145 RU Ready high school essays. That was no small feat.
So where to begin? American Lit worksheets and reading guides? Prepare for American Lit today (To Kill a Mockingbird, chapters 8-10)? Read College Comp essays? Grade make up work and tests?
Who knows? I'll close my eyes and rest my hand on a stack and just start in. Here it goes . . .
So where to begin? American Lit worksheets and reading guides? Prepare for American Lit today (To Kill a Mockingbird, chapters 8-10)? Read College Comp essays? Grade make up work and tests?
Who knows? I'll close my eyes and rest my hand on a stack and just start in. Here it goes . . .
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Why does stuff like this always happen in Wisconsin?
I came across this jewel on yahoo news this morning.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070308/ap_on_fe_st/jackass_copycat;_ylt=Aq8blRPGwlT.PyB0e.npRMTMWM0F
I think you'll have to copy and paste it in order to read it. Or just go to www.yahoo.ews.com and go to the first story under most popular. It's worth it. Let's just say it's 'hot' off the press.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070308/ap_on_fe_st/jackass_copycat;_ylt=Aq8blRPGwlT.PyB0e.npRMTMWM0F
I think you'll have to copy and paste it in order to read it. Or just go to www.yahoo.ews.com and go to the first story under most popular. It's worth it. Let's just say it's 'hot' off the press.
Einstein and Mischa
Here are our other 'kids.'
This is Mischa, formerly known as Lucky. We found her along the road coming back from celebrating Koko's birthday last year. She hasn't grown much - probably because our other cat (see below) eats so much. We decided to rename her because originally we thought she was a boy. Natasha, one of Koko's friends who was along with us and who lives on a farm, inspected the kitten and deemed him a boy kitten. We took her word for it for several months. But when it came time to have his first vet visit, Kristie had Casey insepct and, sure enough, 'he' was a girl. So we changed the name. Mischa is a ball of energy. She moves in twitches and streaks. She doesn't meow either. She just squeaks. But she has captured our hearts.
Now here is my boy (Koko is doing his "Frankenstein pose"). This is Einstein, our 20 pound cat. I could write a book on this guy. He wasn't too thrilled about Mischa's arrival, but he has gotten used to her now.
We waited a little too long to have Einstein fixed. As a result, some of his 'urges' still linger. How shall I put it? He molests stuffed animals, towels, robes, socks, my back pack, blankets, and fuzzy pillows. Here I've caught him in the act with one of Koko's new stuffed bears (the tag is still on the poor bear's ear).
He was partial to Koko's fuzzy blue pillow until she hid it. Einer has even tried to corner Mischa a few times, but she is a fighter and way too quick for him. Usually once a week when I get home from work, I'll find a piece of clothing or towel lying suspiciously in the middle of the floor or under the table. Then I usually find Einer relaxing on the chaise lounge puffing on a cigarette.
It's particularly embarrassing when company is over and your obese cat saunters down the stairs with a stuffed animal clenched in his jaws like it's the red light district on Bourbon Street.
He never gives the items up easily either. He utters a deep gutteral "mmrrrraaaawwwww" that scares the hell out of me. In fact the first time he ever had an 'urge' was a day or two after his first fight at our old house.
And now I know why he had his first fight.
I was reluctant to let him out and kept an eye on him like any protective father. But he always returned and never strayed too far. So the days went by and then one time he came in limping badly. His front paw was hurting. We all nursed him and waited on him. In a day or two he was back to normal. In the back of my mind I strated worrying about rabbies since he hadn't had his shots.
Then one night as we were in bed, Einer hopped up and began kneading our quilt. He doe this quite often. But when he added the pelvic thrusts, I knew something was awry.
I went to push him off, and he hissed and swiped at me. I threatened him with a time out, but he hardly broke his thrusts and his tail began moving in sharp little swipes. If I didn't do something quickly, we'd have an unspeakable mess on our quilt. So I tore the quilt off the bed. Einer was still attached. Only now he was angry. He growled and began to chase me!
I used the blanket as a shield. I just knew I was going to have to get rabbies shots. But once I threw Einer and the quilt into the laundry room and quarantined him in there, the fit passed and he became the big fat lover he usually is.
That was our first hint of his dark side.
We've had dogs over the years run up and hump a leg or two (in one horrifying instance a few sumemrs ago Joker actually lifted his leg and urinated on our neighbor's leg), but I've never seen a cat do that to any objects. Well, I guess we all have needs, right?
This is Mischa, formerly known as Lucky. We found her along the road coming back from celebrating Koko's birthday last year. She hasn't grown much - probably because our other cat (see below) eats so much. We decided to rename her because originally we thought she was a boy. Natasha, one of Koko's friends who was along with us and who lives on a farm, inspected the kitten and deemed him a boy kitten. We took her word for it for several months. But when it came time to have his first vet visit, Kristie had Casey insepct and, sure enough, 'he' was a girl. So we changed the name. Mischa is a ball of energy. She moves in twitches and streaks. She doesn't meow either. She just squeaks. But she has captured our hearts.
Now here is my boy (Koko is doing his "Frankenstein pose"). This is Einstein, our 20 pound cat. I could write a book on this guy. He wasn't too thrilled about Mischa's arrival, but he has gotten used to her now.
We waited a little too long to have Einstein fixed. As a result, some of his 'urges' still linger. How shall I put it? He molests stuffed animals, towels, robes, socks, my back pack, blankets, and fuzzy pillows. Here I've caught him in the act with one of Koko's new stuffed bears (the tag is still on the poor bear's ear).
He was partial to Koko's fuzzy blue pillow until she hid it. Einer has even tried to corner Mischa a few times, but she is a fighter and way too quick for him. Usually once a week when I get home from work, I'll find a piece of clothing or towel lying suspiciously in the middle of the floor or under the table. Then I usually find Einer relaxing on the chaise lounge puffing on a cigarette.
It's particularly embarrassing when company is over and your obese cat saunters down the stairs with a stuffed animal clenched in his jaws like it's the red light district on Bourbon Street.
He never gives the items up easily either. He utters a deep gutteral "mmrrrraaaawwwww" that scares the hell out of me. In fact the first time he ever had an 'urge' was a day or two after his first fight at our old house.
And now I know why he had his first fight.
I was reluctant to let him out and kept an eye on him like any protective father. But he always returned and never strayed too far. So the days went by and then one time he came in limping badly. His front paw was hurting. We all nursed him and waited on him. In a day or two he was back to normal. In the back of my mind I strated worrying about rabbies since he hadn't had his shots.
Then one night as we were in bed, Einer hopped up and began kneading our quilt. He doe this quite often. But when he added the pelvic thrusts, I knew something was awry.
I went to push him off, and he hissed and swiped at me. I threatened him with a time out, but he hardly broke his thrusts and his tail began moving in sharp little swipes. If I didn't do something quickly, we'd have an unspeakable mess on our quilt. So I tore the quilt off the bed. Einer was still attached. Only now he was angry. He growled and began to chase me!
I used the blanket as a shield. I just knew I was going to have to get rabbies shots. But once I threw Einer and the quilt into the laundry room and quarantined him in there, the fit passed and he became the big fat lover he usually is.
That was our first hint of his dark side.
We've had dogs over the years run up and hump a leg or two (in one horrifying instance a few sumemrs ago Joker actually lifted his leg and urinated on our neighbor's leg), but I've never seen a cat do that to any objects. Well, I guess we all have needs, right?
Meeting
Well, it's now 8:41 and I'm almost done with my meeting. The only thing is that I'm the only one having the meeting! Tweedle dumb must have forgotten. Or maybe he isn't here. The other two are gone today. Oh well, it's par for the course here.
It would have been more worthless "Well, tell me what you think" crap. Nothing would change but at least I could "have a dialog" as he loves to say. Only he would have said it as "have some, you know, uh, dialog. It's always good to, uh, have open lines of communications. I've always said that. You must have dialog. And you people do a great job of that. I'm blessed to work here. And as long as I'm here I'll have an open dialog with anyone. Oh yeah, fight for your programs." That's basically all he ever says.
I like him, but I have no respect for him. I even caught myself during my first American Lit class yesterday covering my face in shame when he was butchering the announcements over the PA. Listening to him is that difficult. Of course, the students saw this - they all know how painful it is to listen to him - maybe that's why the never do. So I took my hand off my face and just winced at each chop and hack of the English language. (That is still better than our assistant principal. Every time he opens his mouth and speaks with that goofy ass accent of his I hear that twangy "Dadalingding ding ding ding" banjo line from "Deliverance.") What must other legit administrators thing of this tomfoolery that passes for professionalism?
As one teacher here puts it - we're teaching on the Titanic.
Well, it's now 8:50 and my meeting is over. That was productive.
It would have been more worthless "Well, tell me what you think" crap. Nothing would change but at least I could "have a dialog" as he loves to say. Only he would have said it as "have some, you know, uh, dialog. It's always good to, uh, have open lines of communications. I've always said that. You must have dialog. And you people do a great job of that. I'm blessed to work here. And as long as I'm here I'll have an open dialog with anyone. Oh yeah, fight for your programs." That's basically all he ever says.
I like him, but I have no respect for him. I even caught myself during my first American Lit class yesterday covering my face in shame when he was butchering the announcements over the PA. Listening to him is that difficult. Of course, the students saw this - they all know how painful it is to listen to him - maybe that's why the never do. So I took my hand off my face and just winced at each chop and hack of the English language. (That is still better than our assistant principal. Every time he opens his mouth and speaks with that goofy ass accent of his I hear that twangy "Dadalingding ding ding ding" banjo line from "Deliverance.") What must other legit administrators thing of this tomfoolery that passes for professionalism?
As one teacher here puts it - we're teaching on the Titanic.
Well, it's now 8:50 and my meeting is over. That was productive.
Slice of Life
Here is a slice from my life.
This is Sylvan Lake, where we will be married in 84 days. That is Koko and her grandpa Ed posing. Once I saw this lake with the cliffs and rock formations, I knew it was perfect. The lodge and cabins are just out of range on the left side.
This is from two years ago. Kristie is painting the stairway and walls. I pulled up the shag carpeting on the stairway. I thought it'd take me an hour, but it turned into an all afternoon task. We painted the book case too. Then we bout a chaise lounge for the corner. It might be my favorite part of the living room. Kristie, of course, is the favorite part of my life.
This is from last Easter. We visited Ed and his wife, Lori, in Custer, SD. We stopped at a dinosaur musuem. Koko and Casey couldn't resist a chance to ham it up.
Here are our 'other' kids - Kozy and Joker (along with Koko. You can also see the chaise lounge and finished book case in the background). We were rooked into getting Kozy by my sister. We spent Labor Day at their house and we just happened to see this cute, tiny, shy puppy hiding under the steps. Kristie fell in love with it and we brought it home. That was the last we ever saw of the cute, tiny, shy puppy. On the very first night, we put her in bed with Koko. In the middle of the night I woke up to a scratching sound. I poked my head into Koko's room and saw the puppy gnawing on the wall. A few months later, she gnawed on our beautiful, century old wooden front door! A few months after that . . . well, it's easier for me to name the things she hasn't gnawed on in our house - us and the refridgerator. Joker, on the other paw, is a gem. Outside of his tendency to run away and scavenge, he is the best dog I've ever known. My dad loved him - and Joker loved Dad even more. We gave Joker to Dad when Mom passed away for company. And they both loved every minute of it. Dad cooked him steak and eggs every morning. Joker loyally followed my Dad's every move. We'd drive by in the summer and see Dad out in the north field on the 730 and Joker would be strolling just ahead.
This is Sylvan Lake, where we will be married in 84 days. That is Koko and her grandpa Ed posing. Once I saw this lake with the cliffs and rock formations, I knew it was perfect. The lodge and cabins are just out of range on the left side.
This is from two years ago. Kristie is painting the stairway and walls. I pulled up the shag carpeting on the stairway. I thought it'd take me an hour, but it turned into an all afternoon task. We painted the book case too. Then we bout a chaise lounge for the corner. It might be my favorite part of the living room. Kristie, of course, is the favorite part of my life.
This is from last Easter. We visited Ed and his wife, Lori, in Custer, SD. We stopped at a dinosaur musuem. Koko and Casey couldn't resist a chance to ham it up.
Here are our 'other' kids - Kozy and Joker (along with Koko. You can also see the chaise lounge and finished book case in the background). We were rooked into getting Kozy by my sister. We spent Labor Day at their house and we just happened to see this cute, tiny, shy puppy hiding under the steps. Kristie fell in love with it and we brought it home. That was the last we ever saw of the cute, tiny, shy puppy. On the very first night, we put her in bed with Koko. In the middle of the night I woke up to a scratching sound. I poked my head into Koko's room and saw the puppy gnawing on the wall. A few months later, she gnawed on our beautiful, century old wooden front door! A few months after that . . . well, it's easier for me to name the things she hasn't gnawed on in our house - us and the refridgerator. Joker, on the other paw, is a gem. Outside of his tendency to run away and scavenge, he is the best dog I've ever known. My dad loved him - and Joker loved Dad even more. We gave Joker to Dad when Mom passed away for company. And they both loved every minute of it. Dad cooked him steak and eggs every morning. Joker loyally followed my Dad's every move. We'd drive by in the summer and see Dad out in the north field on the 730 and Joker would be strolling just ahead.
Meeting
In eleven minuts I have my annual individual meeting with the top brass. Each spring they schedule time to meet with us. It used to be in the principal's office with the triangel of power - the principal, assistant principal, and counselor. But they must have figured that was a bit intimidating, so they switched it to our rooms.
I'll let you know how it goes.
I wish I could honestly speak my mind. But I don't have the balls for that. So I shouldn't complain about anything then around here, right? Well, there is some truth to that. But I have to vent or I'll go nuts. And this is the perfect place for it.
I'll let you know how it goes.
I wish I could honestly speak my mind. But I don't have the balls for that. So I shouldn't complain about anything then around here, right? Well, there is some truth to that. But I have to vent or I'll go nuts. And this is the perfect place for it.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Casey's birthday
Casey turns the big 16 today. Tonight he decided to eat at Paradiso in GF. We are going to get him a stereo for his truck (his grandfather gave him a mint 1996 Chevy Silverado). Casey wanted a $500 paint ball gun, but Kristie nixed that idea (rightfully so).
This morning I looked back at some pictures from when Kristie and I first started dating. He looks so little. It always shocks me how he changes right before my eyes, yet I don't notice it until I look back at some of his older pictures. I guess because the change is gradual, I don't notice it as much.
Next week he takes his driver's test. In all honesty, it wasn't that long ago that I was taking mine for my farm permit.
Now that is a change that didn't take place gradually.
This morning I looked back at some pictures from when Kristie and I first started dating. He looks so little. It always shocks me how he changes right before my eyes, yet I don't notice it until I look back at some of his older pictures. I guess because the change is gradual, I don't notice it as much.
Next week he takes his driver's test. In all honesty, it wasn't that long ago that I was taking mine for my farm permit.
Now that is a change that didn't take place gradually.
Qantas the Koala
This is me with my favorite stuffed animal, Qantas the Koala. He was named after the Australian airline. Their commercials used to feature a man with a koala bear. For whatever reason, I fell in love with koala bears. So Granny bought me one. I loved the damned thing so much (it went EVERYWHERE with me - or so I am told) that it literally fell apart. Then my mom bought me a replacement bear. But I didn't have the heart to get rid of old Qantas for the New and Improved Qantas so I kept them both.
The story behind this original Qantas, though, as narrated to me by my mother, follows the picture.
"Mom and I went to Super Value to pick up groceries for Easter dinner, which I would be preparing this year. It was Mom's first year in Fairview Manor. You would have been about three at this time. And, of course, she insisted on carrying you around the grocery store instead of placing you in the cart. She was trying to quiet you down since we had been over at Eckstein's and you saw a huge stuffed Koala bear. Of course, you wanted it, but it was too expensive. I think it was $15. So you threw a tantrum. Mom cradled you in her arms and sang you a song.
Myrtle was still adjusting to living in Fair View and relying on us for things. After all, her teacher's retirement wasn't extravagant and her rent at Fairview consumed most it. Still she was fiercely independent. She refused any help your father and I offered.
So I told Mom that I was going to cook a ham for Easter. She selected the largest one. Then, and I remember this clearly, she slung you over her shoulder, used all of her 98 pounds to lift the ham with her right arm and set it in the cart, all the while shooing me and my attempts to help her away with her left arm.
As I was picking up a few last things, I lost sight of you and Mom. When I turned toward the cash register, I saw her haggling with the poor young girl at the check out counter. It seems that Mom was trying to pay for the ham before I got to the check out. She knew full well I would not let her, especially with her fixed income. But the cashier didn't know what to charge her since the price tag was on the ham, which was in the cart, which I was pushing toward the check out.
Mom told me that she was paying for the ham.
Naturally, I refused.
We must have argued over who was going to pay for that ham for five minutes as the poor check out girl added up our bill and the Nelson boy bagged the groceries.
You should have seen Mom. Of course, I paid for the ham and she was absolutely livid. If it wasn't for you, I'm sure she would have stormed out and walked all the way back to her apartment.
Well, Easter Sunday came and I called and called and called, but Mom wouldn't answer. I sent your father over to her apartment while I cooked dinner, but she wouldn't come to the locked and bolted door.
That was the first Easter dinner without Mom.
Of course, she found a way to get us back. I don't know how she did it, because the stores were closed that day, but when Kevin went to let Trixie out the back porch, he yelled for us to come and see what was sitting on the steps.
There sat your koala bear. That bear is still in the attic somewhere."
The story behind this original Qantas, though, as narrated to me by my mother, follows the picture.
"Mom and I went to Super Value to pick up groceries for Easter dinner, which I would be preparing this year. It was Mom's first year in Fairview Manor. You would have been about three at this time. And, of course, she insisted on carrying you around the grocery store instead of placing you in the cart. She was trying to quiet you down since we had been over at Eckstein's and you saw a huge stuffed Koala bear. Of course, you wanted it, but it was too expensive. I think it was $15. So you threw a tantrum. Mom cradled you in her arms and sang you a song.
Myrtle was still adjusting to living in Fair View and relying on us for things. After all, her teacher's retirement wasn't extravagant and her rent at Fairview consumed most it. Still she was fiercely independent. She refused any help your father and I offered.
So I told Mom that I was going to cook a ham for Easter. She selected the largest one. Then, and I remember this clearly, she slung you over her shoulder, used all of her 98 pounds to lift the ham with her right arm and set it in the cart, all the while shooing me and my attempts to help her away with her left arm.
As I was picking up a few last things, I lost sight of you and Mom. When I turned toward the cash register, I saw her haggling with the poor young girl at the check out counter. It seems that Mom was trying to pay for the ham before I got to the check out. She knew full well I would not let her, especially with her fixed income. But the cashier didn't know what to charge her since the price tag was on the ham, which was in the cart, which I was pushing toward the check out.
Mom told me that she was paying for the ham.
Naturally, I refused.
We must have argued over who was going to pay for that ham for five minutes as the poor check out girl added up our bill and the Nelson boy bagged the groceries.
You should have seen Mom. Of course, I paid for the ham and she was absolutely livid. If it wasn't for you, I'm sure she would have stormed out and walked all the way back to her apartment.
Well, Easter Sunday came and I called and called and called, but Mom wouldn't answer. I sent your father over to her apartment while I cooked dinner, but she wouldn't come to the locked and bolted door.
That was the first Easter dinner without Mom.
Of course, she found a way to get us back. I don't know how she did it, because the stores were closed that day, but when Kevin went to let Trixie out the back porch, he yelled for us to come and see what was sitting on the steps.
There sat your koala bear. That bear is still in the attic somewhere."
Granny's classes
Here are some of the class pictures that Myrtle kept from when she taught at Knox elementary.
This is her final class. It's the only class picture in color. The date on back reads 1970.
And, of course, Myrtle with her favorite (and best) student!
This is her final class. It's the only class picture in color. The date on back reads 1970.
And, of course, Myrtle with her favorite (and best) student!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)