My College Comp students are taking tests on their first novels. These really are just used to motivate them to get their first novel read before the end of the quarter. There are two parts for each novel test. The first is a short answer test focusing on ten characters or places from each novel. The second is an all essay section focusing on plot, character, setting, theme, symbol, and literary theory.
One of my students just asked me, “What do you mean by ‘symbol’”?
Not good.
If I have to explain symbolism yet again – eight weeks into the quarter – that’s not a good sign.
*****
I finished burning the imovies for my Lit and Language 11 class. Impressive. Of course, some really worked on it and made it worth their time. Several others pissed their time away. But the truth is they would have pissed their time away regardless of the assignment.
What is interesting about the imovie assignment is how students get to put their own unique takes on the stories. But that is only half the battle. The other – and more difficult aspect – is layering in all of the shots with the audio and effects. That is quite a bit more time consuming.
It’s a lot like writing really.
You come up with an idea and plow into it (unless you’re like Koontz and write 20 drafts of one page until it’s perfect and then move on). Then comes the real work: revision. Getting the timing down. Fleshing out ideas. Developing scenes and images. Chucking sections. Developing voice. All the good stuff.
Now if I could just get the two ideas to connect in students’ heads, I’d rally be on to something.
But the truth is that this class frustrates the shit out of me. First, I have too damn many kids. I don’t know what’s going on, but when a fellow teacher has the same class with maybe – and that’s a big maybe – half the number of kids that I have in here – I don’t get it.
The frustrating thing is if I could move just four kids out of here, the class would really start kicking ass. But instead I have to spend a lot of time catering to the meat heads who could care less about school and only work half ass.
But that’s part of the job, right? But it doesn’t make it any easier.
But I guess I can get paid rather handsomely to basically babysit some meat heads.
*****
I am really going to miss my Composition 9 class. They were hard workers and engaging learners. Their writing still has a long way to go, which is making me a bit worried because the test is looming.
I feel safe saying that a majority will pass. But I know of two or three who will most likely fail. It all depends on the topic. If it is one they can wrap themselves around, I think just about anyone could pass. However, I have one student who failed his previous Comp class and is in real jeopardy of failing my class this time around. I have another who is an ESL student who just doesn’t know enough of the language to pass. The other two I’m thinking of could well pass, but again it depends on the topic.
I also have half a dozen students who likely will do exceptionally well. They have strong voices and can write for any topic. They use dialogue, their thoughts, and structure their essays so that the reader is interested right away.
Then I have another half dozen or so who are in the middle of the road. If they don’t take a liking to the topic, they could well fail. Likewise, if they don’t feel like editing and rush through, they could well fail.
That makes me nervous. If we had merit pay, it might keep me up at night.
Would it make me a better teacher? I don’t think so. I’d just be more paranoid. I don’t think that’s a good thing.
I love my students’ writing and listening to their voices and styles develop. I’d do that stuff for free.
******
The cell phone policy has come up quite a bit in discussions.
Mine is that I give a quiz every time I see one. But the kids have worked their way around that. They hide them well or use them out in the hallways when they go to the bathroom.
I’m not ready to throw my hands up in the air and proclaim “what can you do?” or cop out and say “It’s something society has to deal with.”
Maybe it’ll come to that, but I’m not ready to buy into that yet.
Sure, I’d to see one policy for all of us to follow. That’s because it would make life easier for me.
I know we have 643 (or close) students. That means we likely have 640 cell phones. Does that mean we can’t dictate when they’re used?
I don’t buy that.
I think we should do some research (maybe form a committee) to see how other schools handle this problem. I mean we do that for other things. Why not for this?
I’d rather have that than leave it up to individual teachers – and let’s face it, some don’t care about the phones, which makes it a pain in the ass for the rest of us – my policy works for me, but the fact that some teachers dance to the cell phones when they ring or that students can openly use them in the halls (I’m not saying banning them entirely is the issue) all make it difficult for me to enforce my policy. The fact is there isn’t always professionalism among the staff. Sad but true. Don’t leave it up to the teachers. In some cases, those are the LAST people you should leave devising policy to.
There’s no easy answer. But there could at least be an answer. But it would take some work.
Sign me up.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Tuesday morning
It happened again to me last night during a quick trip to the grocery store. I hopped in the Trailblazer and our Beatles CD began playing. Then I thought about introducing our child to our love of music.
Then I began thinking about playing with them the way my dad did with me at the Hugos in Crookston. He'd often grab a cantelop toss it up, hold out his large hand and let it cradle back into his open palm. He had the most natural hands for catching I'd ever seen. Then he'd look around to see where mom was. If she had her back turned or was over in another lane, he'd point for me to go deep and then he'd hurl the particular article of fruit to me. I never dropped one. Though I bet that had to do with Dad's judgement of distance and the weight of the specific fruit rather than my hand-eye coordination.
Other times, we'd just wrestle right in the lane. That was until Mom shot us the dirty eye.
Since I was on a mission for supper (spaghetti), I hefted the frozen garlic bread and wondered how far was too far for our child to catch (the store has dreadful fruit). Just practicing.
Then on the way home, I noted the large empty lot behind our house and next to the high school. Perfect spot for frisbees and 500.
********
Yesterday we were supposed to compile a quick list of how we use technology in our classrooms and email it to our Language Arts chairperson. I think this is going to get attached to the "What We Would Like Our Classrooms to Look Like in Terms of Technology in the Future" list we compile previously.
Of course, it's hogwash.
I found it ironic that this list was due the same day the superintendent met with teachers about taking 1 percent from our staff development funds to help the school districts budget problems.
We have to steal from staff development and yet we're supposed to dream up innovative ways to use technology in our classes? Gimme a break.
Until the state and government get serious about funding education -- and I hold out no hope for my career -- I'm just going to shut my door and try to make the best happen inside it while I'm blessed to have this job. And for the rest? It is what it is.
Then I began thinking about playing with them the way my dad did with me at the Hugos in Crookston. He'd often grab a cantelop toss it up, hold out his large hand and let it cradle back into his open palm. He had the most natural hands for catching I'd ever seen. Then he'd look around to see where mom was. If she had her back turned or was over in another lane, he'd point for me to go deep and then he'd hurl the particular article of fruit to me. I never dropped one. Though I bet that had to do with Dad's judgement of distance and the weight of the specific fruit rather than my hand-eye coordination.
Other times, we'd just wrestle right in the lane. That was until Mom shot us the dirty eye.
Since I was on a mission for supper (spaghetti), I hefted the frozen garlic bread and wondered how far was too far for our child to catch (the store has dreadful fruit). Just practicing.
Then on the way home, I noted the large empty lot behind our house and next to the high school. Perfect spot for frisbees and 500.
********
Yesterday we were supposed to compile a quick list of how we use technology in our classrooms and email it to our Language Arts chairperson. I think this is going to get attached to the "What We Would Like Our Classrooms to Look Like in Terms of Technology in the Future" list we compile previously.
Of course, it's hogwash.
I found it ironic that this list was due the same day the superintendent met with teachers about taking 1 percent from our staff development funds to help the school districts budget problems.
We have to steal from staff development and yet we're supposed to dream up innovative ways to use technology in our classes? Gimme a break.
Until the state and government get serious about funding education -- and I hold out no hope for my career -- I'm just going to shut my door and try to make the best happen inside it while I'm blessed to have this job. And for the rest? It is what it is.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Kind of ironic
I never noticed babies all that much. Now that we're expecting one, it seems like they're everywhere.
Just saw this piece on msn.
Worst baby names --
http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/23631411/?GT1=43001
Just saw this piece on msn.
Worst baby names --
http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/23631411/?GT1=43001
The big news. I mean BIG news
I guess there is no clever way to say this, though I’ve been trying to devise some way to phrase it so the full magnitude comes across. However, it is just one of those things that when simply stated, the importance is conveyed in the simple words themselves: Kristie and I are going to have a child.
I have always disliked the saying “We’re pregnant.” No we are not. Kristie is. She has to go through it all. I just have to be as supportive as possible.
The due date is Septmember 27.
But really it hasn’t sunk in yet. At first, I could hardly sleep. I kept thinking about all that my father did for me and I knew there was no way I could possibly live up to that. In fact, I started keeping a little journal of letters to Dad that I was writing – just to help fill him in on all that has been going on and questions I have that I wish he was here to answer. I put them on Kristie’s ipod that I gave her for Valentine’s Day. That has helped alleviate some of my fears.
But the world is forever changed now. As am I.
I find myself thinking “Would a father act like this?” or “How would Dad have handled this?” Let’s just say, I have a long way to go to get ready to be the man I need to be.
Then there are the times where I’ll just find myself near tears thinking about our child. I was telling Kristie a few weeks ago, “What happens they just come running and leap into my arms? What happens when they just jump in bed with us because they can’t sleep anymore? What will I do when they start crying?”
A few weeks ago, I was picking up some things from the printer in the English lab after school when I spotted a lone boy out on the Catholic school playground across the street. He was just twirling around and having a great time. I tried to picture when he was and who he was (he was using his imagination and I have no doubt that he was off somewhere in his mind. He was most certainly anywhere else on earth than right in that playground). Before I knew it, I had tears in my eyes.
I’m going to be a mess when this little baby finally arrives. I already can’t wait for Christmases, tricking and treating, going on the same paths and through the same woods my dad took me (we live roughly one block east and one block south from where I grew up), playing catch, teaching them how to ride a bike, buying toys, putting Legos together.
I told Kristie that I never need another birthday or Christmas gift ever again.
I have always disliked the saying “We’re pregnant.” No we are not. Kristie is. She has to go through it all. I just have to be as supportive as possible.
The due date is Septmember 27.
But really it hasn’t sunk in yet. At first, I could hardly sleep. I kept thinking about all that my father did for me and I knew there was no way I could possibly live up to that. In fact, I started keeping a little journal of letters to Dad that I was writing – just to help fill him in on all that has been going on and questions I have that I wish he was here to answer. I put them on Kristie’s ipod that I gave her for Valentine’s Day. That has helped alleviate some of my fears.
But the world is forever changed now. As am I.
I find myself thinking “Would a father act like this?” or “How would Dad have handled this?” Let’s just say, I have a long way to go to get ready to be the man I need to be.
Then there are the times where I’ll just find myself near tears thinking about our child. I was telling Kristie a few weeks ago, “What happens they just come running and leap into my arms? What happens when they just jump in bed with us because they can’t sleep anymore? What will I do when they start crying?”
A few weeks ago, I was picking up some things from the printer in the English lab after school when I spotted a lone boy out on the Catholic school playground across the street. He was just twirling around and having a great time. I tried to picture when he was and who he was (he was using his imagination and I have no doubt that he was off somewhere in his mind. He was most certainly anywhere else on earth than right in that playground). Before I knew it, I had tears in my eyes.
I’m going to be a mess when this little baby finally arrives. I already can’t wait for Christmases, tricking and treating, going on the same paths and through the same woods my dad took me (we live roughly one block east and one block south from where I grew up), playing catch, teaching them how to ride a bike, buying toys, putting Legos together.
I told Kristie that I never need another birthday or Christmas gift ever again.
What a week
Long time . . . no blog.
Where to start filling you in?
I missed three days this week from school so I spent much of my time doing what I despise: planning for a sub. What a week to have to miss too.
I was gone on Tuesday for a doctor’s visit. Then Wednesday and Thursday were devoted to my MNHS class.
Of course, on Wednesday the common prep topic that I have been clamoring for over two years now finally was to be discussed – and I had to miss it. For those of you who don’t know, common prep is something we have at school where teachers meet during their prep blocks for a presentation or a discussion. I’ve been clamoring for years to have teachers bring in their ‘best’ practices or lessons. I firmly believe we all do wonderfully inventive things in our classes, but we never get a chance to share or see what others do. I would MUCH rather learn something I can actually use in my classes than some of the other mindless junk we’ve been subjected to.
And of course, when this finally comes up, I have to miss it! Damn.
After the doctor’s visit on Tuesday, we had another one scheduled for Thursday, so I had to miss the MNHS class for that. Talk about a disjointed week. Two days of teaching, two doctor visits, and one day of the MNHS class.
I actually had to come in yesterday for my fourth block, despite having a sub, because we are starting our Edgar Allan Poe imovie project. Of course, the computers in our English lab do not have imovie, so I have to book the library’s lab (which has the latest flat screens from apple), but that is booked months in advance and I could only get it for three days (though I was able to get one extra day – thanks Mike!). That means rushing through it at lightning speed, which means their imovies suffer. But that extra day should help.
Today (Friday) order has been restored. My freshmen were glad to have me back. I’m literally having withdrawals from my College Comp class – what a class. Even my juniors seemed happy I was back. I just wish they weren’t such a mob to try and manage.
To top it off, we only have two weeks before the end of the quarter!
********
While waiting in the doctor’s office, I found an issue of Time devoted to No Child Left Behind. I have about 100 podcasts on my ipod devoted to this issue, so I thought it would be interesting to read another take on it.
While the article didn’t really offer anything new, it did give me an excellent quote that I’m adding to my email messages – “NCLB is like a Russian novel. It is long, complicated, and in the end, everyone is killed” – former superintendent of schools of Ohio (note the adjective ‘former’).
Amen.
*********
I’ve exhausted many of my podcasts. I usually listen to podcasts focusing on education on the way to work. Then on the way home I listen to classic horror tales, old time radio, or author interviews or podcasts. I just finished all of the Dean Koontz podcasts. I’m still waiting for the next Dan Carlin’s Hardcore History podcast. Luckily, I found Barnes and Nobles “Meet the Authors.”
The first one I listened to was an interview with Gary Paulson, who happens to be from the same town I teach in. He sounds incredibly fascinating. One of my favorite quotes he said was “Kids should read like wolves eat.” I like that. He also said, “Read when they tell you not to read and read what they tell you not to read.” And another great one – “Anyone over the age of 16 should stop hunting.” Gotta love that.
Paulson seems like the type of person who has a ton of stories stored up. I could just listen to him recount them all day. It’s easy to understand why his novels are beloved by so many young readers.
******
Where to start filling you in?
I missed three days this week from school so I spent much of my time doing what I despise: planning for a sub. What a week to have to miss too.
I was gone on Tuesday for a doctor’s visit. Then Wednesday and Thursday were devoted to my MNHS class.
Of course, on Wednesday the common prep topic that I have been clamoring for over two years now finally was to be discussed – and I had to miss it. For those of you who don’t know, common prep is something we have at school where teachers meet during their prep blocks for a presentation or a discussion. I’ve been clamoring for years to have teachers bring in their ‘best’ practices or lessons. I firmly believe we all do wonderfully inventive things in our classes, but we never get a chance to share or see what others do. I would MUCH rather learn something I can actually use in my classes than some of the other mindless junk we’ve been subjected to.
And of course, when this finally comes up, I have to miss it! Damn.
After the doctor’s visit on Tuesday, we had another one scheduled for Thursday, so I had to miss the MNHS class for that. Talk about a disjointed week. Two days of teaching, two doctor visits, and one day of the MNHS class.
I actually had to come in yesterday for my fourth block, despite having a sub, because we are starting our Edgar Allan Poe imovie project. Of course, the computers in our English lab do not have imovie, so I have to book the library’s lab (which has the latest flat screens from apple), but that is booked months in advance and I could only get it for three days (though I was able to get one extra day – thanks Mike!). That means rushing through it at lightning speed, which means their imovies suffer. But that extra day should help.
Today (Friday) order has been restored. My freshmen were glad to have me back. I’m literally having withdrawals from my College Comp class – what a class. Even my juniors seemed happy I was back. I just wish they weren’t such a mob to try and manage.
To top it off, we only have two weeks before the end of the quarter!
********
While waiting in the doctor’s office, I found an issue of Time devoted to No Child Left Behind. I have about 100 podcasts on my ipod devoted to this issue, so I thought it would be interesting to read another take on it.
While the article didn’t really offer anything new, it did give me an excellent quote that I’m adding to my email messages – “NCLB is like a Russian novel. It is long, complicated, and in the end, everyone is killed” – former superintendent of schools of Ohio (note the adjective ‘former’).
Amen.
*********
I’ve exhausted many of my podcasts. I usually listen to podcasts focusing on education on the way to work. Then on the way home I listen to classic horror tales, old time radio, or author interviews or podcasts. I just finished all of the Dean Koontz podcasts. I’m still waiting for the next Dan Carlin’s Hardcore History podcast. Luckily, I found Barnes and Nobles “Meet the Authors.”
The first one I listened to was an interview with Gary Paulson, who happens to be from the same town I teach in. He sounds incredibly fascinating. One of my favorite quotes he said was “Kids should read like wolves eat.” I like that. He also said, “Read when they tell you not to read and read what they tell you not to read.” And another great one – “Anyone over the age of 16 should stop hunting.” Gotta love that.
Paulson seems like the type of person who has a ton of stories stored up. I could just listen to him recount them all day. It’s easy to understand why his novels are beloved by so many young readers.
******
Thoughts for week #7
I’m enjoying my College Comp class like no other. They have really jelled as a class and have a personality all their own. From all our discussions and their writing, I have gotten to know them very well. This is useful when it comes to getting them fired up for discussions and to motivate them.
Actually, the class has split itself into three sections. On the left are the athletes. In the middle are the girls. On the right are the drama/math league kids. All are great and valuable. Part of me would like to see them mix better, but so far it works. I’m not so sure that instituting a group work project or seating chart would make things better.
Yesterday, we discussed their experience here as students. I prepped them for this by assigning an article and then listening to a podcast from itunesU (I think I blogged about this already). Then I had them write about how they would personally go about improving their school experience. Are they too focused on grades? Do they slack off too much? Are they not being challenged? Do they get too much busy work? How can classes be made more meaningful and enjoyable?
What responses rolled in!
They singled one thing out as the bane of their existence: boring lectures on ‘dead’ information.
So we discussed this. And I mean that.
We actually had an intelligent discussion where for the first time in a looooooong time, I felt like I wasn’t really the teacher. I was just up at the white board moderating and facilitating things.
“How can teacher make lecture more enjoyable?” I asked. I truly wanted to know.
“Inject humor.”
“Yeah, tell us some stories that go along with the information.”
“Don’t speak in a monotone voice!”
“Be passionate about what you’re talking about.”
“Then why don’t kids ever speak up?” I asked. “I sat through lecture upon lecture in college and never said a word. I just scrolled furiously. Then I took the notes home and studied them a few days before the test, remembered the facts, like ‘The four key elements in Napoleon’s rise to power were . . .’ and then I promptly forgot them after the test. How can teachers get that same type of information across to you, but in a more user friendly way.”
I was hoping to get them ready to make the leap from discussing what a teacher can do to make things better to what things a student can do to make things better for themselves (applying those abstract concepts to their personal lives so they become engaged in the learning).
But we were headed in a different direction that I didn’t expect.
“That’s right,” a student said almost slamming his fist on his desk. “Why do we have to learn such boring stuff? Why study history at all? Why do we need to know that stuff?”
Why do we need to know that stuff? Great. I wrote that up on the board.
Before I could say a word, though, other students jumped into the discussion to defend history.
“You need to know what’s happened in the past. It’s who we are and where we’ve been.”
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes you just have to learn boring stuff.”
“Maybe it’s just you who think it’s boring and worthless. What about those who like history.”
“You have to know your history!”
“I was just saying . . .," the student said, backtracking quickly.
“No,” I jumped in. “I agree with him.” Then 50 pairs of eyes peered at me. “Why do we need to know some of this ‘stuffy’ information? I could go on all day about the invasion of 1066 or adverb clauses, but how does that impact your lives right now or in the future?”
“There are just some things that are good to know,” others responded.
“Okay. We all agree, then, that there are some things we have to learn that might not be ‘fun’ – but – we just have to learn them – kind of like when our parents made us eat all of our vegetables as kids. It is just good for us, right?”
Universal agreement came in the form of nods.
“Then how can I, as a teacher, make the boring stuff more interesting?”
“Make it entertaining,” one student from the drama side called out.
“Yeah, don’t just go on and on and on,” one of the jocks said.
Then students added the names of various teachers they found particularly boring. I’m not sure the conversation was getting anywhere, but mentally I took note about what NOT to do anymore in class.
“There are just some things you have to learn,” a young man said.
“Some kids will learn it. Some won’t. It doesn’t matter what a teacher does. You can’t make up for motivation or lack of it,” another student added.
“But at least if a teacher makes the information interesting it’s better.”
“Yeah, and tell some jokes.”
“Get us arguing.”
“Okay,” I said. “How do I do that? I’d gladly spend every class period like this or like when we read our essays, but what happens when no one wants to discuss anything?”
“Turn us against each other,” a student added. He had been silent until now. He seemed pretty fired up about this. “Find out what are personal beliefs are and challenge them.”
“Aha!” I said. “What about if I hurt someone’s feelings?” I said and glanced over at a student who had me for Comp II last year. She was part of a discussion we had on abortion as part of our persuasive essay preparation. She was adamantly pro-choice. However, once the class (and I) realized she was so passionate about the issue and her stance toward it – to the point of not being able to see any other side other than her own – we all played devil’s advocate just to provoke her. At that point the discussion quickly unraveled into chaos. I swore I would never let that happen again.
“Don’t worry,” the student said, even smiling at the recollection of the argument that took place, though no mention was made of it in class. “We can take it. I mean how are you ever going to believe in something if your belief is never challenged?”
“So you guys aren’t as fragile as we like to think?”
“Are you crazy?” one of the drama kids said. “We can take it.”
Then, as if on cue, the bell sounded. And so ended one of the best classes I’ve ever had. I’m still trying to digest all that took place.
Actually, the class has split itself into three sections. On the left are the athletes. In the middle are the girls. On the right are the drama/math league kids. All are great and valuable. Part of me would like to see them mix better, but so far it works. I’m not so sure that instituting a group work project or seating chart would make things better.
Yesterday, we discussed their experience here as students. I prepped them for this by assigning an article and then listening to a podcast from itunesU (I think I blogged about this already). Then I had them write about how they would personally go about improving their school experience. Are they too focused on grades? Do they slack off too much? Are they not being challenged? Do they get too much busy work? How can classes be made more meaningful and enjoyable?
What responses rolled in!
They singled one thing out as the bane of their existence: boring lectures on ‘dead’ information.
So we discussed this. And I mean that.
We actually had an intelligent discussion where for the first time in a looooooong time, I felt like I wasn’t really the teacher. I was just up at the white board moderating and facilitating things.
“How can teacher make lecture more enjoyable?” I asked. I truly wanted to know.
“Inject humor.”
“Yeah, tell us some stories that go along with the information.”
“Don’t speak in a monotone voice!”
“Be passionate about what you’re talking about.”
“Then why don’t kids ever speak up?” I asked. “I sat through lecture upon lecture in college and never said a word. I just scrolled furiously. Then I took the notes home and studied them a few days before the test, remembered the facts, like ‘The four key elements in Napoleon’s rise to power were . . .’ and then I promptly forgot them after the test. How can teachers get that same type of information across to you, but in a more user friendly way.”
I was hoping to get them ready to make the leap from discussing what a teacher can do to make things better to what things a student can do to make things better for themselves (applying those abstract concepts to their personal lives so they become engaged in the learning).
But we were headed in a different direction that I didn’t expect.
“That’s right,” a student said almost slamming his fist on his desk. “Why do we have to learn such boring stuff? Why study history at all? Why do we need to know that stuff?”
Why do we need to know that stuff? Great. I wrote that up on the board.
Before I could say a word, though, other students jumped into the discussion to defend history.
“You need to know what’s happened in the past. It’s who we are and where we’ve been.”
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes you just have to learn boring stuff.”
“Maybe it’s just you who think it’s boring and worthless. What about those who like history.”
“You have to know your history!”
“I was just saying . . .," the student said, backtracking quickly.
“No,” I jumped in. “I agree with him.” Then 50 pairs of eyes peered at me. “Why do we need to know some of this ‘stuffy’ information? I could go on all day about the invasion of 1066 or adverb clauses, but how does that impact your lives right now or in the future?”
“There are just some things that are good to know,” others responded.
“Okay. We all agree, then, that there are some things we have to learn that might not be ‘fun’ – but – we just have to learn them – kind of like when our parents made us eat all of our vegetables as kids. It is just good for us, right?”
Universal agreement came in the form of nods.
“Then how can I, as a teacher, make the boring stuff more interesting?”
“Make it entertaining,” one student from the drama side called out.
“Yeah, don’t just go on and on and on,” one of the jocks said.
Then students added the names of various teachers they found particularly boring. I’m not sure the conversation was getting anywhere, but mentally I took note about what NOT to do anymore in class.
“There are just some things you have to learn,” a young man said.
“Some kids will learn it. Some won’t. It doesn’t matter what a teacher does. You can’t make up for motivation or lack of it,” another student added.
“But at least if a teacher makes the information interesting it’s better.”
“Yeah, and tell some jokes.”
“Get us arguing.”
“Okay,” I said. “How do I do that? I’d gladly spend every class period like this or like when we read our essays, but what happens when no one wants to discuss anything?”
“Turn us against each other,” a student added. He had been silent until now. He seemed pretty fired up about this. “Find out what are personal beliefs are and challenge them.”
“Aha!” I said. “What about if I hurt someone’s feelings?” I said and glanced over at a student who had me for Comp II last year. She was part of a discussion we had on abortion as part of our persuasive essay preparation. She was adamantly pro-choice. However, once the class (and I) realized she was so passionate about the issue and her stance toward it – to the point of not being able to see any other side other than her own – we all played devil’s advocate just to provoke her. At that point the discussion quickly unraveled into chaos. I swore I would never let that happen again.
“Don’t worry,” the student said, even smiling at the recollection of the argument that took place, though no mention was made of it in class. “We can take it. I mean how are you ever going to believe in something if your belief is never challenged?”
“So you guys aren’t as fragile as we like to think?”
“Are you crazy?” one of the drama kids said. “We can take it.”
Then, as if on cue, the bell sounded. And so ended one of the best classes I’ve ever had. I’m still trying to digest all that took place.
Some Pictures
Kristie has always bugged me to grow a beard. So for the past few months, I've worn one. I actually kind of liked it. I was saving a small fortune in razor blades. However, the scratchiness finally got to Kristie, and I shaved it.
KoKo, though, likes me better with it. I always planned to shave it in the spring anyway.
It made me feel more English teacherish. Kristie, well, she always looks good!
Gail's plant . . . well, her tree . . . is no more. Animals we can care for. Plants? They don't stand a chance in our home.
Hopefully, we have seen the last of this.
Finally, more of Einer doing his thang . . . Be warned - it's not pretty. KoKo's poor pillow and baby blanket! (That didn't stop me from taking pictures though)
KoKo, though, likes me better with it. I always planned to shave it in the spring anyway.
It made me feel more English teacherish. Kristie, well, she always looks good!
Gail's plant . . . well, her tree . . . is no more. Animals we can care for. Plants? They don't stand a chance in our home.
Hopefully, we have seen the last of this.
Finally, more of Einer doing his thang . . . Be warned - it's not pretty. KoKo's poor pillow and baby blanket! (That didn't stop me from taking pictures though)
Thursday, March 06, 2008
On . . . embarrassment
Since Kristie and KoKo have gotten me hooked on American Idol, we devoted our last two nights to watching it. The question for this week that the participants have to answer in order to reveal more about themselves to the public was “What is your most embarrassing moment?”
I used to use this as a prompt. I used it because people could come up with some good narratives. If they ever came up blank, I just said, “think of that one story your mom always tells when relatives are over” and that worked well. If all else failed, I advised them to write about someone else’s most embarrassing moment. And we all can do that.
One of my favorite “other person’s embarrassing moments” occurred while I was at BSU. I was walking to class one morning a few weeks before finals. It was one of those early May morning where you’re still getting used to early morning sun and the freedom of not having to grab a jacket. I was working my way up Birchmont toward Hagg-Sauer for my first class of the day when a student whizzed by me on her mountain bike.
I turned left to cut through the courtyard. Just as I turned I saw the biker approach a truck. It was one of those with those extravagant side mirrors on it that allowed you to see behind you from every possible angle.
It was then that I noted the girl’s backpack had a strap flailing in the breeze. It’s flapping enough that it could get caught . . . and then it did. It looped around one of the mirrors. However, her mountain bike kept going. She was yanked right off and dangled a moment before the small mirror attachment bet and then broke. She plopped flat on the ground. Her bike spilled itself onto the pavement in front of the graphic design building.
It would have been funnier had I not had the distinct feeling that it could easily have happened to me had I not been so lazy and carried my bike down from my dorm.
Now I am in no way exempt from making a fool of myself. I think one of my most embarrassing moments occurred in fifth grade music class.
We were singing a song from our songbooks (well, I was lipsyncing) when suddenly I had to sneeze. My eyes instinctively shut and my nose began to rise and that pressure built up in my nasal cavity. I was ready for a real humdinger of a sneeze. And it was almost there when suddenly – out of nowhere – I also belched (choir was after lunch). I was caught of guard and didn’t get my palm over my nose in time. The compound force caused me to expel a large amount of mucus into the songbook.
My eyes darted from side to side to see if anyone noticed. My classmates were all focused either on the teacher, seated behind the piano, or their songbooks.
I got away with it! This never happens! Whenever I screw up, there are always ten witnesses! Finally!
I shook my head in disbelief. Then I realized something was wrong. As I shook my head, I felt a tug at my nostrils and a wetness on my upper lip. My eyes then darted down.
Uh-oh.
Unfortunately, the snot wedged into the spine still had a greenish, yellow tendril reaching up toward my nose. It reminded me of one of those “Wall Walkers” I had gotten as part of a prize from my Frosted Flakes. It was a red octopus of incredibly adhesive plastic. I could throw it at any wall and watch it plop there for a second until gravity took over. Then it would begin to ‘walk’ down the wall as it’s body was tugged toward the floor and each tendril would snag the wall, pull free, snag the wall, pull free, and so on until it reached the floor.
Well, gravity wasn’t working too well for me. That was fixed by a quick swipe of my right hand. Just before I could pile the mucus into the songbook, kind of like putting a long necklace into a jewelry box where the chain just spills into a pile, and before I could snap it shut without anyone noticing, Lance, one of my best friends, who also happened to be sitting next to me, began having a seizure.
Or at least that is what I thought was going on.
He was flopping around on his brown folding chair until he seemed to slink right off of it. Then he was up on his feet, his arms flailing wildly, like he was a puppet being orchestrated by a drunk.
There was a divider that separated our music room from the media room. We had been seated right next to it. This was good since we were off to the right of the classroom. It appeared that only a handful of students had noticed Lance’s odd behavior.
Perfect, I thought, this is the perfect cover.
A few more students began to point and giggle as Lance frolicked in front of his chair.
By this time I had slammed my songbook shut. I was trying to nudge Lance’s songbook, which had spilled onto the floor in front of me when his seizure hit, with my foot. If I could just get it close enough, I could switch mine with his and all would be forgotten.
Our music teacher was still pounding away at the piano, oblivious that fewer and fewer kids were singing along.
Lance is a dead man.
But then he began to try to speak. “He . . .” “He . . .” “He . . . sneezed” “He . . . book . . . snot . . . sneeze” he choked out in between great mouthfuls of laughter.
Shit. I was busted. That little bastard had seen me. Worse yet, this was no seizure. It was his reaction to my half sneeze, half belch.
Damn it! Now everyone is going to want to know why he is laughing! I could feel my armpits begin to soil. Beads of sweat popped out across my forehead and across the nape of my neck.
Now nearly everyone had stopped singing. Even the teacher took not that something was amiss and let the notes hang in the air – far too briefly – before they died completely.
Leaving only Lance gasping for all he was worth “He . . sneezed . . . burped . . . snot . . . He . . . book . . . snot” all the while his arms flailed. Then I noticed that while everyone was pointing at him, he was pointing directly at me.
I tried to work that damn songbook of his over with my right sneaker but then Lance suddenly stepped on it in a fit of laughter – his face turning an alarming red – “Snot . . . sneeze . . . book . . .”
Get off that book you little shit.
It was no use. Every eye in the place was riveted on Lance. And since I was right next to him, they were on me too. I shot my foot back under my chair.
Right when it couldn’t get any worse, Lance’s seizure got the best of him and he lost his balance and fell against the patrician.
I couldn’t take anymore. I asked to go to the bathroom. I need not have bothered. The teacher was in shock to register my request. She just nodded her head and continued nodding, her eyes fixed on Lance against the patrician, still laughing and trying to speak in one full sentence.
Thank God he didn’t say my name.
I had to get out of there and headed to the bathroom. I splashed cold water in my face, hoping to wake up back in bed. No such luck. This was real.
Damage control, damage control.
I was formulating my plan as I was grabbing a paper towel when the bathroom door opened.
It was Lance.
Surprisingly, when he saw me, he didn’t launch himself into another seizure.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I puked and the teacher sent me here,” he said matter of factly. It all clicked for me then. Lance had a penchant for puking every time he laughed excessively hard. Since he was my next-door neighbor, I had witnessed this on several occasions. In this way, we shared a curse – he puked when he laughed hard and I tended to piss my pants. I guess this was one reason I was glad when winter rolled around in elementary school. I could always cover up any embarrassing spots with a tumble through a snow bank.
“Where’d you puke?”
“Right on that damn partitian.”
Then we both broke out into fits of near pants pissing laughter. Fortunately, it was in a completely safe environment. I was able to dash to a urinal and work my zipper down quickly enough to let out a steady stream that matched my laughter. Lance too scrambled to a sink and began to dry heave in between fits of giggles. We both must have realized how lucky we were to be in the bathroom when this fit broke out – kind of like getting sick while you were in the hospital visiting your grandmother or something. This realization made it all the more hilarious and it was a good ten minutes before we could compose ourselves enough to head back to the hallway.
“That was the biggest loogie I have ever seen!” Lance said, still red in the face as we headed back to class, which, mercifully, was almost over.
The class was in the middle of another song, but as soon as we walked in, at least half of the class stopped singing and began talking and pointing. I couldn’t tell if they were pointing at Lance or me.
Let it be Lance, Let it be Lance, Let it be Lance, Let it be Lance I thought as we headed back to our seats. I may even have attempted to nod my head toward Lance, indicating his guilt over mine.
My book was still shut. It rested right where I had left it under my chair. Lance’s was still face down on the floor. The janitor had made quick work of the puke stain, having sprinkled some of that kitty litter like substance all over it.
I hesitated to open my book and just looked on with Lance until the song was over. Then we filed out and set our books on the shelf as we shuffled out.
Please let it dry, please let it dry, please let her throw it away, please let it dry, please let her not notice, please let it dry, please let it dry . . . I thought.
Of course, that was countered with It’s going to be all crusty, it’s going to be all crusty, she won’t throw it away since we just got new books, it’s going to be all green and yellow, it’s going to be all crusty and green and yellow, of course she is going to notice, then she ‘s going to wonder what happened, then there’s going to be that big blotchy green and yellow spot, you’re a dead man, you’re a dead man, everyone’s going to find out, way to go snot-boy!
Thank God, we had choir every other day. Better yet, this had happened on a Thursday and with no choir on Friday, we had the entire weekend to forget about it.
Of course, when Monday rolled around I had forgotten all about it until I walked in the room and we began grabbing books off the shelf.
Who’s going to get the tarnished one? I hope I get it. At least no one will know then. Or maybe we won’t have to sing that song today. How many damn songs are in this book? Up until then there seemed like there were far too many songs. Then as I looked at the book I grabbed as I headed for my seat, I realized that the books were just too damn thin. What’s there like four songs in here?
Lance and I sat down. The sweat beneath my armpits began to spread as I tried to clamp them shut. The beads broke out on my forehead and neck again.
I did my best not to look at the book while Lance looked at the partician and giggled. Then he said loudly (or at least that’s how it resonated in my ears) but more likely under his breath, “Damn biggest loogie of the fifth grade” and an absolute devilish sneer forked across his face.
I shook my head, about to say some smart-ass remark about the puke stain on the partition. But I noticed everyone rifling through their books. They didn’t appear intent on just turning to the first song of the day, whose page number was written up on the board. They were paging through as if in search of something.
Oh shit. This ain’t good. Even at 10, I knew this was not good. Not good at all.
“I got it!” Dale called from the row behind us. Then he passed the book, which lay open, down the row. I watched as it went from hand to hand and gaze to gaze until it reached me. There on good old page 29, right in the bottom of the page, directly in the book’s spine was a dark stain.
Apparently, the teacher knew exactly what had happened. Instead of saving a rather portly kid’s life (as if he needed anything else to be teased about – the pants peeing, the arm pit sweat, his new glasses, buck teeth, and his fat inner tube sized gut were not enough), she decided to save her damn songbook by simply scraping out the unspeakable mess I had left in it.
For the rest of the year, every choir session began the same way: Everyone riffled through their damn books. After a few unbearable seconds, the phrase “I got it.” Then the book being passed down open faced until it reached me.
No one even remembered the puke stain on the partition. But oh did they remember page 29.
I used to use this as a prompt. I used it because people could come up with some good narratives. If they ever came up blank, I just said, “think of that one story your mom always tells when relatives are over” and that worked well. If all else failed, I advised them to write about someone else’s most embarrassing moment. And we all can do that.
One of my favorite “other person’s embarrassing moments” occurred while I was at BSU. I was walking to class one morning a few weeks before finals. It was one of those early May morning where you’re still getting used to early morning sun and the freedom of not having to grab a jacket. I was working my way up Birchmont toward Hagg-Sauer for my first class of the day when a student whizzed by me on her mountain bike.
I turned left to cut through the courtyard. Just as I turned I saw the biker approach a truck. It was one of those with those extravagant side mirrors on it that allowed you to see behind you from every possible angle.
It was then that I noted the girl’s backpack had a strap flailing in the breeze. It’s flapping enough that it could get caught . . . and then it did. It looped around one of the mirrors. However, her mountain bike kept going. She was yanked right off and dangled a moment before the small mirror attachment bet and then broke. She plopped flat on the ground. Her bike spilled itself onto the pavement in front of the graphic design building.
It would have been funnier had I not had the distinct feeling that it could easily have happened to me had I not been so lazy and carried my bike down from my dorm.
Now I am in no way exempt from making a fool of myself. I think one of my most embarrassing moments occurred in fifth grade music class.
We were singing a song from our songbooks (well, I was lipsyncing) when suddenly I had to sneeze. My eyes instinctively shut and my nose began to rise and that pressure built up in my nasal cavity. I was ready for a real humdinger of a sneeze. And it was almost there when suddenly – out of nowhere – I also belched (choir was after lunch). I was caught of guard and didn’t get my palm over my nose in time. The compound force caused me to expel a large amount of mucus into the songbook.
My eyes darted from side to side to see if anyone noticed. My classmates were all focused either on the teacher, seated behind the piano, or their songbooks.
I got away with it! This never happens! Whenever I screw up, there are always ten witnesses! Finally!
I shook my head in disbelief. Then I realized something was wrong. As I shook my head, I felt a tug at my nostrils and a wetness on my upper lip. My eyes then darted down.
Uh-oh.
Unfortunately, the snot wedged into the spine still had a greenish, yellow tendril reaching up toward my nose. It reminded me of one of those “Wall Walkers” I had gotten as part of a prize from my Frosted Flakes. It was a red octopus of incredibly adhesive plastic. I could throw it at any wall and watch it plop there for a second until gravity took over. Then it would begin to ‘walk’ down the wall as it’s body was tugged toward the floor and each tendril would snag the wall, pull free, snag the wall, pull free, and so on until it reached the floor.
Well, gravity wasn’t working too well for me. That was fixed by a quick swipe of my right hand. Just before I could pile the mucus into the songbook, kind of like putting a long necklace into a jewelry box where the chain just spills into a pile, and before I could snap it shut without anyone noticing, Lance, one of my best friends, who also happened to be sitting next to me, began having a seizure.
Or at least that is what I thought was going on.
He was flopping around on his brown folding chair until he seemed to slink right off of it. Then he was up on his feet, his arms flailing wildly, like he was a puppet being orchestrated by a drunk.
There was a divider that separated our music room from the media room. We had been seated right next to it. This was good since we were off to the right of the classroom. It appeared that only a handful of students had noticed Lance’s odd behavior.
Perfect, I thought, this is the perfect cover.
A few more students began to point and giggle as Lance frolicked in front of his chair.
By this time I had slammed my songbook shut. I was trying to nudge Lance’s songbook, which had spilled onto the floor in front of me when his seizure hit, with my foot. If I could just get it close enough, I could switch mine with his and all would be forgotten.
Our music teacher was still pounding away at the piano, oblivious that fewer and fewer kids were singing along.
Lance is a dead man.
But then he began to try to speak. “He . . .” “He . . .” “He . . . sneezed” “He . . . book . . . snot . . . sneeze” he choked out in between great mouthfuls of laughter.
Shit. I was busted. That little bastard had seen me. Worse yet, this was no seizure. It was his reaction to my half sneeze, half belch.
Damn it! Now everyone is going to want to know why he is laughing! I could feel my armpits begin to soil. Beads of sweat popped out across my forehead and across the nape of my neck.
Now nearly everyone had stopped singing. Even the teacher took not that something was amiss and let the notes hang in the air – far too briefly – before they died completely.
Leaving only Lance gasping for all he was worth “He . . sneezed . . . burped . . . snot . . . He . . . book . . . snot” all the while his arms flailed. Then I noticed that while everyone was pointing at him, he was pointing directly at me.
I tried to work that damn songbook of his over with my right sneaker but then Lance suddenly stepped on it in a fit of laughter – his face turning an alarming red – “Snot . . . sneeze . . . book . . .”
Get off that book you little shit.
It was no use. Every eye in the place was riveted on Lance. And since I was right next to him, they were on me too. I shot my foot back under my chair.
Right when it couldn’t get any worse, Lance’s seizure got the best of him and he lost his balance and fell against the patrician.
I couldn’t take anymore. I asked to go to the bathroom. I need not have bothered. The teacher was in shock to register my request. She just nodded her head and continued nodding, her eyes fixed on Lance against the patrician, still laughing and trying to speak in one full sentence.
Thank God he didn’t say my name.
I had to get out of there and headed to the bathroom. I splashed cold water in my face, hoping to wake up back in bed. No such luck. This was real.
Damage control, damage control.
I was formulating my plan as I was grabbing a paper towel when the bathroom door opened.
It was Lance.
Surprisingly, when he saw me, he didn’t launch himself into another seizure.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I puked and the teacher sent me here,” he said matter of factly. It all clicked for me then. Lance had a penchant for puking every time he laughed excessively hard. Since he was my next-door neighbor, I had witnessed this on several occasions. In this way, we shared a curse – he puked when he laughed hard and I tended to piss my pants. I guess this was one reason I was glad when winter rolled around in elementary school. I could always cover up any embarrassing spots with a tumble through a snow bank.
“Where’d you puke?”
“Right on that damn partitian.”
Then we both broke out into fits of near pants pissing laughter. Fortunately, it was in a completely safe environment. I was able to dash to a urinal and work my zipper down quickly enough to let out a steady stream that matched my laughter. Lance too scrambled to a sink and began to dry heave in between fits of giggles. We both must have realized how lucky we were to be in the bathroom when this fit broke out – kind of like getting sick while you were in the hospital visiting your grandmother or something. This realization made it all the more hilarious and it was a good ten minutes before we could compose ourselves enough to head back to the hallway.
“That was the biggest loogie I have ever seen!” Lance said, still red in the face as we headed back to class, which, mercifully, was almost over.
The class was in the middle of another song, but as soon as we walked in, at least half of the class stopped singing and began talking and pointing. I couldn’t tell if they were pointing at Lance or me.
Let it be Lance, Let it be Lance, Let it be Lance, Let it be Lance I thought as we headed back to our seats. I may even have attempted to nod my head toward Lance, indicating his guilt over mine.
My book was still shut. It rested right where I had left it under my chair. Lance’s was still face down on the floor. The janitor had made quick work of the puke stain, having sprinkled some of that kitty litter like substance all over it.
I hesitated to open my book and just looked on with Lance until the song was over. Then we filed out and set our books on the shelf as we shuffled out.
Please let it dry, please let it dry, please let her throw it away, please let it dry, please let her not notice, please let it dry, please let it dry . . . I thought.
Of course, that was countered with It’s going to be all crusty, it’s going to be all crusty, she won’t throw it away since we just got new books, it’s going to be all green and yellow, it’s going to be all crusty and green and yellow, of course she is going to notice, then she ‘s going to wonder what happened, then there’s going to be that big blotchy green and yellow spot, you’re a dead man, you’re a dead man, everyone’s going to find out, way to go snot-boy!
Thank God, we had choir every other day. Better yet, this had happened on a Thursday and with no choir on Friday, we had the entire weekend to forget about it.
Of course, when Monday rolled around I had forgotten all about it until I walked in the room and we began grabbing books off the shelf.
Who’s going to get the tarnished one? I hope I get it. At least no one will know then. Or maybe we won’t have to sing that song today. How many damn songs are in this book? Up until then there seemed like there were far too many songs. Then as I looked at the book I grabbed as I headed for my seat, I realized that the books were just too damn thin. What’s there like four songs in here?
Lance and I sat down. The sweat beneath my armpits began to spread as I tried to clamp them shut. The beads broke out on my forehead and neck again.
I did my best not to look at the book while Lance looked at the partician and giggled. Then he said loudly (or at least that’s how it resonated in my ears) but more likely under his breath, “Damn biggest loogie of the fifth grade” and an absolute devilish sneer forked across his face.
I shook my head, about to say some smart-ass remark about the puke stain on the partition. But I noticed everyone rifling through their books. They didn’t appear intent on just turning to the first song of the day, whose page number was written up on the board. They were paging through as if in search of something.
Oh shit. This ain’t good. Even at 10, I knew this was not good. Not good at all.
“I got it!” Dale called from the row behind us. Then he passed the book, which lay open, down the row. I watched as it went from hand to hand and gaze to gaze until it reached me. There on good old page 29, right in the bottom of the page, directly in the book’s spine was a dark stain.
Apparently, the teacher knew exactly what had happened. Instead of saving a rather portly kid’s life (as if he needed anything else to be teased about – the pants peeing, the arm pit sweat, his new glasses, buck teeth, and his fat inner tube sized gut were not enough), she decided to save her damn songbook by simply scraping out the unspeakable mess I had left in it.
For the rest of the year, every choir session began the same way: Everyone riffled through their damn books. After a few unbearable seconds, the phrase “I got it.” Then the book being passed down open faced until it reached me.
No one even remembered the puke stain on the partition. But oh did they remember page 29.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
On . . . writing
I’ve been thinking a lot about writing lately. I don’t know why.
It could be that I’m having such a great time with both of my Composition classes (freshman and college comp). Each class is at radically different points in terms of skill, but in both cases the writing is deeply rewarding to read. I’ve spent the first several weeks heaping my praise and advice on their drafts. This week, I’ve ceased scrutinizing each draft. I just turned them loose to take the skills and ideas we’ve focused on for so long and customize them to their styles and voices.
It could have something to do with the podcasts I’ve been treating myself to on the way home: Dean Koontz on writing. I don’t think anyone will ever confuse Koontz with Hemingway or Updike, but he has some very interesting things to say about writing. Outside of Stephen King (and JK Rowling), Koontz has sold more books than anyone. In this way, I’m in the role of my students – trying to absorb techniques and ideas from someone who knows a lot more about the craft than I.
It could also be that I’ve been thinking a lot about the craft of writing in what I’ve been reading lately (The Dante Club, You Come When I Call You (cheesy horror), and now It). While reading these, not only am I captured by the stories, but also captured by the style and structure of eat. How did he come up with this idea? Why did he settle on this point of view? How did he balance all of the different characters?
And in some moments, I’m just in awe of writing. At all levels.
That’s not a bad position to be in.
I have one freshman writer who is an ESL student. He struggles mightily with the language. He turns some teachers off with his brash personality and his desire to be the center of attention. But for some reason, we click.
A few weeks ago I was visiting with the Stacy, who cuts my hair. Her husband coaches youth hockey. We talked about the importance of giving everyone a chance since they are so young and have not had a chance to fully develop yet. She related her husband’s frustration with a young coach who focuses all of his attention on the gifted players. Stacy’s husband was frustrated and told her, “You know, anyone can coach the good players. It takes someone who is talented to get the most of out below average players.” From that moment on her husband made a commitment to one of the poorer players on the team. Of course, the boy was one of the players the young coach had already relegated to the scrap heap. Stacy’s husband vowed to turn the kid into a hockey player, if for nothing else than to piss off all the others who gave up on him.
I have taken this same approach with my ESL writer. It might be different if we didn’t hit it off so well. This writer, though, really has an interest in language. You should see how much time he puts into simply crafting a paragraph. Really, he puts more effort into those fifty or so words than many other writers put into an entire essay. I admire that. He asks genuine questions about the nuts and bolts of writing, verb tenses, pronoun usage, and phrasing. Then when he gets it and it clicks in his head, his entire face lights up, he giggles, and hops in his chair.
I also know that I could never do what he is trying to do. There is no way I could ever master a second language well enough to read it, let alone write relatively fluently in it. This is something I remind of him often.
I am going to make this kid into a writer. Each day I spend 10-15 minutes poring over his writing, tweaking and explaining. But it’s worth it.
In all likelihood, he won’t pass the MN writing BST, but he is becoming a better writer, whether the test shows it or not.
I’m trying something I’ve never ever done before with several of my freshman – several submitted essays contained glimpses of what they could be. To help these writers, I took an image, a line, or a piece of dialogue and typed it up on my computer. Then I built it up with strong details, description, dialog, and zest. After that I typed up a little note to the writers explaining what I modeled for them and how to apply that little snippet to the entire essay. We’ll see if that paid off in their second batch of essays.
Certainly, the writers in my College Comp class are light years ahead of my freshman, but they still have a lot of work to do. One writer I’m working with right now turned in a rough draft about an incident in which his drunken father and uncle had him swim across a river as part of family rite of passage. The draft was absolutely ripe with potential. However, it was just a skeleton. I advised him to put some muscle, flesh, and blood into it.
When it came time for the final draft, it just wasn’t developed enough. He fixed some of the convention errors, but he never really fleshed it out, so it was still just a skeleton. It did contain two of the best sentences I’ve read all year – and I noted this – but it was not enough to carry the paper to a good grade.
On a positive note, though, late today this writer came in and informed me that he has been busy working on this piece, even though he cannot resubmit it. He is just doing it to do justice to the experience he wrote about. That is what real writers do.
With all of this great writing going on, I feel like I need to try to get some done. It’s been quite awhile since I’ve really worked on anything substantial. But I have a few ideas kicking around, well, really percolating, in my mind for some time now.
When Will Weaver visited the RRVWP last summer, he said something very interesting. He said that sometimes you have to find the right time not to simply write but to let the piece come out. That is, you can start too early on a piece and it can come out too premature and undeveloped. Likewise, you could begin a piece too late and just end up sucking vapors as it’s passed you by.
I think I have a couple of ideas that need to come out. Soon.
I just need to find time – and a way – to get them out.
This brings me back to Koontz. In one podcast, he was answering some common reader questions. One focused on how he writes. What Koontz said, blew me away. Koontz acknowledged that he doesn’t do outlines nor traditional rough drafts. He writes on page at a time. Well, really he writes the first page over and over and over until he is happy with it. Then he moves on to the second page and repeats the process over. This way each page goes through – by his count – some 20-30 drafts.
Now this shocked me because that was exactly how I wrote as an undergraduate. I cannot begin to tell you how many hours were spent holed up in AC Clark library crafting a paper paragraph by paragraph. This worked very well for me, but it made writing very, very difficult. Nothing was spontaneous. Nothing needed to be revised because each paragraph was put through 10-20 drafts. The first sentence was the first thing I wrote and the concluding sentence was the final. Everything else was done in sequential order.
Then in graduate school I was swept up in writing as a process approach. I also discovered Peter Elbow and his ‘free writing’ approach. And it saved me. Rather it freed me. I became more comfortable with the writing process and new that I could always go back and revise.
It also freed me because I realized that for some things (such as this blog entry) I knew that I didn’t have to polish each sentence until it was perfect.
Maybe that was the overall point. For some things that excessive revision is a good thing. For others, a quick first draft is fine.
The more, though, I think about Koontz’s methodical approach to writing, I start thinking about revisiting that approach for the new pieces I have in mind.
I’ll keep you posted.
It could be that I’m having such a great time with both of my Composition classes (freshman and college comp). Each class is at radically different points in terms of skill, but in both cases the writing is deeply rewarding to read. I’ve spent the first several weeks heaping my praise and advice on their drafts. This week, I’ve ceased scrutinizing each draft. I just turned them loose to take the skills and ideas we’ve focused on for so long and customize them to their styles and voices.
It could have something to do with the podcasts I’ve been treating myself to on the way home: Dean Koontz on writing. I don’t think anyone will ever confuse Koontz with Hemingway or Updike, but he has some very interesting things to say about writing. Outside of Stephen King (and JK Rowling), Koontz has sold more books than anyone. In this way, I’m in the role of my students – trying to absorb techniques and ideas from someone who knows a lot more about the craft than I.
It could also be that I’ve been thinking a lot about the craft of writing in what I’ve been reading lately (The Dante Club, You Come When I Call You (cheesy horror), and now It). While reading these, not only am I captured by the stories, but also captured by the style and structure of eat. How did he come up with this idea? Why did he settle on this point of view? How did he balance all of the different characters?
And in some moments, I’m just in awe of writing. At all levels.
That’s not a bad position to be in.
I have one freshman writer who is an ESL student. He struggles mightily with the language. He turns some teachers off with his brash personality and his desire to be the center of attention. But for some reason, we click.
A few weeks ago I was visiting with the Stacy, who cuts my hair. Her husband coaches youth hockey. We talked about the importance of giving everyone a chance since they are so young and have not had a chance to fully develop yet. She related her husband’s frustration with a young coach who focuses all of his attention on the gifted players. Stacy’s husband was frustrated and told her, “You know, anyone can coach the good players. It takes someone who is talented to get the most of out below average players.” From that moment on her husband made a commitment to one of the poorer players on the team. Of course, the boy was one of the players the young coach had already relegated to the scrap heap. Stacy’s husband vowed to turn the kid into a hockey player, if for nothing else than to piss off all the others who gave up on him.
I have taken this same approach with my ESL writer. It might be different if we didn’t hit it off so well. This writer, though, really has an interest in language. You should see how much time he puts into simply crafting a paragraph. Really, he puts more effort into those fifty or so words than many other writers put into an entire essay. I admire that. He asks genuine questions about the nuts and bolts of writing, verb tenses, pronoun usage, and phrasing. Then when he gets it and it clicks in his head, his entire face lights up, he giggles, and hops in his chair.
I also know that I could never do what he is trying to do. There is no way I could ever master a second language well enough to read it, let alone write relatively fluently in it. This is something I remind of him often.
I am going to make this kid into a writer. Each day I spend 10-15 minutes poring over his writing, tweaking and explaining. But it’s worth it.
In all likelihood, he won’t pass the MN writing BST, but he is becoming a better writer, whether the test shows it or not.
I’m trying something I’ve never ever done before with several of my freshman – several submitted essays contained glimpses of what they could be. To help these writers, I took an image, a line, or a piece of dialogue and typed it up on my computer. Then I built it up with strong details, description, dialog, and zest. After that I typed up a little note to the writers explaining what I modeled for them and how to apply that little snippet to the entire essay. We’ll see if that paid off in their second batch of essays.
Certainly, the writers in my College Comp class are light years ahead of my freshman, but they still have a lot of work to do. One writer I’m working with right now turned in a rough draft about an incident in which his drunken father and uncle had him swim across a river as part of family rite of passage. The draft was absolutely ripe with potential. However, it was just a skeleton. I advised him to put some muscle, flesh, and blood into it.
When it came time for the final draft, it just wasn’t developed enough. He fixed some of the convention errors, but he never really fleshed it out, so it was still just a skeleton. It did contain two of the best sentences I’ve read all year – and I noted this – but it was not enough to carry the paper to a good grade.
On a positive note, though, late today this writer came in and informed me that he has been busy working on this piece, even though he cannot resubmit it. He is just doing it to do justice to the experience he wrote about. That is what real writers do.
With all of this great writing going on, I feel like I need to try to get some done. It’s been quite awhile since I’ve really worked on anything substantial. But I have a few ideas kicking around, well, really percolating, in my mind for some time now.
When Will Weaver visited the RRVWP last summer, he said something very interesting. He said that sometimes you have to find the right time not to simply write but to let the piece come out. That is, you can start too early on a piece and it can come out too premature and undeveloped. Likewise, you could begin a piece too late and just end up sucking vapors as it’s passed you by.
I think I have a couple of ideas that need to come out. Soon.
I just need to find time – and a way – to get them out.
This brings me back to Koontz. In one podcast, he was answering some common reader questions. One focused on how he writes. What Koontz said, blew me away. Koontz acknowledged that he doesn’t do outlines nor traditional rough drafts. He writes on page at a time. Well, really he writes the first page over and over and over until he is happy with it. Then he moves on to the second page and repeats the process over. This way each page goes through – by his count – some 20-30 drafts.
Now this shocked me because that was exactly how I wrote as an undergraduate. I cannot begin to tell you how many hours were spent holed up in AC Clark library crafting a paper paragraph by paragraph. This worked very well for me, but it made writing very, very difficult. Nothing was spontaneous. Nothing needed to be revised because each paragraph was put through 10-20 drafts. The first sentence was the first thing I wrote and the concluding sentence was the final. Everything else was done in sequential order.
Then in graduate school I was swept up in writing as a process approach. I also discovered Peter Elbow and his ‘free writing’ approach. And it saved me. Rather it freed me. I became more comfortable with the writing process and new that I could always go back and revise.
It also freed me because I realized that for some things (such as this blog entry) I knew that I didn’t have to polish each sentence until it was perfect.
Maybe that was the overall point. For some things that excessive revision is a good thing. For others, a quick first draft is fine.
The more, though, I think about Koontz’s methodical approach to writing, I start thinking about revisiting that approach for the new pieces I have in mind.
I’ll keep you posted.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Monday
My College Comp class rocks. Today we had an excellent discussion. I wanted to start getting them thinking about essay #3, a how to essay. I wanted them to focus this on their lives and interests. So I decided to stick with what I’ve done in the past and have them read an article that hits close to home for them, “How to Move Schools out of the 20th Century” from Time last year. (To show you how well I timed it – and, trust me, I’m the most random-abstract person on earth, so it was genuinely luck – I found a copy of the article that I had printed off last year from our library’s database. In the upper right hand corner was the date I printed it off – February 28 2007! Almost one year to the day! How is that for sticking to a rigid syllabus? I was so proud. Of course, it is all luck. I could not teach the same course the same way if I tired. Which makes the coincidence all that more incredible!).
First I had the class jot down some ways they would improve school right now if they could. Then we clustered these on the board. And what a list! Many dealt with the horrible food and lack of commons area. Finally, they began to hit on some real issues (not that food and environment are not big issues) like improved teachers and technology, having longer breaks, beginning school earlier and getting out sooner, having more hands on classes . . .
My own list reflects what I’ve been listening to on my podcasts lately – laptops and ipods for all students (countryscribe would vehemently disagree with me having taught at UMC where they have had student issued laptops for quite awhile now), more team teaching opportunities, doing away with grades, and internship programs.
We had a real discussion about our topics. And it was great. I was amazed at how they got into it.
Then I asked them to choose one topic to focus on in greater detail, a topic that if we changed or improved right now it would have the biggest impact on their school and future. Of course, several of the boys pushed for school food, which was a worthy issue, but we’ll save that for the persuasive essay. I was secretly pulling for the students to select technology, but no such luck.
They decided to talk about teachers.
Then I had them write down characteristics that they thought a good teacher should have. Then we clustered again. This time our discussion was even better. I could hardly keep up with their comments and ideas as I tried to put them on the white board.
The funny thing is they hit the nail right on the head as far as what I feel makes a good teacher (or a bad one) – of course, maybe they were giving me what I wanted to hear, but I don’t think this was the case.
Some things they look for in a good teacher – a variety of activities, trust, respect, humor (I was surprised at how many had put that one down), knowledge, ability to relate the subject matter to their lives, ability to use technology, not making them feel stupid, allows for discussion rather than lecture (I sure used that one against them whenever the discussion began to lag – and it worked. I have to remember that one), teachers who enjoyed what they do.
It was a damn fine way to spend an hour.
Oh yeah, then four students shared their essays. They were excellent. My personal favorite was a pet peeve essay by a young man who works out at Kmart. His pet peeve? Little old ladies who try to pay in the nickels they have horded and who try to use every coupon imaginable (whether they apply to their purchase or not), and argue every little charge. It was brilliant. His frustration oozed off the page.
Now, why can’t they all be like that class? Not once did I have to worry about kids spraying each other with cologne. (Second note to self – NEVER give away cologne for a super duper prize. I seem to remember making this claim years ago. But then I relented and it went fine for a few years, but now this!)
First I had the class jot down some ways they would improve school right now if they could. Then we clustered these on the board. And what a list! Many dealt with the horrible food and lack of commons area. Finally, they began to hit on some real issues (not that food and environment are not big issues) like improved teachers and technology, having longer breaks, beginning school earlier and getting out sooner, having more hands on classes . . .
My own list reflects what I’ve been listening to on my podcasts lately – laptops and ipods for all students (countryscribe would vehemently disagree with me having taught at UMC where they have had student issued laptops for quite awhile now), more team teaching opportunities, doing away with grades, and internship programs.
We had a real discussion about our topics. And it was great. I was amazed at how they got into it.
Then I asked them to choose one topic to focus on in greater detail, a topic that if we changed or improved right now it would have the biggest impact on their school and future. Of course, several of the boys pushed for school food, which was a worthy issue, but we’ll save that for the persuasive essay. I was secretly pulling for the students to select technology, but no such luck.
They decided to talk about teachers.
Then I had them write down characteristics that they thought a good teacher should have. Then we clustered again. This time our discussion was even better. I could hardly keep up with their comments and ideas as I tried to put them on the white board.
The funny thing is they hit the nail right on the head as far as what I feel makes a good teacher (or a bad one) – of course, maybe they were giving me what I wanted to hear, but I don’t think this was the case.
Some things they look for in a good teacher – a variety of activities, trust, respect, humor (I was surprised at how many had put that one down), knowledge, ability to relate the subject matter to their lives, ability to use technology, not making them feel stupid, allows for discussion rather than lecture (I sure used that one against them whenever the discussion began to lag – and it worked. I have to remember that one), teachers who enjoyed what they do.
It was a damn fine way to spend an hour.
Oh yeah, then four students shared their essays. They were excellent. My personal favorite was a pet peeve essay by a young man who works out at Kmart. His pet peeve? Little old ladies who try to pay in the nickels they have horded and who try to use every coupon imaginable (whether they apply to their purchase or not), and argue every little charge. It was brilliant. His frustration oozed off the page.
Now, why can’t they all be like that class? Not once did I have to worry about kids spraying each other with cologne. (Second note to self – NEVER give away cologne for a super duper prize. I seem to remember making this claim years ago. But then I relented and it went fine for a few years, but now this!)
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