I had a beach cruiser when I lived at the beach. What a ride! It was a cool black and pink one-speed Schwinn with high, padded handle bars, a wide, soft seat, nobby tires for some traction in the sand, and flat pedals so you could ride barefoot down the boardwalk. Gosh, I loved that bike.
I thought of my old bike today as I pedaled my new bike down a flat seaside road toward the one little market for miles. (The last thing I did before leaving home yesterday was to fasten it to the back of the station wagon-- no way I was going to the beach without my bike.) I'm still the type that prefers to be riding "somewhere," preferably for a purpose, and my goal this morning was to bring the Sunday papers back to my family. A stiff northwesterly breeze made me glad for the 21 gears, but I was sorry that shoes weren't just an option; it's impossible to ride barefoot on the bike I have now.
When we moved north, I brought my beach cruiser with me, but it was totally unsuited for the roads in my new town; they were way too hilly. I had been warned that I wouldn't get a lot of use out of it in the place that I was moving, but I couldn't let it go. Eventually, I bought another bike, and the cruiser decayed away in a leaky outdoor shed. The chain rusted; the tires went flat; the cushy handlebars cracked, and squirrels chewed through the seat cover and made off with the padding for their nests. I'm embarrassed to admit that eventually it ended up in the trash on another moving day, but I was glad when someone took it before the garbage truck came.
It turned out to be another tragic lesson on the difference between what we need and what we want-- my beach cruiser totally deserved better.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Seaside
Twenty years ago I moved from a sleepy beach town in the south of my state to the busy metropolitan area where I now reside. Not by deliberate choice, so much-- it was all about relationships: who I knew, who I lived with, who I loved. That's how I got to the beach, too. In fact, that's how and why I have ever lived anywhere.
Yesterday I finished packing and cleaning my classroom; I met with my principal, said good-bye to my colleagues, and sat in on an interview for a new teacher on my team. At 5 PM I closed the door on my locked desk, papered bookshelves, and clearly-labeled boxes. This morning we packed the car in a thunderstorm and headed south, bound for that same beach town and a week-long vacation in a big house right on the ocean with my whole family.
This evening our dog chased a ball through the surf, leaving crescents of ragged claw-shaped prints across a field of tiny air bubbles in the flat, wet sand. Tonight the stars fill the sky in a way that is impossible in the light-washed nights of the city where I live. What will tomorrow be like?
Yesterday I finished packing and cleaning my classroom; I met with my principal, said good-bye to my colleagues, and sat in on an interview for a new teacher on my team. At 5 PM I closed the door on my locked desk, papered bookshelves, and clearly-labeled boxes. This morning we packed the car in a thunderstorm and headed south, bound for that same beach town and a week-long vacation in a big house right on the ocean with my whole family.
This evening our dog chased a ball through the surf, leaving crescents of ragged claw-shaped prints across a field of tiny air bubbles in the flat, wet sand. Tonight the stars fill the sky in a way that is impossible in the light-washed nights of the city where I live. What will tomorrow be like?
Friday, June 19, 2009
Fireflies
Last week, before school ended, I chose this poem as the common text for my classes:
Reverence
by Julie Cadwallader-Staub
The air vibrated
with the sound of cicadas
on those hot Missouri nights after sundown
when the grown-ups gathered on the wide back lawn,
sank into their slung-back canvas chairs
tall glasses of iced tea beading in the heat
and we sisters chased fireflies
reaching for them in the dark
admiring their compact black bodies
their orange stripes and seeking antennas
as they crawled to our fingertips
and clicked open into the night air.
In all the days and years that have followed,
I don't know that I've ever experienced
that same utter certainty of the goodness of life
that was as palpable
as the sound of the cicadas on those nights:
my sisters running around with me in the dark,
the murmur of the grown-ups' voices,
the way reverence mixes with amazement
to see such a small body
emit so much light.
The summer imagery really resonated with me, and I thought it might for my students, too. On a whim, I decided that the homework assignment for that evening was to Catch fireflies, but don't hurt them. I wanted them to have that experience and compare it to the poem and write about it themselves. The kids were pretty enthused about the homework that day, but that night, there were huge thunderstorms. They were breaking even before I left school, so I knew that many students wouldn't be able to complete their assignment. I scrambled a little to adjust my lesson plan, and as luck would have it, I found this poem:
Virginia Evening
by Michael Pettit
Just past dusk I passed Christiansburg,
cluster of lights sharpening
as the violet backdrop of the Blue Ridge
darkened. Not stars
but blue-black mountains rose
before me, rose like sleep
after hours of driving, hundreds of miles
blurred behind me. My eyelids
were so heavy but I could see
far ahead a summer thunderstorm flashing,
lightning sparking from cloud
to mountaintop. I drove toward it,
into the pass at Ironto, the dark
now deeper in the long steep grades,
heavy in the shadow of mountains weighted
with evergreens, with spruce, pine,
and cedar. How I wished to sleep
in that sweet air, which filled--
suddenly over a rise--with the small
lights of countless fireflies. Everywhere
they drifted, sweeping from the trees
down to the highway my headlights lit.
Fireflies blinked in the distance
and before my eyes, just before
the windshield struck them and they died.
Cold phosphorescent green, on the glass
their bodies clung like buds bursting
the clean line of a branch in spring.
How long it lasted, how many struck
and bloomed as I drove on, hypnotic
stare fixed on the road ahead, I can't say.
Beyond them, beyond their swarming
bright deaths came the rain, a shower
which fell like some dark blessing.
Imagine when I flicked the windshield wipers on
what an eerie glowing beauty faced me.
In that smeared, streaked light
diminished sweep by sweep you could have seen
my face. It was weary, shocked, awakened,
alive with wonder far after the blades and rain
swept clean the light of those lives
passed, like stars rolling over
the earth, now into other lives.
After reading the poem, I gave them the choice to describe either the storm or the fireflies in their choice of poetry or prose, and the results were lovely. I thought it was one of the more successful writing exercises of the year. In the hallway between classes, though, I overheard two students talking. "What are we doing in English today?" one guy asked another.
"Dude! We're reading a poem about squished fireflies!"
Reverence
by Julie Cadwallader-Staub
The air vibrated
with the sound of cicadas
on those hot Missouri nights after sundown
when the grown-ups gathered on the wide back lawn,
sank into their slung-back canvas chairs
tall glasses of iced tea beading in the heat
and we sisters chased fireflies
reaching for them in the dark
admiring their compact black bodies
their orange stripes and seeking antennas
as they crawled to our fingertips
and clicked open into the night air.
In all the days and years that have followed,
I don't know that I've ever experienced
that same utter certainty of the goodness of life
that was as palpable
as the sound of the cicadas on those nights:
my sisters running around with me in the dark,
the murmur of the grown-ups' voices,
the way reverence mixes with amazement
to see such a small body
emit so much light.
The summer imagery really resonated with me, and I thought it might for my students, too. On a whim, I decided that the homework assignment for that evening was to Catch fireflies, but don't hurt them. I wanted them to have that experience and compare it to the poem and write about it themselves. The kids were pretty enthused about the homework that day, but that night, there were huge thunderstorms. They were breaking even before I left school, so I knew that many students wouldn't be able to complete their assignment. I scrambled a little to adjust my lesson plan, and as luck would have it, I found this poem:
Virginia Evening
by Michael Pettit
Just past dusk I passed Christiansburg,
cluster of lights sharpening
as the violet backdrop of the Blue Ridge
darkened. Not stars
but blue-black mountains rose
before me, rose like sleep
after hours of driving, hundreds of miles
blurred behind me. My eyelids
were so heavy but I could see
far ahead a summer thunderstorm flashing,
lightning sparking from cloud
to mountaintop. I drove toward it,
into the pass at Ironto, the dark
now deeper in the long steep grades,
heavy in the shadow of mountains weighted
with evergreens, with spruce, pine,
and cedar. How I wished to sleep
in that sweet air, which filled--
suddenly over a rise--with the small
lights of countless fireflies. Everywhere
they drifted, sweeping from the trees
down to the highway my headlights lit.
Fireflies blinked in the distance
and before my eyes, just before
the windshield struck them and they died.
Cold phosphorescent green, on the glass
their bodies clung like buds bursting
the clean line of a branch in spring.
How long it lasted, how many struck
and bloomed as I drove on, hypnotic
stare fixed on the road ahead, I can't say.
Beyond them, beyond their swarming
bright deaths came the rain, a shower
which fell like some dark blessing.
Imagine when I flicked the windshield wipers on
what an eerie glowing beauty faced me.
In that smeared, streaked light
diminished sweep by sweep you could have seen
my face. It was weary, shocked, awakened,
alive with wonder far after the blades and rain
swept clean the light of those lives
passed, like stars rolling over
the earth, now into other lives.
After reading the poem, I gave them the choice to describe either the storm or the fireflies in their choice of poetry or prose, and the results were lovely. I thought it was one of the more successful writing exercises of the year. In the hallway between classes, though, I overheard two students talking. "What are we doing in English today?" one guy asked another.
"Dude! We're reading a poem about squished fireflies!"
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Humph
Today in the midst of wrapping up all those loose ends before our summer vacation starts for real, we got an e-mail with the following subject line:
Please Hand in Keys Before You Leave for vacation - no exceptions
The message goes on to explain that if we'd like access to our classrooms over the summer, we can call ahead to be sure that someone will let us in.
Why, if we're willing to spend our personal time on professional tasks, can't teachers have access to their work spaces on the weekends and over the summer? Where's the regard for us as professionals in any such policy?
Please Hand in Keys Before You Leave for vacation - no exceptions
The message goes on to explain that if we'd like access to our classrooms over the summer, we can call ahead to be sure that someone will let us in.
Why, if we're willing to spend our personal time on professional tasks, can't teachers have access to their work spaces on the weekends and over the summer? Where's the regard for us as professionals in any such policy?
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Happy Summer Vacation
"Why is it important to read over the summer?" I asked my students yesterday, as I was handing out recommended reading lists and information about the public library's teen reading program.
My favorite answer was from Anthony. "So we don't go stupid."
Yeah, that's pretty much it.
My favorite answer was from Anthony. "So we don't go stupid."
Yeah, that's pretty much it.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
All in Due Time
Are you glad that school's almost over?
I dread that question, because the answer is, quite honestly, no. Am I looking forward to a break? Sure. This is an especially long summer, too, because Labor day was early last year, and it's late this year. But I hate the transition and work that comes with the end of the year. I hate saying good-bye to my students and the colleagues that are moving on, hate taking all the things off my walls, hate packing up my room, hate the sudden change of pace from GO GO GO to the unstructured days of summer vacation.
I don't hate getting to sleep past 5:30, though, and I won't miss being tired anytime I stay up after 10. And I like being able to travel and do errands in the middle of the day in the middle of the week when there are fewer people on the road. I like going to the movies on Wednesday when there is free popcorn and matinee pricing. That's fun, especially if the weather is too hot or too rainy to do much else.
I like having the time to read books for pleasure and books about teaching, too, but it's hard for me to make the abstract concrete when I don't have any real students to apply it to. (Is that just me?) I'm really looking forward to more time to write, and I hope to continue with my writing group's novel challenge again this summer. I have a couple of professional development projects that I've been asked to work on, too, so I'll be a little busy thinking about and researching those.
I understand that it's not very sympathetic to whine about a 10 week vacation, but all I'm saying is, that if you asked me today if I'm looking forward to the school year ending tomorrow (for the kids, Friday for us) I'd have to say, "No," but if you ask me next week, when I'm at the beach with my whole family, if I'm enjoying my summer, you'll get a different answer.
I dread that question, because the answer is, quite honestly, no. Am I looking forward to a break? Sure. This is an especially long summer, too, because Labor day was early last year, and it's late this year. But I hate the transition and work that comes with the end of the year. I hate saying good-bye to my students and the colleagues that are moving on, hate taking all the things off my walls, hate packing up my room, hate the sudden change of pace from GO GO GO to the unstructured days of summer vacation.
I don't hate getting to sleep past 5:30, though, and I won't miss being tired anytime I stay up after 10. And I like being able to travel and do errands in the middle of the day in the middle of the week when there are fewer people on the road. I like going to the movies on Wednesday when there is free popcorn and matinee pricing. That's fun, especially if the weather is too hot or too rainy to do much else.
I like having the time to read books for pleasure and books about teaching, too, but it's hard for me to make the abstract concrete when I don't have any real students to apply it to. (Is that just me?) I'm really looking forward to more time to write, and I hope to continue with my writing group's novel challenge again this summer. I have a couple of professional development projects that I've been asked to work on, too, so I'll be a little busy thinking about and researching those.
I understand that it's not very sympathetic to whine about a 10 week vacation, but all I'm saying is, that if you asked me today if I'm looking forward to the school year ending tomorrow (for the kids, Friday for us) I'd have to say, "No," but if you ask me next week, when I'm at the beach with my whole family, if I'm enjoying my summer, you'll get a different answer.
Monday, June 15, 2009
No Binder Left Behind
Today my students took their English binders home. Every class period was super-chaotic: I was handing back some assignments I'd graded at the last minute and some that I'd held on to because they were so good. In the meantime, kids were adding up how many pages and books they'd read this year (a new individual record was set: 40,241 pages-- that's over 1000 pages per week, higher than any student I've ever taught) and organizing for that final binder check. Those who finished early willingly helped their classmates put their notebooks in order. There was a lot of chatter in the room as kids revisited a school year's worth of work. One girl brought me her two-inch binder stuffed with poems, reading logs, ideas and writing pieces, "Look how full this is," she told me. "I can't believe it was totally empty in September-- wait 'til I show my parents!
I was proud of my students and proud of my class, too. We start from nil and build knowledge, understanding and skills day by day and page by page, and at the end of the year, each binder represents a significant achievement. In so many ways, it is hard to let them all go, but I felt a strong sense of satisfaction today when the last student left (late, with a pass, because he just couldn't get it all put together without a little extra time) and I pulled each storage drawer open, one by one, and found them empty of the jumbled stacks of binders and loose papers that they usually contain. All set for next year, I thought.
I was proud of my students and proud of my class, too. We start from nil and build knowledge, understanding and skills day by day and page by page, and at the end of the year, each binder represents a significant achievement. In so many ways, it is hard to let them all go, but I felt a strong sense of satisfaction today when the last student left (late, with a pass, because he just couldn't get it all put together without a little extra time) and I pulled each storage drawer open, one by one, and found them empty of the jumbled stacks of binders and loose papers that they usually contain. All set for next year, I thought.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)