The Ninth Month

The cicadas were screaming tonight as we pedaled the last leg of our bike ride. It was just after sunset, and there was the thinnest claw of a moon in the porcelain berry sky. It reminded me that the lunar month of Ramadan started yesterday, and I thought about how long these end-of-summer days will be for those who fast around here. When we lived in Saudi Arabia, the prevailing culture was Islamic, and so the pace of life there changed to accommodate Ramadan. As with most religious holidays, there are customs and traditions that mark the season, and at its heart, it is meant to be a month of celebration rather than self-deprivation.

Here in the U.S., my sixth grade students who are Muslim are on the cusp when it comes to observing this month of fasting. At their age fasting is not required, but for many of them it is a rite of passage just to attempt to abstain from eating and drinking from daybreak until dusk. Unlike the faithful who live in Islamic countries, these kids try to keep their fast among peers and teachers who may not be aware of, much less understand, their devotion, and so the temptations can be many. On the other hand, I've seen what a positive impact it can have simply to acknowledge Ramadan and encourage any students who are fasting.

Usually, the more significant the situation, the harder it is to be in the minority, and the actions of those in the majority can make all the difference. How we behave as a member of the dominant group is a good measure of any of us.

Splat

Today was the first real rainy day of the summer around here, and so we divided our Saturday between killing time and canning tomatoes. Somehow, the National Geographic Channel ended up on continuous loop in the living room, while thirty pounds of tomatoes were being processed in the kitchen. Turns out The Exploding Whale and that bushel of tomatoes were quite the gory duo-- hematically linked by the sanguine puddles they left dripping at the scene.

Preservation

About twelve years ago, I had a little bit of a health scare. It turned out to be nothing, but for a few weeks I had the chance to do some serious thinking about my own mortality. When it was all over with, I didn't go sky diving or change careers or anything, but for a while I was really glad to be healthy.

Today I sat in a doctor's office with someone I love and heard the worst possible news: ...is back ...aggressive ...hospice ...make you comfortable. I was stunned, but not surprised; it had been a four year battle and clearly something was taking its toll on her. She accepted the information with grace and dignity. We asked a few questions and then headed home.

When I opened the rear hatch of the car to put her walker in, she spied the case of empty mason jars in the back. "Are you going to do some canning?" she asked, and for a moment her voice was a little stronger than before. I told her about my plans to put up tomatoes and peaches, but it was hard to look forward with much enthusiasm.

Rules of the Road

The other day I came across an op/ed article about whether or not we should try to globalize traffic rules, particularly which side of the road we drive on. I read the piece with mild interest; the author did a quick, but fascinating, historical overview of why some nations chose to drive either on the right or the left, and he also ran down the details of some tragic accidents that occurred as the result of tourists driving on the wrong side of the road.

I remember years ago renting a car in England. The agent at the counter handed over the keys to this Yank with only the slightest of hesitation. "Mind the round abouts, and don't curb the tires," were her sensible parting words to me. I found that driving on the opposite side of the road than the one I was used to was not really that difficult. It was like looking at one of those optical illusion posters where there are two images: there was a switch in my brain, and once I saw the other perspective, I couldn't not see it. I was amazed by how easy it was; I drove all the way from London to Stonehenge and back, and I only curbed the tires twice.

That rental agent was right about another thing, too-- going to the left on the traffic circles was really hard. In navigating them, I found that it never hurts to consciously check to see that we are going the right way, keeping in mind that it's all about context and perspective. Of course there's a larger lesson here: when confronted with predicaments, that switch in my brain doesn't always work the way I want it to, and it's always sound to mind the roundabouts.

ETA

There's a park called Gravelly Point on the Potomac River at the north end of the airport where, depending on the wind direction, you can watch the planes either take off or land. It's probably no farther than a hundred yards from the boundary fence to the end of the runway, so the planes are really close. The Mount Vernon Bike Trail, which runs 18 miles from Roosevelt Island to, you guessed it, Mount Vernon, goes through Gravelly Point, too, and for us, that's probably the easiest way to get there.

When the wind is from the south, which it usually is in the summer, the planes fly down the river and over your head as you stand there, and you never have to wait very long to see a lot of planes. From far away, they seem to be going so slowly, almost floating, until all of a sudden that whine becomes a deafening roar, and a hundred thousand pounds or more of shiny curved aluminum and rivets are impossibly suspended just a hundred a feet above you, and then they speed past, touch down with a slight skid and a little puff of smoke, reverse their engines, and slow down. Meanwhile, you can hear the air whistle and eddy above you, still spinning from the turbines. There's only the one runway, so they have to turn off right away, either because another plane is approaching or one is waiting to take off. Sometimes you can spot the next incoming flight while the next outgoing plane is still taxiing, and it seems like there couldn't possibly be enough time between them, but there always is.

When I watch the planes, I never imagine myself either coming or going, nor, as close as they are, do I ever see the people in them. Even so, had I nothing else to do, I could stand astride my bike and watch them land for hours, turning my head from north to south, following one after another, a witness to each as it safely reaches its final destination.

Freedom of the Press

We rode our bikes to the Newseum yesterday. This was the first time that I had been inside their new building, and it was very cool-- six levels of exhibits dedicated to journalism and the first amendment, with lots of really fascinating stuff.

Years ago, when the Freedom Forum opened the first version of their museum across the river from where they are so prominently located now, the principal of my school called me to his office. It was my second or third year teaching, and he had an opportunity for me. Seems there was this new thing called the Internet, and the ABC/Disney people were trying to set up a website with news content for kids, by kids. Their idea was to find kids to cover local newsworthy events and then to have them write them up and submit them to be published on their online news page.

We were one of the first schools in the area with a webpage of our own, and they contacted us to see if we had any students willing to cover the dedication of the Newseum. The international exposure that they were offering to our young writers was unprecedented at the time, and it was with genuine excitement that three students and I picked up our press credentials on the morning of the ceremony. Vice President Gore was the keynote speaker, and we were in the third row for his speech, although, as news of the day, it was being projected on all the huge video screens throughout the museum, too. Afterward, we were invited to a reception and then escorted on a tour of the whole place. The Möbius nature of being the press that covered the opening of a museum dedicated to the press was completely lost on the kids I was with-- but who could blame them? They were on deadline.

Incontinuity

A few weeks ago, I posted about the professional learning community I was tapped to facilitate for the coming school year. It is supposed to be a continuity group for teachers who have taken either the Writing Project Summer Institute, or the 3 credit hour course offered during the year. I was heartened by the fact that our county ELA department recognized how valuable exposure to the NWP can be AND how important it is to support teachers afterward. As part of the planning for our first meeting in September, I sent links to a couple of articles that I thought would be really good places to start our conversation about how to keep that writing project magic alive. One was called Teaching After the Summer Institute by Nick Maneno. It is by no means a radical manifesto, and I encourage you to follow the link and read it for yourselves, but I'll cite a brief excerpt here:

Teachers who have had experiences like the summer institute often find themselves explaining the benefits of student-constructed knowledge over teacher-directed practice, word study over traditional spelling lists, cooperative work over isolated practice.

But when I talk about writing practices with my teaching team, administration, and most teachers, they are often not able to transcend rubrics, writing prompts, and the mechanics of writing.

Today, five weeks after I sent the link to our central department, I got this response to my proposal that we use this article in our initial meeting:

I understand the teacher's frustration in "Teaching after the Summer Institute," (and I think this is evident in our office's support of the NVWP course and summer institute) but I don't think the article says enough about how there has to be a balance between form and creativity. It would definitely make a good conversation piece, but we don't want teachers to think we're saying it's ok to toss rubrics, domains, etc., out the window.