The Slippery Slope

Sixteen years and a couple of months ago, I got my first teaching job. My assignment was to teach four one-hour English classes of 25 sixth graders each. I had finished my M.Ed. the December before and had spent the spring substitute teaching. I was ready for my own class. My training, as far as teaching literacy skills, had been primarily whole language. When I took my language arts methods class in graduate school, the notion of whole language was entirely new to me. I hadn’t thought about how kids learn to read and write since I had been in elementary school 20 years before.

In my mind, the essence of whole language was that you didn’t tell the students what to do, you gave them opportunities to acquire the skills of reading and writing on their own. This was a radical concept for a product of basal readers and grammar work sheets (which I loved, by the way). But the notion of students engaged in readers and writers workshops, practicing the skills of reading and writing on books and topics of their choice was enthralling to me. The vision of a classroom that was a community of readers and writers resonated deeply, and I knew that I wanted to create such a place and spend my time there.

So I did. The first year I taught was the first year of a new basal reading program adoption. The reading specialist proudly presented me with 125 brand new textbooks that I knew I didn’t intend to use. She was visibly shaken when I told her so.

“Here are your vocabulary books,” she offered.

“I don’t need them,” I replied.

“You should probably take them anyway,” she pushed in a soft drawl that almost covered her dismay.

The next day I had a visit from the county language arts supervisor. “What is your plan for the year?” she asked. I spoke passionately and at length, describing the program I envisioned; I showed her my collection of trade books, the area I set up for journals and writing supplies, the reading log I would use, my “State of the Class” binder, my bulletin board with publication opportunities. I also mentioned the resistance I felt from the reading specialist and other experienced teachers in the building. “I think you should do it,” she said. “You can’t hurt the kids if you do what you believe is right, and you clearly believe this is right.”

I took her advice and ran my class in pure workshop form. Students read and wrote on topics and in genres entirely of their choice. I experimented with ways to keep track of their work and ways to hold them accountable for their reading and writing. Together, we published a newspaper, had a voluntary essay-writing seminar, and wrote fan letters. Individually, my students kept writers journals, and wrote poetry, fiction, letters, essays, graphic novels, and more. They were published in the newspaper; they entered and won contests, and submitted their writing to journals. I read their writing and taught mini-lessons to address their needs.

At that time we had the "Literacy Passport" exam at sixth grade which tested reading, writing, and math. 100 students took it. A third were on free and reduced lunch. A quarter spoke English as a second language. Thirty percent were white, thirty percent Black, thirty percent Latino, and ten percent Asian. Of the hundred who took it, 99 passed the writing, and 97 passed the reading. I didn't know anything about analyzing test data back then, but now, 15 years later, I understand how extraordinary those results were.

So, you would think I would continue with my program exactly as I constructed it, year after year, tweaking the paper work and the mini lessons to more accurately keep track of and assist my students’ progress, right? Wrong. Each year my writing workshop became more adulterated, literally. I moved, gradually, from a student-centered approach to an adult-directed class. My students still did a lot of writing, but I assigned much more of it. Why?

Moderation

We were at dinner at some friends' last night, and the subject of my blog came up. Our host expressed some interest in reading these "reports from the trenches" of public education. He is a parent in our district, and his wife is a teacher at my school, and as the evening went on, we touched on a wide range of education and school-related topics, for example engagement vs. rigor-- why is there a perception that they are exclusive? Another was should all administrators have a teaching license, and should they be required to teach at least one class? We also talked about heterosexual privilege, and later "liberal" white parents who won't send their children to diverse schools. Several times throughout the night, he looked at me and said, "I feel a blog post coming!" We laughed, but he was right, those are all good topics. The only problem was that we stayed up talking until 2:30 A.M. and I've spent my day foggy-headed, resting and recovering, not writing. I feel lucky that there was a blog post at all today.

Back in the Day

I have several students this year who are voracious readers. These kids read a couple of hundred pages a day and power through 4 or 5 novels a week. Do they stop to think about what they've read? Probably not very often, and so I try to engage them in conversation about their reading, even beyond our class assignments. The other day, a student was telling me about a series of books she had recently discovered and that she was enjoying very much. "You know what?" she said. "I've decided that I really like old-fashioned books."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Like books published in 1988," she explained, "there's just something quaint about them."

Life in Century 2.1

Today I reserved the laptop cart for my students to work on an assignment. Second period, three kids to a table, laptops open, room is silent, because everyone's engrossed in typing their writing piece, and one student looks up. "Wow. It's just like Panera or Starbucks in here," she notes. There are a few nods of agreement, and then everyone goes back to their own screens.

Keep it Short

Sometimes I wonder if I ask too much of my students. I understand the value of high expectations, and I'm not proposing a lower bar for quality, but rather for quantity. I believe that if we shorten what we ask for, but demand that the product be well-considered, well-written, and well-edited, then we are helping the students and ourselves.

I'm still working out the details, but it all started with Nancie Atwell's proposition that examining and composing free verse poetry can teach almost any writing lesson, and as a result, over the past few years, I've developed a fondness for the "micro assignment." I've decided that I want my students to write briefly, but exquisitely. Kind of like the writing equivalent of an amuse-bouche-- in the cooking world, it's widely believed that if you can execute that one perfect bite, you're golden.

Facilitator's Blues

That writing project PLC that I'm facilitating met today. Early in the year we agreed to reflect on our teaching and write about it regularly. Way back in September, people felt like 2-3 times a week was an achievable goal. Flash forward to a rainy Wednesday in December. Three of the original participants were not able to make the meeting today, so our group was eight. Seven had writing. Most had composed what they brought specifically to have something to share with their writing group. Not quite what we had in mind, and because I'm in a group myself, it was hard to tell if people think that these meetings are time well spent.

The other part of our session was spent talking about teacher blogs. Last time, everyone agreed to read a few and write up a brief "blog talk" to guide our conversation about this relatively new publishing opportunity. How are teaching blogs valuable? would have been the guiding question had I put it on the board. There was some interesting discussion about what's out here in the blogosphere, but my impression was that not many of the teachers in the group view edublogs as either a valuable resource or a viable outlet for expression.

We don't meet again until February. When this PLC was originally proposed, I expressed my reservations about how little time was available to meet, and I still wonder what writing project objectives can be achieved in seven hours spread over eight months. Ultimately, though, I realize that my role is to provide an opportunity. What everyone does with it is up to them.

NaNoWriMo No Mo

First day free of the chains, and I've found liberation to be a little disappointing, although I am looking forward to spending a bit more time reflecting on my classroom, my students, and my teaching. (How possessive does that sound?) I've missed it.