It's always interesting to be present when former students meet current members of my class. It most often happens for me at swim meets. In between their events, sixth, seventh and eighth graders have the chance to compare notes about what it was like to have me as their teacher. I don't mean to be egotistical, these conversations are fleeting, and typically go something like, "Oh my god! She made you do that, too?" But they are often affectionate and even a little nostalgic, too. (I think they appreciate that I cheer for their swimming.) It's warm fuzzies all around.
This year they have a high school senior, who was also in my class in sixth grade, helping to coach the team, and so when I arrived at the first meet of the season this afternoon, I was pleased to have a chance to catch up with her. As we stood next to the pool chatting, a group of middle school kids gathered around us, eager to join our conversation. "You were on the Dolphins, too?" one asked her.
She rolled her eyes and made a sour face. "Don't remind me," she said, "sixth grade was horrible!" Their eyes widened, and I'm sure mine did too, although I knew exactly what she was talking about. She turned to me. "Do you even remember how many times you had to meet with my parents?"
I nodded.
"What did you do?" one of the younger kids asked.
"Nothing," I said, "she was bullied."
"A lot of kids were mean to me," she confirmed.
"What did they say to you?" a seventh grade girl wanted to know, but just then a cheer went up, and the events of the swim meet redirected our attention.
We never returned to the conversation, and in a way, I was relieved. The older girl had been a smart and serious child, both an engaged and engaging student, but also somewhat of a tomboy, and she had been harassed mercilessly throughout middle school about her sexuality. "How would you like to be surrounded by a group of girls in the locker room singing Ring Around the Lesbian?" she had asked me once.
Four years later, the pain of middle school is still fresh for her. I have to think that part of the problem is the way we approach sexuality for kids that age. "Gay" is one of the most common middle school epithets, and while we don't tolerate its use, we allow it to be a slur. By comparison, we condone and even guide students as they experiment socially with non-sexual heterosexual activity. It's not considered unusual at all for boys and girls to "like" each other, even in sixth grade, but any conversation of supporting kids who may be gay or bisexual usually meets opposition from adults who believe that they are too young to be "that." Unfortunately, the end result is that we send the message that there's something wrong with those kids, both to them and to their peers.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Story Time
I'm not sure what it is with kids and fiction, but my students are writing short stories right now, and they couldn't be happier. Composing fiction is not mentioned specifically in either my state writing standards or in the draft of the new National Standards that was released today, although both include objectives addressing kids writing narratives, and of course that includes fiction.
I've found that many middle school teachers hesitate to include fiction assignments in their writing programs; I used to be one of them. I guess it didn't seem quite rigorous enough to me, either that or it could be that such assignments usually produced such sprawling tales teeming with ill-defined characters who wandered about without ever resolving anything that I had no idea what to do with them.
In her foreword to Ted DeMille's book, Making Believe on Paper, Nancie Atwell recounts a conversation she had with the educational researcher Nancy Martin on this very topic. Like many of us, Atwell was explaining why she didn't teach fiction, despite the fact that it is what most kids love to read best. She considered her students' fiction "daydreams on paper."
But Atwell tells how Nancy Martin convinced her otherwise. In Martin's opinion, fiction gives young writers the chance to compose fluently and at length. Martin also makes the point that fiction "gives children access to the hypothetical" so that "they can begin to see how to improvise on their own experiences." She understood children's stories to be fables where they reimagine their lives and mix them with the stories they've read or heard.
That is an accurate description of what my students do with their fiction, although they are influenced also by the stories they see on TV and, more and more, in games. Humans have always used storytelling to make meaning of our lives, and I think it's important to give kids the opportunity and the tools to do that. More importantly, though, writing fiction is motivating to my students: with few exceptions, they write cheerfully and at length. For that I'm glad, because I can't teach writing craft, conventions, or skills to someone who won't write.
I've found that many middle school teachers hesitate to include fiction assignments in their writing programs; I used to be one of them. I guess it didn't seem quite rigorous enough to me, either that or it could be that such assignments usually produced such sprawling tales teeming with ill-defined characters who wandered about without ever resolving anything that I had no idea what to do with them.
In her foreword to Ted DeMille's book, Making Believe on Paper, Nancie Atwell recounts a conversation she had with the educational researcher Nancy Martin on this very topic. Like many of us, Atwell was explaining why she didn't teach fiction, despite the fact that it is what most kids love to read best. She considered her students' fiction "daydreams on paper."
But Atwell tells how Nancy Martin convinced her otherwise. In Martin's opinion, fiction gives young writers the chance to compose fluently and at length. Martin also makes the point that fiction "gives children access to the hypothetical" so that "they can begin to see how to improvise on their own experiences." She understood children's stories to be fables where they reimagine their lives and mix them with the stories they've read or heard.
That is an accurate description of what my students do with their fiction, although they are influenced also by the stories they see on TV and, more and more, in games. Humans have always used storytelling to make meaning of our lives, and I think it's important to give kids the opportunity and the tools to do that. More importantly, though, writing fiction is motivating to my students: with few exceptions, they write cheerfully and at length. For that I'm glad, because I can't teach writing craft, conventions, or skills to someone who won't write.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Can You Smell That?
I was greeted this morning by the sharp odor of mothballs or something close to it wafting out of our team's teacher-workroom. The refrigerator is in there, and as I put my lunch away, I scanned the windowless room for the source of that pungent aroma. Nothing seemed amiss, and there was nobody nearby to ask, so with a shrug I returned to my classroom one door down, but the scent was strong enough that I could smell it there, too.
It wasn't long before I heard the tale of all I had missed the day before. Evidently, that antiseptic smell had only recently replaced the stench of death. When, on Monday morning, they were confronted with the unmistakable odor of decay, the other teachers on my team did the sensible thing: They closed the door and called maintenance.
It turned out that four mice had perished under the refrigerator over the weekend. The custodians removed them, but unfortunately, the odor lingered longer than their remnants remained. The solution? Pink urinal cakes hidden strategically throughout the team room, and it was that smell that welcomed me back to work this morning. Seriously. Urinal cakes.
It wasn't long before I heard the tale of all I had missed the day before. Evidently, that antiseptic smell had only recently replaced the stench of death. When, on Monday morning, they were confronted with the unmistakable odor of decay, the other teachers on my team did the sensible thing: They closed the door and called maintenance.
It turned out that four mice had perished under the refrigerator over the weekend. The custodians removed them, but unfortunately, the odor lingered longer than their remnants remained. The solution? Pink urinal cakes hidden strategically throughout the team room, and it was that smell that welcomed me back to work this morning. Seriously. Urinal cakes.
Monday, March 8, 2010
I Shoulda Known
I took advantage of a day off today to run some errands. My first stop was the DMV. I had already tried twice without success to take care of this paperwork snafu, first online and then in person on Saturday.
When I had arrived at the Department of Motor Vehicles on Saturday, a line stretched out the door, down the sidewalk, and around the building. I had a hard time believing that this was my line, but after a little scouting and a few questions, I found that indeed it was. The service center was due to close in 45 minutes, but I was willing to wait in the weak sunshine. I felt it was my penance for misplacing the title to my car. I pulled my fleece jacket closer to guard against the chill air and stood silently listening to the gripes of my fellow linees, the very model of patience.
At 11:57, three minutes before closing, a uniformed guard came out to distribute directions to other offices that were open past noon. "No thank you," I told him when he held one out to me. He frowned at me then, but I swear I was not making any undue assumptions, I just knew how to get to the other DMVs. Two minutes later, he gleefully locked the door in my face after allowing everyone in front of me in. They had all accepted the flyers.
Stunned to be excluded from the chosen few who would get to complete their errands that blustery day, I walked slowly back to my car, the shouldas circling my head like birds and stars: should have never lost the title, should have gotten there earlier, should have taken what the guard was offering... oy what a mess I was, until I remembered that I was off today. And you know what? There was no line at all this morning. I should have known.
When I had arrived at the Department of Motor Vehicles on Saturday, a line stretched out the door, down the sidewalk, and around the building. I had a hard time believing that this was my line, but after a little scouting and a few questions, I found that indeed it was. The service center was due to close in 45 minutes, but I was willing to wait in the weak sunshine. I felt it was my penance for misplacing the title to my car. I pulled my fleece jacket closer to guard against the chill air and stood silently listening to the gripes of my fellow linees, the very model of patience.
At 11:57, three minutes before closing, a uniformed guard came out to distribute directions to other offices that were open past noon. "No thank you," I told him when he held one out to me. He frowned at me then, but I swear I was not making any undue assumptions, I just knew how to get to the other DMVs. Two minutes later, he gleefully locked the door in my face after allowing everyone in front of me in. They had all accepted the flyers.
Stunned to be excluded from the chosen few who would get to complete their errands that blustery day, I walked slowly back to my car, the shouldas circling my head like birds and stars: should have never lost the title, should have gotten there earlier, should have taken what the guard was offering... oy what a mess I was, until I remembered that I was off today. And you know what? There was no line at all this morning. I should have known.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Everybody into the Pool
My family has an Oscar Night tradition. Every year, we gather at my brother's house to watch the whole thing, Barbara Walters and all. We have a nice dinner, usually tapas, so that we can eat without missing a single reaction shot. It's always a lot of fun talking about the movies we've seen and gossiping about the celebrities, and we even take the next day off, if possible, so that we can enjoy the broadcast until the bitter end, usually sometime around midnight here on the east coast. This year my mom flew in from Minnesota to join the party. Woo hoo!
Of course, there's a friendly wager: ten bucks each, winner take all. Wish me luck!
Of course, there's a friendly wager: ten bucks each, winner take all. Wish me luck!
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Crime and Punishment
My students recently wrapped up a memoir-writing unit, and as I try to do as often as I can, I wrote along with them. My piece this year was called The Creek, and it was about a time when I was 7 or 8, and my younger brother and I walked home along a tiny stream that ran from the school to the end of our street, something that we were forbidden from doing.
On the way we found a little plastic bucket and filled it up with tadpoles and then cooked up a ridiculous lie about finding the pail full of tiny amphibians on the sidewalk. Not wanting to leave them to die (and not allowed to return them to the creek), we just had to bring them home-- that was our story anyway. It's hardly surprising that my mother didn't believe us, although she was tipped off by the neighborhood tattle-tale. (Michelle Hall, if you're out there, I haven't forgotten your treachery.) We got in a lot of trouble, but the tadpoles got it worse: my mother dumped them out into the garden.
It is this final, fatal detail that seemed most memorable to the kids in my class, and when I happened to mention that my mother would be in town this weekend, they suggested I bring her in on Monday. "Really?" I asked. "You want to meet my mother?"
"No," one student answered, "we want to put on her on trial for killing those tadpoles."
On the way we found a little plastic bucket and filled it up with tadpoles and then cooked up a ridiculous lie about finding the pail full of tiny amphibians on the sidewalk. Not wanting to leave them to die (and not allowed to return them to the creek), we just had to bring them home-- that was our story anyway. It's hardly surprising that my mother didn't believe us, although she was tipped off by the neighborhood tattle-tale. (Michelle Hall, if you're out there, I haven't forgotten your treachery.) We got in a lot of trouble, but the tadpoles got it worse: my mother dumped them out into the garden.
It is this final, fatal detail that seemed most memorable to the kids in my class, and when I happened to mention that my mother would be in town this weekend, they suggested I bring her in on Monday. "Really?" I asked. "You want to meet my mother?"
"No," one student answered, "we want to put on her on trial for killing those tadpoles."
Friday, March 5, 2010
Pride and Prejudice
I heard an interview with Diane Ravitch on NPR the other morning. A former Assistant Secretary of Education in the second Bush administration, she has come 180 degrees on the No Child Left Behind act since 2005 and has published a new book outlining her concerns.
It was her remarks at the end of the piece that have stuck with me most. Speaking against the inherent competition that is present in both NCLB and the Obama administration's Race to the Top, she said, Schools operate fundamentally — or should operate — like families. The fundamental principle by which education proceeds is collaboration. Teachers are supposed to share what works; schools are supposed to get together and talk about what's been successful for them.
As it happens, I've been thinking about collaboration and competition all week. Back in December, I collaborated with a colleague in my building to prepare our students for a national writing competition. On Tuesday, we got some preliminary results. Ten students from our school were among the top 67 out of nearly 1,200 participants in our state.
In my colleague's opinion, we should stop the presses. She's a competitive person who sees no reason not to be recognized for such an accomplishment, and it doesn't hurt that six of the ten were her students as compared to my four. I can't tell you how many people at school, including the principal, congratulated me on this achievement before I had seen the e-mail myself. In addition to that, letters are going home to parents, and our district newsletter is receiving an item to publish.
I have to say that I think a little perspective is in order. I'm proud of my students, but this is a nice, but minor, recognition for those kids. They may or may not move on to be state finalists, and if they do, they have the national judges to face. Not only that, but the pieces that were chosen were not the ones that I would have predicted. To me that just illustrates the subjectivity involved in judging any writing, much less any writing competition. Don't get me wrong, I encouraged my students to enter, and those who did were excited about it. We worked hard together to make sure every piece was the best it could be, but on some level, I want that to be enough.
It was her remarks at the end of the piece that have stuck with me most. Speaking against the inherent competition that is present in both NCLB and the Obama administration's Race to the Top, she said, Schools operate fundamentally — or should operate — like families. The fundamental principle by which education proceeds is collaboration. Teachers are supposed to share what works; schools are supposed to get together and talk about what's been successful for them.
As it happens, I've been thinking about collaboration and competition all week. Back in December, I collaborated with a colleague in my building to prepare our students for a national writing competition. On Tuesday, we got some preliminary results. Ten students from our school were among the top 67 out of nearly 1,200 participants in our state.
In my colleague's opinion, we should stop the presses. She's a competitive person who sees no reason not to be recognized for such an accomplishment, and it doesn't hurt that six of the ten were her students as compared to my four. I can't tell you how many people at school, including the principal, congratulated me on this achievement before I had seen the e-mail myself. In addition to that, letters are going home to parents, and our district newsletter is receiving an item to publish.
I have to say that I think a little perspective is in order. I'm proud of my students, but this is a nice, but minor, recognition for those kids. They may or may not move on to be state finalists, and if they do, they have the national judges to face. Not only that, but the pieces that were chosen were not the ones that I would have predicted. To me that just illustrates the subjectivity involved in judging any writing, much less any writing competition. Don't get me wrong, I encouraged my students to enter, and those who did were excited about it. We worked hard together to make sure every piece was the best it could be, but on some level, I want that to be enough.
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