Spellbound

Kids always seem to be excited about writing fiction, and my sixth grade students this year are no exception. They haven't bristled in the least at the mandatory plot chart, conflict type, and character development lessons that compose the prewriting stage of the unit.

In fact, their sheer enthusiasm for studying models, evaluating scenarios, and analyzing characters proves a lesson I have learned many times: 

Engagement is the phoenix feather at the core of the magic wand of education.

If only there were some spell...

Arrestio! 

Encaptivato!

or Abra Relisha!

perhaps, 

that might conjure up that heightened state of interest every day.

Why, school would be a different place indeed!

Defying Expectations

As I've mentioned, my students are also participating in a Slice of Life writing challenge this month. Six days in, I set aside a little time in class today to give them a pep talk, and to encourage (okay, force) those who have not yet started their daily writing to jump on board immediately for at least the 10 days that are required.

"What if I write about how mean my English teacher is?" glowered one student dramatically.

"I would love it!" I told him. "I tell my writing friends all the time how much I love it when other people write about me. It's like I'm the star of tiny play."

Well, he didn't write about me, but a few other kids humored me. And why not? It made an easy topic. Here's one of my favorites:

Since Ms. S. loves it, I guess I will write about her. The first impression she made for me in the beginning of the year was that she had some spunk in her. The way she talked is liked she owned this place. Which she technically did because it is her room. She also seemed like that she been through so many things in her life that anyone could come to her for some wise memes or something like that. All in all I didn't expect her to be so talkative. I thought English teachers are supposed to be boring and quiet.

The Bookbinder

In his later years, my grandfather made his living as a legal bookbinder. Based in Maryland, where my grandmother held a steady job at the Pentagon, he traveled up and down the east coast repairing the libraries of his clients. As a child, I had no conception of what he did; I was always just happy to see him on those nights when our house in New Jersey was a way station for him.

Even now, I don't really know what the job actually entailed. I picture him at a highly polished table in a room lined with dark wooden bookshelves, a stack of broken and tattered books before him. Did he use tape? A needle and thread? How about a bone folder? Were there ever volumes that were too worn too repair? How often did he return to a particular client?

I think of him every time a student brings a damaged trade book, notebook, or binder to my desk. Assessing the extent of the injury, I grab one of the many rolls of duct or packing tape I always seem to have on hand, and mend the volume as best I can.

Although the books are hardly as good as new, in general, the kids are amazed by my deft repairs, and they walk away satisfied customers, which pleases me, too.

The Hot Seat

As much as I love a school, any school, really, the last place I wanted to be at 8:30 on a Saturday morning was in a classroom. Oh, my role was the reverse of the usual, I am taking a graduate course on word study, but you know teachers these days-- it's impossible to grab a seat in the corner and let the tide of information wash gently over you. It's always ice-breaker this, count off for that, gallery walk, jigsaw, report out, present!

Recognizing the inevitable, I took a seat in the front, well, corner, but there was no one to hide behind. The first activity of the day was a little review called "Hot Seat," and it was just the kind of on-the-spot torture it sounds like. Somebody sat with her back to the screen while other students called out clues to the jargon, er, vocabulary, that was projected behind her.

To be fair, the instructor asked for volunteers, but after the first round, there was a lot of paper shuffling and downcast eyes when the call to fill the hot seat was issued. "I'll just point at the sign-in sheet and call whoever's name I land on, then," said our instructor, index finger at the ready. She stabbed the paper and looked up brightly. "Tracey?"

I groaned, but crossed the short distance to the hot seat with confidence. I was confident that I wouldn't know the answers. And I did not. My fellow students were as helpful as they could be, but the first two sessions of the class were all about emergent and beginning readers and spellers. Contrary to the dire reports on the state of education in our nation, we don't see a whole lot of those in sixth grade. I paid attention, I swear, but as interesting as I find the class, I just can't keep it in my brain that COW stands for Concept of Word, and the mooing didn't help at all.

The Darndest Things

As advertised, today was student-led conference day at our middle school. Here are the golden lines from each meeting:

I love old people-- I always cry when they die in movies. 

Dad! Did you see where I wrote, "My dad was silent"? Isn't that great character development? 

I can't believe how good my grade is!

I think I serve my community by doing the dishes every single night. 

I do pay attention, except when I get distracted. 

I have no goals. 

The most surprising thing? It's how EASY middle school is! I did not expect that. 

Wednesday is my chill day. 

I learned that sometimes your friends are not good workers. 

If you're afraid to be wrong, don't raise your hand to answer, raise your hand to ask.

Oh, never fear! All went well, and as of now?

We are on track to end the year strong and on target!

The View from my Bubble

"I'm sorry I'm a little distracted this afternoon," I told my ukulele teacher. "Tomorrow is conference day at school."

"Oh," he nodded. "Is that rough?"

"Not really," I said, "but for an introvert, like me, it can a little stressful. I'm ready, though!"

"Do you ever have to just lay it on the line for the parents?" he asked me. "Y'know, give it to them straight that their kid is such a pain in the..." he trailed off.

I laughed. "That's not really productive," I told him.

He looked a little disappointed.

"Oh, it's tempting sometimes," I agreed, "but just telling a parent all the negative things their kid does doesn't usually solve any problems."

And even though his eyes began to glaze over a little bit, I continued. "It's best to frame the conversation in terms of helping the student succeed. We almost always talk to the parents and their child together, and we brainstorm ways we can all support the student in making better choices. We're like a team. A good conference should be the beginning of something good, not just the end of something bad," I finished fervently.

"I guess that makes sense," he yawned, "if you put it that way." He paused and shrugged. "How 'bout we try that last song again?"

Sour and Sweet

I thought I was in big trouble a couple of weeks ago when the school secretary called me into her office. Teachers know who wields the authority in the building, and I was racking my mind trying to think of what I could have possibly overlooked or left undone. My wide eyes grew wider and my eyebrows shot up in alarm when she asked me to close the door behind me.

"Yes?" I said.

She lowered her voice and looked at me in conspiracy. "We're having a shower for Jessica," she named a colleague who was expecting and also right outside the door, "and I was wondering if you'd make your famous lemon squares."

I exhaled in relief. "Of course," I replied. I use my mom's recipe which calls for butter and plenty of lemon zest, and the results are always pretty tasty.

A few days later I saw the principal in the hallway at passing time. I smiled, and she waved me over.

"Yes?" I asked, with curiosity.

"I heard you were making lemon squares for the shower!"