Titles Tell Their Own Tales

To prepare for a mini-lesson on crafting a "terrific title" for their personal narratives, I asked my students to consider the question of if their life was a book, what it would be called. I was a little surprised by how underwhelmed most of them seemed with their stories so far, giving them titles such as 

My Very Dull Monstrous Life
Sean's Unlucky Adventures
Downhill
A Boring Life
The Worst Book Ever
An Insignificant Life, or Don't Read This
A Boring, Depressing, Lazy Child
I Am Tired
The Most Unfortunate Girl in the World (But Still a Very Interesting Person)
A Bizarre Adventure
Life is Life
My Life Story
Diana's Unlucky Adventures
My Life's a Crisis
The Standard Life of Juliet
Unexpected
The Longest, Most Boring Book in the World
Misadventures of McKenna
Daily Life of a Kid
Amazingly Normal Adventures
Just ?
Never Ending

It occurred to me as we talked that the COVID crisis, which is going on 20 months now with no real end in sight, is just a little less than 15% of their entire lives, and closer to 20% of their conscious lives. Clearly it has taken a toll.

Even so, there were a few titles that might excite a prospective reader:

Talking to My Shadow
Carnival Time
Sapnap
Welcome to Jurassic Park
The Absurd Actions of Adventure Girl
Tiny Pencil Stealer
Army Brat
The Idiot of Middle School Strikes Back
A Secret that Won't Be Told

In addition to each being more of an invitation and less of a label, there's some resiliency in them, I think. 

If it's Good Enough for Superman

I haven't worn my exercise tights for a while. Back when stay-at-home orders were issued, they evolved from gym clothes to live-in clothes, and they were a go-to through virtual learning and right up to our return to school last spring. Once we were back in the building, though, it seemed unlikely that I could get a workout in on any kind of break, and as comfortable as they were, tights seemed a little too cas, even for me. 

Of course summer is too hot for any such garment, and now we are back at school full time again, so my nice little pile of tights with their practical side pockets has gone ignored, until today. A cool snap has given our area relief from some extended summery warmth, and at first the chilly mornings followed by warmer afternoons had me scratching my head for what to wear when I got home for school, but today? The answer was clear: Girl! Pull on a pair of tights! And so I did, even if it was just to walk down the big hill to the grocery and back up again with my dinner provisions.

I'm not gonna lie-- the old tights felt a little, well, tight, and after a summer of shorts I needed to make peace with just how close they were. But I did that on the walk to the store, where I filled three bags worth of groceries before hefting them back up the hill. 

On the way home I passed a neighbor. "Where have you been?" she asked.

"The grocery store," I answered.

"The one down the hill?" she replied with surprise.

"Yeah," I shrugged. 

"Impressive!" she said.

"It's not really that far--" I started.

"Still!" she interrupted. "The groceries! That's a load. And you're looking strong!"

I considering arguing, but then I thought better of it. "Thanks!" I said with a mock flex and a squat. 

We laughed, and as I strode on up the hill, the tights were feeling pretty good.

Euphemistically

Our sixth grade team is planning a little outdoor team-building get-to-know-you event for the morning of our early-release day next week. We want to get the kids moving in the fresh, October air, so the activities we have in mind are a variety of classic playground and field-day games that groups can cooperate and compete in. 

As we brainstormed the specifics the other day, someone mentioned Red light-Green light, which is enjoying renewed popularity because of its association with Squid Game, the wildly successful Netflix series from Korea. "Except with no guns, of course" the teacher added.

Through conversational free-association the game Red Rover, Red Rover was mentioned. "I wouldn't play that in this day and age," one of the team said. "Can you imagine? The kids would totally clothesline each other and there would be a law suit for sure."

We all sighed and nodded in agreement that time's have certainly changed.

"What about Steal the Bacon?" I suggested. "That's fun." I paused and considered. "But maybe we should call it Borrow the Organic Tofu Without Permission, so we can avoid any controversy!"

Re-entry Pains

There was a soft knock and a little jiggle at the door about 20 minutes before 1st period ended today. I craned my neck to peer out the interior windows and spotted a student who has been out of school for a few weeks. 

Even though she did a good job keeping up with her assignments, she looked more than a little glum when she figured out the door situation and stepped into the room. 

"Look who's back!" I announced heartily, and the other kids looked up from their writing with slight acknowledgement. Did I mention she's been out a while? 

"Welcome back!" I said to her. "I'm really glad to see you!" 

She gave me a nod.

"Seriously!" I told her. "It's been so long you forgot how to use the door!"

And that got a little laugh. I hope tomorrow will be better.

Bravo Pomodoro

A few years ago a friend told me about the Pomodoro Technique of time management. Named after a tomato-shaped kitchen timer, the premise of the method is a 25 minute-on, five-minute off routine, with a longer break after a couple of hours. She was using it to get some research done for her dissertation, and the structure of it helped her be more productive working from home. 

I've thought of that conversation more than a few times since then, but yesterday was the first time I tried the technique out. I had a lot of student assignments to grade, and I was resistant to even starting. But, I was behind on that task, and with conferences coming up next week, I needed to update my grade book. So I set the timer and then set to work. Twenty-five minutes flew by, and although the rules of the method insist on starting and stopping on time, I found myself continuing past the alarm. The five minute break also seemed a little longer than I expected, especially when I was doing kettle-bell swings or punch squats with dumbbells.

In any event, I got a lot done, certainly more than I have the past few weekends, and I would definitely give the pomodoro an encore. 

Lost Song

When I saw this morning that I had missed the news of Gary Paulsen's passing earlier this week, I took some time to mourn him,  listening to some interviews from last spring when he published his memoir, Gone to the Woods. I realized that although I've read at least 20 books by him, I had never heard him speak, and I was surprised by how soft his voice was. Not weak, no, just not as gravelly as I imagined it Having seen his picture, bearded and gruff, on the back of so many books these last 30 years. 

And then I thought how many times I had heard my own voice reading his words out loud, and I searched to see if there were any audiobooks of his that he had narrated himself. There were only three-- Woodsong, Puppies, Dogs, and Blue Northers, and My Life in Dog Years, all of them non-fiction, all of them about time spent outdoors with his dogs. 

I had read them all, but there was an excerpt from Woodsong in one of the sixth grade anthologies that I used with my students for years, and so I downloaded that recording and started to listen. I had forgotten how awful the beginning is, purposefully so, to make a point about what Paulsen thought he knew about nature and how wrong he turned out to be. Somehow, hearing the account of the wolves and the doe they chase down in Paulsen's own voice, was even worse than reading it; his sorrow and trauma come through so clearly.

I listened to a few more chapters and then I paused the recording. I could have lost myself all day in the woods of Northern Minnesota, but I knew I shouldn't. I had papers to grade and chores to do.

Years ago, my mother saw that Gary Paulsen was doing a reading near her home in the Twin Cities. She knew of my fondness and admiration for his work, and so she went to get a couple books signed as a surprise for me. When she and her friend got to the front of the line, Paulsen laughed as he took the books. "You girls seem a little old to be fans," he teased them.

In fact he and my Mom were born less than a month apart, and he was 82 when he died on Wednesday. The two of them lived long, full lives, but the world seems a lot emptier now that they are gone, and I miss them.

The Only Way Out is Through

 "Will you be here after school today?" one of my students asked in class this morning.

"Probably," I shrugged, since it's rare that I leave before 4:30.

"Oh, good!" she clapped. "My brother's home from college and he wants to come visit all his teachers!"

I forgot about our conversation until a little while after the dismissal bell rang, when I heard quiet conversation in the hallway. "There's yours!" my student said.

"Right there at the top!" a deep voice answered her. "That's something."

I knew they were looking at the quilt we had made of all the team t-shirts. Her brother's design had won the contest when he was in sixth grade, and that year we had all proudly worn his drawing of a dolphin.

A minute later my student poked her head in my door. "Here he is!" she announced. 

A more mature version of the intense, pink-cheeked boy I remembered stepped into the room, smiling. 

"How are you?" I greeted him.

"I'm great!" he said. "I'm doing well.

As we caught up he told me that he was an honors chemistry student at William and Mary, pre-med with his eye on cardiac thoracic surgery. 

"That's amazing," I congratulated him.

"Thanks," he answered. "I'm really happy. Things are good."

For me, talking to former students is rewarding, but it can turn awkward quickly. Once I've shared a memory or two of their time in my class, and they've told me what they are doing now, the conversation usually lags. A few months ago after one such encounter I decided that I would ask each of them what advice they might give their sixth grade selves. Today was my first chance to try out the question.

"I would tell myself to ignore all the mean and hateful things the other kids said to me," he answered immediately.

I nodded. "You always were a person who spoke your mind," I said. "I can see where that would make you a target."

"You know the story, right?" he replied.

I frowned, and he continued.

"When I was in seventh grade they made a "We hate you" club, and basically every day told me I should kill myself."

I gasped. "Did you get help? Did you tell someone?"

"Eventually I told my counselor and then my therapist, but not before I tried to commit suicide."

I shook my head sorrowfully. "I'm so sorry that happened to you," I said. 

"I'm fine now," he replied, and put his arm around his sister's shoulder. "Everything is really, really good."

I believed him. There was a lump in my throat when I said, "It's a terrible story, and it makes your accomplishments even more impressive."

"Thank you," he said, "and thanks for asking. I didn't expect to pour my heart today."