Editorial

In a light-hearted attempt to re-introduce the topic of editing for correct punctuation, today I asked the sixth-graders in my English classes what their favorite punctuation mark was. 

The results of my poll were unexpected. The question mark was very popular not only because many of these young writers consider themselves curious, but also because of its fun shape. The exclamation mark was shouted out for excitement, which was emphatically its greatest strength. Some loved the comma for its ability to join things clearly, and others appreciated the ellipsis for its mystery and promise of more to come. A good number recognized the period as the workhorse of punctuation it is, even while they acknowledged that it wasn't very exciting.

The semicolon had one fan whose reason was "because nobody knows how it is used, and whenever I see it in the wild I feel fancy."

"I love the semicolon; I use it all the time," I replied.

The Fix Is Not In

Recently I've noticed that when things don't go their way, many of the sixth graders in my class complain that, "It's rigged." 

Their team lost the Super Bowl because of a conspiracy. That B on the science test? Obviously, the test wasn't fair. Our homeroom didn't win the door decorating contest because it was rigged against us. That soccer or basketball or baseball or lacrosse or hockey official was biased toward the other team, otherwise their team easily would have won. Didn't guess the color of the Jolly Rancher to win another? Rigged! Lost at Taco, Cat, Goat, Cheese, Pizza? The other kid was cheating!

Of course, I have a hunch where they got this notion; it is certainly not a concept limited to 11 and 12-year-olds these days, but maybe we should all remember that, sometimes?

We don't get our way, through no fault of anyone else. 

And that's okay.

Bargain Trapper

I'm not a big fan of shopping in general, but I sure do love shopping a clearance section. There's something about the prospect of finding unexpected treasure at a bargain price that hooks me every time. 

Today, for example, when I stopped at the card shop for some gift wrap, I found myself in the back of the store poking through the 75% off items. I couldn't resist buying a couple of canvas and faux fur trapper hats for my nephews; one of them lives in Iceland, and the other is a dedicated outdoorsman. At $4.50, the price was right, and I'm sure they will be great Christmas gifts if only I remember I have them-- December is a long time away! 

Even if I forget, though, I feel like I've already gotten my money's worth, because when I got them home and took them out of the bag, my dog was very interested in the furry items, thinking they were dog toys. Noticing her attention, I put one on, snapped it under my chin, and turned around with a playful growl. My dog started jumping and barking at the fearsome creature I had become, and I laughed as we wrestled around. 

Now she's sound asleep on the floor beside me, and I'm thinking of going back to get one of those hats for myself, or at least for my dog!

It's What I Do

When I was in sixth grade, yo-yos were a big thing. We all brought our Duncan butterflies to school every day and kept them in our desks or pockets, ready to loop-de-loop, around the world, rock the baby, walk the dog, or sleep our yo-yos at a moment's notice. These days, I can't do all the tricks I once could, but I can yo-yo decisively, and most of my sixth-grade students find that pretty impressive.

I keep a couple of yo-yos in the fidget basket by my desk, and kids are welcome to borrow them during breaks. Today one girl grabbed the bright-blue butterfly eagerly and slipped the loop of its string over her finger. Then she lifted her hand and dropped the yo-yo, but her face fell faster than it did when she couldn't get it to return to her palm. I watched her roll the yo-yo over the string to try again, but the toy just jerked a bit downward and stopped again at the end of its string.

"Wind the string around the yo-yo," I suggested, "instead of the yo-yo around the string."

"Why?" she arched an eyebrow doubtfully.

"It's faster and tighter, and you'll have better results," I replied.

She was skeptical, but she tried it my way.

"Now turn your hand over and roll the yo-yo off your fingertips instead of just letting it go," I told her.

She sighed but flipped her hand. 

 "When it gets to the bottom of the string, turn your palm over and give a little jerk up with your wrist," I coached her.

"Okay, here I go," she announced and did a pretty good job executing my directions. The yo-yo made it halfway up the string and her jerk made it fly into the air where she caught it. "I did it!" she cheered, wrapping the string for another try. "I can't believe you taught me!"

"Well "teacher" is my job title," I laughed.

An Education

When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years. ~Mark Twain

A few weeks ago I ran into a former colleague who had retired back in 2010. Eleanor was the team leader of the sixth-grade interdisciplinary team I was assigned to when I first started teaching; she was social studies, I was English, Cheri was science, and Wes, another new teacher like me, was math. Eleanor was a veteran of the classroom, and she was gracious and supportive of the two newbies she was charged with leading, but she was older than we were, and we found some of her ideas old-fashioned and rigid. For the most part, though, we all worked together well. 

Although Wes left the team first to teach social studies on another sixth-grade team and then to teach at a DOD school in Iceland, Eleanor and I remained teammates until 2000, when I expressed an interest in taking on the leadership role. Initially very supportive, she ended up leaving the team to take another position in our building. To be honest, it was probably easier to be the team leader outside of her shadow, and it was a job I kept for 20 years, perhaps pissing off my own fair share of new teachers along the way.

Waxing Cranky

Sometimes there's no explanation for why a lesson or activity falls apart for a group or individual. Maybe the moon or the planets were in an unfavorable position this morning for one particular group of four boys, who are usually pretty good friends.

The class was working on a collaborative assignment analyzing a model narrative, of the type they are writing, written by a former student. In front of the four boys was a large sheet of paper with a grid of 16 elements to look for in the story, and each student was supposed to fill out four boxes, in consultation with the other members of their group. 

It was an assignment that had been and would be successfully completed by 29 other groups of students over the course of the day, and based on their collective aptitude and achievement, they should have been a dream team, but they found themselves lagging way behind everyone else, because these four guys just could not get their act together. 

In between insulting each other only half playfully, they bickered about which chair at the table they wanted to sit in, whose handwriting was better, which detail they should include, and whose turn it was to write. "What is going on here?" I asked, and four fingers each pointed at a different member of the group.

"Can I get some water?" one guy requested. "I need to get away from them! This group is really stressing me out!"

Jamming

I was just about to close the door to the classroom when I saw one last student hurrying down the hallway trying to make it to class on time.

I gave her an encouraging smile and waved. "C'mon! You can make it!" I said, and I could tell that she was doing her best to get there before the bell because she was weaving in and out and around all the other kids who were in her way.

She slipped in the door and sat down in her seat just as the bell rang. "Sorry I was almost late!" she apologized. "Traffic!"