Par, pars, parsh, parch #SOL24 6/31

“Hey Mom! Can you come help with my English writing?”

I’m supposed to be doing my own writing – this writing, to be precise – and I’m still knee-deep in grade 9 projects, but he knows I won’t say no. Mr. 13 is an excellent writer – effective vocabulary, interesting sentence structures, good grasp of punctuation – and he is dyslexic. Years of Orton-Gillingham-based tutoring means that he reads well and knows how to make good use of extensions like Grammarly or Language Tool, but when push comes to shove, he still benefits from a once over by someone who’s not dyslexic. Also, he knows I like to read what he writes.

He’s reading his sentences aloud under his breath as I plunk down next to him. “Um… I need a word for like ‘kind of was related to the point but not 100%.'” My eyes widen as I try to figure out what on Earth he’s talking about. “Oh!” he snaps his fingers, “got it: partially!”

He types parsley.

He keeps going, then circles back to fix it. Parshly. Spellcheck suggests harshly as a replacement, so he changes it to parchly – and the new suggestion is archly. “Um, Mom?”

“Partially means ‘in part’ so it starts with the root part,” I say.

“Part isn’t really a root,” he interrupts. Then, “sorry.” He would know. He knows Latin and Greek origins of words; he understands spelling rules in ways I have never had to.

I laugh, “Just start with part.” He does. I break the word down orally so he can hear all the syllables, then I spell. “Now i a l…” I pause because he is looking at me like I have two heads. Finally, I reach over and type the word.

He stares for a long second, then shakes his head in wonder. “There is no way that word looks like /parshully/. I would never have guessed that.”

And he wouldn’t have. Which is why I was so angry last night when I found one of his old math tests where the teacher has circled his attempt at the word “isosceles” and written “Really???” with multiple question marks. He brushed it off – “I mean, she did tell us we had to be able to spell all the terms” – but she doesn’t see how hard he works to spell these words.

But now he’s moved on and is enthusiastically excoriating someone’s weak debate argument. He doesn’t need me again until the end, when I do a check for capital letters and other words that spellcheck didn’t get. This time, he’s mostly good. I ruffle his hair and head back to finish my own work.

I wish all teachers could understand his truth – the kind that looks good on the surface but is working awfully hard to stay afloat. “Isosceles,” I mutter, and his exasperated voice trails behind me, reminding me to let it go. “Mom!”

Dear boys’ bathroom

Recently, in the Writer’s Craft class I am teaching, we read Kobe Bryant’s “Dear Basketball” letter, and I prompted students to write a letter to an object. Of course I wrote in front of them and chose a hard/funny topic. Here it is, slightly revised and a little more scandalous than what I shared in class.

Dear first floor boys’ bathroom,

I don’t understand your allure. You are, apparently, one of the most attractive things in the school – boys flock to you, hang out with you, lie to be with you – and yet, I’ve seen you, and, frankly, you are nothing special. In fact, sometimes you are downright nasty.

What sanctuary do you offer? Sometimes I imagine you are a hiding space, a place for boys to be away from the prying eyes of teachers. Other times, I think you are an invitation to transgression: when boys spend time with you, they know they walk the line between what is and is not allowed. They’re kind of safe – after all, everyone needs the bathroom sometimes, and they have time to hide anything really bad when they hear an adult walking in. You offer just the kind of trouble that gets them sent back to class, out of your secret spaces and into the hallways where they must walk in the light.

I cannot imagine the pull of a stinky space where people go to take care of bodily functions as a place to hang out. But what do I know? I mean, Yeats wrote, “But Love has pitched his mansion in/ The place of excrement” lines that shocked me when I was in high school, so I’m probably not the best judge. Not that you know about Yeats; I suspect you’re more a reader of graffiti. Even as I write to you, my mind goes to brothels and back alleys, places that offer physical satisfaction and frissons of delight to those willing to go just to the edge of what society accepts. 

Perhaps you are the opium den of our school, or the whorehouse – and if I’m going to share this, perhaps you are enticing me, too, to the edge of what is allowable. Still, downstairs boys’ bathroom, your siren call is undeniable, and I’m not yet willing to tie myself to the mast to keep students from being lured to your shores – or toilets. For now, I will gently suggest that boys ignore your temptations, knowing full well that they will not be able to resist.

Yours,
The teacher down the hall

How I Learned Canadian History #SOL24 4/31

Kindergarten: I met this fascinating man at a wedding. He told me he was from Ottawa and started to explain where it was. I stopped him, saying, “It’s the capital of Canada; I know where it is.” He was astonished. Later, he married me. These things are not unrelated.

First grade: Immediately after my permanent residency was approved, I was offered a job teaching Canadian Civics in French. I’m American, and my home language is English (though I speak French). I looked through the curriculum and politely declined. I knew nothing except that I didn’t know enough to teach Canadian Civics… yet.

Grade Two: I got a job teaching French in the English public school system, as opposed to the Catholic public schools or the French public schools or the French Catholic public schools. Just navigating the four public systems was an education in Canadian history – where minority language rights for the French and the Catholic system were enshrined in the law. I also learned that Canadians talk about Grade + year rather than the other way around.

Grade 3: I switched to a new position called “Student Success” where I helped students “recover” courses they had previously failed. Many of them failed Civics. Many many many of them. Remember that job I turned down because I didn’t know enough? Now I helped with dozens of failed Civics projects – and at least half a dozen Canadian History classes, too. I began to understand the Parliamentary system and even knew who the Governor General was. Riding? Premier? MP? MPP? I knew it all. Helping with Grade 10 History taught me a lot of battles, too. This would come in handy later.

Grade 4: I watched in fascinated horror during an election where an entire party got virtually wiped out. No one blinked. My spouse insisted that the party would come back in the next election. In Quebec, a young woman who had been running as a place-holder candidate in a riding that was all but guaranteed to go to someone else was suddenly elected and had to return from a trip to Las Vegas. She would turn out to be a strong MP. I realized that I needed to be able to vote in Canada.

Grade 5: I took the Canadian citizenship test. The people I knew told me it would be “super easy” but I took it under the Harper government, and they had a thing about the War of 1812. I knew very little  about the War of 1812, so I studied the citizenship packet assiduously – and spent several hours taking practice tests online. I learned about Louis Riel and Indigenous fishing rights and much much more. The exam itself was multiple choice and while it’s marked as pass/fail, I’m pretty sure I aced that thing. For the record, I’m glad I studied.

Grade 6: My children started school. Elementary school projects were straightforward, but I was impressed by the attention their teachers paid to Indigenous peoples. Together, we learned about Indigenous cultures, granted in a somewhat general way, but it was good. 

Grade 7: I spent several hours – twice! once with each child – helping prepare for a debate arguing the pros and cons of Canadian confederation in 1867. Sadly for my learning-to-time-spent ratio, child 1 was given the “pro” side and, two years later, child 2 was given the “con” side. Child 2 remembered this assignment at dinner last night. It is due today. I can now tell you about the Dorion brothers in Quebec and the Fenian raids and the arguments about how to pay for the intercontinental railroad. Heck, I can tell you how the US Civil War influenced the drive for Confederation and so, so much more.

Grade Eight: I know what’s coming next: a project about Louis Riel and the Red River Resistance. In French. Luckily, this one is due after March Break, so my Canadian History education will not have to take place largely in one week. Also, I’ve already had at least a middle school education in Canadian History, so I’m ready to go!

Nearby #SOL24 3/31

Years ago, a photographer friend of mine, Maggie Knaus, had an exhibition that she entitled “Nearby.” In it, she featured pictures she had taken when her brother-in-law had been nearby. He had passed away, but the images remained, beautiful and poignant. 

I think about that exhibition a lot: the beauty; the sadness; the sense that noticing who is nearby, who is not quite in the picture, is powerful and important. Because of it, I find myself thinking about who is nearby as I go about my day.

Right now, for example, my spouse and his buddies are playing a board game in the next room. The game will last most of the afternoon, their laughter and chatter an accompaniment to my writing and planning. Dice rattle; pieces plunk onto the board. I love the easy camaraderie of these men, the way they gather often, using games to deepen their friendships. They laugh again, and here, mere metres away, I smile.

Mr. 15 is in his third-floor hideaway. The “chill room” was meant to be a shared space, but his bedroom is tiny, so he has spilled into this space, too: computer, books, beanbag – and all the detritus that trails behind teenage boys. When he is home, he is up there. Moments ago, we crossed paths in the kitchen as he cut two thick slabs of fresh bread, slathered them with butter and popped them into the toaster “to melt the butter just enough.” I silently marvelled at his tall and slender form, at his long torso stretching up from pajama bottoms knotted low around his hips. What a miracle, to watch my child become a man. I hug him when I can and keep my comments to a minimum. Now, he is hidden again: only his voice trails down the stairs, a murmured reminder that he is nearby.

Mr. 13 is in the room with me, but a bookcase and a bamboo screen separate us. He is nearly silent now. Only the click of the keyboard and the occasional slide of the chair across the floor let me know he is nearby. Soon enough, he will finish this task and join his friends online. At some point, his excited voice will rise up to fill this room, and I will say, “Seriously! Can you please tone it down?” and he will – for 30 seconds or a minute – until the game and the friends fill his brain again and his voice surges again.

In the kitchen, one cat sleeps in her perch near the sliding glass door. In the basement, the other cat sleeps in the box of giveaway coats that she has adopted as her own. And here on the couch, the dog has curled up next to me as I write. 

In this mundane moment, I pause to recognize just how much love is near me, just how lucky I am.

Second day jitters #SOL24 2/31

At first, this post may look like a poem – and it is! A pantoum, no less! – but it actually a tribute to mentors & the writing process.

On Day Two
How have I forgotten these early days
When doubt – or lack of sleep – drowns
any conviction that I have made
the right choice,

When doubt – or lack of sleep – drowns
the constant rhythm of the deep heart’s core,
which knows the right choice must be
the leap I have already taken?

The constant rhythm of my deep heart’s core
fears nothing:
The leap I have already taken,
the worry that I will share my imperfection,

fears, – nothing
you, too, have not felt before.
The desire to share imperfection,
and be seen –

you, too, have felt it before,
that conviction that we are made
to be seen.
But, oh, I had forgotten these early days.

How I started
(Mentor #1: Alice Nine, who blogged here when I first started, used to write something and then share her process. I found it endlessly fascinating. Today, I’ll share mine.)

I went to bed last night with my head full of ideas for blogging – and I woke up this morning with nothing. Nothing. “Why,” I asked myself, “did I even sign up this year?” (Note: I literally never considered NOT signing up, so this question is ridiculous.) I proceeded to spend a fairly impressive amount of time beating myself up: I overcommit, I take on new things but don’t let anything go, I compare myself to others, I should have chosen a theme for the month (Mentors #2 & #3: Sherri Spelic and E Griffin, both of whom have lovely themes for the month). You get the picture.

Of course, I quickly realized that I have been in this space before – the space where I doubt basically everything. It happens every March during this challenge (and usually right at the beginning, go figure). My mind leaped quickly to the truth that this is also how I felt when I had newborns: some combination of overwhelming excitement, fear and doubt. This leap, I am certain, came from reading a new-to-me blog yesterday, Ana Paton’s lovely post about overwhelm and holding her newborn daughter & poetry.

In my head I heard, “How have I forgotten these early days?” I scribbled that down & then free-wrote for a few minutes. It was poem-ish, probably because of that single line. Plus, mentor #4, my friend Earl Brogan once told me that if I was having trouble saying something, I should try poetry. (I think I harumphed, but he has been proven right.)

Getting unstuck
When I ran out of steam, I paused and wrote about what I was trying to write. I make my students do this meta-writing all the time, and I love it. I wrote, “Revision: This is a poem of fears and questions. Is the final answer yes? Or I am enough? Or one step at a time? Hmm… Or is the final answer a question?” The idea of questions and answers led me to try the duplex form that poet Jericho Brown invented because the theme seemed ideal for a conversation. I played with that for a while until I suddenly wrote, “Nope – not a duplex – because the second voice is insipid.”

Well.

One of the sites I’d used to remind myself of the duplex form had also discussed pantoum. I love pantoums but find them complicated to write. Still, my early draft had a lot of repetition, so I copied out the form.

Stealing a line
From there, I spent a fair amount of time tinkering with lines. A pantoum is not a weekday poem – at least not for me. At one point, I nearly threw in the towel, but then I remembered a line from (Mentor #5) WB Yeats’ poem “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” – the deep heart’s core. Once I would have eschewed that line as not mine, but I another trick I share with my students is to “steal a line.” So I did.

Having some courage
And here I am! I have a pantoum! And I’m publishing it! And for that, I need to thank other mentors like (mentors #6 – a bazillion) Margaret Simon, Glenda Funk and Fran Haley who regularly & generously share their poetry – plus the Monthy Open Write that Sarah Donovan hosts over at Ethical ELA.

As it turns out, I write in a community who does, I think, “see” me. And for that, I thank Stacy Shubitz, Melanie Meehan and everyone at TwoWritingTeachers.
Now, with day 2 under my belt, I move forward into day 3.

An unwelcome visitor #SOL24 1/31

I knew for sure that I had an unwelcome visitor on Saturday. I’d heard the quiet knocking every morning for days, but tried to pretend it wasn’t coming: I went to bed early, but soon sleep started to elude me; I woke daily with a tickle in the back of my throat. By Saturday there was no ignoring the visitor: the virus had arrived.

“I think I’m sick,” I croaked at my spouse, as if my voice and the circles under my bleary eyes didn’t make this obvious.

“I think you are,” he replied, and set me on the couch to recuperate.

We’ve had viruses visit before, of course. Mostly we greet them with tea and honey; we entertain them with ridiculous series on Netflix or long cuddles with good books; always, we like to offer them plenty of rest. This satisfies most viruses. After a day or two, they thank us politely and move on, sometimes leaving behind a bit of a mess, but nothing that we can’t handle if we’re cautious.

This virus though, the one that came on Saturday, this one has overstayed its welcome. I tried to coddle it over the weekend, hoping that it would be willing to move on by Monday morning, but no. Instead, the virus – which had initially taken up residence in my throat – decided that it was too confined and expanded into my lungs and my sinuses. There, it stretched out. “Ah… just what I needed: more space.” It took a particular liking to my lungs and hung out there, making it hard for me to breathe.

So, I took the virus to the doctor’s office where we tried to take a picture of it, but it was shy and hid from the x-ray. “Well,” said the doctor, “at least it’s not Pneumonia. She always overstays her welcome – a real hanger-on, that one.” Pneumonia has visited both me and my spouse, so I knew exactly what the doctor meant. She is a terrible guest. “Still,” the doctor continued, “there are some truly ill-mannered viruses going around right now. This one may stay for days.”

I nodded my head, but I didn’t believe her. I know how to deal with a virus, and I don’t get sick very often. I wheezed my way home and curled up on my couch. I played puzzle games with my virus and watched lots of bad TV. We downloaded a mindless game app and played for hours. We drank unending pots of tea with honey. We knit, pet the dog and took naps. Still, the virus stayed. It fiddled with the thermostat, so I tried to help it get comfortable with some ibuprofen. Then, ungrateful, it spent Monday evening painting my throat bright red. “Much better,” it squealed. After that, it yelled at me whenever I swallowed, “You’re ruining the paint job!”

Every afternoon, I checked in with my virus. “Maybe you could leave tomorrow?” I asked. The virus laughed, and watched me write increasingly tearful emails to the vice principal, telling her that I needed to be out yet again. Last night, as I created the fifth day of lesson plans, the virus was not even remotely helpful. In fact, it laughed even harder and said, “I *might* leave tomorrow, but I’m just not sure yet. Maybe you should go in just to see what I do.” I’d gotten wise to it, though. I knew that it just wanted to stay longer, so I called in sick and sent the (now pretty pathetic) lesson plans.

Today is the seventh day of the virus’s visit. I’ve told it that my spouse and I don’t typically welcome guests for more than a week without consulting with one another, so it is reluctantly packing up. The paint job it had so delighted in has largely faded, and it’s moved into a smaller space, mostly in my throat. I’ve offered it more tea and sleep, but I think it’s starting to crave something different, hopefully something it can’t find in this house. By Monday, this unwelcome visitor should be gone, and I should be back to work. Fingers crossed.

Sick Days

Second semester started with days of absent students. Some didn’t understand that the semester began in the middle of the week. Some thought the first few days were “kind of useless” and decided to stay home. Two were out of the country indefinitely. Lots of students were changing their timetables. Of course, most students were there, so I focused on the ones in the classroom, tried to make clear assignments for those who were out, and continued along.

By the end of the first full week, classes were well underway, but students seemed to be coming and going at an unusual rate. I chalked it up to, well, I don’t know what – but weird things happen in small environments, and schools are no exception. So, a lot of students were missing class, such is life, and talk at the teachers’ table at lunchtime suggested that this was true in many classes. Worse, some kids were getting sick and then were gone for days – days! None of the normal “sick for a day and then back” that usually happens. We couldn’t figure it out.

Then, last week, my youngest got sick. He doesn’t love school, so I often look askance at any request to stay home, but on Tuesday, he was visibly unwell, so we let him stay home – and there he stayed for three full days. Three days! He’s 13! 13-year-olds bounce back ridiculously quickly; they don’t stay home for days because of a nondescript cold. (It wasn’t covid.) But here we were. By the time Friday rolled around, he’d missed the annual ice skating outing, pizza day, and more. He was ready to go back.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when I started feeling sick on Saturday. I was gentle with myself, but I figured it was just a cold. Just a cold… and here I am, four days later, still at home. I am sick. It’s not Covid, but I was sick enough to check with the doctor on Monday. They shook their head and said, “there are some nasty viruses going around.” Indeed. Them they x-rayed my chest to see if I had pneumonia – I don’t. I’m just sick. Last night I slept 13 hours. I’ve spent most of the last three days sitting on the couch. My throat is a hot mess. I’m sick.

When I check class attendance, I see that the students are still sick, too. To date, only 6 of my 26 grade 9 students have perfect attendance; only 4 of the 21 grade 12s. No wonder I’ve been spending so much of my afternoon literacy block trying to simply find the students I need to work with. Whew.

I’m out again tomorrow – and I really hate being away from school. If I’m lucky, I’ll be better by Thursday. At least I’ve solved the mystery of all the missing students – they’re sick!

A call from the teacher

The phone rang after dinner. I warily checked the caller ID, then perked up when I saw my sister’s name. Ah, exactly what I needed! But just as we settled in to a nice chat, I heard a beep.

Call waiting. I didn’t even know we still had call waiting. We’re already the odd family out because we still have a landline, but I can’t even remember the last time two people tried to call our house at the same time. Odd. (For what it’s worth, our reasoning for the landline is complicated, but the crux of it is that one of the kids still doesn’t have a cell phone AND we want them to be able to answer the phone in a general sort of way – you know, like if their grandparents call.)

Even odder, the tiny screen displayed the school district’s phone number. Someone was calling us from a school at 8:15pm. I asked my sister to hold on, and clicked over. My younger child’s teacher chirped a cheery hello. Quickly, I hung up on my sister (sorry, sis) and devoted my attention to this unusual caller.

I was a little concerned. I mean, when was the last time we had a not-automated call from the school? We got his report card last week and nothing looked terribly amiss. And he was already at home, playing video games & chatting with his friends, safely in one piece. More than that, when I’d asked, “How was your day?” he had pleasantly replied, “boring” as he does virtually every day. Everything seemed fine.

But his teacher was talking. I calmed my racing mind and paid attention. She was just calling to say hello and see how things were going. She was impressed with his math work. She knows about his dyslexia and complimented his writing. We talked about this and that. Finally, I asked if she was calling everyone. Yes, she was. She had decided to call all of her students’ families just to check in after report cards. After all, she said, it’s really too bad that the students who are doing well don’t get this sort of attention. We had a very pleasant conversation, and I hung up in a good mood. Judging from her voice, I bet she felt pretty good, too.

Before I called my sister back, I realized: I have done this. I have called home to say something nice. I have called home to check in. I have been the chipper voice on the other end of the line, the teacher saying that things are going well. But, I have never been the parent who got this call. And you know what? It felt nice. It felt like the sort of thing I might want to do for the families of this semester’s students. In fact, maybe I’ll start again this week.

If you could talk to your younger self

I was tidying the copying area in our office when a sheet of lined paper, adrift amidst the abandoned photocopies, caught my eye. A quick glance told me this was not my writing prompt, not my student. Still, I couldn’t help but read the words – and my heart broke open. Oh, how I wish I could tell this anonymous student about the poetry he has created, tell him that he is so much better than he knows.

If you could talk to your younger self what would you say

I would tell him
not to turn out like
me tell him to get good grades
and go to school dont skip
or anything Be good everything
like that if He turns out like me His
life will suck

My response (quickwrite)
If I could talk to the student whose paper was left behind

I would tell him
not to give up on
himself, tell him to hold on
and keep doing what he can. Be kind, everything
that I wish he could hear. If he knew the power of his
words, he would be stunned.

New shoes

During exam week, as semester one wound down and semester two loomed on the horizon, I bought myself some new shoes. Fluevogs were on sale and I decided to splurge, telling myself that the black and white pair were practically every day shoes. Mostly, I just thought they were awesome.

The Fluevogs, just waiting for me to buy them.

Days later, I wore the shoes for the first day of second semester. Right away, before period one even started, one of my new grade 9 students told me that she loved my shoes. Over the course of the morning, students and teachers complimented my shoes. I don’t think of myself as wildly fashionable, so I quite enjoyed the attention.

After the lunch bell rang, I spent a few quiet minutes in the classroom, straightening the desks and generally tidying. I know that each new semester brings both excitement and nerves, and I suspected I might have a few drop-ins. Sure enough, one of my regulars showed up to run down his classes so far.

I can’t get over how much I enjoy this young man. We spent two years in a row in English class together, and there were times when I wasn’t sure we were both going to make it. Somehow, by the time the second class had ended, we’d muddled through some actual reading and several pieces of writing that involved more than a few hastily scribbled sentences. We had even discovered that he is secretly an incredible teacher – and got him a peer tutoring placement in some ESL classes. Now, in grade 11, he is thriving (still challenging – but thriving).

He knows that I keep a blog – “are you famous yet, Miss?” – and thinks it’s ridiculous that I read so much – “do you even sleep?” He tells me he’s a “baller” and once spent a significant amount of class time explaining why Kobe is better than Michael Jordan. And yes, I tricked him into writing an opinion essay on this. He also likes to mock my “secret crush” on Jason Reynolds. I regularly book talk Long Way Down, the Ghost trilogy and Miles Morales. All the kids know I love his writing, but when I showed a video of Reynolds talking about how he didn’t read much in high school, this student was shocked. Reynolds is a Black man with impressive dreadlocks; I am a middle-aged white teacher with what this student called “the same haircut as all the other teachers” (ouch. And for the record, he is wrong.)

He took my crush pretty seriously. For weeks he came back to it. “But you’re married,” he said. “Does your husband know?” Yes, yes he does. “But for real, if he asked you out, would you go out with him?” I suggested that it was unlikely that I would ever meet Reynolds, much less have dinner with him. “But what if you did?” this student worried. I said that I would go on an author date with him, an English teacher date – we would talk about writing and books. “That would be the most boring date ever,” he said and though I insisted that this would, in fact, be interesting for me, he was unconvinced.

But on this day we were talking about his new classes, not about books or writing. Then, after a minute of boasting that he was going to change a class because it was “way too much work” (“It’s day one,” I said, “you have no idea if it’s too much work.”), he suddenly stopped and said, “Miss, those are some fancy shoes.”

I was startled, then started to thank him, but he interrupted me. “Miss, if Jason Reynolds saw you in those shoes, he would definitely ask you on a date.” He paused. “Yeah, those are your Jason Reynolds date shoes, for sure.”

Though I expect that I will never, in fact, wear these shoes on a date with one of my favourite authors, I’m pretty sure I will call them “Jason Reynolds date shoes” for as long as I wear them. I mean, they are pretty cute.