Pipe dreams: Slice of Life 6/31 #SOL20

The movers are booked for tomorrow. My husband has been packing for days. The cats are freaked out, the children’s room is somehow magically both packed and a complete mess, and the kitchen is bare. After living in a small apartment during almost nine months of renovations, we are ready to go home.

(Originally, these renovations were supposed to take four months, but then it turned out our kitchen was actually the old stable, and it wasn’t exactly firmly attached to the house and the foundation was, well, somewhat less than stable. The project grew.)

The builders have been putting the finishing touches on the house. For me, finishing touches are things like putting up the light fixtures and putting down the carpet. For them, apparently, finishing touches include things like moving the plumbing in the basement so that the bathrooms drain more effectively – or something like that. And yesterday, as they dug into the basement floor, they discovered – completely by accident – that our 110+ year old house still had pipes made of clay.

Notice the use of the past tense. The pipes disintegrated.

3da5221c-8409-4693-8eed-40953e5e025f — You can see the clay on the end of this pipe; the hole that was left behind is in the background.

Did I mention that we are supposed to move in tomorrow? Unfortunately, when the inspector came yesterday – right after the whole, “oops, my shovel went right through that pipe” debacle – he declared the house “unfit for occupancy.”

Luckily, our (truly amazing) builder has already fixed the pipe problem. Unluckily, booking a housing inspector requires *at least* 24-hours notice. So… the movers come tomorrow but we can’t actually stay in our house until Monday. Or maybe Tuesday. Also, Andre – who is wildly prepared – had already packed all of the food, most of the kitchen and all but two sets of clothes for him and the boys. I’m the only slacker and, thus, the only one with clothes.

Now, I will admit to feeling a little sick about all of this, but my 12 year old’s over-the-top pre-teen reaction helped me put things in perspective. Upon hearing about the pipes, he heaved a giant sigh and threw himself onto the couch: “I just knew something like this was going to happen. I am literally going to die if we have to stay in this apartment.”

I mean, he might die, but we’ve lasted nine months. It seems like we can make another three days. Right?

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Good Enough: Slice of Life 5/31 #SOL20

I am a perfectionist. Once, I wore that epithet as a badge of honour: not only would I get things done, I got them done well. Wait: I got them done *perfectly.* In high school, once I figured out the grades-game, I got straight As. I still smart from a B+ in a grad school course; I still think – literally decades later – that the prof was, well, wrong.

I’ve striven for perfection in pretty much every area of my life (yes, I just looked up the past participle of “strive”) and, while I’ve been able to let go of some things – our house can be, frankly, messy; and my amazing, complicated & complex second child is a regular reminder that there really is no such thing as the perfect parent – academics are still a real bugaboo for me.

And I’m taking this course… the FIFTH since August because I am finally getting the credentials I need to be fully settled in the Ontario teaching system; it’s a lot of hoop-jumping. In case you are wondering – which you really shouldn’t be – I got As in the first four. And not just As; I got a 98 in one of them. Not that I care, mind you… just kidding: I definitely care.

Readers, I got a 100 on the first assignment of this current course. And I have a job and a family. And we are moving on Saturday – that’s in TWO days. And I turned in assignment #2 early because we’re moving on the day it’s due. The assignment involves making a video of myself explaining a text. I sat at my computer, a blue sheet draped behind me, and talked about the text. My eyes are always looking a little down; I fumble to show the book to the camera; my face fills the screen. I know what I’m talking about, but the video itself is not great.

Now we are required to share our videos – I did not know this would happen – and the young teachers in the course have videos that look amazing: visuals and transitions and screenshots. Not one them holds the text up to the camera and accidentally moves it the wrong way. They look so good that it makes my stomach hurt a little.

So I decided to re-film mine. I still have two days until it’s due, and I could definitely learn how to do those video-things. I mean, I know how to use the internet to learn things and also maybe a colleague would help? at lunch? on Friday?

No.

For once in my life I am going to acknowledge that my work is good enough. I will learn nothing more from filming that video again. Until the due date is past, I will repeat this mantra: “this is good enough.”

I just need you to hold me to that.

#BlackJoy: Slice of Life 4/31 #SOL20

She walked onto the stage wearing a blue dress and attitude. She owned every bit of who she is – bold, bright, and black. Who could take their eyes off of her, suddenly beautiful? She paused, posed, and moved on.

Black student after black student followed, the bright colours of their outfits matched their smiles as they claimed their share of the spotlight. On this day, black students were the hosts, the performers, the designers, the readers, the models. At this assembly, everyone in the school saw them.

My heart nearly burst with happiness. They did this themselves. They applied for and won $1000 grant. They made many of the clothes from fabric they chose. They booked speakers and artists and prepared their own artistic performances. When a strike day forced us to move the date of the assembly and all – all! – of the guests couldn’t make it, the students planned the whole thing again in less than a week.

Working with these students has shown me their determination and their awareness of what they face because of their skin colour, has made me a better ally, has changed me in ways I never expected. The world had better get ready for these kids. They are coming and they are not interested in anyone trying to hold them back.

Bouncing Back – writing in front of them, take 2: Slice of Life 3/31 #SOL20

Last Tuesday, I posted about trying to write in front of my class and failing. On Wednesday, our class used a New York Times mentor text to think about how we can use details to show rather than tell. The text is from an essay called “The Iguana in the Bathtub” by Anne Doten. Here’s how it opens:

When the temperature dipped below 40, iguanas started falling from the trees. Small, sleek green iguanas; big iguanas as long as four feet from snout to tail, scales cresting gloriously from their heads; orange-and-green iguanas, their muscled, goose-pimpled arms resolving into sharp claws. Iguanas were everywhere: in the bushy areas surrounding canals, on sidewalks, in backyards, lying helpless among the fallen, rotting fruit of mango and orange trees.

I encouraged the students to try their hand at opening a scene in this way – exuberant, over the top description. We played around with this for a while, and then everyone got back to work on their own scenes. I didn’t write in front of them on Wednesday, but that evening, as I prepared for the next day’s class, I dove back into my own failed attempt and used the model I’d given the students. Imitating Doten’s opening freed something in me, and the words came more easily. Suddenly, I was able to write the story I’d failed at the day before. On Thursday, I showed my students my progress, and they were suitably impressed – whether with my story or my persistence, I am not sure.

We’ve also looked at dialogue in class, and I don’t have any in here yet, so I’m going to ask for suggestions today. My students are of good ideas. Until then, here’s my revised piece:

When Mrs. Barkman announced the mythology test, all of our eyes widened. We had heard about this test from the upperclassmen: impossible, beyond the feats of human memory, designed exclusively to weed out those of us who didn’t really belong in Honors English, created merely to squash all of our dreams. To hear my best friend’s older brother tell it, every year students ran weeping from the classroom, tearing their hair, blood seeping from their eyes, fingers permanently disfigured from the cramping caused by all the writing. We were scared.

After class, my friends and I huddled in the hallway and murmured worriedly. What would happen if we failed? None of us had ever failed. It was unthinkable.

Somehow, someone appointed me to talk to Mrs. Barkman about the test. I say “somehow” but, looking back, I’m not shocked it was me. I have long been too willing to stand up to authority, especially in the role of defender. I was, simultaneously, intensely studious and intensely willing to speak up. I didn’t yet know if I was a rule-follower or a rebel. I didn’t yet know that I could be both. I was 13. One day I wore blue eyeshadow, “midnight” mascara, and blush applied so heavily that I looked permanently sunburned. The next day I came to school fresh-faced wearing turquoise pants and a Disney t-shirt.

In my mind, I approach Mrs. Barkman as a 13-year-old with pigtails. I tell her that we are not ready for the test tomorrow and that we need more time. In my mind, she looms over me, nose like a hatchet, eyes like a hawk. In my mind, her sharp voice cuts through my tremulous one as she denies me – us – any leeway.

But I might have been wearing mascara so thick that it flaked onto my cheekbones and a shirt designed to show my nearly nonexistent cleavage. It’s possible that I was shrill and demanding. There’s a chance I was more cocky than courageous.

Both scenarios are equally possible. Either way, she refused to move the test.

I worried so much about the test and my encounter with my terrifying teacher that I made myself sick. My mother kept me home from school the next day. Mrs. Barkman gave my peers a ridiculously easy matching test and, when I returned, I took the hard test – alone.

I aced it, but it was months before Mrs. Barkman stopped thinking I had skipped on purpose. I aced it, but I still didn’t know if I was a nerd or a rebel or a social justice warrior. I think I might have just been 13.

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I Can Hear You Now: Slice of Life 2/31 #SOL20

I am sitting absolutely straight in a hard-backed chair in the middle of a dimly lit sound-proofed room. Wires stick out of both sides of my head. To my right the thick hazy glass of the small window only vaguely allows me to see out.

I strain my ears. Is that a sound? There! At the far outside edges of my senses, I detect something. I press the button on the black metal contraption I hold in my hands. After all, before she left, she told me that it might seem almost imaginary, but if I heard anything I should press.

I’m having my hearing tested. The audiologist went through a whole series of questions before we began. The long and the short of it was, “Why are you here?” I’m too young, really, and don’t work in an especially loud environment. I don’t regularly attend loud concerts and no one in my family is complaining that I don’t respond when they speak.

Still, here I sit, furrowing my brow and tensing my body in concentration. Do I hear that? Is that a noise? I press the button.

Last semester, I finally gave up. I couldn’t hear about half of my students when they spoke. “Speak up!” I’d say. “Can you repeat that?” Most of them just trailed off and whatever thought they’d had was gone. I know that my classes are full of kids who have mastered the art of hiding from their teachers, but this was too much. I really wanted to hear what they were saying.

The room I was teaching in is, frankly, terrible for sound. It’s right by the water fountain, the boys bathroom and a t-intersection with another hallway. It’s just a few doors down from the music room. And, worst of all, someone designed the building so that the air vent blows directly into the front of the room, right where a teacher might stand. Honestly, it was a miracle I could hear anyone at all.

When I mentioned my frustrating inability to hear my students to my doctor at a checkup, she said,”I’ll refer you.” And here I am. Oh! My thoughts have drifted. Did I just miss a really low tone? I press the button again.

Finally, the test ends. Back in the regular office, I face the audiologist with trepidation. She grins, “Your students need to speak up. Your hearing is nearly bionic in some areas and fine in all areas.”

Whew.

Alright, kiddos, I’ve got science on my side: I can hear you now. It’s time to raise your voices and tell the world – or at least me – what you know.

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In or out? Slice of Life 1/31 #sol20

Before I even woke up I was already thinking, “should I?” Of course, I knew the answer: I should not.

I answered the question yesterday at a conference when I told my blogging buddy Lisa (over at https://alotalot.wordpress.com/) that I was only going to comment this year. I answered the question last week when another blogging friend messaged me and asked if I was participating. I didn’t write back because I couldn’t bear to say no (sorry, Elisabeth).

I answered the question at the beginning of February when our move date got pushed back to March 7. No one blogs every day for a month while they are teaching, finishing renovations, moving home, taking a course and, well, living. “That would be too much,” I told my husband sagely. He agreed.

This afternoon, I settled in to read blogs. I was already feeling a little sad about my very appropriate decision. I read Peter’s post “Working on my resume” and marveled at his decision to blog even though he knows he might not write every day this month. And something clicked.

My personal challenge right now – in so many ways – is to be kind to myself. I want to be kind to myself with all my imperfections. And here’s what I know: I love writing. I love the way I pay attention to life when I write daily for myself or for a blog. So kindness, for me, for this month, is participating in this challenge, accepting that I will be imperfect in my participation.

Slice: I am sitting on my bed in our tiny apartment. I can hear the kids in the next room. The cats wander aimlessly back and forth between us, meowing occasionally to remind us that it’s almost dinner time. My laptop is warm on my legs. Our things are helter skelter – in boxes or not, in drawers or not – as we prepare for our move in a week. I haven’t quite finished marking papers. I haven’t quite finished prepping for tomorrow’s lessons. I haven’t quite finished my next assignment for my class. Even with all that hanging over me, I feel light. I will take on the challenge of writing daily in March; and I will allow myself the kindness of failure without frustration. I will not miss out on the fun because I cannot be perfect. I will write.

Am I doing the Slice of Life Challenge this month? Yes, yes I am.

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Writing in front of them

It’s not like I hadn’t planned my lesson. I had. 15 minutes of reading – while I conferenced quietly with students – followed by a quickwrite about memories from school. Then I would “write in front of them” to show them how to start crafting a scene. I’d chosen Alexie’s “Indian Education” as a mentor text and brainstormed some memories the night before. I had a few in mind and was ready to go.

Only here I was, sitting in front of 25 Grade 12 students and my writing was terrible. I had modeled how to find a moment – I thought of early memories and jotted them down but rejected them as too vague – then landed on a high school memory of an encounter with my daunting freshman English teacher.

I’d known before the class that I would probably end up writing about her, so I had details in mind. But they didn’t come together. At all. I started a sentence and abandoned it, explaining why. I narrated as I re-thought my entry point and pushed through the lurching prose to at least get a full idea down. I talked about trying to add some detail, but every detail felt forced and flat. I paused and acknowledged my problem out loud: “So I’m stuck and this doesn’t feel good to me. I think I’ll back up and think about what I might be trying to show with this scene. Why am I writing this?”

And suddenly, I was mortified. Not only could I not get this scene on paper but I realized I was wrestling with my own understanding of who I was in high school. I felt naked in front of my students’ curious eyes: Was I the nerd who studied for hours? The kind of kid who got sick on the day of the test? Who spoke up to teachers? Who stood up for her friends? This stupid scene – this tiny thorn of a memory from over 30 years ago – was too small and too complex and too big and too flat to possibly write, and certainly not as people watched me.

Defeated, I stopped. “I can’t make it work,” I admitted. “I’m realizing that I don’t know what I’m trying to do in this scene. I don’t know who I was in that moment, and I feel like I’m revealing way more of myself to you than I meant to – I mean, was I really this nerdy and this outspoken and this dumb? It’s unsettling – I’m unsettled. Why don’t you start your scenes while I see what I can do here?”

As students opened their notebooks, I stared at my own work, distressed. So much for “writing in front of them.” So much for “teacher as model.” I heaved a sigh and looked up. One girl – front and center, whip smart and unabashedly vocal – looked back and smiled ruefully at me. Then she dove into her notebook, pen moving unwaveringly across the paper.

And I went back to writing, too.

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Please join us! In March, many bloggers will accept the challenge of writing and posting a Slice of Life daily at https://twowritingteachers.org/. You can try it, too. We’d love to have you.

What we did on our vacation

I was working on a post for my on-line class when I heard someone pounding on the backdoor. I ran through the apartment to open it, and my 11 year old plowed in. “Hi Mom! We’re home!” He threw his backpack on the floor and started prying off his boots.

Just then, the front door was assaulted. BANG! BANG! BANG! Back I ran, through the apartment, and flung open the door for the 9 year old. “Hi Mom!”

They were returning from a three-day trip to Toronto with another family, Dad and an exchange student. I had stayed home because I had both work and classwork. Once I corralled both children into the same room, I asked, “How was the trip?”

They had a lot to say, interrupting each other, talking so fast I could hardly keep up:
It was trash. The back of the car was SO HOT. And completely crowded. And on the way down, the windshield squirter broke and it took forever to fix. And they wouldn’t turn on the air conditioning even though we said we were hot.

It is February in Canada. Their Southern mother cannot imagine wanting air conditioning. I was with the adults on this one.

“But, how was Toronto?” I probed. “Tell me about the vacation part.”

P has a girlfriend. Her name is Emma. She likes the same things we like. Well, I mean, some of them. Like the same shows. We got to talk to her. She’s nice. And he met her on Tinder. And he was like, It’s the last thing I expected, meeting someone here. And we were like, we knew you’d have a girlfriend. But she’s really nice. And she doesn’t even go to his school.

“Whoa! Wait. What? Was she with you in Toronto?”

No, we Skyped with her every night. He talks to her a lot. Oh! And someone got shot. There was a fight. It was right outside our hotel. And then the guy who got shot came into the lobby. But we were asleep. And they took him to the hospital. And there were LOADS of people in the lobby.

I closed my eyes for a minute and took a deep breath. “So, did you actually do anything in Toronto?”

Oh. Yeah. We went to the aquarium.

I looked from one to the other, waiting.

Finally the older one piped up, “Oh yeah, Mom, how was your weekend?”

“Calm,” I said, “Very calm.”

3d17d-screen2bshot2b2014-12-152bat2b7-37-262bpm — Join us! The Slice of Life community is open to all. In March, we have a daily writing challenge. You can register here https://twowritingteachers.org/2020/02/12/participant-info-form-sol20/

Recycling

The two untouched photocopies in the recycling bin make me sigh out loud. I handed them out to my grade 12 class last period and asked the students to glue them into their notebook then annotate the text. Rather than circulate, I had worked alongside them: using a document camera to model “reading like a writer”, marking up the text with my observations, questions and notes. I really thought the students were doing this, too.

I’ll admit it: this class isn’t starting like many other English classes they’ve taken. Heck, it’s not even starting like the other English classes I’ve taught. I’ve reconsidered my reading instruction over the past few years, and now most of our reading is independent, choice reading. Every class starts with 15 minutes of reading. Every student reads a minimum of five books in a semester (though I’ll negotiate for really thick or complicated books). Since I started this, my students’ reading volume has increased dramatically; many read far more than five books, and they are better prepared to approach the complex texts that we work on as a class.

But… it still feels weird. I mean, doesn’t every high school English teacher start with short stories while the class list gets finalized? Shouldn’t I be telling them how to think about literature? Isn’t that my job? It’s unsettling to use new methods.

To make class even more odd, this semester I’ve committed to having students write daily. After all, I say, “You can’t get better at something you don’t practice.” I’ve only had this group for a week, and I suspect they are already sick of hearing me say this.

So, you know, we read, then we write, we study a short text. We move around and share. We edit our own work… it’s workshop-y. And, ahem, I haven’t graded a thing. Not. One. Thing. I haven’t even given feedback yet – shh! There is method to my madness: I really really want these soon-to-be graduates to remember that reading and writing are things that we do because they make us whole. These are things we do for our lives, not just for a teacher. “When was the last time you read for fun?” I ask. Some of them can’t remember. “When did you last write something that wasn’t for school?” Some of them say never.

But those papers in the recycle bin make me think I’m not doing a very good job with my new-fangled methods. I worry that my goal-oriented students feel adrift, that they are waiting for me to tell them how many paragraphs they must write and how many pages they must read. Or maybe the students don’t take me seriously; maybe they think the class is too easy and that they can just coast.

I close my eyes for a second and try to visualize the class: the students seemed engaged. When I looked up from my annotations, they were (mostly) writing away. When they stood up to share, they looked like they were reading from their notebooks.

Those untouched papers laugh at me: this isn’t working.

I fish them out and flatten them, putting them into my own notebook to give to….oh wait!… to give to THE TWO STUDENTS WHO WERE ABSENT TODAY!

Oh my. Papers firmly in hand, I sit back down at my desk to map out the writing and craft moves I want to accompany Jacqueline Woodson’s picture book This is the Rope tomorrow. At least with a picture book there will be no copies for anyone to recycle.
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Payoff

Last semester was a tough one for me. I’ve been doing lots of thinking and writing about it, but so far there’s nothing I’m willing to share. Still, when the new semester started Monday I was excited and nervous in a way I haven’t been for a while. I laid my clothes out the night before and still forgot my lunch in the flurry of leaving.

Moment one: I am teaching a grade 12 English class for the first time in a few years. I love teaching grade 12 and my mind is awash in possibilities, especially since I have completely revamped my reading and writing instruction since I last taught this level. Also, years of teaching students who benefit from explicit and concrete beginnings have changed my understanding of learning. I’ve got a whole new bag of tricks.

I get these senior students up on their feet and have them move about the room as they consider and acknowledge their own attitudes towards English, reading, writing, group work, presentations and more. They can see that they are not alone in their experiences and views. When I ask them how many books they read last semester, over half the class clusters into the corner for “exactly what was assigned.” I squint my eyes at them, start to laugh and ask how many are lying – because research tells me that a lot of them fake read those books. They are relaxed enough that several of them grin and move themselves over to zero. “No worries,” I tell them, “we’ll find you something.” Our class is off to a great start.

Then comes the moment that blows me away. I ask them to write about their interests. THEY ALL HAVE PENS OR PENCILS. Every. Single. One. They pull out paper and write. Just like that, like it’s no big deal. I don’t know how long it has been since I taught a class where everyone is actually ready to learn. When the bell rings and they leave, chatting and laughing, I am bubbling with excitement. What might we accomplish this semester if we all have pencils? The possibilities are endless.

Moment two: My grade 10s come into the classroom with significantly less enthusiasm. This class is half the size of the other, but reading and writing are a much bigger challenge for these students. They have all made it to class on time, though, and we celebrate our successes in here. We do the same activities as the grade 12 class, and things are pretty low-key until we get to that question about how many books students read last semester.

Here’s where I should mention that five of these students had me for grade 9 English last semester. They are trying to catch up to where the system says they are “supposed” to be, so they’re with me again. They know my ways, and when I ask students to move to a corner to show how many books they have read, my former/current students move proudly to the areas that are well beyond “exactly what was assigned.” I don’t say much – these kids don’t always want to stand out academically – but I watch their peers notice that these students have been reading.

Then, magic occurs. After a few book talks, I gesture towards my classroom library. It’s a complete jumble because I had to switch rooms this morning: books are everywhere and in no discernible order. “Go ahead and explore the books to find something that might be of interest to you. Take your time; have a look.” And my five, my students who know me, find books, sit down and start to read. Just like that.

As they settle in, their peers follow suit. Before I know it, I have 12 reluctant readers sitting with books and reading quietly on day one of the semester. As far as I can tell, only one is fake reading. I’m heading over to chat with him, using this time to get to know him, when an EA comes in and shakes his head with astonishment. I shrug back, my eyes wide. I didn’t ask them to read: enough of them had books that they were actually interested in that they just did it. Because independent reading matters. Because time matters. Because routine matters.

Now, all we have to do is this, 90ish more times. Semester 2, here we come!