lake - a poem As I peer through this window I can see, A lake with waves lapping at its shore, In the distance birds and children can be heard calling to each other, Smells of wet sand, fresh coffee, diesel fuel, This water is unlike any other. It feels like all that has ever been - all that will ever be. Without this window, summer couldn't be what it is, it wouldn't be.
During the summer of 2007, I accomplished one of my dreams, which was to teach English in China. Aside from climbing the Great Wall and walking on the footsteps of former Emperors and Empresses of the Forbidden City, I had one other experience that was quite memorable.
A group of teachers and I had just returned to our Beijing New Oriental School in Yangzhou when Jaime, a fellow colleague, and I learned that our classes would not start for another week. So, what did we decide to do? Pack our bags and get on the next overnight train and head out to hike Huangshan (Yellow Mountain).
Since we arrived at the train station so late in the evening, we were told that there weren't any more sleeper cars. We were forced to sit in the most uncomfortable seats for 10 sleepless hours. When we arrived at the mountain, our grand adventure began! As we emerged from the train station, Chinese guides started harassing us to be part of their tour group heading up the mountain. Jaime and I tried to resist, knowing that we wouldn’t benefit since we wouldn’t be able to understand anything coming out of his mouth. Eventually a young traveler with broken English said, “Come on, you should come with our tour group.” Delirious from lack of sleep, we hesitantly found ourselves roped into this tour group. Upon handing them our 58 yuan, they slapped red hats on our tired little heads and stuck pins on our chests to keep track of us.... and then we were off!
For three hours we hiked straight up the gorgeous mountain where Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon was filmed. After climbing countless stairs, Jaime and I eventually summitted the magnificent mountain. With little desire to listen to a Chinese tour guide for another 6 hours combined with the fact that we were flat out exhausted, we decided to try and escape the tour group to find a hotel. To our dismay we discovered they were all booked since it was summer holiday. Drenched in sweat and weak from exhaustion, we were left with no other option but to begin our decent. Fortunately the walk down offered the most impressive views of the mountain which recharged our batteries slightly.
Although we would have liked to climb the entire way down, we managed to find a cable car which took us to the base. Rather than staying at a hotel at the bottom of the mountain, we decided to hop on another overnight train back to Yangzhou, but again, we had to sit in another uncomfortable, stiff chair because the sleeper cars were already full. When I got back to campus, I took a very long cool shower, then jumped straight into bed and slept for what felt like an entire day.
I read Yeh Shen, a Chinese version of the Cinderella story and wrote this one. I would consider this more of a young adult story than a children’s story.
Shots rang out as the car skirted down the street. A girl of only seven lay blanketed by her mother and shivering in fear.
As the sounds disappeared Amari looked into her mother’s eyes only to find emptiness. Amari began to cry but was drowned out by the ambulance roar.
When the police arrived and lifted Mrs. Johnson off of the young child they saw Amari’s dark skin smooth as a sheet of ice, her mud puddle colored brown eyes, and her hair braided as perfectly as a store bought doll. Officer Excerman asked, “Hey sweetie, know of any family near here that we can call up to meet you at the station?” Amari only stared at him and he back at her.
Immediately Officer Excerman decided that he was going to care for this tragic young beauty. Usually, Eric Excerman spent his days at work and his evening with his family. Yet, in the last few days his family had seen very little of him, he had been going to the shelter hoping to assist in finding any family for Amari.
After several weeks, the combination of an inquisitive wife and no luck in finding Amari’s family, Eric asked his wife to come to the shelter with him. His loving wife Meredith did as any faithful wife would and joined him one evening. Upon their arrival at the shelter Meredith was taken aback by the emotional connection between the young Amari and her husband. Never had Meredith seen her own daughters loved so much and never had she seen the twinkle in her husband’s eyes as she did that night.
Loving her husband as she did, Meredith agreed that Amari could go home with them and as long as the girls got along the family could adopt this innocent beauty. The first meeting between the Excerman girls, Leslie and Lydia, went more amazing than anyone could have hoped. The girls played various video games, giggled at their favorite movies, and even arrived at a shared peculiar indulgence, a love of french fries dipped in ice cream.
Seeing his family happy, including Amari, Eric presented the adoption papers to his wife. Within days Amari was part of the Excerman family and all seemed to be well.
As time went on Leslie and Lydia noticed that their daddy was bringing home gifts for Amari while they were being asked to be kind and share the little they thought they had. The two girls developed a hatred towards Amari not only because of the gifts and happiness she had but because things in life came so easily to her.
In school Amari always had good grades, everyone wanted to be her friend, and even the boys liked her. Amari always made Daddy happy because she did as she was told and even did well at the unexpected things. Mrs. Excerman started to notice the rift between the three girls and the attention that Amari was getting from her husband. This was unacceptable in any wife and mother’s eyes but what could she do, the little girl was the light of her husband’s life.
One night the girls had gotten ferociously sick, Amari the worst of them all. Mr. Excerman decided that he would take Amari to the hospital while Meredith stayed home to watch over Leslie and Lydia. Once arriving at the hospital the doctor’s found it was a bad case of food poisoning and gave Eric enough medicine for all of his girls.
Eric was relieved. As he drove home he began to reflect about his life and the amazing family he had created. He thought about how unique it was for someone from his neighborhood to grow up and become a police officer. He pictured his childhood and how much he wished he had a father that could have helped support his mother and would have shown him how men handle things. Then he pictured the people he grew up around, the drugs, the guns, the mess that was his environment and he was proud of himself and the life he had created for him and his family. He was overjoyed with the fact that he could even afford to take someone like Amari from that life and give her the life all children deserve. He thought about the things he had given Amari to make it just a bit easier to not know any of her true blood related family and he knew he had done good. As Eric sat there driving home thinking about the wonderful life he had that life was taken from him. A man had fallen asleep in his car and swerved into on coming traffic. Eric tried to move over but the road was in disarray. BAM!!!
Again, Amari heard the roar of the ambulance and knew that once again, her life was over, as she knew it. She also knew there would not be another father like Eric to save her from the events about to unfold. Mr. Eric Excerman died on the spot just as Amari’s mother had. He had left Amari.
Meredith believed in her heart of hearts that it was all Amari’s fault. Her mother had died alone with her and now so had Eric. If only Amari wasn’t that sick, if only Amari hadn’t cried so much, if only! From that day forth Mrs. Excerman vowed he would provide a home for the girl out of respect for her dead husband but no more than that, not a single ounce of love.
Amari knew the love she once knew along with her life was gone. The only thing Amari had left was Rex, her dog. Rex always made Amari feel loved since that was the last present Mr. Excerman ever gave her. It was a way for her to remember that no matter what happened she wouldn’t be alone in the world. Mrs. Excerman didn’t care much for the dog but couldn’t rid herself of it either since in her eyes it was her husband’s dog.
Years passed and the girls were now teenagers. Leslie and Lydia excelled in school thanks to Amari being required to do all of their homework in addition to her own. The chores were always Amari’s job; Mrs. Excerman said it was Amari’s way of paying her rent for being able to live in the house and be part of the Excerman family. Amari did as she was told because this was the only family she had left, she thought this is what a mother’s love was suppose to feel like.
Amari wasn’t allowed to go out because Mrs. Excerman said that every time she did someone died and who knows maybe Amari herself would be next. Therefore, Amari was left behind when it came to things like dating or parties. It didn’t matter all that much to Amari because Rex was the only thing she wanted to be around. Not to mention, the only clothing Amari had to wear were the hand me downs that the Excerman girls no longer wanted and that Mrs. Excerman deemed undesirable enough for Amari to wear. Leslie and Lydia easily enjoyed the spotlight of being the most popular and smartest girls in school and needless to say Mrs. Excerman was quite proud of her daughters even if it wasn’t their own accomplishment.
Late on a Saturday night as Amari just finished the girls homework and was preparing to put it away Rex knocked over the girls’ backpacks. There on the floor lay prom tickets and magazines filled with extravagant dresses each of the girls had picked out. Amari picked up the tickets and read the theme, “Masquerade Moments.” She then thumbed through the dress magazines and saw the amazing detail each dress had, she wished she could be part of such an ornate experience.
Amari lay awake that night and dreamed of what she would look like walking into the prom with a one-shoulder powder blue dress. She would wear a beaded crystal eye mask and crystal clear almost glass like shoes.
Then she had a rude awakening; Leslie and Lydia came home and noticed their backpacks had been shuffled through. They immediately went to their mother and told her that Amari had gone through their things and she was planning on going to prom. Mrs. Excerman was furious! She told her daughters not to worry; there would be no way that Amari could ever go to the prom.
The next morning when Amari woke up there was a list of chores she had to get done. Amari looked at the list and thought that it would be nearly impossible for all this to get done in a day. Just then Mrs. Excerman walked in and asked if she could speak with Amari. The two ladies sat down on Amari’s bed. Mrs. Excerman began, “Amari, the girls told me that you would like to go to the prom next week. I decided that would be a wonderful experience for you, the only thing is that you have to earn the money to pay for the tickets. I have bought the tickets, here they are. I will hold on to them and if you can complete the list I give you every morning until the prom then you may go. I also saved a dress from your mother. Mr. Excerman thought that a prom would have been the perfect time for you to wear such a stunning outfit. Would you like to see the dress and the tickets?”
Amari, more beautiful than she has ever looked before exclaimed, “Yes step-mother, yes I would. Thank you for being so kind. I knew you loved me, but I never knew you loved me so much as to save something of my mother’s for me.” Thank you, thank you so much.”
Mrs. Excerman walked out of the room with a devilish smile on her face and an evil twinkle in her eye. She then walked back into the room and revealed a red dress with sparkles and sequence. Amari sat there in awe, never could she have imagined wearing something so striking, and to top it off it was her mothers, she could wear something from the woman she always wished she had known. Amari promised at that moment to do anything that her stepmother asked.
Each day the list grew longer and longer and each day Amari managed to get the tasks done. She would stay awake for hours making sure all was perfect just as Mrs. Excerman would want to, she did this so she wouldn’t ruin her chances at going to the prom. Then came Saturday. When Amari looked at the list, one of the chores was to go downtown to pick up the girls dresses from the boutiques where they were custom made. What Amari didn’t know is that her stepmother had hired someone to steal one of the dresses.
Amari sat on the bus holding both dresses as tightly as she could. All she could think about was that this was her last stop and once she got these dresses home she could get ready for the prom. But Amari grew so tired from her late nights all wee and dosed off on the long ride home. When she woke up only one dress was in her hand. The other was missing. She questioned the bus driver, looked at every person on the bus, and in every corner of the bus…nothing. As she walked home, she knew her dreams were over; there was no way she could go to the prom.
Mrs. Excerman was waiting for Amari along with Leslie and Lydia. When Amari walked in with only the black dress Leslie began crying hysterically. Mrs. Excerman told Lydia to take Leslie up stairs and show her the red dress hanging in her closet. Amari knew which dress she was speaking about. Amari exclaimed, “you can’t, that’s my mother’s dress! You can’t give it to her!” Mrs. Excerman with a smirk on her face told Amari, “I can because you are not going to the prom. You did not do all that I asked. Your last task was a simple one, pick up the dresses and bring them home. So where is Leslie’s powder blue dress? Where has it gone?”
Amari ran to her room tears pouring down her face. She laid there and listened to the girls get ready for the most unforgettable night of their lives. Suddenly, she heard a whisper. As she turned her head, she saw what looked like her mother, her real mother. It couldn’t be, she thought, but it looked just like the face she stared into that lonely night years before. This ghost whispered, “ wait till they have left and then go to your step-mother’s bedroom. Look in the closet all the way to the right.”
Amari sat there for minutes, but they seemed like hours, waiting for the women to leave. The moment the door closed Amari ran to Mrs. Excerman’s bedroom and on the last hanger towards the left she saw a powder blue one strap dress with a crystal beaded mask hanging on it. She stood and waited, she thought this was wrong and was prepared to walk away when the ghost came back and said, “do not worry, it is my dress, the dress Eric picked out for you to wear on such a night.” A tear fell from Amari’s face as she grabbed the dress.
Once in her bedroom she put the dress on, it fit perfectly at every curve and hem, it was almost as though the dress was made for her. Once the dress was on, her hair was done, and her mask in place she realized she had no shoes. Again the ghost appeared and said, “do not worry my dear, look down at your feet.” Amari looked down and on her feet there were a perfect pair of glass shoes that sparkled with every twist of her foot. Amari stood up and raced out of the house.
The ghost appeared while Amari waited for the bust and said, “my darling daughter I wish you the best night of your life. Please remember to leave before your sisters do and whatever you do, leave nothing behind.” Amari replied, “I will mother, I promise.” And off she went into the night.
Once at the dance Amari had all eyes on her. Every young man danced with her and unbeknownst to her there was one man who particularly had an eye on her. He asked her to day many a time and she drawn to him said yes. At the point in the night when they were ready to announce the king and queen Amari had planned to leave. Just as that moment occurred a spotlight appeared on Amari and it was announced that the crystal masked girl was this year’s queen and the strapping young man she danced with all night was the king. The pair was asked to head to the middle of the dance floor for their first dance with their new titles.
As Amari was heading to the dance floor she noticed her sisters. Their eyes connected and Leslie recognized the dress her mom had hidden in her closet because it is the dress she had desired to wear. Lydia took out her cell phone and began to dial her mother’s number.
Amari knowing what was about to happen took off towards the street immediately. The prom king ran after her. When he finally caught up to her she was stepping on the bus. As she stepped on the bus her right glass shoe fell off. Amari looked at the King and then at her shoe and told the bus driver to DRIVE! The king picked up the shoe and promised to look for whoever this girl was.
Mrs. Excerman was parking her car on the street just was Amari closed the front door. Amari raced upstairs and placed the dress and mask back in the closet just was the bedroom door opened. Mrs. Excerman yelled, “what are you doing in here!” Amari replied, “putting away the laundry, I just finished ironing your skirts.” Mrs. Excerman told Amari to leave immediately. Once Amari had left Mrs. Excerman looked at the back left corner of the closet and saw the dress just as she had left it.
When Leslie and Lydia got home Mrs. Excerman assured them that the dress was in the closet and had not been moved and that Amari was home doing the laundry has she had been instructed. The girls did not believe it but knew better than to question their mother. So they angrily prepared for bed.
On Monday morning the girls saw posters all around the school asking for young ladies to try on a glass shoe. The posters also said that the winner would accompany the captain of the football team to a dinner banquet filled with college recruiters. Girls lined up endlessly along the football stadium but no one fit the shoe, especially not Leslie and Lydia, their feet were far to fat and big.
Then during last period when everyone else had given up Amari snuck out to the stadium and had the shoe put on her foot. Eric Thomas, the captain of the football team smiled at her, grabbed her hand, and walked into the school with Amari.
That evening they went to the banquet where Amari was offered a scholarship to Harvard. Eric and Amari went to Harvard, became doctors, and got married. They moved into a rehabilitated mansion on the opposite side of town as her stepmother and sisters. Amari and Eric Thomas lived happily ever after.
This is the rap I shared with my students during a unit on American Westward Expansion in the 19th century. It goes with the beat to the MIA song "Paper Planes" if you feel inclined to perform it "live." You may see the accompanying video by personal request only. ;)
Manifest Destiny (America Remix) by MC J-Millz
Intro: Land what we lookin' for Money what we lookin' for All we gotta do is just take what we lookin' for Polk-man, Polk-man, Polk-man, Polk-man Polk-man, Polk-man, Polk-man, Polk-man
Money to be made best believe America glockin’ Presidents run it like a quarterback option Jeff pitch $15 millz tell a ‘bass to go shoppin’ France sell Louisiana Lew/Clark got it poppin’ with Indians tryna kick it ‘long the River they walka Find the source of the ‘ssouri and map the land proppa Got help from a slave and Native teeny boppa Survived two year trip, brought back Territory knowledge Manifest Destiny is what we believe, White race is superior God wants us to succeed! Gov’ment we hustlin’, ‘sources we findin’ it’s all about money, army ain’t gonna warn ya get off of our land cuz now we own ya and if we don’t own ya, we comin’ right for ya wanna get rich, we ain’t worry ‘bout “Red Men” we just give 'em land for free!
(Chorus—4x) All I wanna do is (bang, bang, bang), and a (click, ching) take your money
Southeastern land is good but the Indians on it Pass Indian Removal Act, we sendin’ they a** packin’ make’em go in da winter, Trail of Tears they sufferin’ but we gave’em Oklahoma so they shouldn’t be whinin’ Lucky for us Texas wins independence From Mexico like they just can’t stand it We annex Lone Star cuz it’s good for business Polk want more, need a war—let’s start it We claimin’ our border goes to the Rio They attack our troops, now the war jumps off Heated they a**, made’em say “Tio!” Cali, ‘Zona, more, we made off Move out west, it’s our destiny Head to new lands like O. Territory Rush for that gold in Califor-ny Build rails wit China labor, G
I couldn't decide what mentor poem I was going to use with Christian. I wrote two and will decide later. I picked poems that led to scaffolding for Christian.
My Color Poems
Red Red looks like the holding hands of an older couple walking the path of life. Red sounds like the rapid thumping and pumping beat of my heart as I approach the finish line. Red feels like the warmth of a mother’s hug on a frigid night. Red tastes like luscious juice falling from ripe cherries as I eat around the pit. Red smells like the endless aroma of tomato sauce that comes from my grandmother’s kitchen. Red makes me feel like I am important in this world. Red is forgiveness.
Black Black looks like sticky tar on a steamy summer afternoon. Black sounds like the banging thunder that shakes the house when I’m sleeping Black feels like a thick blanket wrapped too tightly around my body. Black tastes like the unavoidable licorice jellybean. Black smells like the smoke that floats across the sky as it sneaks from the chimney. Black makes me feel like I’m stuck in a hamster’s wheel leading to a place of nowhere. Black is the roadblock to my dreams and the path of uncertainty.
Green Green looks like the ambition of a hardworking student. Green sounds the hatching of spring. Green feels the damp mist of the grass that surprises to my bare feet. Green tastes like the crisp crunch of romaine lettuce. Green smells like the fresh cut grass on an abandoned countryside road. Green makes me feel like there is hope for a new beginning. Green is the button to push that makes me go.
I wonder… What if I could paint the sky? I might find the color that perfectly matches my mood. I could brighten the days of others with a quick splash from the brush. I would watch as the drops of the rainbow fell and colored the world. What would that color be? I wonder…
I wonder… What if there were no tears? I might never know if someone was hurt, sad, or happy. I could ask, but could words characterize their true feelings? I would wonder if compassion would be lost. If there were no tears does that mean tears would be meaningless? I wonder…
I wonder… What if I am living in the dreams I dream? I might then never live or die. I could skip through life with a sense of relief in knowing things will change. I would experience my life as and observer and a doer. But, would I really be who I say I am? I wonder…
I wonder… What if all food tasted like chocolate. I might no longer like the taste. I could finally eat my vegetables. I would be an example of perfect health. Can this ever be possible? I wonder…
I wonder… What if we could say nothing but the truth? I might hear people’s honest thoughts. I could live life never guessing. I would never question the way people feel. I could just ask. Would people get along? I wonder…
I wonder… What if I had a million dollars? I might go for a trip around the world. I could surprise families by giving them the gifts of their dreams. I would try my best to stay the same. Could I make a difference in the lives I care most about. I wonder…
I wonder… What if there were no questions? I might not get my answers. I could try to live by statements, but it wouldn’t be very fun. I would remain a prisoner in a boring world of certainty Would I ever wonder? I wonder…
Winter announces itself on the First Snowfall Day. It’s not the day you see a tiny, lazy flake falling from the sky here or there, like you sometimes do on a very very cold day in fall. No, it’s the day the BIG white heavy wet snowflakes descend one after another sticking, to the brown, krinkley leaves that have been sitting, piled in the streets for weeks. It’s the day you look out the window And the usual scenery is blurry, white flurries tumbling into and around each other from the sky. It’s the day kids can’t pull themselves away from the classroom window. And no one, really, can celebrate by watching from the inside – even adults. It’s the truth. To fully celebrate this day, you must be on the other side of the glass. You must feel winter arrive on your cheeks, nose eyelashes.
This is a model of a story frame I created for David. The frame itself is based on the mentor text I am using called "Reading Can Be Dangerous," by Ted Arnold. Arnold wrote about the dangerous of reading, I about the dangerous of outdoor recess in Wisconsin - we'll see what David writes about!
Outdoor Recess Can Be Dangerous
Yes, dangerous. It’s true. Like when you are living in a place like Milwaukee, Wisconsin and the temperature can go as low as negative 25 degrees! Or when you get a wind-chill temperature as low as NEGATIVE 50 DEGREES - or like when you’re all wrapped up in a Triple-Fat-Goose down jacket (way before down coats were cool) and snow-pants, still turning into a human popsicle! Or like when you have outdoor recess in elementary school, and have no choice but to huddle against the cold brick of the school building as the only means of shielding your frail, small eight-year-old body from the harsh winter Wisconsin winds. Or when a shadow falls across the concrete, and you realize it’s only noon and your warm desk is waiting for you to go back inside. And your whole body is frozen, eager to hear the recess bell and avoid your doom.
What happened to me wasn’t that bad. But I still remember one of the times I got frostbite on my ear, because I didn’t wear my hat back when I was a kid.
Here is a Haiku poem that I wrote for Nicholas. This poem was inspired by a beautiful image, but I cannot figure out how to post it for you to see. You will have to use your imagination (and possible wishful thinking).
Endless blue ocean. A tropical paradise, where I want to be.
Together we researched sharks and wrote this Haiku, again using an image as inspiration.
Twenty thousand teeth. Some sharks are harmless, or not. Live in the ocean.
Angelique and I both wrote our poems this week based on Lawrence Ferlinghetti's "I Am Waiting" and the things we'd like to see changed in the world.
I Am Waiting
I am waiting for greater expectations and I am waiting for spring and I am waiting for layoffs, warbots, cancer, cold, corruption, manipulation, tax evasion, recession equations, and Rod Blagojevich to get off my news station and I am waiting for the discovery of a stress-free day and I am waiting for people to let down their defenses which will make the world less ego-full and more honest for future generations and I am waiting for a renewed faith in humanity and I am waiting for kids to be kids again and I am perpetually awaiting a rebirth of wonder
This is a Shakespearean Sonnet I attempted a while back and that I revised when I revisited it: Morning Mist The sweet breath of an awakening spring The softening scent of jasmine and rain Under the safe cool shade of an oak tree Can seem to soothe deepening wounds of pain
Flower buds fly, flutter, and hypnotize As a new taste dances on the wet ground The intense glow of the morning sunrise Seeing the vivid colors become one
The clear light blue sky falls over the Earth Listening to birds chirp a cheerful song Morning mist of frest cut grass, a rebirth Nothing can ever possibly go wrong
As the clouds gather and rain trickles down I grasp such a calmness without a sound
I used this poem when I taught personification to my students.
I Am…..
I am the pinnacle of the season I wonder when the Bears will come back to play I hear the cheers of every excited fan I see the coaches concocting an indomitable play I want to crown a champion with a ring of diamonds I am what every NFL coach hopes to achieve
I pretend the game will never end I feel every aggressive hit I touch the ridges of the brown, pig skin I worry that true ability of the players won’t prevail I cry for the players whose hearts were crushed I am the dream of every boy
I understand that someone must lose I say “Touchdown!” I dream about this day all year long I try to make heroes I hope the best team wins I am the Superbowl
Language learning lover. Insatiable appetite. Library and lion visits equally enjoyed. Irresistibly cuddly. Active angel who giggles and wiggles all day.
Loves to play with others. Is always moving around. Likes all foods except soggy zucchini. Irresistibly cuddly. Angel in my life.
A soft white carpet under my feet, pad, pad. An icy wind biting my face, sting, sting! Icicles dripping from the trees, sparkle, sparkle! A bright moon gleaming from the sky, glisten, glisten! A quiet beating slowly in my heart, shh, shh……….
There once sat a lighthouse at the edge of the land that brought the ships in with the wave of a man’s hand. The old man would aim and bring them in one by one and go to sleep as soon as he was done. Though his night was tiring and rather long, his stream of light seemed to go on forever—steady and strong. “I wonder what it takes to be a man in a lighthouse,” a little boy of seven said. “I hope that’s not what you want to be,” said the father with much dread. “Why not?” questioned the boy with a curious look on his face. “Well, how would you like to work at a snail’s pace?” “But father…” the boy began Dad interrupted, “Play football and study hard. Lighthouses will never teach you how to be a man.” The boy closed his mouth and walked away. He ran outside watching all of the other kids play. No one even noticed the lighthouse or the man inside, how he directed ships directly to the seaside. So one day, the boy walked to the edge of land, to meet the man who brought the ships in with the wave of a hand. He entered the foot of the lighthouse right at the base, and immediately his heart began to race. He started to run and found he could not stop, wanting so greatly to meet the man at the top. At about a third of the way, he was stopped by an old man of ninety-five. He walked with a cane, frail, barely alive. “Little boy, please turn around, you don’t have the strength to be this high off the ground.” “Who are you?” The boy said looking at the man’s body length beard. “I’m the Guardian of Tradition, the carrier of the lighthouse’s hopes and fears.” “Do you know the man at the top? Is he old, is he wise?” “He is both, and so much more, not to mention his stature and size.” “So you have to be big to work the light.” “And even bigger to be sight. Now turn around and come back soon. Just as soon as you can tell time by the moon.” Time by the moon, the boy repeated, and walked down the stairs with his hopes defeated. He returned home and spoke to his dad, telling him just why his day went so bad. “Boy, I told you not to bother. Why don’t you ever listen to your father? I’m against your choice and so is tradition. I think you need to change your future position.” “The old man is on my side, he didn’t say ‘access denied’. He said to return again soon when I could tell time by the moon.” “What are they teaching you in school? I better correct this, my son’s no fool. No more trips outdoors alone, and no more prank phone calls on the telephone--especially the one about the refrigerator running…man anyone can see that punch line coming…” The little boy grew even deeper in despair, telling himself it was unfair. His father didn’t understand, the power it took to bring a ship in with the wave of the hand. So he stayed inside a lot during the day, even decided to sleep instead of play. He waited for the night, for that moon to shine bright. He hoped for some sort of sign to help him on his quest to tell the time. At first he focused solely on the moon, sitting and watching it from the sand dunes. When he couldn’t figure out the time of night, he decided to widen his range of sight. From nightfall to sunrise, he scanned the light and the darkness of the big, perfect sky. It got darker just before the stars, but then he lost track watching from afar. So he climbed the tallest tree outside his house, leaving as quiet as a mouse. He kept on looking night after night, knowing most people told the time by the sun’s light. And one night, when he knew every star, every shimmer and every crevice of the moon, he started to feel like he would return to the lighthouse fairly soon. This time he brought up his dad’s pocket watch, and made sure the hands worked right, down to the smallest notch. He looked at it and decided to sleep. And as he did so, the moon began to creep. When he awoke, it was pitch black. He rubbed his eyes and straightened his back. He looked to the moon and then found every star, suddenly he didn’t feel so far. “Two thirty-six” he said with a yawn. When he looked at his watch, he was dead on. So he ran up the foot of the lighthouse like he had done some time before, kept keeping the time and opened the door. At about a third of the way, he hoped to see the Guardian of Tradition. He wanted to show how this new lesson would help him achieve his ambition. But the old man did not appear, so the boy kept on going, despite his new fears. He got another third of the way, and a middle-aged man stood on the stair. He gave the boy a look that said Beware. “Young man turn back, though you’ve gained a lot, there is still so much you lack. Sure you’ve beaten tradition but that not is all you must overcome. I am the Guardian of the Present, but don’t be fooled, you’ll need to know the past. Or else you’ll think you’re ready, problem is you won’t be able to last. You must first remember where it is you’ve come from. Only then will you have learned all you need to gain, and understand what it takes to stay dry in the pouring rain. Now go back to the land, just remember how close you are to bringing a ship in with the wave a hand.” The boy walked back slowly, his head down at his hands. It took him a long time to achieve the Guardian of Tradition’s command. He didn’t really think he could stay dry in the rain, even feared the lightning might bring him pain. So he listened to his father, and accepted getting two-thirds of the way up and declined to bother. Then one day in class, the boy saw a map. He saw how the oceans seemed to fill in the land’s gap. In that vast space, one light showed the way, and he returned to his dreams that very day. He knew where he came from that was the easy part. It was staying dry that put a dent in his heart. He knew an umbrella or raincoat would cause the Guardian to turn him away, so the boy wore street clothes and ran outside on every rainy day. And he got wet, drenched beyond belief. He’d run inside for relief. Soaked to the bone, he still stood in the grass, even ran out of his map class. His friends thought he was crazy. His dad though he was lazy. They didn’t understand what was so great about a guy who could bring a ship in with the power of his hand. But the boy focused on the power he would one day hold. Nothing would stop him, not even the freezing cold. He walked around his house in the pouring rain, hearing the sounds of the midnight trains. He tried running against the storm, but upon his shirt, raindrops did form. He tried finding the lightning, and running that way, but that even drove him insane day after day. So he tried to remember all the Guardian had had to say, even when his wet clothes began to decay. There was a small part of his roof that formed an overhang, so small it could not be seen in the pouring rain. If he stood directly under it, the rain would still make its mark. But if he waited for the right gust of wind and stood along the right angle, he would stay dry. So he waited a long time until he decided to try. The storm was the worst of the year. Every neighbor shut their door out of fear. But the boy ran outside when the wind was hitting the air just right. At the right angle in the pouring rain, his house kept him dry. And in the beginning he didn’t even want to try. So again he ran back to the foot of the lighthouse like he had done twice before, hoping he wouldn’t have to go back down once more. He couldn’t wait to tell the Guardian of the Present all he had gained, how he stayed completely dry in the pouring rain. So he got two-thirds of the way up, but no Guardian appeared. The boy continued with a whole new set of fears. Step by step, he wondered what remained. I can tell time by the moon, and stay dry in the pouring rain. He was nearing the top when a man about ten years older than himself made him stop. “Hey kid, you better turn right back around, there’s no way you should be this high off the ground. Sure you’ve learned a lot, but that better not be all you’ve got. You’ve wiped out tradition and took control of your present. I’m the Guardian of Destiny, so start your descent. Know the world hard and good, it’s the people that matter most, and they should.” “I’m already on my way. I’ll start this very day.” And the boy began to walk the long walk down. One step away from the top, and they made him come back down. The boy believed he knew the world hard and good, but he didn’t know people as well as he should. He had lost most of his friends, and his father said he wouldn’t speak to him ever again. People would be a hard one that was for sure, but he was ready for this journey, with all he had endured. So he kept that in mind, and didn’t leave his past behind. He started to talk to everyone in the town. They all thought he was the class clown. “Who runs out of class in the pouring rain or listens for the midnight train?” They didn’t understand his goal, they missed out on what he yearned for in his soul. But one day, he saw a girl, of about seventeen, little did he know, she knew all about the world. Her dad was a fisherman on the sea, and as he traveled around the world, so did she. She told the boy of the oceans and all the land mass, more than he had ever learned about in map class. She had opened his eyes to the surrounding world; before he never even heard of this girl. One day, he found her with her head in her hands, tears streaming down. He asked her what exactly turned her life around. “My dad is lost at sea. They can’t find his ship, why couldn’t this happen to me?” At that moment, the boy took off for the foot of the lighthouse once more. He passed through the valleys and opened up the door. He sprinted up every stair, not one at a time anymore, he didn’t care. He got a third of the way and remembered the moon, another third and he remembered the rain, another third and he remembered the girl. And he opened the door, which forever changed his world. There sat the light, he had reached the top, and no one made him stop. At the handle sat a note, the boy grabbed it and took off his coat. It read: “For the boy who noticed me while others went on with their day, who saw me from the swingsets while all of the other children went to play. I know how your father called you a fool, and I even know how you skipped map class in school. You have beaten tradition and can tell the time by the moon, a task you will employ soon. You are aware of your present, know where you came from. There is not much you have to overcome. You have stayed dry in the pouring rain and learned to live by that midnight train. But most of all, what you’ve needed to reach the top, you have controlled your future, your destiny. I have complete faith you will bring back that girl’s father from the overwhelming sea. Few people ever reach the top, most return to the ground when we make them stop. But you have kept going despite it all. You’ve conquered every stair without a fall. But what you must remember most is what sets you apart, for this answer you must look inside your heart. Remember what made you dream this particular dream, what caught your eye that others can’t see. People have called you crazy, a clown, yet you have never stopped and stayed on the ground. I now give you full responsibility of the sea, and one more thing, the guardian’s keys. For it will be some time before another comes like you, and you’re going to have to teach them what to do. So grab the light and bring the ship in with the wave of your hand. And none of us will see you again now that you are a man. The Guardian of Tradition The Guardian of the Present The Guardian of Destiny” The man grabbed hold and thought of how he was still going to be here when he was old. He had begun when he was seven years of age, just at his beginning stage. And now, he was much older, the same age as the Guardian of Destiny that had seen him ten years ago. His journey was long and taught him much more than he could ever possibly know. He looked out in the darkness, in the pouring rain to begin another journey yet again. He had reached his highest height, but the girl’s fisherman father needed him to shine the light. So he swerved it around the vast sea and searched and searched until his fingers began to bleed. He had remembered every bit of his training, after every moon, every storm, and even his father’s complaining. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a jagged edge, something small enough that from this height looked like a wedge. He shone his light, and sure enough it was a ship. He held it steady and strong, making sure not to dip. The ship seemed to grab the light and not let go in the night. He brought it in to shore, and then looked out once more. From the top he could see the girl who had changed his world. She ran to her dad, he caught her in mid-air. The man in the lighthouse wanted to run down all the stairs. But he couldn’t, for that would make him stop. And in that moment, nothing could bring him down from the top.
Someday... I want to go to Hawaii. I will swim in the ocean and lay in the sun. I will watch the sunrise from a volcano. I will love it so much, I won't want to come home. Someday...
Today... I am bundled up in my winter gear. My feet are frozen and fingers numb. I am dreaming of summer.
As I ponder outside my windowpane, I view each raindrop as a person. And if we come together, We can share in the beauty of what we just created: A rainfall. Yet, if we work hard enough, And with a little sunshine, We can partake in the delight of what we just created: A rainbow.
Elegance in the Deep Have you ever been fortunate enough to witness a dolphin in the wild? They are as graceful as a ballerina. Dolphins glide through the smooth water in harmony with the ocean. These magnificent creatures move through vast amounts of salt water while surfacing to take in fresh oxygen. Their beautiful bodies are symmetrical to assist them in searching through the depths of the ocean. Flippers and their tail keep their elongated body balanced. As their curved bodies swim through the ocean, you see hints of gray, blue, and silver. Some are as gray as a storm cloud while others are as silver as a spoon. If you are lucky enough to touch one, you will feel their smooth, wet, rubbery exterior. Dolphins are as smooth as glass yet can be as rubbery as tires. These peaceful creatures need seafood, saltwater, and oxygen to survive, but interaction to flourish. They are not violent beasts, but friendly, calm, and simple. They cruise through the ocean waters clicking, splashing, and calling to communicate-to other sea creatures as well as humans. Fascinating. These amazing reasons are why the dolphin is my favorite animal.
My ring finger used to be ugly I guess I used it too much while clutching the pencil with my left hand But then when he slid the shiny wedding band on my finger The writer's bump faded away
Earlier this month, I took my Kindergarten and 1st grade students swimming for the first time. They go to learn the basics of water safety and swimming. We will go a total of six times each year. The hope is that by 8th grade, they will be swimmers.
We do not have a swimming pool at our school, so we first have to board a bus and ride over to the park district’s pool. Once there, the smell of chlorine as we enter the building reminds us why we have come on this trip. The boys and girls are separated to go and get changed into their bathing suits. Anticipating trouble, I go into the locker room with the boys.
They are so excited and nervous that they forget to pester or fight with each other. I stand out of view, peeling off my clothes to reveal my one-piece grandma suit underneath. Then I listen to the sounds of the lockers opening and closing and the parents helping the boys step into their suits. Oddly, I hear some of them being reminded to remove their underwear before they get into their bathing suits. I can see them as they sit on the bench in their trunks, wrapped in their towels, shivering.
When they have all changed, we walk into the showers and everyone gets a quick rinse under the water. Some of them are almost hysterical they are so excited. It is hard to tell if they are shaking from cold or fear.
As we walk into the pool area, another K/1 class is just finishing their lesson, so the boys watch for a few moments while I go in to check on the girls.
The moment I walk into the girls’ locker room, I decide that when I have children, I want to have boys. It is chaos in there. Clothes everywhere, girls giggling and talking, dancing in various states of undress, and totally oblivious to the directions that I am trying to give. A couple of girls are actually sitting quietly on the bench wrapped in their towels (like I asked), so I lead them into the shower and repeat the process that the boys just went through. When the remaining girls notice what is happening, they quickly get down to business and get their bathing suits and caps on so they can rinse off.
A short time later, all the students are standing by the pool with their floaty belts on. They are told to sit on the edge and slide into the pool. For some of them, this is the first time they have ever been in a swimming pool. There is no crying or any hysterics like I had feared. All of them were very brave. In the end, we emerged a little wrinkled, but exited to see what would happen next week in the pool!
This is model after Come on Rain by Karen Hesse. It is an example of a descriptive story and how images can be created. I hope to use the story to show the visualization strategy.
Come On, Snow!
“Come on, snow!” I say peering out my frosted window bundled in my flannel pajamas relieved that it is a Saturday. I look up at the clear, blue sky cursing the weather reports that promised snow. It’s another excruciating, artic, cold morning. Snow would be the good news I’ve been waiting for all week. The news that makes it bearable to live in the windy city they call Chicago. My smile has disappeared. I glance over my shoulder at the yellow curled up ball at the foot of my bed. She’s been waiting for it, too.
“Yes, I still have to walk you,” I muttered to my beloved dog, the Labrador retriever. She raises her eyebrows and stares; hopeful that that I’ll tell her that the white blanket has covered her favorite park and she can go out and play. “No Callie. No snow. I know, no fun. But we need that walk.”
I drag my cozy boots from the warm closet where the furnace is located and place my hat tightly on his head. I pull my marmot snow pants on over my jeans, another trick I’ve learned in the past two years of living in Chicago to prevent the throbbing stings that numb with a vengeance. I smile. This year I’m so glad that I bought the hundred dollar pair of gloves that protects against the biting wind. I am prepared for battle. I am ready to fight. I look down at Callie in envy. Her tail still wags even though she knows the chances are slim that we’ll be going to the park. “I wish I were a dog,” I think to myself. I sigh. “Come on, snow!”
I open the front door and I am punched in the face with the cold. I hear the muffled sounds of my boots crunching on the packed old, icy, snow that has been here for weeks. I thump across the street in my heavy winter boots, my companion trotting loyally beside me as we reach Callie’s favorite patch of what use to be grass. I’m already chilled to the bone. I glance up and down the usually crowded block. The familiar faces of Judy and her five year old twins, Jack and Haley are nowhere to be seen. I see Callie’s ears perk. It’s just Bob scurrying back inside as he collects his morning newspaper. He shouts over his shoulder as he climbs the steps, “They say it’s gonna snow!” I nod my head, gripping my coat, hoping that he may be right.
Callie and I head down the street. I stare up at the rooftops and hear the crackling sound of water as it freezes to ice. Could he be right? In the distance gray clouds are collecting. I see them inching their way across the blue sky in feathery layers. Callie looks up at me, ears back, snout in the air, smirking. She is trying to tell me something. She knows! “Come on, snow!” I whisper, watching my breath frost the air.
We scamper past the unrecognizable steamed windows of only what neighbors would know as J & J’s Coffee House. Callie Bear gives a quick bark at the two colorful snowmen covered head to toe in Patagonia jackets, gloves and hats approaching us. It’s my good friends, Brian and Chrissie going to breakfast. “Hey, I think it’s going to snow,” I almost shout so that they can hear me through their thick fleece hats. “We’re going to the park.” Callie’s tail wags wildly at the sound of the magic word. They hustle inside, relieved that I didn’t invite them to come along.
We hurry past them and bounce down the street. Callie starts to pull on the leash with excitement. She looks like she has been given an important mission with her tail straight up in the air and her nose stuck sniffing on the ground. She knows a short cut. Calzone drags me through an alley, past the bags of salt Jon and Jeff have sold to the neighbors to help prepare of the snow. I smell someone frying up bacon and eggs and hear cartoons playing as we leave the alley. They don’t know what they are going to miss. Snow is coming.
The blue in the sky has been fully replaced with an elephant gray hue. Moisture can be felt in the relief of my cracking lips. The wind stops biting and leaves my checks tingling as they thaw. The numbness begins to fade with the anticipation. We enter the gates to Callie’s paradise. She hops, jumps, and yanks my arm as I skate toward the ice covered grass. Her tongue hangs from her mouth as she waits for me to set her free. Off she goes, flying and soaring into her own world. She looks back wishing she tell me what she knows. I look onward with envious eyes and can’t help but wish I were still a kid.
...And just like that snow comes.
It is hesitant at first, like it doesn’t know if it’s welcomed. The flakes wander slowly onto my black coat like dandruff. Specks of white dust fall gently to the ground. “Come on snow!” I beg. For a brief moment, Callie brushes her body against my leg, sits in front of me, and gazes up, reassuring me that it will come. Then she is off, sprinting with her own agenda. All of a sudden, dark clouds roll in as if they hear my plea.
“Come on snow!” I shout. At last, it comes. Big, white, fluffy cotton balls fall passionately out of the sky covering my armor with confectionary sugar. It freckles the tuffs of hair that sneaks out of my hat. It blankets Callie so that she camouflages into her natural surroundings.
My smile returns. Everything fades. I turn in circles in this snow globe and I am seven again. My Dad is helping build an igloo with me, my brother and two sisters. Snow covers my face as we race to see who can catch the most snowflakes on their tongue. I’m ten and the four of us are trying to build the biggest snowman in the world! Then we realize the head we have made is too heavy. I am 13 and we have chosen teams to have a snowball fight. Then one of us thinks it’s a good idea to throw a snowball at a car. I am 15 and sledding is still the thing we crave when there is a snow day. And I’m 18 soaring down Cornell’s infamous hill in an inflatable chair my roommate bought for her dorm room.
Without warning Callie knocks me to the ground and licks the wet flakes off my face. I stare up into the endless shower of powder. I laugh out loud as I wrestle with Callie in the fluff. At that moment, as iridescent glitter sprinkles the ground and covers the two of us until we shine, we are both truly and freely happy.
You know how, when you’re doing something you’re not supposed to be doing, you have that tiny, irritating voice in your head that tells you that you should probably stop what you’re doing? But really, you’re having so much fun that the fun overpowers that tiny, irritating voice. You know how that goes, right? It was always a treat to drive with my family to South Bend, Indiana to see my great-grandparents. Well, not the driving part. Seeing Grandma and Grandpa Murray was always great though. I knew them better than I knew my regular grandparents. And, often while we were at their house, my cousin Esther would be there too. She was the cool, older cousin (three years older than me) who usually dictated what we did whenever we played together. She wasn’t bossy at all, just full of fantastic ideas, which is what made her so cool. I’m sure that gymnastics in the guest room during one particular visit was her idea, although the suggestion of that event is not what sticks out in my mind so clearly about that day. I was the most unathletic and uncoordinated kid you could possibly imagine. However, this day I truly felt like a professional tumbler (if there was such a thing) as I flipped over and over on the guest bed, upstairs in my great-grandparents’ house. It was a full-sized bed, allowing plenty of room for two young girls to practice their summersaults. Esther was trying to coach me and to help me perfect my summersault style. I wasn’t so concerned about my style as I was in awe of this new-found athletic ability that had been hiding inside me for my entire life - all five years of it. I reveled in my success as I rolled head-over heels on the bed again and again, until... CRASH! Without knowing what exactly had happened, I was suddenly lying on my back with most of my body on the bed, and my left foot resting in the jagged hole it had just made in the bedroom window. I looked up to see Esther staring at me with a horrified gaze. I was petrified and couldn’t begin to think about what I should do next. My brain finally cleared enough for me to realize that I should probably move my leg away from the shattered glass. A moment later, my mother entered the room. “What happened?” she cried in surprise. I explained through gasps and sobs that I had broken the window while trying to do a summersault, that I must have accidentally tipped to the side mid-roll. If your mom is anything like my mom, you won’t be surprised to hear that she was furious. Looking back, I realize that this is probably because she knew that she was the one who would have to tell Grandpa Murray that her daughter had broken his window, and probably have to pay for a new pane, too. At the time, however, all I could think was how I felt like a terrible, rotten kid for doing something wrong. And it was something I knew I shouldn’t have been doing on top of it. Somehow I moved, or was moved, to the den, where I sat on the black couch and cried some more. I could hear voices downstairs, and my mom soon reappeared. She asked something about my foot being hurt or cut or something. I was so busy feeling miserable about what I had done that I hadn’t thought to check my foot for blood or cuts. Miraculously, there was not a scratch on it. Halfway through my mother’s examination, Grandma Murray joined her in checking me out. I couldn’t look her in the eye. I had never felt so guilty. My great-grandmother was the most perfect human being I had ever met. I was sure that she would never have done anything so thoughtless and stupid. Then Grandpa Murray entered the room. At that point I was just plain scared. My great-grandpa was really a very kind man, but then I had never done anything that would make him act any other way. I wasn’t afraid of what he would say when he yelled at me. I was just afraid that he would yell at me. I was afraid that he wouldn’t want us to come back to their house again. I was afraid that he wouldn’t ever be able to return to his good opinion of me. Somehow I knew that I would never be trusted again. “Allicia, are you okay?” he finally asked. I looked up and saw the concern written in his face. I began to cry even harder than I had been before. He walked over and hugged me. That was when I knew it would be okay if I came back to their house again. It turned out that Grandpa was not too happy about the window, but he didn’t make my parents pay for it. He never said anything else to me about it again either, other than accepting my apology. And I never said anything about it again either.
On Monday afternoon, Samuel walked out of his house, felt the cold, biting wind and said, “Big Snow Coming.” He went back in his house, grabbed his feathered goose down jacket, waterproof hat and large gloves. He replaced his brown shoes with his large snow boots that went halfway up his shin. Samuel then started down the block to catch the train for work. His neighbor, Blanca, was standing on her porch and noticed Samuel’s outfit as he sauntered down the street. Samuel waved as he walked by and he shouted to her, “Big Snow Coming.” Blanca looked straight up through the treetops and saw nothing but sunny blue skies. Blanca rapidly ran inside to watch the meteorologist on the news. But on Tuesday, there was no snow. Samuel again stepped outside, felt the biting wind and declared, “Big Snow Coming.” He went back in his house, gathered his warmest weather wear and headed off down the street. Halfway down the block he saw his neighbor Ned walking his Alaskan Husky puppy. “Big Snow Coming, “said Samuel. Ned nodded back, scratched his head, and looked confused. Ned looked towards the heavens and saw nothing but clear skies and bright sunshine. On Wednesday, there was still no snow. As in the days before, Samuel dressed in his snow apparel and headed down the street, covering his head with a hat. As he walked down the street he ran into the twins, Pam and Sam, dawdling on their way to First Grade. As they walked, they gave Samuel a smile and a wave, and heard Samuel say over his shoulder, “Big Snow Coming.” Pam and Sam gave each other a knowing look, shook their heads and laughed. Thursday came, and still no snow. By now, Samuel’s snow gear has been getting a lot of use, but with no snow. He put on his warmest earmuffs and his waterproof jacket and headed down the street to work. At the corner, he spotted Jan, who was out for a jog. Samuel stopped, gave Jan a great big smile, and bellowed to Jan so she could hear him behind her headphones, “Big Snow Coming.” Jan looked up to the sky to see a beautiful full white cloud pass over them and leave a deep blue backdrop. Samuel continued walking, and Jan jogged away baffled. By Thursday night, there was still no snow. Then on Friday, the neighborhood awoke to dark, stormy clouds rolling in from the west. “Big Snow Coming,” said Samuel. Blanca saws the clouds and ran to the television to watch the weather report. Ned took his dog to the backyard to watch the clouds coming in. Pam and Sam listened to the school closing report on the radio, and Jan brushed off her cross country skies to get ready for a workout. Just a few moments later, the first snowflake was seen slowing trailing its way through the sky and finally finding a place to softly land on the dark black asphalt. Not much longer, there was another snowflake, just as graceful as the first, falling through the sky. Then another, and another, until the entire street was covered in a blanket of white. Samuel smiled to himself, and said quietly, “Big Snow Coming.”
The paper in the wind settles between two yellow lines outside of the train station. Its companion is a pink strip of unchewed gum. It hops to the left before crossing the tracks into a wide-open field with tall, brown grass and scraps of metal resting lazily after years of activity. The blades of grass sway to and fro. I can only imagine what rests beneath the soil thirty days out from spring. The thawing of the ground brings the dawning of a new season with cheerful sounds and colorful images suffocated by the region’s winters. I decided the track the path of the paper, to gather it in hopes of finding something, not exactly sure what, just something.
I raise my ungloved hand to wipe the snot from my nose before brushing my hand against my pants. The wind picks up and the paper is lifted from the ground. I break into a small trot. I feel like I am chasing a dream like I did when I was a child. The wind settles. Fortunately for me, I can take a breather. I haven’t had much exercise since my wife died nine years ago. How strange it might look to someone watching on old man in a barren field with a balding head. I simply smile at the thought. A quick westerly gust forces me to switch directions again.
“Pearl, why now?”
I remember asking my dear wife when she told me she wanted to leave the south.
“This is where our home is, our friends.”
But, she was persistent. Our oldest son needed us after running into a pocket of misfortune. Pearl couldn’t stand the idea that her baby was roaming the streets in the cold while she was enjoying the comforts of southern winds. Georgia was her home, but it did not feel the same.
“I got to go Frank. Either you coming with or you’re staying.”
She was always a stubborn woman. So, I agreed to come behind her after I made arrangements at home. There was the house and the convenience store to deal with. We decided that she would find a small place and I would follow in three months time. Not one to put things off, Pearl was on her way the Tuesday next. The tossing and turning at night were more frequent. She became restless after not hearing from Frank Jr. for three days. The waiting and wondering were driving her mad.
I drove her to the train station for the 22-hour ride. She had one large bag and a small wooden box that fit comfortably into her purse. Pearl always carried that purse. In it was a pad she scribbled notes on about the store’s inventory. She also kept track on her banking account. Pearl didn’t have much money, but she kept track of every dime. When she died, I also found out that she wrote notes to Frank Jr. every night. They all ended the same way:
Dear God, please watch over my boy.
A Note from Pearl
Pearl never made it to Frank Jr. The train derailed six hours out and two people died, a small child, only six months old, and my Pearl. She hit her head on a steel rail and lost consciousness before passing away. I never got a chance to say good-bye. I still decided to move north as I had promised only to find more bad news. Frank Jr. was gone, too. That’s when I starting riding the rails, searching for something, anything. Not much for an old man to do when those he loves are gone.
That’s how I ended up in the field today chasing a piece of paper in the wind. Now, I am close to it. I trap the paper, folded in a square, beneath my foot while I catch my breath. I lean over to pick it up. Suddenly, I have a change of heart about reading it. I imagine it’s another note from Pearl, a note for Frank Jr., or maybe a note for me. I lift it to wind, release it, before walking back toward the train. I feel a tear trickle over a smile.
Friendship I use to think that I knew the meaning of friendship I use to think that you understood what it meant to be a friend I guess we were both right, yet we were both wrong
What does it mean to be a friend? What does it mean to be the one? The one, the lucky one.
Neither of us saw it coming, neither of us had a clue Wait a minute! There may have been signs There may have been clues Signs and clues that I chose to ignore Uneasiness that were often washed ashore
What does it mean to be a friend? What does it mean to be the one? The one, the lucky one.
How could friendship once deep as the ocean floor Suddenly shatter like a vase, and cease to exists no more Was it a figment of my imagination or A stranger in disguise I am afraid that our apologies will never again be suffice
What does it mean to be a friend? What does it mean to be the one? The one, the lucky one
It should have never happened Words should have never been exchanged We both should have sucked it up, and examined our claims
Were friendships considered when decision were being made Were friendships considered when we became outrage Did friendship stand close by, or wondered far away Did friendship cry and beg for each of us to stay
What does it mean to be a friend? What does it mean to be the one? The one, the lucky one
We were both wrong when it came to consideration But we were both right when it came to explanation Friendship should have saved us nevertheless For we had been through numerous test
But where was friendship only God truly knows We are left to question, its basic still unknown Could something else have hindered its true identity? For friendships like sisters should rekindle willingly
I will say yes, for I believe, something else was involved Something bigger than both of us Something that we couldn’t disregard It lives in our unconscious And often drives our decisions For it was what consumed friendship and dismantled existence.
What does it mean to be a friend? What does it mean to be the one? The one, the lucky one
I Wish I Was Special- A Children’s Story By- Amy Brich Once upon a time, there was a caterpillar named Clarence. Clarence, unlike the other insects, was very sad because he never felt like he was special. When he was around all of the other unique and interesting insects, they always teased him because he was just a plain, old caterpillar. Each morning Clarence woke up to the beautiful sound of the cricket chirping. Its song starts all of the insects’ days off with a smile. Clarence thought, “If I could sing a beautiful song like the cricket, then I’d be special too!” Then Clarence saw the ladybugs and thought, “Their colors are so pretty and they have magical powers that bring good luck to everyone. If I had magical powers and pretty colors, then I’d be special too!” As Clarence sat there thinking sad thoughts, a grasshopper came leaping by and nearly knocked him over! Clarence said, “I wish I had powerful legs so I could jump through the woods, then I’d be special too!” Clarence crept a little further through the forest, and came across a flower bed full of beautiful yellow and white daisies. He heard a buzzing noise in his ear, and looked up to see the bumble bees collecting pollen from the flowers. Then he thought, “If I could make sweet honey like the bees, then I’d be special too!” As night turned into morning and the dew began to settle all around, Clarence saw a spider web glistening in the grass. Clarence thought, “If only I could spin a beautiful web like the crafty spider, then I’d be special too!” All day long Clarence tried to think of ways that made him special, but he couldn’t think of a single one. As Clarence grew tired, he climbed up a tree and was about to fall asleep, when he noticed a bright, shining light. He realized it was a lightening bug and wished that he could shine like the lightening bugs. Then he’d be special too! But at last, Clarence grew tired and the night air started to get cold, so Clarence wrapped himself up in a leaf, and fell asleep. Just then, something strange and exciting started to happen and Clarence didn’t wake up for two whole weeks. When he finally did, he began to stretch. As he stretched, he noticed that he felt completely different. He realized that he was no longer a plain, old caterpillar anymore. Clarence was a beautiful butterfly! Soon, all the other insects gathered around to see what had happened to Clarence. They all cheered for him and realized that he had been special all along!
But Miguel and Johnny were feeling more silly than sleepy.
Johnny hopped around like a little froggy then leaped into bed.
“I love your ice cream jammie pants,” mom said.
“I love you ice cream too,” said Johnny.
Miguel catapulted from his desk chair to his top bunk.
“I love you hot fudge sundae!” Miguel giggled.
Mom’s turn.
“I love you warm cookies just out of the oven.”
“Mmmm,” chimed both boys.
“Let me think, let me think,” pondered Johnny tapping his cheek.
“I love you ooey, gooey cheese pizza!”
“Ahhh,” we all sighed.
“No, no, no! Mine’s better!” insisted Miguel. “I love you a whole mountain of juicy pear Jelly Belly’s!”
“Oh yeah!” said mom. “I love you homemade spaghetti and meatballs! Now get under the covers my little turkey soups.”
“Turkey soup!” squealed both boys simultaneously. “Yuck!”
“Yuck! Nope! You are very yummy and I’m going to gobble you up in your sleep!” and she gave each boy gobble kisses.
Johnny gobbled kisses back. Miguel gobbled kisses back. Mom turned out the light. Quiet came to the bedroom for about 30 seconds before dad came in to say goodnight.
Both boys popped up yelling, “I love you pizza, dad!”
Without missing a beat dad said, “I love YOU pizza!” and it started all over again.
She had lived through escaping in the middle of the night with her two sisters and mother in a buckboard. She could most certainly live through this. She sat, as she had sat every Friday morning for the past two years, with her daughter drinking coffee at the small wooden table. The sun was beaming in through the glass doors nearby, and the sunlight filled in the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth and neck so that, sitting there next to her, her 93 years were not so apparent. Her wide eyes twinkled behind her glasses. A few months prior, she had cosmetic surgery on her drooping eyelids - not at all for beauty’s sake, but for practical peripheral reasons. Mocking both her age and her superficial beautification however, she would rest her chin on her hands and bat her eyelashes to show off her new look whenever someone inquired. She looked at her only daughter, sipped her coffee, and waited. “Mom,” the inflection was both urgent and sympathetic. “I have some bad news…” She paused, sad to be the bearer of bad news. “Dora passed away last night. She went peacefully - they found her in her bed. Carol called earlier this morning.” Docela’s face didn’t change as she took another sip of her coffee, placed the cup down gently on the table, and gently scratched the side of her neck. Inside, her heart hurt. Dora had been one of the closest and longest-lasting friends she had. The two had come from very different places, but had somehow seemed to live parallel lives. Dora emigrated from Germany during WWII with her husband, leaving everything behind except what would fit in her coat pockets. Docela was born in Waukegan, but when she was only seven, her mother had snuck her and her two sisters away for fear that her in-laws would seek custody of the children after her husband had died. These shared experiences are what made their friendship so important. She remembered the lavish parties she and Dora hosted – wild parties, exactly the type impossible to envision a 93 year old, or anyone older than you, ever attending. Or the time they parked on Ashland Avenue and walked to Wrigley Field to take in a ball game. They would reminisce on how many times they had called “nine eleven” for one another for a fall or a broken wrist and of course, the times they were there for each other when each of their husbands had died of cancer. “Mom,” the voice that interrupted her thought was spoken this time with more concern. “Mom, are you okay?” Her daughter worried whenever she had to bear this kind of news to her mother. So many close friends had died this year. And at 93, her mom had lived to see her parents, her sisters, and her first and second husbands die. In fact, Dora was one of the last friends Docela had, and her daughter worried that this one might break her mom. “Oh Bev, I’m fine. I’ll call Carol back and find out about the arrangements.” She finished her coffee, looked into the empty cup, and took a deep breath. “I’ll get you the number.” Bev stood and went upstairs to find the piece of paper she had written Carol’s number on. The sun had clouded over and Docela turned on her reading light. She picked up the newspaper and turned to the crossword puzzle. Her eyes had begun to blur at the thought of her lost friend. She picked up the pen from the coffee mug in the middle of her table and began to work meticulously through the prompts as she had done for as long as she could remember. When she came to number eight across, she couldn’t help but let the tears roll gently down her cheeks.
Henrietta was mean and all of the animals in the forest knew it. When she bumped into animals in the short grasses where she grazed, she ignored them. If a group of buffalo were drinking from river, she turned the other direction. She was just always this way. She was only nice to other hippopotamuses. She thought everyone else wasn’t good enough to be her friend. Because of this attitude, the other hippos did not want to be friends with Henrietta. She spent most of her time alone. After many years of solitude, she was lonely. Her loneliness just caused her to be nastier. One warm and sunny afternoon, Henrietta decided to take a dip in the river to cool off. Henrietta enjoyed swimming in the river. She did this often. It was a relaxing and pleasant way to stay comfortable in the sweltering heat. Henrietta was floating around, alone as usual, when a flock of egrets flew by. “Hey, Henrietta! Can we sit on your back to catch some fish?” asked an egret. “No, way! I hate birds, go away,” replied Henrietta. And the birds flew off, paying no attention to the mean, old hippo. A snake slithered out of the grass. “Good afternoon, Henrietta! Gorgeous day today, huh?” “It would be a lot better if you would leave me alone,” answered Henrietta as she closed her eyes and floated by. The sun was setting and Henrietta decided it was time to go home. She firmly planted her feet on the river bottom and pushed. She was expecting to pop right out of the water, but her body jerked back into the river. Her feet were stuck in the stickiest mud. She twisted and turned, but just could not break free. She thrashed and flogged, but her feet did not budge. Darkness was spreading quickly over the forest, and Henrietta was getting nervous. She was weak and starving from hours of floating. She knew she was not able to keep her head above water for much longer. She cried out, “Help! Help!” but her cries were left unanswered. “I wish I was nicer,” Henrietta whispered. “I promise that if I get out of this river, I will be nice to everyone in the forest.” Just then the snake slithered by. He had heard her desperate cries and sullen promises and decided to help out, despite Henrietta’s malicious comments earlier in the day. “Hold on Henrietta, the egrets are on their way!” the snake exclaimed. An enormous flock of egrets swooped down from the sky with vines in tow. “Bite down on the vines, and we will pull you out,” shouted an egret. Henrietta bit down on the vine as hard as she could, and the egrets started flying up, higher and higher. Henrietta felt her body lift up and in a few brief moments she was freed! She was unstuck from the mud! Henrietta lay down at the bank of the river and began to cry. “You saved me! I can’t believe you saved me, after I have been so despicable all these years,” Henrietta sighed. “I thought that you deserved a second chance,” replied the snake. Henrietta did deserve a second chance. She remembered her promise to change her ways and be kind to everyone. She kept that promise and was lonely no more.
A Swap-O-Ramian Tale Dulce loved everything about Chicago winters. She loved the way ice formed over the lake like miniature glaciers. The icy sidewalks seemed like dangerous hikes in Antarctica. She even enjoyed shoveling the snow. The night before, three feet of snow had fallen. It was hard to wake up to below freezing temperatures. Dulce had a plan. Each morning, she jumped out of bed and dashed to get her layers of clothing upon herself. She wore thermals, leg warmers, hoodies, long socks and on top of that, a parka. Each morning she walked to school with her mom. Dulce noticed a lawn chair on the side of the street. She wondered why anyone would leave a broken chair on the street. Dulce asked her mother why someone would forget their chair. Her mother chuckled and retorted, “Do not ask your dad that question!” Her answer confused her. After a full day of school, Dulce was exhausted. She began to tell her mom about her math test. When she saw a bookshelf that had a broken middle shelf on the street and a couple of crates and a bucket, Dulce began to notice that there were barely any cars on the street. She decided that the person to ask about the furniture was her dad. Once she finished her homework she helped her mom get ready for dinner. Her dad walked in just as they were about to sit down and eat. Dulce questioned, “Dad why is there a lawn chair, a book shelf, and other rubbish on the street?” His face turned slightly red and he went off on a tangent about how the police are constantly giving tickets for people saving spots, while he has to park three blocks down because there is absolutely no parking on their street. Dulce knew not to ask the question again. During dinner Dulce’s mom told her to clean the kitchen. As she was cleaning she heard a strange noise on the porch. She stopped clearing the table and crept up to the door to see what the commotion was. Her eyes grew enormous as she glared at the creature on her the back of her house. It was about a foot tall with spiky hair that curled straight up at the ends. The creature had a long pointed nose and chubby checks. He wore a thick sweater that was lined with fur. His eyes were beady, yet kind in an odd way. Dulce was scared at first, but then grew angry when she realized that the creature was on her parent’s property. She demanded, “What are you doing here and why are you going through my old stuff?” The creature replied with a shriek, “Human!” “I asked you a question,” Dulce shouted in an irritated voice. “I…I…I am not supposed to be talking to you,” the creature stammered. “Well, I am looking for things to sell at tonight’s market.” “What market?” Dulce questioned. The creature replied, “Well, the market is tonight and I need items to sell.” The creature went on to explain how they sold old broken furniture on the streets in the middle of the night to other Sawp-o-Ramians. “We start to set up for the market early during the week and we put broken items that we want to sell on the streets. At night when every body is sound asleep the market begins. We use the furniture to display items and when we are lucky, a troll or a gremlin will come and buy the broken furniture to fix. Humans throw away so much useful waste.” Dulce stood there for a minute trying to prove all that the creature told her. “So, you go through people’s garbage to sell at a market on the street? Dulce asked in a confused manner.” The creature smiled confidently and replied, “Yea, pretty much, we sell what you throw away.” Dulce could not help but to feel a bit aggravated for her father’s sake. “Do you know how much trouble you cause the people in the community who need these parking spots?” The creature’s eyes welled with water. The words could barely make it past his lips. “I had no idea this was such an inconvenience to your family.” Dulce did not mean to hurt the creature’s feelings. She was just concerned with her father’s frustrations. “Maybe we can think of an alternative, so that everyone could benefit?” The creature looked up with a look of hope in his eyes, “You really mean it?” “Sure!” Dulce rejoiced, as she pulled up a lawn chair to conspire a plan with her Swap-o-Ramian friend. Hours went by and they finally thought they had reached a conclusion to their unique situation. It was decided that the Swap-o-Rama would be moved into all Chicago Public School parking facilities. Since the market only took place during the evening hours, then there would be no conflicting issues between the gnomes and their fellow man.
Blinking Adventures When I woke up this morning I knew I was going to have a spectacular day! I knew this because it started even before I woke up with the most exciting dream.
In this dream, I saw myself floating on the most delicious cloud made of my favorite treat…a mountain of cookie dough ice cream. That wasn’t even the best part. Enjoying my never-ending delight was only the beginning of my adventure.
The places I went were places I didn’t even know I wanted to visit. Places that I wonder now even exist.
Every time I blinked my eyes twice, I traveled to a different destination. I knew exactly how to use this special power. In my dream it seemed as if it was as normal as brushing your teeth every morning is.
My adventure began in this cave that was brighter than any cave I ever heard of. It wasn’t the usual lonely cave filled with bats and mice. It had a river with clear sparkling water that tasted as refreshing as a waterfall. Speaking of waterfalls, there was a gigantic one in the middle that you had to pass through. This waterfall was unlike any other. It was made of chocolate syrup. Passing through, I thought of how great a glass of milk would be…and there it was in my hand. I held it up high to make sure it was overflowing with syrup, enough to make the best chocolate shake. This shake made me drool a little in my sleep it was so delectable. How could I top this?
I blinked my eyes twice and in a skip of a heartbeat there I was, in the middle of a desert on a dirt bike. As I raced through the hot melting sand, I noticed I was surrounded by giraffes, zebras, and baby elephants, all who led me down a path toward a bridge. Approaching this bridge I could see how it turned and looped all around and upside down. Racing along picking up more speed, I felt FEARLESS! I tried my best not to blink twice during this one. Coming to the end of this bridge, I heard my family calling my name. I saw a finish line and a trophy waiting for me. I didn’t even know I was competing with anybody, must have left them in the dust.
I blinked twice once again and found myself at the dinner table with my mom, dad, and sister talking about all the places I had visited. Talking with them made the adventures even sweeter, who knew this was where I would blink to next?
When I woke up and ate breakfast, I couldn’t wait to get to school and read about more exciting adventures so I could bring them home with me and carry them in my dreams…can’t wait!
The United States government has recently decided to invest hundreds of billions of dollars into our economy, of which $100 billion of that was given to Arne Duncan to invest in our nation’s schools. With this extaordinary increase of funds in education, Mr. Duncan has a “once in a lifetime” opportunity to better our school systems. In a recent statement, Arne Duncan said he intends: to reward school districts, charter schools and nonprofit organizations that had demonstrated success at raising student achievement — “islands of excellence,” he called them. Programs that tie teacher pay to classroom performance will most likely receive money, as will other approaches intended to raise teacher quality, including training efforts that pair novice instructors with veteran mentors, and after-school and weekend tutoring programs. (http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/17/education/17educ.html?scp=2&sq=education&st=cse) Mr. Duncan is on the right path in understanding that teachers need to be rewarded on classroom performance. However, it is absolutely essential that all teachers be given equal resources and that classroom performance be measured consistently throughout the country.
Currently, schools receive all different amounts of funding. When given a choice between a well funded school in an affluent community and an under funded school in a under privileged community, most teachers will pick the position with good resources. However, by investing in our under privileged schools, we should be able to distribute the quality teachers across the board. Furthermore, all schools will have similar resources such as textbooks, supplies, and technology to create opportunities for their students to succeed. Consequently, with better teachers and resources, students will have everything necessary in the classroom, regardless of socio-economic status, to have a quality and equal education.
Additionally, improvement in education is currently measured by individual state to state assessments. These exams are based on individual state standards and are inconsistent. For instance, Texas may have different criteria for reading stands in the sixth grade than Illinois. When they are not being assessed on the same criterion, it is nearly impossible to say that one school improved more than another. If we are going to reward schools based upon classroom improvement, we need to have a nationwide standardized test similar to the SAT and ACT, regardless of grade level. When working with national funds, we need to be working with consistent grade by grade standards across the country. Every student in every classroom in every state should be learning the same concepts if they are going to measured against each other for federal funding.
Our country is in the middle of a once in a lifetime educational turn around. By holding all states and schools accountable to the same standards, the United States can create a system to give the same resources and opportunities to all citizens. As the gatekeeper to billions of dollars, it is Arne Duncan’s responsibility to ensure that we effectively allocate these funds to standardizing our country’s education and providing resources to every underprivileged school in the country. Although, there are many thoughts of ways that this money can be spent, Mr. Duncan would be wise to spend on building the infrastructure to improve our country’s education for years to come.
Bus Rides with a Live Turkey, Machine Guns and a Stray Dog: My Adventures in Guatemala A Short Story By Meg Tanabe
About ten years ago, during the year I spent teaching English in Costa Rica, I traveled by bus through Central America. Guatemala was the most memorable country due to a range of experiences my husband, then boyfriend, and I had. Some were on the frightening side, but we were so young and free that even those seemed like exciting adventures to us. When traveling on an overnight bus to the ancient Mayan ruins Tikal, our bus was pulled off the road by a group of men clad in black sporting machine guns. At this point, the men on the bus were ordered off. All of the women on the bus flung themselves towards the windows as we watched our men being patted down to check for who knows what. Relatively quickly, everyone was back on the bus unharmed and we were on our merry way. We knew better than to ask any questions and just counted ourselves lucky, although I still wonder who the machine gun toting men were and what they thought they might find. This incidence was mostly forgotten about when we reached our destination and enjoyed the wonders of climbing up the Tikal pyramids so high that we could see over the top of the jungle for miles.
The beautiful experiences made us forget the fear we felt that moment on the bus. We were most overwhelmed by the kindness of the people we met. The day we arrived in Antigua to see architecture from the Spanish colonial times, we were surrounded by men ready to take us to the hostel or hotel they advertised. As we did throughout our travels that year, we asked who knew of the cheapest place to stay and we headed there. (We were not destitute or anything, but even though I taught at two language schools and did private tutoring at home, I still made a typical Tico salary for a 21 year old – about $300 per month. My husband, who arrived in Costa Rica not knowing any Spanish and hardly any English at all, worked as a teppanyaki chef at a swanky Japanese owned hotel and made a similar salary. In order to see the places we wanted to that year, we lived frugally and would choose a night out dancing or a trip to the beach at a rundown hotel over eating meat for a week. We both lost a few pounds that year, but it was the most life changing year of our lives. The experiences we had really shaped who we are today and our values.) The place we wound up staying at in Antigua, was a small kiosk in the front room of a house with a room to let out on the second floor. The family welcomed us without reservation. They shared their home and meals with us and answered many of our travel questions. On our way out of the country, we stayed with them once more and thanked them for all of their sage advice. It is an amazing thing when people let down their barriers about safety concerns regarding strangers and just open their minds and hearts to new people. Through doing this we learn so many great things from others that we would have otherwise closed ourselves off from.
The adventure I loved the most from Guatemala was our trip to Chichicastenango, an enormous outdoor market that sells everything from live animals to textiles. We met adorable children selling worry dolls and I fainted on the church steps from the overpowering amount of incense wafting through the air, but the most memorable part was our trip leaving the market on the bus. Oddly, the hilarious moments stand out more than the most beautiful or frightful. We squashed onto the sardine-like packed bus with everyone else and their treasures from the market. I have never felt such true generosity as when a family of five all sitting on the same bus seat and holding a live turkey squeezed over and invited me to share their seat. At the next stop, a stray dog climbed aboard for the ride through the winding mountain roads. Strangely, no one objected, including the bus driver. This poor dog had not idea what he was in for. Perhaps he just longed for a change of scenery. Every time we hit a curve in the road, the dog would slide to the other side of the bus and let out an anguished yelp. The bus was so packed that I honestly believe that no one could have stooped down to help the dog even if they were brave enough to chance it. At the next stop, the dog scrambled off the bus the moment the doors opened bolting between the legs of the other passengers. Whenever I think about our trip to Guatemala, I remember that sweaty bus ride with the dog and turkey remind myself how lucky I was to have taken such a trip and to have experienced such outstanding kindness from the Guatemalans I met.
She sat silently in the principal’s office waiting her fate. To be such a good student, she wondered how she had ended up here. “Suzanne, come in my office please,” the assistant principal summoned.” “My dear, what is going on with you?” He asked this as he cautiously took a seat in his soft, cushiony chair. Why was he sitting in this type of chair, while the students’ chairs were a step away from giving us hemorrhoids? “Sue,” he said. “My name is Suzanne,” I spat out. Men always want to dominant you and try to strip you of your dignity, identity, femininity, and any other “inity” they can think of. “Why is so important that I get dressed for gym or not, it is my grade,” I replied. “Mr. Covington said you gave him much attitude, and just flat out refused to get dressed.” “I am on my period,” I replied sarcastically. He seemed uncomfortable and said dryly, “Mr. Covington said you were on your menstrual last week.” “And I am going to be on it next week also,” I said with much attitude. He sighed, “go to your next class Ms. Jordan, we’ll continue this later.” As I walked out I knew I wouldn’t be back. As I was walking solemnly to my next class, I got a text. It read, “What up my BFF, R U goin to get N trub.” “Trouble,” I laughed to myself. It would take more trouble for the assistant boss to actually try and figure out the appropriate punishment for not dressing for gym. He opted to send me to my next class. Ignoring the text, I walked into my geometry class. Another Man! In grammar school, I only had female teachers. You would think that once you started high school, they would make it mandatory for more women to teach than men. “Your late,” the man behind the desk said. Without responding, I took my quiz and sat down-I knew the drill. Sometimes it is better to say nothing at all, even if you have a plausible excuse. As I was taking my quiz, I wondered why math was required at the high school level. As long as I knew how to count money, grammar school! I knew how much 25% off some bad boots were, grammar school! And I knew what fraction of the pizza I ate for dinner last night, grammar school! This geometry stuff was really pointless-unless I planned on becoming a geometry teacher. I would much rather swallow the geoboard! “Times up,” the chauvinist replied. The rest of the period I was there physically, but mentally I was miles away. As I was walking to yet another man’s class, someone walked up behind me. Frantically, I turned. “Whoa what’s the deal with you, you didn’t reply to my text,” James said. “My bad, I was late running to Mr. Z’s class,” I responded. I normally don’t like calling teachers by their initials, but his name was so long and so annoying, Mr. Z was just a little less dramatic. “So what happened in gym today, it wasn’t like you,” he said. “I am just tired of being a piece of meat,” I replied without thinking. “What?” “Never mind, I’m hungry, and the horsemeat in the cafeteria just doesn’t seem very appetizing right now,” I whispered. “Coach C, wait up,” James screamed. The coach arrogantly turned around, gave me a look as if to say, “How dare you defy me little girl.” Then he gave me a sly smile. Even though he had perfect teeth, and a cute smile-at least that is what all the freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior girls thought, his smile made me cringe. I was walking to the so-called cafeteria, but I kept walking. I went to the bathroom, wondered why I was a freshman and hadn’t started my period yet. The doctor says, “Don’t worry; you are still in the normal age range.” I felt sort of satisfied because she was female, and we were more trustworthy. I looked at my image in the mirror. I was a freshman, but had the body of a middle-schooler. So what was it about me that the coach liked? I didn’t even have the makings of a full grown woman yet; I couldn’t even reproduce yet? Sure, most of the freshman and a few sophomores thought I was cute, but a full-fledged man? I took a glimpse at my watch, noticing I still had 20 minutes before seventh period started. With no destination in mind, I started walking. I stopped at my counselor’s office. Word around school was that Mr. Convington and Mrs. Watson had a thing going on. Was it hearsay? Was it the truth? I kept walking. I stopped at the main office. I already talked to the assistant boss this morning-pointless. The big boss didn’t want to get involved unless it had something to do with one of his basketball stars-without the basketball team, our school would be nameless. I kept walking. Should I tell my mom? The only lesson she ever taught me was not to give up anything for free. Her exact words were, “Don’t ever give up nothing, I mean “nothing” for free.” I was too terrified of exactly what “nothing” entailed. I kept walking, right out the school building. It was the last week of school, and I was making out my schedule for next year. “Yes!” I was going to be a junior, and I could take dance instead of gym. No more unnecessary comments from Coach Covington; no more inappropriate gestures, no more long stares, no more hand on the shoulder for too long, no more hand on waist, just no more! “Class of 2010 in the house,” we screamed at the pep rally. It was a new school year, and I was now a big-time junior! What a difference a summer makes! Period came-not as fun as it is cracked up to be. Love the breasts and butt that comes along with it though! Not only did I have the body, I had the confidence to match! “Hello Suzzzeeee!” I carefully looked back recognizing the voice; it was him! “Hello Coach Convington, my name is Suzanne,” I scornfully replied. He was going on and on about something, but the only someone I noticed was the “freshie,” (what we upperclassman call freshman) he had walked up with. It was something about her eyes; something about her smile; something about the way she caressed her arm. As they walked away, it was something about their interaction; the way he walked with her; the way she laughed, the way his hand stayed on her shoulder a second too long. I blinked. She was I! I was she! I walked to the main office, but this time instead of continuing to walk, I stopped. “I would like to speak to Mr. Manning.” It must have been the way I said it, or the look in my eyes that caused the secretary to buzz the principal’s office without hesitation. I was going straight to the top. I had to be her voice. I was once her, and no one was my voice. “If you stand for nothing… you will fall for anything.” “If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around, does it make a sound?” One voice can make the difference.
Joey felt exhausted as she put the key in the lock, twisted it and entered the cold dark hallway. She had a strange feeling in her bones as she fumbled for the light switch. She quickly flicked on the light and let out a sigh of relief as Toby came hobbling down the hall, tail wagging. It had been "one of those days...." "whats for dinner?" she thought aloud and immediately Toby's ears pricked up. As Toby trotted behind her into the kitchen she heard a loud bang that seemed to come from the back porch. Joey froze , her mind racing. She grabbed a knife that was standing in the butcher block beside her. What was that she asked herself, afraid of the answer. Her heart was beating faster now as she scanned the room, and squinted to see down the long hallway to her bedroom. John couldn't be home yet. It was only 5 and he was working on the Quigley project. He said he would be late,...yes he definately said he would be late. Joey tried to gather her thoughts and edged quietly towards the stairs.She steadied herself on the banister and peered up the stairs "BANG" she heard another loud bang. This time it came from the upstairs bedroom. Joey stopped dead in her tracks. Then she swung around grabbed Toby and ran for the front door. "Whats the matter honey?"-a familliar voice came from behind her. "You'll be proud of me, I just put out all of the trash."
This is a list poem that I created to begin our study of word choice and description. I decided to start with someone who both David and I would know very well -- ourselves. I framed the poetry lesson, by referencing the things that an author thinks about when he or she wants to create a character: What does the character look like, do (actions & activities), and most importantly think about.
We also began to discuss how a writer can use standard conventions to help convey their message.
Me as a Character-- Defining Who I Am:
A usual height Chaotic, messy brown bangs Olive skin
TEACHer Reader Talker… all the time
My Future? Constant changes and decisions to be made My family, my friends, my education, my calling?
Mischief On The Mountaintop A Twist On The Story Of The Three Bears Once upon a time, there were three emerald colored dragons that lived in a jagged cave on a mountaintop. One was a Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon. One was a Medium, Grande-sized Dragon. And, one was an Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon. They each had a granite bowl for their fiery chili: a teeny bowl for the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon, a medium sized bowl for the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon, and an enormous bowl for the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon. They each had rocks to play with for some daily, daring, dragon entertainment. There was a teeny pebble for the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon. There was a medium rock for the Medium, Grande-size Dragon. Then, there was an enormous boulder for the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon. Finally, each sleepy dragon had a spot to sleep in. There was a teeny corner with a petite pebble pillow for the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon. There was a medium-sized corner with a really, round, rock pillow for the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon. Then, there was an enormous corner with a gigantic pillow for the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon. One morning, the three scaly dragons made some fiery chili for lunch, and poured it into their granite bowls. Then, they walked out of their cave and down the mountaintop to give it a chance to cool-temperature wise, not spicy-wise (except for the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon). While they were out, a little boy called Mischievous Malcolm stumbled upon their cave. Now, Mischievous Malcolm was not a very well behaved boy. As he approached, their cave on top of the mountain, he became very curious. First, he looked into the cave from a distance, but then took a few steps closer. When he saw that the cave was vacant, he began to enter the unknown enclosure with excitement. Mischievous Malcolm glanced around to see what he could find. In one corner, he discovered three granite bowls of chili. They looked very tasty and smelled delicious! Now, Malcolm was beginning to feel hungry. First, he tasted the fiery chili that belonged to the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon, but it was too hot and spicy for him! Then, he tasted the fiery chili of the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon, but it was too cold and mild for him. He proceeded to taste the fiery chili of the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon, and that was neither too hot nor too cold and neither too spicy nor too mild. In fact, it was just right! It was so delicious that he ate it ALL up! Next, Mischievous Malcolm looked around to see what else he could find. In the back of the cave, he noticed three unique stones on a top of a pile of other stones. An exciting idea popped into his head. He thought he could have some fun building a fort with them, so he set off to work. First, he tried to pick up the boulder that belonged to the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon, but it was much too heavy. However, being the good problem solver that he is, he decided that this would be the base of his fort. NOT FINISHED: A WORK IN PROGRESS! Check in next week! (Children's Book)
Ang hindi maronong lumingon sa pinang galingan ay hindi makararating sa paroroonan.
He who does not look back to his roots will not reach his destination. -Tagalog Proverb
Tala sat nervously on the crowded bus on its way to the airport. She squeezed her grandma’s hand tightly, desperately wanting to hold on to something familiar. Traffic on the only road into the city was slow, and they were running late. On this day, nine year old Tala would say good bye to her grandparents and all she knew of life. And though she knew life in the United States had promise, a part of her hoped to miss the plane. She wanted to go back to the home she knew.
Home was a one room house in a small village forty miles southeast of Manila. It was where little children ran freely in the dirt streets, and older children dressed in uniforms filled the early mornings on their way to school. It was where neighbors were so close their voices carried into your own home, and where street vendors could be heard day and night selling their goods. It was where she had lived when she came into this world. It was where she stayed when her mom left to join her new husband in the States three years ago.
The day her mom left, she told Tala she would send for her soon. That first year, Tala was prepared to leave the moment her mother gave her word. She knew exactly what she would wear, and what few things she would bring with her. She had even bragged to her classmates that she would be moving to the States soon. Then after the first year passed with no solid plans for her departure, she began to lose hope. Tala understood it was difficult, she remembered all the talk of money and paperwork. She tried to hold on to the words her mother had told her time and time again, “Anak, we will be together soon.” Her classmates teased Tala, saying her mother had abandoned her. And as more time passed, Tala stopped believing. Even her classmates stopped teasing her about it. Then it happened. After three years Tala’s mom had finally saved enough money and had all the paper work in order. Tala’s mom arranged for her to travel with friends from the States who were visiting the Philippines. Tala had never met this couple, and it scared her to travel to the other side of the world with strangers.
She stared at the rubber lined floor of the bus. Thoughts raced through her head. The pictures she saw of the States were vastly different from what she knew. Her mother had said life would not be as easy as the pictures made it seem. She remembered, “A pagumpay ay pag pa sisikap.” “Success in the States comes only with hard work.” Still, Tala knew she would soon have luxuries her grandparents would never know. As she sat between them, she felt crushed by the weight of it all. Then suddenly the bus turned away from the city, toward open green land. The airport was just ahead of them now.
Tala’s grandpa quickly led them off the bus and searched for the couple. Tala noticed how out of place he looked. They were simple people, not accustomed to the busyness of a big city. He nervously led them through crowds of people. She felt small and scared. Then a man stopped them. Standing before them the man said, “I am Tito Anio, and this is my wife, Tita Abba. We will take care of you.” They were not too late.
Tala lifted her head for a brief moment to look at the couple, and then quickly looked back down at the cement sidewalk in front of the airport doors. The man continued, “We must go inside. We are running late and do not want to miss our plane. Say good bye to your lolo and lola.” The busy airport noises filled the awkward moment. Still clutching her grandma’s hand, a tear rolled down her cheek. It was time to say good bye. Her heart raced and she quickly turned and pressed her body into her grandma’s. Pushing Tala’s hair back, her grandma kissed her head. Then she gently unwrapped Tala’s arms from around her waist, and moved away. Tears filled their eyes. She turned to her grandpa. The normally meek man now sternly lifted her chin, “Anak, look your new life in the eye, and let your past guide your future.”
On the twenty-seventh floor of Grand Avenue and State Street in the gray-marbled building that onlookers, waiting for and hour or two for a table at the Weber Grill or Rock Bottom on a Saturday night, see rise above the Jewel and Bed, Bath, and Beyond, Jack Roberts’s pager vibrated on his nightstand until it fell to the freshly polished hardwood floor. “Jack…Jack, I think it’s your pager,” she said. Jack’s voice cracked out, “What? It’s a friggin’ Sunday. What time is it?” “It’s about seven-thirty.” His eyelids remained closed as he spoke, but the woman sat up, and the sheets fell from her bare shoulders. “Wait…ummm…” he took a deep breath. “Well, it looks like I have to be going into work, then.” “Already? That’s right, you told me you’re a reporter. Don’t mind me--” Jack opened his eyes and smiled at the ceiling and at her nod to being a reporter. “You know, I’m actually,” he turned and looked at her. “Whoah,” he said in a breathy tone as he shifted to the edge of the queen bed, teetering on hitting the hardwood. “What?” “It’s just that…I…you’re…” “I’m what Jack? You know, you haven’t said my name yet. You remember it?” “Sure, sure. It’s, it’s, it’s Yolanda.” “What?” She looked at him with a sideways head tilt. “I mean Taneesha?” “Funny Jack. What’s my name?” He could see she had caught him. But he tried another one anyway. “I was just kidding. It’s, it’s Lakesha?” She let the sheets fall and stepped onto the hardwood. She opened the curtains in Jack’s bedroom and let the light shine on her naked body. She looked at him with her hands on her hips. She was stacked front and back with a flat stomach and a thirty-five inch inseam. “I’m black. That’s it isn’t it.” “No, no, no.” “That’s what you meant when you were surprised. You said, ‘Whoah, you’re…’” He sat up in his bed. “No, no. I was going to say beautiful.” “No, you weren’t. Yolanda, Taneesha, Lakesha? Jack, you ever heard that once you go black you never go back?” she grabbed her clothes. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” He stepped on the hardwood and reached for the curtains. She turned on the lights. His eyes had a hard time adjusting. “I bet you heard that. One of your white frat buddies at Northwestern, right? You gonna go tell him you went black last night, Jack?” She put on her thong and tight grey pants. Scott Jankowski had said that to him his sophomore year. He wondered how she knew that. “No, no, no. I, I, I…” “Do you always repeat words you know three times? How about words you don’t know. Christine…ring a bell, that’s me, that’s me, that’s me. The black woman you slept with last night.” She reached for her black, lacy bra. “It just took me by surprise, that’s all.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. He said that out loud. He wanted to jump out of his window. “What did you say? Repeat that for me.” He composed himself. He grabbed his red briefs and slid them on, and put on a white t-shirt. He stood to face-to-face with her at the foot of the bed. “Listen…Christine. This was a one-night stand, nothing more. It’s what I do. Yes, I was surprised that you were black. I was very drunk last night. I don’t see what the big deal is. I have a huge hangover, but I’ll drive you home. And I’ll call you next week.” He had said these same words many times before, but never with anyone this smart. If she was like the rest, he probably would have slept with her again before work. “Are you kidding me?” Fully dressed and loaded, Christine united her four fingers and jabbed his right shoulder. “You got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me. A ride, a phone call?” He stepped back a bit with the jab. She was as tall as he was. He didn’t really know what to do. He joined his four fingers and lightly jabbed her left shoulder. “Yeah, so you wouldn’t have to take the L.” “Son of a bitch.” She made a fist, cocked that left elbow back and decked his right eye. His knees hit the hardwood. Her voice grew louder. “The ‘L’? I drive a 320, E-class.” Louder. “And I was drunk too.” She turned towards the window and grabbed her boots. Jack kneeled, blinking and holding his eye from the blow. Louder. “But I know why I remember you’re name.” Louder. “Look at me.” He took his hand away and looked up. “It’s half of Jack-ass, you arrogant prick.” She grabbed her purse and walked out of the bedroom. Jack stood up. “You didn’t have to hit me. Just because I’ve never…” “Yeah, and you never will again.” Christine’s voice went from straightforward and loud to high pitched and ghetto. “I’m gonna tell all the black girls about Jack Roberts, ‘cuz we all know each other down’n the hood.” “I think you’re taking this way out of hand. It was a one night stand.” She opened his condo door to leave and mumbled, “Idiot.” He saw a set of hoop earrings on the nightstand. “Wait, don’t leave,” he walked towards her while taking his hand away from his palm. “You’re probably just a copy editor, asshole,” she yelled as she tried to slam the door. He stuck his forearm in the door and grabbed her forearm to pull her back in. But she wouldn’t budge. They stood there tense, their forearms the only link between Christine’s pathway out and Jack’s overpriced one bedroom. “Let go of me. Get your racist hands off of me!” she yelled hitting him with her Gucci leather handbag. “I’m not a racist!” he yelled back. Just then Mrs. Mortensen from 3B opened the door. “Just come back inside. This is a terrible mistake,” he said in a more even tone. “Do you know this man?” Christine directed this question to Mrs. Mortensen, a middle-aged woman with a middle-aged football hairdo. “Yes. That’s Jack. Now what’s this about him being a racist? Definitely not Jack, honey. Jack’s always bringing in all types of women in and out. Now a sexist sure. Not a racist.” Mrs. Mortensen locked her door and continued down the hallway. “Thanks a lot Mrs. Mortensen. Love the helmet…I mean hairstyle! Your husband, I mean ex-husband’s really going to love it too!” Jack said. “Screw you Jack,” Mrs. Mortensen said as she continued down the hallway. “Now will you let go of me?” He loosened his grasp on her arm. “Just wait. Your earrings are on the nightstand.” She felt her earlobes, which had tiny diamond studs in them. She smiled. “Not mine Jack. You know you were different last night. You should look into being an alcoholic. Because sober, you’re, well…I guess…” She stopped smiling and looked at him plainly in his blue eyes, the ones that had pulled her over for a drink last night. “Just what’s expected,” she slid out of his loose grasp and walked down the hallway. He closed his mouth. Usually the mornings after went a lot smoother. The promise of a phone call. A nice breakfast at Rock Bottom. Even a ride home. But this one would stick with him and not because she was black, and he couldn’t remember when he woke up. And not because she knocked him in the face or because Mrs. Mortensen told him the harsh reality he already knew. He would forever remember it because it would be the last one-night stand of his life. It would be Christine’s last as well. They just didn’t know it yet.
She nervously lay on the examining table, tightly gripping the sides until her knuckles turned white. She was anxious to find out the much-anticipated news and wished her husband could be there to ease her concerns. Dr. King rolled the ultrasound machine over to the table and began to prepare the transducer. “June, are you excited?” he asked in a husky voice that matched perfectly with the portly size and width of his stature. She offered a weak smile and nodded her head. He lifted her shirt and the cold gel sent a chill through her body. And then there was silence. Beads of sweat began to pop up on his forehead, as he said nothing. “What is going on?” She silently screamed. June and Bob were married for eight years. They happily lived in New York for three of the six and had recently moved back to Connecticut after living in California for a year. They were content with their life. Bob never pressured June for a family and June was satisfied and pleased with her career. They were in no rush. It wasn’t until ten months ago that they decided it was time to start a family. They both agreed that one child maybe two, was a number they were both comfortable with. It didn’t come so easy at first. They tried for nine months. But in October, they both were blessed with a positive pregnancy. This cold night in January was her first sonogram. “Could it be twins?” she questioned herself. She knew she looked bigger than most women at three and a half months pregnant and was already wearing five-month maternity clothes. She had a hunch when she looked at herself in the mirror in the mornings that twins might be a possibility. Although she was apprehensive of the thought, she and her husband had discussed the situation and were willing to accept this outcome. She could feel Dr. King gliding the transducer over her round belly. Back and forth, back and forth. Still, he said nothing. She scanned the ultra-sound machine hoping to see what was making Dr. King speechless. It looked only like gray fuzz. “What’s going on!” She demanded as the drips of sweat had fallen from his rotund face. “June, there’s there’s noth..nothing wrong.” He stammered. “I just want to make sure that I counted the right number of heads.” “What? Do you see two?” She nervously asked but silently confirming her premonition. Dr. King uttered, “I think I see four heads to be exact.” June lay there motionless, staring at the cold, undecorated walls of the office. She began to shiver uncontrollably. Her heart thumped so loudly, she could barely make out the muffled, reassuring sounds from the doctor, “June? You’ll be fine.” All she heard was what the doctor just stated, “Four heads. Four heads. Four heads. Four heads.” She managed to gasp out, “Does that mean four babies?” Then the storm hit. “Yes, you are having quadruplets!” The clouds formed and tears flowed down her cheeks as her body began to shake. The blood drained from her face and her breathing increased rapidly. She was in shock. Never in her life would she have imagined this. She was only 32 years old and she was going to have four babies at once. Her 5 foot 5 inch, 123-pound body surrendered to frightening images of her life and what would now become of it, flashed and blinded her. Four babies. She thought, “What will happen to the babies? Will they all live? What if they have health problems? God…what is going to happen to my body? How am I going to carry FOUR babies…oh God, help me! I can’t do this!” For what seemed like an hour she finally mustered up the strength to stand. Still crying softly, she gathered her things, hearing Dr. King in the background ask, “June do you need someone to help you get home?” She managed to shrug off his offer, opened the door to her new life and walked out. The receptionists already knew and people were beginning to stare. The overwhelming pressure of this news absolutely petrified her. She struggled to zip up her coat over her growing babies and left the office. Not remembering where she parked or anything of her prior life for that matter, she made it to her Corvette. “Bye, Bye car,” she said to herself as she realized that a two-door sports car would never fit her now, four children. She drove home in a daze reliving what Dr. King said over and over again. “What are we going to do? How is Bob going to react?” she wondered. Not remembering how she got home, she nervously made her way to the telephone, not knowing what she would do with this news. Sitting on top of her desk, clutching the receiver she dialed the Boston Colonnade where Bob was staying on business. He answered, “Hello?”
June, her heart racing, whispered, “Bob, are you sitting down?”
For most people, John Lennon’s song Imagine is inspirational. But for me this song meant heartbreak.
I must have been about 9 or 10 years old. At 3:30, we’d gather in Gram’s living room to watch Jeopardy. (We didn’t have cable with the clear picture downstairs.) Mom and Gram would compete against each other. Occasionally I knew an answer or two, but when they shared their scores at the commercial break, I always said I had five more than either of them. Just to get their attention.
Gram always sat on the blue La-Z-Boy, and Mom always sat cross-legged on the little brown couch. I would lie on the long brown couch, close my eyes, and just listen - or be the judge of who answered quicker. Most of the time I just wondered when I’d become that smart.
The revealing of the answer after Final Jeopardy was my go-ahead to channel surf. Any earlier and they’d both scream. I usually flipped to VH1. Gram would shuffle out of the room to heat up the coffee, and Mom usually followed - unless a video caught her eye. That day, they were showing John Lennon’s Imagine video. And she stayed. “Oh, this is a good one!”
That familiar introduction instantly reminded me of the pain she had endured. I hated hearing that song. I blinked my eyes and bit my lower lip to hold my tears in. But when it got to be too much, I pulled the afghan over my head, peeked out the holes, and my tears came streaming out. As I wept, I marveled at the contrast between the blue sky and the white grand piano. John Lennon looked like an angel singing in heaven. Mom sang her heart out.
She never knew I cried. My heart ached for her loss: the loss of her teen idol, her favorite Beatle, her John.
A few weeks ago, I asked my mom about John Lennon. She told me she heard the news of his death on the radio while driving home. She said she prayed he hadn’t overdosed. But murder? That was something she never fathomed.
I finally shared my experience with the Imagine video. “Are you sure you’re not just imagining those feelings now that you’re an adult?” “No, I literally felt your pain, Mom. I’m not kidding.” “That’s crazy. There’s no way…” “Were you pregnant with me when John Lennon died?” “I couldn’t have been. He died in December of 1980, and you were born in March of … ’81… I was 5 months pregnant with you…”
I did the math to find that I was 26 weeks when John Lennon died. 26 weeks is the last month of the 2nd trimester. At 12 weeks, a baby has all parts necessary to experience pain, and her vocal cords are complete. At 21 weeks, a baby hears and recognizes her mother’s voice and responds to some types of music.
At 26 weeks, I imagine I was singing to my mother to help her through her pain.
Water bubbles tree bark juts over rock weeds grow through the cracked drizzle crooked conifers sway branches.
Three layers of water falling as the sun creeps through circular cloud patterns. Water roaring, soaring through purple mountain flowers.
I shake off mosquitoes with pine needles prickling my ankles. I slide my fingertips into the cold, rushing water altitude shortens my breath as we connect.
Startled, the boy dropped the book he was about to smush the bee with. “I must be hearing things,” he thought, “there is no way that this fat bumble bee just spoke to me.”
“Did you just speak to me?” the boy asked.
The bee flew up near the boy’s face and the boy swatted at him again. “Yikes, don’t!”
“Yup, I must be going crazy,” the boy said aloud.
“You’re not crazy, but I don’t want to die today. I have important things to do.” The bee was now resting comfortably on the boy’s arm.
“You mean like stinging people?” asked the boy, bring the insect closer to his face without realizing it.
“No, you big bully, I only sting to protect myself from predators. You humans are the only ones that hurt other living things just because you feel like it.”
The boy seemed to consider this for a moment. “You said that you have important things to do…what important things does a bee do? Other than to sting people?”
The yellow and black striped insect puffed out his thorax and stated, “Bees like me play an absolutely essential role in the lives of people. Without honeybees, life on our planet would most likely cease to exist. I’ll bet that you didn’t know that honeybees are responsible for pollinating the vast majority of edible plants. I can also make some pretty sweet food.”
“Is there anything that I can do to help you?” The bully seemed to have had a change of heart about his insecticide.
“No, I can pollinate all on my own. But I just hope that after this you really think the next time you start to arbitrarily murder another living thing.”
“You are one six-legged creature I’m sure that I will never forget,” said the boy. And he never did.
Going on 13, still in the 6th grade-Lost “Be a Kid”; “Act like a young lady”-Confused Friends one day, fighting another-Lost Regular school, alternative school-Confused Where is home-apartment or streets?-Lost What is a lie? What is the truth?-Confused No bath, No shower-Lost Am I a child or a woman?-Confused Rules? “I make my own.”-Lost Stealing is A way of life-Confused Gang involvement-Lost Selling myself-Confused Can only One person make a difference? Am I that Teacher that can get through? Lost and Confused Too
Home Alone On this, like every other day, Burly sat and looked out the front window. With everyone off at work Burly was left home alone. “I’m bored,” he whined to himself. “What can I do?”
“I run fast. I can time myself.” Burly ran from one side of the house to the other in 1.5 seconds. [Illustrations would show a path of destruction in his wake]
“I have strong legs. I should practice my jumping.” He jumped from couch to chair to table and back again. [More destruction]
“I’m should have a snack but my bowl is empty.” Burly devoured a shoe in seven bites leaving only a heel.
It was not a good idea to leave Burly home alone.
Even after all of his activities, Burly was still bored. He circled around and dropped to the floor. “I’ll just take a little nap.”
Hours passed. The sun shined on Burly’s back and warmed him. He reached out one paw and then the other, rolling on his back so that the sun might have a shot at his tummy too. He gave a great yawn and opened one eye and then the other.
Immediately Burly knew that he was going to be in trouble. [Burly sees the mess that he has left.]
“I’m a better eater than I thought,” said Burly as he hid the remaining heel of a show under his bed.
He put the mangled pillows back on the couch and set the broken vase and scattered mail back on the table one piece at a time. “If only I weren’t such a talented jumper.”
He did his best to straighten the carpet and the chair that got in the way of his sprinting. Perhaps no one would notice the pieces of fluff springing from the pillows.
After he had hidden and shoved and nuzzled things back in place he laid down on his bed. “Best to play it casual.”
All that clean up work tired Burly out. He couldn’t help but drift back off to sleep, but he was startled awake by the shrieks of his owner as she walked in the door.
“Oh my goodness!” she howled. “Did someone break in?”
Burly knew this would not be good. He tucked himself back by the couch and opened his eyes wide to give his best innocent face.
His owner surveyed the damage. She pulled more stuffing out of the chair. She examined the slobber-covered mail on the table. She even found the shoe in its hiding spot under the bed.
“Did you do this?”
Burly put one paw over his nose and looked at the floor. He had been caught. He hadn’t been trying to do anything wrong. He just got bored. He knew that he shouldn’t have tried to hide his mischief.
“I’m not mad at you,” his owner soothed. “But you could have gotten hurt with all your jumping and running. And I don’t like that you tried to hide what you did. Next time you need to think more about what decisions you make.”
Burly knew she was right. He put his head in her lap and sighed. Tomorrow he wouldn’t be the fastest runner, highest jumper or biggest eater. Instead he would just try to be the best dog he could.
Are You My Mother? A Children’s Story By Meg Tanabe
A mother velociraptor sat on her egg waiting for it to hatch. The egg started wiggling. “I must get some food for my baby.” she said as she flew away to go hunting.
Inside the next, the egg wiggled. It wiggled, jiggled and cracked. Suddenly, out came a baby velociraptor. “Where is my mother?” he said. He looked all around the nest, but he could not find her anywhere. “I must find my mother.” he said. Out of the nest he went. He fell all the way down to the ground from the tree above. The baby velociraptor could not fly but it could walk. “Mother, I am coming to find you!” he said with determination.
“Are you my mother?” he shouted up at a brontosaurus. The brontosaurus took a break from munching on leaves, leaned down and replied, “I am too tall and long to be your mother.”
“Are you my mother?” the baby velociraptor asked a triceratops. “I cannot be your mother. I have horns on my head and you do not.” said the triceratops. Then he stomped away.
“Are you my mother?” the baby asked a stegosaurus. “No. I am covered in body armor with horns on my back and you are not.” laughed the stegosaurus as he disappeared into the forest.
The baby velociraptor slumped down to the earth and began to cry. His cry grew into a heaving sob. Soon, he was surrounded by a puddle of his tears. “I know my mother is out there somewhere.” He started to gain some strength and shouted, “I will find her. I can do it!”
Suddenly, the baby was joined by a tiny whiskered creature with a pointy nose and a long pink tail who began to lick up his puddle of tears. “You must be my mother!” he cried. The skinny rat looked up at the velociraptor with his red beady eyes, grunted and began to chase him. “Ahhhh! You are too fierce looking to be my mother! Help!” the baby shouted as he ran all the way back to his tree. Just as he reached the base of his tree, a huge winged creature swooped down and carried him to his nest. “You must be my mother.” he sighed. “That’s right, my sweet baby. Welcome to our world.” cooed his mother. The mother folded her wings around the baby velociraptor and the baby knew that it was safe and loved.
Biopsy She sat sideways on the bed of the surgical room, not yet willing to make the commitment of lying all the way down. The room was cool and she shivered in the pink paper gown the nurse told her to change into. Strands of hair escaped from the elastic-rimmed cloth cap she was instructed to put on and she tucked them back in nervously, as if she were there for them to evaluate her appearance.
A knock at the door. “Miss Dillon, are you changed? May we come in?”
“Yes,” Sarah coughed, suddenly misplacing her voice. “I’m ready.”
A nurse in scrubs entered the with a stainless steel rolling tray. “I’m just here to get the room ready. Dr. Wardle will be here soon. Why don’t you lay back and relax.”
Relax. Yeah, right. You relax when someone is going to poke and prod you with needles trying to stab some strange tumor living between your neck and your brain, Sarah wanted to yell, but instead she responded, “OK,” reclining on the gurney as the nurse directed.
Minutes of uncomfortable silence elapsed as Sarah watched the nurse unpack each plastic package of instruments and lay them carefully on the table. One giant syringe had complicated grips resembling fallopian tubes. Another bore a handle that could have been attached to a suitcase.
Her throat began to tighten and the spot between the bridge of her nose and the corner of her eyes burned the way it did when she held back tears. She wished that she had brought her boyfriend. They could have joked about the strange tools on the table or the funny paper gown that didn’t close in the back. He could have held her hand and told her she was brave. But instead she had insisted. “I can handle it. Don’t take off work. It’s just a biopsy. I’ll be fine.” She was independent; there was no need to inconvenience anyone else.
But now she was left in silence with the diligent nurse forever unpacking needles and gauze and tools reminiscent of reproductive models.
“This is a nice hospital,” she offered.
“Yes. We like it very much.”
Back to silence.
Another knock at the door, but this time no pause for a response. Dr. Wardle, a tall man in his fifties, entered, simultaneously marking a chart and uttering his greetings. “Ms. Dillion. Yes. It’s nice to see you. Are you ready?”
“Yes. I guess so.”
“Very good. We’ll get set up. The pathologist is on his way downstairs. All you have to do is turn your head so I can try to aspirate some of the fluid in the tumor. There’s no anesthesia because we need you to help us find it.”
Pathologist. Aspirate. Tumor. These words had never been a part of her daily vocabulary but suddenly peppered every telephone conversation with her mother and constantly tumbled around her brain when she showered or drove to work or tried to fall asleep at night.
She turned to the left to expose the lump hidden beneath her skin. Dr. Wardle held her head down and prodded for the mass with two fingers. He hit it and Sarah winced. The tumor sent a sharp pain to her jaw. “That hurt?” Dr. Wardle asked. “A little,” Sarah responded.
He kept his finger on the lump. “Don’t move. You’ll feel a prick.” The syringe burned her flesh as it entered. She could feel him jabbing at the lump trying to break through its surface to sample the inside. After a final stab he began to pump the top of the syringe, suctioning out whatever was unhardened. The tears Sarah tried so hard to hold back began to escape, chasing each other down her face to the white hospital pillowcase. “Does that hurt?” the doctor asked.
After two more attempts, the doctor announced that they were done and had enough material for the pathologist to sample. Sarah turned to see Dr. Wardle eject the milky, bloody fluid from inside her tumor onto a glass slide.
“We’ll call when we have the results,” he said. “The nurse will bring your discharge papers.”
“OK. Thank you, Dr. Wardle,” Sarah responded, wiping away the tears each pretended were not there. “I’ll call your office to make a follow up appointment.”
Dr. Wardle and the silent nurse left, closing the door behind them. Sarah quickly unwrapped her gown, and pulled on her jeans and heavy sweater. She just wanted to go home.
As I hit the water, I couldn’t hear the cheers and the yells, or the sound of my body hitting the water with a crash. No, all I could hear is the sound of my heart beating. I couldn’t think about what I was going to do next, I just kept wondering how I got myself into this situation, and a growing anger developed inside of me. How could a perfectly comfortable and relaxing day have turned into this?
The morning started off as it has for the past six days. We woke up to bright sunshine, waves crashing to the shore and the smell of salty ocean water infusing the bedroom. We spend our last morning on the lanai, eating our vacation breakfast of croissants, jelly, and freshly sliced fruit. We discussed how we were going to spend our last day in paradise, but neither of us really wanted to admit that we had to leave later that night.
He said, “So how are we going to spend our final moments…should we go to the beach, hike a waterfall or relax by the pool.”
“ Beach! Beach!” I responded with so much enthusiasm it made him laugh.
“Okay, let’s head to Hanalei and do some snorkeling. I want to get in and search for a sea turtle. How does that sound?” replied my husband.
“Perfect.” I answered.
We packed our cooler full of lunch and snacks, grabbed our swimsuits and headed to the car. It was a beautiful fifteen minute drive down a winding road, through the greenery, past the tropical flowers. We approached the side of the road, and took the ten minute hike through the forest. I love walking through the forest, because after a few minutes you realize that you are in the middle of nowhere. The walk made me relax even deeper, as I smelled the fauna and moss growing on the trees. For a moment you are walking through the trees in almost total darkness, and a second later you find a clearing that takes you to a remote beach with bright sunshine, warm sand and very few people. This was our favorite beach destination because the black lava rocks and cliffs formed a nature harbor to make the waves a bit gentler and the water a little bit clearer.
On this particular day, there were only three other people on the beach, and we nestled in a spot quite a distance from them. We threw down our blanket and went running to into the cold ocean water. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a day.
After spending a lazy morning swimming with the fish and searching for turtles we settled back onto our blanket. We noticed that a few more people have joined us on the beach. There was a group of seven kids and teenagers. We could tell they were native because they did not join us or the other visitors to sunbath on the beach, instead they climbed the black lava rock cliffs and were jumping from the top. We watched them in awe of their courageous behavior, jumping from these cliffs that had to be more than four stories tall. To us, this was like the Summer Olympics. At first, their jumps were simple. But then the competition began. The boys began diving, then flipping and twisting. We couldn’t believe what we were seeing. These were some of the most beautiful dives we had ever witnessed.
After watching the boys for what seemed like hours, we decided to go for another swim. Once out in the water we ran into two of the boys who had been on the cliffs. The next things I heard from my husband’s voice, “Amazing diving skills, guys.”
Now looking back at the situation, I realized this where the whole scenario began. It was my husband’s social nature that got us within a few minutes on top of the lava cliffs. If he had been shyer, less willing to talk to strangers, I would never have found myself scared to death. It seems the teenage boys invited him to jump off the cliff. I swam to the bottom of the cliff so I could see the dive.
As I watched my husband climb to the top, I thought to myself, “This is crazy….” He was laughing and joking with the other guys at the top of the lava cliffs. They were telling stories and old tales and I heard them yelling at me to join them at the top. I knew if I climbed to the top, I would never be able to get down. See, the real issue here, is that I am scared of heights. Actually not scared, petrified. Maybe even beyond petrified, I am scared stiff. I hate being higher and taller than myself. If I do work myself up to get the top of something tall, the real issue is that I cannot really get down. I freeze, I cry, and I cannot think rationally.
Just as I was thinking about how I was going to swim back to the beach to get away from the situation, two of the teenagers had climbed down the rocks to fetch me. Even though my husband had told them I was terrified of heights, they had convinced him that before we both left the island we had to jump from the cliff. I agreed to walk to the top to hear some of their stories, but with the promise that I could walk down (with assistance) when it was over. Climbing up was fun, as long as I did not look down the blue water below.
At the top, the teenagers told us how diving from the cliffs was a tale told by their ancestors. There was a belief that if you were sick of mind of body, by jumping from the cliff you could rid yourself of illness. The wind blew away the illness and the water refreshed your soul and made you ready to enter you tribe. Even though I was enthralled by the stories and tales, I could help but stare at the deep and treacherous fall in front of me. My hands were gripped tightly on the rocks I was sitting on, and I was scared I was beginning to get a cramp in my hand.
It was time. My husband was going to jump. The boys had told him that he had to jump a few feet from the cliffs to make sure that he didn’t hit any rock under the water. I watched him walk to the edge with a big smile on his face. He loves the thrill. I was amazed at how something that could horrify me, could bring such joy into his life. He took a deep breath and jumped. I could hardly watch. I witnessed his body plunge into the ocean and took a thankful sigh of relief when his head bobbed to the surface.
I knew I needed to get down and fast. But my husband was already climbing back up with a goofy grin on his face. I knew I was in trouble. He came straight at me and said, “You’re turn.”
“No way,” was my response. But even then I knew this was a losing battle. He was always able to get me to do things I knew deep down in my heart that I really didn’t want to do. Somehow he was convinced that if I just kept fighting my fear of heights, I would conquer it. I did not believe his reasoning. I don’t remember how it all happened. It seemed to go so fast, but the next thing I knew the entire crew had me standing at the cliff’s edge, and my husband was in the water cheering me down. I knew I really didn’t want to do this. I could not see straight. I could not move. I could not even talk.
I really did not have a choice at this moment. I needed to get down, I wanted to be on the beach, sitting and relaxing. I wanted to be walking through the forest, I wanted to be anywhere but here. And I knew the only way down was jumping. My heart was throbbing; it became the only thing I could hear. The next thing I knew, I did it. I took the step off and felt the air hit my body. I was too scared to even scream on my way down. I held my breath and couldn’t let go.
My next memory was bobbing my head through the water and realizing that no matter what I tried to do to conquer my fear of heights, the fear would always remain with me deep inside.
On Wednesday mornings at 9:05 the students of room 133 in Brook Park School are beginning to write. This is one of the many scheduled times during the week set aside for writing. Some of the students have been anticipating this time since Monday’s writing block. They have millions of ideas and are genuinely excited about writing them down. On the other hand, there are a handful of students who are dreading this moment. All morning they have been thinking of this time and hoping that there will be a fire drill that will prevent the class from having its writing block. As most of the students are feverishly writing away in their notebooks, one of the few students who was dreading this moment asks to go to the nurse. Coincidently, they have a headache, stomachache, sore throat, and a paper cut all that need the nurse’s immediate attention. These poor kids have a bad case of writing anxiety. These are the same kids that never have anything to write about. The same kids who say that nothing exciting or interesting has ever happened to them in their whole entire life. Their family is boring and they don’t have a pet or a favorite anything. These kids have a huge problem coming up with writing ideas.
As a teacher of writing, I need to help these students figure out a way to come up with ideas that they feel they can write about. I need to help them realize that anything can be made into a meaningful writing project. I can help my students by focusing on teaching lessons that are targeted for the prewriting stage of the writing process.
Often prewriting is the most difficult phase of the writing process for students of any age. Even accomplished authors feel anxious about this stage. Author, Elie Weisel commented, “Writing is painful pleasure and the most difficult part is to begin.” In the prewriting stage, students choose topics, make outlines, and consider purpose, format and audience. Writers take the time in this stage to explore ideas before they commit to writing a piece.
A way to help students come up with ideas is by using literature. Both picture books and novels are excellent tools for writing. Many writing projects arise from simply reading a book. The students can read a picture book or have a picture book read to them and do a variety of writing projects that complement the story. For example, the wordless picture book The Snowman by Raymond Briggs can be used for many different writing assignments. The students can write a story that accompanies the illustrations from the point of view of the snowman, the boy or a narrator. They can write poems about winter or snowmen. Descriptive essays can been written describing an adventure or just describing one illustration. The students can also write a sequel to the book. A great accompanying activity can be to write and illustrate their own version using an object from a different season. I have tried one of these writing activities. The students wrote an essay describing what they would do if they were snowmen for one day. They picked three things to describe. All of the students were successful in this project. After watching the video version of the book the students brainstormed some things they would, as a snowman, do on a cold day. Many students wrote wonderfully creative essays describing their day, and even added in cute details in the conclusion about melting. I would definitely use this project again.
Fairy tales and folk tales are also great to inspire writing ideas. In class we read several versions of The Three Little Pigs and compared and contrasted each version. At the end of the unit the students wrote their own version using different animals as the main characters. We also wrote our own tall tales. After reading many different tall tales, including Paul Bunyan, Pecos Bill, and Swamp Angel, the students wrote their own tall tales describing a hero with a larger than life quality solving a problem. These turned out pretty funny. The students were able to successfully create their own characters and problems. I noticed a real connection between the stories we read and their ability to mimic those stories to create their own. Next year I might have the students work in groups to create a more detailed version of the tall tale with a more in depth description of the problem and solution.
Another book that can prompt writing ideas is The Mysteries of Harris Burdick by Chris Van Allsburg. This book is a collection if pictures illustrated by a man called Harris Burdick. One day many years ago Burdick went to Peter Wenders’s (former children’s book publisher) office with a collection of pictures. Each of the pictures had short title and caption to accompany them. Wenders liked the pictures so much he asked Burdick if he could see the stories that went with each picture. Burdick agreed to return the next day with the stories. Unfortunately, Burdick disappeared. Wenders searched for any clues to where Burdick went, but found nothing. Burdick’s whereabouts have been a mystery. The drawings are now published in this book and can be used to spark many different intriguing stories.
I used this book in my classroom recently. I put the picture and its caption “Uninvited Guests” on the ELMO machine so it was projected on the overhead screen for all the students to see. I told the class to closely observe the picture for five minutes. They were to use the five minutes to write down anything they saw that they liked, that they found interesting or that was spooky. After five minutes I read the caption to them and they were to write a story that matched the picture, title and caption. All of my students were able to successfully write a short story. Two girls, Simone and Sophia, wrote my favorite stories. Simone ended hers with a twist and Sophia left hers open-ended. I was impressed with their creativity and use of story structures that we read about earlier in the year. I am already planning future lessons using pictures from this book.
To help my students with ideas for writing haiku poems I read the poetry book If Not For the Cat by Jack Prelutsky. The book is a collection of haikus written about animals. After reading the book and discussing the haiku pattern the students used Prelutsky’s poems to inspire their own animal haikus. Each student had a different animal to write about and they were able to look up information about their animal online, look at pictures and read books about it before writing their haiku. All of my students were able to write at least three poems. I will use this project again in the future.
Van Gogh accomplished the task of accurately depicting the visual awe of seeing a cypress in person by using vibrant color and texture. Van Gogh essentially invented his own painting style, a mix of both post-impressionism and expressionistic styles. His work is self-realized and emotional. He conveys the feeling found in expressionistic work, but also the aspect of light in post-impression work. Van Gogh, although he never knew it, is responsible for opening people’s eyes to color and texture. Someone who truly appreciates the talent of Van Gogh and has witnessed the beauty of his art in person will not forget what he or she has seen. Chances are, they will begin to see things through the eyes of Van Gogh, just as I did when I first saw a cypress tree in person. Not only did I start to see art in a new way, but I also started to see my mom in a new way. It was on this trip, that I started to see my mom as my best friend. During the many miles we drove, we talked about a lot. She wasn’t “just” my mom anymore, but instead she was a women who I respected as an educator, a professional, an artist, and as an independent voice who has been through many of life’s uncontrollable curve balls and still felt the need to take her grown daughter on a road trip across Europe. I realized how funny she was, and really I realized that everything she did, she did for my brother and I. For both of us, this trip changed our relationship. We left Europe with a new understanding. I certainly never thought my first road trip would be in Europe, and especially not with my mom. That simple picture of my mom and I will always be one of my favorites.
“After we have responded to a work of art, we leave it, carrying away in our consciousness something that we didn’t have before”
With the continued increase of immigrant students, whose primary language is other than English, we need to think about the ways that we teach these students to acquire the English language. There are many different programs that are out there. There are those programs that teach students in their native tongue (mind you, only for a population of students that is large enough for them to have a separate class and have a teacher that speaks that same language) until they are ready to transition into mainstream English classrooms. There are those programs that claim to teach students in both English and their native tongue. And, there are those programs where students are placed in an English speaking classrooms, but get small group, either pull out or push in, support in order to acquire English as a second language. There are other gradations of these different approaches, yet I see these as the most common in our schools. While there are proponents and opponents to each type of program, I advocate for placing students in mainstream English classrooms with ESL support.
Proponents of bilingual programs where students receive instruction in their native tongue and then eventually transition into English when they are “ready” and/or dual language programs where students receive a 50/50 balance of instruction in English and their native language believe that they do a better job of developing students’ higher-level thinking skills and ability to master difficult content by allowing them to access the knowledge in their native tongue. The main goal of both of these programs is to eventually transition them into a mainstream English speaking classroom where they are fully bilingual and able to think critically and communicate fluently in both languages.
On the other hand there are those who oppose these types of programs, like parents and community member who want more English instruction because they see learning the language as essential to achieving the American dream. Additionally, there are those that say it will be difficult to foster bilingual and/or dual language programs because there is a serious shortage of bilingual teachers. Also, these programs present an equity issue since there are over 100 different languages present in CPS. Opponents also argue that although bilingual or dual education programs claim to enhance these students’ critical thinking skills, many students never fully master one given language and therefore are limited in many areas of literacy including their critical thinking skills.
I have also spoken to teachers who do teach in bilingual and/or dual language classes and many have commented that their students cannot communicate completely in one language, in this case either English or Spanish. Unfortunately when these students become young adults and enter the “real world”, employers will not be sympathetic to individuals who cannot speak English fluently. While their second language will prove invaluable when searching for a job, these individuals must be able to speak English proficiently.
While I am sympathetic to those who support bilingual or dual language classrooms, I feel that it is not a practical approach to solving the needs of our ESL students. Although, learning in an English setting has proven to very difficult for many ESL students, we need to offer these students adequate support such as small group support to assist them in furthering their mastery of English. If students can get tutoring in their native language, I support this as a way for students to receive reinforcement of a skill, strategy or concept in their native language. Students who are learning English as a second language need extra support to foster their English learning process while spending the majority of the day in an English speaking classroom.
Additionally, I do strongly feel that there is a need for children to continue to use and learn their native languages so that they can use the invaluable ability of speaking two (or more) languages when they enter the workforce and in their daily lives. In order to support children’s growth in their native language, I support elective classes and/or school clubs where students can talk and learn in their native language. Also, I feel that one of the best ways to support these students in maintaining their native language is working with parents to teach them the importance of communicating with their children in their native language in order to support these students to become fully bilingual.
In the world of leaving no child behind we really need to think about how we are going to ensure that we do not leave our ESL population in the dust. Thus, I advocate for teaching the students mainly in an English speaking classroom while receiving ESL support. Additionally, students need to be reinforced to keep their native tongue alive so that they never leave that behind as well.
Say What? It seemed like an ordinary day. I was walking our dog, Penny, after school. This was my daily ritual and I loved it. After sitting all day at school, it was great to have an excuse to go outside before Mom made me do my homework. We were walking the same route we walked every day when suddenly she stopped, turned around and said, “Look, why don’t we try something new. Instead of you taking me to the same old places, why don’t I lead the way today?” Dumbfounded, I just stared at her. Did Penny just speak? “Well?” she asked. “You…you talk?” I managed to croak out. “Of course I talk!” she retorted. “Come on, let’s go!” I followed her, hardly believing what was happening. Visions of show and tell at school ran through my head. The other kids were going to love this. Penny could make me the most popular kid in school. I became so wrapped up in my daydream that it was a few blocks before I realized that Penny was taking me to the railroad tracks. “Uh, Penny, I don’t think we should be here,” I said nervously. Not only was I nervous because my dog had just spoken to me for the first time ever, but also because this was the part of our town where a lot of bad stuff happened. In fact, just a couple of days ago, the police had been over here looking for some money that was stolen from an old lady’s house. “Oh, come on,” said Penny impatiently. “No, really,” I said, “Mom will have dinner ready soon, so we should go back.” Penny kept walking and pulling me along with her. “Do you want a treat, Penny?” I asked desperately, knowing I could usually get her to do anything for a dog biscuit. She looked back and rolled her puppy-dog eyes at me, then pulled me along even farther. She was moving faster now. I noticed a man walking towards us about a block away. I tried to get Penny to turn around, but she is a strong dog! My heart began to pound as he came closer. My palms began to sweat and I was having trouble breathing. What if he attacks us? What if he asks me for money and I don’t have any to give him? What if he has a gun? What if – All of a sudden I realized that he had passed us. Phew! But, my palms had become so sweaty at this point that the leash slipped out of my hand. Penny took off. “Penny!” I shouted, running after her. She kept going, then turned a corner and ran out of sight. I turned the same corner and caught just a glimpse of her tail as she turned the next corner into an alley. Mom is going to kill me, I thought. Not only am I going to be late coming home, but now I’ve also lost our dog, our talking dog! I turned down the alley and there was no sign of Penny. I called her name, I looked in between apartment buildings and under cars. For a good half an hour I looked EVERYWHERE, but didn’t find her. Panicked, I began to cry. Not knowing what else to do, I made my way home. Maybe Dad could help me find her in the car. “Tommy!” cried Mom when I walked into the kitchen. “Where have you been?” I was so upset about losing Penny that I just stood there with tears running down my cheeks. “Penny came home twenty minutes ago and we’ve been worried sick!” Mom continued. “What?” I asked. Looking behind her, I saw Penny standing in the doorway. I ran past Mom, grabbed Penny’s collar, And dragged her to my room. “What was that all about?” I demanded. “Wasn’t that fun?” she replied, and almost looked like she had a smile on her face. Once again, I was shocked. She turned and walked out the door. “Mom, Mom!” I shouted, running to the kitchen. “Penny can talk! Penny can talk!” “Tommy, what happened to you? First you’re gone for much longer than you should be. Then the dog gets away from you, and now you’re telling me she can talk?” She turned to Penny. “Can you talk?” Penny just looked up at Mom and wagged her tail. And that was that. Penny never spoke again. And I certainly never took her on a walk by myself again. I don’t think I will ever know why she did what she did that day, but I’ve been pretty sure ever since that day that Penny’s out to get me. I don’t know if it was all the boring walks or all the disgusting dog treats I’ve given her, but she is holding something against me. One thing I do know is that I will never bring her to school for show and tell.
But suddenly! My knees shook, and my head felt light.
“Oh my, oh my”! I said to myself. “Maybe I need to lay down in the bed”.
But I sat in the kitchen, and wondered who to tell.
So I dialed a phone number, but hung up instead.
I grabbed my car keys and ran out the door.
I revved up the car and pressed the pedal to the floor.
Away I went up the busy narrow street.
All of a sudden I wanted something to eat.
I pulled into a restaurant and ordered a treat. On my way out, I looked in the mirror, and all of a sudden, I got this big bright idea. “I know what I’ll do,” I repeated to myself.
So off I went to purchase the perfect ingredient.
I drove slowly home to avoid making a spill.
Then five o’clock came, and I heard the keys in the door, so I rushed to the closet, and closed the door.
In came my husband filled with curiosity, for he had seen strings of rose pedals along the balcony.
Behind the rose pedals he continued to walk, and into the bedroom where it was very dark.
I crept up behind him to watch the surprise, as he cleared away the rose pedals to read the message inside.
Canned Ravioli and Gilligan's Island: A Children's Story
LuLu never wanted to go to school. It wasn’t that she hated school … She loved tracing letters And reading out loud to the other first graders. (LuLu already knew how to read by the time she entered kindergarten!)
She just wanted to be home. With Tia. LuLu got sick once last year in kindergarten. She stayed home with Tia. They layed on the bed all day under the blankets, watched Gilligan’s Island, and ate canned ravioli.
LuLu got up from her table and told her teacher Ms. Hopkins that she was sick. And because her cheeks were a little rosy that day, Ms. Hopkins believed LuLu!
Tia got to school right before math time. When they left the school, Tia and LuLu walked hand in hand down the street. LuLu couldn’t believe it. The sun was shining! She was with Tia! And she was going home, while the rest of the students were inside practicing math facts!
When they got home, Tia opened the cabinet and pulled out a can of ravioli. LuLu opened the drawer and handed the can opener to Tia. “Yay! I love ravioli!” “Oh, this ravioli is for me, LuLu. Sick girls can’t eat ravioli. Sick girls sip chicken broth. It’s like soup with no noodles.” Tia opened the can of ravioli and dumped a huge pile into her bowl. LuLu was surprised. “Well, I’m not that hungry. Tia, I’ll go set your bed up to watch Gilligan’s Island, okay?” Tia replied, “Television? Television gives sick girls headaches. And we don’t want your sick germs spreading into my room, LuLu. You can get your bed set up for a nap.”
As she walked down the hall to her room, LuLu felt confused. No canned ravioli? No Gilligan’s Island? My own bed? Alone? This is not what LuLu had in mind!
She ran back into the kitchen. “Tia, I feel better!” “Really? Well then let’s get you back to school!”
Not knowing what to say, LuLu grabbed her bookbag and walked to the door. She felt sad that her “sick” day wasn’t what she had hoped.
When they got outside, Tia reached for LuLu’s hand and walked her back to school.
As LuLu opened the door to her classroom, Tia called, “See you at 2:15, LuLu! I saw that there’s a Gilligan’s Island marathon we can watch together tonight in my bed!”
LuLu’s eyes lit up, and she went skipping into her classroom.
My Little, Green Hero Did anything so crazy ever happen to you, that you thought that it had to be a dream?
It all happened when I was walking home from a terrible day at school. I forgot my spelling book at school the night before so I didn’t have my homework. Man…was my teacher upset! She made such a big deal about it and went on about responsibility. I have never been so embarrassed in my whole life. I turned so red that the students burst into laughter and I was humiliated. I just wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. I don’t understand why she had to yell at me in front of the whole class. It was only a spelling assignment and this was the first assignment I have ever missed. So now not only did I receive a nickname that I am not quite fond of, I also had to bring a note home to my parents to sign to let them know of my irresponsibility. All I kept thinking on my way home was “how am I supposed to show my face again tomorrow in school”.
Just then, two boys from my class came running by, yelling, “hey! tomato head!”. I could not believe that I couldn’t just walk home in peace and not have to think about my horrible mistake for one minute. While I was trying to control my anger, I heard a quiet voice whisper “hey.” I just thought that it was another student trying to make my day even worse, but it wasn’t. It was something I have never seen before…it was a little, smiley man dressed in green from head to toe. He had an oversized top hat and shiny black shoes with gold buckles.
I rubbed my eyes to see if this little man was actually real or was he just a figment of my imagination. When I opened my eyes, he was hopping around and clicking his shoes. He was a jolly, little thing. I was bewildered and stupefied at the sight. I didn’t know if I should scream or wait to see what he was going to happen next. He could sense my confusion and fear, and assured me that he was harmless and that he was only there to help. “Today is your lucky day!” At this point, I decided that I was going to wait this one out. He began to run around and exclaim, “I am here to grant you a wish, any wish that you want!” Now I was astonished and thought…. he was going to give me a wish? He said that the only rule was I had to express my wish before the colorful rainbow that stretched across the sky went away. I was confused whether this little man was true and could really grant me a wish, but I figured that it would not hurt to try. So of course, I knew my wish and I whispered, “I wish I could relive this day”. He giggled and said “wish granted” and skipped away singing “everyone knows to wish for more wishes”. He was right, but I didn’t care. I watched as he and his rainbow disappeared.
“BZZZZZ” I jumped out of bed to my loud, annoying alarm. I couldn’t believe the peculiar dream that I had, but since I was late, I didn’t have much time to think about it. I got dressed, grabbed my back pack and ran downstairs and out the door. I ran so fast because the last thing that I needed to be was late for school. I didn’t want to be seen as “tomato head” again. I arrived to school right on time, with not a second to spare. When I was listening to the morning announcements, my teacher announced that it was March 17. I was bewildered because today was March 18, but then I thought I just misheard her. But then when she said to take out our spelling homework, I thought that I was going insane. We had spelling homework due yesterday. So I opened my folder and there it was…my homework that I didn’t have yesterday. It was done!! That’s when I realized I didn’t dream about my little, green friend, it was true!!! He granted me my wish and it came true!!!
I could not believe this was true!! That little man saved me from all of my embarrassment and saved my reputation. From that day forward I never missed a homework assignment and I swore that I would never tell anyone this story. How would anyone believe me, if I didn’t believe it myself. Every time I see a rainbow though, I think of my little, green hero and wonder who he was saving now.
In response to my students question about women(we read Guys Write for Guys Read article called GUYifesto--Who We Are! Then created our own stereotypes/questions)...
Why do girls watch shows that make them cry? Girls watch shows that make them cry. Girls are sentimental beings who have emotions. Girls unlike guys can show their emotions. Shows that make girls cry appeal to their feelings and girls have feelings! That’s why girls watch shows that make them cry.
Why don’t girls like cleaning up after their men? Girls don’t like to clean up after their men. In a girl’s opinion God gave both of us two hands and two feet, if I can put the dishes away so can you. Some parts may be different but all the parts we need to clean the house are EXACTLY the same. So clean up after yourself because girls don’t want to!
Why do girls act different in front of their friends (talk about you poorly)? Girls act different in front of their friends when they are talking about you. Girls talk to other girls about all the dumb guy stuff you all do. We can’t talk to you, you’re the idiot doing all the things that push our buttons. Other girls understand because their men are doing stupid things too. Hopefully you understand we can’t say nice things about you to our friends because then it would all be lies and girls don’t lie.
Why do girls have feminine products everywhere? Girls carry and need feminine products, duh! Things can happen at any time so we need to carry them everywhere or else… Oh and if we don’t need them ourselves our friends might and we have to help our own kind. I mean who knows when mother nature will surprise us and we don’t want to be S.O.L. Therefore, we care feminine products at all times. It’s just way to risky.
Why don’t women listen to what guys have to say? Women don’t listen to what guys have to say. That is a simple fact because guys are always wrong. Guys make up lies, especially when they don’t know the answer to something. Plus, 90% of what comes out of a guys mouth is unclear; they are way to busy thinking about the game or how they are going to get out of the mess their mouth just got them into. These are some of the simple reasons (so you men can understand them) as to why girls don’t listen to what guys have to say.
Why do women always want things done their way? Women always want things done their way because it is the right way. We do things using common sense and order that other people could understand. For example, if you rinse the dishes and put it in the dishwasher right away there is less clean up. Yet, men just leave it on the counter and food gets stuck on it making it impossible to clean. If you just do it our way everything would be much simpler and that is why women want things done their way, it’s just smarter.
The Very Important Achievement Test: a children’s story by Candice Lobo
Testing, testing, testing!!! I am so stressed out!
This week my school is taking the V. I. A. T.’s. That’s the Very Important Achievement Test.
At my school it seems to be a HUGE deal.
My teacher made us practice for weeks and weeks. We did V. I. A. T. practice test for reading, writing, and math! Those were really boring but I guess they were supposed to help prepare me for what is coming.
My principal even stopped by our classroom and we had a pep rally. That’s where we cheer and get all excited for something. We got pumped up for the V. I. A. T.’s.
At home my mom is making me go to bed super early and I have to eat “brain food.” For breakfast I have a powerjump700, a glass of milk, an apple, and vitamins.
Before we started the test there were all these rules about how to take the test and what things we are allowed to do. Did you know we can’t talk and our teacher can’t even help us with words or anything?
So we finally took this test that everyone has been going CRAZY over and BOY OH BOY!!!
This test was soooooooo easy. I don’t get what the fuss was all about.
I already knew all of the answers. To make it even easier most of the questions had the answer right below them so I just had to find the right one.
I know I did great because my teacher smiled at the end of the test and told me I did a wonderful job.
The best part of all this V. I. A. T. testing was the teacher gave us special testing mints and we got extra recess.
Candy and extra recess…this test was worth it.
This stuff is a breeze. I am all set for next year. No more test worries for me!
And trust me you have nothing to worry about either because your teacher already taught you everything you need to know!
I’m crawling the walls while I lie here; a single tear escapes. Why is it taking so long? My breathing comes short and unsteady. They will not return to see me crying! Think of happy things. Deep yoga breaths: in out, in out. What’s more cold in here: the bleached, sterilized environment? Or my fear hanging in the air? Palpable. Why more pictures? They did a mammogram a week ago! Why another one? Why more tests? I reach for a washcloth. I wipe away more of the sticky, gloppy, goo from my breast.
I remember when this goo was smeared all over my belly. I remember the weird pressure as the technician ice-skated her instrument in figure eights: pressing, stopping, skating some more across my belly. I remember my husband by my side holding my hand. I remember the similar concerns. Is the baby alright? Are there any problems? Then the chooo, chooo, chooo of a heartbeat…it sounded like a train! We were so relieved. We were so happy. I was laughing so much we lost the heartbeat again! It didn’t matter. We had what we needed. We took home the pictures and ooed and awed over them as if the baby were already here!
I thought of my boys and another tear ran down my cheek. What if I had to go home and tell them I was sick? What if…I’m not going to go there. What is taking so long?
There was no comfort of a choo choo sound this time. No reassurance as this technician manipulated the equipment. Only deadly quiet as she compressed certain keys and the computer pinged with each new picture. Just waiting. Alone. Trying to control the emotional roller coaster inside me.
Next door the woman twenty years older is being released. A brown Indian woman. I can hear her being chided for waiting so long to be tested. I can hear her thankfulness that she does not have to be seen for another year. The only one who did not bury herself in a magazine without looking around. The only one brave enough to look the other women in the eye with motherly concern smiling warmly and telling me good luck as I left the waiting room. We all wondered the same questions with our eyes averted: “Why are they here? Have they been diagnosed? What is her prognosis? Is she as scared as I am?”
“Good luck,” she told me as I left the waiting area for the third time. Good luck. As I entered the third testing room and waited for yet another technician. Good luck. As she received her own results got dressed and left.
What is luck? So if I have cancer I have bad luck? If I think too much I’m going to be sick right here all over the perfectly clean white sterilized floor. Why isn’t there a garbage can nearby? I see a linen bin full of gluey used washcloths and no other receptacle in the room. Jesus, even the dirty laundry still looks clean.
Finally, the doorknob turned and the most recent of technicians entered the room.
“Ruth, you’re free to go. Your tests came back negative.”
Rage welled up inside me…not relief. I wanted to say, who are you to come in here and give me that decision! Who are you to mark this as the end of the process that kept me up for nights? Where is your degree…your qualifications? All you did was take some pictures! Instead, I let out a sigh of relief. I asked, “Are you sure I don’t need to do anything else?” She seemed to notice that my ride had not yet come to a complete stop. “Your results have been reviewed and reviewed again by two radiologists. That’s why we kept you here. So you wouldn’t have to keep going home and coming back. I’m sorry that wasn’t explained to you. But, we would like to see you back in a year.” Breathing more slowly, I gathered my gown around me and entered the hallway. I made my way to the locker rooms and got dressed in a daze. I had to pass through the waiting area on my way out. There was another woman there who looked to be about my age. I looked her in the eye and I said, “Good luck,” as I left even though I knew luck had nothing to do with it.
Molly and the Awesome, Beautiful, Remarkable, Fantastically Amazing Day By Christina Bachman
I went to sleep with wet hair. If you’ve ever done this I’m sure you know how crazy it can become when it dries while you sleep. When I woke up my curls were shooting in every direction. Today it didn’t bother me though because my little brother Jack said it looked nice. I could tell it was going to be an awesome, beautiful, remarkable, fantastically amazing day.
At breakfast my dad made eggs, bacon, toast, and fresh squeezed orange juice. He even remembered to strain the juice so I wouldn’t have the pulp getting stuck in my teeth. Nothing is worse than having all those little pieces floating around in your mouth. Plus the toast was just right and had jelly on one slice and honey on the other. He told me a story about growing up and how his daddy made him the same breakfast.
I think I’ll live in Chicago forever!
Today the sun was shining and mom said I could ride my bike to school. Just last week I learned how to ride without training wheels. You’d think mom and dad had just won the lottery, they were so happy for me. Now they remind me every time I get on the bike to wear my helmet. Anyways, there I was riding down the sidewalk when my bicycle got a flat tire. Luckily it happened right in front of Delaney’s house and her mom, Ms. Grossart, was able to lend me her tire pump. I could tell it was going to be an awesome, beautiful, remarkable, fantastically amazing day.
At school the principal, Mrs. McGlade announced student of the month. For the last four months my best friend Erin has won the award. She is good at EVERYTHING. But today is different. For the first time I heard my name announced. I’m a very good reader and Mrs. McGlade chose me! I got to have a special “lunch bunch” with the principal and three of my friends. She took us to McDonalds and we got to order anything we wanted from the menu. Then we played in the balls and went up and down the slide. I’m having an awesome, beautiful, remarkable, fantastically amazing day.
When the school day ended I thought my day couldn’t get any better. My Papa picked me up and took me to Irish Dancing class. Today I would get to perform the Jig for an audience of 30 people. My teacher told me this would help to prepare me for the next feis competition. Little did I know that she would be choosing the top two dancers to take a trip to Ireland and perform in front of thousands of people. Normally I would have been really nervous, but not today. I was having an awesome, beautiful, remarkable, fantastically amazing day. Everybody cheered for me. Whoo-hoo!
There were hot dogs for dinner and I love hot dogs.
There was High School Musical on TV and I love High School Musical.
I remember it clearly, like it was yesterday, the morning of the event, lying in the hostel bunk asking myself over and over “Why did I make such a big deal out of this in the first place? How did I ever agree to this? After all, I am afraid of heights, what was I thinking?-was I drinking? I must have sounded so cocky, so sure of my self, when we all talked about it back in Sydney. Whenever my brother Pat mentioned it, or relived one of his own bungee jumps aloud I would beam with pride (wasn’t my big brother the greatest? he wasn’t afraid, fearless in fact, that was impressive.) I couldn’t believe I would actually have to go through with it now. Well, too late to renege now anyway. In approximately two hours I would be strapped to my boyfriend Paudie and jumping off the side of a bridge on the East coast of Australia with a rope and a harness, a wing and a prayer. Paudie had amazed me in all the extreme sports we had tried on our “round the world backpacking trip”. Sky-diving, white water rafting, swimming with sharks, had all been a “walk in the park for me” for me. After all I was a strong swimmer, he on the other hand could barely do the “doggie paddle” but took on each of these challenges with an amazing grit and sense of humor that I admired deeply. Now it was my turn to face my demons. It seemed surreal sitting on the gravel beside a bridge 147 meters above ground level –the highest bungee jump in the world, and I am about to do it tandem! How did I agree to this? I asked my self angrily for the umpteenth time that morning?—it was giving me burning a headache between my eyes. So where was I? oh yeah, sitting on the gravel as this ‘Aussie Dude’ is securing my legs with two navy blue towels with Velcro at the ends to keep them together. Ok, so I am jumping off a bridge, 147 meters up, alongside my better half with nothing but a 3 inch thick bungee cord, two towels and some Velcro? Seriously, yes seriously. The Aussie dude is talking to me now, telling me to enjoy the scenery, he tells me that this place is a lot like Ireland, and I nod in agreement, thinking- I wish I was at home right now….. His voice becomes more distant, fading into the sunlight that is making my eyes squint. Don’t look down, just don’t look down. I’m reminded of the trust issue again, a million questions running through my head—what happens if we don’t jump at the same time—what if the velcro peels away-will we bang heads? I’m going to hold him tight…very tight! “Edge out, It’s the Aussie dude again, edge out more, a little more” -I wanted to yell-“Dammit, I’m edging!” Breathe, focus. And Paudie says “ just loud enough for me to hear, just at that last second- “so is it one, two, three and we jump, or is it one two and jump on three???!!!!! I grit my teeth and say in a meek voice, as much to convince myself as anything else “It’s one two, three and then jump” “We’re ready” says the Aussie dude---“so are we I” says Paudie, I scrunch up my face, stare at the sun, cross my fingers and hold on for dear life….. I never told him this but I did pull back a little at the last second—his motion propelled us forward anyway I guess. Eight years on and we are still together and sometimes I wonder if he did feel my moments hesitation, my body saying—really, do I really trust you with my life? Maybe I’ll ask him…someday…..
Mischief on the Mountaintop A Twist on the Story of The Three Bears
Once upon a time, there were three emerald colored dragons that lived in a jagged cave on a mountaintop. One was a Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon. One was a Medium, Grande-sized Dragon. And, one was an Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon. They each had a granite bowl for their fiery chili: a teeny bowl for the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon, a medium sized bowl for the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon, and an enormous bowl for the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon. Also, they each had rocks to play with for some daily, daring, dragon entertainment. There was a teeny pebble for the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon. In addition, there was a medium rock for the Medium, Grande-size Dragon. Then, there was an enormous boulder for the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon. Finally, each sleepy dragon had a spot to sleep in. There was a teeny corner with a petite pebble pillow for the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon. There was a medium-sized corner with a really, round, rock pillow for the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon. Then, there was an enormous corner with a gigantic pillow for the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon. One morning, the three scaly dragons made some fiery chili for lunch, and poured it into their granite bowls. Then, they walked out of their cave and down the mountaintop to give it a chance to cool-temperature wise, not spicy-wise (except for the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon). While they were out, a little boy called Mischievous Malcolm stumbled upon their cave. Now, Mischievous Malcolm was not a very well behaved boy. As he approached, their cave on top of the mountain, he became very curious. First, he looked into the cave from a distance, but then took a few steps closer. When he saw that the cave was vacant, he began to enter the unknown enclosure with excitement. Mischievous Malcolm glanced around to see what he could find. In one corner, he discovered three granite bowls of chili. They looked very tasty and smelled delicious! Now, Malcolm was beginning to feel hungry. First, he tasted the fiery chili that belonged to the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon, but it was too hot and spicy for him! Then, he tasted the fiery chili of the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon, but it was too cold and mild for him. He proceeded to taste the fiery chili of the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon, and that was neither too hot nor too cold and neither too spicy nor too mild. In fact, it was just right! It was so delicious that he ate it ALL up! Next, Mischievous Malcolm looked around to see what else he could find. In the back of the cave, he noticed three unique stones on a top of a pile of other stones. An exciting idea popped into his head. He thought he could have some fun building a fort with them, so he set off to work. First, he tried to pick up the boulder that belonged to the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon, but it was much too heavy. However, being the good problem solver that he is, he decided that this would be the base of his fort. Next, he tried to pick up the medium, Grande-sized Dragon’s rock. He was able to assemble it on top of the boulder. Now, his fort was getting somewhere! Mischievous Malcolm began piling other rocks on top of this foundation saving the smallest one for last. As his stone fort grew higher and higher, he stepped back to admire it. Finally, he was ready for the teeny pebble that belonged to the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon. This pebble was JUST RIGHT for the finishing touch! As Mischievous Malcolm placed it on the very top, he stumbled and fell on the fort. The whole fort came crashing down! He quickly stood up after his fall, but realized that the delicate, teeny pebble had split in half after the larger rocks crashed on top of it. The boy was upset about the destruction of his fort, but he had better things to explore. As Mischievous Malcolm wandered around the cave some more, he realized that he was beginning to feel tired. Deep in the back of the cave, he noticed some corners occupied by rocks that resembled pillows. Although they didn’t look extremely comfortable, he only needed a nap. First, Mischievous Malcolm curled up in the enormous corner with a huge headrest which belonged to the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon. This corner was way too cold because it was so open and huge. Also, he couldn’t get his head up on the enormous headrest! Next, he tried the medium corner with a round, rock pillow which was where the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon slept. This corner was way too hot because the sun beamed through a large crack in the cave. Plus, the rock was way too bumpy! Growing more and more tired, he finally tried the teeny corner with a petite, pebble pillow which was for the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon. Now, this spot was just right! It had some sun shining in on it, but it was close to a large crack in the cave which allowed a breeze to come through. As he snuggled up with the petite, pebble pillow, he comfortably fell asleep. Meanwhile, the three dragons were on their way back to the cave. They had had an exciting day! It was full of exercise and adventure. While out, the three emerald dragons had grown extremely hungry and tired. As they approached their cave home, their keen sense of smell warned them that something was not right. As they entered the cave, they noticed the tree trunk table that held their three fiery bowls of chili. First, the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon noticed his bowl was disturbed. “Someone has taken a spoonful of my chili!” he roared in a booming voice. Next, the Medium-sized Dragon noticed that her bowl had been messed with too. “Someone tried to take a bite of my chili and spit it all out!” she shouted in disgust. The two parental dragons then looked at their baby dragon. He was sadly staring at his empty bowl of fiery chili. In a teeny, tiny, sad voice he softly said, “Someone tried my chili alright, and that someone ate it all up!” The three dragons were so distracted by this intruder that they forgot about their hunger and exhaust for a little while. Then, they moved to the middle of their cave where they noticed their play rocks were quite disassembled. The three dragons stared at the mess of a pile! First, the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon noticed human fingerprints on his boulder, but it seemed like it had not been moved. “Someone has tried to push my boulder but was unsuccessful!” boomed the large dragon. He then used his massive tail to bring his boulder closer to him. Next, the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon noticed her medium-sized rock was misplaced. “Someone had been playing with our dragon entertainment system, and it looks like they threw my rock like it was nothing!” yelled the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon. Finally, the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon was sadly scooping up two broken pebble pieces with his tail. “Someone has been playing with my pebble and now it’s broken in two!” he complained sadly. Growing more furious, the dragons moved deeper into their cave home. As they got to the back, the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon noticed his corner was disheveled and that someone had attempted to move his huge headrest. “Someone had been snoozing in my corner!” he boomed even more loudly. Next, the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon was looking at her corner confused. “Someone has been sleeping in my corner because there are drips of sweat here,” she yelled more loudly. Finally, the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon was staring in disbelief at his corner. “Someone has been napping in my corner…AND…AND…AND THAT SOMEONE IS STILL HERE!” he called out. Suddenly, Mischievous Malcolm sat up because he heard the dragons roaring. Blazing orange fire was shooting out of their mouths and smoke was trailing out of their noses! Mischievous Malcolm jumped to his feet-he ZIGGED-he ZAGGED-he ZOOMED out all the way out of the cave! He sped down the mountaintop and did not stop until he reached the front door of his house out of breath. Back on the mountaintop, the three Emerald Dragons looked around their disheveled cave. They began to clean up their Dragon Entertainment. When they finished that, the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon made a new batch of fiery chili. The three dragons decided to nap this time while they waited for it to cool to prevent future intruders from coming. Also, Mischievous Malcolm vowed to only cause mischief in his backyard. There would be no more mischief on the mountaintop from here on out if he could prevent it! THE END! (Children Story: Becky Hermanson)
Tom walked onto the court giving his teammate a light tap on his backside as he took his position between the top hash marks on the free throw lane. Tom lifted his hands off his knees and looked up at the scoreboard. The score read 56-55. Up by one. The clock showed 4:14 and was ticking. Time was running out.
“Two shots!” announced the referee as he bounced the basketball to the player on the line.
He had been playing in this dank, dusty park district gym for almost forty years. His knees and back ached, presumably from the decades of Saturday games on concrete courts that had pounded away at his joints like a jackhammer. Lately, his pre-game ritual of downing ibuprofen barely dulled the pain. He drew a deep breath of the humid air tinged with sweat, Ben-Gay, and nostalgia. Thinking back to his younger days, he recalled memories of hitting game-winning jump shots and lighting up opposing teams with thirty-plus point games. There had been days when he owned the competition on courts like these.
He figured he had played thousands of games over the years in places just like this. Now, here he was in another championship game staring his fifty-seventh birthday in the eye. Impending hip replacement surgery cast a pall over this game. This was it.
Usually, in contests as close as this one Tom deferred playing time to the next generation of players he had recruited to take the place of the last group of old teammates he had outlasted. Some of the young guys, approaching the age of thirty, often joked with each other that Tom would probably outlast them, too. He was not deferring tonight, though.
The second free throw caromed off the rim and was secured by a teammate. Tom turned and shuffled down the court as stiff legs no loner allowed him to run with the smooth gait of his youth. He stationed himself on the right wing. The ball was driven into the paint and the point guard slipped a crisp bounce pass between the converging bodies of the defense to Tom’s awaiting hands. A slight grin seeped out the corners of his mouth as he loaded up, extended his arm, and released the ball with the flick of his wrist. Time had slowly robbed his body of the athleticism that made him such a good player in his younger days, but his shot was impervious to the march of time. The ball dropped through the hoop so cleanly the net barely moved.
As he jogged past the referee on the way back down the court, he said quietly, “Just like riding a bicycle…”
With each passing possession, the intensity and speed of the game ratcheted up another notch. The opposing team, recognizing weakness, continued to feed the ball to the man Tom was guarding. The player, who he figured was young enough to be his son, attacked him relentlessly. Post-ups. Drives to the basket. Jump shots right over the top of his extended hand. He was gasping for air. Frustration welled up as his mind would anticipate the play unfolding before him, but his body would not react fast enough to counter the play. Even though his athleticism had been in a gradual decline for a long time, Tom had never accepted the fact. He was too competitive.
“Get a sub, old man. You can’t hold me,” derided the baby-faced man he was guarding.
Usng every tool in his bag of tricks, Tom managed to coax a few missed shots from his opponent, but he still felt exposed. It was on the other end of the court, though, that he regained his swagger, and the aches and pains disappeared, if only for a few moments. It was just a thick black line painted on aged wood, but the half-court marker acted as a time machine, transporting Tom back and forth from past and present with each subsequent trip up and down the court. On the offensive end, he felt half his age.
Nearly every offensive sequence he found himself free for yet another jumper. He knew why he was open. Over the years, opposing players always made the mistake of generalizing that his declining skill included his jump shot. Didn’t they know who he was? He had developed a reputation as the best shooter “there ever was” in this corner of the city. It did not take long for them to learn. After making the first four attempts with his sweet, left-handed stroke, his defender began shadowing his every movement.
Tom welcomed the increase in defensive pressure. It was his last game and he did not want anyone going easy on him. With a minute left, he received a pass out of the post. His defender closed hard on him, determined to deter another basket. Tom raised the ball above his head as the defender exploded off his feet into the air to gobble up the shot. Tom pulled the ball back down and took a methodical dribble to his right as the defender, caught in the air, glanced helplessly to his left to observe the shot’s predestined fate. Raising to his toes with eyes on the target, he released the ball, imparting a perfect backspin that sent it slicing through the air. The defensive players relaxed, not even bothering to block out their men. Tom’s teammates began backpedaling down the court knowing the outcome as the ball tickled the fibers of the net, putting them back in front by one point with twenty-seven seconds left.
Before the ball could hit the ground, it was grabbed out of the air and in one quick motion a player on the opposing team took a quick step out of bounds and whipped a one-handed baseball pass to the guy Tom was guarding. Even though he had taken off down the court as soon as the ball was reaching the rim, he was too late and too slow. His legs churned. But not fast enough. His man caught the ball in stride, took two dribbles, and as Tom helplessly chased after him, elevated for an easy eight-foot jumper. The ball ricocheted softly off the backboard through the rim. Down one.
“Time out.” Tom said as he signaled to the ref.
The whistle blew and the clock stopped. Players from both teams walked towards their respective sidelines. His teammates were already huddled into an informal circle with an open space. As he limped toward them, these grown men all had their eyes narrowed on their aged teammate with looks of admiration, as if he was a museum relic. He filled the open space in the circle and all eyes remained on him. Everyone was silent. The players sensed an eerie sacredness in the moment. They were witnessing this player’s last game. He was not just competing against the other team. He was competing against time. It had only been a few minutes but it seemed epic in proportion, even if it was being played out in a crackerbox gym in front of fifteen people. This moment was the culmination of a career that only a true basketball junkie could truly appreciate.
In the huddle not a word was uttered, but collectively, they were all thinking the same thing. The outcome of this game should be put into Tom’s hands. Tom broke the silence.
“Hey guys, we gotta win this thing. I don’t have it. Bill…sub for me.”
It was strange because the same competitive instinct that hated himself for saying those words was the same one that drove him to say it.
“No, Tom. This is your last dance. We’re going to get you that last shot for the win,” Bill replied.
Deep down inside Tom had hoped one of them would say that. He was sure he could wrest enough quickness and skill from the hands of time to execute this last play to win the game. The play was going to be simple: the ball would be driven hard to the basket and kicked out to Tom with just enough time for him to use his craftiness to get off the game-winner. They broke the huddle and stepped onto the court knowing the shot was going to be good. The basketball gods had to smile upon Ol’ Tommy one last time.
As he found his position on the left wing, he felt surprisingly nervous. In the grand scheme of things, this park district championship game was meaningless. But it was meaningful to him because of the moment. This was the final chapter of this story in his life, and it was a good one, so it had to end happily.
The ball was passed inbounds to a teammate who stood twenty-five feet from the basket. Tom watched him intently as he gripped the ball firmly and kept his left foot down as a pivot. Anxiously, he glanced at the clock as it ran…15…14…13….Tom hoped he was going to go when it reached ‘6.’ That would give him about three seconds to get off his shot. With a quick sweep of his arms, the guard crossed the ball in front of his defender and bounced a hard dribble off the floor with his left hand. He accelerated off his planted foot trying to get by the defender enough to convince Tom’s man that he needed to help.
Tom readied himself as he watched the position of the man guarding him. Just as the ball was entering the lane area, Tom’s man feigned a step toward the dribbler. As soon as he saw him lean, Tom shifted away from him toward the corner as his teammate lobbed a pass toward the spot he was headed. In one motion, gathered the ball, squared his feet to the basket, and released an eighteen-foot jump shot as his defender lunged toward him in vain. The high-arching shot had eyes for the basket, forming a perfect parabola that seemed to mimic the arc of his basketball career. All eyes in the gym followed the ball to the basket as the horn ending the game sounded….
“Good game, Tommy,” the ref offered almost apologetically as he made his way out of the gym.
“Thanks.”
Tom pulled on his sweatpants and placed his basketball shoes in his gym bag. He was the last one left in the gym. He slung the bag over his shoulder and hobbled out the gym, still a little sour that his final shot came up short. He paused at the doorway. Time had gotten the best of him today, but who was he kidding? It always won. He was just grateful he had gotten the chance to battle it one last time in the place he felt most comfortable, the basketball court. Few could say that they battled there as long as him.
It was an intense heat this summer day. Swinging on the porch swing trying to keep cool, all I could think of was, I wish I had a pool! Sweat kept dripping from my face like a leaky faucet. Most of my friends from my neighborhood were in summer camp and I was stuck at home. Mom told me that I couldn’t join summer camp this year because my grandmother was going to stay with us all summer and I needed to help. Grandma had a hard time remembering things and mom said I could help refresh her memory. The street was as quiet as a library. How bored was my summer vacation going to be? My neighborhood wasn’t the same as it used to be. Or maybe I wasn’t the same as I used to be. I remember waking up early every morning and riding my bike all day. That didn’t seem to be as fun anymore. Thinking about old times wasn’t my idea of a great time either, but my mind kept drifting. There was no breeze to calm this sticky warmth in the air. I decided to go to my backyard and pick fresh lemons from our lemon tree. That tree was as old as I was. My parents planted it with my older sister when they first moved in to this house and soon after, I was born. It was a loyal friend that always gave us the juiciest lemons. Even the ones that fell were never damaged. These lemons made the best fresh squeezed lemonade and I couldn’t think of a more perfect day for a thirst-quenching delight. Drinking lemonade always brought me to a familiar place, a place where I felt free and safe. Kids at school always made fun of me because I often had a lemon in my lunchbox or in my locker. As much as I explained how it was as mouthwatering as a lemonhead or juicier than a bubble-licious gum, nobody really understood. It was a dessert for me not to mention, I had the freshest smelling gym locker in the school. I turned 12 just before school got out. And I already knew this vacation would be a sour one. My best friend Ericka was going to move to North Carolina right after school got out. Her dad lost his job and Ericka’s uncle had a tire business that her dad would help manage. It was an offer good enough to move for, I guess. For as long as I can remember, she was the only person who understood me and helped me see things in a better light. Like when I was 5 and Jaime Sanchez pushed me down the slide on the playground, she was the only one who stood up for me and made him apologize. She used her bossiness to defend people. You did not want to get on her bad side! And when my mom gave me the worst haircut in the 3rd grade, she was there to figure out a way to pin it up nicely until it grew out. It’s hard to imagine how things will be without her. Ericka and I met in Kindergarten. Walking in this giant classroom my first day, I was ready to make friends. My older sister Joanna always giggles when she remembers how I used to make friends, “Want to be my friend?” was the question that I usually asked. I laugh right back too, because the question never failed. It was an honest and straightforward question, I thought. Joanna just liked to hassle me, it was a full time job for her since…always. At school, I was always known as “Little Joanna.” No matter how many times I would repeat, “its Julissa!” everyone seemed to ignore me. I guess people thought I was a miniature version of my sister, boy were they wrong. That first day in Kindergarten, I remember waiting in line to wash my hands in the girl’s washroom and seeing two girls in front of me. One of them said hi to me and I immediately asked my famous question. Her response was as simple as my question, “Ok.” She looked different than me, she had big blue eyes and curly blonde hair. My hair and eyes were both dark brown. She was taller than me and always wore fluffy blue dresses to school. Before meeting Ericka, I thought I was pretty outgoing, but her personality definitely made me look extremely shy. Drinking my lemonade made me feel a little better, better about the weather, but not so much about the other stuff. It actually reminded me of other happy times and I guess it made it bittersweet to drink. Walking back inside my house, I heard my mom cooking dinner, “So what are your plans tomorrow?” she said. “I don’t really know, yet.” “Well maybe you can help me look for some old family pictures so that we can make an album, I know that might help your grandma with her memory,” Mom said. “Yeah, it’s not like I have anything else to do… so when is she coming again?” I didn’t know what to think about my grandma’s visit, was I anxious? I guess I just wondered what she would be like, now that she was really sick. What exactly would dementia look like now that everyone says she’s getting worse? “Oh she’ll be here on Friday,” mom answered. The last time we saw her it was with grandpa, grandpa didn’t talk much. He seemed so tired and confused. I know I had to introduce myself many times and him still asking if I was a family friend. Grandma was still talkative and quick-witted. I knew they were both sick, but it wasn’t till grandpa died that I really understood how serious it was. Alzheimer’s and a few heart attacks slowly took their toll on him. I remember my grandma with a strong temper, but a funny sense of humor. She could make the funniest jokes that I ever heard. I always wished to have her strong character, not afraid of anything, especially right now when it seems like so many things are changing. Yet, grandma and grandpa kept to themselves recent years and almost didn’t want any company. They used to love to travel and had many friends, but before grandpa died, they tried to shut everyone out from their lives. Not answering calls, leaving family parties early or not showing up at all. However, we made it a point to stay in their lives. Every year, without any hesitation, we would go to visit them in Texas for a few weeks. Mom knew a few weeks wasn’t enough. Could I ever be that long without my parents? I know that sometimes I feel like they don’t get me, but I can’t imagine them not being there, even if it’s to get on my case about my grades or cleaning my room. The days passed slowly, but before I knew it, mom and dad were on their way home from picking up grandma at the airport. Aunt Bea came along with her to make sure everything went well on the flight. Aunt Bea was only going to stay for the weekend and I was excited to see her. She had been taking care of grandma for a while now and she always made things fun and easy going, she knew exactly how to break the ice in a room. “How are you, baby?” Aunt Bea was the only one that could get away with calling me baby. She was the oldest of ten kids and she knew how to deal with my grandma, who could at times be a very stubborn woman, to say the least. “Ma, walk right, and stand up straight.” Grandma walked in with her walker that had worn through and almost flat tennis balls on the bottom of it because of how she dragged it along. She looked around and we all gathered around her to give her a warm welcoming. She looked confused and happy at the same time. The attitude that used to fill the air when she walked in seemed more like gratitude and delight. Mom had warned us that grandma was repeating herself more often and that she was especially repeating one specific story. “Hi grandma, how are you.” I ask after grandma finally takes a seat on our living room loveseat. “I’m fine,” is her quick answer along with a long look of uncertainty. “Ma, these are Connie’s girls. Remember, Joanna and Julissa.,” said Aunt Bea. Grandma, quickly replied, “Oh of course, hi sweeties, how are you, you are both getting so big, do you girls still have that lemon tree in the yard?” “Yeah, of course,” I responded. Everyone turned and stared at each other. We all knew that grandma’s memory would come and go, but it was still exciting to have these moments. “Would you like to go see our lemon tree, grandma?” “Oh sure, I remember I used to make the best lemon meringue pie with those lemons when you all first moved in.” Grandma had not been here in years, and we could not believe how much she was able to remember. “You know I knitted this vest?” she said. “You did, grandma?” I said. “Oh yeah, did I ever tell you how this one lady asked me where I got this vest, I told her I made it, and could you believe that she said, ‘Oh can you make me one, but make sure you don’t charge me…’ can you believe the nerve of her?” replied my grandmother raising her eyebrows. “I cannot believe it grandma,” I responded. Before we went to bed that night, grandma unpacked her earrings and her perfumes and placed them neatly on the dresser. She asked where her viejito was, and mom answered the question the way everyone had every night since grandpa past away a few months ago, “He’s resting now mom, he’s at peace with God.” “No not my old man, when did he go?” This question was difficult more and more as each night would follow. She seemed really happy during the day, but once their favorite TV show came on every evening at 6:30, the questions and pleas for my grandfather would start. I knew this took a toll with my mom. Especially after Aunt Bea left back to Texas, mom felt the pressure. I know mom had a hard childhood as well with my grandparents who were very busy keeping the family together and the fact that my grandma was not a very affectionate woman. Mom, however, was and is the most caring mother. I wanted to be there for grandma and help as much as possible but mostly to help make things easier for mom. One morning after breakfast, grandma started to repeat the same vest story, and of course we all went along with it. She then started a new conversation. She mentioned how she never felt comfortable with being known as the tough one. “Deep down, I just needed someone to be there for me, I was mean before anyone could be mean to me. I didn’t let anyone tell me anything. But I do know that I wish I controlled my temper a little better, maybe I could have helped your grandpa more.” I never imagined that my grandma would open up like this. All these years, I thought she was confident and strong, when deep down, she was unhappy and hiding what she really felt. Hearing her open up to us like this made me see that she was now becoming strong by showing her true feelings. I walked into my mom’s room after breakfast, and saw her looking through pictures of her as a child and of her brothers and sisters. “Mom, are you okay?” I asked. “Yes baby, I’m good. I’m just feeling a little sad, but I wanted to thank you for all your help with your grandmother. I know this isn’t easy for you, but I want you to know that you and your sister make me very happy and I’m very proud of the young women you two are growing to be. I know Ericka moving away was hard on you, but I want you to see how strong you are. I know you’ve looked up to your grandmother growing up because of her character, but I want you to know that there are different types of strength. There’s the type of strength that you build to make you grow into a happy and peaceful person and the strength to help you survive. Grandma unfortunately needed to survive and used strength to move on not trying to feel anything. She didn’t want to feel her pain, and it took a whole lifetime for it to surface. Sometimes feeling the pain makes you grow as a person and I want you to not be afraid of being you.” I didn’t have anything to say, but I knew how lucky I was to have a mother like the one I have and to have a grandmother like the one I have to help me appreciate my mom. That evening after many versions of the vest story, grandma made her famous lemon meringue pie. I watched her carry out each step with ease and a peacefulness that I had never seen before. She told me how her mom used to bake sweet bread and lemon empanadas. She seemed happy like a child. I wondered when it was that made her so hard. I don’t think I’ll ever know, but I’m glad she’s back in that moment, because she’s letting us be a part of it.
Dear Ericka, Things are not easy without you and they have not been easy for my mom or family. I am learning that my grandma, who has always been strong, was strong her whole life because she needed to be. I can now see how her roughness was really just a way to hide her pain. Her quick-tongue was a way to beat others to the punch. I know that I will be able to keep helping my family through this tough time. I know I am a shoulder to lean on when my family needs me. You know you’ll always have a shoulder to lean on too. You have helped me all these years, and I know I have helped you too. Keep in touch and write back soon.
How does someone become literate? Do you become literate when you begin school? Does literacy only entail how to read and write? Do people go through the same steps in order to achieve the status of a literate individual? How does literacy shape individuals and the lives we lead? I have spent much time thinking about this question. Through much reflection, I concluded that there have been two significant artifacts in my life that represented and shaped how I became a literate person in this world. These two artifacts have guided me to become the person I am today. Growing up as a quadruplet (4 babies born at the same time) and living by a quote my Dad shared with me in middle school, I discovered that these two things had the most significant influence over the path I live today and to the literate self I have become. Being a quadruplet inevitably allowed me to develop oral language, a major component of literacy, at a very early age. Communicating with my two sisters and my brother had a major impact on my literate self because language was such a powerful resource both in school and in our society. Oral language became the vehicle for communicating ideas, beliefs, and my needs. “The speaker and the listener use the same code and know the same rules of language in order to effectively communicate,” (Bos & Vaughn, 70). Growing up with three other siblings the same age allowed for me to practice this way of communicating since May 30th, 1980. As a member of the “Quad Squad,” I was never alone! I always had a friend to play with, a friend to argue with, a friend to problem-solve with, a friend to cry with, and a friend to talk with. At a very early age we were considered a unit. We learned all lessons of life and went through all the same stages of life together. As babies, we started off babbling to each other as we discovered the world and the senses it offered. We explored each other, wondering who were these other people that shared a crib. We used gestures and body contact to communicate what we were thinking and what we wanted. Grabbing the bottle or toy from each other, laughing and giggling at the noises we produced. As we grew, words entered into this complex language system. We had a new way to communicate. Words and the use of gestures allowed us to engage in play, tell each other what toy we wanted, learn how to share or not share, and express our needs. Eventually, words became sentences and sentences became our way to defend or expand on the opinions we grew to have. Sometimes we would finish each other’s sentences and at other times we would use sentences compete for the attention of our parents. Soon sentences became paragraphs and before I knew it, I was on my way to becoming a literate person inside and outside of school. As we entered elementary school together and the school years to follow, I learned to use language to express ideas that aided my writing and expanded my discussions. The oral language experience I had in my childhood gave me the necessary skills and the preparedness to enter a domain where the act of listening and speaking contributed to my writing and reading. I knew the complexities of language and the code to make me successful. Growing up in this unit gave me the ability to communicate my feelings and talk through my problems. It was through the ample opportunities of oral language and social interactions (Vgotsky) that became the backbone of my literate self and had a major contribution to the person I am today. The second artifact that contributed to the person I am today is not something that made me more literate as an individual, but is a valuable piece of literacy that shaped who I have become. It is a quote that my father shared with me that I have referred to, applied, and is ingrained into what I do and who I am. The quote states, “I HAVE NEVER MET A PERSON WHO DID WORK HARD THAT WASN’T SUCCESSFUL.” I was in middle school and it was a Sunday night. I had come home from a soccer game (a team in which both my sisters were on) and was frustrated because I was the defender on the team and struggled with the fact that I wasn’t as good as one of my sisters (competition also played a huge role in my family). I had always been a little insecure in my abilities and continually compared myself with my sisters. I remember that my father, who was sitting in our family room, called me downstairs. It was rare that I would be in a room alone with my father without the interruptions and the commotion of my other siblings talking, interrupting, etc. My Dad (always the coach of the family) wanted to talk about the soccer game. He told me he thought I was an excellent player. I told him I wish I were better. That is when he stated that above sentence. I don’t know if this is a quote that he lives by, however, this quote has stuck with me ever since and has become apart of who I am. My father’s quote pushed me to document this oral piece of language in written form. I wrote this quote in my notebooks, on posters, and in journals. I passed the saying down to my teammates, hung it on bulletin boards, included it my speeches as captain of many sports teams. I even shared this quote with the students I teach, those that need to hear that nothing comes easy in life but if you work hard you will succeed. This quote has shaped who I am as a person. My motto has become: work hard and always give 110%. All the way back in middle school, the sentence, this piece of literacy has inspired me to never give up. I was determined and persevered in high school. When things got tough, I knew that if I worked hard I would become successful. I accomplished my dreams and was accepted into Cornell University. I proved that I could play on the Division I women’s soccer team and was the captain for two years. The quote gave me the courage to switch careers and follow my passion as a teacher and educator. I became also successful as the only special education teacher and the department at Passages Charter School as a first year teacher. This quote, stated by my father, is a written, literacy artifact and belief that has impacted and shaped my attitudes and values about my work ethic as a teacher, a student in college, and a spouse in my relationship. This quote has guided and continues to guide me through the various stages of my life. Reflecting on my artifacts and how they have influenced my journey through life, I have been able to answers many questions about how someone becomes a literate individual. Society functions because of literacy. People become literate through enriched experiences that shape who they become. Many achieve access to literacy through language, (speaking and listening), reading and writing. The possibilities about the ways in which someone becomes literate or interacts with literacy that shapes who they are, are endless. As teachers, we must do our part to create a literate environment for our students so that they can grow and function in this society. As I continue this journey, I only hope I am able to add artifacts to this collection and grow as a literate person that not only impacts me, but others.
Bored faces and blank stares out the window had become familiar sights in my classroom because it was hard to want to write when one is so worried about the many things you cannot do. Many of my students struggled with the motivation to write for a variety of reasons. Some of them were English Language Learners and were working towards understanding written word as well as learning the concept of how to write it. Then there is the consideration that ninety percent of my class spoke Spanish as their first language and there were few people outside of school with whom they are able to read, write, or speak English. This means that they do not have people to model the types of writing we work on at school nor do they have people in which they can receive help from when they are having a difficult time with writing in English. Finally, I have found that the class was just plain scared to write because spelling, conventions, and penmanship are not their strongest abilities and in previous years that is what they have most been graded on. Part of the resistance in the faces of the students and their clenched hands is not because writing is inherently a dreaded activity but because they were so strictly graded in areas that they are still learning how to perform; the content was over looked because structure and format were lacking. With so many issues against you it is hard to want to pick up a pen and start a journey on a piece of paper.
So how is it that I can get my students motivated to share their amazing experiences, culture, and creativity with me? I need to have students who want to write. Motivation is not something that can be taught nor is it given. Motivation is internal and requires a passion and desire for the task at hand. Therefore, I cannot motivate my students to write but I can remove the stigma that has been attached to writing and shed a positive light so that they themselves are motivated.
The teacher must first become what she expects her students to be. Therefore the teacher must first be motivated to write. Lucy Calkins, in her book The Art of Teaching Writing (1994), explains that before a teacher can have a classroom in which meaningful writing takes place the teacher must first become aware of how she speaks and thinks about writing. When the teacher realizes how she feels about writing the teacher can then go on to understand how her students may perceive writing. Thus, becoming more in tune with the needs of her students. Many teachers themselves are uncomfortable as writers, especially if asked to go beyond the genres they are comfortable with, and most teachers rarely write as adults because they are unsure of their knowledge of composition, all of this makes it hard to teach others to do such writing tasks.
Once the teacher has become aware of her own experiences and beliefs on writing then the teacher must become aware of how she speaks about writing. For example, when giving an assignment, which is followed up by the statements “it only has to be two pages,” or “you will only need to write for 20 minutes,” students believe that writing is difficult because it is spoken about negatively. Lucy Calkins explains that when we talk about writing in such negative manners we ensure students will not know the joy and intimacy of feelings seen and heard through their writing and that they will not know the thrill of reaching for the exact word or of being surprised with what forms on their papers (1994). By making writing a task, students are unable to find passion. Students will struggle to become motivated on an assignment that is not given with enthusiasm. Instead a teacher could phrase it as “you will have a whole 20 minutes to write about…” showing students that writing is a privilege not a task. Students will at least be willing to try the assignments and begin to find some enjoyment of their own during the writing process. Simply stating, “you can write about anything you want and check your spelling but we can correct the really hard words later.” The student can see that writing is something done to share their knowledge not to fill time or test abilities. They are motivated to write because they are provided an opportunity in which they will not be judge or penalized for imperfections. The process and creation of work becomes thrilling because they become responsible for their own learning.
When students arrive at the point when writing is seen as possibility for enjoyment and communication they are desperately in need of a guide or a teacher to continue through the process. The teacher is a guide for students because motivated writers need to be taught the tools which they can use to produce high-quality pieces. It is important to remember that the one who must train and offer opportunities to practice is the teacher but it is up to the student to create his/her own masterpiece. Mini-lessons seem to be the key coaching strategy that can be used to help meet the motivational needs of students. Begin by doing mini-lessons with the whole class on areas that most students are struggling to perform. Then follow up through small group lessons for students who are struggling but allow the rest of the class to work because they already have it down.
Students need a variety of tools in order to begin their journey in writing. Writing to prompts or certain topics may be necessary at times but we must remember that choice is the better option to motivate student writers. Previously, students were given a topic along with an assigned number of drafts and a set due date. “Now, however, brainstorming, listing, clustering, webbing, zero drafts, free writing, journals, writers’ notebooks and more are all part of the writing process legacy for ways of engaging writers in the work of exploring and trying to find ideas before they commit to a topic or a draft” (Kirby et al., 2004, p.18). Students are asked to explore ideas and play with topics that most interest them. It is up to the student to pick what to write about and become an expert on the topic. This develops a desire for writing and expressing ideas because they are coming from within the child. When students are allowed to decided their own writing topic they are able to pick what they are passionate about and that shines through in their writing.
As motivated writers, students are continually learning the tools and skills for writing independently. Teachers should be involved in students writing by providing expectations that the student must meet. Students want to know what it is that they are going to be held accountable for and if they are doing what is necessary to arrive at the desired outcome. It is also important that the teacher allow the student to choose what is to be included in their work and how they will place it in their writing while giving the students knowledge of how they will be graded on the assignment. There is a balance of what the teacher desires and how the students decide to meet those desires. The teacher must remember that he/she is the guide but the student is the creator.
Once Students know the expectations they still need to be taught how to write in order to meet these standards. The student needs to learn how to write like a writer. If students are to be motivated and creative writers in a specific genre they will need to understand how it is they are to write. Immersing students in the reading of the genre they are about to write about is a simple method that teachers can use to show students what is expected of them. Through the use of examples and excerpts students better understand what the writer was trying to create, they develop the ability to read with a writer’s voice and write with a reader’s eye. Students learn how others authors create text with specific purpose and can model their own writing in such forms.
Another motivating factor for students is the ability to feel safe and connected. Rituals and routines provide the classroom with a smooth running system. The teacher and the students work together to set up a routine that is best for the classroom community. All that are within the community know how to treat one another, they know their objectives, and they know how to arrive at their goal. More work is able to get done because the group as a whole is knowledgeable on the process and procedure that will be followed during any given period of time and they are able to predict what is to come thus allowing students be independent.
Lastly, there needs to be unavailable time for students to share their work with the whole class, a celebration period. The reason this sharing time is so important is because it gives the students an opportunity to hear praise for all of the hard work they have put in and to get feedback/advice from peers who understand the struggles that they are having. Writers must share their work throughout their writing and especially once they have finished their piece. They need opportunities to listen to finished pieces written by their peers so writers can know that they to are capable of producing such greats works as well.
Personally, I have learned that motivating students to write goes far beyond cute prompts and negative precursors to writing. Motivating students to become writers needs to include thoughtful consideration of various aspects within the classroom. The teacher needs to think about her own thoughts/experiences and how she is to relays those to her students. Students need the opportunities for ideas, a time and place to write them down, and the ability to choose what they are writing about. Students also need a guide for the writing process. They need someone who is not afraid to write and can provide models of how writers think and work. Students also need to know the expectations. A simple rubric can allow students to become more confident in their writing because they can ensure they have included all the pieces that they will be graded on. Examples of text to learn from is significantly important because it allows students to see published work in which they can notice patterns and structures that can be incorporated into their own writing. Routines are important for comfort and structure throughout writing making the classroom a safe place to share personal and emotional experiences. And the sharing of their work completes the process and provides fulfillment for the effort that has been put into their work. Taking all these into account I assure you that even the most struggling students will be more motivated to write and you will even find those for whom writing has become a passion.
As Americans, we plan and seek out hometowns to live in, big cities to visit, and exotic places to vacation. Our American identity is partly based on these places; our origins and our ability to transition to other places display our freedom. Yet less than one hundred and fifty years ago, an immense amount of Americans did not have that right to move from place to place. Many slaves lived in odious conditions, enslaved for life often on the same plantation or transitioned to places based on a master’s death or whim. Frederick Douglass was shuffled back and forth from plantation to big city several times before finally escaping and becoming free. As he explains in Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, it was this movement from place to place, the very movement that conveys present-day American freedom, which was the most important cause of his freedom. Movement gave Douglass the education, sense of confidence, and motivation to ultimately reach freedom. Even though movement made Douglass feel apprehensive and fearful of new places, which did not allow him to have long-lasting emotional relationships that could have strengthened his chances for more immediate freedom, movement opened his mind up to eventually become free because he became educated in several different modes by traveling and at each unique place he was sent. He began his life on a plantation in Easton, Maryland ignorant of his age. He stated, “By far the larger part of the slaves know as little of their ages as horses know of theirs, and it is the wish of most masters within my knowledge to keep their slaves thus ignorant,” (1). His birthplace did not afford him with the knowledge he needed to escape. On his master’s whim, he is sent to Baltimore where his mistress, Mrs. Auld, teaches him how to read. His master, Mr. Auld, stops her from continuing her lessons because he fears Douglass will escape. As Mr. Auld advised his wife, “If you teach that nigger how to read there would be no keeping him. It would forever unfit him to be a slave,” (20). In Baltimore, he learned one of the most valuable lessons of his life—education was a key to his freedom. Due to a master’s death, Douglass was moved back to Easton and then passed around to various slaveholders. While traveling from Baltimore, he focused on the direction the ships took to go in route to Philadelphia. The traveling led him to begin planning his escape attempt. He ends up at Mr. Covey’s and learns another valuable lesson that leads him to freedom. Mr. Covey was his most brutal slaveholder, and he defeats Douglass physically and mentally. Douglass writes: Mr. Covey succeeded in breaking me. I was broken in body, soul, and spirit. My natural elasticity was crushed, my intellect languished, the disposition to read departed, the cheerful spark that lingered about my eye died; the dark night of slavery closed in upon me; and behold a man transformed into a brute! (38)
Douglass had changed from having ambition and a desire to be free in Baltimore to a hopeless slave on Mr. Covey’s plantation. After feeling broken, a slave named Sandy wanted to help Douglass deal with the mistreatment, and he gave him a root to ward off mistreatment. Douglass did not fully believe that the root would be effective, but he carried it with him anyway. The next time Covey decided to physically abuse Douglass, Douglass decided to fight right back. He stated, “But at this moment, I resolved to fight; and, suiting my action to the resolution, I seized Covey hard by the throat,” (42). Mr. Covey’s plantation gave him the chance to stand up for himself and create a bond with Sandy. His confidence improved, and his hopeful spirit returned which made him eager to escape. After being handled by and handling Mr. Covey, Douglass transferred to Mr. Freeland who lived just outside St. Michael’s, Maryland. Freeland contrasted with Covey in harshness and brutality, and this fact provided Douglass a unique opportunity to unify slaves and begin to educate them. As Douglass stated, “I taught them, because it was the delight of my soul to be doing something that looked like bettering the condition of my race,” (49). Through educating, Douglass created several bonds with slaves like never before in his life. His deep beliefs in his people proved to be the inspiration that he needed to make his first escape attempt. However, his first attempt failed due to disloyalty on the part of one of the slaves. Instead of killing Douglass and his followers or brutally beating them, they sent Douglass away once more to his final placement as a slave. As Douglass’s journey towards freedom came to an end, he found himself in Baltimore living once again with Master Hugh. In this familiar place, Douglass gained several privileges that gave him an even greater taste of freedom. His master allowed him to hire his time out as a caulker which meant that he was not under his master’s eye for the entire day. His master also gives him a little money that he earned during his daily work, and this fact was not a popular act for slaveholders during this time. Douglass took this sense of freedom to the extreme when he ventured outside of Baltimore to meet with some friends and did not ask for permission. When Master Hugh found out, Douglass realized that he was not free. He wrote, “I found him very angry; he could scarce restrain his wrath. He said he had a great mind to give me a severe whipping. He wished to know how I dared to go out of the city without asking his permission,” (62). After this incident, Douglass decided to make his second escape attempt. As he wrote, “[I] finally resolved upon the third day of September as the day upon which I would make a second attempt to secure my freedom.” For three weeks, Douglass bided his time with Master Hugh and obeyed him completely before successfully escaping to New York City on September 3, 1838. For these reasons, movement was the key factor to Douglass’s successful escape into the free world. His movement allowed him to become educated of directions to create a plan and learn that education would help him to reach freedom. The transitions his masters forced upon him taught him how to fight against physical and emotional mistreatment and create strong bonds with other slaves. In his final placement as a slave, he gained privileges that closely resembled those of a free man. However, Douglass understood this false sense of freedom and used it against his final master by taking into account all of the knowledge he had gained through being shifted from place to place. His narrative displays the importance of movement as a cause and a characteristic for American freedom.
She woke up, but laid there for a minute-taking it what this day was about to become. Everything was laid out, as she had left it the night before. Everything was perfectly ready for the day that was ahead of her. As she stepped out of bed, her hair tossed every which way, she quickly gathered her thoughts and began to get ready. The young woman showered quickly, brushed her teeth, threw on some comfortable clothes, and ran a brush through her hair. She stepped out of the bedroom, but took a moment to glance back at everything that was laid out perfectly for her when she returned. She smiled to herself as she quickly ran downstairs. As she ran past her parents, they tried to interject. However, she scooted past them quickly, grabbed her car keys, purse, and sunglasses as she headed toward the door. Her parents, baffled, yelled, “Where are you going on a day like this…this morning of all mornings?” Staying focused, the young woman called over her shoulder as the glass door slammed shut, “I’ll be back in time. There is just something important I have to do!” She knew that she left her parents, bewildered. However, the young woman turned on her car, pulled out of the driveway, and began driving north before someone could stop her. Music played as she drove along, but she was somewhat oblivious to it. She heard the beat, but the lyrics that she usually digested seemed to go in one ear and out the other. The young woman stayed focused even though thoughts were running wildly through her mind. This day entailed so much. It represented so much. As she drove on alone, she began to reminisce about all of her past memories and tried to predict what had yet to come. There were memories of holidays, birthday parties, picnics, barbeques, weddings, and so many other gatherings for some sort of celebration. All of these events held an important part in her heart. As she drove past neighborhoods and saw families gathered on their lawns, she wondered what kind of memories they held dear to them. For her, the same people were at all of her celebrations-close family and friends. As she saw mothers walking their children down the street and fathers playing with their children in their front lawn, she wondered if these people thought about the important people in their life. She was getting closer to her destination. Although she had not been driving long, a lot had gone through her mind. What would it look like? What would she do? Most importantly, what would she say? She had not been there in nine and a half years. It was too hard to return. However, she had driven past the place where many of the memories were: the house. There was a lot on her mind, and she wanted to be able to get a lot off her chest when she arrived. She wanted to thank them, talk to them, and confide in them. The young woman made a right turn. As she drove down the street, full, luscious, summer trees were in her rearview mirror. An occasional passerby seemed to look in her direction, but that was just her imagination. They were busy with their own life. They really were not focusing on her. As she inched closer to the entrance, she pulled over slowly to park. The car was close to the curb as it came to a stop. She pulled her keys out of the ignition, but waited before exiting the car. As she took a deep breath, she was ready. The young woman stepped out and began walking toward the entrance. An oversized, rusty, ancient gate held the entranceway to this place. This place she had not seen in a very long time. There was no turning back now. She pushed the large gate open, stepped through the entrance, and continued on her way. As she traveled down the long path of emptiness, she noticed how quiet and desolate this place was. No one was around. However, it was peaceful. She could hear birds singing almost like they were trying to block out the nearby traffic. The summer trees were a gorgeous touch to this otherwise barren place. It smelled of sweet summer flowers mixed with juicy fruits in the nearby trees. Although the summer heat was beating down, she could feel the cool breeze upon her face in the shade. She could taste the barbeques getting prepared in the distance. She continued walking down the empty path, ready to complete what she came to do. The young woman took all of her surroundings in, inhaling and exhaling deeply as she walked along. The young woman was getting closer now. It was hard to remember exactly. However, she followed the old directions that had been crumpled in a drawer for years. They had taken her here before. A few more yards and she would soon be there. She had not prepared what she was going to say, but she was not worried. A feeling of contentment grew stronger as she had been getting closer. She rounded the bend and there she was. She was here. It looked the same. However, she felt different. The young woman was older now and many years had gone by. She walked closer and closer approaching it eagerly, yet still with some resistance. It looked like it had been visited recently. Fresh flowers were there. The young woman guessed who they were from. She got closer and closer, knelt down, and just took it all in. She looked around to see everything that was nearby. As she prepared to speak, her voice cracked a bit. The young woman paused. She took a deep breath. Her throat was beginning to choke up. Tears were beginning to well up in her eyes. She put her hand out on the ground and gently brushed the luscious July grass. After another deep breath, she looked up and said, “Hi Nana. Hi Papa. It’s me. I came to tell you, I’m getting married today.” All of a sudden, memories came flooding back. All of the parties, vacations, and celebrations were so crystal clear. There were such vivid pictures of their presence before her. She lay down on her back atop the fresh cut grass. As she stared up at the crystal blue sky, she rested. She stayed put, but was ready to speak again. The young woman spent an hour there, sharing aloud everything that had happened in the last nine and a half years since her grandmother had passed. For her grandfather, it was more. She could not believe it had been sixteen and a half years. After she managed to choke back her tears, the one way conversation rolled on comfortably. The young woman talked about everything: family, friends, travels, career, love, life, and she could have continued all day. There were no pauses, just a constant flow of her voice. Oddly, she had a feeling that they truly were listening. However, she knew it was getting later and she had to get going. It was bittersweet. She wanted to stay because there was so much more to share. She felt relieved to get some of it off of her chest. On the other hand, there was an exciting event awaiting her. She sat up, got to her feet, and gathered the few things she had. Before she stepped away, the young woman ran her hand along each gravestone, and quietly said, “You will be missed today.”
Nothing Ever Happens on Chicago Avenue By: Samantha Richardson
One afternoon, Sam was sitting on a cold cement step cautiously sipping her piping hot Caramel Macchiato. She opened her notebook and stared helplessly at the wide, white pages. “Write about what you know,” her teacher, Professor Tatum, had told her. So Sam sat on a cold cement step outside of her brick apartment building and looked out over Chicago Avenue waiting for something to happen. A horn honked. A person banged on the hood of his car because he had gotten a parking ticket. Two students chatted as they walked to school with their cumbersome backpacks. The usual. “Nothing ever happens on Chicago Avenue,” Sam sluggishly typed in her Macbook. Suddenly, out the corner of her eye, Sam saw Pedro, her neighbor, plowing through the front door of the apartment building in his dashingly red polyester jogging suit. His shiny black hair sat in a perfect swirl atop his head. Pedro tugged Elvis, his longhaired black cat whose hair was also styled atop his head like his owner’s, through the door. Elvis was begrudgingly tiptoeing along on its leash. The wind blew ever so strongly and little cold raindrops began to splash on the ground. At that very same moment, Elvis’ eyes began to bulge and his fur stood straight up on his body like he had just stuck his paw into an electric socket. Pedro leaned over to his kitty, patted his fur and said, “It’s okay, pretty kitty, it’s just a little bit of rain. Surely it will stop in no time.” To which the cat responded with a lovely hiss. While petting his cat to calm him down, Pedro turned to Sam and said, “Writing?” “Yes,” she replied. As he continued to feverishly pet his cat and do lunges to prepare for his afternoon jog with Elvis, he said to Sam, “Run away with your story. Allow yourself to be imaginative and creative in your story. You can always take normal events and make them more interesting by embellishing a little bit.” “You’re right,” Sam responded. And then he was off on his run, toting along poor Elvis who was now meowing and hissing to no avail. As Pedro and Elvis disappeared into the misty distance a new figure began to emerge. It was Gabriel, but everyone called her Gabby because she loved to just gab, gab, gab. Sam tried to decide whether to leave or stay, but before she could make a definitive decision she had been caught captive to Gabby’s gabbing. “Have you heard the latest rediculousness that our government is now paying out even more money to these crooked banks?” The nasally high-pitched sound of her voice pained Sam’s ears. “No,” she uttered hesitantly. “Oh, Sam, well it’s just absurd...” Her screechy voiced pierced her ears and even started to cause pain in her eyes. Sam squeezed her eyelids tightly shut and pressed the tips of my fingers into them. Sam tried thinking about rainbows, turtles, boys – anything to take her poor ears away from the gabbing maniac that was standing in front of her. After what seemed like an hour, Sam felt a strong poke on her left hand shoulder. Sam looked up with her eyes squinting as she tried to regain focus against the fresh morning sun. “Writing?” Gabby crowed, still pounding her finger into Sam’s shoulder. “Huh?” Sam confusedly stated, still trying to regain focus. “For the fourth time, ARE YOU WRITING?” she reiterated. “Oh, uh, yes,” Sam said faintly, now finally able to see figure. “Well, my only suggestion for you is that you include as much talking between your characters as possible. Dialogue really makes a story dynamic.” Sam nodded her head and quickly jotted down precisely what gabbing Gabby had gabbed. The heavy panting and the sound of footsteps accompanied by loud whining sounds distracted Sam from her train of thought. She stopped writing. She peered over her shoulder and saw sweaty Pedro with Elvis and his long pink tongue dragging out the corner of his mouth returning from their run. Pedro panted as sweat dribbled down the sides of his tomato colored face. “Got anything good yet?” Sam tucked her Macbook close to her body, “Yes, but you’ll have to wait until I am done to find out what happens.” Gabby quickly interjected, directing her question to Pedro, “And, who are you, my dear?” At that very moment, Sam took the opportunity to quietly exit the scene now that Gabby had a new victim to harass. She nervously tiptoed backward toward the entrance to her building and slyly slid her foot through the entrance door and then took the rest of her body through the door as well. Once safe inside the building she scurried up to her second floor apartment and knelt down to peer out her front window to document what was going on. To her surprise, Pedro was fully engaged in the conversation. You could see all of his teeth sparkle as he smiled. Sam’s mouth dropped to the floor. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Could it be? Gabby had found someone that enjoys her gabbing? And, Pedro looked happier than ever. Had he found another friend besides his cat, Elvis? The following morning Sam perched on the front step as she always did, drinking her scrumptious Caramel Macchiato. But, this morning would be very different from the rest she had decided. So, she got out her Macbook and pressed the on button. Her fingers trembled with excitement as she waited for her document to open – she could not wait to finish her story. Her fingers started typing feverishly and the words just seemed to flow out of her. On this day, Gabby and Pedro walked out together, both wearing red polyester jogging suits. Gabby wasn’t nervously chatting like she usually did, but seemed calm and at ease. Pedro’s smile radiated. Elvis could be seen up above sitting peacefully on the windowsill squinting his eyes as he soaked in the warm sun. Gabby and Pedro had found a friend in one another. They waved hello as they passed and then started their jog together – together like they would be from that day forward.
“Mentoring is a brain to pick, an ear to listen, and a push in the right direction.” –John Crosby
A few years ago, there was a great need in Chicago Public Schools to recruit and train new teachers. While this goal has been realized through accelerated teacher preparation programs, it is now clearly evident that we need to keep these teachers in the school. Research has suggested that between forty and fifty percent of beginning teachers leave the profession in the first five years. After working so hard to get young, idealistic, energetic and knowledgeable teachers in the classroom, each student suffers when the teacher chooses to leave the profession. Maintaining consistency for students is crucial. We know that beginning teachers are constantly in a state of learning, and we know the longer someone is a teacher, the more skills and strategies they possess to help the most struggling students in the most challenging schools. Currently, Chicago Public Schools uses a Golden Mentoring Program. In this program, the beginning teachers are given a mentor teacher within their school. This mentor is responsible for providing support to that teacher during the first year. While this model seems to be appropriate, it is lacking in many areas. Because the mentor teachers are based on seniority within the school, there are many times when an eighth grade teacher is responsible for mentoring a first grade teacher, or the gym teacher mentors a fourth grade teacher. With these partnerships, a teacher is likely to miss out on developmentally appropriate information for their students. Another issue with the part time mentor is that they are busy. They have their own classrooms and have very little time during the school day to sit down and talk with their mentee. The basis of a mentoring relationship is trust through time. One wonders how the mentor can build trust without the time. A better option for mentoring would be through full release mentors. A full release mentor is an educator who does not have their own classroom, but spends their full time working with beginning teachers in the teacher’s classroom. Currently an education non-for-profit in Chicago called Inner-City Teaching Corps is providing this type of complete mentoring to alternatively certified teachers in some of the most struggling schools in Chicago Public Schools. Each teacher is given a mentor who spends time every other week in the classroom with the teacher. Sixty minutes of the visit is an observation, in which the mentor gathers data on what is occurring within the lesson. Forty minutes is spent with the teacher looking at the data, and debriefing what has been happening in the classroom. The mentor is considered a coach, someone to support and guide the new teacher through their first two years. As educators, it is evident that teaching can be a lonely experience, but having an experienced teacher support you can alleviate so many feelings of isolation. Throughout the course of the two years, the mentor can see growth and progress in the beginning teacher and the beginning teacher is a continual reflective practitioner. This full release model of mentoring allows the mentor to focus only on the beginning teachers, and provides plenty of time for observation and support. The benefits of the mentor program are evident in the data gathered by the Inner City Teaching Corps. Of the teachers the Inner-City Teaching Corps has worked with over the past 15 years, 84% remain in education after five years with over 70% remaining at their original school after two years. If we want to see improvement in the Chicago Public Schools, we know that we need to continue providing a safe and nurturing environment for all students. This means attracting and retaining energetic and highly qualified teachers. This can only be possible with a full release mentoring program. The district needs to allocate some of its funds to help teachers remain in the neediest schools. With full support, our students will receive the best education from fully confident and supported teachers.
When I tell people that I work at a charter school, I often get asked, “What is a charter school?” According to www.uscharterschools.org, “Charter schools are innovative public schools providing choices for families and greater accountability for results.” Charter schools were also intended to be a place where these innovative teaching practices can be cultivated and then shared with the larger educational community. Sadly in the city of Chicago, many charters are held or operated by Educational Management Organizations (EMOs), which are basically becoming small school districts with many different campuses (CICS, KIPP, UNO, ect.).
Both of the charters that I have worked in have been public elementary charter schools that were not run by an EMO. I left my last school as a result of an EMO being hired. Independent charters are mostly small, teacher-led schools that really support and trust the teachers and staff to do what is right for the students. These schools have high expectations not only for their students, but also for their staff. Steve Barr, a charter school founder from LA, says, “Charter schools at their finest are what research and development of a district should be.” Ideally, we should all be able to learn from what other teachers in other schools are doing.
I have been lucky enough to work at two schools, first at Passages Charter and now at Polaris Charter Academy, where the school community feels like a family; we all pull together. And I believe that this is what a school should feel like. Teachers are professionals who should be treated as such and given the responsibility to make the decisions that are going to impact what we are doing in our classrooms. I feel as though I know what is best for my students and appreciate working in a place that values my opinion and expertise.
Children's Story: Going to THe BeaCH (Practicing consonant digraphs TH an CH)
Momma and I went to THe beaCH.
Before we could go, we needed to pack a bunCH of THings.
I brought a frisbee to THrow and a ball to THwack! I also asked if we could bring THe pooCH! Momma liked my games, but said THe pooCH had to stay at home.
Momma made a lunCH for eaCH of us. She made me a sandwitCH, and sliced a bunCH of peaCHes for us to share. I helped her pack THe cooler and find our beaCH towels.
THe ride to THe beeCH seemed to take forever! I was so excited I couldn't wait! THis was going to be a great day! THere wasn't a THunder-cloud in sight, and the sun was high.
When we got THere, I immediately jumped in THe lake. THe sun felt so good, like the temperature was a THousand degrees -- it felt reeaaaalllly good, but it made me reeaaaalllly THirsty too!
THere were so many people at THe beaCH, especially for a THursday.
THere were lots of birds too. Most were walking in the sand on the shore, but some were perCHed in THe trees. They were all squelCHing and squaking!
After swimming I was drenCHed. Momma dried me off with my towel and we had lunCH on the porCH. I slouCHed on a benCH and ate my sandwiCH, exhausted from my swim.
THe wind grew to be a little cooler, so it was time to go home.
On the way home I remember THinking about how I couldn't wait for anoTHer hot day, because hot days meant time for anoTHer trip to THe beaCH!
"I am not a diabetic, I am a person with diabetes."...
This is supposed to provide ownership over one's disease, and prevent feeling defined by one's aliment.
Ownership --Ridiculous...
I do not take my "diabetes" for a walk -- like I would a dog. I don't carry my syringes with pride -- like I would a new diploma. I am not glad to always wear an emergency warning on my wrist -- like I would be if it were a child on my hip.
The bruises on my arms and waist, The calluses on my fingers, The nausea from working, eating, or sleeping too little or too much are all signs that point out loud and clear that I do not "OWN" my disease, but am rather the subordinate in an abusive relationship.
Blaming the Victim In the weeks after Chris Brown allegedly beat his girlfriend Rihanna, the media has been at a loss for terminology. Stories have referred to an incident, an altercation, even a lovers’ quarrel. My 16-year-old students have a different name for it. They call it comeuppance.
I have been overwhelmed by how many teenage girls in my classes share this belief. I assumed everyone say the case the way I did—an intolerable act of abusive that should be prosecuted. My students strongly disagreed. Chris Brown, they said, must have been provoked to attack his girlfriend. He sings and dances too well and is too cute to be responsible. These young women defended him passionately and defamed Rihanna obsessively, calling her a “slut” or “ugly.” I was amazed by the fervor with which many of my young female students defended this allegedly violent singer and became profoundly worried about what this indicates we have been teaching and modeling for our adolescent girls.
The Chris Brown-Rihanna incident is a public example of what is usually a very private crime. Young women and some minorities, the very same who are defending Chris Brown, are disproportionately victims of domestic violence and rape. According to the Bureau of Justice statistics, women ages 20-24 are at greatest risk of nonfatal domestic violence. By holding the belief that women in some way ”earn” the abuse they receive, young women excuse all perpetrators of their crimes and sacrifice the safety of other women.
How are we raising girls that don’t feel a connection to the rest of womankind? How are we teaching girls that can be so unfeeling to one another’s plights—plights that could easily become their own? I discussed with me students that by blaming the victims of abuse, we betray other women and ourselves. By cutting down Rihanna we do not make ourselves better; rather, we tear ourselves apart.
This is not an issue of feminism; it’s an issue of humanity. We must use Rihanna-Chris Brown media spectacle as an opportunity to talk to our daughters, sisters and students about why it is important for women to support and defend one another instead of tearing each other down. Only by building our girls’ identities as members of the female community will we strengthen their defenses against abusive situations like Rihanna’s.
The Frances Xavier Warde School is piloting a new program this year which involves ability grouping in the three third grade classes for math and reading. Due to the vastly different needs of the students in this particular class, the administration decided to experiment with ability grouping. Based on data the reading specialist gave the administration and feedback from the second grade teachers, the students were placed into four groups. These groups consist of one gifted group, two average level groups, and one struggling group. The students begin each day in their designated home rooms, and then switch classes for math and reading, which are ability grouped. All other parts of their day are spent with the heterogeneous mix of children from their homeroom. The groups are flexible in that if teachers see enough progress, the students can be moved accordingly. Robert E. Slavin’s research (1986) on ability grouping concludes, “That any grouping plan must allow for frequent reevaluation of students’ skills, and such grouping must allow for easy reassignment of students who show progress.” This ability grouping has caused a lot of discussion between the teachers, parents, and administration, all with differing opinions. Coming from a teacher’s perspective, I am against ability grouping in the way it is currently being done in the third grade. I have several reasons for this viewpoint. First, it can be damaging to the students’ self-esteem. Students are VERY aware of the high/low ability level of each group. This affects self-esteem and confidence in school work at a VERY formative age. What happens to a student who would be the highest in a medium group, but lowest in an advanced group? Shouldn't they be able to rise to the top? How does this affect students who have been reading since they were three, versus a child who just mastered reading in the 1st and 2nd grade? After speaking with a student in the average group, she expressed her dislike toward this grouping. It was obvious that this has been a blow to her confidence, leaving her feeling that she is not good enough because she is not in the “smart” group. Anne Wheelock, author of Crossing the Tracks: How “Untracking” Can Save America’s Schools (New Press, 1992) states, “Tracking leads students to take on labels- both in their own minds as well as in the minds of their teachers- that are usually associated with the pace of learning (such as “slow” or “fast” learners). Because of this we end up confusing students’ pace of learning with their capacity to learn. We associate students’ placement with the type of learners they are and therefore create different expectations for different groups of students.” ” Second, this grouping is not occurring in previous or later grades, so why just do it for one year? There is no consistency and I think it will ultimately be confusing for the students. Eight and nine year olds are at an impressionable age, their self-esteem and place in the world at a developing stage. They are very aware of their peers and highly interested in making and keeping friends. Most of them don’t want to stand out; rather they want to fit in! This ability grouping only separates students into “dumb” and “smart” singling out students and pigeon holing them into a certain category. My third reason that ability grouping is damaging deals with the loss of peer mentoring. Higher ability students are not able to work in an ability mixed group for a cooperative lesson. The teachers cannot do any peer coaching with a higher level student helping a lower level student because that just doesn’t exist in same level groups. The low achievers are deprived of the example and stimulation provided by high achievers. Peer talk/instruction is extremely valuable at this age and that component has been taken out of the third grade classroom. One solution to the ability grouping dilemma is to group within the same classroom, rather than combining three different classes, therefore, making it less obvious. This type of grouping is done in kindergarten through second grade at Frances Xavier Warde during their literacy block. Throughout the reading centers, children are homogeneously grouped by reading ability, but are heterogeneously grouped for the rest of the day. Because students are grouped in diverse ways throughout the day, it is not as noticeable for the students to be ability grouped during their reading center time. This is what I would like to see happen in the third grade classrooms. Although there are positive outcomes from ability grouping, I do not believe they outweigh the negative ones. I feel that there is nothing more important than a child’s self-confidence. If we are willing to risk this, then ability grouping is the answer. Children need advocates, their voices deserve to be heard, and their self-worth acknowledged and nurtured. Putting students into groups based on their abilities does not promote this!
“Good morning, Miss Tuscher,” the students said as they entered the classroom. Every morning we had the same routine; the students enter the building, go to their lockers, unpack and wait by the classroom door until I let them in the room to start the day. This morning started off as every other morning did, but this day would be different from the rest. Math and reading passed by uneventfully and the class moved upstairs to the computer lab for a science lesson using the computers. The students were extremely excited because they were going to be completing virtual experiments on plant growth. I was explaining what to do, when the principal’s voice suddenly sounded on the loud speaker. This was not normal. Dr. Newman rarely made announcements during the school day, rarely interrupted instruction. “Teachers, we are in a lock-down situation,” announced Dr. Newman in a calm, yet serious voice. I practiced this very thing with my students (in our own classroom) many times before, but something in the principal’s voice told me that this was not a drill. “Okay everyone, lets sit in the corner and get quiet,” I called out while frantically searching for the keys to lock the computer lab door. The students rushed to the corner of the computer lab, away from the door and the windows. I finally found the keys and turned off all the lights. The kids were squished together, sitting as quietly as they could, thinking that this was just another intruder drill, all the while I knew something was not right. As I was reminding the kids to be still and quiet, I noticed five police cars with their lights on surrounding the school. I tried to remain calm as I picked up a book that was on the technology teacher’s desk and began to read aloud. In the distance, sirens were blaring and footsteps were heard in the hall. The students were beginning to feel restless. Andrew’s nose started to bleed. Sirens blaring, blood gushing, footsteps pounding and now tears dripping down the faces of my sweet students. Each second felt like a minute and each minute felt like an hour. What was happening? Was there really an intruder in the building? Whose footsteps were those? Will this ever end? The doorknob started to jiggle and keys were jangling. My students and I froze with fear. Who was about to enter? The doorknob slowly turned and the door creaked open. “Everything okay in here?” asked the police officer. “Fine,” I replied, not knowing what else to say. He locked the door back up and kept on walking. Twenty long minutes later Dr. Newman announced that the lock down situation was over and we could all return to our classrooms and unlock our doors. We left the technology lab a little shaken, tear stained and bloodied, but we were together and safe.
Anna came to the United States at the age of eight, transferring into Mrs. Soto’s third grade classroom. Anna liked her new classroom better from the one she had left behind in Mexico, since it was filled with more books and computers. Mrs. Soto asked Anna to tell the class about herself. That is when Anna decided to describe to them her journey to Chicago. Anna told them about the long walk through the desert with her mother, sister and other people that wanted to work in the United States. She also described the long car ride to Chicago from Texas. The students asked Anna questions about el Coyote and if he had mistreated her along the way. The students in the classroom were familiar with the journey. Many of them knew the journey across the border all too well. They had either done it themselves, or their parents reminded them of the struggle they went through to give them opportunities in this country. The moment that George asked about la Migra the room went silent. Anna told the class that Dios was watching over her and her family. They had not been spotted by the men with machine guns on their way over. Mrs. Soto smiled and told Anna that she was glad that she was a part of their classroom. Anna made friends easily. At lunch she sat in the middle of the table and all of the girls gossiped about all of the events that had happened so far during their school day. Anna fit right in to the classroom and social network. Her years in grammar school flew by and soon she was in seventh grade. She now had a younger sister Letty, who just turned two. Life was pretty good for Anna, she was finally an older sister, captain of the girls volleyball team and getting excellent grades. Anna really wanted to get into a selective enrollment high school. Anna knew the value of hard work, a valuable lesson her mother had taught her while working two jobs to support the family. Anna also wanted a job, as well as her older sister Eugenia, however she was too young. Eugenia was already fifteen and soon would be able to help the family financially. Eugenia and Anna were in charge of the home when their mom was working. It ran smoothly and it helped that their tia lived downstairs. She would check on them to make sure everything was on schedule. Ana’s mom decided to take the day off of work to spend some time with her daughters. The girls made mole con pollo and rice. It was their favorite. The dark brown chile gravy was spread all over the rice and the chicken in a warm tortilla. There was a burst of flavor in each bite. As they were eating, the phone rang. It was tia. She told their mother that a man in a uniform came looking for her. Eugenia was the first to notice her mother dropping the phone. Anna grabbed the phone from her limp hand and her tia began to explained to her not to answer the door to any strangers. No one said anything for the rest of the night. Her family was in danger. The only person in the family that had proper documentation to be in the United States was two year old Letty. Anna could not understand why they were looking for her mother. She was scared. Eugenia’s eyes watered all night long. They worried that they would find her at the house. Mom reassured them that no one at the factory knew her home address except tia. Once tia arrived home mom and her went into the bedroom and discussed the plan. Mom could no longer work in the factory. Mom and tia conversed about the possibility of la migra finding out about her second job. Mom decided it was time to start over. She sat Anna and Eugenia down and explained to them that things were going to be tight around the house until she found new jobs. It was now approaching eleven o’clock and they needed to get some sleep for school the next day. Suddenly they heard a pounding at the front door. The women stared at each other for a brief moment and tia went to answer the door. Before she could get to the door men with guns burst into their home. Eugenia screamed, Letty started to cry and Anna held her mother tight. No words needed to be spoken, their uniforms had the letters INS on their backs. It was la migra. Her mother turned to her and said, “We will be together again soon. Take care of your sisters.” The man demanded to know who Maria Vergara was. Mom stepped forward. The man put handcuffs on her and took her away. Tia asked the man where they were taking her and the man did not reply. Her mother’s face was strong, but Eugenia’s was not. Tia told the girls to get ready. She was going to take the girls to the neighbor’s house while she went to get more information about their mother. All three of the girls fit into the neighbor’s spare couches. Tia did not need to explain anything to the neighbors. They understood the horror of what happened when they saw the girl’s eyes. Their mother was taken by men with guns. The only one that fell asleep that night was Letty. The next day the two eldest girls went to school. Neither of them could concentrate on their studies. The time slowly went by as they knew nothing of their mother. Their tia came to pull the girls out for an early dismissal. She told the girls that their mother had been sent back to Mexico. Tia told them that she went downtown to the immigration office and they would only release that information. “Your mother will call once she arrives at abuelita’s house in Mexico.” Six days passed and they still had not heard from their mother. Tia called Mexico every day to see if they had any news. Both sides of the border waited anxiously for any information. Finally after about a week their mother called the girls. She instructed them to get on the next plane to Mexico City. She wanted all three girls to come back to Mexico. Ana was shocked. She wanted to stay in the United States. She knew that her education would stop and she would have to work in Mexico. Ana could not live without her mother. Ana also realized that there were no opportunities in Mexico. There would be no high school, she would have to work. Her hopes and dreams of attending the university were also gone. There are no child labor laws. In Mexico all the good high schools are private and she knew that her mother did not have the money to put both of her daughters through school. Anna realized she was going back to a completely different life than the one here in the States. Yet, there was nothing Anna could do la migra made the choice for her. A week later Anna, Henia and Letty headed back to Mexico on a plane. They did not look back on the life, family and friends they had left behind in sweet home Chicago.
Glossary La Migra- US Immigration Coyote-Someone who takes you across the American-Mexican border for a fee Tia-aunt mole con pollo- chocolate chilies gravy. The sauce is traditionally served over rice and chicken. The mixture is eaten with corn tortillas. Abuelita- grandmother
Measuring Up Self-esteem is a term I have been familiar with for a long time. At least since junior high. I remember that we were required to take a class called “Personal Development” where we did all kinds of projects to represent ourselves and to demonstrate pride and confidence in who we were as thirteen- and fourteen- year olds. At the time, that class was the butt of many jokes. Now, I’m not so sure it was such a bad idea…especially for the girls. It has been almost 20 years since I was a junior high student in that class and I have met far too many women who do not truly possess pride, confidence, and great self-esteem. Instead, so many of the females I know or have crossed paths with have bought into the lie that they have to be perfect. They base their self-perception on what other people say and think – particularly men. Case in point: My sister. She is beautiful. She’s also a great dresser and looks like she just stepped out of a catalog at any given moment. She is smart and ambitious. Last week she completed her applications for various law schools in the Chicago-land area. She is successful. She has earned several awards in her field and survived numerous recent reductions in force in her department. And she believes the lie that she is not good enough. She is currently dating (and has been for the past six months) a guy who is fifteen years her senior, never went to college, compares her to his ex-girlfriends, and makes her feel terrible about herself. Why is she doing this? According to her, if she can change his mind and make him think she is a quality person, then she will feel like she is approved and derive some self worth from that. Another one: A friend. She is a great friend. She’s always willing to help, always willing to listen. The girl has a heart of gold. She cares for an elderly family friend in addition to her full-time job. She is driven. She went back to school for a second degree in order to get this better job. She is hilarious. No matter what is said, she can come up with a witty comeback immediately. No esprit d’escalier necessary for her. But she also feels as though she doesn’t measure up. Because of the inability to see herself for who she really is, she has decided to sacrifice so much of what she loves. She is leaving her family, her friends, and her job. She is moving to England to be with a man who does not have a stable career, is not yet divorced from his wife, and who will most likely not be able to pay child support once he is, if ever. Why is she doing this? According to her, he is the only person who has ever really loved her and all the nice things her says to her makes her feel like she is a good person. Like she has something to offer. You probably know women with similar stories. And, like me, it probably infuriates you. Why are so many women blind to all the positive attributes they possess? Why do they make such obvious mistakes, thinking they will feel better about themselves when they are really only headed for self-destruction? Why do they diet, work out, highlight their hair, and strive for physical perfection when it is obviously unattainable for anyone outside of Hollywood? I believe that much of it is indeed this outside influence. The media has bombarded us with pictures of what the perfect woman is supposed to look like. Under this assault, every woman is doomed to fail in striving to achieve this contrived perfection. Even the most secure female has most likely considered trying to lose just a couple of pounds to feel better about herself, or has been guilty of comparing herself to other women who appear to be prettier or thinner. And any woman who is already feeling somewhat insecure with herself only feels worse because of these messages. Also, women tend to be very sensitive to what others have to say. If they are in situations where they are told more negative things than positive, it wears them down and the negative messages become easier and easier to believe. Women also have a propensity to feel responsible for everything. If things aren’t going the way they are supposed to or there is a problem in a relationship, women will most likely blame themselves in some way for it. If another person involved blames them as well, they buy it and feel even worse or that they are a failure. So what is a girl to do? Well, first of all we need to help ourselves, and we also need to help each other. It is important to focus on what we have to offer. And it is important to be the encouraging friend or sister or mother, etc. I tend to become angry and frustrated with girls who just can’t see the positive in themselves and then sell themselves short in so many areas of life. Instead of focusing on those negative feelings, it is necessary to build one another up by focusing on the positive in the other person. Combat the outside influences, but be truthful at the same time. Or, if she needs more help than you can give, encourage her to take control and seek out a counselor or support group. Anywhere we can combat the negative messages from the outside and promote a positive self-image from the inside is a step in the right direction.
It was around 2:45 AM that the sound woke me out of bed. It was a sound that I had never heard before and one that I would never forget. It was the first time that I had ever heard someone sound so desperate. It was a sound that send shivers up your spine, and perspiration dripping from your palms and caused your heart to race a hundred miles per hour. The sound came from the Johnson’s house across the street; the house was engulfed in flames. People came running from every which way screaming and hollering for help. After that night Avenue Street would never be the same again.
Before the fire, Avenue Street was one of the most peaceful neighborhoods that anyone could ever dream of living in. My husband Raymond, and I, had been looking for a place for two months, before a friend tipped us off about the property on Avenue Street. She learned about the property from a friend who lived on the next block. According to our realtor, houses on this street were scooped up the same day they went on the market. We were, extremely lucky to get our hands on a cozy three bedroom Georgian, despite the “hoopla” that we went through to get it. Who would have thought that buying a house could be so difficult?
At first, we were placed on a waiting list for seven months, after which we underwent a series of interviews conducted by people on the community board. On the day of the interview, we showed up wearing the finest clothes that we could ever find in our closest. We had it all planned out; we were going to leave an impeccable impression on the community board, that would cause them to call us back the next day. That day, we could have been mistaken for PhD scholars; our grammar, pronunciation and posture were flawless. We left the interview feeling very confident, we were almost certain that we were going to get a phone call congratulating us the next day. The phone call that we received the next day, however, was not to congratulate us, but to let us know that we would go on another list, after which the realtor would inform us as to whether or not we had the property. I knew right away when Ronald yelled, “God damn it Joanna! Those people can go to hell.” I could tell then that he had had enough, and did not care anymore.
It was four months after the interviews that we finally heard from the realtor. I was in the basement when Ronald answered the phone and announced that we had passed the “uppity” people’s test of standards and virtue. That day we both jumped up and down like we had just won the lottery; having forgotten what we had gone through not long ago to get the property. We were very excited.
The houses on Avenue Street were three and four bedrooms, with the exception of two that were seven bedrooms. It was a middle class neighborhood and people took pride in their homes and lawns. In the summer it was a sight to see; lawns and bushes were manicured into perfect rectangles and cones; yards were adorned with exotic flowers and plants, some overflowing from flower pots. People were also not afraid to leave their doors open. It was quite the norm to walk down the Avenue and look straight into neighbors’ living rooms; especially the Johnson’s who seemed to always have theirs open.
The Johnsons were one of the more affluent families living on the Avenue. They supposedly owned a warehouse storage business on the far south side of town. They owned one of the seven bedroom house on the block; which was well furnished with elaborate furniture, many of which came from Europe, according to rumors. They also had a large swimming pool in their backyard and were well-known for hosting fancy parties. Their guests of course, never included anyone from the neighborhood. They were all well to do middle age couples, many of whom came from the suburbs; they also drove expensive cars and trucks. What everyone found particularly strange about the Johnsons were the fact that they went out of their way to make sure that they said hello to any and everyone visible from their front porch, but would never invite anyone over to their parties. Mrs. Johnson has been caught numerous times waving frantically at neighbors who pretended not to see her, until they finally gave in and waved back. Mr. Johnson has also circled the block numerous times to comeback and say hello to a neighbor who was just on his way out of his house when he drove off. Feelings towards them were ambivalent, you never know whether to hate them or like them. I personally felt that they put on this charade for that exact reason, so that people liked them just enough to not bother them. Everyone did agree that they were snobs. But despite their snobbish ways, no one really hated them; well, at least we thought so, until the fire.
The sounds that woke me out of bed that morning, still lingers in my head like it had just happened. There have been many rumors and speculations about what had happened that night, but it wasn’t until three months later, after the funeral, that we heard news about what took place. Karen, the realtor who had sold us the house, was assigned to sell what remained of the Johnson’s property. She heard the story from a co-worker who knew the detective who worked on the case. Eye witnesses came forwarded and told police that they saw a white pickup truck circling the block the night of the fire. The same truck was later spotted in the alley by teenagers coming back from a party around 2:30 AM. The truck belonged to a Peter Vanderbill, who was arrested in Mexico, by authorities.
Earlier that evening, the Johnson’s had visitors over; two men, one believed to be Peter Vanderbill and the other Jerry Steinberg. Both men were in their mid-forties, and were conducting some sort of business in the Johnson’s living room that evening. Vanderbill was seen pacing back and forth as if he had something major on his mind. The two men, it turned out rented half of the warehouse building from the Johnson’s, and were both in police custody awaiting sentencing for their murder. The warehouse business, first branded as a public storage facility; was demolished by State of New York, after tons of crack cocaine was found it several storage containers. The cocaine belonged to Vanderbill and Steingberg, who ran a drug trade business in the warehouse. When Mr. Johnson discovered what they were doing, he politely asked them to move out of his warehouse or else he was going to the police. That weekend the two men came over to negotiate a time when they would leave, but Mr. Johnson was adamant about them leaving no later than the following Monday, or else he was going to notify the police. Mr. Johnson made no mention of the situation to his wife for fear that she would worry. That evening as they enjoyed dinner together Mrs. Johnson noticed that her husband seemed worried. “Is something wrong dear?”, asked Mrs. Johnson. “No, just a bit tired today honey, I think I will tuck in early tonight.” After clearing the table and helping with the dishes, Mr. Johnson took his bath while Mrs. Johnson sat in the living room and watched TV. She later went to bed around mid-night. Around 1:30 am, Mr. Johnson woke up to the sound of rumbling outside. He got up and moved to the bedroom and living room window but did not see anything, so he went back to bed. It was not until 2:40 am that an object with the force of a launching racket shattered their bedroom widow and exploded. Fire immediately engulfed the bed, carpet and drapes. The couple got up screaming, “Oh my God! Mary where are you?” screamed Mr. Johnson. Mary was in one corner of the bedroom that was not yet in flames, Mr. Johnson grabbed her hand and dashed for the door only to find out that they couldn’t get out, because the door was blocked from the outside. Suddenly, there was another racket launched into the living room setting everything ablaze. The smoke was almost unbearable; it burned your eyes and throat to the point where you can hardly breathe. Mr. Johnson could not speak, so he made sure that he did not let go of Mary’s hand. They dashed for the basement door. They barely made it out the door and landed on their faces on the cold concrete. By this time the entire house was in flames, they could hear the neighbors screaming and hollering their names. Immediately, Mr. Johnson covered Mary’s mouth and shook his head no; for some strange reason he did not want anyone to know that they were there. “What on earth are you doing? She said as she tried to catch her breathe, “We need help Greg! Mary, please trust me on this,” Mr. Johnson said in a quiet reassuring voice. They then crawled their way to Mr. Maddoff’s garage, where they found the door open. It was at that time that the basement door went flying as the furnace exploded sending flames shooting every which way. When the fire trucks came the entire house was engulfed, it was impossible for them to try to go in.
The Johnsons sat in a dark corner of the garage holding each other and listening to the commotion unfolding in front of their house. Mr. Maddoff found them early that morning when he ran to his garage to get his water hose to help put out the debris that came near his property. Mr. Maddoff was a retired Sheriff who was very quiet and stayed to himself; he was however, very generous and quick to lend a helping hand to anyone in the community that needed his help. Mr. Johnson knew that Mr. Maddoff would be the best person to help them. The Johnsons could hear footsteps approaching the garage and slipped further into the darkness. When Mr. Maddoff entered, the Johnsons were relieved. At first Mr. Johnson tried to get Mr. Maddoff’s attention by waving his hand but it was too dark for him to see, so he cleared his throat and called his name. “Mr. Maddoff, whispered Mr. Johnson, please do not be alarmed, it’s us the Johnsons from next door and we need your help.” “Are you alright?, what on earth is going on?”. “I need your help,” Mr. Johnson repeated once more. “Do you know that people out there think that you two are dead?” “Yes, I know,” said Mr. Johnson. “What is it that do you need me to do?” asked Mr. Maddoff in a no nonsense tone. “I need you to get in touch with a few people.” The Johnsons stayed in the garage until night fall and a man named Mr. Davis, showed up. He was a former FBI agent who was close to the Governor and was friends with the Johnsons for several years. Mr. Johnson shared all that he knew with the agent who notified the governor. The Johnsons asked for police protection so that they could leave the country for fear that their killers might learn that they were not dead. After that night, the Johnsons disappeared without a trace. Today no one knows where they are except for a few of their dearest friends. Vanderbill was later arrested in Mexico and Steinberg was picked up in Russia, and brought back to the states where they are currently awaiting sentencing.
How can vocabulary be taught effectively in order to enhance reading comprehension?
“It is clear that a large and rich vocabulary is the hallmark of an educated individual” (Beck, Mc Keown, Kican, 2001). Vocabulary development has been a large issue in our school since I started five years ago. Vocabulary development is the area that we tend to score the lowest on when it comes to standardized testing and our school is trying to find an effective mode of instruction to implement in order to rectify this problem. I think that a huge factor contributing to our issue comes down to the fact that a majority of our students come from a Hispanic background and they primarily speak Spanish. English is their second language and they struggle with the language as a whole. I believe that English-language learners are in great need for rich vocabulary knowledge in order to advance them socially and academically into English- speaking societies. Through my experience with my ELL students, I feel that they have a very small exposure to English words due to the fact that their parents don’t even speak English. Their only chance to speak and hear English is at school and that causes them to be at a disadvantage when it comes to the level of vocabulary development that is expected of them. Vocabulary development plays a key role in their success as English readers. Another factor that may affect our students is that a majority of our students come from a lower socioeconomic background and according to Blachowicz, Fisher & Ogle (2006), there is a large correlation between vocabulary knowledge and the socioeconomic status of a student. A student that comes from a lower socioeconomic status most likely will have been subjected to less words as a child and that would lead them to have less vocabulary knowledge than the other students when they enter school. If this issue is not attained to, they will proceed to create a larger gap, which makes it hard for them to catch up to the other students as they continue through their schooling. It is very important for me to find a way to increase my students’ vocabulary knowledge, especially with the strong connection it has with reading comprehension and school achievement in general. I believe that in order for my students to achieve in reading comprehension, they have to be able to understand the words. One of the problems that my students have when it comes to the comprehension of a text is that they do not know what the words mean and they do not take the time to find the meaning. Instead, they just read past and hope that the meaning of the word will not have much effect on the understanding of the text. I see the connection in my classroom within my students based on the fact that my students that have high vocabulary knowledge do very well when it comes to reading comprehension. So now that I know the foundation of my problem, I need to find a solution. Vocabulary instruction does not always have a large role when it comes to school curriculum and there has not been much effort into making changes in vocabulary instruction. There needs to be emphasis on the need for a comprehensive, integrated, and school-wide approach to vocabulary instruction in order to be successful. In order to achieve this, I believe that schools need to create a language and word rich environment where students will be immersed in their words on a frequent and ongoing basis. They need to be able to practice using the words and learn strategies for finding meaning of their unknown words on their own. Teaching the strategies of finding meaning of unknown words has come to be a difficult task for me. I try to teach my students to use context clues, but the clues are not always there for the students to use. This tends to be an issue because there can be four different types of context that the students can come across in their reading and they do not all explain meaning. I believe that there is no single mode of instruction that is completely effective due to the fact that learning even one new word meaning varies on the factors that are present. The factors include the context, the students’ background knowledge, and the complexity of the word. I think that it is important to teach the students how to use context to find meaning, but also teaching the students about the different generational word meanings and coupling their prior knowledge with the new information in order to find meaning. This would include focusing on different aspects of a word, such as origin, prefixes, suffixes, and base words. Beck, Mc Keown & Kican (2002), the authors of “Bringing Words to Life” have created a vigorous and powerful approach that reaches out to the needs of the students at my school. Their notions on vocabulary instruction deal with students learning the meanings of the new words and then using the words in a meaningful and engaging way. It involves providing frequent and varied opportunities for students to think about and use their new words. When research studies were conducted using this mode of instruction, the results showed that this instruction was quite effective and did enhance reading comprehension. This type of instruction also connects with the idea that vocabulary instruction needs to be interactive. When introducing the words, students can learn the words through context, picture cues, gestures and pantomimes. The students need to be engaged in finding the unknown words and interact with them in order to retain them. Furthermore, I really like the instructional strategies that Beck, Mc Keown, Kican ( 2002) has developed. Through these strategies, the students are interacting with the words through finding the relationships between words, cloze activities, answering questions using the meaning of the new word, completing sentences using the meaning, and choosing between different words to fulfill a purpose. According to this type of instruction, you would never give the students an assignment where they are matching the word with the definition because they are not using the word in context and not using the new words in a meaningful and effective way. I think students best retain new vocabulary by reading, hearing, using and talking about the words. This helps my students retain the definitions because I am reaching out to the different learning styles and I am facilitating to the individual needs of my students. It is also beneficial for students to be able to connect to the new words and find connections amongst the words as a whole. I think that this would help the students to comprehend the new word if they are able to relate it to something that they already know or have experienced. When it comes to choosing words for the students to focus on, Beck, Mc Keown, Kican ( 2002) recommend using Tier Two words which are words that are high frequency and that the students will most likely see again throughout their texts. They also have to reach out to a mature reader at the class’ instructional level. It seems that teachers tend to be very plain-spoken in their dialogue to ensure comprehension of their students and then tend to teach low frequency words, or Tier Three words. Then there tends to be too much of a gap between the two and the students are suffering because they are not learning and retaining the words that would be meaningful to their development. I think that this is an important concept to consider. You can teach and teach vocabulary words, but if they are not meaningful for the students, it loses its effect. As stated before, in order for a student to retain the meanings of the new words, they need to see the words across their texts. It is also beneficial in letting the students choose the vocabulary words. By giving them that freedom, they can choose words based on their knowledge level. In conclusion, in order to enhance the comprehension of my ELL students, I feel that it is imperative to focus on their vocabulary development. In order for students to understand and retain their new vocabulary words, I believe that it is important to choose high frequency words that they will see within their reading. Then it is important teach these new words in context so that they see meaning in learning their new words. My hope is that students will better comprehend what they read if they are better able to understand the vocabulary within the reading.
Last week, President Obama proposed a new approach to public education, arguing that the state of America’s schools is “untenable for our economy, unsustainable for our democracy, and unacceptable for our children.” His strategy includes establishing consistent academic achievement standards, devoting billions of dollars from the stimulus package towards education, and initiating a reward system for teachers based on merit. But because the underlying concepts are both unconventional and experimental, this plan has been met with some disapproval.
The merit-based pay plan has been most heavily criticized among teachers and their unions. Its critics ask, how can we equitably and objectively judge a teacher’s worth? This is an especially compelling question since, as we have seen over the past eight years, sometimes standardized test scores simply aren’t an accurate, valid, or reliable reflection of the test-taker. While Obama avoided specifically linking pay increases to student test scores in his speech, the reality of student assessment playing a part in measuring teacher excellence persists. On top of this, analysts add to the list the many more subtle problems which could factor into a money-based reward system, including favoritism, unreliable funding, diverse school populations, union opposition, school socio-economic bias, evaluative standards, and false or otherwise misleading observations.
Yet another issue which arises from this proposal is whether or not money is the best way to motivate teachers. Critics are asking, is good teaching extrinsic? Would dangling the merit-pay carrot in front of a mediocre teacher make someone a better teacher? And what of the normal repercussions, including competition, lying, cheating, and other corrupt traditions, which usually accompany monetary prizes? Creating a competitive business model out of teaching changes the entire teaching culture - a profession most do not enter with their sights set on making the big bucks.
Most importantly, there is student well being to be taken into consideration. If teachers’ motivations lie anywhere besides student support and success, America’s educational problem will get much worse. Instead of standardizing our expectations of good teaching and over-generalizing teacher-to-paycheck improvement ratios, districts must reward teachers for their successes across multiple, unique considerations and through various methods, and, in doing so, improve their students, teachers, and communities.
What Valuing Multiculturalism Entails An editorial by Meg Tanabe
In our current education system, the majority of schools do not value the teaching of any language other than English up until the secondary years at which time many students are required to spend two years studying a language other than English. Meanwhile, we have many students who enter elementary school speaking other languages than English but are given the message that those are not important. Students are taught that they should focus on learning English, up until the time they enter high school when they should learn another language. Two years spent studying another language during secondary school does not create anywhere near a functioning level in that language for most students. This seems to be a requirement that just sounded good to someone, but is not taken seriously. Learning a language is easier to do when one is younger, so if the ultimate goal is to create bilingual individuals it makes most sense to include other language instruction from the beginning of school experiences as many other developed countries do. Unfortunately, the general climate in this country is to believe that English alone is good enough and that all the other people in the world whose native language is not English, should learn it instead of Americans making the effort. If we look at two of the nations with the most effective educational systems, Korea and Japan, (Schmidt, Houang & Cogan, 2002) they have moved away from beginning English instruction in middle school and have begun teaching it starting in elementary school.
Multiculturalism is a concept often promoted in curriculum and mission statements of schools, but the current linguistic practices of most schools reflects an overwhelming tendency towards assimilation as the true goal. If we want to value multiculturalism, we should also see value in being multilingual as the two often go hand in hand. Educators are taught to value the prior knowledge that students bring to school, but not valuing the language that their parents speak with them can cause children to distance themselves from their parents and disrespect them. Parents are the first teachers of children and they should be given the opportunity to continue to support their children’s education in meaningful ways. If children turn away from their parents, they will not only lose a language, they will also lose the opportunity to learn about their parent’s culture and to feel proud of their roots. This can cause identity problems that can negatively affect children and cause them to make poor choices in the future when deciding with whom to identify with and join.
When children are not given the opportunity to learn their first language at school, they often suffer from a lack of literacy skills in that language and fragmented oral skills due to a lack of exposure to academic vocabulary and concepts or they may lose their first language completely. Learning to read, for example, in your first language is easier than learning to read in your second language. The skills that children learn in one language do transfer over to the other. Those who believe that learning two languages will take away from what could be learned in English only should think about how much more a bilingual individual knows compared to a monolingual one.
It is true that learning in two languages takes time and commitment and exposure to both language environments as well. If dual language programs are to be successful, it is necessary to have a mix of both native speakers of English and native speakers of the other language in the classroom together to support each other. In areas that are predominantly of one linguistic background, this would require the school district to implement busing in order to achieve this idea combination of students. Before we can begin to think about this, we need to convince native speakers of English of the value of having their children learn other languages in conjunction with English at the elementary school level. This requires the nation as a whole to accept that while we may outwardly appear to be a country of many cultures, our current educational system is not doing all that it can to create the multicultural nation we call ourselves.
What I love more than anything in the world is going over grandma’s house! At her house, I always tend to get away with little things that ma would never let me get away with. Instead of eating one cookie, I could have two. Instead of watching one hour of television I could watch two hours! Everything doubled at grandma’s and I absolutely loved it! It was an especially exciting day at grandmas- “cookie day.” Once a month we make “grandma’s all famous butter cookies.” They are not really famous, but if grandma sold them, I bet she would make a lot of money. Her cookies taste much better than the ones ma buys at Jewel. The cookies are so buttery that they melt in your mouth, just like an M&M. Ma and I arrived at grandma’s red brick house at about noon. Since it was a beautiful summer day-not too hot, I was expecting the screen door to be open allowing a mild breeze to blow through the house, but the screen door and the big door were both tightly shut. Without saying a word, ma unlocked the doors and we went in. Walking into the kitchen I was expecting to see melting butter, sugar, bowls, sifters, and cookie sheets-just a few of the needed essentials for grandma’s cookies. Instead, I saw a spotless kitchen. “What’s going on,” I asked nervously. “Grandma is not feeling well today”, ma said. “Is she going to be okay”, I solemnly replied. “She’ll be just fine honey, nothing serious,” mom said. “Is that my sweet sugar,” a very low voice came from the bedroom. At no faster than a turtle’s pace, I walked towards grandma’s room. She had one of those rooms that was the size of two rooms put together. I slowly stepped in and sadly said, “hi grandma.” She weakly replied, “don’t be sad sweetie, your grandma is a spry old woman.” Whatever that meant, I thought to myself. “I told your mom to bring you over so the two of you could still make the cookies. Fearing I would hurt my mom’s feelings, I kept quiet. Butter cookies with no grandma was like the black eye without the pea! “Cookie day” was either grandma and I, grandma, ma, and I, but never just ma and I. “Now go take the butter out the fridge so it can begin melting. You know what to do, now get. When I wake up I want to smell hot butter cookies cooling on the stove,” Grandma said between coughs. Without responding, I walked back towards the kitchen. To my surprise, I saw ma busily scattering around the kitchen, getting all the utensils and ingredients that were needed. The butter had even started to get soft on the table! Without saying a word, ma handed me my special apron that read “God’s Little Angel.” I couldn’t believe it! Ma was a pro! She did not miss a beat from beginning to end. She even remembered to let me do my favorite part-taking my index and middle finger and smashing them down in the dough to make that ripple raised effect in the cookie. “There ready to come out of the oven”, mom said. The aroma of a freshly baked cookie coming out of the oven is the best smell in the world. The cookies made the whole house smell like a humongous butter cookie candle. I peeped in grandma’s room, knowing the smell of the cookies had awaken her, only to find her still sleeping peacefully on her side. Mom put her hand on my shoulder. “She just needs rest,” mom” said smiling. I knew in my gut something was really wrong, even though both ma and grandma were reassuring me that everything was just fine. “Why don’t we set a plate of cookies next to grandma’s bed, so when she wakes she will be pleasantly surprised,” ma stated. I agreed, and did just that. Softly placing the cookies down, grandma opened her eyes. “What is that delicious smell,” she replied. “I have some cookies for you”, I said. “Well hop into bed sweetie, cause’ it is nothing better than sharing cookies with my favorite grandchild,” grandma said as she winked at me. Grandma and I sat, ate, and laughed for I don’t how long. I knew something wasn’t right, but I put it out of my mind and just kept on enjoying the moment, and grandma’s cookies.
Over Capacity Call to the Fire Marshall By Christina Bachman
There is no “one in, one out” policy at John W. Garvy Elementary, located on Chicago’s Northwest side. As a kindergarten teacher at this school I see firsthand the barriers to effective teaching instruction when you are at 110% capacity. Two years ago Garvy was granted full-day kindergarten, yet not given any additional space for the classroom. This is not the only space needed in our school. We have an occupational therapist in a stairway behind the stage, Spanish and Polish bilingual teachers and classrooms in hallways and our lunchroom serves as a multipurpose room.
Let me provide you with a timeline of the overcrowding and reasoning for a much needed expansion. In 1999 Garvy was given a set of mobile classrooms, which totals 4 new spaces to be used. Then by 2004 we were once again overcrowded and as a result were slated for an addition. However, funding was not available and we have been at a stand still ever since. The lunchroom was converted into two classrooms, a divider made two small classrooms out of one. Not only do the walls feel as though they are closing in, but the number of students continues to increase.
We are now seeing a surge of students at the kindergarten and first grade levels, with all four classes at 37 students. Not only large class numbers, but the kindergarten actually shares the size of one classroom intended for 30 students, not 74. This is completely unacceptable.
Where do we go from here? After an aggressive letter writing campaign spearheaded by the assistant principal we received word in early February, that a set of mobiles would be delivered by the start of the 2009 school year. Then on February 19th an email was sent from CPS managing architect that Garvy is better suited for an addition. Eight days later architects came to survey our building. We will find out next week if we are getting an addition slated to be ready for the 2010 school year or instead the extra mobile.
We need to stop putting a band aid on the problem by delivering sets of 4 classrooms. With our current enrollment, Garvy already has 5 displaced teachers. There must be a solution that will positively affect the 2009 school year that lasts beyond 2 or 3 years. It is not ok to pack kids into a building like sardines because of lack of funding. Their safety and education greatly exceeds the cost of an addition.
Comprehension, application, synthesis, meaning making, organization…this list can keep going. So many skills are necessary in order to construct meaning and put it on paper. Choosing the perfect words that will make sense to another person can be stressful for many. Yet, writing is not just choosing a word as seen in the list above, it is much more complex. As I write this, I also struggle to organize my thoughts to convey the true meaning that I hope to construct. These skills are something that I want to prepare my Kindergarten students with. Looking back to my years in school, I don’t remember too much emphasis on writing. Reading was the main focus, however, in the adult world, reading does not stand alone. Comprehension and synthesis usually occur with writing. Writing is not something mechanical, but is something that is derived from a personal thought process. Children in any grade level need to make meaning of the world that surrounds them and need to find a connection with that world. For younger writers, it is through discovery and active engagement that they become motivated to learn and construct. I have found that students even at a very young age cannot be fooled into this mentality or motivation. They can sense the level of difficulty or “busy work” that we expose them to which can eventually undermine the importance of what we want them to learn. As teachers, we need to understand the long term goals that we want our students to achieve and we need to know the steps that can ultimately get them there. Students at the emergent literacy stage have minimal focus initially which is why we need to use our time wisely and expose them to meaningful lessons. However, students at this age can take in more complex ideas than we think. Yet, these complex ideas come with time and age appropriate activities. These activities need to be nurtured in school from the very beginning in order to create a comfortable and safe environment that allows for growth with a natural course of literacy development. Guiding children through these natural occurrences of literacy and inviting them to take part of their own knowledge will bring them to a better understanding of why we write. In my Kindergarten classroom, the guidance that I offer my students with their writing is through writer’s workshop. The goal that I want my students to accomplish through writer’s workshop is to discover purpose in writing and to practice strategies that help develop meaning in their writing, both with my support and independently. Kindergarten students begin their schooling with different levels of prior knowledge. As we figure out each student’s literacy background, we need to tailor valuable lessons that can help them reach their next step in learning. Students invest more into activities that they are actively involved in. Exposing our students to meaningful life experiences that result with hands-on activities can motivate students to achieve more. At this age, writing can seem difficult to teach and assess. Students have so much to say and have such great imaginations, but little experience on how they can use it with written language. They would rather just tell you. Writing seems like such an impossible task for some students because many times they are fearful that they don’t know how to write. Many students put up their own barriers and have a preconceived notion of what is expected of them. As teachers we need to help our students make the connection between drawings and print with communication. As much as I try to diminish this fear of inability with positive reinforcement, it is just not enough. Students need to believe in themselves in order to conquer that fear. We need to give them the tools and support to help them develop their own knowledge so they can build self-confidence and metacognition. However, this fear is never completely gone and is sometimes followed by hesitance as students try to figure out what to write and why. With many examples of literature and plenty of opportunity to practice new skills, students will build on prior knowledge and gain confidence. Read-alouds are a very important tool in learning the various ways that print can carry a message. With a balance of reading and writing, students will get a well rounded literature based background that they can fall back on. Reading and writing do go hand in hand and should be practiced simultaneously to promote higher order thinking. Encouraging students to write freely about their thoughts is something that they are not yet familiar with at this age. I usually begin the year asking students to draw a picture then as we learn the concept of print and make that connection with written language; I gradually ask more of them. With a combination of strategies and a literature based curriculum, my students have plenty of examples of writing. What I really want to work on is the process of writing and how to put thought on paper. Although, the writing process is very important, at this age I try to make writing fun. Balance is a key component to teach how to write, because there also has to be interest and meaning as to why we write. I do believe that you can make learning fun and you can definitely learn while having fun. Students tend to put forth more effort when they are enjoying what their doing and are able to make it their own. I know that I need to model writing as much as possible and gradually move them closer to independent thought and writing. Before independence however, comes much practice and guidance with a gradual release of responsibility. After modeling a certain skill, I have students participate as we share a writing experience together. This then leads to more interactive involvement from my students as we co-create thought and meaning. My students love to share their ideas and thoughts, so I wanted to introduce author’s chair. On one occasion after journal time I asked students to volunteer to share what they wrote. I really wanted to see what they would share and how they would share it. Many students volunteered, but I then saw how difficult it was for my students to gather their thoughts about what they had written. The truth is that they were not really sure of what they wrote and had little or no experience on how to share it. A few had only pictures or a scribble, which at this age is fine, but they had no language to describe it. They began to share anything that came into their head at that very moment. I knew then that they were just filling their pages with words or scribbles that they had no connection with and also they needed more modeling with sharing and the authors’ chair. They were missing purpose in their writing and I needed to help them with organizing their ideas. Students at any age, may feel pressure coming up with something good enough. This only meant that my students needed more scaffolding with shared and interactive writing. I also want to make writing more than just an assignment and I need to help them gather ideas that they would like to write about. I have tried to give my students real life writing experiences such as writing letters. A couple years back on St. Patrick’s Day, my students received a little gift from a special leprechaun. He left them a recipe for a magical treat with all the necessary items to make it. We followed the recipe together which eventually made a delicious pistachio pudding. My students absolutely loved it and they loved following the recipe. They were so grateful that they wanted to write our leprechaun friend a thank you letter. We wrote it together on chart paper, and then they went back to their seats to write their own thank you letters adding anything else they wanted. I told them that I would leave their personal letters on my desk for the leprechaun to take with him. Coming back to school the next day, they noticed a response with green foot prints on our letter we left on the chart paper. This response made their faces light up. They then knew that communicating can go back and forth through writing. This moment was a turning point for my students. After that, they understood writing to be a form of expression and communication that can be reciprocated. They wanted to write letters to friends and family continually. Every year, I look forward to any moments where my students can write letters to special friends. This year, we began to write letters with the kindergarten class next door and we create the atmosphere of a post office with mail-boy and mail-girl to deliver the giant envelope. In these letters, we make sure to ask our friends a question and respond to the question asked from our friends. We do this as a whole group, but eventually each student will have a pen pal. These experiences with writing and my observations of young writers have given me motivation as well to create these moments where my students are excited to write and communicate. Starting them at this young age with a strong foundation of literacy as a whole will hopefully give them a positive sense of self that can build in years to come.
Not Only A Music Teacher: An Editorial by Jeanne Andersen
I’ve noticed that educators in the field of reading roll their eyes or skip over me in conversation when I tell them I am a music teacher. Or sometimes they ask, “What are you doing teaching music? You’re overqualified for that position!” I wonder, why is less expected of music teachers?
According to an article published in Science Daily (March 16, 2009) titled “Music Education Can Help Children Improve Reading Achievement,”
Children exposed to a multi-year program of music tuition involving training in increasingly complex rhythmic, tonal, and practical skills display superior cognitive performance in reading skills compared with their non-musically trained peers.
Doesn’t this finding imply that, as a music teacher, I should be more qualified than just a regular teacher?
I am a music teacher by chance, not choice. In college, I double majored in education and music. I then spent four years teaching in self-contained fourth and fifth grade classrooms. I completed my ESL endorsement last year and will complete my master’s degree in literacy, language, and culture this May. When my school needed more bilingual teachers, my regular education position was cut. However, having majored in music, I transitioned to music teacher smoothly.
The findings of the Science Daily study remind me that I am most qualified to teach music. We music teachers really are in a unique position to teach and reinforce literacy skills, sometimes with just 35 minutes to do so.
I will illustrate how my Music program is tied to literacy by starting with reading. Students at all levels read in music class. I don’t mean reading only as we do with books. Of course, (as a very concrete example,) students read lyrics to songs when they sing. But they actually do much more with music: Students read notes, read rhythms that increase in complexity weekly, and they learn to read and comprehend the symbols of music, the universal language, that all students – regardless of language spoken – can comprehend.
In the auditorium, my music classroom, I too have a word wall. One of my favorite vocabulary lessons this year was teaching 1st grade students the subtle difference between strike and hit. To produce a sound on the triangle, you strike it. When I asked students how they made a sound on the triangle, many said they hit it. This led to my modeling of hitting versus striking the triangle as well as a deeper discussion of the difference between the terms strike and hit, in the context of percussion instruments. [Ex: you strike a triangle and a piano key to produce a sound; you hit rhythm sticks or cymbals together to produce a sound.] We then compared these definitions to the ways we use these words outside of music. And these were 1st graders!
I work on fluency when I teach dynamics. In an oral reading fluency rubric, traits such as accuracy, rate, and phrasing are assessed. These traits lead to prosody. I too value these traits and work consistently on these with my students whether they are playing instruments or singing. Instead of working on oral reading fluency, we work on oral singing fluency. Instead of echo-reading, we echo-sing. Instead of choral reading, we choral sing. These strategies help students become fluent readers and singers. The terms and strategies for teaching Music and Reading are so remarkably similar.
And is there not a more appropriate place to teach using Total Physical Response (TPR) than the music classroom? The majority of my students are English Language Learners and love moving around the stage, singing (to the tune of My Darling Clementine), “We are waddling, we are waddling, we are waddling around the room, right now, we are waddling, we are waddling around the room, freeze!” With this activity, we can teach and review vocabulary, we sing, we encourage kinesthetic learning when moving, and we use academic language. The context for learning in music class is inviting and safe.
Finally, I make time for writing. After the inauguration, I assigned students in grades 3-5 to work collaboratively in groups. Their task was to write lyrics for a song about President Barack Obama using a familiar melody. Think of the skills involved in creating their own lyrics. Students worked collaboratively, retrieved biographical facts from class or independent research, and experimented with phrasing, syllables, and rhyming words when matching their lyrics to the melody.
So next time someone asks me why I teach music, I will refer them to this article, which examines the potential music class can have on school literacy achievement.
In the meantime, if you want students’ reading achievement to soar, Leave No Music Teacher Behind.
Carina said LITERACY-FROM CHILDHOOD- TO THE CLASSROOM I cannot remember my parents reading “bed time stories” to me as a child, my earliest memory of books is from the age of four or five, reading the pages of “Ann and Barry” a “Dick and Jane” type series at my desk at school. When I had mastered that book the teacher gave me the next one in the series, and then the next. It was never what the teacher said to us back then,(feedback was not one of our teacher’s strong points) – but as young as we were we just knew the look of approval (the opposite of the disapproving look!) and it gave you such a sense of accomplishment- I thrived on that! At home every evening, I would recite the pages out loud for my parents as part of my homework. Homework was very important in our house and always had to be checked by my parents before we went to bed. I never really understood how important it is to have your parents show an interest in your work until I began teaching myself- they encouraged us to take pride in our work and you wanted to make them proud of you at school. For my ninth birthday I remember my father putting up shelves in my room for this whole set of books I got as hand me downs-I was so thrilled! I can remember reading independently about “The Famous Five” a group of kids who solved endless mysteries in their spare time –I was fascinated by their endless adventures in a world far away from our rural town where nothing exciting happened! Literacy instruction or “English” as we called it in a Rural Ireland classroom left a lot to be desired! I can safely say we had no “library books”, in fact we had no books at all aside of text books in our classroom. We did not have a school library either, but a mobile library did visit three times a year (a big event!) We did have access to the library in the town and my brother and I would cycle to town once a week to check out books. As I reflect on that time in my childhood now, I see that’s its not so much the resources but the VALUE PLACED on reading and reading well that stays with you and ultimately the praise and the respect from your teacher and your peers that motivates you. Being in a country school did have its advantages though .There was only 6 students (including myself) in our class , although we did share the classroom with the next grade—we always studied the same material though !When I think of the average class size in CPS, I think the odds of teacher student ratio were definitely in my favor! Much of our schooling was through our native language Gaelic-we spent at least two hours in the morning reading and learning vocabulary in Irish. While I believe it gave us a strong foundation in the language I don’t believe that learning by rote was very interesting and memorizing words and stories was not everyone’s strongpoint. In the middle and upper grades our Language Arts lessons consisted solely of English grammar –I never heard of a read-aloud or a reading response until I attended teacher-training college! This is a huge contrast to the school setting I teach in today where being a teacher at the fourth grade level means dealing with students who struggle with the transition from learning to read to reading high content area. From an early age I liked to write essays and my teachers would attribute my essay writing ability to how much I read—I didn’t realize at the time how lucky I was to be able to access the public library –none of the others in my class ever did .I remember always thinking how “lucky” I was to be able to read well-those who weren’t were made to feel stupid. I felt fortunate I could read well and often felt bad that those students who couldn’t read and write well must be miserable at school. If reading this makes it sound like I thought “being able to read and write well meant you were bound for all the better things in life” that’s because at the time that’s what we were led to believe. In the present day Teaching has changed from that perspective–most of us teachers are not on a power trip and get into the profession to help students achieve, not to make them feel like they won’t get on in life. . Nowadays, when I’m teaching, I constantly remind myself that each child needs to feel a sense of accomplishment in order to be motivated to read. The same philosophy was evident in our secondary (high school) education .From the outset we took an entrance exam and were grouped according to ability. Much of what I see in our high schools today reminds me of my own education -teachers were not concerned with helping struggling readers –but with teaching content only and I hated high school language arts –it consisted mainly of grammar lessons, learning Shakespeare by rote and writing an essay once a week on a topic that was in no way connected with the rest of the unit. It still makes me cringe when I think of how that English teacher would then spend one whole period handing back the essays and hurling abuse about how bad the grammar in particular essays was –In contrast to teaching nowadays, there never seemed to be any reflection on her part. I wonder if she ever pondered the question “maybe they didn’t get that the first time round?” –maybe I should teach that a different way next time! Didn’t teachers have that kind of insight back then? I think that this may be one of the reasons why I hate grading my students work, I am always acutely aware of the material my students “didn’t get” and feel rather despondent, but as I sit there I also try to reflect on how I taught the material and think about a different approach or even a different way of assessing the skill that I might try next time.
Having returned to the teaching profession three years ago, I believe I have learnt more in the Chicago Public School system than I did in my college years and my two years as a teacher in Ireland combined. My eyes have been opened considerably. I now realize that my job as a teacher was nothing like I had ever envisioned it. I am not merely a Teacher, I don’t know if that title truly fits the job description! I regularly take on the role of “parental figure, nurse, mediator, referee, leader and STUDENT myself. It is really here I have discovered how important literacy is for me and for my students and what literacy really means. To me literacy can have multiple meanings, it is not (as I previously thought) being able to just read and write proficiently, it is the ability to make sense of ideas and communicate these ideas orally as well as being able to write and communicate ideas for a variety of purposes. Literacy as we know it had changed considerably it is no longer a concept in the singular form –we need to think of it as multi modal , Literacy is not static and what it means to be literate is changing and has changed considerably since I was in school a mere fifteen years ago. Long gone are the days when the boys were expected to become computer literate and the girls were left behind. Nowadays it is more essential than ever that we teach everyone not only how to read the books but also how to read and manipulate hypertext. If we fail to do this as teachers we will be doing our students a disservice. This is nowhere more evident than in my native country. Though many of my college classmates admit like myself that it is difficult for those of us who were not brought up with computers in the classroom or taught how to use them as an extra resource tool in the classroom. In Ireland they seem to be taking on the Technology monster with a vengeance and provide regular Professional Development for teachers to keep up to speed with ways to effectively integrate technology into their teaching. I think CPS needs to move in this direction because if we are to make sure our Public School Students are on an equal footing when they leave Elementary School, that includes being computer literate. Literacy is of huge importance to me as a teacher, whether it is in teaching different genres to students, exposing them to different ideas of literacy in my classroom, discussing with peers or co-workers , reading professional literature articles , or using the internet for research or communication–each requires its only set of literacy skills and strategies .During the past three years I have had a range of experiences that have led to my beliefs and opinions today .I firmly believe it is from other teachers we learn the most about effective teaching and effective literacy instruction .I think it is those relationships with colleagues that mold you as a teacher .I remember reading in a classroom management book “Setting Limits in The Classroom” that I should steer clear of “negative teachers” those who are resistant to change as they will pull you down too Teaching and literacy is changing and we need to be willing to change with it. Like I mentioned earlier this notion of expanding technology in the classroom is difficult for me but I am always open to taking courses to help me become a better teacher-it is part and parcel of the literacy package today. I learned the importance of demographics in the Chicago Public School System very quickly in my first teaching position. I saw first hand the huge literacy gap between those who were from the area and those who were “ bussed in” to the school from poorer areas of the city. Mayer Public School was in a wealthy North side Neighborhood but because many residents opted for the private schools in the area, 65% of the students were not from the areas. There was little or no parental involvement (mainly because the students were traveling on the bus) and the Administration cultivated a very competitive environment amongst the staff. We were “encouraged” to volunteer for weekend workshops and everyone was trying to outdo each other with test scores at their grade level—it made for a very tense environment, I felt very isolated, and as a new teacher it was hard to “do everything on your own”. The administration made it compulsory for the new teachers to observe more “seasoned teachers” during our prep times and I learned many valuable teaching strategies and effective classroom management techniques .I believe it is only with these tools you can begin to have effective literacy instruction However there was always this unsettling feeling that you were very much “on your own” as regards the curriculum, that is especially difficult for a new teacher. There was never any communication between grades, as to what particular skills each grade might focus on, much less a school wide focus. I believe in order for a school to really accomplish the goal of “teaching everyone” there needs to be dialogue between teachers, not just at your grade level but with the grade level above and below you –so that everyone has a good idea of what a student is learning and expected to learn at each grade. Upon transferring to my current school Drake in the Bronzeville neighborhood to a fourth grade position, I was inspired by the Principals strong vision for the school. The school’s mission is one which includes all teachers working together towards a common goal all in the name of equal education opportunities for all students. The attitude in this school is different-as a staff we realize we cannot achieve this mission alone we need to work together to help our students get where they need to be .Our school is part of an initiative called Partnership Read and that means we are part of a Standards based change process. I think being part of this process has helped me become more aware of the ways in which I foster literacy in my classroom and how our school fosters literacy as a whole, not just in the Language Arts but across the curriculum. As part of the process we are working on aligning our comprehension goals in a sequential manner from Kindergarten through 8th grade to bring a cohesive goal for literacy to our school. I think that is essential so everyone is on the same page and working towards a common goal. Not only do we have common goals but also a common language amongst our staff and also with other schools involved in the process. We do this through a great deal of collaboration and communication among the teachers in the school. We began with our vision of what a graduate of our school should be able to do, and we constructed goals for the end of the year at each grade level making sure they stair step as they go up beginning with Kindergarten through to Graduation. This is a vital part in my opinion of our development into a high performing school. Because we align our end of year outcomes we are making sure that our students are progressing in what they learn and that there is no repetition, instead a spiral learning effect as they move through the grades. It feels good to know that I am finally teaching what my students need to know in fourth grade and that they will be well prepared for what they will learn the following year in Fifth Grade. Not only that, but I also know what skills the students will have mastered before they come to Fourth Grade, so I can build on those skills. We assess our students three times a year to determine whether or not the skills and strategies we have chosen to focus on are helping them move towards that end of year outcome. Another important aspect of this process involves us Teachers reflecting on our assessments and their effectiveness in measuring our students’ progress. It is not just the administration and teachers that are part of this Standards Based Change Process –the most important component is our students and their buy-in to this process. I believe that it is really important to have students aware of the whole process-after all it is ALL ABOUT THEM! I strongly believe that in order for effective instruction to take place the students need to take “ownership of their learning”. In my classroom my students have taken ownership of their end-of year goal. Together the students and I have translated it into their own words and proudly displayed the whole length of our classroom wall. “We can use active reading strategies and critical thinking skills to understand a variety of texts .I think it is vital that my students know that everything we do and learn in the classroom is helping us towards that ultimate goal, so when we are working on a skill like “making connections” and recording our connections and someone walked in and asked one of my students “why are you writing on post-its as you are reading and sticking them in the pages?, my students would say that we are “actively reading” I make connections (write what it reminds me of..) to the text as I read so as to better understand this text>” Another important aspect of this whole process is that the students see coherence between subjects –we don’t just ask questions while reading-we ask questions in Science and write down our thinking in Math. We are always practicing strategies to help us become better thinkers. It is both empowering and motivating for me as a teacher and them as students, to see them take responsibility for their own learning.
It was midnight before we finally packed away the last suitcase. My little brother was already asleep; he was exhausted from all the excitement earlier. My dad threw us a going away party. All my cousins and friends came to our house to celebrate with us and to say their goodbyes. Some of them came with hopes of getting something valuable that we would not need, since we were going to the land of milk and honey and streets paved with gold; a phrase that was used figuratively to refer to America.
As I lay in bed I thought about all the images that I had seen on TV about the US. The Cosby Show was one particular image that came to mind. I admired the Cosby family and imaged that all black families were like this in the US. I could also remember the grandeur of their home with all the fine furniture. I would get really excited when I saw a shot of the outdoors, where the beautiful landscape and paved streets were on display. Everything about the US seemed amazing. I could not wait to get there. I also could not wait to see the rest of my family. They had been gone for over two years. My mom, my two sisters and three brothers were already there.
I didn’t really sleep that night because of anxiety. As we loaded all our suitcases and bags into the rented van, tears streamed down our faces. All our cousins and friends came to say their goodbyes and were crying. Saying goodbye had never been an easy task for any of us. Maybe because of all the other goodbyes that we’ve had to endure before our time finally came for us to leave. We were sad but happy to know that we were going to be reunited with the rest of the family. Nevertheless, by the time we got to the airport we were beaming with excitement. For all those times that we came to the airport and wondered what it was like inside we would finally get the opportunity to see. I was fascinated by the very diverse group of people that I saw. I admired the professionalism of the Jamaicans who were behind the counter. They seemed to be perfect in every way. They looked like the well educated Jamaicans that we often saw on TV or listened to on the radio. There was something about the upper class that made you well aware of their background right away. I started having flashbacks of the girls in primary school who’s families were well off and how they walked with their heads held high, shoulders back and spoke standard English unlike the everyday Patois that everyone else spoke. I felt a sense of pride and envy at the same time.
Before we got on the plane my brother and I fought about who would sit in the window seat. There was no debate between my dad and my little brother because we already knew that my dad would willingly give up the window seat. I ended up sitting by the window but my sightseeing enthusiasm was short lived; for as soon as the plane took off I instantly became sick, and had to switch seats with my brother. The very high altitude was not as fun as we thought it would be. When our plane finally landed my dad’s friend, a tall dark skinned man he called Cutie, was waiting for us with a big van. “Why, hello there,” he said in a deep hallow voice. “Hello,” the three of us responded. My dad then proceeded to introduce the man. “This is my good friend Cutie, I don’t know what I would have done without him today.” He continued as if to make the man feel overly appreciated for giving us a ride home. All along I kept repeating his name in my head and wondering who would name a man Cutie. But even more strange; I later found out, that his wife’s name was ‘Shirley’. I have only known males to have the name Shirley back home; it was almost as if they had decided to switched names. Anyhow, he was a very nice man, and tried to make us feel at home in his van.
On the drive back from the airport we had our heads glued to the window, connecting all of what we had seen on television¬ the big buildings, the houses, and neatly cut lawns. The scenery was breath taking. I looked over at my brother, who was just a year older but much taller than I; and could tell that he was trying to maintain his cool. My little brother on the other hand was smiling from ear to ear and did not cease to point out everything that amazed him on the home. My dad reminded us that the rest of the family were there eagerly waiting our arrival; and then joked about whether or not we still remembered what they looked like. Twenty minutes later we pulled up to one of the houses that I had seen on television. It was a two story brick house decorated with green and white shutters, there was also a big tree in the front yard. In addition to the splendor of the house, there was a park right across the street. We had never had a park that close to our house before; as a matter of fact we never really had a real park, except for the playground at school. My brothers and I stood and looked on in admiration at kids running, playing and swinging. Suddenly the door swung open and out came my mother and two sisters. There were eight of us in all, five boys and three girls. My oldest brother however, lived in Canada with his wife and kids. My other two brothers were at work and would come by later to see us. As soon as my mom opened the door my two sisters rushed out passed her and embraced us. We could see that mom had tears in her eyes, she was so happy to finally have us here. It had been a year since we last saw her, and since then she had lost weight, but she looked more beautiful than ever. My two sisters who were two years apart had gain a few pounds all in the right places.
Later on that evening we met our Auntie Thelma who owned the house and rented a section to my dad. She was the one responsible for bringing my dad and the rest of her siblings here. She was in her early fifties and did not have any children of her own. I never really interacted with her much when she came to Jamaica, and wasn’t sure how to act around her. My mom just told us to relax and be ourselves, but try not to get in her way too much; since she was not used to having teenagers around. Nevertheless, we packed away the bags and washed up for dinner. My mother had fixed turkey that night with, string beans and carrot juice with just enough rum in it; just the way she always made it back home. At first, I thought it was chicken and was shocked at how big the chicken legs were. I had never seen chicken legs that big before. The taste however, gave it away, for it did not taste like the chicken I was use to; so I decided to ask. The food was delicious and I stuffed myself; I could barely finish the ice cream that was served for desert. After dinner we all sat in the living room and my dad started with his stories and jokes. This was the most fun part of the night, my dad was known for telling us all types of tales about his childhood, in addition to ghost stories. Back then people testified to seeing ghost as though they were humans walking. We later transitioned from ghost stories to talking about people in the neighborhood and how Jamaica had changed. My aunt often enjoyed my dad’s jokes and stories and came down to join us. My mom quickly fixed her a plate and she repeated once more how much the three of us had grown. She also mentioned that one of her neighbors taught at one of the public high schools not too far from where we lived and that she would talk to her and try to get us in for the fall. Immediately, I allowed my mind to wonder what it would be like to go to an American high school. I still had in my mind scenes from the Cosby show and even Punky Brewster. What I also admired about these shows was the way they spoke. It sounded so much different from the usual Jamaican Patois that I was familiar with. I remembered a few times how attractive my cousins sounded when they came to visit us from the US. They moved here when they were very small and grew up speaking the language. I wanted to sound just like them.
The next day after work my sisters took us to the park, my brothers and I headed straight for the swings. There wasn’t enough swings open and one of us had to wait. As I stood there waiting I could not help but to notice that the kids around us were staring. They seemed to have noticed something different about us, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Nevertheless, I got on the swing when it was my turn and tried to act normal for fear of more stares. That day at the park I tried to listen in on various conversations just to hear the American accent. But instead, what I heard was something unfamiliar and very different from what I had heard on TV. I always understood what Rudy on the Cosby show was saying even though I never spoke Standard English except for in school, and therefore thought that all Americans spoke that way. I soon realized that was not the case, for I could not understand what the kids at the park were saying. This was my first encounter with reality. That summer it took me a while before I was able to understand some of what the kids were saying at the park. I was in for more surprises that fall as my brother and I entered our new high school.
An imperative step in being an active participant in my own learning is evaluating my personal beliefs and opinions about today’s literacy issues and policies. What are some of the issues facing literacy education today? When I pose this question, I immediately think of No Child Left Behind, which was enacted in 2001 under President George Bush. The general ideas of NCLB: Stronger Accountability for Results, More Freedom for States and Communities, Proven Education Methods and More Choices for Parents seem wonderful on the surface, but when you read the fine print many of these ideas have pejorative effects on various aspects of education. The negative effects of NCLB, combined with the fact that it has been drastically under funded, puts education in a terrible position. Students and teachers are the ones being left behind. I understand that Stronger Accountability for Results was implemented to ensure that all stakeholders involved in education were being held accountable for students’ academic progress. And, I do agree that all stakeholders need to be held accountable in terms of students’ progress, but we need to be sensitive to the child as a whole. Berliner (2006) argues that “both students and schools are situated in neighborhoods filled with families. Our neighborhoods are highly segregated by social class, and thus, also segregated by race and ethnicity. Children only spend about 30 of their waking hours a week in our schools, and then only for about two-thirds of the weeks in a year…. In the course of a full year students might spend just over 1,000 hours in school, and almost 5 times that amount of time in their neighborhood and with their families.” We must take into consideration the many environments that these children are a part of in order to best meet their needs. Additionally we need understand that not all students have had the same opportunities to learn and therefore do not come to school with the same social languages. I believe that communities as well as their schools need to be held accountable to standards that are maintainable and within reach. Right now we are giving students skill and drill tests and holding them to standards that do not account for individual and community differences. As Berliner states, “zip codes matter”. Schools whose zip codes encompass lower income children or ELLs are instantly put at a greater disadvantage. While these children do not always have the home environments that foster and reinforce the importance of education, the teachers of these students are forced to bring these children up to standard. When I taught 3rd grade at a Title I school in Maryland, I remember the frustration that would occur when faced with passing the test. While my grade level taught passionately and worked extremely hard to meet the standards handed to us by the state, we often felt defeated when our students did not achieve according to the test. In order to begin to change the destiny of this population of students it is going to require that our government face the fact that we must do something to change the social and economic conditions of their lives, not just focus on school reform. In addition, another negative effect that this has had on education is that many teachers are so focused on making sure that their students pass the test and therefore teach to the test. They try to ensure that their students can regurgitate information so that they can perform adequately on these tests. These teachers who are forced to teach students through skill and drill for fear of falling to far below the line are not having the opportunity to engage these children in critical or multimodal literacies. Plain and simple, teachers do not have the time to dive in and teach all that they would like to teach. As a result, much of the joy has been taken out of teaching.
Unfortunately, I do not see high-stakes testing and many other forms of accountability going away. Whether it is NCLB or another form of education policy put into action in the upcoming years, we need to take responsibility for figuring out how we are going to teach our students the various skills that will enable them to be highly productive and engaged citizens in our country. Therefore, I think that it is imperative that teachers begin to examine their teaching practices. To do this, teachers need to allow for the time to analyze the standards that need to be met while also looking at the best ways to teach these students while also teaching them higher level thinking skills. Allowing teachers time for professional development would also help teachers learn ways to incorporate better practices into their classroom. The second pillar of NCLB allows for More Freedom for States and Communities affords schools to have “unprecedented flexibility in how they use federal education funds…. Districts [can] transfer up to 50 percent of the federal formula grant funds they receive under the Improving Teacher Quality State Grants, Educational Technology, Innovative Programs, and Safe and Drug-Free Schools programs to any one of these programs, or to their Title I program, without separate approval. This allows districts to use funds for their particular needs, such as hiring new teachers, increasing teacher pay, and improving teacher training and professional development.” (http://www.ed.gov/nclb/overview/intro/4pillars.html). Allowing schools to have control over where money goes is a wonderful idea and works for those schools who have an administration that allocates the money appropriately. Unfortunately, overall, as we have discussed in class, schools are not doing a great job of allocating money appropriately, and in the end they are spending monies recklessly and not in a necessarily very well thought out and productive way. The third pillar is More Choices for Parents. This enables parents whose children attend a school that is designated as needs improvement with the option of choosing to have their children placed in another participating public school of their choice. Usually the parents who take the initiative to pull their child(ren) from the school that needs improvement are parents who are proactive in their child’s education. Therefore, when these children are pulled from their community public school, they are only further creating a failing school environment. I do not agree that parents should be able to choose the school where their child should go, but that more energy and resources need to be focused on building a positive school climate focused and implementing research based educational programs that would assist in bringing the school up to standard. The fourth pillar of NCLB is Proven Education Methods. The National Reading Panel (NRP) was founded in 1997 to assess the effectiveness of different approaches used to teach children to read. These scientifically proven education methods focus heavily on a back to basics approach. As sighted in the NRP’s 2000 report: “…Effective reading instruction includes teaching children to break apart and manipulate the sounds in words (phonemic awareness), teaching them that these sounds are represented by letters of the alphabet which can then be blended together to form words (phonics), having them practice what they have learned by reading aloud with guidance and feedback (guided oral reading), and applying reading comprehension strategies to guide and improve reading comprehension.” The idea is that we need to ensure that our students are functionally literate. A functionally literate person is able to function in society, write checks, pay bills, and contribute to the workforce. This back to basics approach is only hindering students’ ability to use literacy as a means of power. In order to enable our students to be able to use literacy as power, we must teach them how to read, not only by decoding text, but also how different genres of text are organized and how to critically examine various texts. The ability to use literacy as power would have a dramatic effect on our society. It would enable people to use their minds in order to critically analyze their position in society and give them the language which would enable them to be active, inquisitive and challenging participants in the literate world. With a new administration in the White House, we need to change how we teach students to engage with literacy. I strongly advocate for the need to shift to more balanced instruction. Right now we are focusing heavily on phonics-based instruction, which is to say that if a child can sound out a word then he/she knows the word. But, what about the meaning of the word? Isn’t that important, too? While there are those on either side of the fence advocating for whole language or phonics based instruction, I believe that we need to meet somewhere in the middle. There needs to be a balance between whole language and phonics based skill and drill instruction. Through balanced instruction, teachers will not only be able to teach student how to attach words, but they will also be able to use their rich experiential literary environment to guide their students to come to deeper understandings of language and how it is used. I would hope that by bridging the gap through a balanced literacy curriculum that one would move from being functionally literate to more critically literate. Although in theory this sounds very simple to do, I believe that ongoing professional development would be the key to ensuring that teachers are able to implement a balanced instruction approach. Additionally, our new administration needs to also create not only educational reform but social reform as well. We need to get down in trenches and work with the impoverished and get them out of it by providing them better job opportunities, better health care and better schools.
This is my editorial response to a NPR special series broadcast on education.
3/31/09 NPR Special Series (CPS Robeson High School) :
50/50 Series – The Odds of Graduating
Editorial: “Creative Grading” Creative Grading is a phrase I have heard a number of times; however, I am still a bit unsure about what this actually means. As a teacher, I have heard this phrase from parents who just don’t understand how their child could possibly receive something other than an A. I have also heard this suggestion from other teachers who are supposedly advocating for an individual student. And yesterday, while listening to NPR’s 50/50 – The Chance of Graduating, I actually heard the principal of a CPS school endorse this method of passing students.
Prior to yesterday, I always found this suggestion of grading to be so unethical that no one would actually claim that it was valid. But after hearing a so-called educational leader advocate for “creative grading,” I find this statement to be saddening. When I heard the principal explain to his teachers that they have absolute control of the grading book, and that only they can dictate what is recorded, I felt angered because of the hypocrisy he was preaching.
My anger did not stem from feeling like my role as a teacher was being compromised, but rather that the role of “the student” was dismissed. Yes, as teachers it is our responsibility to “educate” our students, but it is also our responsibility to do whatever we can to make sure that our students graduate ready to be responsible, productive members of our communities, who see themselves as the owners of their actions and choices. The concept of “creative grading” denies our students an understanding of accomplishment, recognition, and the desire to work towards a goal. As a high school student, I doubt I would have done my work if ultimately it didn’t matter. The creative grading philosophy will not help students become independent. I highly doubt their future employers would engage in “creatively praising” or a “creative employee review” of an employee who isn’t doing his or her job (unless you work for AIG). The concept of “creative grading” merely enables students to commit to a passive state of being, in a life that clearly requires active, cognoscente participation.
The most infuriating aspect of yesterday’s brush with “creative grading,” is that these were the carefully chosen words of someone who is supposed to be an education leader. I am not a grade stickler, nor someone who believes that letter grades are even an adequate measure of achievement and understanding; but, in an education system that is purely based on individual performance scores we can’t just reward everyone with the same “certificate of knowledge.” Currently there is a push to meet standards, not blindly place a stamp of approval on poor teaching and learning. If other public agencies just gave everything a grade A, just think of what would happen: the food industry would serve a side of salmonella with your chicken sandwich; it would be ok to drive a car even with a DUI record; Blagojevich would still be our governor, and Freddie Mac would still be misleading mortgage owners! I am not sure what the answer is for our failing students and schools; however, I am positive the answer is not to simply pass them along, by whatever creative means necessary, and without a second thought.
1,500 people die from cancer each day in the United States alone while 3,400 people are diagnosed with this horrible disease daily. Everyone has been affected by cancer whether it is themselves, a family member, or friend. Billboards advertise treatment centers. Buses drive by with scary statistics. Magazines include contrasting articles about how to prevent getting this disease. With the statistics climbing higher and higher, we, as a species, need to come together battle this wrenching disease the right way. Millions of dollars have been spent trying to find the best medicine to beat cancer at its strongest. Multiple fundraisers have been organized to fund this cause. However, is it the right cause? Should we be dumping millions of dollars into finding a cure for cancer forcing people to undergo extensively harsh treatments or should we begin to be more proactive? Catching cancer early is essential to beating this disease. The success rate for cancer survival increases significantly when it is caught early. According to Goetz (2008), there is a 90% survival rate when cancer is caught in its early stages. In addition, people undergo a more bearable treatment when it’s in its early stages versus extensive radiation and chemotherapy when in its late stages. Cancer research has advanced to where we now have some proactive tests such as the Pap smear and mammogram. This has been wonderful progress. However, new research has helped develop scans and blood tests that would allow doctors to get more in-depth results. This would allow them to catch cancer early and begin to battle it before the situation escalates. This exceeds what a Pap smear and mammogram can detect. Goetz (2008) stated, “New technologies for the early detection of cancer are now at hand. Researchers are refining sophisticated protein tests that can pick up molecular whispers in the bloodstream and are testing next-generation imaging techniques that can identify and isolate a tumor within the body. This new approach treats diagnosis as an algorithm, a sequence of calculations that can detect or predict cancer years before it betrays symptoms.” As the diagnosis of this disease increases in people, we need to be proactive to help them survive. This costs money and the money raised for cancer should go into this proactive approach. This exhausting, painful, and heart-wrenching disease has spread across the world. It has caused heartache and sadness in all ethnicity groups. No one goes untouched. Why are we waiting for symptoms to develop before we begin to tackle it? People have to endure a long and painful treatment when they find out they have cancer in Stage 4. If that person had been given an annual scan or blood test to detect it in Stage 1, then perhaps their treatment could have been at the minimal level while increasing their odds of survival. Stage 1 is still trying for the patient, but at least it scales down the process that they will have to embrace. In addition to a more bearable treatment, the survival rate is proven to increase. Therefore, the government should move toward supporting an annual screening for each individual. Government funding and proceeds from fundraisers should be put into supporting this cause since it is essential to beating this aggressive disease. Of course, funding would not be taken away from Stage 4 cases, but certainly having that patient’s cancer caught in Stage 1 would have been the more proactive choice. Overall, it is less turmoil on the patient and more successful. Let’s work together to limit those billboards, bus advertisements, and magazine articles. Let’s beat cancer.
Attempt at an Editorial- What Will it Take to Make Inclusion Work?
Teaching special education for the last two years, I have been at the forefront of the Inclusion vs. Pull-Out program debate and have wavered back and forth between which model is more beneficial for the struggling readers with high incidence learning disabilities. Do we teach special education students strategy reading instruction within the general education classroom or do we pull them out of the classroom in a smaller resource setting? This question is and has been at the heart of the debate since the amended version of the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) in 2002. It stated that it does not require inclusion. Instead, the law requires that children with disabilities be educated in the "least restrictive environment appropriate” to meet their “unique needs.” The IDEA contemplates that the "least restrictive environment" analysis will begin with placement in the regular education classroom. There are advocates on both sides of the issue. Some believe that inclusion has been turned into this “policy” driven by the unrealistic expectation that money will be saved. Trying to force all students into the inclusion mold is just as discriminatory as trying to force all students into the mold of a special education class. On the other hand, others believe that all students belong in the regular education classroom and that “good” teachers are those that can meet the needs of all the students. As a teacher that has experienced both models, I truly believe in the philosophy of inclusion to increase the students’ academic and social needs in the area of reading instruction. However, inclusion cannot and will not work if resources in professional development for teachers, time allocated for planning (collaborative instruction), and enough special education staff is made available to those schools with the inclusion models. Studies show that students with learning disabilities struggle in the areas of “acquiring the developmental skills related to reading, including orthographic and phonological awareness” (Schmidt, pg. 131) as well as development of their metacognitive skills. Once however, students are taught certain strategies that coincide with metacognitive strategies and facets of what it means to be a good reader, their performance improves extensively. The question remains in which setting can this be the most useful. This is where professional development offered to teachers becomes a critical component in including this strategy/skill instruction in the regular education classroom. Too many times I’ve watched teachers struggle in teaching the struggling readers because they are confident themselves in meeting those students’ needs. They say, “I don’t know how to teach them” or “They are not my problem,” or “The special education teacher will solve their problem.” Imagine if professional development offered ways in which general education teachers could learn the strategies that the special education teachers and reading specialists know. Imagine if we could build the confidence of our teachers so they feel that they are in control and empowered over the students they teach. What if professional development taught ways that the special education teacher and the general education teacher could work together to collaboratively teach the struggling readers in the classroom? Teachers lack training in the areas of personal communication, team teaching, teacher problem solving, and curricula frameworks, which needs to be provided for all involved in the student’s education. Studies from Lipshy & Gartner (1998) show that special education teachers feel they lack knowledge about the general education curriculum, whereas general education teachers feel they lack knowledge in individualizing instruction. Schools need to provide arenas in which teachers can work with their colleagues with how to meet the needs of the student. They need to have opportunities to debate what might be the best way to set up reading instruction for their students. In essence, teachers want their students to succeed. Professional development and appropriate training becomes a major component to making inclusion work. Just as important if not more important in providing time needed for special education teachers, reading specialists, and regular educations to learn to collaboratively work together with the common goal being the students with disabilities or that of the struggling reader. However, this is a challenge for most teachers. For many years, teachers have been taught that they teach in isolated environments, in settings that are managed strictly by them. Many of these teachers never learned how to effectively communicate with one another. With this, communication problems arise and then become a major impediment to collaboration. Working together dramatically increases communication among professionals. To make inclusion successful, school personnel must take every opportunity to promote and model positive professional collaboration. Without the collaboration between a general education teacher and a special education teacher or reading specialist, not only will inclusion fail, but the achievements of the other students will decline as well. This collaboration and new way of working together takes time. Time is needed to co-jointly plan lessons, to teach strategy/skill instruction, and to effectively coordinate both teachers’ efforts in doing what’s best for the students. I’ve work in setting where time to work together was limited to before or after school. Administrators need to realize the importance of providing the time for this partnership to flourish. Teachers that are given time, that is used effectively, to meet with colleagues can then “design lessons that accommodate a wide range of students an improve student participation and performance” (Schmidt, pg. 137). Teachers not only need support from each other but also they need support from the administration to be given sufficient time to meet and design these lessons. Without time, coordination of both party’s efforts fails, the students don’t learn, and inclusion fails. Lastly, enough allocated resources to provide the necessary aides and services to these inclusion classrooms, is crucial for this setting to succeed. There needs to be enough bodies and resources available for teachers so that the students benefit. Funding is needed. Unlike some beliefs that are out there, I don’t believe that inclusion should be looked at as a school’s way of saving money. If nothing more, we should be allocating more resources into the inclusion environments where teachers are given the necessary aids and services needed to help their students succeed. Without the resources, the special education teachers and reading specialists are stretched to their limits trying to cover the required “minutes” or goals of their students. They get burned out quickly with the lack of support. They feel like failures because they can’t reach all the students in each of the inclusion classrooms to make a difference. Likewise, the classroom teachers get the short hand of the stick. Maybe they have bought into the idea of inclusion, maybe they are motivated to make this environment work, however, without the supplementary services required of the these students and the teachers to help them through the process, inclusion becomes a hopeless cause. Including the major components above, I fully believe inclusion can work to meet the needs of the students with high incidence learning disabilities. Let me make this clear, I am not stating that full inclusion is best for all students. What I am saying is that if all the components were met, more students would meet their academic and social needs in the least restrictive environment that is the same as those of their peers. Instead of being removed from the classroom, missing class instruction and being the social outcast with the “learning problem”, services can be met within the regular classroom. I’ve seen it work. I’ve watched students with learning disabilities succeed in a setting where small groups take place within the classroom, where the special education and general education teachers work together to help meet the needs of all the students in the classroom. Inclusion can work and must be a priority in our schools if we want all students to feel confident in who they are, how they learn, and how they can succeed.
Is the D.R.E.A.M. Act of 2009 going to be another dream or will it fulfill dreams?
There are millions of students that graduate from high school every year. Most of the students plan for their future either by joining the workforce, picking a suitable college, or deciding to go into the military. These students have the opportunity to develop a future that they have chosen for themselves. Yet there is still an unforgotten population of students who have worked hard throughout their education and cannot join their peers in the opportunity to create a welcoming future. These students are the undocumented immigrants that have been brought to this country by their parents, lived here for years, and upon graduating will have to work for measly sums of money under the table or soon be deported. The only difference between these children and naturalized citizens are how they entered into the United States.
All children deserve a future despite their parents’ decisions. The current legislation introduced the Development, Relief and Education of Alien Minors Act on March 26, 2009 by Senator Richard Durbin and Representative Howard Berman with the support of President Barack Obama. This act has been tried in Congress before and was unsuccessful. This act would give an opportunity for undocumented immigrant students, who have been living in the U.S. since they were young, a chance to contribute back to the country that has given so much to them and a chance to utilize their hard earned education and talents (http://dreamact.info/students). With a new president in office, more support from young voters, and able voting immigrants could this act pass today? Should it?
This act will provide a means for so many who come to America with a legal manner to become a citizen and continue to better themselves through education and devotion to their new country. Allowing students who have come to the United States illegally as youngster to become legal working citizens gives them the opportunity to testify to the values America was built upon. Think of the quote written on the Statue of Liberty, a symbolic figure of arrival to the United States, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" Are we not the country that once welcomed people from other lands, do we not consider ourselves a melting pot, or salad bowl of people who have come together and built the strongest country in the world. What would we be if it were not the immigrants who built our railroads, canals, and our country.
When these families arrive in the United States they are poor and broken looking for a way to survive, wanting only what every parent wants, a way to accomplish the American Dream we so proudly promote. This act is not stating that the parents who came into the country knowing it was illegal would be given amnesty but rather that their children who have created a life in this country, the only the home they have known, can continue to build their lives here so long as they are model citizens. The DREAM act is not amnesty for all but only those who truly will work towards making the United States a better place for all people to live, it is meant for those who are here to achieve their dreams. Currently the DREAM Act has two ways illegal immigrants can become U.S. citizens, going to college or joining the military. By requiring those immigrants who want citizenship to go to college were are better educating the population of people who we interact with on a daily basis and we are cultivating the talents of our diverse country. It would be extremely idiotic for the people of the United States to send the next Joseph Pulitzer, Albert Einstein, or Madeleine Albright away because their parents entered the country in an undesirable manner. Do you really want to give hard working educationally talented people to other countries so they can be the first to invent a solution to our environmental problem or lead us out of our economic term oil? Additionally, giving youth the opportunity to join the army will provide for those blue color families who may not be prepared for college education. Although some see this as a way for the U.S. to build up their army (which it is) it is also a manner in which distressed youth can learn to become productive members of society and find a path out of the life they have unfortunately had to endure while hiding in the impoverished and hidden areas of our country.
Giving illegal immigrants the opportunity to turn their lives into a future is the least we can do for these youth, would you not want the same benefits given to yourself or your children if your life was on the line? It is time to stand up for the voices that cannot be heard the way our founding fathers fought for our liberties.
Olympic Day at my grade school was one of my fondest memories as an aspiring kickball Olympian. I loved to win, to be number one, to be declared the best in front of all of my peers. I’d scrape my shins on the uneven concrete to double-underhand catch a ball in center field, hit the cut-off boy actually wearing cut-off jeans as he would peg my mullet-haired best friend trying to score at home. The win was something every fourth grader would remember. It was clear-cut—7-6. We got the medals. Losers got trash talked. We would play again and again, but we knew we were the kickball champions of the fourth grade. Boy, do I wish this theory applied to ranking Illinois high schools. I was originally preparing to write this editorial about why magnet schools are ethically immoral. Having sat inside one for an entire day and almost throwing up from the shear inequity of stealing the top public school kids from one of the worst districts in Illinois and putting them all together in a lovely atmosphere named after a Bear Zues, I was aimed and ready to talk about how magnet schools are overrated. But then, looked at the school rankings the Sun-Times put out in their October 31st issue. I was not surprised to see three Chicago Public Schools sitting pretty in the top five—Northside College Prep, Payton College Prep, and Young Magnet (1, 2, and 4 respectively). After all, they use tests to select all of their students. Yes, all of them for a public high school. I guess we did choose teams back on Olympic Day, but after your top five kids eventually everyone got a club footed kid, the permed pretty girl, and the boy who still didn’t meet the height requirement on the Tilta-Whirl. What surprised me is that although all of those students tested into public high schools, about 30 percent of the students in those schools are low income and receive free or reduced-lunch. Put against their closest schools competition—New Trier High School in Winnetka and Hinsdale Central (finishing 2nd and 4th respectively)—it’s a no-brainer. New Trier, besides being in Win-netka, only has 2.1 percent low income students and Hinsdale Central an insy winsy 2.9 percent. Point CPS! 1-0. And another thing, Chicago Public Schools only spends $11,033 per pupil often deemed the lowest of the low for Illinois schooling funding. New Trier spends $17,541 per student and Hinsdale Central $14,082. So Chicago spends less and educates kids from all social classes and are much more diverse racially than their suburban foes. Did you just hear the rubber echo against the chain link fence? Me too. Two runs have scored. 3 zip. I started to feel really good after reading this statistic, because after being a CPS teacher for the past five years and seeing negative press, it’s nice to see that some schools in the district are making it. But then the burbs bit back. Both New Trier and Hinsdale Central educate a lot more kids than the three schools in Chicago. In fact, New Trier enrolls about as many students as the three Chicago schools combined. They enroll more and they don’t test to come in which means they actually have a small LEP population (Limited English Proficient population). Dude with the backwards cap just caught a fly ball. But here is some more startling news. As reported in the Sun-Times, 42 out of the bottom 50 schools in Illinois were Chicago Public High Schools (yes, the same district that had 3 schools in the top 5). That means 84% of the bottom ranking schools were from sweet home Chicago. Pretty girl just caught a ball and pegged Chicago in the face. Hard. It left a mark. Remember that stat mentioned earlier about the per pupil spending? Chicago is often well-known for being the lowest of the low. We teachers often use it as an excuse—well, we don’t spend as much as you New Trier, so of course, you do better. But in actuality, 36 school districts out of the 86 school districts reported spend less than Chicago. Chicago might be more in the middle of the road when it comes to spending. Other districts just scored while I was trying to do averages—I’m an English teacher after all. 3-1. Did I mention that several of those schools with less funding have students that score higher on the ACT than most students in Chicago Public School? 3-2. Club foot kid just scored. For real. But of course, no one knows poverty like Chicago, and since Chicago is the third largest district in America and educates or attempts to educate an 84% impoverished population, don’t we get some brownie points? Ground rule double. The final at-kick ties the match up as 27% of schools outside of Chicago in other districts reported by the Sun-Times met Annual Yearly Progress (AYP)—37/139 schools reported. Only 9% of schools in Chicago met AYP—8/91 schools reported. A tie, but how can that be? There’s a ranking reported every year, clear-cut. 1 through 50 send your child to the best, right? If we put all of the last data together, that means that 45/230 schools reported, roughly 20%, of Illinois High Schools are making AYP. 80% are not. Now there is of course all of this backlash against AYP and No Child Left Behind to say that scores don’t matter. It’s just a game right? Perhaps all of the effort in providing ‘valid,’ ‘reliable’ rankings based on ACT and PSAE scores needs to be used to actually provide information that could actually help all students of Illinois receive a quality education instead of winning or losing the confusing game of being in the right high school at the right time.
ENGLISH SPEAKING STUDENTS AND THEIR STRUGGLES WITH ENGLISH BY: TAMEKA LEWIS-MORRIS
Studies have shown that immigrants from English speaking countries tend to fair better in the United States than those from none English speaking countries (Goolsbee, 2006). While these studies may be true, they fail to highlight the difficulties that many of these individuals encounter as they struggle to fully incorporate “standard” English into their daily lives. People from Caribbean Islands such as Jamaica, often speak a form of Creole; and despite the fact that English is the primary language taught in schools, it is usually never reinforced outside of the classroom, as students revert to speaking their mother tongue. Therefore, many of these students grow up to be English speakers who struggle with English. I have witnessed a similar pattern with many African American students in the United States; who grew up speaking Ebonics, used by some to represent the African American Vernacular. Many of these students are also from low socioeconomic backgrounds.
From my eight years of teaching in Chicago Public Schools (CPS), I have witnessed the struggles that many African American students encounter, when they try to articulate their points of view, both verbally and written. Many of them struggle to find words to express themselves; while others avoid answering questions altogether. While Standard English is encouraged and practiced among teachers and students in Caribbean schools, Ebonics is widely accepted both inside and outside of American schools. As a result, many of these students never get the opportunity to practice Standard English. These students therefore, lack knowledge of the English language necessary to engage in meaningful debates that does not end in yelling and screaming, as often noted. While I am not advocating for African American or Caribbean students to dispel or abandon their natural ways of speaking, I wish to highlight a rather serious problem that many of our students are having; and that problem is, not having a strong foundation in the English language.
What strikes me as interesting about this subject is the contradictory way in which American schools and society approach it. Most teachers seem to accept this way of speaking inside their classrooms; but later condemn and ridicule students behind their backs, for speaking this way. Clearly there are problems here. One of which is the possible backlash that schools and teachers fear if they interfere with the way that students speak. While this dilemma is understood, and we all know how far the tentacles of a once racially divided society can stretch; and continues to stretch, we must find a middle ground. Another aspect of this problem is that schools and society have not done enough to help students overcome feelings of racism. As a result, many African Americans find it very offensive for any of their teachers to correct their way of speaking, especially if that teacher is white. Some have also associated speaking standard American English as an attempt to act white and therefore, refuses to embrace the language. For these reasons, it is crucial for teachers and society to step in and begin to help heal open wounds that are being passed down through generations. Students need to feel welcomed, respected and loved when they enter classrooms; they need to feel a sense of belonging. Whether consciously or unconsciously, classrooms are not often very welcoming to minority students, especially, African Americans; and this may be seen on the part of both teachers and students. As a teacher, I have encountered far too often students of other ethnicities refusing to work with students who are Black or African American. Hence, the generational ideology of race and culture that is being passed down. This disease sense of fear, bias and anxiety towards students of African ancestry, plague our school systems on a daily basis. Students seldom venture outside of their own race for this very reason. We therefore, cannot sit idly by and blame students for not embracing knowledge without understanding their everyday encounters in schools and in society as a whole. Students are well aware of the labels that society has placed on each of them; blacks and whites, and more often than not unravel this consciousness inside the classroom.
Being an outsider looking in, I too was appalled and continue to be appalled at the ways in which blacks are treated in this country. I have also experienced the disdain frequently exhibited by those who somehow feel that they are above me. While present day America has displayed growth and more openness towards blacks and other minorities; hence the election of America’s first black president, we still have a very long way to go. I certainly understand what my students are going through; and while this is only one aspect of the problem, it is nonetheless a major one.
So how do we begin to help our students understand the importance of learning standard American English, without dismissing their home language? Bell Hooks (1994) offers this advice “To teach in a manner that respects and cares for the souls of our students is essential if we are to provide the necessary conditions where learning can most deeply and intimately begin.” I most certainly believe that teachers can make this happen; and that they can indeed foster a sense of trust and respect in their students’ lives, thus allowing them to embrace knowledge necessary for social mobility. A starting point is for them to begin to dialog with their African American students; share their worlds with them and wait for them to share theirs. Help students understand the structure of the society in which they live, and the requirements necessary to partake; fluency in the English language being one of them.
As a society we must acknowledge that students from backgrounds where Standard American English is not the norm need extra help in grammar conventions, and speaking. Regular English classes do not provide these basics, simply because they expect students to already know them. In high school my abilities to write and speak fluent English were never called into question, mainly because my areas of weaknesses were never the focus of daily lessons. English classes instead focused on American and British literature with very little incorporation of writing and grammar, based on my experience. Therefore, it was not until I sat for my college entrance exam and failed the reading and writing portion, and was later placed in remedial classes; that I realized I did not have the necessary skills needed to master the English language. There are thousands of Caribbean students out there that are faced with this problem; and thousands more African American students who are entering colleges unprepared. This is why there is a need for English classes that cater to the needs of African American students as a whole. Classes similar to the Standard English classes created in Canada and New York to address the needs of Caribbean Creole Speaking students. While Ebonics is more comprehensible than Jamaican Creole, and has not lent itself to extensive debates about the need for standard American English, students nonetheless need a solid foundation in the English language. In arming minority students with the language of dominance they too will be able to articulate and advocate for themselves. Schools must cease this hypocrisy and provide programs that will help African Americans and other students master the English language and be able to switch from home language to public language.
I understand that language and culture are very sensitive topics, and teachers need not forget this, but it is still our duty to ensure that our students are prepared for the real world. Students must be made to understand the importance of knowing the English language and its usefulness in a world where it dominates. According to Stanton-Salazar (1997), social mobility for minority students is contingent upon their abilities to articulate their needs; and not having the language to do this poses a critical barrier for them. I find this to be true, especially when students or even adults resort to anger instead of talking through a situation. Teachers must also realize the crucial impact that it will have on the lives of minority students and work towards building relationships that exhibit respect for students’ home or personal languages; while allowing them to embrace and understand the need to learn Standard English.
I also understand that this may not be an easy task for teachers or society as a whole; because of the tremendous strong hold that racism and discrimination have on this society; leaving many to hold on to what is dear and afraid to embrace anything new or different. I also know that teachers may not feel comfortable in persuading students to practice Standard English, and may even feel that it is the parents’ responsibility to ensure that their children are using proper English at home. But unfortunately, this is not happening at home and is often evident in our students’ writings. Furthermore, some parents speak the same way as their children do at home, and are unable to offer any support. The challenge therefore becomes ours, the teachers, and we must indeed rise to the occasion.
The article “How to Make Great Teachers” begins by attempting to pinpoint what, as the title suggests, makes a teacher successful. According to Wallis, this, “is the single most important factor in boosting achievement, more important than class size, the dollars spent per student or the quality of textbooks and materials” (28). However, the article soon admits that there is no real way to determine the origins of teacher success, so it switches its focus to exploring the current trends, possibilities, and problems in retaining, training, and rewarding teachers by use of merit pay. Among the many problems that arise, including favoritism, unreliable funding, union opposition, school socio-economic bias, the biggest problem is that there is no universal assessment to accurately measure a teacher’s success or lack thereof. Following this, the article investigates different ways in which merit pay might and might not work, including tracking student scores, offering bonuses, and calculating individual teacher’s contributions, or value added to student progress. Branching off the theory of merit pay, the article then provides two seemingly successful programs, the Professional Compensation (ProComp) program in Denver that is based on not one, but nine criteria for a pay increase: working in a high-needs school, students exceeding expectations on standardized tests, professional development, good evaluations, and parent satisfaction, and the Teacher Advancement Program (TAP) in 14 states, which, in addition to those listed for ProComp also rewards teachers for becoming mentors or master teachers. Wallice does a thorough job covering all of the aspects of the multi-faceted topic of merit pay. She, as we have often spoken of in class, emphasizes the importance of finding new ways to keep good teachers as part of America’s ability to compete globally. She cites differences between Bush, Obama, and Clinton’s perspectives on the issue to give the reader an indication of where we’re headed and where we’ve been. She presents multiple perspectives of both the benefits and downsides of introducing merit pay into a school district and she lets the research speak for itself: There is no way we can base a teacher’s success solely on her students’ test scores because the measures are neither credible nor valid. Too often, problems are presented without solutions; however, Wallice provided alternatives that balance multiple forms of success with pay, such as the ProComp and TAP. Not only does she recommend them as impressive models, but also provides evidence that these programs are both paying successful teachers and are also making teachers more successful. Overall, this was a very complete analysis of something which we all may be facing in the very near future. Hopefully readers of Time read this entire article before coming to any conclusions. If they don’t, the implications that might result are that merit pay based upon standardized tests is the easy answer to motivate teachers to make kids more successful. This, to some parents and administrators, would be music to their ears. The truth of the matter, and the article, is quite the opposite, however. Those readers who read all the way through will gain a better perspective and awareness on how complicated and advantageous this process, when carefully planned, can be, but will also be aware of the many risks involved. Instead of standardizing our expectations of teachers, districts need to reward them for their successes across the board, and, in doing so, also improve their teachers, classrooms, and community.
THE STATE OF AMERICA’S BLACK YOUTHS BY: TAMEKA LEWIS-MORRIS
Since Friday, April 17, two more African American teenagers were shot, bringing the total number of teens shot or killed since the beginning of the year to thirty. As I try to understand the reasons behind these shootings, I begin to think about the number of young black men that I see on a daily basis hanging around street corners, and convenient stores with nothing to do. Another large majority can also be seen on basketball courts in mid-day playing basketball. The number increases depending on which part of the city you are in; the west side and south side of Chicago for example, are saturated with unemployed, young black men. Some of these young men appear to be in their twenties, and thirties. My reflection on this situation has led me to question the reasons why so many of our young black men are without jobs and nothing to do. I see several factors contributing to this dilemma. The first of which is the escalating rates at which black boys are dropping out of high schools; which is a direct contributor to the rates at which they are being imprisoned. As a result of their imprisonment, they are unable to find jobs once they are released back into society. This ongoing cycle is detrimental to the black community and society at large and needs to stop.
Studies done by the U.S. Justice Policy Institute in 2002, revealed that the number of black men in prison have grown to five times the rate it was twenty years ago. In 2008 there were 4,777 per every 100,000 black males being held in state, federal prisons and local jails; compared to 1,760 Hispanic and 727 white males. Today the number of African American males that are incarcerated far exceeds the numbers that are enrolled in colleges. The impact that this is having on the black community is enormous. Children are growing up without fathers, while mothers and grandmothers are left to shoulder the burden. This problem is cyclical and will continue to plague our society until changes are made; changes that will break the cycle, and help keep African American males out of prison.
The U.S. Justice Policy Institute also revealed that at least 95% of all state prisoners at some point are released back into their communities. What this means is that these black males whose outlook on life were dim before they were imprisoned are now even dimmer after their release. They will have no jobs, sometimes no where to live and possibly no one to turn to for support; eventually returning back to the live of crime that landed them in jail the first time; hence the cycle continues. To break this cycle society and the government must work together. I understand that the problem does not begin on the street corners, or in jails, but stem far beyond schools and into the homes and lives of these black boys who grow up to be men. Black communities need their men to help build those communities and to raise their children. However, fathers cannot support their families if they do not have the means to do so. Because the prospects of ever finding a job after serving jail time are extremely minimal, there needs to be work programs put in place that are geared specifically for people with criminal records. While some might argue that this would be making it too easy for criminals, I ask them, what other alternatives are there when no one wants to hire convicted felons. We must begin somewhere in addressing this problem, and I truly believe that this is a good starting point, simply because fathers and mothers would be there to help guide their children, thus, preventing them from making the same mistakes that they themselves have made. These work programs could help rebuild communities, and foster a sense of hope into the lives of these individuals who are often hopeless. I feel that once people have committed crimes, and have served time for doing these crimes, they should be provided an opportunity to rebuild their lives, if they so desire. I understand that there will be people who simply cannot be reached, and that is where the prison system comes in; but for those who truly desire to put the past behind them and work toward a brighter future, those individuals should be helped. Furthermore, these programs could help to erode the attitude that society has toward convicted felons; once they see that they indeed can be rehabilitated.
To conclude, until society and the government starts working together to break the cycle of crime and imprisonment of its black youths, by creating work programs that will keep them off the streets, them they will continue to create crimes leaving the black communities in a state of disarray; as the cycle continues.
It was dark outside, but morning was on its way. With a smile on his face, he tip-toed his way to the end of the hallway and slowly opened the bedroom door. His two boys were sound asleep. He paused for a moment, looked at their soft, peaceful faces and listened to their slow breathing. He giggled at the thought of how different they were when they were awake, and how noisy and busy the house would soon become.
He shook his son softly and whispered, “Michael, wake up. Put some clothes on.” Michael’s eyes slowly opened, “Daddy, what’s going on?” “You’ll see. Hurry, get dressed.” He made his way to his younger son, Jarvis, carefully pulled off his pajamas, and dressed him. “Daddy,” Jarvis muttered still half asleep, “What’s going on?” “You’ll see,” he responded and hurried his sons out of their bedroom.
The boys sleepily and clumsily walked down the stairs to see their jackets and shoes already waiting for them. They looked up at their father who had a big smile on his face, “Daddy, what’s going on?” “You’ll see! Put those on!” was his only response. Still half asleep, a smile spread across Michael’s face as he watched his father in his excitement struggling to put on Jarvis’s shoes. Michael shook his head, laughed, slipped on his own shoes, and pulled his arms through his jacket.
They were just about out the door when their dad remembered something. He ran into the kitchen and grabbed a giant thermos off of the counter. He handed it to Michael. Michael looked at his dad, his eyes questioning. His dad chuckled, “Hot cocoa. You’ll see!”
They stepped outside where dark and quiet greeted them. The cool crisp air shook the sleep out of the boys as they followed their dad to the car and climbed in. They headed east. The city was still asleep. The streets were quiet. The buildings were quiet. Not even the birds were awake yet. By now the boys had stopped asking, and instead wondered quietly in their heads. They pulled into a parking lot. Michael stepped out of the car and asked, “Dad, what are we doing at the Lake?” He scooped up Jarvis and said, “You’ll see, come on!”
They sat on the cement blocks facing the lake and waited. They watched and listened to the waves crashing against the rocks. “Daddy, what are we waiting for?” Jarvis asked. “You’ll see. It won’t be long now. Michael, pour us some cocoa.” They huddled closely and drank their cocoa. Jarvis rested his head against his father’s arm. “Look,” their dad said to them. Michael and Jarvis looked ahead of them as the lake and the sky began to separate. The horizon became a dark blue. Hints of bright orange began to color and stretch across the sky, and the lake’s waves began to calm. They sat quietly watching. White light slowly began to brighten the sky above the dark blue and orange horizon. Then an intense yellow sun began pushing its way into the sky. The sun painted the morning sky a brilliant purple, pink, and blue. They listened to the waves and watched birds peacefully fly past in front of the changing sky. Jarvis, with his eyes fixed on the scene in front of him, announced, “This is what’s going on.” Their dad put an arm around each of them and smiled.
My professor made a comment in one our class sessions about being a reading specialist. Not quoting him exactly, the comment said something like, “If you are not honest enough to be able to handle the pressures that come along with being a reading specialist, maybe this is not the field for you.” As I grapple with this comment, a question comes to mind, “How can reading specialists communicate well with the educational staff (teachers, administrators) in order to perform their duties successful? As an elementary schoolteacher who has worked with reading specialists, and a graduate student who is almost finished with my master’s program in the reading specialist domain, I wonder if current reading specialists, and upcoming reading specialists, ever grapple with this and more questions about their own abilities of being reading specialists. I am not sure at this present date and time what term we are using for these “experts.” Reading specialists have been referred to as literacy coaches and lead literacy teachers (LLTs). Personally, I like the use of term of literacy coach, because the term specialist has the under-lying tone of one who should know it all. Before I became involved in the graduate program, I went to the reading specialist in my school as the person who knew the answer, not necessarily the one who could get me the answer. Being in the program, I myself had to realize that no individual can be an expert on all aspects of teaching at all grade levels and with all groups of students. This notion of being an expert can sometimes set up reading specialists for failure. If teachers and other educational staff turn to literacy coaches (the term I am going to use) as experts, they sometimes fail to acknowledge their own expertise. Don’t get me wrong, I definitely feel a literacy coach should be knowledgeable. The preparation that most literacy coaches receive is in the knowledge domain. Again, I think this kind of knowledge is excellent for literacy coaches to have, however, a literacy coach who knows a great deal about literacy instruction, but cannot develop trust and build relationships with staff members is again setting herself up for failure. I pose this question, “Are coaches taught to develop these interpersonal relationships, or does it come naturally. Can a person actually be taught how to work with others?” According to Bean’s (2004) “Reading Specialist,” some characteristics of effective coaches are: 1) knowing your stuff-literacy should have up-to-date knowledge of literacy instruction, assessment, and the research that goes along with it. 2) experience-literacy coaches are more effective if they have had successful experiences as teachers, and should have the experience that makes them creditable with classroom teachers and enable them to feel empathy for the teachers’ many responsibilities. 3) Ability to work with adults-To function successfully as a coach who has responsibility for observing and giving feedback to teachers, the reading specialist must have excellent interpersonal and communication skills. Three years ago, there was a literacy coach who worked at the school I am currently employed at. She is currently not at the school, and it is not because of budget cuts, or her leaving on her own. The staff “ran her out.” She was knowledgeable and had the experience that went along with it. What she did not have was the trusting relationship with the staff, the interpersonal and communication skills needed to perform her job. So where did the breakdown occur? Was our staff highly resistant because of their own strong personalities, or was the literacy coach lacking something that made the staff feel alienated, and therefore not respond to her in a positive manner. Unfortunately, I don’t have the answer to these questions. I will say that it was a very unproductive school year. Let me go back to this notion that literacy coaches are viewed as experts. I in no way feel that coaches should be non-experts. In fact, this non-expert approach will lead teachers to assume that literacy coaches know nothing and can’t help teachers. There has to be this balance between teachers’ and coaches’ expertise, and the understanding that we are all experts to an extent. To conclude, I wonder if the concerns I have about literacy coaches’ expertise or lack there of when it comes to communication lies within the teacher preparation’s programs or is it really innate when it comes to interpersonal relationships. I guess it goes back to the age old question, “are teachers taught, or are they born.”
NPR just aired a show about the hypothetical outcomes of legalizing marijuana. This has gotten many people thinking about what our country would be like if pot was as legal as cigarettes and alcohol. According to this story, the US now is the largest consumer of illegal narcotics in the world. As with any controversial topic, there are two sides to this story. Although, I have never used marijuana, I condone the use of it to the point that I bought my college roommate a ‘pipe’ for Christmas so that the poor girl would stop smoking out of a Diet Coke can. I think that this gives me a unique perspective on this topic – I don’t really care either way. Although, I do think that the pro-legalization side makes a stronger argument. As I listen to people debating this issue on NPR and news outlets like CNBC, I am stunned with the lack of reasonable justification on the anti-legalization side. Many of those who oppose weed, liken it to alcohol which anyone who has been given a choice between being in a room with a drunk or a pothead would probably choose a pothead. Many people who smoke marijuana are only recreational users who are able to hold down jobs and have not gotten into other, more dangerous drugs. The medical risks associated with weed seem to be about as detrimental to your health as cigarettes. A person who drinks is more likely to become addicted and have major health problems related to their alcoholism. Drunk people are also much more likely to get violent, which can also lead to criminal and health problems. Many of the arguments that people make against pot can be made even more strongly against booze, but we all know how well prohibition worked the first time around! John Burnett of NPR says, “With the spiraling drug mayhem in Mexico, some Latin American leaders looked at legalizing marijuana as a way to deny the murderous cartels a portion of their profits.” Many top politicians in Mexico are seriously considering the marijuana legalization debate. While many admit that this would not solve the problems that many countries are having with the drug cartels. It would probably be similar to what happened to organized crime after alcohol prohibition was repealed. The drug cartels would likely move into more profitable, harder drugs like cocaine and math. We may look to other countries that have legalized marijuana as an indicator of what would happen if the US were to take this step. After marijuana was decriminalized in the Holland in 1976, pot smoking didn't jump, and it remained well below U.S. levels. Only after coffee houses opened that began openly selling weed did sales jump. Right now in the US thirteen states have decriminalized cannabis possession and thirteen states now have medical cannabis laws. Additionally, more states than ever before are debating cannabis law reform, including California and Massachusetts where legalization legislation has been introduced. People on both sides of this debate agree that if pot were legalized, up to a third more people in the US would smoke. This might not be all bad, but it is easy to assume some of those would be children. Although the same problem has been shown to be true with tobacco and alcohol. As much as we, as a society, try to enforce age restrictions on these substances, there are children who find ways around these laws. "They'll start using it sooner now because it looks like it's more OK, seems less harmful, because they see their parents doing it," says Rosalie Pacula, co-director of the Drug Policy Research Center at the RAND Corp. "Do we know how to keep kids from drinking alcohol? No, we don't. So why would we expect we'd be any better at it with marijuana?" And so, for now, this only remains an age old hotly contested debate with strong opinions on either side. After all, in 1972 President Nixon appointed a commission to look into reconsidering marijuana laws, but even though the committee recommended that personal use of weed should be decriminalized, nothing was done then either. But just think for a moment, how would your neighborhood or city change if anyone over 21 could just light up a joint?
Earning five dollars a day. Living with seven other people who I have never met before, sharing cars and food. Becoming a teacher in Chicago, one thousand miles from my family. This was my experience during the first two years of my post-college life.
Just as President Obama is calling for more college graduates to serve, I chose to follow this path. I still do not know what pulled me into the volunteer experience. I, like many people, was engaged in many volunteer experiences in college. I volunteered at a homeless shelter once a week, worked at a preschool for abused toddlers, and ran Hunger and Homelessness Awareness Week. Although these past experiences made me a perfect candidate to join Inner City Teaching Corps, there is no way one can truly be prepared for two years of volunteering.
I moved to Chicago one month after graduating from college. I lived on the last street in Chicago before you came to the southern suburbs. My home was on old convent tucked behind a sleepy Catholic Church and next to the old school, which no longer served children, but held a food pantry and shelter for woman and children. The convent was a novelty at first, twelve bedrooms with a sink next to your pillow, but quickly grew drab and somewhat creepy. A crew of seven people littered our long dining room table, who were from all over the country, and were soon to become my family, whether I wanted them to be or not.
The vision of post college life that most of my friends were leading was a low paying, entry level job. They had all moved to tiny apartments in great areas of a big city, to experience all that life had to offer them in their early twenties. But, with my choice to volunteer, came a very different experience. The point of the service organization that I belonged to was that you choose to live in the neighborhood you serve. And that teaching was not a job, but a service, and an experience to learn alongside my students. I did not join friends for Happy Hour after work, or go out to eat at the amazing city restaurants. I substituted lesson plans for martinis, and weekly dinners of beans and rice for fancy restaurants.
But then there were the experiences that made me realize how I was so blessed for volunteering. I was placed in a first grade classroom on Chicago’s south side, and found myself surrounded by thirty-two, eager-eyed, energetic six year olds. I found myself in a beautiful old school building filled with character and dark wood trim, but had very large holes in the bathroom floors. There were reading textbooks from twenty years previous, and a classroom library of twenty books. While I was not an education major in college, I knew that this was very different than the education I received. The teachers who worked with me at the school were all experienced and had been there for twenty to thirty years. They shared their experiences with me in the education system, and I listened. During my first year I was not able making the idealist changes in students lives that I once thought possible based on the volunteer program brochure, but I was able to listen and learn. I listened to stories of students whose lives were so unimaginable to me. I learned about the inequities of the education system in America, first hand. Like all learning experiences, I realized this was not something I truly would have understood from reading a book or watching a Dateline interview, I had to experience it. And then I learned to ask questions, “What can we do?” My favorite mentor would often tell me simply, “You’re there, and you care…that is the best you can do.”
The magic truly was what happened in my classroom. I did not truly understand best practices, or know all of the best strategies. But what I was truly talented at was making learning fun. I loved my students, their families and their stories. I loved to read and passed this love on to my students. I create hands on learning experiences, which may not have matched state standards, but brought smiles to my students’ faces. We laughed, we danced, we read, we wrote, and we explored. I was exhausted at the end of every day and counted down days until winter break, spring break and summer break, but I loved what I did. It was the biggest challenge I have ever encountered, and while I cannot admit to achieving this challenge gracefully, I made it. The victory of every first year teacher…I made it.
Looking back at my life during the first two years, I am so thankful that I chose the road I did. Sure, I could have left college and been a teacher in a needy elementary school, but it was the community that allowed me to learn and grow. I became part of two very important and special communities. The first was my diverse group of roommates. The eight of us were all bonded in our dedication to social justice. We spent hours every night at our dinner table, discussing our days work and most importantly our students. I knew the names of most of my roommates’ students, because they became such a part of our experience. Seven years later, my roommates are still my best friends. I call them my “Chicago family.” They keep me true to myself and my life, and remind me of the reasons we do the work we do.
I stayed with my school community for seven years, before it was time for me to leave. It was truly the hardest decision I have ever had to make. But the reason I left was that I was offered a position with the Professional Development department at Inner-City Teaching Corps to train, teach and coach new volunteers. This opportunity came to me and I knew I could not turn down the chance to influence the new volunteers. It was a full circle. I could help them see through the clouds and into the sunshine, as we know happens many times in teaching. Each day, I see myself in the volunteers’ hearts and it reinvigorates the work we do with our students. Even in my new job, I miss being in the classroom with my students and know it will be time to return soon.
As President Obama writes, he is “calling on us to make an enduring commitment to our neighborhoods.” This call is being heard by thousands around the nation, and the only knowledge I can give them is that their years of volunteering will be the most challenging, but most amazing years of their life. It will shape them in ways they never thought possible, and all discomfort they will experience will help them achieve a greatness they never knew possible.
“Oh, it’s just one plastic bottle. I am just one person.” With Earth Day approaching, many activities are highlighting how to “go green.” However, it should not just encompass one day or even one week. Working on preserving our Earth should be an everyday approach. It should be a way of life. Not only has our planet endured drastic effects, but also it is just morally and ethically wrong to be wasteful and careless. Everyone working together would make an incredible difference. If each person made one change daily in the areas of reusing, conserving, caring, re-growing, and educating, then we would be on our way to better planet. The first change that can easily occur is the concept of reusing. Recycling has been more prevalent in communities, and the push for it is clear in most public places. You see the recycling symbol. You see garbage cans clearly labeled to have you sort. You see reusable bags sold in grocery stores. If your community is not offering an opportunity to do so, then you can begin to work together with community members to start that change. In addition to recycling materials, one can purchase reusable containers to use in place of paper bags, plastic bags, and other throw-away items. A reusable lunch bag and water bottle are two ways one can cut down on the amount of garbage one produces daily. Using Tupperware for sandwiches and snacks instead of plastic and paper bags would cut the garbage amount significantly. Instead of purchasing coffee in a paper cup on a daily basis, one can bring in their own reusable travel mug to fill. Reusable shopping bags for trips to the grocery store have become very popular, and people should take advantage of them. When you multiply the amount one person would save in the amount of garbage by the number of people in just one office building, the number is unbelievable. Then, multiply it by an entire population on a planet. Another area of change that is necessary is energy. This is easily done too! Simple things like turning off the lights would be a huge save when looked at across the nation. Even making the small change in a home would make a difference. Then, one could work together with their co-workers to cut the amount of energy used in an office building or school. In addition to turning lights off, other appliances and electronics should be unplugged. Even when an item is off but plugged in, energy is being used. Therefore, one should aim to unplug unnecessary items before leaving for work or going to bed. If every American did this, the amount of energy used daily would reduce significantly. Then, think of what could happen worldwide. Also, other sources of energy are being researched. If interested, one can look into alternative energy resources. However, just saving energy would make a world of difference. One area that is extremely important is pollution. This affects our whole planet and every living thing on it. It affects our future, and those generations that will be living here. Cars are one thing. Hybrids are becoming ever popular and with good reason. In the future, I think car makers will be more conscious of the planet when designing them, but let’s consider all of the already existing cars. Since we need to be realistic enough to know that these cars are not going to be traded in immediately, we then have to deal with the current problem. Carpooling and public transportation are two solutions that we can currently try. Carpooling with others cuts the number of cars polluting the world immediately. In addition, public transportation allows a larger space to fit more people with the same idea. One source is then making pollution instead of the individual vehicles that would normally be driven by each individual person. Then, there is littering. Simply, it is ridiculous if it is ever done. If it is, then one can create a service project involving the picking up of garbage. Fines are in place in most areas and should be reinforced. The big problem is larger scale places that pollute like factories. In addition, you have oil spills that can occur. These large scale problems can be helped by people speaking up and taking charge of other’s carelessness. Voices need to be heard for the sake of others. Re-growth is an area that can be a fun way to help the Earth! Planting gardens, flowers, trees, and other plants helps give back to the Earth. Plant life helps nourish Earth, and helps with the cycle of oxygen. It can be a fun school project with children, community project bringing people together, or something one may want to do individually. In addition to planting, one can look into creating a compost pile. This helps reduce garbage and assists with garden life. It is easy to do! One can place any vegetables and fruits that are left over (peels, cores, etc.), and worms can turn the food over in about a week. Overall, getting creative with helping the Earth makes it more exciting and rewarding! Educating others on the importance of this is necessary to ensure that the Earth will flourish! Although all should be educated, educating young people on this is most important because they will be in charge of the future. Global warming has had drastic effects on our planet. This has been caused by pollution and waste from humans. It has caused a blanket around our planet blocking the heat from escaping into space. This heat is trapped in warming our Earth. When this happens, awful changes are being made to everyday wildlife. Abnormalities are occurring that then have an effect on something else. The damages trickle through the environment like dominoes toppling over one another. By educating people about this, one can then make small changes which then have a positive effect for all. Like any major movement in history, it starts with education. Many people are unaware of the alarming situation. Once informed, they may be more likely to act upon it. In addition, those who are informed may not know what they can do as just one person. Therefore, educating people on the individual changes that they can make can be beneficial for all. As Earth Day approaches, humans need to pause and reflect on how this is more than just a day. This is a lifelong change that needs to occur. We are responsible for the shape that our planet is in, and it is time that we take responsibility for that. Whether we did it ourselves or not, we need to work together to move forward to begin to mend our Earth. Future generations are counting on us. However, these efforts should not just be done because our planet is in bad shape, but because it is wrong to do anything else. This is not just one day of making an effort. Earth Day should be a celebration of our efforts that we made all year long.
Creating a Diverse Life A Personal Essay by Meg Tanabe
Almost everyday of my current life, I have opportunities to speak the three languages I know and interact with native speakers of each of these languages. At times in my life when I was not able to do this, I have felt unchallenged and restless to move on to something more interesting. Once in Japan, by chance I met a Spanish speaker and struggled to find the words to communicate with them. I felt so disappointed in myself for not finding outlets for my Spanish in order to keep it fluent. Along the same lines, upon moving back to Chicago after teaching abroad for three years, after two years I was bored and longed to return to Japan. No longer did I enjoy the comfort of functioning each day in my native language, I wanted the challenge of searching for the words to survive each day. Looking back on the choices I have made, they have all led me to create a more diverse life for myself although becoming trilingual was more of an accident than an intentional goal.
Contrary to the life I currently lead, my childhood was almost entirely monolingual. My parents only spoke English and were both from English speaking countries. My father was from Great Britain and my mother is from Chicago. During an elementary school project to create a coat of arms to represent the heritage of my family, I recall feeling so proud that my father was born outside of the country as it was something unique among my classmates. Oak Park, where I grew up, is a diverse suburb of Chicago, but when I was a child there were few English Language Learners at my school. My parents realized the advantages of learning Spanish when they themselves took classes in order to better communicate with co-workers. My brother and I were then enrolled in the twice a week lunchtime Spanish class at our elementary school. Ever since that time, I never stopped taking Spanish classes until I wound up concentrating on it in college as well. Although I spent so much time taking classes, the language did not become more natural to me until I studied abroad in Costa Rica. This experience truly changed my destiny and has led to many wonderful connections.
During my junior year at my tiny, close knit Wisconsin university, I spent one trimester abroad in Costa Rica. I remember feeling utterly incompetent on the drive home from the airport with my host family because I had only understood about 20 percent of what was said. Thankfully that percentage improved over the next few months. My time in Costa Rica impressed me so greatly that I moved there two weeks after graduating college with only a few leads on English teaching jobs, but nothing concrete. My husband, then boyfriend, who I randomly met at my job at a Japanese restaurant in Wisconsin, came to Costa Rica as well. At this time, my husband had relatively little oral English skills and knew no Spanish. He had spent years studying like a madman, working like a typical Tokyo salary man and was looking for some adventure. My husband worked as a teppanyaki chef at a swanky hotel and I traveled all around San Jose teaching at various language schools and companies and giving private English lessons in my apartment and at cafes. It was one of the best years of my life because everyday was something new to experience. One of my favorite memories is taking Japanese language classes at the Japanese consulate in Spanish. Both languages are completely phonetic, but the similarities stop there. At the end of the year, I had fallen in love with my husband and decided to move to Japan to better understand his language and culture. I found a job teaching English and moved there after spending two weeks back in Chicago. My husband returned to his previous businessman self, although he still dreams of having his own restaurant and is always bugging me to write a children’s book with him.
Culture shock was something I had experienced while in Costa Rica, but nowhere near the degree I felt upon starting my life in Japan. At least a five times a day, I had urges to speak Spanish with people as that was the language I knew other than English. I remember wandering around the grocery store at a complete loss of what to purchase to make a meal. The silent stares on the train made me long for the direct “Tsss, tsss, machita!” (Hey, hey, little white girl!) cat calls I had received from cars while walking down the street in Costa Rica that I had incensed me previously. I missed the crazy streamer decorations and blaring salsa music on the buses in Costa Rica compared to the eerie silence encountered on the spotless trains in Japan. The more I learned about the culture and language, the more I appreciated the differences between the two countries and came to view the U.S. as kind of a middle ground culture between the two extremes.
My English conversation job was not only enjoyable work, but a great resource of knowledge to me about Japanese culture. My housewives class taught me the real way to make miso soup, not the lazy way my husband had said was adequate. My retired students taught me about the history of the country. From my young students, I learned about the passing boom culture that can take over young people’s lives. Imagine a student so excited to show you a pencil with a new animation character on it or a new type of bag just being marketed. Some of my students became close friends and even taught me Japanese each week. I also took classes at a community center geared at helping foreigners.
My husband and I had a traditional Shinto wedding a year after I arrived in Japan. As a young bride, I was very determined to learn everything about Japanese culture, language and cooking so that my husband would never long for a wife who knew these things better than me. (My husband is not the typical Japanese man. In fact, many of our Japanese friends would tease that I was more Japanese than him.) None of this really mattered to him, but it was important to me and these were things I wanted to learn to also fit in well with his family. I am most likely the first foreigner that my in-laws have come to know well, but they have been nothing but welcoming and sincere from the start and I am lucky to really feel that they are my parents in Japan. Embarrassingly, I actually call them Mama and Papa in Japanese because that is what they taught me to do. This only seemed out of place when once upon visiting a rural mountain temple together, I called over to my mother-in-law “Mama!” and a number of other people stared at me in disbelief. We had a good laugh about it on the hike down the mountain.
After two years in Japan, and three years total abroad, I began to really miss my family and wanted to obtain an advanced degree in order to really learn about teaching formally. My husband and I moved to Chicago where he worked at a Japanese company and I began my studies at UIC and worked for a family literacy and adult ESL program. I really learned Spanish all over again from my ESL students as I had not practiced it almost at all when in Japan. During our time in Chicago, I saw my husband struggle at times. His English was much better than when we met, but still not near native. Once when asking for directions at a gas station, he was told to go to the Korean dry cleaner next door to ask. I was so upset by this ignorance and the fact that he had experienced it. We joined a marathon group on the south side of Chicago and made the best friends. This experience really made my husband happy here, but I felt unsatisfied. When thinking about my post-graduation teaching job, all I desired was to teach at an international school in Japan. I also felt like there was so much more for me to learn there, linguistically and culturally. My husband and I both found jobs and returned to live in the heart of Tokyo. When I look back on it, I really felt that I was going to return to live the rest of my life in Japan. This decision caused me to break my mother’s heart, the wrath of my brother for doing so, the shock of my friends and the extreme happiness of my in-laws.
Living in Tokyo is honestly like experiencing the degree of crowds of the Taste of Chicago everyday. I had previously lived in a suburb of Tokyo and now was in the middle of it. My husband was back in his element and had an interesting job at Amazon.com. Although I loved my job teaching second grade at an international school and all of the families and teachers I met there, Tokyo living was just too much for me. After the first year there, I contacted various schools in Chicago and had interviews over my winter break. I will never forget the reception I received at one very prestigious lab school. The principal obviously knew that I was a native English speaker from my resume, but took one look at my white face, gave me only five minutes of her time and then a map to tour the school myself. This experience made me realize that although I had spent so much time and effort living abroad, learning about different cultures and becoming trilingual – on the surface I would always be a white teacher and not be someone to bring a face of diversity to the staff at any school. After another year in Tokyo, I returned to Chicago to teach at the CPS dual language magnet I had student-taught at previously.
It has been five years since I returned from living abroad the last time. Someday in the future, I believe that I will work and live abroad again, but after children all decisions become much more serious to make. With my work at UIC, I am able to speak Spanish for my job almost everyday with inspirational parents who are doing their best for their children and themselves. Through my involvement with the Japanese American Service Committee (JASC) and the friends I have made through their Japanese playgroup, and the concerted effort my husband and I place on speaking Japanese to my daughter, I am able to speak Japanese everyday as well. The best compliments to me have been when another mother at JASC thought I was half-Japanese and when one of my FLAME parents though I was from Costa Rica. Unfortunately, I really am not good enough in either language to have received such compliments at all, but they made me feel amazing. I may have the appearance of a non diverse individual, but I have created a diverse and interesting life for myself. Through this I also realize the importance of looking at each person as an individual and the need to learn about them and refrain from placing too much trust in first impressions.
(I apologize for the possibly boring personal degree of this essay, but after comps I could not attempt anything too academic.)
Creating a Diverse Life A Personal Essay by Meg Tanabe (The previous post had typos and I do not know how to delete it.)
Almost everyday of my current life, I have opportunities to speak the three languages I know and interact with native speakers of each of these languages. At times in my life when I was not able to do this, I have felt unchallenged and restless to move on to something more interesting. Once in Japan, by chance I met a Spanish speaker and struggled to find the words to communicate with them. I felt so disappointed in myself for not finding outlets for my Spanish in order to keep it fluent. Along the same lines, upon moving back to Chicago after teaching abroad for three years, after two years I was bored and longed to return to Japan. No longer did I enjoy the comfort of functioning each day in my native language, I wanted the challenge of searching for the words to survive each day. Looking back on the choices I have made, they have all led me to create a more diverse life for myself although becoming trilingual was more of an accident than an intentional goal.
Contrary to the life I currently lead, my childhood was almost entirely monolingual. My parents only spoke English and were both from English speaking countries. My father was from Great Britain and my mother is from Chicago. During an elementary school project to create a coat of arms to represent the heritage of my family, I recall feeling so proud that my father was born outside of the country as it was something unique among my classmates. Oak Park, where I grew up, is a diverse suburb of Chicago, but when I was a child there were few English Language Learners at my school. My parents realized the advantages of learning Spanish when they themselves took classes in order to better communicate with co-workers. My brother and I were then enrolled in the twice a week lunchtime Spanish class at our elementary school. Ever since that time, I never stopped taking Spanish classes until I wound up concentrating on it in college as well. Although I spent so much time taking classes, the language did not become more natural to me until I studied abroad in Costa Rica. This experience truly changed my destiny and has led to many wonderful connections.
During my junior year at my tiny, close knit Wisconsin university, I spent one trimester abroad in Costa Rica. I remember feeling utterly incompetent on the drive home from the airport with my host family because I had only understood about 20 percent of what was said. Thankfully that percentage improved over the next few months. My time in Costa Rica impressed me so greatly that I moved there two weeks after graduating college with only a few leads on English teaching jobs, but nothing concrete. My husband, then boyfriend, whom I randomly met at my job at a Japanese restaurant in Wisconsin, came to Costa Rica as well. At this time, my husband had relatively little oral English skills and knew no Spanish. He had spent years studying like a madman, working like a typical Tokyo salary man and was looking for some adventure. My husband worked as a teppanyaki chef at a swanky hotel and I traveled all around San Jose teaching at various language schools and companies and giving private English lessons in my apartment and at cafes. It was one of the best years of my life because everyday was something new to experience. One of my favorite memories is taking Japanese language classes at the Japanese consulate in Spanish. Both languages are completely phonetic, but the similarities stop there. At the end of the year, I had fallen in love with my husband and decided to move to Japan to better understand his language and culture. I found a job teaching English and moved there after spending two weeks back in Chicago. My husband returned to his previous businessman self, although he still dreams of having his own restaurant and is always bugging me to write a children’s book with him.
Culture shock was something I had experienced while in Costa Rica, but nowhere near the degree I felt upon starting my life in Japan. At least five times a day, I had urges to speak Spanish with people as that was the language I knew other than English. I remember wandering around the grocery store at a complete loss of what to purchase to make a meal. The silent stares on the train made me long for the direct “Tsss, tsss, machita!” (Hey, hey, little white girl!) cat calls I had received from cars while walking down the street in Costa Rica that I had incensed me previously. I missed the crazy streamer decorations and blaring salsa music on the buses in Costa Rica compared to the eerie silence encountered on the spotless trains in Japan. The more I learned about the culture and language, the more I appreciated the differences between the two countries and came to view the U.S. as kind of a middle ground culture between the two extremes.
My English conversation job was not only enjoyable work, but a great resource of knowledge to me about Japanese culture. My housewives class taught me the real way to make miso soup, not the lazy way my husband had said was adequate. My retired students taught me about the history of the country. From my young students, I learned about the passing boom culture that can take over young people’s lives. Imagine a student so excited to show you a pencil with a new animation character on it or a new type of bag just being marketed. Some of my students became close friends and even taught me Japanese each week. I also took classes at a community center geared at helping foreigners.
My husband and I had a traditional Shinto wedding a year after I arrived in Japan. As a young bride, I was very determined to learn everything about Japanese culture, language and cooking so that my husband would never long for a wife who knew these things better than me. (My husband is not the typical Japanese man. In fact, many of our Japanese friends would tease that I was more Japanese than him.) None of this really mattered to him, but it was important to me and these were things I wanted to learn to also fit in well with his family. I am most likely the first foreigner that my in-laws have come to know well, but they have been nothing but welcoming and sincere from the start and I am lucky to really feel that they are my parents in Japan. Embarrassingly, I actually call them Mama and Papa in Japanese because that is what they taught me to do. This only seemed out of place when once upon visiting a rural mountain temple together, I called over to my mother-in-law “Mama!” and a number of other people stared at me in disbelief. We had a good laugh about it on the hike down the mountain.
After two years in Japan, and three years total abroad, I began to miss my family and wanted to obtain an advanced degree in order to learn about teaching formally. My husband and I moved to Chicago where he worked at a Japanese company and I began my studies at UIC and worked for a family literacy and adult ESL program. I learned Spanish all over again from my ESL students as I had not practiced it almost at all when in Japan. During our time in Chicago, I saw my husband struggle at times. His English was much better than when we met, but still not near native. Once when asking for directions at a gas station, he was told to go to the Korean dry cleaner next door to ask. I was so upset by this ignorance and the fact that he had experienced it. We joined a marathon group on the south side of Chicago and made the best friends. This experience really made my husband happy here, but I felt unsatisfied. When thinking about my post-graduation teaching job, all I desired was to teach at an international school in Japan. I also felt that there was so much more for me to learn there, linguistically and culturally. My husband and I both found jobs and returned to live in the heart of Tokyo. When I look back on it, I honestly felt that I was going to live the rest of my life in Japan. This decision caused me to break my mother’s heart, the wrath of my brother for doing so, the shock of my friends and the extreme happiness of my in-laws.
Living in Tokyo is like experiencing the degree of crowds of the Taste of Chicago everyday. Previously, I had lived in a suburb of Tokyo and now was in the middle of it. My husband was back in his element and had an interesting job at Amazon.com. Although I loved my job teaching second grade at an international school and all of the families and teachers I met there, Tokyo living was just too much for me. After the first year there, I contacted various schools in Chicago and had interviews over my winter break. I will never forget the reception I received at one very prestigious lab school. The principal obviously knew that I was a native English speaker from my resume, but took one look at my white face, gave me only five minutes of her time and then a map to tour the school myself. This experience made me realize that although I had spent so much time and effort living abroad, learning about different cultures and becoming trilingual – on the surface I would always be just a white teacher and not someone to bring a face of diversity to the staff at any school. After another year in Tokyo, I returned to Chicago to teach at the CPS dual-language magnet I had student-taught at previously.
It has been five years since I returned from living abroad the last time. Someday in the future, I believe that I will work and live abroad again, but after children all decisions become much more serious to make. With my work at UIC, I am able to speak Spanish almost everyday with inspirational parents who are doing their best for their children and themselves. Through my involvement with the Japanese American Service Committee (JASC) and the friends I have made through their Japanese playgroup, and the concerted effort my husband and I place on speaking Japanese to my daughter, I am able to speak Japanese everyday as well. The best compliments to me have been when another mother at JASC thought I was half-Japanese and when one of my FLAME parents though I was from Costa Rica. Unfortunately, I really am not good enough in either language to have received such compliments at all, but they made me feel amazing. I may have the appearance of a non-diverse individual, but I have created a diverse and interesting life for myself. Through this I also realize the importance of looking at each person as an individual and the need to learn about them and refrain from placing too much trust in first impressions.
(I apologize for the possibly boring personal degree of this essay, but after comps I could not attempt anything too academic.)
Everyday at lunchtime the same student can be found sitting in the office, eating his sandwich and waiting to go back to class. This student has had lunch detention at least 3 days a week for the entire school year. This boy has not had lunch or recess with his classmates because he cannot control his behavior in the classroom, at specials, in the hallway or on the bus. This child is constantly in trouble. The lunch detentions have not worked, the in-school suspensions have not worked, and the taking away of privileges such as field trips has not worked. What is the next step? Is giving a third grade student an out of school suspension for disruptive/disrespectful behavior appropriate? I would have to say no. This situation is frustrating for everyone involved, but what we need to do as educators and school administrators is figure out why this child is acting out. The consequences designed to deter this child from behaving poorly are not working. Our responsibility now is to problem solve how to prevent this child's behavior from interrupting his own learning, or the learning of other children. Developing a behavior plan with the student support team would be a wise decision. A behavior plan is used to help the child learn better ways to behave in school. It can also help his teachers understand the meaning behind the behaviors, what might cause certain behaviors from happening and how to appropriately respond to the behaviors so that he can learn a better behavior. This is so important and this is the part so many teachers and administrators forget. What is causing the child to act this way and how can I help the child learn a more appropriate way to behave? My question is considering the history of this child, why has this not been done yet? If the behavior plan does not work, it is time to conduct a functional behavioral assessment, which will try to look at each problem behavior to figure out when, where, and why it is occurring. Experts say there are only two answers to that question. All behaviors either get something (attention, sensory stimulation, status, rewards, power), or escape or avoid something (pain, boredom, anxiety, fear, someone not liked). A good FBA will look beyond what the behavior is to what the behavior does for the child. A good FBA will look at the places or situations where the behavior happens, look at the events that happen just before it and just after it, look at how the child is feeling (angry, tired, thirsty, anxious, including side-effects of medication), and try to find out what events, times or situations predict the behavior and will tell what happens after the behavior occurs. A good FBA will lead to answers to two important questions: What will cause the behavior to happen? What will cause the behavior to NOT happen? We can use the information from the functional behavioral assessment to make a plan to teach alternative behaviors, which have the same function as the problem behavior. Which will ultimately help the child and his classmates learn in a peaceful environment.
What is Response to Intervention? RTI is one of the current “buzzwords” in education today. But most educators are vague on the concept at best. Response to Intervention is a framework for providing differentiated instruction to students with the goal to prevent literacy problems by increasing quality instruction. Instruction is tiered by levels of three or more with increased intensity at each level. The more intensive instruction provided the higher the chance that a student will “catch up” and avoid the need for special education services. RTI starts with a committee or team of professionals and volunteers within a school. This committee’s first and foremost responsibility is to ensure that top quality instruction is taking place in each classroom. Instruction must be research-based practices in a setting where assessment guides instruction in a recursive manner: instruct, assess, evaluate, and report. The first step of a school implementing RTI is to make sure that universal screenings are in place three times a year. Data is necessary for grouping students and measuring growth throughout the year. Data is regularly consulted and progress monitoring is yearlong so that educators have the means to evaluate whether or not students are making gains. Step 2 is to ensure that high quality “Tier 1” instruction is taking place. The Reading Specialist might be needed to help implement effective teaching strategies to “boost” instruction in classrooms where scientifically based practices might be needed. For example, small groups instruction is a highly effective means to provide differentiated instruction in a classroom. A Reading Specialist might need to provide professional development or coaching in classrooms that need guided reading support. Step 3 is to make sure that instruction is effective for most students. Teachers must look at data and evaluate whether or not students are meeting benchmark goals. If large numbers of students are not making gains Tier 1 instruction may need to be altered. Small groups of students who are not making gains may require Tier 2 instruction. Tier 2 instruction can take place in the classroom based on intensified instruction by the general education teacher and/or it may be provided by a member of the RTI committee in a push-in or pull-out situation. Whatever the case, targeted students are generally given 30 minutes of supplemental instruction 3-4 days per week without sacrificing exposure to the core curriculum. Regular progress monitoring takes place and diagnostic strategies are documented. Tier 3 may be added or replace Tier 2 instruction when a student does not make gains after Tier 2 intervention. Tier 3 may continue but with more focus and more time. Instruction may be delivered 1-1 instead of in small group settings. A specialist is usually called in to provide instruction. The RTI team may decide that sufficient strategies have been implemented and that a screening and referral process for special education services should begin. Or based on a referral, the child who has received an IEP would remain in the same setting and continue Tier 3 instruction from a special educator. RTI is designed to catch and prevent failure. It requires administrative commitment in terms of time allocation and personnel. It requires restructuring and rethinking in a very collaborative, teaming manner. For more information see Response to Intervention: A Framework for Reading Educators edited by Douglas Fuchs, Lynn S. Fuchs, and Sharon Vaughn. It has a great article by Timothy Shanahan!
“What NCLB did was, they were very loose on the goals – 50 states could create their own goals and 50 different goalposts, and (what) that lead to was a real dumbing down of those goals. What they’re very tight on is how you get there. I think what we need to do is fundamentally reverse that – I think we need to be really tight on goals and have these common college-ready international benchmark standards that we’re all aiming for, but then be much looser in how you let folks get there.” Arne Duncan “The Apostle of Reform” Time Magazine, April 27, 2009
Arne and I haven’t always seen eye to eye but this statement summarizes exactly my struggle day to day. I want this: clear professional goals and then the courtesy of being treated as a professional capable of meeting these goals as I see fit: being a diagnostician as learned and earned from the UIC College of Education! Next year, if the principal has her way, I will be teaching in an inclusion classroom. “Aren’t all classrooms “inclusion” classrooms these days, you ask? Most teachers have at least two or three students with 504 plans or IEP students with disabilities ranging from the mild to the severe.” Where I work, one primary classroom is designated the “Inclusion Room”. Here a regular education teacher is paired with a special education teacher and an aide. Out of 26 students 12 have an IEP which requires them to be serviced 800 minutes per day; in other words all day. The administration also moves low or problematic “regular” students to this room as well based on the rationale that there are three people in the room. More teachers doesn’t mean better education. And side-by-side doesn’t mean inclusion. I have been asked by the administration to go into this situation and “fix” it next year seeing as now I have a Reading Specialist degree and am qualified to do so. Degreed doesn’t mean miracle worker! Why place so many students with extreme needs in one room? I am advocating that these students be spread out and that our school create an RTI team (see RTI essay) to address the needs of these children through supporting the general educator and providing the services needed for each child. Normally a team teaching model would make sense and in fact be ideal. This school continues to call itself an exceptional place just because we don’t have a self-contained primary classroom. We pat ourselves on the back and say look at all the schools coming to see our “model inclusion” classroom. Yeah, well if they looked closely enough instead of smiling, nodding, and jotting down comments on clipboards they would realize that “Hmmm, all the regular education students are in small groups working with the regular education teacher. All the special ed students are working with the SPED teacher. The aide is nearby working with some of the lowest first graders in the room: yes, the least qualified person working with the lowest children; you heard right.” Why do they operate this way? Partially ignorance but mostly because the regular education teacher has been told this is your curricula: follow it just like the other primary teachers. The special education teacher keeps hearing, “Follow your IEP’s; your students aren’t expected to be accountable.” That’s not inclusion! Inclusion is the expectation and mindset that students with disabilities CAN and WILL rise to the occasion when given full and complete access to the curriculum with accommodations and modifications. Being given the opportunity and challenge to rise to the standards is equality; even if what one student needs to get as close as possible to those standards is different from the next. I also believe that regular and special education students benefit from and learn from each other. “Regular” students make excellent examples for “lower” students who might otherwise be stuck in a room full of low students and thus be in an environment that stymies their progress much like a self-fulfilling prophecy. “Special” students often have unique abilities and gifts. Awareness for people with differences as well as opportunities for learning tolerance is a skill all people need to live and function in society. To walk into this room and see that the situation is one of separation and segregation makes me sick and I’m being called in to change it? It’s a self-contained room shoved in a regular room! I just want to call the courts and see how many heads would roll if advocates for Corey H. and IDEA knew the truth. Yet, Duncan’s words give me a glimmer of hope. What if I went in with the standards in mind, IEP goals in hand, and then had complete autonomy when it came to meeting those goals. If that meant not using the basal and implementing the truly diagnostic techniques learned through the course of this program then yes, perhaps this situation can be helped. But I would walk in demanding that the lines designating the “regular” versus “special” stigma be erased. If the special education teacher is not willing to call the classroom ours and all students OUR responsibility; then this situation cannot be helped. I’m writing this not so much as an op-ed piece but as a cry for help and advice. Becky has already given me the RTI model used at her school. If anyone else has suggestions or ideas for sharing more effective models with my administration please email me!
A Living Lesson in Cuba For years I associated Spring Break with three images: Florida, Señor Frogs and unfortunate sunburns, all of which rank rather high on my list of vile things. I shunned Spring Break as a Herpes-spreading, Big-Ten beer bonanza and chose instead to pass my week with my boyfriend and dog vegging at home. Last year, however, I bit the bullet and went somewhere warm, with beaches and beautiful young people on every corner. I went to Cuba.
This trip, an academic visit organized by my alma mater NYU, was more about research than tanning. But stepping down onto the tarmac of Jose Martà International Airport, I realized that, even though I was a mere 90 miles from Spring Break Central, I was in a land even more foreign to me than an amateur wet T-shirt night at the Club Med bar. My main objective, my challenge, would be to attempt to understand Cuba and what life there might be like.
Before I left, everyone from my friends and fellow teachers—some of them Cubans—warned me about the poverty of Cuba, the danger of it and the neediness of its people. After my first few days in Havana, however, I realized that all these warnings were from people who, though they had good intentions, thought of Cuba more as the Red Enemy than as an actual country unto itself. I saw a place that was poor but in no way destitute. I met people who, though challenged by everyday life, were not downtrodden by the ruling system of Cuba, as we Americans so frequently tend to believe.
Cuba was especially interesting from the perspective of a teacher. Education in Cuba is free and good. The literacy rate is 99.8% (AIDA, 2009); class sizes are small; teachers are well-prepared. I had the opportunity to visit a high school in the near-Havana suburb of Vedado and observed a huge variety of classes: fine arts, biology, English, French, literature, drama and dance, far more than the selection offered at my public school.
Throughout my visit I met no one who was hungry, homeless or without health care, which is far more than can be said about the United States for all of its prosperity. There were no stores, much less malls. The advertisements and billboards bore messages touting la revolución, not Coca-Cola. In speaking with my hosts at our hostel, the artists I met while doing research, and the many college students I came into contact with, I heard time and again that Cubans, perhaps for lack of opportunity, fail to master consumerism. Though there were some who talked to me about the American things that they liked—one man in his 20s told me excitedly that the day his relatives in Miami sent him Versace jeans and a DKNY shirt was the happiest of his life — most people looked at these luxuries as wish-list items, things that they could go on without. Without shopping as a national pastime, many people I spoke to focused instead on dancing, music or art. People created their culture instead of buying it. My group had the privilege of watching the rehearsal of a contemporary dance group. Afterwards, one of the dancers told me that she danced not to be rich or famous (she was neither), but because it was the only thing that inspired her.
It is for these reasons I worry for Cuba when her borders inevitably open. Though Raul Castro is more open to outside influence than his brother, the country remains politically isolated. The wave of American (read: consumerist and capitalist) influence will be a tsunami to those who have never known it. Generations of Cubans will have to learn as skill that we Americans still have failed to master: balancing the creation of our culture with the purchase of it.
When our group stepped off the plane at JFK more than a year ago, I felt again that I had entered into a foreign land. After a week of seeing propaganda instead of advertisements, my first vision was of a billboard for Blackberry. After a week of talking with students who, despite the challenges, were adding to their home and culture, I was surrounded by kids fresh off their Air Jamaica flight finding their chauffeured cars while clothed in their newly acquired Rasta hats. I didn't know on which side of the border I wanted to belong. Before I left, I felt bad for Cubans and what they did not have — the jeans, the SUVs, the air conditioning and stereo systems. But that sympathy dissipated when I realized that the Cubans in no way necessitated my pity. By the time I stepped off that plane and back into America, I felt bad for my fellow Americans. At that moment, we seemed the ones lacking.
I giggled at an analogy made by my district curriculum director, “We need to make a plate and place on it only our major areas of focus for professional development.” This, he explained, would be our district’s main course. He went on to say, “We could also have side dishes.” The side dishes would be everything else our district is working on. What made me giggle was not that he wanted us to have a main dish. In fact, I feel that focusing our energy behind major initiatives would be extremely beneficial in guiding our work in teaching our students. I could not help but giggle because our district has so many initiatives that I pictured our side dishes to be the side dishes seen at a Korean barbecue restaurant. If you have ever eaten at a Korean restaurant, you probably know what I am talking about. Along with your main dish, you are presented with a more than generous number of side dishes: soup, daikon, napa cabbage, pickled cucumbers, sea vegetables, zucchini, numerous types of kimchi infused dishes, etc. – Each served on a separate dish, carried out to you overlapping on a cafeteria size tray, and quickly placed before you. Your table is suddenly and totally covered by side dishes. You didn’t even order them!
In education, sometimes a side dish becomes a main dish. Or even more complicated, a main dish, such as RTI, is made up of side dishes, such as standard based learning, progress monitoring, and assessment. The components of RTI are reasonable and necessary in providing instruction to meet all students’ needs. They are in fact main dishes. My fear is that many administrators are placing too many main dishes on the table at the same time – they want it all and want it now, while many teachers are not ready. I see it happening at the school I teach at -- well intentioned administrators moving too fast, and well intentioned teachers struggling to keep up. Teachers at my school have been asked to plan collaboratively and curriculum map, create common assessments and use the data to guide instruction, progress monitor and goal set with “yellow” and “red” students. We had only just begun to skim the surface of one initiative, and when another was quickly put before us. Too much at one time will not only lead to frustration, but even more devastating, to failure. Failure often leads to the abandonment of a sound practice, or of its misuse. It is important to not leave out the components of implementation: proper training, modeling, time for trial and error, time for collaboration, time to be reflective, and time to plan and revise. Leadership teams must look beyond a single school year and create professional development activities that build along a 2-3 year period or beyond. Professional development planning along with perceptive and knowledgeable leadership will be the keys to success.
When I dine at Korean restaurants, there are side dishes I definitely eat, there are those I definitely stay away from, and there are times that I feel daring enough to try one I hadn’t before. What always satisfies me most, however, is eating what I came for – the main dish.
Progress reports are among us. This means that thousands of CPS employees will battle with the same program, IMPACT. It was introduced to our school two years ago and it has been testing teacher’s patience ever since. The program is a Webpage where teachers take attendance, keep a grade book, create seating charts and get personal information about a student. Teachers can even access State and district test scores, incident reports, addresses and even parent contact information are all just a click away. IMPACT generates the report cards and the progress reports for each term.
The program makes a teacher generic by only allowing her to make comments from a select list for the progress reports and report cards. There are about thirty comments half negative and positive. The parents see the same comments rotate through the years on multiple report cards. This might discourage parent communication if the comment seems redundant. If a parent sees the comment “is learning to concentrate” repeatedly in the last three years he may get discouraged. The communication is not authentic.
Computer glitches, May 18th two days before report cards were do. The system experience a malfunction. Teachers lost any grades that were inserted into the system on that day. For many of my co-workers it meant more timed dedicated to inserting grades instead of other priorities. I was lucky that my procrastination paid off. This was not an isolated instance. The system can not handle all CPS employees on the web based program at the same time. It freezes and loses information on high volume days.
I am just not sure of the implications this software may cause. I received a memo to inform me that state would look at the grades given by teachers and the students standardized test score. The State wants this data to compare achievement gaps.
I understand the need for technology, but the Web Program needs to be of up most quality if it is going to eat up precious teacher time.
Editorial By Carina O Keeffe Here is an editorial I have worked on with my second graders over the past couple of weeks –They decided they want to send it to the newspaper-I think it is powerful as it comes from the heart!
RECESS-EVERY CHILD HAS THE RIGHT…..
Does you school have recess? Maybe you are one of the lucky ones……In our opinion all children not only NEED but DESERVE recess. We at Drake Elementary on Chicago’s south side feel very strongly about this matter so listen up! We believe it is not fair that some schools have recess and some schools do not. All schools should be treated equally. If you ask us then this breeds unnecessary competition between schools. It is not fair that some schools have opportunities that other Chicago Public Schools are deprived of. Think about this for a minute, you know the feeling, when you walk outside into the open air-you feel alive? Fresh air helps you think clearly. Everybody knows that the mind and body works better when it is energized. Who came up with the ingenious idea of sitting in a stuffy classroom of thirty-two 8- year olds for 5 and a half hours-with a 20 minute break to gobble down your lunch? We need a break for fresh air so we can then return to work and do our very best. Did you know that over the past three decades, the childhood obesity rate has more than tripled for children aged 6-11 years? At present, approximately nine million children over the age of 6 are considered obese----we need exercise!!!!! One forty minute gym period a week is not sufficient for children our age. Furthermore, many of us cannot go outside and play after school as our neighborhoods are unsafe. We need recess time to run around and get exercise. Finally, we work hard in class and we think all kids should have time to socialize with their peers. We are expected to work all day long and not interact with one another---we are kids after all, and adults get breaks from their workplace. How are we supposed to learn how to socialize and interact with one another if we don’t have a recess? It just doesn’t make sense! We all deserve a quality education and that includes time for recess!!!!
Does anyone else notice the uncanny resemblance that Mayor Daley’s pet money-grubbing devices—the newly-privatized parking meters and red-light cameras—have to the Olympic torch? They all have slender shafts supporting wider tops that light up. They all are said to be sources of lucrative revenue streams but are so at the expense of the taxpayer. And they have come to symbolize and prop up corrupt governing bodies—the City of Chicago government and the International Olympic Committee.
Yesterday, I paid $1.50 to park while I ate with a friend at a restaurant. Just a few months ago parking at that same meter cost 0.75 for the same amount of time. On a twenty-seven block stretch of my work commute down Stony Island Avenue, I now pass through four intersections with red-light cameras that hit drivers for $100 per ticket for committing a traffic violation. Those do not even count the two within ten blocks traveling north toward Lake Shore Drive.
Mayor Daley promised Chicagoans years ago that the 2016 Olympic bid would come at no cost to taxpayers because it would be funded using private money. As he has begun a slow retraction from those comments, we, as taxpayers, need to be asking some hard questions. Namely, we need to ask just how exactly the games here will be financed and what exactly Mayor Daley considers expenses of the bid. I have a suspicion that the near century-long contract with ____ for control of the city’s parking meters that was quietly rubber-stamped by the city council and the growing ubiquity of red-light cameras are main cogs in the strategy to fund infrastructure changes to handle the games. It is these indirect expenses that are going to gouge us citizens.
Fellow citizens of Chicago, every time you have to pump loads of quarters into a meter or get nervous when you approach another intersection with a red-light camera just remember who put this Olympic Tax on you and your posterity.
Essay-“The Blame Game” While going through the education program as an undergraduate, I would always hear the mantra, “teachers have to wear many hats.” Teachers sometimes have to be parent, counselor, mentor, and/or even friend. When I decided to become a teacher, I knew I signed up to be a wearer of these hats, as well as giving a commitment of 101%. What I did not count on was that I would not get the support that is needed from students’ first teachers-parents. I work in a Chicago Public School on the Westside of Chicago located in an area known as “K Town.” Every west-sider and even some non-west-siders know about this area. All the streets located in “K Town” start with the letter K, hence the name. “K Town” is inhabited primarily by African Americans who are receiving government assistance known as Section 8. “K Town is known for its poverty, and high crime rate. The school I am employed at has a demographic make-up of 99% African American students, and the majority of the students receive free lunch. Most of the students are in walking distance of the school. I am the type of teacher who not only wants to teach; I want to make a difference in my students’ lives. I am a strong believer that a student is not only a student, but someone’s child, grandchild, sister, brother. There are many parameters outside the school life that shape students into who they are. Students’ home life can have such a tremendous affect on how they perform in school. Therefore it is imperative to bridge the gap between home and school. This is easier said than done. How does a teacher bridge this gap? Is it up to just the teacher to bridge the gap? Is it the job of the teacher and the parent? Of course the latter is the best solution, however, what happens when the parent/s involvement is lackluster at best? Does this lack of parental involvement have anything to do with the overwhelming alarming number of deaths among Chicago Public School students? With only months left in 2008-2009 school year, the number of students killed already exceeds last school year’s total. We are in a state of crisis, and it seems to only be getting worse. This is my seventh year teaching, and this is the worst I have ever seen it when it comes to troubled youths. In my classroom, I have cell phones ringing during the middle of the day. Who would be calling a 6th grader during school time? An adult should know better, and a friend of the same age, should be in school as well, and have no time to bring out a cell phone to call anyone. What is education turning into when cell phones are ringing during the school day? Why do some of theses students have these phones anyway? The same students, who own these fancy phones, are the same students who don’t have a pen or pencil to write with in school. Parents are putting more emphasis on material items and letting the education of their children fall by the waist side. My 5th and 6th grade girls have their nails and hair done on a regular basis, however, these same girls don’t turn in their homework on a regular. These children are not paying for these privileges on their own, their parent/s are paying for them. What message are parents sending children about the value of education? When Bill Cosby publicly criticized parenting in some African American communities; there was an outpour of controversy surrounding his very honest comments. He is quoted as saying, “The lower economic people are not holding up their end in this deal. These people are not parenting. They are buying things for kids -- $500 sneakers - for what? And won't spend $200 for 'Hooked on Phonics.'” I whole-heartedly agree with the message that Cosby was trying to convey. I am seeing firsthand just what he is referring to. Parents are not holding themselves or their children accountable. I am a parent of a toddler, and even at the age of two, my child is read to on a regular basis; I have purchased educational CDs and DVDs because I never feel it is too early to start your child on the right path to understanding the importance of being educated. Even just giving my toddler a book to hold in his hand, and teaching him the proper way to hold a book is important. Hopefully, I am in no way sounding self-righteous, because that is not my intent. I am not at all trying to come across as being better than anyone else. What I am trying to do is show my frustration over how “our children” mainly our African American children are not succeeding. The saying once went, “I am trying to get you out of high school.” That statement has been changed to “I am trying to get you to graduate eighth grade.” What has the world come to when graduating 8th grade is a feat? It is a milestone-sure. It is a good feeling. It should be the feeling of being the beginning of one’s educational journey, versus being such an accomplishment. Let me set a scene of some of the “unfortunates” that are going on in my school that I see firsthand. It is almost the end of the school year, and I have not seen several parents. I am only going to reach out so far. Sounds mean- just honest! I still go by the idea that I have to wear many hats, and I do. However, as a teacher, I am only going to reach out so far to parents who don’t make ANY effort to reach out to me, attend open houses, report card pick-ups, and family literacy nights. Especially when these same parents make it their obligation to show up if you take their child’s cell phone, or deny them a field trip. I have a parent who I’ve never seen, yet she managed to make it up to the school to literally fight a student who was picking on another child of hers. Students are using the term “Link Card” in their writing, and no one is batting an eye, questioning what a link card is. There is a 7th grader walking around the school with an ankle bracelet on. There is an eighth grader who has already had two abortions. Let us not even get on the number of former girl students who have already had a child or is currently pregnant. There have been at least 2 cases of reported STDs; one of the students is my own. Hers is curable with antibiotics. Unfortunately, the other student, though not life-threatening, has no cure. Am I saying that all the blame should be put on the parents-No! Am I saying that parents are not taking responsibility for their children and the decisions they make-Yes! Am I saying parenting is easy-No! Anyone who is a parent knows that parenting doesn’t come with a manual, and I do agree that it does take a “village” to raise a child. I just don’t appreciate how some parents have totally taken themselves out of the equation when it comes to their children’s downfalls. It’s the school’s fault, it’s the neighborhood, it’s racism, it’s the economy, it’s their own fault. I had a professor in my undergraduate studies who was adamant about how we can’t be so worried about parents’ non-involvement, but rather the focus should be more on what we, as the educators can do for these students the allotted time we have them. I have a lot of respect for this professor, and I do agree with her. As teachers we can’t give up on these students because their home life may be unstable. We have to make sure their time with us is as beneficial and meaningful as it can be. At the same time, I refuse to let parents “off the hook.” They have to remember that teachers are going to come and go throughout their child’s life, but they will always be their parent. I am an adult and so are these parents. I don’t consider myself to be better than them, or them beneath me. When I do communicate with parents, I am respectful, because no one likes to be belittled, and talked down to. I am a firm believer that you have to give respect, if you expect to get respect. We have already lost too many children to violence. Let’s not lose them to that epidemic called ignorance.
A look at the outgrowth of violence in struggling Chicago neighborhoods should force people to take a more systematic look at the root causes instead of engaging in the finger-pointing and hand-washing that we see in the present. The latest news of a young person’s unfortunate death at the hands of another is always accompanied with cries of how “those people” need to take “personal responsibility.” It is our duty as people to take responsibility for our own actions. However, I ask those same people—are you taking any responsibility for your actions that negatively impact people here and around the world?
Are you recycling? Are you finding ways to lessen the amount of energy you use that ultimately adds greenhouse gases to the atmosphere? Are you making informed consumer choices that do not encourage unfair labor or trade practices that entrap people around the world in poverty? Are you using any illicit drugs that fuel the violence of drug cartels in Latin America or gangs in urban America? The list goes on…
Playing the blame game serves no purpose except to absolve ourselves of OUR responsibility to be part of the solution. Every child that is the victim of violence in Chicago should stoke righteous outrage that leads us to action, not inaction. So I ask, what are you doing to help solve this issue? And, please, don’t say it’s not my problem.
Last week, former professional basketball player and now-Secretary of Education Arne Duncan held a press conference at an elementary school on the West side of Chicago in which he stated the need for wide-scale reform to our nation’s education system. Mr. Duncan discussed how increasing competition from other parts of the world and the globalization of economics leaves us in a precarious position if we continue to ineffectively educate millions of young Americans. As an educator, I wholeheartedly agree with our nation’s newly appointed School Czar on this point. Forgive me, however, if my enthusiasm for his words is tempered as we have heard these words spoken before by well-meaning politicians.
Proponents of the No Child Left Behind (NCLB) Act assert that there were significant gains in math and reading scores across many important subgroups and contexts on the 2004 National Assessment of Educational Progress (NAEP) long-term trend assessment, which is administered every five years and is used to compare student performance going back to 1971. Especially noteworthy was the narrowing of the achievement gap between white students and their black and Hispanic peers to its lowest amount ever. Many critics have argued that a more holistic look at NAEP and state testing data reveals a bleaker picture with no growth or minimal gains in important areas. More telling data will be gained when the 2008 NAEP long-term results are released next week. I would not be surprised if these results bring more positive data on this measure…and petulant squabbling over the effectiveness of NCLB legislation.
Whether NCLB is responsible for these gains obfuscates the debate over its merits as the major vehicle for national educational reform. I would argue improved performance--if there was any--nationwide has been negligible. Even if there was growth nationwide and it was attributable to NCLB, there are still masses of children, disproportionately minority and poor, who are not meeting basic standards.
Should we be content with this supposed reform when a large percentage of our students are still unable to meet standards of proficiency in these critical areas? Furthermore, is measuring students in just math and reading on a pencil-and-paper test by standards set thirty-eight years ago even a relevant form of assessment today? Last, does the federal government really believe that significant improvement in achievement across the board will come without a more substantive overhaul to our education system? Without equivocation, I can say no on all accounts. No Child Left Behind has not delivered on its promises and, therefore, is not an effective engine for reform.
Now we have a new executive administration and Duncan has the opportunity to set the direction of how we educate our children on a new path to real reform, and he was correct for stating the urgency of such reform. Because of exponential advancements in technology, we are educating students in our schools for jobs that do not even exist yet. Students entering elementary school today are going to need broader, deeper, and more diverse skills than are needed to day if they are going to be able to compete for professional jobs in tomorrow’s economy. Moderate increases in test scores over the next fifty years under NCLB will still leave millions of students inadequately prepared for their adult life.
At the press conference, Duncan touted the massive injection of money for education from the federal stimulus plan as an opportunity to enact necessary reforms. He announced to the media that American leaders in the field have to be “open to new ideas without regard to past ideology or practice,” and that we have to begin thinking differently about “schooling.” Without getting specific, he mentioned the possibilities of raising the rigor of standards, instituting systems of performance pay for teachers, and lengthening the school year. The latter two would certainly qualify as substantial departures from past ways of thinking. But, are these alone enough? And, will they even be enacted? I have reason to be skeptical that these are just more empty promises from a politician that will either never be brought to fruition or yield transformative results.
Social Emotional Learning I have heard many educators comment that there is just not enough time in the day to get through curriculum and hold class meetings and community building activities. It’s true. There are so many things we need to teach our students and so much that we are expected to get through that there is no way we, as teachers, can accomplish all that has been piled on our plate. So the question is, if we need to prioritize and do simply as much as we can, should a focus on social emotional learning be one of our priorities? My answer is yes, it should. We’ve all had the student who returns from recess and can’t stop dwelling on an altercation that occurred on the playground. This student is upset, unable to focus on lecture and/or class work, and may even disrupt class with an emotional outburst resulting from it. If that student knew how to deal with the situation more effectively, it would certainly save us teachers the time, effort, and aggravation that we would put into laying the problem to rest or dealing with the student’s reactions to it. According to CASEL (The Collaborative for Academic, Social, and Emotional Learning), social emotional learning is “a process through which young people and adults develop the fundamental social and emotional skills of self-awareness, self-management, social awareness, relationship skills, and responsible decision making.” Like it or not, emotions affect how and what we learn. Dealing with them and responding to problems are part of everyday life – for everyone. The better we are at self-awareness, self-management, social awareness, relationship skills, and responsible decision making, the more successful we will be in life. The better our students are at those things, the more successful they will be in school and in life.
Each person is as distinctive as their book selections. I came to this realization after talking with four colleagues about books that have made a difference in their lives. Each of these books made my friends “feel something,” and this initial feeling has not been forgotten. In class we’ve spent the last year talking about the power of text in people’s lives. This is a testament to that very fact. To illustrate this point, I interviewed four of my colleagues at the Frances Xavier Warde School. I questioned three female teachers (Laura, Kathryn and Stacie) and one male teacher (Roel). Their ages range from twenty-seven to thirty-four and their years of teaching experience range from two years to twelve years. The grade levels taught vary from first to fourth grade. A common thread found throughout these four interviews was that literacy plays a major role in each of these individuals’ everyday personal and professional lives. For Laura, she stated that she promotes literacy everyday in her classroom. Outside of the classroom, most of her reading consists of reading for graduate school or reading professional resources in order to keep abreast of the latest developments in education. Kathryn defines literacy as knowledge, enjoyment and relaxation. Literacy in Stacie’s life is a way of survival for everyday living, knowledge and entertainment. Roel feels that literacy is the use – and ultimately the command – of language to gain and express meaning. He said that it means a great deal to be able to understand the world better through the ideas and perspectives of others (as communicated in books and articles) and it satisfies a basic need to find and create meaning in the world through writing. Each individual exhibited a personal true love of literacy and also the desire to instill that same love of literacy in each of their students. The books selected by the participants were all very different, as each of their personalities are all very different. The range was so vast that Laura chose Mother Goose’s Nursery Rhymes, while Stacie chose the book called A Grief Observed by C.S.Lewis, dealing with death and grieving. Laura’s interest in the childhood book stemmed from her parents’ enthusiasm of the book and love of reading. Stacie enjoyed other books written by the same author and also books about the topic of death and grieving. The other two books selected were My Sister’s Keeper written by Jodi Picoult selected by Kathryn. It is a fictional novel about the relationship of sisters. Kathryn’s interest in My Sister’s Keeper was piqued from the cover of the book. She noticed the two little girls on the cover and it instantly made her think about her own sister. This book made her reflect on her relationship with her sister. She now enjoys reading books by Jodi Picoult. The other book chosen was The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, chosen by Roel. This book has an intriguing plot and helps to answer some of life’s big questions. Roel’s decision to read this book was not a choice but rather a requirement for a Russian Literature class in college. Like unforgettable experiences, Roel felt that this book shaped his perspective of the world because it made him think about big questions— like the meaning of life. It made a difference because it really helped him appreciate the significance of the ordinary in life and it also taught so much about the existence of God, the problem of evil, and the complexities of human nature. It tackled deep topics in an engaging and profound way. Just as all of the participants are unique, so are their book choices. The three books read by the individuals as adults dealt with intense issues, causing the individuals to take time to reflect and relate to them in their personal lives. The book read as a child was a gateway into the discovery of a lifetime love of reading. Each of these differences is equally important and is pertinent to the time of their lives when the books were read. These books were all read at different times in the participants’ lives. The Mother Goose book was read when Laura was a child with her parents. The other three books were read in their adult lives. Roel read his book as a sophomore attending Northwestern University. Stacie read her book as a thirty something single, while Kathryn read her book on her honeymoon. Each book impacted the participants in a different way, at a different time in their lives. Laura’s choice impacted her life because it made her excited and motivated to become a reader when she was a small child. Literacy was promoted in her household, which made it important in her life as a child and still today. Kathryn’s choice made her reflect on her relationship with her sister. Reading did not become enjoyable for her until she became an adult. After analyzing the information gathered through these interviews, I learned that each person is as distinctive as their book selections. This helps to remind me that, like the participants, each one of my students is unique and their personal views of literacy may drastically vary from one another. It was also interesting to see which kinds of books were chosen and how they directly impacted the lives of the individuals. Some were impacted on a serious, philosophical level, while Laura was impacted by a simple rhyming book that helped to shape her view of literacy for the rest of her life. All of these books were equally important in their own, special way. This exercise in talking to my colleagues about literacy further emphasized the importance of paying attention to the vital signs of reading- home life, culture, environment, language and economics. The better you know where the child is coming from, the more effective your instruction will be, and the impact made on the child will be that much more meaningful. As different as the individuals I interviewed, each student is unique in their view of literacy.
For everyone else in the world, it may have been just a typical Saturday morning, but this was not the case for Nicole. She had woken up with a feeling of emptiness that she was not able to ignore. Nicole found it hard to get out of bed, but knew that she would want to take advantage of as much time as she could that day. Saying all of her “good byes” were going to be hard enough and she did not want to feel rushed and fear that she would not have enough time to spend with everyone she was leaving. Nicole nervously crept down the wooden stairs of her college house, smelling the aroma of bacon and hearing the chatter of her five roommates. As she turned the corner into the kitchen, they all stopped their conversations and stared at her with a half smile. Nicole knew all of her roommates were happy for her, but could sense that none of them knew what to say about living a year without her, which is a feeling with which she was all too familiar. Nicole couldn’t have asked for more that morning than her five favorite girls and a delicious breakfast to share with them. They sat around the table for what seemed to be the quickest hour and a half, and reminisced of all the fun that they had that last semester and how the next one would never be able to compare. They reminisced about football games, boys, parties, and classes – the ones they had attended at least. The six friends finally discussed Nicole’s plans for the next several months. All of them decided they were going to email her everyday and that she would do the same. They would talk to each other at least once a week and stay as close as they are now, but now they will just be 10,000 miles away. Nicole knew that she was excited to go and knew that it was what she needed to do, but all she thought about as she sat at the table was whether it was worth leaving everything she knew and loved behind. Would this experience surpass any other experience of her college career? Would it all be worth it? She dreamed of this day and knew she would be letting herself down if she wasn’t going to take advantage of this “once in a lifetime” experience. The doorbell rang and all the girls knew who was joining their breakfast party. It was Dan, Nicole’s boyfriend of three years. Dan and Nicole were inseparable and couldn’t be happier when they were together. They complimented each other so well and they meant “the world” to each other. The thought of Nicole and Dan being separated for a year almost seemed impossible. It was hard enough saying “good bye” to her five closest friends, now it was time to say her hardest “good bye” yet. Her roommates said their “hello’s” to Dan and went back into the kitchen to clean up from their earlier feast. Dan and Nicole walked out to the porch and sat holding hands. They couldn’t seem to talk at that moment because there was so much they both wanted to say, but didn’t know where to even begin. They both knew that in fifteen minutes, Nicole’s parents would arrive ready to take her to the airport. Dan asked if she was all packed and if she needed help with any last minute details, but Nicole assured him that she was ready to go. They both knew that they didn’t want to separate from each other, but that they needed to. They both agreed that they would just see how things go and that they would not decide what their relationship status would be for the coming year. Nicole and Dan would have to put their relationship on hold for a year – which seemed like forever in her mind. The thought of not seeing Dan every day had weighed heavily in her mind the last few nights, which was evidenced by the redness in and bags under her eyes. She and Dan had the relationship that made people jealous, but could it last this year separation. Was she being selfish by going away for this year and putting their relationship in jeopardy? Would she be able to live with knowing that she could be ending the best thing that ever happened to her? Dan assured her that he will wait for her and that they will get through this, but Nicole knew that a year is a long time not seeing someone, especially not seeing someone that you have seen almost everyday for the last three years. In the midst of their small talk, Dan gave Nicole a black box with a pink satin ribbon around it. He explained that he wanted to give her something that would remind her of him when she was so far away. She slowly opened the box to find a little silver locket with her initials engraved. She slowly opened the locket to see a picture of the two of them sitting on the beach of Mexico, where they had went last Christmas with her parents. On the back of the locket, “I miss you and love you, Dan” was engraved. Nicole eyes filled with tears, it just hit her that she was leaving him and didn’t know what to do. They hugged and hoped that a year from now they will feel the same way about each other as they did at that moment. In the midst of the tears, Nicole’s parents arrived. They greeted Dan and Nicole, and proceeded into the house to start packing the car of suitcases. These suitcases were filled with the things that were going to remind her of home and all that she had left behind. After the car was packed, it was the moment that Nicole had dreaded. She had to officially say her “good bye”. All of her roommates stood at the door and Nicole embraced each one of them and made the “good bye” short because she knew that was all she could handle. She got into the car with her parents and Dan, and waved “good bye” as tears ran down her face. Nicole’s family was not one to wear their hearts on their sleeves. So her parents asked the routine questions making sure Nicole had everything that she needed and that she knew what she was going to do when she finally reached Queensland, Australia. They asked about her classes and her new roommates, what the weather was like, and about any other traveling she may be interested in doing. Dan really didn’t say much and just took it all in. Nicole was both happy and sad that the airport was only fifteen minutes away. She didn’t want to leave them, but she was anxious to get her “good-byes” over with because she knew in her heart it was the last thing she needed before she started her new life south of the equator. They pulled into the United Airlines international terminal and all got out of the car. They helped unload the luggage and brought it to the “check in” area. At this point no one talked. They just waited in line and were unsure what the right thing was to say. After Nicole was checked in and her luggage was sent away, it was time for her to go to her terminal. She first gave her dad a hug and he whispered “I love you and be safe” and then she turned to her mom. Her mom’s face was growing a shade of red and Nicole knew she was trying to hold back her tears. Once Nicole embraced her, her mom could not restrain herself any longer and her tears came rushing out. They hugged for at least a minute when her dad interrupted and took her mom’s hand. They walked away and left Dan and Nicole alone. They hugged each other and exchanged their “I love you’s”. Nicole knew she had to go and turned to the most important people in her life and waved her final “good bye”. As she walked through the noisy, crowded terminal, all she could do was cry. She was alone now. She had nobody. She was on her own and she had nobody to turn to. Was this what she really wanted? When it came time to board the plane, her tears became less. She knew that there was no going back and she had to accept the decision she made. She was going to study abroad in Queensland, Australia. What an amazing journey she was about to begin. She sat on the plane with so many unanswered questions running through her mind. As the plane took off and they sailed through the clouds, Nicole wondered what this year would bring? Would she return to the same life that she was leaving behind? Would she be the same person as she was now? She knew that she wasn’t going to be able to answer those questions now. She clutched her locket and stared out the window hoping that this experience would be worth leaving all that she knew behind.
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. While it might seem overwhelming to pronounce, decode or spell this complex word, we all know the person behind it made a significant impact on two young children and their parents. I’d like to start this personal essay by comparing myself and fellow tutors to Mary Poppins. She came in with her bag of tricks which allowed everyone to think differently about happiness and life. Her approach to being a successful nanny was magical. While what I have learned over the past two semesters does not include magic tricks, I believe that I have my very own bag of tricks for helping children in their literacy development. We’ve learned that reading is a tool necessary to change lives. Now as I move on to help the next struggling reader, the tools are with me and I have the knowledge necessary to dramatically impact children’s lives.
Let’s go fly a kite, up where the air is high. I consider what once seemed like a daunting and frustrating task, tutoring a struggling reader, as something a walk in the park. Before coming to the reading clinic I believed that using research based programs was the single most important factor in student reading achievement. For this reason I had always thought that struggling readers needed direct instruction that came from something that had been proven effective. I’ve used a variety of programs in the past to help and I longed to have the security of knowing the instruction I provided would work. During seminar I remember being told to make meaningful connections with texts for my student, it was really hard at first. “Why did you choose that text, out of all the texts available?” I can still hear Dr. Tatum asking. Through trial and error I found the niche and know what to look for when working with my students. Moving forward I can provide the direct instruction necessary, while still facilitating meaningful connections with mentor texts. One example includes the use of Laura Numroff’s series, “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.” While there was no scripted dialogue of what I should teach to help Nicholas learn, it is a text that uses cause and effect relationships. We studied these, used them as models, and wrote our own beautiful stories.
“Feed the Birds. Come feed the little birds, show them you care and you'll be glad if you do. Their young ones are hungry, their nests are so bare; all it takes is tuppence from you" (Mary Poppins). The carryover from tutoring to teaching in my classroom has been a gift I will cherish for many years to come. During writer’s workshop I share with my students the stories that I have written. I’ve shared a variety from informative, to fiction, and even small moments. My self-efficacy for writing has dramatically improved. As a result I have noticed a dramatic improvement in their writing. They see me not only as a teacher, but also as a writer. The power that comes from this is something I would not have been able to obtain any other way. Moving forward, I see myself and fellow colleagues as birdfeeders, with our energy and passion for teaching reading and writing, giving the little birdies food in the form of meaningful learning experiences.
What was inside that “magical” bag? While Mary would never reveal her secrets, I on the other hand would like to influence other educators and their teaching practices. Currently, I teach Kindergarten and I am perfectly happy to stay at this grade level until a position comes along where I can use my certification. At the same time, I believe that as an effective teacher of reading and writing, the concepts and practices I use in my teaching can be passed along to fellow colleagues. For example, we learned that creating a supportive learning where conferencing with individual students is imperative to successful writing development. While I’m not able to co-teach and model for other teachers what that looks like, I can share with them my experiences and in turn direct them toward inquiring about how a Writer’s Workshop should be conducted. Often I have been inspired by tutors who are successful in their instruction; I hope to do the same for my teaching colleagues.
Without a doubt, the role of a reading specialist could easily be compared to that of a chimney sweep. It’s not easy and there are constant challenges, but accepting that and moving forward with an optimistic attitude is important. Mary’s friend, Bert, sang proudly of having a job that might not have been glamorous. However, he did find happiness and joy in always being welcome. As I hope to feel welcome and as though my instruction is beneficial, I know that keeping up to date with professional resources, research and practices are necessary. Adding onto that is the use of rubrics, scaffolding, guidelines, peer feedback, cloze, preview vocabulary, all of which I have learned about and used throughout the past two semesters.
Mary Poppins left an unforgettable impact on the Bank’s family by building a trusting relationship. Those children loved her because of her “magical” approach to life. I feel confident knowing I have done the same in tutoring Nicholas. Over the course of the past eight months, we found similar interests and moved forward from there. Continual communication with his mother has led to her trust and respect. Saying goodbye is hard, and while I might not want to, it is encouraging that I can move on to the next student. The same as Mary moved onto the next family.
At our grade-level meeting the other day, our principal mentioned how proud he was of our great efforts. This is always wonderful to hear, but he also told us to think of how much of a difference we can make in our students’ lives, I never fully understood it until that moment. We discussed how much progress our students have demonstrated in the past two years and looked at the data from our three times a year assessment. For the past two years, we have continued to enhance our assessments because our students are not only meeting benchmarks sooner, but the level of critical thinking is also becoming more evident. Being part of the Kindergarten team, we have also seen how grade levels that follow have also adjusted their assessments because students are meeting benchmarks sooner as well. So it was difficult to hear when our principal asked us to think of how the high school graduation rate would affect our 5 year old students. I’ve heard before how the graduation rate is low, but hearing it once again and putting faces to those rates, really hit home and encouraged me to look deeper. It was devastating to hear that 50 percent of my students may not graduate. Teaching such a young group of children can sometimes put a shield over your eyes when you think of high school. Of course, a teacher who cares puts this in perspective and carries it with her always. What will their future be like and how will I make that difference now? I couldn’t imagine that half of my class would possibly not graduate. The Alliance for Excellent Education states that each year nearly 40,000 students in Illinois do not graduate with their peers. This massive number holds many circumstances that affect many state-wide and even nationwide as it is stated that nationally 1.23 million do not graduate. There is great speculation over what is causing this threat to an educated nation and what is necessary to overcome these staggering numbers. So the questions are: Who is not graduating? Why are they not graduating? What needs to be done for more students to graduate? Rates are definitely lower for poor and/or minority students. The Alliance for Excellent Education demonstrates data that clearly emphasizes the large gap between Asian and White Student who have 88 percent graduating in 2007 and the 52 percent of African American Students and 60 percent of Latino Students. So what happens in a school that is predominantly African American or Latino? More research is necessary to carry out a plan that will give students the opportunity to learn and to graduate high school. Numbers make a big difference, but in the end they are just numbers. As Dr. Tatum mentions, “Text can move people and empower them.” More research and studies should be carried out to provide teachers at any grade level, the support to teach a culturally responsive classroom. Assessments should be adjusted and in place to provide the data necessary to move our students forward. These low graduation rates affect us all. Our students who drop out have considerably less job opportunities and struggle to make ends meet from minimum wage jobs.
“The function of freedom is to free someone else” --Toni Morrison
Literature has the power to free. It is the song you hear on the radio that speaks to you. It is the rant you write about on your blog. It is the book that you can’t put down – the one that leads you to read another book on the same subject, or sends you to do one google search after another. Literature can do that. It can awaken the senses, comfort the lonely, and guide the lost. Literature can free. How are we working to free our struggling readers?
Schools are paying more attention to literacy than ever before. There is the pressure to make annual yearly progress. Data drives decision making in schools. When the data shows that numerous students are reading below grade level, schools need to have an answer. My school has recently developed a “menu” of reading interventions. We have the core instruction, tier 2 interventions, and tier 3 interventions. This year we began monitoring the progress of those students who were placed in a reading intervention. We started collecting data from different measures. We started to meet together in teams and make collaborative decisions. Students who struggle are receiving help they would not have received not too long ago.
This is a good thing. Many of our students who were behavior problems and failing classes last year are beginning to find their way this year. So why am I not completely happy about this? Why is it that it does not all sit right with me? One of the things I find disconcerting are all of the packaged reading programs my district has adopted. I am not going to criticize these programs; I understand that at times they are what reach our students. I guess my uneasiness comes more from what I see happening to some of our best teachers. The teachers that go beyond – they use their own classroom data to guide their instruction, they find the right texts to use, and they reach their students. I have seen these teachers taken away from their expertise to teach a prescribed reading program. Some to teach a very regimented type of reading instruction where students are drilled, others became the teacher to help students while they worked on reading software.
After school one day, I was looking at the reading data collected this month with my principal. The spreadsheet had all the students currently in a reading intervention, along with their scores on fluency probes and comprehension checks. Scores were colored red, yellow, and green. My principal had also hand drawn and plot chart showing student growth for each of the interventions at each grade level. He was quickly flipping through his sheets and pointing out significant drops or gains. Then we came to one class that had all gains. He stopped, looked up at me and said, “You know who that is, right?” He was pointing out that the gains in that particular class were due to the teacher that taught the reading intervention. The teacher. Not the intervention. The same program taught by another teacher did not yield the same results. Now I know that there are many factors working together there, but the teacher is one of those factors. This is something that is difficult to resolve. It is hard to refuse a scientifically researched program without giving it a shot. But how do we decide who teaches it? I know it is going to take time for us to get this right. Rome was not built overnight. I know we are all in this together. I cannot say that my principal does not know what he is doing. He is a highly educated person who seeks answers and tries those things he has seen or read about that produce results. He comes to the problem of literacy from his own angle.
I guess this is where the role of literacy leaders is key. They need to ask the important questions: Are we challenging students at the right level? Are we using the right texts to engage our students? Are we teaching strategies that allow them to access the text we put before them? These are the questions that will help free our learners.
When I was in grade school, the only class boys and girls were separated for was “health” education. Looking back, this really was the easiest way to attempt to prevent giggles and snickers at the terms associated with sex education. Everyone laughed; everyone’s faces turned red. In reality though, health is a class that boys and girls should be separated. Different things are happening to girls’ bodies than are happening to boys’ bodies, and school should be a place where students learn the facts and are free to ask questions.
At the K-5 school at which I teach, the fifth grade boys and girls are separated for one day at the end of the school year and given their 45-minute “health” talk with the gym teachers (one male/ one female) and the school nurse. The boys return from the talk with a sample size deodorant. The girls return from the talk with a single pad that they hide under their arms so the boys won’t see.
Why does this one day happen at the end of the year? Most of the girls have had their periods all year, and most of the boys (and girls) have needed deodorant all year! Why should the middle school teachers at the next school be the only ones to benefit from pre-adolescent students not stinking?
I propose a weekly (or monthly, at least) health class for fourth and fifth graders that starts at the beginning of the school year.
Students have a right to get the hard facts, even if it makes them (or the teachers?) embarrassed. And of course, boys and girls should be separated.
This health DAY used to also consist of a question/ answer session, which I think was important. At the time, the boys’ meeting happened to be in my classroom, so I was present for most of the conversation, typing at my computer so as not to make the boys uncomfortable. I was surprised at the range of questions the boys posed: everything from “why do people get warts there?” to “why do I feel nervous talking to girls?” Our students have questions that must be answered by educators. One component of my proposed single-sex weekly health class is question/ answer time.
A few weeks ago, I observed a fifth grade gym class at my school. The students were playing dodge ball. Although this game is now played with soft(er) balls than the rubber kick-balls I used to use, this game still makes my stomach hurt! As I watched, I could see the difference in strength between the boys and girls at this age. For me, this game was no fun, but reflecting on it now, I think it might be more fun if boys and girls were separated for gym class. So finally, I feel that there must be a physical education component to the health time, where there are exercise stations for the boys and girls to choose from. I think healthy competition is critical for pre-adolescents as well, so there should be activities and games that encourage healthy competition.
When I was a fourth grade teacher, I was up-front with my students about everything. I told them all to take showers. I told them all to use deodorant so they don’t smell. I told them all to ‘dress for success’ so they would feel good and ready to learn when they came to school. When a student would talk to me and have bad breath, I would let them all know that “someone” forgot to brush and that they all better remember to brush tomorrow or I would bust out my mints. In essence, I was responsive. I was never rude to them; I always taught them about health and well-being in a humorous but educative way. I was honest and open with them.
When I got word that my boys were pretending that the bread rolls at lunch were breasts to mock the developing girls, I talked with them. After being absent one day for a conference, I got word that “Jay” brought a condom to school, showed it to the students around him during an assembly, and “Kayla” proceeded to tell the students that a condom is what a girl swallows to get pregnant. Immediately, this became a class lesson. I was not willing to run the risk of students being (that) mis-educated. Furthermore, this false knowledge could be dangerous. I called Jay’s mom in and had Jay explain to his mother what had happened.
At the time, I felt that it was urgent to educate all of my students. Many faces were red, but I did not know who had or had not seen the condom or which students heard the things Kayla had said. I felt it was my duty to clarify the incorrect information Kayla had passed along. It was a 10-minute talk based only on what Jay had brought in and what Kayla had said, and a few students asked questions. I know that my students were crystal clear when they left the room that day.
I let the school disciplinarian know that Jay’s mother would be coming in to meet with me, and when he asked why, I shared the incident. He warned me to be careful and expressed his “iffy-ness” about my talk. However, I was confident in my decision to educate my students, and I told him I would defend my rationale (students’ safety) to anyone who asked; I could not let the students be ignorant about this topic.
Otherwise, the response to my 10-minute talk was positive. After sharing the information with her, the school counselor said she hadn’t realized that our fourth graders were starting to talk about this stuff (!) and so she ordered health books for all of the fourth and fifth graders.
Jay’s mother thanked me, and then a handful of parents called me to thank me for opening up the door to having a healthy and open conversation. One parent told me she and her daughter went to the public library to get materials on the topic of sex and health education.
In conclusion, our schools must start taking a more active role in responding to students’ biological and social/emotional needs… on a regular basis!
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lake - a poem
As I peer through this window I can see,
A lake with waves lapping at its shore,
In the distance birds and children can be heard calling to each other,
Smells of wet sand, fresh coffee, diesel fuel,
This water is unlike any other.
It feels like all that has ever been - all that will ever be.
Without this window, summer couldn't be what it is, it wouldn't be.
A Mountainous Adventure
During the summer of 2007, I accomplished one of my dreams, which was to teach English in China. Aside from climbing the Great Wall and walking on the footsteps of former Emperors and Empresses of the Forbidden City, I had one other experience that was quite memorable.
A group of teachers and I had just returned to our Beijing New Oriental School in Yangzhou when Jaime, a fellow colleague, and I learned that our classes would not start for another week. So, what did we decide to do? Pack our bags and get on the next overnight train and head out to hike Huangshan (Yellow Mountain).
Since we arrived at the train station so late in the evening, we were told that there weren't any more sleeper cars. We were forced to sit in the most uncomfortable seats for 10 sleepless hours.
When we arrived at the mountain, our grand adventure began! As we emerged from the train station, Chinese guides started harassing us to be part of their tour group heading up the mountain. Jaime and I tried to resist, knowing that we wouldn’t benefit since we wouldn’t be able to understand anything coming out of his mouth. Eventually a young traveler with broken English said, “Come on, you should come with our tour group.” Delirious from lack of sleep, we hesitantly found ourselves roped into this tour group. Upon handing them our 58 yuan, they slapped red hats on our tired little heads and stuck pins on our chests to keep track of us.... and then we were off!
For three hours we hiked straight up the gorgeous mountain where Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon was filmed. After climbing countless stairs, Jaime and I eventually summitted the magnificent mountain. With little desire to listen to a Chinese tour guide for another 6 hours combined with the fact that we were flat out exhausted, we decided to try and escape the tour group to find a hotel. To our dismay we discovered they were all booked since it was summer holiday. Drenched in sweat and weak from exhaustion, we were left with no other option but to begin our decent. Fortunately the walk down offered the most impressive views of the mountain which recharged our batteries slightly.
Although we would have liked to climb the entire way down, we managed to find a cable car which took us to the base. Rather than staying at a hotel at the bottom of the mountain, we decided to hop on another overnight train back to Yangzhou, but again, we had to sit in another uncomfortable, stiff chair because the sleeper cars were already full. When I got back to campus, I took a very long cool shower, then jumped straight into bed and slept for what felt like an entire day.
South Side Cinderella: A Modern Day Fairytale
I read Yeh Shen, a Chinese version of the Cinderella story and wrote this one. I would consider this more of a young adult story than a children’s story.
Shots rang out as the car skirted down the street. A girl of only seven lay blanketed by her mother and shivering in fear.
As the sounds disappeared Amari looked into her mother’s eyes only to find emptiness. Amari began to cry but was drowned out by the ambulance roar.
When the police arrived and lifted Mrs. Johnson off of the young child they saw Amari’s dark skin smooth as a sheet of ice, her mud puddle colored brown eyes, and her hair braided as perfectly as a store bought doll. Officer Excerman asked, “Hey sweetie, know of any family near here that we can call up to meet you at the station?” Amari only stared at him and he back at her.
Immediately Officer Excerman decided that he was going to care for this tragic young beauty. Usually, Eric Excerman spent his days at work and his evening with his family. Yet, in the last few days his family had seen very little of him, he had been going to the shelter hoping to assist in finding any family for Amari.
After several weeks, the combination of an inquisitive wife and no luck in finding Amari’s family, Eric asked his wife to come to the shelter with him. His loving wife Meredith did as any faithful wife would and joined him one evening. Upon their arrival at the shelter Meredith was taken aback by the emotional connection between the young Amari and her husband. Never had Meredith seen her own daughters loved so much and never had she seen the twinkle in her husband’s eyes as she did that night.
Loving her husband as she did, Meredith agreed that Amari could go home with them and as long as the girls got along the family could adopt this innocent beauty. The first meeting between the Excerman girls, Leslie and Lydia, went more amazing than anyone could have hoped. The girls played various video games, giggled at their favorite movies, and even arrived at a shared peculiar indulgence, a love of french fries dipped in ice cream.
Seeing his family happy, including Amari, Eric presented the adoption papers to his wife. Within days Amari was part of the Excerman family and all seemed to be well.
As time went on Leslie and Lydia noticed that their daddy was bringing home gifts for Amari while they were being asked to be kind and share the little they thought they had. The two girls developed a hatred towards Amari not only because of the gifts and happiness she had but because things in life came so easily to her.
In school Amari always had good grades, everyone wanted to be her friend, and even the boys liked her. Amari always made Daddy happy because she did as she was told and even did well at the unexpected things. Mrs. Excerman started to notice the rift between the three girls and the attention that Amari was getting from her husband. This was unacceptable in any wife and mother’s eyes but what could she do, the little girl was the light of her husband’s life.
One night the girls had gotten ferociously sick, Amari the worst of them all. Mr. Excerman decided that he would take Amari to the hospital while Meredith stayed home to watch over Leslie and Lydia. Once arriving at the hospital the doctor’s found it was a bad case of food poisoning and gave Eric enough medicine for all of his girls.
Eric was relieved. As he drove home he began to reflect about his life and the amazing family he had created. He thought about how unique it was for someone from his neighborhood to grow up and become a police officer. He pictured his childhood and how much he wished he had a father that could have helped support his mother and would have shown him how men handle things. Then he pictured the people he grew up around, the drugs, the guns, the mess that was his environment and he was proud of himself and the life he had created for him and his family. He was overjoyed with the fact that he could even afford to take someone like Amari from that life and give her the life all children deserve. He thought about the things he had given Amari to make it just a bit easier to not know any of her true blood related family and he knew he had done good. As Eric sat there driving home thinking about the wonderful life he had that life was taken from him. A man had fallen asleep in his car and swerved into on coming traffic. Eric tried to move over but the road was in disarray. BAM!!!
Again, Amari heard the roar of the ambulance and knew that once again, her life was over, as she knew it. She also knew there would not be another father like Eric to save her from the events about to unfold. Mr. Eric Excerman died on the spot just as Amari’s mother had. He had left Amari.
Meredith believed in her heart of hearts that it was all Amari’s fault. Her mother had died alone with her and now so had Eric. If only Amari wasn’t that sick, if only Amari hadn’t cried so much, if only! From that day forth Mrs. Excerman vowed he would provide a home for the girl out of respect for her dead husband but no more than that, not a single ounce of love.
Amari knew the love she once knew along with her life was gone. The only thing Amari had left was Rex, her dog. Rex always made Amari feel loved since that was the last present Mr. Excerman ever gave her. It was a way for her to remember that no matter what happened she wouldn’t be alone in the world. Mrs. Excerman didn’t care much for the dog but couldn’t rid herself of it either since in her eyes it was her husband’s dog.
Years passed and the girls were now teenagers. Leslie and Lydia excelled in school thanks to Amari being required to do all of their homework in addition to her own. The chores were always Amari’s job; Mrs. Excerman said it was Amari’s way of paying her rent for being able to live in the house and be part of the Excerman family. Amari did as she was told because this was the only family she had left, she thought this is what a mother’s love was suppose to feel like.
Amari wasn’t allowed to go out because Mrs. Excerman said that every time she did someone died and who knows maybe Amari herself would be next. Therefore, Amari was left behind when it came to things like dating or parties. It didn’t matter all that much to Amari because Rex was the only thing she wanted to be around. Not to mention, the only clothing Amari had to wear were the hand me downs that the Excerman girls no longer wanted and that Mrs. Excerman deemed undesirable enough for Amari to wear. Leslie and Lydia easily enjoyed the spotlight of being the most popular and smartest girls in school and needless to say Mrs. Excerman was quite proud of her daughters even if it wasn’t their own accomplishment.
Late on a Saturday night as Amari just finished the girls homework and was preparing to put it away Rex knocked over the girls’ backpacks. There on the floor lay prom tickets and magazines filled with extravagant dresses each of the girls had picked out. Amari picked up the tickets and read the theme, “Masquerade Moments.” She then thumbed through the dress magazines and saw the amazing detail each dress had, she wished she could be part of such an ornate experience.
Amari lay awake that night and dreamed of what she would look like walking into the prom with a one-shoulder powder blue dress. She would wear a beaded crystal eye mask and crystal clear almost glass like shoes.
Then she had a rude awakening; Leslie and Lydia came home and noticed their backpacks had been shuffled through. They immediately went to their mother and told her that Amari had gone through their things and she was planning on going to prom. Mrs. Excerman was furious! She told her daughters not to worry; there would be no way that Amari could ever go to the prom.
The next morning when Amari woke up there was a list of chores she had to get done. Amari looked at the list and thought that it would be nearly impossible for all this to get done in a day. Just then Mrs. Excerman walked in and asked if she could speak with Amari. The two ladies sat down on Amari’s bed. Mrs. Excerman began, “Amari, the girls told me that you would like to go to the prom next week. I decided that would be a wonderful experience for you, the only thing is that you have to earn the money to pay for the tickets. I have bought the tickets, here they are. I will hold on to them and if you can complete the list I give you every morning until the prom then you may go. I also saved a dress from your mother. Mr. Excerman thought that a prom would have been the perfect time for you to wear such a stunning outfit. Would you like to see the dress and the tickets?”
Amari, more beautiful than she has ever looked before exclaimed, “Yes step-mother, yes I would. Thank you for being so kind. I knew you loved me, but I never knew you loved me so much as to save something of my mother’s for me.” Thank you, thank you so much.”
Mrs. Excerman walked out of the room with a devilish smile on her face and an evil twinkle in her eye. She then walked back into the room and revealed a red dress with sparkles and sequence. Amari sat there in awe, never could she have imagined wearing something so striking, and to top it off it was her mothers, she could wear something from the woman she always wished she had known. Amari promised at that moment to do anything that her stepmother asked.
Each day the list grew longer and longer and each day Amari managed to get the tasks done. She would stay awake for hours making sure all was perfect just as Mrs. Excerman would want to, she did this so she wouldn’t ruin her chances at going to the prom. Then came Saturday. When Amari looked at the list, one of the chores was to go downtown to pick up the girls dresses from the boutiques where they were custom made. What Amari didn’t know is that her stepmother had hired someone to steal one of the dresses.
Amari sat on the bus holding both dresses as tightly as she could. All she could think about was that this was her last stop and once she got these dresses home she could get ready for the prom. But Amari grew so tired from her late nights all wee and dosed off on the long ride home. When she woke up only one dress was in her hand. The other was missing. She questioned the bus driver, looked at every person on the bus, and in every corner of the bus…nothing. As she walked home, she knew her dreams were over; there was no way she could go to the prom.
Mrs. Excerman was waiting for Amari along with Leslie and Lydia. When Amari walked in with only the black dress Leslie began crying hysterically. Mrs. Excerman told Lydia to take Leslie up stairs and show her the red dress hanging in her closet. Amari knew which dress she was speaking about. Amari exclaimed, “you can’t, that’s my mother’s dress! You can’t give it to her!” Mrs. Excerman with a smirk on her face told Amari, “I can because you are not going to the prom. You did not do all that I asked. Your last task was a simple one, pick up the dresses and bring them home. So where is Leslie’s powder blue dress? Where has it gone?”
Amari ran to her room tears pouring down her face. She laid there and listened to the girls get ready for the most unforgettable night of their lives. Suddenly, she heard a whisper. As she turned her head, she saw what looked like her mother, her real mother. It couldn’t be, she thought, but it looked just like the face she stared into that lonely night years before. This ghost whispered, “ wait till they have left and then go to your step-mother’s bedroom. Look in the closet all the way to the right.”
Amari sat there for minutes, but they seemed like hours, waiting for the women to leave. The moment the door closed Amari ran to Mrs. Excerman’s bedroom and on the last hanger towards the left she saw a powder blue one strap dress with a crystal beaded mask hanging on it. She stood and waited, she thought this was wrong and was prepared to walk away when the ghost came back and said, “do not worry, it is my dress, the dress Eric picked out for you to wear on such a night.” A tear fell from Amari’s face as she grabbed the dress.
Once in her bedroom she put the dress on, it fit perfectly at every curve and hem, it was almost as though the dress was made for her. Once the dress was on, her hair was done, and her mask in place she realized she had no shoes. Again the ghost appeared and said, “do not worry my dear, look down at your feet.” Amari looked down and on her feet there were a perfect pair of glass shoes that sparkled with every twist of her foot. Amari stood up and raced out of the house.
The ghost appeared while Amari waited for the bust and said, “my darling daughter I wish you the best night of your life. Please remember to leave before your sisters do and whatever you do, leave nothing behind.” Amari replied, “I will mother, I promise.” And off she went into the night.
Once at the dance Amari had all eyes on her. Every young man danced with her and unbeknownst to her there was one man who particularly had an eye on her. He asked her to day many a time and she drawn to him said yes. At the point in the night when they were ready to announce the king and queen Amari had planned to leave. Just as that moment occurred a spotlight appeared on Amari and it was announced that the crystal masked girl was this year’s queen and the strapping young man she danced with all night was the king. The pair was asked to head to the middle of the dance floor for their first dance with their new titles.
As Amari was heading to the dance floor she noticed her sisters. Their eyes connected and Leslie recognized the dress her mom had hidden in her closet because it is the dress she had desired to wear. Lydia took out her cell phone and began to dial her mother’s number.
Amari knowing what was about to happen took off towards the street immediately. The prom king ran after her. When he finally caught up to her she was stepping on the bus. As she stepped on the bus her right glass shoe fell off. Amari looked at the King and then at her shoe and told the bus driver to DRIVE! The king picked up the shoe and promised to look for whoever this girl was.
Mrs. Excerman was parking her car on the street just was Amari closed the front door. Amari raced upstairs and placed the dress and mask back in the closet just was the bedroom door opened. Mrs. Excerman yelled, “what are you doing in here!” Amari replied, “putting away the laundry, I just finished ironing your skirts.” Mrs. Excerman told Amari to leave immediately. Once Amari had left Mrs. Excerman looked at the back left corner of the closet and saw the dress just as she had left it.
When Leslie and Lydia got home Mrs. Excerman assured them that the dress was in the closet and had not been moved and that Amari was home doing the laundry has she had been instructed. The girls did not believe it but knew better than to question their mother. So they angrily prepared for bed.
On Monday morning the girls saw posters all around the school asking for young ladies to try on a glass shoe. The posters also said that the winner would accompany the captain of the football team to a dinner banquet filled with college recruiters. Girls lined up endlessly along the football stadium but no one fit the shoe, especially not Leslie and Lydia, their feet were far to fat and big.
Then during last period when everyone else had given up Amari snuck out to the stadium and had the shoe put on her foot. Eric Thomas, the captain of the football team smiled at her, grabbed her hand, and walked into the school with Amari.
That evening they went to the banquet where Amari was offered a scholarship to Harvard. Eric and Amari went to Harvard, became doctors, and got married. They moved into a rehabilitated mansion on the opposite side of town as her stepmother and sisters. Amari and Eric Thomas lived happily ever after.
This is the rap I shared with my students during a unit on American Westward Expansion in the 19th century. It goes with the beat to the MIA song "Paper Planes" if you feel inclined to perform it "live." You may see the accompanying video by personal request only. ;)
Manifest Destiny (America Remix)
by MC J-Millz
Intro:
Land what we lookin' for
Money what we lookin' for
All we gotta do is just take what we lookin' for
Polk-man, Polk-man, Polk-man, Polk-man
Polk-man, Polk-man, Polk-man, Polk-man
Money to be made best believe America glockin’
Presidents run it like a quarterback option
Jeff pitch $15 millz tell a ‘bass to go shoppin’
France sell Louisiana
Lew/Clark got it poppin’
with Indians tryna kick it
‘long the River they walka
Find the source of the ‘ssouri and map the land proppa
Got help from a slave and Native teeny boppa
Survived two year trip, brought back Territory knowledge
Manifest Destiny
is what we believe, White race is superior
God wants us to succeed!
Gov’ment we hustlin’, ‘sources we findin’
it’s all about money, army ain’t gonna warn ya
get off of our land cuz now we own ya
and if we don’t own ya, we comin’ right for ya
wanna get rich, we ain’t worry ‘bout “Red Men”
we just give 'em land for free!
(Chorus—4x)
All I wanna do is (bang, bang, bang),
and a (click, ching)
take your money
Southeastern land is good but the Indians on it
Pass Indian Removal Act, we sendin’ they a** packin’
make’em go in da winter, Trail of Tears they sufferin’
but we gave’em Oklahoma so they shouldn’t be whinin’
Lucky for us Texas wins independence
From Mexico like they just can’t stand it
We annex Lone Star cuz it’s good for business
Polk want more, need a war—let’s start it
We claimin’ our border goes to the Rio
They attack our troops, now the war jumps off
Heated they a**, made’em say “Tio!”
Cali, ‘Zona, more, we made off
Move out west, it’s our destiny
Head to new lands like O. Territory
Rush for that gold in Califor-ny
Build rails wit China labor, G
(Chorus 4X)
I couldn't decide what mentor poem I was going to use with Christian. I wrote two and will decide later. I picked poems that led to scaffolding for Christian.
My Color Poems
Red
Red looks like the holding hands of an older couple walking the path of life.
Red sounds like the rapid thumping and pumping beat of my heart as I approach the finish line.
Red feels like the warmth of a mother’s hug on a frigid night.
Red tastes like luscious juice falling from ripe cherries as I eat around the pit.
Red smells like the endless aroma of tomato sauce that comes from my grandmother’s kitchen.
Red makes me feel like I am important in this world.
Red is forgiveness.
Black
Black looks like sticky tar on a steamy summer afternoon.
Black sounds like the banging thunder that shakes the house when I’m sleeping
Black feels like a thick blanket wrapped too tightly around my body.
Black tastes like the unavoidable licorice jellybean.
Black smells like the smoke that floats across the sky as it sneaks from the chimney.
Black makes me feel like I’m stuck in a hamster’s wheel leading to a place of nowhere.
Black is the roadblock to my dreams and the path of uncertainty.
Green
Green looks like the ambition of a hardworking student.
Green sounds the hatching of spring.
Green feels the damp mist of the grass that surprises to my bare feet.
Green tastes like the crisp crunch of romaine lettuce.
Green smells like the fresh cut grass on an abandoned countryside road.
Green makes me feel like there is hope for a new beginning.
Green is the button to push that makes me go.
-----------------------------------------------------
I wonder…
What if I could paint the sky?
I might find the color that perfectly matches my mood.
I could brighten the days of others with a quick splash from the brush.
I would watch as the drops of the rainbow fell and colored the world.
What would that color be?
I wonder…
I wonder…
What if there were no tears?
I might never know if someone was hurt, sad, or happy.
I could ask, but could words characterize their true feelings?
I would wonder if compassion would be lost.
If there were no tears does that mean tears would be meaningless?
I wonder…
I wonder…
What if I am living in the dreams I dream?
I might then never live or die.
I could skip through life with a sense of relief in knowing things will change.
I would experience my life as and observer and a doer.
But, would I really be who I say I am?
I wonder…
I wonder…
What if all food tasted like chocolate.
I might no longer like the taste.
I could finally eat my vegetables.
I would be an example of perfect health.
Can this ever be possible?
I wonder…
I wonder…
What if we could say nothing but the truth?
I might hear people’s honest thoughts.
I could live life never guessing.
I would never question the way people feel. I could just ask.
Would people get along?
I wonder…
I wonder…
What if I had a million dollars?
I might go for a trip around the world.
I could surprise families by giving them the gifts of their dreams.
I would try my best to stay the same.
Could I make a difference in the lives I care most about.
I wonder…
I wonder…
What if there were no questions?
I might not get my answers.
I could try to live by statements, but it wouldn’t be very fun.
I would remain a prisoner in a boring world of certainty
Would I ever wonder?
I wonder…
First Snowfall Day
Winter announces itself on the
First Snowfall Day.
It’s not the day you see a tiny, lazy flake falling from the sky
here or there,
like you sometimes do on a very
very
cold day in fall.
No, it’s the day the
BIG
white
heavy
wet
snowflakes descend
one after another
sticking,
to the brown, krinkley leaves
that have been sitting, piled in the streets for weeks.
It’s the day you look out the window
And the usual scenery is blurry,
white flurries tumbling into and around each other from the sky.
It’s the day kids can’t pull themselves away from the classroom window.
And no one, really,
can celebrate
by watching from the inside – even adults.
It’s the truth.
To fully celebrate this day,
you must be on the other side of the glass.
You must feel winter arrive
on your
cheeks,
nose
eyelashes.
Yellow
Yellow is the beach on a hot summer day
Colorful umbrellas
Waves crashing
Sunscreen in the air
Yellow is a busy city street full of taxi cabs
Screeching horns
People walking
Tall buildings
Yellow is the walls of my favorite Mexican restaurant
Tortillas on the grill
Horchata dripping slowly
Chips and salsa on the table
Yellow is the unfriendly lion at the zoo
Strong body
Enacting fear
Roaring loudly
Yellow is the gorgeous sight of spring
Daisies sprout first
Petals facing the sun
Smells fill the air
Yellow is a happy color
This is a model of a story frame I created for David. The frame itself is based on the mentor text I am using called "Reading Can Be Dangerous," by Ted Arnold. Arnold wrote about the dangerous of reading, I about the dangerous of outdoor recess in Wisconsin - we'll see what David writes about!
Outdoor Recess Can Be Dangerous
Yes, dangerous. It’s true. Like when you are living in a place like Milwaukee, Wisconsin and the temperature can go as low as negative 25 degrees! Or when you get a wind-chill temperature as low as NEGATIVE 50 DEGREES - or like when you’re all wrapped up in a Triple-Fat-Goose down jacket (way before down coats were cool) and snow-pants, still turning into a human popsicle! Or like when you have outdoor recess in elementary school, and have no choice but to huddle against the cold brick of the school building as the only means of shielding your frail, small eight-year-old body from the harsh winter Wisconsin winds. Or when a shadow falls across the concrete, and you realize it’s only noon and your warm desk is waiting for you to go back inside. And your whole body is frozen, eager to hear the recess bell and avoid your doom.
What happened to me wasn’t that bad. But I still remember one of the times I got frostbite on my ear, because I didn’t wear my hat back when I was a kid.
Pots for Shirley
By
Alfred W. Tatum
2/3/09
12:45am
“I don’t
wash pots
do laundry
mow lawns”
I don’t
is what I told mommy
is what I told daddy
I don’t
but I wish I did
My life is moving way too fast
I don’t
is what I said
I do
would have saved me
I hate the letters n & t
They destroyed me.
Candy is so Sweet
Candy is so sweet
However no candy in the school
You know this already
It has always been a rule.
Candy is so sweet
I said, “spit it out”
If you don’t take it out now
I’m going to pry it out of your mouth.
Candy is so sweet
Is that a Nestle Crunch?
Oh! You have done it now
Silent Lunch!
Candy is so sweet
You say “what’s the big deal”
Ask your parents
When they get that dental bill.
Candy is so sweet
We’re going on a trip
Did you actually think
You would get a permission slip?
Candy is so sweet
“See you when we get back”
I told you more than once
As a matter of fact.
Candy is so sweet
I told you I was not playing
You did not take heed
To what I was saying.
Candy is so sweet
And so am I
That is why
I did not make you cry.
Candy is so sweet
I’m not going overboard
I just want my class
To be on the same accord.
Candy is so sweet
You don’t think I care
Let’s talk it out
I can be fair.
Candy is so sweet
It’s as simple as can be
Just don’t eat it in school
How hard can that be?
Candy is so sweet
Okay a better compromise
You can eat the candy
If you win it as a prize.
Candy is so sweet
Thanks Mrs. K
You’re the best
In a sorta, kinda, way!
Metamorphosis
By Kristal
Girl
curious, self-conscious
questioning, absorbing, growing
allowance, chores, paycheck, responsibility
answering, objecting, living
wise, confident
Women
Basement
I’m going back to the basement
Where I have my books
My work
My studies
My writings
Where I am insulated
Sheltered
Protected
I’m going back to the basement
Because I tried coming up
Playing music
Singing
Cooking more
Relating to you by being up here
Available
Flirty
Playful
You took me in not with a welcome heart
But with a raised eyebrow
You looked on me with doubt
And distance
I got criticized
Evaluated
Rejected
I’m done
I’m tired
I’m frustrated
I’m fed up
I’m going back to the basement
Of my soul
Here is a Haiku poem that I wrote for Nicholas. This poem was inspired by a beautiful image, but I cannot figure out how to post it for you to see. You will have to use your imagination (and possible wishful thinking).
Endless blue ocean.
A tropical paradise,
where I want to be.
Together we researched sharks and wrote this Haiku, again using an image as inspiration.
Twenty thousand teeth.
Some sharks are harmless, or not.
Live in the ocean.
Family
Lori, the oldest
Kind, caring, honest, loyal
Lives so far away
Charles, the workhorse
Diligent and talented
Are you ever home?
Michael, the closest
Dependable and witty
One phone call away
Richard, my father
Resilient, compassionate
In the neighborhood
Carol, my mother
Loving, warm, considerate
Dearly missed by all
This is a form poem I used with Martin. Check his One Thing I Know poem out on the blog.
One Thing I Know
The beach is my escape.
The beach is wind-swept and sandy.
The beach is peaceful and comforting.
The beach is my favorite place to be.
One thing
I know-
I DO
LIKE THE BEACH.
Angelique and I both wrote our poems this week based on Lawrence Ferlinghetti's "I Am Waiting" and the things we'd like to see changed in the world.
I Am Waiting
I am waiting for greater expectations
and I am waiting for spring
and I am waiting for layoffs, warbots, cancer, cold, corruption, manipulation, tax evasion, recession equations, and Rod Blagojevich to get off my news station
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a stress-free day
and I am waiting for people to let down their defenses
which will make the world less ego-full and more honest
for future generations
and I am waiting for a renewed faith in humanity
and I am waiting
for kids to be kids again
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
Why I Own 50 Pairs of Shoes
My shoes make me grow taller and louder
As I walk down the hall
“Here I come,” they say
“I mean business”
I put them on
I click and clack
I swish and sway
I stomp and clomp
My shoes speak for me
And they talk loudly
My shoes have an authority
That flats just don’t command
My shoes raise me up
The four-inch distance that can seem so far
They get me eye-to-eye
And then it’s my turn to talk
This is a Shakespearean Sonnet I attempted a while back and that I revised when I revisited it:
Morning Mist
The sweet breath of an awakening spring
The softening scent of jasmine and rain
Under the safe cool shade of an oak tree
Can seem to soothe deepening wounds of pain
Flower buds fly, flutter, and hypnotize
As a new taste dances on the wet ground
The intense glow of the morning sunrise
Seeing the vivid colors become one
The clear light blue sky falls over the Earth
Listening to birds chirp a cheerful song
Morning mist of frest cut grass, a rebirth
Nothing can ever possibly go wrong
As the clouds gather and rain trickles down
I grasp such a calmness without a sound
I used this poem when I taught personification to my students.
I Am…..
I am the pinnacle of the season
I wonder when the Bears will come back to play
I hear the cheers of every excited fan
I see the coaches concocting an indomitable play
I want to crown a champion with a ring of diamonds
I am what every NFL coach hopes to achieve
I pretend the game will never end
I feel every aggressive hit
I touch the ridges of the brown, pig skin
I worry that true ability of the players won’t prevail
I cry for the players whose hearts were crushed
I am the dream of every boy
I understand that someone must lose
I say “Touchdown!”
I dream about this day all year long
I try to make heroes
I hope the best team wins
I am the Superbowl
Being a dreamer
Is a delight
I fantasize
I’ll gladly explain
Upon rising I imagine
Loads of wonderful things
I fly
To unknown corners of the world
Through serene lands
Encountering mysterious creatures
I see mountain tops and ocean bottoms
I meet interesting people
A migrant worker from long ago
A mother from the other side of the earth
A baby who has yet to enter our world
I jump
A hundred years forward
and a hundred years back
Truly a dreamer’s is
The best
Of all lives
Lilia (two working versions)
By Meg Tanabe
Language learning lover.
Insatiable appetite.
Library and lion visits equally enjoyed.
Irresistibly cuddly.
Active angel who giggles and wiggles all day.
Loves to play with others.
Is always moving around.
Likes all foods except soggy zucchini.
Irresistibly cuddly.
Angel in my life.
Carina said
A STROLL IN WINTER-
By Carina O Keeffe
A soft white carpet under my feet, pad, pad.
An icy wind biting my face, sting, sting!
Icicles dripping from the trees, sparkle, sparkle!
A bright moon gleaming from the sky, glisten, glisten!
A quiet beating slowly in my heart, shh, shh……….
The Lighthouse—A Children's Tale
Gina Caneva
There once sat a lighthouse at the edge of the land that brought the ships in with the wave of a man’s hand. The old man would aim and bring them in one by one and go to sleep as soon as he was done. Though his night was tiring and rather long, his stream of light seemed to go on forever—steady and strong.
“I wonder what it takes to be a man in a lighthouse,” a little boy of seven said.
“I hope that’s not what you want to be,” said the father with much dread.
“Why not?” questioned the boy with a curious look on his face.
“Well, how would you like to work at a snail’s pace?”
“But father…” the boy began
Dad interrupted, “Play football and study hard. Lighthouses will never teach you how to be a man.”
The boy closed his mouth and walked away. He ran outside watching all of the other kids play. No one even noticed the lighthouse or the man inside, how he directed ships directly to the seaside.
So one day, the boy walked to the edge of land, to meet the man who brought the ships in with the wave of a hand. He entered the foot of the lighthouse right at the base, and immediately his heart began to race. He started to run and found he could not stop, wanting so greatly to meet the man at the top.
At about a third of the way, he was stopped by an old man of ninety-five. He walked with a cane, frail, barely alive.
“Little boy, please turn around, you don’t have the strength to be this high off the ground.”
“Who are you?” The boy said looking at the man’s body length beard.
“I’m the Guardian of Tradition, the carrier of the lighthouse’s hopes and fears.”
“Do you know the man at the top? Is he old, is he wise?”
“He is both, and so much more, not to mention his stature and size.”
“So you have to be big to work the light.”
“And even bigger to be sight. Now turn around and come back soon. Just as soon as you can tell time by the moon.”
Time by the moon, the boy repeated, and walked down the stairs with his hopes defeated. He returned home and spoke to his dad, telling him just why his day went so bad.
“Boy, I told you not to bother. Why don’t you ever listen to your father? I’m against your choice and so is tradition. I think you need to change your future position.”
“The old man is on my side, he didn’t say ‘access denied’. He said to return again soon when I could tell time by the moon.”
“What are they teaching you in school? I better correct this, my son’s no fool. No more trips outdoors alone, and no more prank phone calls on the telephone--especially the one about the refrigerator running…man anyone can see that punch line coming…”
The little boy grew even deeper in despair, telling himself it was unfair. His father didn’t understand, the power it took to bring a ship in with the wave of the hand. So he stayed inside a lot during the day, even decided to sleep instead of play. He waited for the night, for that moon to shine bright. He hoped for some sort of sign to help him on his quest to tell the time.
At first he focused solely on the moon, sitting and watching it from the sand dunes. When he couldn’t figure out the time of night, he decided to widen his range of sight. From nightfall to sunrise, he scanned the light and the darkness of the big, perfect sky. It got darker just before the stars, but then he lost track watching from afar. So he climbed the tallest tree outside his house, leaving as quiet as a mouse. He kept on looking night after night, knowing most people told the time by the sun’s light.
And one night, when he knew every star, every shimmer and every crevice of the moon, he started to feel like he would return to the lighthouse fairly soon. This time he brought up his dad’s pocket watch, and made sure the hands worked right, down to the smallest notch. He looked at it and decided to sleep. And as he did so, the moon began to creep. When he awoke, it was pitch black. He rubbed his eyes and straightened his back. He looked to the moon and then found every star, suddenly he didn’t feel so far.
“Two thirty-six” he said with a yawn.
When he looked at his watch, he was dead on.
So he ran up the foot of the lighthouse like he had done some time before, kept keeping the time and opened the door. At about a third of the way, he hoped to see the Guardian of Tradition. He wanted to show how this new lesson would help him achieve his ambition. But the old man did not appear, so the boy kept on going, despite his new fears.
He got another third of the way, and a middle-aged man stood on the stair. He gave the boy a look that said Beware.
“Young man turn back, though you’ve gained a lot, there is still so much you lack. Sure you’ve beaten tradition but that not is all you must overcome. I am the Guardian of the Present, but don’t be fooled, you’ll need to know the past. Or else you’ll think you’re ready, problem is you won’t be able to last. You must first remember where it is you’ve come from. Only then will you have learned all you need to gain, and understand what it takes to stay dry in the pouring rain. Now go back to the land, just remember how close you are to bringing a ship in with the wave a hand.”
The boy walked back slowly, his head down at his hands. It took him a long time to achieve the Guardian of Tradition’s command. He didn’t really think he could stay dry in the rain, even feared the lightning might bring him pain. So he listened to his father, and accepted getting two-thirds of the way up and declined to bother.
Then one day in class, the boy saw a map. He saw how the oceans seemed to fill in the land’s gap. In that vast space, one light showed the way, and he returned to his dreams that very day. He knew where he came from that was the easy part. It was staying dry that put a dent in his heart. He knew an umbrella or raincoat would cause the Guardian to turn him away, so the boy wore street clothes and ran outside on every rainy day.
And he got wet, drenched beyond belief. He’d run inside for relief. Soaked to the bone, he still stood in the grass, even ran out of his map class. His friends thought he was crazy. His dad though he was lazy. They didn’t understand what was so great about a guy who could bring a ship in with the power of his hand. But the boy focused on the power he would one day hold. Nothing would stop him, not even the freezing cold.
He walked around his house in the pouring rain, hearing the sounds of the midnight trains. He tried running against the storm, but upon his shirt, raindrops did form. He tried finding the lightning, and running that way, but that even drove him insane day after day. So he tried to remember all the Guardian had had to say, even when his wet clothes began to decay.
There was a small part of his roof that formed an overhang, so small it could not be seen in the pouring rain. If he stood directly under it, the rain would still make its mark. But if he waited for the right gust of wind and stood along the right angle, he would stay dry. So he waited a long time until he decided to try. The storm was the worst of the year. Every neighbor shut their door out of fear. But the boy ran outside when the wind was hitting the air just right. At the right angle in the pouring rain, his house kept him dry. And in the beginning he didn’t even want to try.
So again he ran back to the foot of the lighthouse like he had done twice before, hoping he wouldn’t have to go back down once more. He couldn’t wait to tell the Guardian of the Present all he had gained, how he stayed completely dry in the pouring rain. So he got two-thirds of the way up, but no Guardian appeared. The boy continued with a whole new set of fears.
Step by step, he wondered what remained. I can tell time by the moon, and stay dry in the pouring rain. He was nearing the top when a man about ten years older than himself made him stop.
“Hey kid, you better turn right back around, there’s no way you should be this high off the ground. Sure you’ve learned a lot, but that better not be all you’ve got. You’ve wiped out tradition and took control of your present. I’m the Guardian of Destiny, so start your descent. Know the world hard and good, it’s the people that matter most, and they should.”
“I’m already on my way. I’ll start this very day.”
And the boy began to walk the long walk down. One step away from the top, and they made him come back down. The boy believed he knew the world hard and good, but he didn’t know people as well as he should. He had lost most of his friends, and his father said he wouldn’t speak to him ever again.
People would be a hard one that was for sure, but he was ready for this journey, with all he had endured. So he kept that in mind, and didn’t leave his past behind. He started to talk to everyone in the town. They all thought he was the class clown.
“Who runs out of class in the pouring rain or listens for the midnight train?”
They didn’t understand his goal, they missed out on what he yearned for in his soul. But one day, he saw a girl, of about seventeen, little did he know, she knew all about the world. Her dad was a fisherman on the sea, and as he traveled around the world, so did she. She told the boy of the oceans and all the land mass, more than he had ever learned about in map class. She had opened his eyes to the surrounding world; before he never even heard of this girl.
One day, he found her with her head in her hands, tears streaming down. He asked her what exactly turned her life around.
“My dad is lost at sea. They can’t find his ship, why couldn’t this happen to me?”
At that moment, the boy took off for the foot of the lighthouse once more. He passed through the valleys and opened up the door. He sprinted up every stair, not one at a time anymore, he didn’t care. He got a third of the way and remembered the moon, another third and he remembered the rain, another third and he remembered the girl. And he opened the door, which forever changed his world.
There sat the light, he had reached the top, and no one made him stop. At the handle sat a note, the boy grabbed it and took off his coat.
It read: “For the boy who noticed me while others went on with their day, who saw me from the swingsets while all of the other children went to play. I know how your father called you a fool, and I even know how you skipped map class in school. You have beaten tradition and can tell the time by the moon, a task you will employ soon. You are aware of your present, know where you came from. There is not much you have to overcome. You have stayed dry in the pouring rain and learned to live by that midnight train. But most of all, what you’ve needed to reach the top, you have controlled your future, your destiny. I have complete faith you will bring back that girl’s father from the overwhelming sea. Few people ever reach the top, most return to the ground when we make them stop. But you have kept going despite it all. You’ve conquered every stair without a fall. But what you must remember most is what sets you apart, for this answer you must look inside your heart. Remember what made you dream this particular dream, what caught your eye that others can’t see. People have called you crazy, a clown, yet you have never stopped and stayed on the ground. I now give you full responsibility of the sea, and one more thing, the guardian’s keys. For it will be some time before another comes like you, and you’re going to have to teach them what to do. So grab the light and bring the ship in with the wave of your hand. And none of us will see you again now that you are a man.
The Guardian of Tradition
The Guardian of the Present
The Guardian of Destiny”
The man grabbed hold and thought of how he was still going to be here when he was old. He had begun when he was seven years of age, just at his beginning stage. And now, he was much older, the same age as the Guardian of Destiny that had seen him ten years ago. His journey was long and taught him much more than he could ever possibly know. He looked out in the darkness, in the pouring rain to begin another journey yet again. He had reached his highest height, but the girl’s fisherman father needed him to shine the light. So he swerved it around the vast sea and searched and searched until his fingers began to bleed. He had remembered every bit of his training, after every moon, every storm, and even his father’s complaining.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a jagged edge, something small enough that from this height looked like a wedge. He shone his light, and sure enough it was a ship. He held it steady and strong, making sure not to dip. The ship seemed to grab the light and not let go in the night. He brought it in to shore, and then looked out once more. From the top he could see the girl who had changed his world. She ran to her dad, he caught her in mid-air. The man in the lighthouse wanted to run down all the stairs. But he couldn’t, for that would make him stop. And in that moment, nothing could bring him down from the top.
Someday...
I want to go to Hawaii.
I will swim in the ocean and lay in the sun.
I will watch the sunrise from a volcano.
I will love it so much, I won't want to come home.
Someday...
Today...
I am bundled up in my winter gear.
My feet are frozen and fingers numb.
I am dreaming of summer.
Love is purple like a bunch of ripe, juicy grapes.
It rushes though my veins like water gushing down a waterfall.
It makes me feel excited like a little girl waiting to open her birthday presents.
It makes me want to hop up and down like a kangaroo.
The Power of Rain
As I ponder outside my windowpane,
I view each raindrop as a person.
And if we come together,
We can share in the beauty of what we just created:
A rainfall.
Yet, if we work hard enough,
And with a little sunshine,
We can partake in the delight of what we just created:
A rainbow.
Elegance in the Deep
Have you ever been fortunate enough to witness a dolphin in the wild? They are as graceful as a ballerina. Dolphins glide through the smooth water in harmony with the ocean. These magnificent creatures move through vast amounts of salt water while surfacing to take in fresh oxygen. Their beautiful bodies are symmetrical to assist them in searching through the depths of the ocean. Flippers and their tail keep their elongated body balanced. As their curved bodies swim through the ocean, you see hints of gray, blue, and silver. Some are as gray as a storm cloud while others are as silver as a spoon. If you are lucky enough to touch one, you will feel their smooth, wet, rubbery exterior. Dolphins are as smooth as glass yet can be as rubbery as tires. These peaceful creatures need seafood, saltwater, and oxygen to survive, but interaction to flourish. They are not violent beasts, but friendly, calm, and simple. They cruise through the ocean waters clicking, splashing, and calling to communicate-to other sea creatures as well as humans. Fascinating. These amazing reasons are why the dolphin is my favorite animal.
My ring finger used to be ugly
I guess I used it too much while clutching the pencil with my left hand
But then when he slid the shiny wedding band on my finger
The writer's bump faded away
Off the Deep End
Earlier this month, I took my Kindergarten and 1st grade students swimming for the first time. They go to learn the basics of water safety and swimming. We will go a total of six times each year. The hope is that by 8th grade, they will be swimmers.
We do not have a swimming pool at our school, so we first have to board a bus and ride over to the park district’s pool. Once there, the smell of chlorine as we enter the building reminds us why we have come on this trip. The boys and girls are separated to go and get changed into their bathing suits. Anticipating trouble, I go into the locker room with the boys.
They are so excited and nervous that they forget to pester or fight with each other. I stand out of view, peeling off my clothes to reveal my one-piece grandma suit underneath. Then I listen to the sounds of the lockers opening and closing and the parents helping the boys step into their suits. Oddly, I hear some of them being reminded to remove their underwear before they get into their bathing suits. I can see them as they sit on the bench in their trunks, wrapped in their towels, shivering.
When they have all changed, we walk into the showers and everyone gets a quick rinse under the water. Some of them are almost hysterical they are so excited. It is hard to tell if they are shaking from cold or fear.
As we walk into the pool area, another K/1 class is just finishing their lesson, so the boys watch for a few moments while I go in to check on the girls.
The moment I walk into the girls’ locker room, I decide that when I have children, I want to have boys. It is chaos in there. Clothes everywhere, girls giggling and talking, dancing in various states of undress, and totally oblivious to the directions that I am trying to give. A couple of girls are actually sitting quietly on the bench wrapped in their towels (like I asked), so I lead them into the shower and repeat the process that the boys just went through. When the remaining girls notice what is happening, they quickly get down to business and get their bathing suits and caps on so they can rinse off.
A short time later, all the students are standing by the pool with their floaty belts on. They are told to sit on the edge and slide into the pool. For some of them, this is the first time they have ever been in a swimming pool. There is no crying or any hysterics like I had feared. All of them were very brave. In the end, we emerged a little wrinkled, but exited to see what would happen next week in the pool!
This is model after Come on Rain by Karen Hesse. It is an example of a descriptive story and how images can be created. I hope to use the story to show the visualization strategy.
Come On, Snow!
“Come on, snow!” I say peering out my frosted window bundled in my flannel pajamas relieved that it is a Saturday. I look up at the clear, blue sky cursing the weather reports that promised snow. It’s another excruciating, artic, cold morning. Snow would be the good news I’ve been waiting for all week. The news that makes it bearable to live in the windy city they call Chicago. My smile has disappeared. I glance over my shoulder at the yellow curled up ball at the foot of my bed. She’s been waiting for it, too.
“Yes, I still have to walk you,” I muttered to my beloved dog, the Labrador retriever. She raises her eyebrows and stares; hopeful that that I’ll tell her that the white blanket has covered her favorite park and she can go out and play. “No Callie. No snow. I know, no fun. But we need that walk.”
I drag my cozy boots from the warm closet where the furnace is located and place my hat tightly on his head. I pull my marmot snow pants on over my jeans, another trick I’ve learned in the past two years of living in Chicago to prevent the throbbing stings that numb with a vengeance. I smile. This year I’m so glad that I bought the hundred dollar pair of gloves that protects against the biting wind. I am prepared for battle. I am ready to fight. I look down at Callie in envy. Her tail still wags even though she knows the chances are slim that we’ll be going to the park. “I wish I were a dog,” I think to myself. I sigh. “Come on, snow!”
I open the front door and I am punched in the face with the cold. I hear the muffled sounds of my boots crunching on the packed old, icy, snow that has been here for weeks. I thump across the street in my heavy winter boots, my companion trotting loyally beside me as we reach Callie’s favorite patch of what use to be grass. I’m already chilled to the bone. I glance up and down the usually crowded block. The familiar faces of Judy and her five year old twins, Jack and Haley are nowhere to be seen. I see Callie’s ears perk. It’s just Bob scurrying back inside as he collects his morning newspaper. He shouts over his shoulder as he climbs the steps, “They say it’s gonna snow!” I nod my head, gripping my coat, hoping that he may be right.
Callie and I head down the street. I stare up at the rooftops and hear the crackling sound of water as it freezes to ice. Could he be right? In the distance gray clouds are collecting. I see them inching their way across the blue sky in feathery layers. Callie looks up at me, ears back, snout in the air, smirking. She is trying to tell me something. She knows! “Come on, snow!” I whisper, watching my breath frost the air.
We scamper past the unrecognizable steamed windows of only what neighbors would know as J & J’s Coffee House. Callie Bear gives a quick bark at the two colorful snowmen covered head to toe in Patagonia jackets, gloves and hats approaching us. It’s my good friends, Brian and Chrissie going to breakfast. “Hey, I think it’s going to snow,” I almost shout so that they can hear me through their thick fleece hats. “We’re going to the park.” Callie’s tail wags wildly at the sound of the magic word. They hustle inside, relieved that I didn’t invite them to come along.
We hurry past them and bounce down the street. Callie starts to pull on the leash with excitement. She looks like she has been given an important mission with her tail straight up in the air and her nose stuck sniffing on the ground. She knows a short cut. Calzone drags me through an alley, past the bags of salt Jon and Jeff have sold to the neighbors to help prepare of the snow. I smell someone frying up bacon and eggs and hear cartoons playing as we leave the alley. They don’t know what they are going to miss. Snow is coming.
The blue in the sky has been fully replaced with an elephant gray hue. Moisture can be felt in the relief of my cracking lips. The wind stops biting and leaves my checks tingling as they thaw. The numbness begins to fade with the anticipation. We enter the gates to Callie’s paradise. She hops, jumps, and yanks my arm as I skate toward the ice covered grass. Her tongue hangs from her mouth as she waits for me to set her free. Off she goes, flying and soaring into her own world. She looks back wishing she tell me what she knows. I look onward with envious eyes and can’t help but wish I were still a kid.
...And just like that snow comes.
It is hesitant at first, like it doesn’t know if it’s welcomed. The flakes wander slowly onto my black coat like dandruff. Specks of white dust fall gently to the ground. “Come on snow!” I beg. For a brief moment, Callie brushes her body against my leg, sits in front of me, and gazes up, reassuring me that it will come. Then she is off, sprinting with her own agenda. All of a sudden, dark clouds roll in as if they hear my plea.
“Come on snow!” I shout. At last, it comes. Big, white, fluffy cotton balls fall passionately out of the sky covering my armor with confectionary sugar. It freckles the tuffs of hair that sneaks out of my hat. It blankets Callie so that she camouflages into her natural surroundings.
My smile returns. Everything fades. I turn in circles in this snow globe and I am seven again. My Dad is helping build an igloo with me, my brother and two sisters. Snow covers my face as we race to see who can catch the most snowflakes on their tongue. I’m ten and the four of us are trying to build the biggest snowman in the world! Then we realize the head we have made is too heavy. I am 13 and we have chosen teams to have a snowball fight. Then one of us thinks it’s a good idea to throw a snowball at a car. I am 15 and sledding is still the thing we crave when there is a snow day. And I’m 18 soaring down Cornell’s infamous hill in an inflatable chair my roommate bought for her dorm room.
Without warning Callie knocks me to the ground and licks the wet flakes off my face. I stare up into the endless shower of powder. I laugh out loud as I wrestle with Callie in the fluff. At that moment, as iridescent glitter sprinkles the ground and covers the two of us until we shine, we are both truly and freely happy.
Broken Window
You know how, when you’re doing something you’re not supposed to be doing, you have that tiny, irritating voice in your head that tells you that you should probably stop what you’re doing? But really, you’re having so much fun that the fun overpowers that tiny, irritating voice. You know how that goes, right?
It was always a treat to drive with my family to South Bend, Indiana to see my great-grandparents. Well, not the driving part. Seeing Grandma and Grandpa Murray was always great though. I knew them better than I knew my regular grandparents. And, often while we were at their house, my cousin Esther would be there too. She was the cool, older cousin (three years older than me) who usually dictated what we did whenever we played together. She wasn’t bossy at all, just full of fantastic ideas, which is what made her so cool. I’m sure that gymnastics in the guest room during one particular visit was her idea, although the suggestion of that event is not what sticks out in my mind so clearly about that day.
I was the most unathletic and uncoordinated kid you could possibly imagine. However, this day I truly felt like a professional tumbler (if there was such a thing) as I flipped over and over on the guest bed, upstairs in my great-grandparents’ house. It was a full-sized bed, allowing plenty of room for two young girls to practice their summersaults. Esther was trying to coach me and to help me perfect my summersault style. I wasn’t so concerned about my style as I was in awe of this new-found athletic ability that had been hiding inside me for my entire life - all five years of it. I reveled in my success as I rolled head-over heels on the bed again and again, until...
CRASH!
Without knowing what exactly had happened, I was suddenly lying on my back with most of my body on the bed, and my left foot resting in the jagged hole it had just made in the bedroom window. I looked up to see Esther staring at me with a horrified gaze. I was petrified and couldn’t begin to think about what I should do next. My brain finally cleared enough for me to realize that I should probably move my leg away from the shattered glass. A moment later, my mother entered the room.
“What happened?” she cried in surprise.
I explained through gasps and sobs that I had broken the window while trying to do a summersault, that I must have accidentally tipped to the side mid-roll. If your mom is anything like my mom, you won’t be surprised to hear that she was furious. Looking back, I realize that this is probably because she knew that she was the one who would have to tell Grandpa Murray that her daughter had broken his window, and probably have to pay for a new pane, too. At the time, however, all I could think was how I felt like a terrible, rotten kid for doing something wrong. And it was something I knew I shouldn’t have been doing on top of it.
Somehow I moved, or was moved, to the den, where I sat on the black couch and cried some more. I could hear voices downstairs, and my mom soon reappeared. She asked something about my foot being hurt or cut or something. I was so busy feeling miserable about what I had done that I hadn’t thought to check my foot for blood or cuts. Miraculously, there was not a scratch on it. Halfway through my mother’s examination, Grandma Murray joined her in checking me out. I couldn’t look her in the eye. I had never felt so guilty. My great-grandmother was the most perfect human being I had ever met. I was sure that she would never have done anything so thoughtless and stupid. Then Grandpa Murray entered the room.
At that point I was just plain scared. My great-grandpa was really a very kind man, but then I had never done anything that would make him act any other way. I wasn’t afraid of what he would say when he yelled at me. I was just afraid that he would yell at me. I was afraid that he wouldn’t want us to come back to their house again. I was afraid that he wouldn’t ever be able to return to his good opinion of me. Somehow I knew that I would never be trusted again.
“Allicia, are you okay?” he finally asked. I looked up and saw the concern written in his face. I began to cry even harder than I had been before. He walked over and hugged me. That was when I knew it would be okay if I came back to their house again.
It turned out that Grandpa was not too happy about the window, but he didn’t make my parents pay for it. He never said anything else to me about it again either, other than accepting my apology. And I never said anything about it again either.
ALONE: An acrostic poem
Asking God why everything dies around me…I’m a disease.
Loving someone infinitely without being loved…I’m impossible to love.
On my knees praying for a reason to live…I’m at a loss.
Nothingness stares me down as I look in the mirror…I’m disgusting.
Endlessly waiting for a touch signaling I belong somewhere…I’m still ALONE!
Big Snow Coming - A Children's Tale
On Monday afternoon, Samuel walked out of his house, felt the cold, biting wind and said, “Big Snow Coming.” He went back in his house, grabbed his feathered goose down jacket, waterproof hat and large gloves. He replaced his brown shoes with his large snow boots that went halfway up his shin. Samuel then started down the block to catch the train for work. His neighbor, Blanca, was standing on her porch and noticed Samuel’s outfit as he sauntered down the street. Samuel waved as he walked by and he shouted to her, “Big Snow Coming.” Blanca looked straight up through the treetops and saw nothing but sunny blue skies. Blanca rapidly ran inside to watch the meteorologist on the news.
But on Tuesday, there was no snow. Samuel again stepped outside, felt the biting wind and declared, “Big Snow Coming.” He went back in his house, gathered his warmest weather wear and headed off down the street. Halfway down the block he saw his neighbor Ned walking his Alaskan Husky puppy. “Big Snow Coming, “said Samuel. Ned nodded back, scratched his head, and looked confused. Ned looked towards the heavens and saw nothing but clear skies and bright sunshine.
On Wednesday, there was still no snow. As in the days before, Samuel dressed in his snow apparel and headed down the street, covering his head with a hat. As he walked down the street he ran into the twins, Pam and Sam, dawdling on their way to First Grade. As they walked, they gave Samuel a smile and a wave, and heard Samuel say over his shoulder, “Big Snow Coming.” Pam and Sam gave each other a knowing look, shook their heads and laughed.
Thursday came, and still no snow. By now, Samuel’s snow gear has been getting a lot of use, but with no snow. He put on his warmest earmuffs and his waterproof jacket and headed down the street to work. At the corner, he spotted Jan, who was out for a jog. Samuel stopped, gave Jan a great big smile, and bellowed to Jan so she could hear him behind her headphones, “Big Snow Coming.” Jan looked up to the sky to see a beautiful full white cloud pass over them and leave a deep blue backdrop. Samuel continued walking, and Jan jogged away baffled.
By Thursday night, there was still no snow.
Then on Friday, the neighborhood awoke to dark, stormy clouds rolling in from the west.
“Big Snow Coming,” said Samuel.
Blanca saws the clouds and ran to the television to watch the weather report. Ned took his dog to the backyard to watch the clouds coming in. Pam and Sam listened to the school closing report on the radio, and Jan brushed off her cross country skies to get ready for a workout.
Just a few moments later, the first snowflake was seen slowing trailing its way through the sky and finally finding a place to softly land on the dark black asphalt. Not much longer, there was another snowflake, just as graceful as the first, falling through the sky. Then another, and another, until the entire street was covered in a blanket of white. Samuel smiled to himself, and said quietly, “Big Snow Coming.”
Paper in the Wind
By
Alfred W. Tatum
2/17/09
The paper in the wind settles between two yellow lines outside of the train station. Its companion is a pink strip of unchewed gum. It hops to the left before crossing the tracks into a wide-open field with tall, brown grass and scraps of metal resting lazily after years of activity. The blades of grass sway to and fro. I can only imagine what rests beneath the soil thirty days out from spring. The thawing of the ground brings the dawning of a new season with cheerful sounds and colorful images suffocated by the region’s winters. I decided the track the path of the paper, to gather it in hopes of finding something, not exactly sure what, just something.
I raise my ungloved hand to wipe the snot from my nose before brushing my hand against my pants. The wind picks up and the paper is lifted from the ground. I break into a small trot. I feel like I am chasing a dream like I did when I was a child. The wind settles. Fortunately for me, I can take a breather. I haven’t had much exercise since my wife died nine years ago. How strange it might look to someone watching on old man in a barren field with a balding head. I simply smile at the thought. A quick westerly gust forces me to switch directions again.
“Pearl, why now?”
I remember asking my dear wife when she told me she wanted to leave the south.
“This is where our home is, our friends.”
But, she was persistent. Our oldest son needed us after running into a pocket of misfortune. Pearl couldn’t stand the idea that her baby was roaming the streets in the cold while she was enjoying the comforts of southern winds. Georgia was her home, but it did not feel the same.
“I got to go Frank. Either you coming with or you’re staying.”
She was always a stubborn woman. So, I agreed to come behind her after I made arrangements at home. There was the house and the convenience store to deal with. We decided that she would find a small place and I would follow in three months time. Not one to put things off, Pearl was on her way the Tuesday next. The tossing and turning at night were more frequent. She became restless after not hearing from Frank Jr. for three days. The waiting and wondering were driving her mad.
I drove her to the train station for the 22-hour ride. She had one large bag and a small wooden box that fit comfortably into her purse. Pearl always carried that purse. In it was a pad she scribbled notes on about the store’s inventory. She also kept track on her banking account. Pearl didn’t have much money, but she kept track of every dime. When she died, I also found out that she wrote notes to Frank Jr. every night. They all ended the same way:
Dear God, please watch over my boy.
A Note from Pearl
Pearl never made it to Frank Jr. The train derailed six hours out and two people died, a small child, only six months old, and my Pearl. She hit her head on a steel rail and lost consciousness before passing away. I never got a chance to say good-bye. I still decided to move north as I had promised only to find more bad news. Frank Jr. was gone, too. That’s when I starting riding the rails, searching for something, anything. Not much for an old man to do when those he loves are gone.
That’s how I ended up in the field today chasing a piece of paper in the wind. Now, I am close to it. I trap the paper, folded in a square, beneath my foot while I catch my breath. I lean over to pick it up. Suddenly, I have a change of heart about reading it. I imagine it’s another note from Pearl, a note for Frank Jr., or maybe a note for me. I lift it to wind, release it, before walking back toward the train. I feel a tear trickle over a smile.
Friendship
I use to think that I knew the meaning of friendship
I use to think that you understood what it meant to be a friend
I guess we were both right, yet we were both wrong
What does it mean to be a friend?
What does it mean to be the one?
The one, the lucky one.
Neither of us saw it coming, neither of us had a clue
Wait a minute! There may have been signs
There may have been clues
Signs and clues that I chose to ignore
Uneasiness that were often washed ashore
What does it mean to be a friend?
What does it mean to be the one?
The one, the lucky one.
How could friendship once deep as the ocean floor
Suddenly shatter like a vase, and cease to exists no more
Was it a figment of my imagination or
A stranger in disguise
I am afraid that our apologies will never again be suffice
What does it mean to be a friend?
What does it mean to be the one?
The one, the lucky one
It should have never happened
Words should have never been exchanged
We both should have sucked it up, and examined our claims
Were friendships considered when decision were being made
Were friendships considered when we became outrage
Did friendship stand close by, or wondered far away
Did friendship cry and beg for each of us to stay
What does it mean to be a friend?
What does it mean to be the one?
The one, the lucky one
We were both wrong when it came to consideration
But we were both right when it came to explanation
Friendship should have saved us nevertheless
For we had been through numerous test
But where was friendship only God truly knows
We are left to question, its basic still unknown
Could something else have hindered its true identity?
For friendships like sisters should rekindle willingly
I will say yes, for I believe, something else was involved
Something bigger than both of us
Something that we couldn’t disregard
It lives in our unconscious
And often drives our decisions
For it was what consumed friendship and dismantled existence.
What does it mean to be a friend?
What does it mean to be the one?
The one, the lucky one
I Wish I Was Special- A Children’s Story
By- Amy Brich
Once upon a time, there was a caterpillar named Clarence. Clarence, unlike the other insects, was very sad because he never felt like he was special. When he was around all of the other unique and interesting insects, they always teased him because he was just a plain, old caterpillar. Each morning Clarence woke up to the beautiful sound of the cricket chirping. Its song starts all of the insects’ days off with a smile. Clarence thought, “If I could sing a beautiful song like the cricket, then I’d be special too!” Then Clarence saw the ladybugs and thought, “Their colors are so pretty and they have magical powers that bring good luck to everyone. If I had magical powers and pretty colors, then I’d be special too!” As Clarence sat there thinking sad thoughts, a grasshopper came leaping by and nearly knocked him over! Clarence said, “I wish I had powerful legs so I could jump through the woods, then I’d be special too!” Clarence crept a little further through the forest, and came across a flower bed full of beautiful yellow and white daisies. He heard a buzzing noise in his ear, and looked up to see the bumble bees collecting pollen from the flowers. Then he thought, “If I could make sweet honey like the bees, then I’d be special too!” As night turned into morning and the dew began to settle all around, Clarence saw a spider web glistening in the grass. Clarence thought, “If only I could spin a beautiful web like the crafty spider, then I’d be special too!” All day long Clarence tried to think of ways that made him special, but he couldn’t think of a single one. As Clarence grew tired, he climbed up a tree and was about to fall asleep, when he noticed a bright, shining light. He realized it was a lightening bug and wished that he could shine like the lightening bugs. Then he’d be special too! But at last, Clarence grew tired and the night air started to get cold, so Clarence wrapped himself up in a leaf, and fell asleep. Just then, something strange and exciting started to happen and Clarence didn’t wake up for two whole weeks. When he finally did, he began to stretch. As he stretched, he noticed that he felt completely different. He realized that he was no longer a plain, old caterpillar anymore. Clarence was a beautiful butterfly! Soon, all the other insects gathered around to see what had happened to Clarence. They all cheered for him and realized that he had been special all along!
I Love You Pizza
by Amy Cabrera
It’s bedtime.
“Finally,” sighs mom.
But Miguel and Johnny were feeling more silly than sleepy.
Johnny hopped around like a little froggy then leaped into bed.
“I love your ice cream jammie pants,” mom said.
“I love you ice cream too,” said Johnny.
Miguel catapulted from his desk chair to his top bunk.
“I love you hot fudge sundae!” Miguel giggled.
Mom’s turn.
“I love you warm cookies just out of the oven.”
“Mmmm,” chimed both boys.
“Let me think, let me think,” pondered Johnny tapping his cheek.
“I love you ooey, gooey cheese pizza!”
“Ahhh,” we all sighed.
“No, no, no! Mine’s better!” insisted Miguel. “I love you a whole mountain of juicy pear Jelly Belly’s!”
“Oh yeah!” said mom. “I love you homemade spaghetti and meatballs! Now get under the covers my little turkey soups.”
“Turkey soup!” squealed both boys simultaneously. “Yuck!”
“Yuck! Nope! You are very yummy and I’m going to gobble you up in your sleep!” and she gave each boy gobble kisses.
Johnny gobbled kisses back. Miguel gobbled kisses back. Mom turned out the light. Quiet came to the bedroom for about 30 seconds before dad came in to say goodnight.
Both boys popped up yelling, “I love you pizza, dad!”
Without missing a beat dad said, “I love YOU pizza!” and it started all over again.
Short Story
She had lived through escaping in the middle of the night with her two sisters and mother in a buckboard. She could most certainly live through this.
She sat, as she had sat every Friday morning for the past two years, with her daughter drinking coffee at the small wooden table. The sun was beaming in through the glass doors nearby, and the sunlight filled in the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth and neck so that, sitting there next to her, her 93 years were not so apparent. Her wide eyes twinkled behind her glasses. A few months prior, she had cosmetic surgery on her drooping eyelids - not at all for beauty’s sake, but for practical peripheral reasons. Mocking both her age and her superficial beautification however, she would rest her chin on her hands and bat her eyelashes to show off her new look whenever someone inquired. She looked at her only daughter, sipped her coffee, and waited.
“Mom,” the inflection was both urgent and sympathetic. “I have some bad news…” She paused, sad to be the bearer of bad news. “Dora passed away last night. She went peacefully - they found her in her bed. Carol called earlier this morning.” Docela’s face didn’t change as she took another sip of her coffee, placed the cup down gently on the table, and gently scratched the side of her neck.
Inside, her heart hurt. Dora had been one of the closest and longest-lasting friends she had. The two had come from very different places, but had somehow seemed to live parallel lives. Dora emigrated from Germany during WWII with her husband, leaving everything behind except what would fit in her coat pockets. Docela was born in Waukegan, but when she was only seven, her mother had snuck her and her two sisters away for fear that her in-laws would seek custody of the children after her husband had died. These shared experiences are what made their friendship so important. She remembered the lavish parties she and Dora hosted – wild parties, exactly the type impossible to envision a 93 year old, or anyone older than you, ever attending. Or the time they parked on Ashland Avenue and walked to Wrigley Field to take in a ball game. They would reminisce on how many times they had called “nine eleven” for one another for a fall or a broken wrist and of course, the times they were there for each other when each of their husbands had died of cancer.
“Mom,” the voice that interrupted her thought was spoken this time with more concern. “Mom, are you okay?” Her daughter worried whenever she had to bear this kind of news to her mother. So many close friends had died this year. And at 93, her mom had lived to see her parents, her sisters, and her first and second husbands die. In fact, Dora was one of the last friends Docela had, and her daughter worried that this one might break her mom.
“Oh Bev, I’m fine. I’ll call Carol back and find out about the arrangements.” She finished her coffee, looked into the empty cup, and took a deep breath.
“I’ll get you the number.” Bev stood and went upstairs to find the piece of paper she had written Carol’s number on.
The sun had clouded over and Docela turned on her reading light. She picked up the newspaper and turned to the crossword puzzle. Her eyes had begun to blur at the thought of her lost friend. She picked up the pen from the coffee mug in the middle of her table and began to work meticulously through the prompts as she had done for as long as she could remember. When she came to number eight across, she couldn’t help but let the tears roll gently down her cheeks.
…to be concluded
Henrietta
Henrietta was mean and all of the animals in the forest knew it. When she bumped into animals in the short grasses where she grazed, she ignored them. If a group of buffalo were drinking from river, she turned the other direction. She was just always this way. She was only nice to other hippopotamuses. She thought everyone else wasn’t good enough to be her friend.
Because of this attitude, the other hippos did not want to be friends with Henrietta. She spent most of her time alone. After many years of solitude, she was lonely. Her loneliness just caused her to be nastier.
One warm and sunny afternoon, Henrietta decided to take a dip in the river to cool off. Henrietta enjoyed swimming in the river. She did this often. It was a relaxing and pleasant way to stay comfortable in the sweltering heat. Henrietta was floating around, alone as usual, when a flock of egrets flew by.
“Hey, Henrietta! Can we sit on your back to catch some fish?” asked an egret.
“No, way! I hate birds, go away,” replied Henrietta. And the birds flew off, paying no attention to the mean, old hippo.
A snake slithered out of the grass. “Good afternoon, Henrietta! Gorgeous day today, huh?”
“It would be a lot better if you would leave me alone,” answered Henrietta as she closed her eyes and floated by.
The sun was setting and Henrietta decided it was time to go home. She firmly planted her feet on the river bottom and pushed. She was expecting to pop right out of the water, but her body jerked back into the river. Her feet were stuck in the stickiest mud. She twisted and turned, but just could not break free. She thrashed and flogged, but her feet did not budge.
Darkness was spreading quickly over the forest, and Henrietta was getting nervous. She was weak and starving from hours of floating. She knew she was not able to keep her head above water for much longer. She cried out, “Help! Help!” but her cries were left unanswered.
“I wish I was nicer,” Henrietta whispered. “I promise that if I get out of this river, I will be nice to everyone in the forest.”
Just then the snake slithered by. He had heard her desperate cries and sullen promises and decided to help out, despite Henrietta’s malicious comments earlier in the day.
“Hold on Henrietta, the egrets are on their way!” the snake exclaimed.
An enormous flock of egrets swooped down from the sky with vines in tow. “Bite down on the vines, and we will pull you out,” shouted an egret.
Henrietta bit down on the vine as hard as she could, and the egrets started flying up, higher and higher. Henrietta felt her body lift up and in a few brief moments she was freed! She was unstuck from the mud! Henrietta lay down at the bank of the river and began to cry.
“You saved me! I can’t believe you saved me, after I have been so despicable all these years,” Henrietta sighed.
“I thought that you deserved a second chance,” replied the snake.
Henrietta did deserve a second chance. She remembered her promise to change her ways and be kind to everyone. She kept that promise and was lonely no more.
A Swap-O-Ramian Tale
Dulce loved everything about Chicago winters. She loved the way ice formed over the lake like miniature glaciers. The icy sidewalks seemed like dangerous hikes in Antarctica. She even enjoyed shoveling the snow.
The night before, three feet of snow had fallen. It was hard to wake up to below freezing temperatures. Dulce had a plan. Each morning, she jumped out of bed and dashed to get her layers of clothing upon herself. She wore thermals, leg warmers, hoodies, long socks and on top of that, a parka.
Each morning she walked to school with her mom. Dulce noticed a lawn chair on the side of the street. She wondered why anyone would leave a broken chair on the street. Dulce asked her mother why someone would forget their chair. Her mother chuckled and retorted, “Do not ask your dad that question!” Her answer confused her.
After a full day of school, Dulce was exhausted. She began to tell her mom about her math test. When she saw a bookshelf that had a broken middle shelf on the street and a couple of crates and a bucket, Dulce began to notice that there were barely any cars on the street. She decided that the person to ask about the furniture was her dad.
Once she finished her homework she helped her mom get ready for dinner. Her dad walked in just as they were about to sit down and eat. Dulce questioned, “Dad why is there a lawn chair, a book shelf, and other rubbish on the street?” His face turned slightly red and he went off on a tangent about how the police are constantly giving tickets for people saving spots, while he has to park three blocks down because there is absolutely no parking on their street. Dulce knew not to ask the question again.
During dinner Dulce’s mom told her to clean the kitchen. As she was cleaning she heard a strange noise on the porch. She stopped clearing the table and crept up to the door to see what the commotion was. Her eyes grew enormous as she glared at the creature on her the back of her house. It was about a foot tall with spiky hair that curled straight up at the ends. The creature had a long pointed nose and chubby checks. He wore a thick sweater that was lined with fur. His eyes were beady, yet kind in an odd way.
Dulce was scared at first, but then grew angry when she realized that the creature was on her parent’s property. She demanded, “What are you doing here and why are you going through my old stuff?” The creature replied with a shriek, “Human!”
“I asked you a question,” Dulce shouted in an irritated voice. “I…I…I am not supposed to be talking to you,” the creature stammered. “Well, I am looking for things to sell at tonight’s market.” “What market?” Dulce questioned. The creature replied, “Well, the market is tonight and I need items to sell.” The creature went on to explain how they sold old broken furniture on the streets in the middle of the night to other Sawp-o-Ramians. “We start to set up for the market early during the week and we put broken items that we want to sell on the streets. At night when every body is sound asleep the market begins. We use the furniture to display items and when we are lucky, a troll or a gremlin will come and buy the broken furniture to fix. Humans throw away so much useful waste.”
Dulce stood there for a minute trying to prove all that the creature told her. “So, you go through people’s garbage to sell at a market on the street? Dulce asked in a confused manner.” The creature smiled confidently and replied, “Yea, pretty much, we sell what you throw away.”
Dulce could not help but to feel a bit aggravated for her father’s sake. “Do you know how much trouble you cause the people in the community who need these parking spots?” The creature’s eyes welled with water. The words could barely make it past his lips. “I had no idea this was such an inconvenience to your family.” Dulce did not mean to hurt the creature’s feelings. She was just concerned with her father’s frustrations.
“Maybe we can think of an alternative, so that everyone could benefit?” The creature looked up with a look of hope in his eyes, “You really mean it?” “Sure!” Dulce rejoiced, as she pulled up a lawn chair to conspire a plan with her Swap-o-Ramian friend.
Hours went by and they finally thought they had reached a conclusion to their unique situation. It was decided that the Swap-o-Rama would be moved into all Chicago Public School parking facilities. Since the market only took place during the evening hours, then there would be no conflicting issues between the gnomes and their fellow man.
Blinking Adventures
When I woke up this morning I knew I was going to have a spectacular day! I knew this because it started even before I woke up with the most exciting dream.
In this dream, I saw myself floating on the most delicious cloud made of my favorite treat…a mountain of cookie dough ice cream. That wasn’t even the best part. Enjoying my never-ending delight was only the beginning of my adventure.
The places I went were places I didn’t even know I wanted to visit. Places that I wonder now even exist.
Every time I blinked my eyes twice, I traveled to a different destination. I knew exactly how to use this special power. In my dream it seemed as if it was as normal as brushing your teeth every morning is.
My adventure began in this cave that was brighter than any cave I ever heard of. It wasn’t the usual lonely cave filled with bats and mice. It had a river with clear sparkling water that tasted as refreshing as a waterfall. Speaking of waterfalls, there was a gigantic one in the middle that you had to pass through. This waterfall was unlike any other. It was made of chocolate syrup. Passing through, I thought of how great a glass of milk would be…and there it was in my hand. I held it up high to make sure it was overflowing with syrup, enough to make the best chocolate shake. This shake made me drool a little in my sleep it was so delectable. How could I top this?
I blinked my eyes twice and in a skip of a heartbeat there I was, in the middle of a desert on a dirt bike. As I raced through the hot melting sand, I noticed I was surrounded by giraffes, zebras, and baby elephants, all who led me down a path toward a bridge. Approaching this bridge I could see how it turned and looped all around and upside down. Racing along picking up more speed, I felt FEARLESS! I tried my best not to blink twice during this one. Coming to the end of this bridge, I heard my family calling my name. I saw a finish line and a trophy waiting for me. I didn’t even know I was competing with anybody, must have left them in the dust.
I blinked twice once again and found myself at the dinner table with my mom, dad, and sister talking about all the places I had visited. Talking with them made the adventures even sweeter, who knew this was where I would blink to next?
When I woke up and ate breakfast, I couldn’t wait to get to school and read about more exciting adventures so I could bring them home with me and carry them in my dreams…can’t wait!
The United States government has recently decided to invest hundreds of billions of dollars into our economy, of which $100 billion of that was given to Arne Duncan to invest in our nation’s schools. With this extaordinary increase of funds in education, Mr. Duncan has a “once in a lifetime” opportunity to better our school systems. In a recent statement, Arne Duncan said he intends:
to reward school districts, charter schools and nonprofit organizations that had demonstrated success at raising student achievement — “islands of excellence,” he called them. Programs that tie teacher pay to classroom performance will most likely receive money, as will other approaches intended to raise teacher quality, including training efforts that pair novice instructors with veteran mentors, and after-school and weekend tutoring programs. (http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/17/education/17educ.html?scp=2&sq=education&st=cse)
Mr. Duncan is on the right path in understanding that teachers need to be rewarded on classroom performance. However, it is absolutely essential that all teachers be given equal resources and that classroom performance be measured consistently throughout the country.
Currently, schools receive all different amounts of funding. When given a choice between a well funded school in an affluent community and an under funded school in a under privileged community, most teachers will pick the position with good resources. However, by investing in our under privileged schools, we should be able to distribute the quality teachers across the board. Furthermore, all schools will have similar resources such as textbooks, supplies, and technology to create opportunities for their students to succeed. Consequently, with better teachers and resources, students will have everything necessary in the classroom, regardless of socio-economic status, to have a quality and equal education.
Additionally, improvement in education is currently measured by individual state to state assessments. These exams are based on individual state standards and are inconsistent. For instance, Texas may have different criteria for reading stands in the sixth grade than Illinois. When they are not being assessed on the same criterion, it is nearly impossible to say that one school improved more than another. If we are going to reward schools based upon classroom improvement, we need to have a nationwide standardized test similar to the SAT and ACT, regardless of grade level. When working with national funds, we need to be working with consistent grade by grade standards across the country. Every student in every classroom in every state should be learning the same concepts if they are going to measured against each other for federal funding.
Our country is in the middle of a once in a lifetime educational turn around. By holding all states and schools accountable to the same standards, the United States can create a system to give the same resources and opportunities to all citizens. As the gatekeeper to billions of dollars, it is Arne Duncan’s responsibility to ensure that we effectively allocate these funds to standardizing our country’s education and providing resources to every underprivileged school in the country. Although, there are many thoughts of ways that this money can be spent, Mr. Duncan would be wise to spend on building the infrastructure to improve our country’s education for years to come.
Bus Rides with a Live Turkey, Machine Guns and a Stray Dog: My Adventures in Guatemala
A Short Story By Meg Tanabe
About ten years ago, during the year I spent teaching English in Costa Rica, I traveled by bus through Central America. Guatemala was the most memorable country due to a range of experiences my husband, then boyfriend, and I had. Some were on the frightening side, but we were so young and free that even those seemed like exciting adventures to us. When traveling on an overnight bus to the ancient Mayan ruins Tikal, our bus was pulled off the road by a group of men clad in black sporting machine guns. At this point, the men on the bus were ordered off. All of the women on the bus flung themselves towards the windows as we watched our men being patted down to check for who knows what. Relatively quickly, everyone was back on the bus unharmed and we were on our merry way. We knew better than to ask any questions and just counted ourselves lucky, although I still wonder who the machine gun toting men were and what they thought they might find. This incidence was mostly forgotten about when we reached our destination and enjoyed the wonders of climbing up the Tikal pyramids so high that we could see over the top of the jungle for miles.
The beautiful experiences made us forget the fear we felt that moment on the bus. We were most overwhelmed by the kindness of the people we met. The day we arrived in Antigua to see architecture from the Spanish colonial times, we were surrounded by men ready to take us to the hostel or hotel they advertised. As we did throughout our travels that year, we asked who knew of the cheapest place to stay and we headed there. (We were not destitute or anything, but even though I taught at two language schools and did private tutoring at home, I still made a typical Tico salary for a 21 year old – about $300 per month. My husband, who arrived in Costa Rica not knowing any Spanish and hardly any English at all, worked as a teppanyaki chef at a swanky Japanese owned hotel and made a similar salary. In order to see the places we wanted to that year, we lived frugally and would choose a night out dancing or a trip to the beach at a rundown hotel over eating meat for a week. We both lost a few pounds that year, but it was the most life changing year of our lives. The experiences we had really shaped who we are today and our values.) The place we wound up staying at in Antigua, was a small kiosk in the front room of a house with a room to let out on the second floor. The family welcomed us without reservation. They shared their home and meals with us and answered many of our travel questions. On our way out of the country, we stayed with them once more and thanked them for all of their sage advice. It is an amazing thing when people let down their barriers about safety concerns regarding strangers and just open their minds and hearts to new people. Through doing this we learn so many great things from others that we would have otherwise closed ourselves off from.
The adventure I loved the most from Guatemala was our trip to Chichicastenango, an enormous outdoor market that sells everything from live animals to textiles. We met adorable children selling worry dolls and I fainted on the church steps from the overpowering amount of incense wafting through the air, but the most memorable part was our trip leaving the market on the bus. Oddly, the hilarious moments stand out more than the most beautiful or frightful. We squashed onto the sardine-like packed bus with everyone else and their treasures from the market. I have never felt such true generosity as when a family of five all sitting on the same bus seat and holding a live turkey squeezed over and invited me to share their seat. At the next stop, a stray dog climbed aboard for the ride through the winding mountain roads. Strangely, no one objected, including the bus driver. This poor dog had not idea what he was in for. Perhaps he just longed for a change of scenery. Every time we hit a curve in the road, the dog would slide to the other side of the bus and let out an anguished yelp. The bus was so packed that I honestly believe that no one could have stooped down to help the dog even if they were brave enough to chance it. At the next stop, the dog scrambled off the bus the moment the doors opened bolting between the legs of the other passengers. Whenever I think about our trip to Guatemala, I remember that sweaty bus ride with the dog and turkey remind myself how lucky I was to have taken such a trip and to have experienced such outstanding kindness from the Guatemalans I met.
One Voice
She sat silently in the principal’s office waiting her fate. To be such a good student, she wondered how she had ended up here. “Suzanne, come in my office please,” the assistant principal summoned.” “My dear, what is going on with you?” He asked this as he cautiously took a seat in his soft, cushiony chair. Why was he sitting in this type of chair, while the students’ chairs were a step away from giving us hemorrhoids? “Sue,” he said. “My name is Suzanne,” I spat out. Men always want to dominant you and try to strip you of your dignity, identity, femininity, and any other “inity” they can think of. “Why is so important that I get dressed for gym or not, it is my grade,” I replied. “Mr. Covington said you gave him much attitude, and just flat out refused to get dressed.” “I am on my period,” I replied sarcastically. He seemed uncomfortable and said dryly, “Mr. Covington said you were on your menstrual last week.” “And I am going to be on it next week also,” I said with much attitude. He sighed, “go to your next class Ms. Jordan, we’ll continue this later.” As I walked out I knew I wouldn’t be back.
As I was walking solemnly to my next class, I got a text. It read, “What up my BFF, R U goin to get N trub.” “Trouble,” I laughed to myself. It would take more trouble for the assistant boss to actually try and figure out the appropriate punishment for not dressing for gym. He opted to send me to my next class.
Ignoring the text, I walked into my geometry class. Another Man! In grammar school, I only had female teachers. You would think that once you started high school, they would make it mandatory for more women to teach than men. “Your late,” the man behind the desk said. Without responding, I took my quiz and sat down-I knew the drill. Sometimes it is better to say nothing at all, even if you have a plausible excuse. As I was taking my quiz, I wondered why math was required at the high school level. As long as I knew how to count money, grammar school! I knew how much 25% off some bad boots were, grammar school! And I knew what fraction of the pizza I ate for dinner last night, grammar school! This geometry stuff was really pointless-unless I planned on becoming a geometry teacher. I would much rather swallow the geoboard! “Times up,” the chauvinist replied. The rest of the period I was there physically, but mentally I was miles away.
As I was walking to yet another man’s class, someone walked up behind me. Frantically, I turned. “Whoa what’s the deal with you, you didn’t reply to my text,” James said. “My bad, I was late running to Mr. Z’s class,” I responded. I normally don’t like calling teachers by their initials, but his name was so long and so annoying, Mr. Z was just a little less dramatic. “So what happened in gym today, it wasn’t like you,” he said. “I am just tired of being a piece of meat,” I replied without thinking. “What?” “Never mind, I’m hungry, and the horsemeat in the cafeteria just doesn’t seem very appetizing right now,” I whispered. “Coach C, wait up,” James screamed. The coach arrogantly turned around, gave me a look as if to say, “How dare you defy me little girl.” Then he gave me a sly smile. Even though he had perfect teeth, and a cute smile-at least that is what all the freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior girls thought, his smile made me cringe.
I was walking to the so-called cafeteria, but I kept walking. I went to the bathroom, wondered why I was a freshman and hadn’t started my period yet. The doctor says, “Don’t worry; you are still in the normal age range.” I felt sort of satisfied because she was female, and we were more trustworthy. I looked at my image in the mirror. I was a freshman, but had the body of a middle-schooler. So what was it about me that the coach liked? I didn’t even have the makings of a full grown woman yet; I couldn’t even reproduce yet? Sure, most of the freshman and a few sophomores thought I was cute, but a full-fledged man? I took a glimpse at my watch, noticing I still had 20 minutes before seventh period started.
With no destination in mind, I started walking. I stopped at my counselor’s office. Word around school was that Mr. Convington and Mrs. Watson had a thing going on. Was it hearsay? Was it the truth? I kept walking.
I stopped at the main office. I already talked to the assistant boss this morning-pointless. The big boss didn’t want to get involved unless it had something to do with one of his basketball stars-without the basketball team, our school would be nameless. I kept walking.
Should I tell my mom? The only lesson she ever taught me was not to give up anything for free. Her exact words were, “Don’t ever give up nothing, I mean “nothing” for free.” I was too terrified of exactly what “nothing” entailed. I kept walking, right out the school building.
It was the last week of school, and I was making out my schedule for next year. “Yes!” I was going to be a junior, and I could take dance instead of gym. No more unnecessary comments from Coach Covington; no more inappropriate gestures, no more long stares, no more hand on the shoulder for too long, no more hand on waist, just no more!
“Class of 2010 in the house,” we screamed at the pep rally. It was a new school year, and I was now a big-time junior! What a difference a summer makes! Period came-not as fun as it is cracked up to be. Love the breasts and butt that comes along with it though!
Not only did I have the body, I had the confidence to match! “Hello Suzzzeeee!” I carefully looked back recognizing the voice; it was him! “Hello Coach Convington, my name is Suzanne,” I scornfully replied. He was going on and on about something, but the only someone I noticed was the “freshie,” (what we upperclassman call freshman) he had walked up with. It was something about her eyes; something about her smile; something about the way she caressed her arm. As they walked away, it was something about their interaction; the way he walked with her; the way she laughed, the way his hand stayed on her shoulder a second too long. I blinked. She was I! I was she!
I walked to the main office, but this time instead of continuing to walk, I stopped. “I would like to speak to Mr. Manning.” It must have been the way I said it, or the look in my eyes that caused the secretary to buzz the principal’s office without hesitation. I was going straight to the top. I had to be her voice. I was once her, and no one was my voice.
“If you stand for nothing… you will fall for anything.” “If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around, does it make a sound?” One voice can make the difference.
BOO!!!!!
Joey felt exhausted as she put the key in the lock, twisted it and entered the cold dark hallway. She had a strange feeling in her bones as she fumbled for the light switch. She quickly flicked on the light and let out a sigh of relief as Toby came hobbling down the hall, tail wagging. It had been "one of those days...."
"whats for dinner?" she thought aloud and immediately Toby's ears pricked up.
As Toby trotted behind her into the kitchen she heard a loud bang that seemed to come from the back porch. Joey froze , her mind racing. She grabbed a knife that was standing in the butcher block beside her. What was that she asked herself, afraid of the answer. Her heart was beating faster now as she scanned the room, and squinted to see down the long hallway to her bedroom. John couldn't be home yet. It was only 5 and he was working on the Quigley project. He said he would be late,...yes he definately said he would be late.
Joey tried to gather her thoughts and edged quietly towards the stairs.She steadied herself on the banister and peered up the stairs "BANG" she heard another loud bang. This time it came from the upstairs bedroom. Joey stopped dead in her tracks. Then she swung around grabbed Toby and ran for the front door.
"Whats the matter honey?"-a familliar voice came from behind her. "You'll be proud of me, I just put out all of the trash."
If You Give a Penguin a Pizza
By Christina Bachman
If you give a penguin a pizza, she’s going to ask you for a soda to drink.
When you give her the soda, she’ll probably ask you for ice cubes.
The ice cubes will remind her of where she once lived.
Then she’ll want you to cut the pizza into slices.
When she sees the triangle slice it will remind her of learning her shapes at school.
She will want to go and play baseball at the playground.
Playing baseball will remind her of a trip to Wrigley Field with her family. You will have to go to the game at 1:20.
When she walks in and smells the hot dogs and nachos she will ask you to buy her some.
As you make your way to your seat she will see kids buying t-shirts. You will have to get her one to wear.
Once you get the tickets, food, and t-shirt, she will try her best to catch a ball.
Going, going, gone! Pop fly, she catches a baseball.
This will remind her of the time she threw a baseball at milk jugs. She will ask you to take her to the carnival at Navy Pier.
When you get there she’ll ask you to play games. You’ll have to win her a big stuffed animal.
Finally she will see pink and blue cotton candy.
After you get her the cotton candy she will be thirsty. You’ll have to get her a soda.
And chances are, if you get her a soda, she’ll want some pizza to go with it.
This is a list poem that I created to begin our study of word choice and description. I decided to start with someone who both David and I would know very well -- ourselves. I framed the poetry lesson, by referencing the things that an author thinks about when he or she wants to create a character: What does the character look like, do (actions & activities), and most importantly think about.
We also began to discuss how a writer can use standard conventions to help convey their message.
Me as a Character-- Defining Who I Am:
A usual height
Chaotic, messy brown bangs
Olive skin
TEACHer
Reader
Talker… all the time
My Future?
Constant changes and decisions to be made
My family, my friends, my education, my calling?
Mischief On The Mountaintop
A Twist On The Story Of The Three Bears
Once upon a time, there were three emerald colored dragons that lived in a jagged cave on a mountaintop. One was a Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon. One was a Medium, Grande-sized Dragon. And, one was an Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon. They each had a granite bowl for their fiery chili: a teeny bowl for the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon, a medium sized bowl for the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon, and an enormous bowl for the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon. They each had rocks to play with for some daily, daring, dragon entertainment. There was a teeny pebble for the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon. There was a medium rock for the Medium, Grande-size Dragon. Then, there was an enormous boulder for the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon. Finally, each sleepy dragon had a spot to sleep in. There was a teeny corner with a petite pebble pillow for the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon. There was a medium-sized corner with a really, round, rock pillow for the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon. Then, there was an enormous corner with a gigantic pillow for the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon.
One morning, the three scaly dragons made some fiery chili for lunch, and poured it into their granite bowls. Then, they walked out of their cave and down the mountaintop to give it a chance to cool-temperature wise, not spicy-wise (except for the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon). While they were out, a little boy called Mischievous Malcolm stumbled upon their cave.
Now, Mischievous Malcolm was not a very well behaved boy. As he approached, their cave on top of the mountain, he became very curious. First, he looked into the cave from a distance, but then took a few steps closer. When he saw that the cave was vacant, he began to enter the unknown enclosure with excitement.
Mischievous Malcolm glanced around to see what he could find. In one corner, he discovered three granite bowls of chili. They looked very tasty and smelled delicious! Now, Malcolm was beginning to feel hungry. First, he tasted the fiery chili that belonged to the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon, but it was too hot and spicy for him! Then, he tasted the fiery chili of the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon, but it was too cold and mild for him. He proceeded to taste the fiery chili of the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon, and that was neither too hot nor too cold and neither too spicy nor too mild. In fact, it was just right! It was so delicious that he ate it ALL up!
Next, Mischievous Malcolm looked around to see what else he could find. In the back of the cave, he noticed three unique stones on a top of a pile of other stones. An exciting idea popped into his head. He thought he could have some fun building a fort with them, so he set off to work. First, he tried to pick up the boulder that belonged to the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon, but it was much too heavy. However, being the good problem solver that he is, he decided that this would be the base of his fort.
NOT FINISHED: A WORK IN PROGRESS! Check in next week!
(Children's Book)
Ang hindi maronong lumingon sa pinang galingan ay hindi makararating sa paroroonan.
He who does not look back to his roots will not reach his destination.
-Tagalog Proverb
Tala sat nervously on the crowded bus on its way to the airport. She squeezed her grandma’s hand tightly, desperately wanting to hold on to something familiar. Traffic on the only road into the city was slow, and they were running late. On this day, nine year old Tala would say good bye to her grandparents and all she knew of life. And though she knew life in the United States had promise, a part of her hoped to miss the plane. She wanted to go back to the home she knew.
Home was a one room house in a small village forty miles southeast of Manila. It was where little children ran freely in the dirt streets, and older children dressed in uniforms filled the early mornings on their way to school. It was where neighbors were so close their voices carried into your own home, and where street vendors could be heard day and night selling their goods. It was where she had lived when she came into this world. It was where she stayed when her mom left to join her new husband in the States three years ago.
The day her mom left, she told Tala she would send for her soon. That first year, Tala was prepared to leave the moment her mother gave her word. She knew exactly what she would wear, and what few things she would bring with her. She had even bragged to her classmates that she would be moving to the States soon. Then after the first year passed with no solid plans for her departure, she began to lose hope. Tala understood it was difficult, she remembered all the talk of money and paperwork. She tried to hold on to the words her mother had told her time and time again, “Anak, we will be together soon.” Her classmates teased Tala, saying her mother had abandoned her. And as more time passed, Tala stopped believing. Even her classmates stopped teasing her about it. Then it happened. After three years Tala’s mom had finally saved enough money and had all the paper work in order. Tala’s mom arranged for her to travel with friends from the States who were visiting the Philippines. Tala had never met this couple, and it scared her to travel to the other side of the world with strangers.
She stared at the rubber lined floor of the bus. Thoughts raced through her head. The pictures she saw of the States were vastly different from what she knew. Her mother had said life would not be as easy as the pictures made it seem. She remembered, “A pagumpay ay pag pa sisikap.” “Success in the States comes only with hard work.” Still, Tala knew she would soon have luxuries her grandparents would never know. As she sat between them, she felt crushed by the weight of it all. Then suddenly the bus turned away from the city, toward open green land. The airport was just ahead of them now.
Tala’s grandpa quickly led them off the bus and searched for the couple. Tala noticed how out of place he looked. They were simple people, not accustomed to the busyness of a big city. He nervously led them through crowds of people. She felt small and scared. Then a man stopped them. Standing before them the man said, “I am Tito Anio, and this is my wife, Tita Abba. We will take care of you.” They were not too late.
Tala lifted her head for a brief moment to look at the couple, and then quickly looked back down at the cement sidewalk in front of the airport doors. The man continued, “We must go inside. We are running late and do not want to miss our plane. Say good bye to your lolo and lola.” The busy airport noises filled the awkward moment. Still clutching her grandma’s hand, a tear rolled down her cheek. It was time to say good bye. Her heart raced and she quickly turned and pressed her body into her grandma’s. Pushing Tala’s hair back, her grandma kissed her head. Then she gently unwrapped Tala’s arms from around her waist, and moved away. Tears filled their eyes. She turned to her grandpa. The normally meek man now sternly lifted her chin, “Anak, look your new life in the eye, and let your past guide your future.”
Grand and State
On the twenty-seventh floor of Grand Avenue and State Street in the gray-marbled building that onlookers, waiting for and hour or two for a table at the Weber Grill or Rock Bottom on a Saturday night, see rise above the Jewel and Bed, Bath, and Beyond, Jack Roberts’s pager vibrated on his nightstand until it fell to the freshly polished hardwood floor.
“Jack…Jack, I think it’s your pager,” she said.
Jack’s voice cracked out, “What? It’s a friggin’ Sunday. What time is it?”
“It’s about seven-thirty.”
His eyelids remained closed as he spoke, but the woman sat up, and the sheets fell from her bare shoulders.
“Wait…ummm…” he took a deep breath. “Well, it looks like I have to be going into work, then.”
“Already? That’s right, you told me you’re a reporter. Don’t mind me--”
Jack opened his eyes and smiled at the ceiling and at her nod to being a reporter.
“You know, I’m actually,” he turned and looked at her. “Whoah,” he said in a breathy tone as he shifted to the edge of the queen bed, teetering on hitting the hardwood.
“What?”
“It’s just that…I…you’re…”
“I’m what Jack? You know, you haven’t said my name yet. You remember it?”
“Sure, sure. It’s, it’s, it’s Yolanda.”
“What?” She looked at him with a sideways head tilt.
“I mean Taneesha?”
“Funny Jack. What’s my name?”
He could see she had caught him. But he tried another one anyway.
“I was just kidding. It’s, it’s Lakesha?”
She let the sheets fall and stepped onto the hardwood. She opened the curtains in Jack’s bedroom and let the light shine on her naked body. She looked at him with her hands on her hips. She was stacked front and back with a flat stomach and a thirty-five inch inseam.
“I’m black. That’s it isn’t it.”
“No, no, no.”
“That’s what you meant when you were surprised. You said, ‘Whoah, you’re…’”
He sat up in his bed.
“No, no. I was going to say beautiful.”
“No, you weren’t. Yolanda, Taneesha, Lakesha? Jack, you ever heard that once you go black you never go back?” she grabbed her clothes.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” He stepped on the hardwood and reached for the curtains. She turned on the lights. His eyes had a hard time adjusting.
“I bet you heard that. One of your white frat buddies at Northwestern, right? You gonna go tell him you went black last night, Jack?” She put on her thong and tight grey pants.
Scott Jankowski had said that to him his sophomore year. He wondered how she knew that.
“No, no, no. I, I, I…”
“Do you always repeat words you know three times? How about words you don’t know. Christine…ring a bell, that’s me, that’s me, that’s me. The black woman you slept with last night.” She reached for her black, lacy bra.
“It just took me by surprise, that’s all.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid. He said that out loud. He wanted to jump out of his window.
“What did you say? Repeat that for me.”
He composed himself. He grabbed his red briefs and slid them on, and put on a white t-shirt. He stood to face-to-face with her at the foot of the bed.
“Listen…Christine. This was a one-night stand, nothing more. It’s what I do. Yes, I was surprised that you were black. I was very drunk last night. I don’t see what the big deal is. I have a huge hangover, but I’ll drive you home. And I’ll call you next week.”
He had said these same words many times before, but never with anyone this smart. If she was like the rest, he probably would have slept with her again before work.
“Are you kidding me?” Fully dressed and loaded, Christine united her four fingers and jabbed his right shoulder.
“You got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me. A ride, a phone call?”
He stepped back a bit with the jab. She was as tall as he was. He didn’t really know what to do. He joined his four fingers and lightly jabbed her left shoulder.
“Yeah, so you wouldn’t have to take the L.”
“Son of a bitch.”
She made a fist, cocked that left elbow back and decked his right eye. His knees hit the hardwood. Her voice grew louder.
“The ‘L’? I drive a 320, E-class.” Louder. “And I was drunk too.” She turned towards the window and grabbed her boots. Jack kneeled, blinking and holding his eye from the blow. Louder. “But I know why I remember you’re name.” Louder. “Look at me.” He took his hand away and looked up.
“It’s half of Jack-ass, you arrogant prick.” She grabbed her purse and walked out of the bedroom. Jack stood up.
“You didn’t have to hit me. Just because I’ve never…”
“Yeah, and you never will again.” Christine’s voice went from straightforward and loud to high pitched and ghetto. “I’m gonna tell all the black girls about Jack Roberts, ‘cuz we all know each other down’n the hood.”
“I think you’re taking this way out of hand. It was a one night stand.”
She opened his condo door to leave and mumbled, “Idiot.”
He saw a set of hoop earrings on the nightstand.
“Wait, don’t leave,” he walked towards her while taking his hand away from his palm.
“You’re probably just a copy editor, asshole,” she yelled as she tried to slam the door.
He stuck his forearm in the door and grabbed her forearm to pull her back in. But she wouldn’t budge. They stood there tense, their forearms the only link between Christine’s pathway out and Jack’s overpriced one bedroom.
“Let go of me. Get your racist hands off of me!” she yelled hitting him with her Gucci leather handbag.
“I’m not a racist!” he yelled back. Just then Mrs. Mortensen from 3B opened the door.
“Just come back inside. This is a terrible mistake,” he said in a more even tone.
“Do you know this man?” Christine directed this question to Mrs. Mortensen, a middle-aged woman with a middle-aged football hairdo.
“Yes. That’s Jack. Now what’s this about him being a racist? Definitely not Jack, honey. Jack’s always bringing in all types of women in and out. Now a sexist sure. Not a racist.”
Mrs. Mortensen locked her door and continued down the hallway.
“Thanks a lot Mrs. Mortensen. Love the helmet…I mean hairstyle! Your husband, I mean ex-husband’s really going to love it too!” Jack said.
“Screw you Jack,” Mrs. Mortensen said as she continued down the hallway.
“Now will you let go of me?”
He loosened his grasp on her arm. “Just wait. Your earrings are on the nightstand.”
She felt her earlobes, which had tiny diamond studs in them. She smiled.
“Not mine Jack. You know you were different last night. You should look into being an alcoholic. Because sober, you’re, well…I guess…” She stopped smiling and looked at him plainly in his blue eyes, the ones that had pulled her over for a drink last night.
“Just what’s expected,” she slid out of his loose grasp and walked down the hallway.
He closed his mouth. Usually the mornings after went a lot smoother. The promise of a phone call. A nice breakfast at Rock Bottom. Even a ride home. But this one would stick with him and not because she was black, and he couldn’t remember when he woke up. And not because she knocked him in the face or because Mrs. Mortensen told him the harsh reality he already knew.
He would forever remember it because it would be the last one-night stand of his life. It would be Christine’s last as well. They just didn’t know it yet.
The News
By Julie Schlafman
She nervously lay on the examining table, tightly gripping the sides until her knuckles turned white. She was anxious to find out the much-anticipated news and wished her husband could be there to ease her concerns. Dr. King rolled the ultrasound machine over to the table and began to prepare the transducer. “June, are you excited?” he asked in a husky voice that matched perfectly with the portly size and width of his stature. She offered a weak smile and nodded her head. He lifted her shirt and the cold gel sent a chill through her body. And then there was silence. Beads of sweat began to pop up on his forehead, as he said nothing. “What is going on?” She silently screamed.
June and Bob were married for eight years. They happily lived in New York for three of the six and had recently moved back to Connecticut after living in California for a year. They were content with their life. Bob never pressured June for a family and June was satisfied and pleased with her career. They were in no rush. It wasn’t until ten months ago that they decided it was time to start a family. They both agreed that one child maybe two, was a number they were both comfortable with. It didn’t come so easy at first. They tried for nine months. But in October, they both were blessed with a positive pregnancy. This cold night in January was her first sonogram.
“Could it be twins?” she questioned herself. She knew she looked bigger than most women at three and a half months pregnant and was already wearing five-month maternity clothes. She had a hunch when she looked at herself in the mirror in the mornings that twins might be a possibility. Although she was apprehensive of the thought, she and her husband had discussed the situation and were willing to accept this outcome.
She could feel Dr. King gliding the transducer over her round belly. Back and forth, back and forth. Still, he said nothing. She scanned the ultra-sound machine hoping to see what was making Dr. King speechless. It looked only like gray fuzz. “What’s going on!” She demanded as the drips of sweat had fallen from his rotund face. “June, there’s there’s noth..nothing wrong.” He stammered. “I just want to make sure that I counted the right number of heads.” “What? Do you see two?” She nervously asked but silently confirming her premonition. Dr. King uttered, “I think I see four heads to be exact.”
June lay there motionless, staring at the cold, undecorated walls of the office. She began to shiver uncontrollably. Her heart thumped so loudly, she could barely make out the muffled, reassuring sounds from the doctor, “June? You’ll be fine.” All she heard was what the doctor just stated, “Four heads. Four heads. Four heads. Four heads.” She managed to gasp out, “Does that mean four babies?” Then the storm hit. “Yes, you are having quadruplets!”
The clouds formed and tears flowed down her cheeks as her body began to shake. The blood drained from her face and her breathing increased rapidly. She was in shock.
Never in her life would she have imagined this. She was only 32 years old and she was going to have four babies at once. Her 5 foot 5 inch, 123-pound body surrendered to frightening images of her life and what would now become of it, flashed and blinded her. Four babies. She thought, “What will happen to the babies? Will they all live? What if they have health problems? God…what is going to happen to my body? How am I going to carry FOUR babies…oh God, help me! I can’t do this!”
For what seemed like an hour she finally mustered up the strength to stand. Still crying softly, she gathered her things, hearing Dr. King in the background ask, “June do you need someone to help you get home?” She managed to shrug off his offer, opened the door to her new life and walked out. The receptionists already knew and people were beginning to stare. The overwhelming pressure of this news absolutely petrified her.
She struggled to zip up her coat over her growing babies and left the office. Not remembering where she parked or anything of her prior life for that matter, she made it to her Corvette. “Bye, Bye car,” she said to herself as she realized that a two-door sports car would never fit her now, four children. She drove home in a daze reliving what Dr. King said over and over again. “What are we going to do? How is Bob going to react?” she wondered. Not remembering how she got home, she nervously made her way to the telephone, not knowing what she would do with this news. Sitting on top of her desk, clutching the receiver she dialed the Boston Colonnade where Bob was staying on business. He answered, “Hello?”
June, her heart racing, whispered, “Bob, are you sitting down?”
You may say I’m a dreamer…
For most people, John Lennon’s song Imagine is inspirational.
But for me this song meant heartbreak.
I must have been about 9 or 10 years old. At 3:30, we’d gather in Gram’s living room to watch Jeopardy. (We didn’t have cable with the clear picture downstairs.) Mom and Gram would compete against each other. Occasionally I knew an answer or two, but when they shared their scores at the commercial break, I always said I had five more than either of them. Just to get their attention.
Gram always sat on the blue La-Z-Boy, and Mom always sat cross-legged on the little brown couch. I would lie on the long brown couch, close my eyes, and just listen - or be the judge of who answered quicker. Most of the time I just wondered when I’d become that smart.
The revealing of the answer after Final Jeopardy was my go-ahead to channel surf. Any earlier and they’d both scream.
I usually flipped to VH1. Gram would shuffle out of the room to heat up the coffee, and Mom usually followed - unless a video caught her eye. That day, they were showing John Lennon’s Imagine video. And she stayed.
“Oh, this is a good one!”
That familiar introduction instantly reminded me of the pain she had endured. I hated hearing that song. I blinked my eyes and bit my lower lip to hold my tears in. But when it got to be too much, I pulled the afghan over my head, peeked out the holes, and my tears came streaming out. As I wept, I marveled at the contrast between the blue sky and the white grand piano. John Lennon looked like an angel singing in heaven. Mom sang her heart out.
She never knew I cried.
My heart ached for her loss: the loss of her teen idol, her favorite Beatle, her John.
A few weeks ago, I asked my mom about John Lennon. She told me she heard the news of his death on the radio while driving home. She said she prayed he hadn’t overdosed. But murder? That was something she never fathomed.
I finally shared my experience with the Imagine video.
“Are you sure you’re not just imagining those feelings now that you’re an adult?”
“No, I literally felt your pain, Mom. I’m not kidding.”
“That’s crazy. There’s no way…”
“Were you pregnant with me when John Lennon died?”
“I couldn’t have been. He died in December of 1980, and you were born in March of … ’81… I was 5 months pregnant with you…”
I did the math to find that I was 26 weeks when John Lennon died.
26 weeks is the last month of the 2nd trimester. At 12 weeks, a baby has all parts necessary to experience pain, and her vocal cords are complete. At 21 weeks, a baby hears and recognizes her mother’s voice and responds to some types of music.
At 26 weeks, I imagine I was singing to my mother to help her through her pain.
Continental Falls, Colorado
Water bubbles tree
bark juts over rock weeds
grow through the cracked drizzle
crooked conifers sway branches.
Three layers of water falling
as the sun creeps through circular cloud
patterns. Water roaring, soaring
through purple mountain flowers.
I shake off mosquitoes with pine
needles prickling my ankles. I slide
my fingertips into the cold, rushing water
altitude shortens my breath as we connect.
Mind Your Own Bees-iness
“STOP!” said the bee.
Startled, the boy dropped the book he was about to smush the bee with. “I must be hearing things,” he thought, “there is no way that this fat bumble bee just spoke to me.”
“Did you just speak to me?” the boy asked.
The bee flew up near the boy’s face and the boy swatted at him again. “Yikes, don’t!”
“Yup, I must be going crazy,” the boy said aloud.
“You’re not crazy, but I don’t want to die today. I have important things to do.” The bee was now resting comfortably on the boy’s arm.
“You mean like stinging people?” asked the boy, bring the insect closer to his face without realizing it.
“No, you big bully, I only sting to protect myself from predators. You humans are the only ones that hurt other living things just because you feel like it.”
The boy seemed to consider this for a moment. “You said that you have important things to do…what important things does a bee do? Other than to sting people?”
The yellow and black striped insect puffed out his thorax and stated, “Bees like me play an absolutely essential role in the lives of people. Without honeybees, life on our planet would most likely cease to exist. I’ll bet that you didn’t know that honeybees are responsible for pollinating the vast majority of edible plants. I can also make some pretty sweet food.”
“Is there anything that I can do to help you?” The bully seemed to have had a change of heart about his insecticide.
“No, I can pollinate all on my own. But I just hope that after this you really think the next time you start to arbitrarily murder another living thing.”
“You are one six-legged creature I’m sure that I will never forget,” said the boy. And he never did.
Lost and Confused
Going on 13, still in the 6th grade-Lost
“Be a Kid”; “Act like a young lady”-Confused
Friends one day, fighting another-Lost
Regular school, alternative school-Confused
Where is home-apartment or streets?-Lost
What is a lie? What is the truth?-Confused
No bath, No shower-Lost
Am I a child or a woman?-Confused
Rules? “I make my own.”-Lost
Stealing is A way of life-Confused
Gang involvement-Lost
Selling myself-Confused
Can only One person make a difference?
Am I that Teacher that can get through?
Lost and Confused Too
Home Alone
On this, like every other day, Burly sat and looked out the front window. With everyone off at work Burly was left home alone. “I’m bored,” he whined to himself. “What can I do?”
“I run fast. I can time myself.” Burly ran from one side of the house to the other in 1.5 seconds. [Illustrations would show a path of destruction in his wake]
“I have strong legs. I should practice my jumping.” He jumped from couch to chair to table and back again. [More destruction]
“I’m should have a snack but my bowl is empty.” Burly devoured a shoe in seven bites leaving only a heel.
It was not a good idea to leave Burly home alone.
Even after all of his activities, Burly was still bored. He circled around and dropped to the floor. “I’ll just take a little nap.”
Hours passed. The sun shined on Burly’s back and warmed him. He reached out one paw and then the other, rolling on his back so that the sun might have a shot at his tummy too. He gave a great yawn and opened one eye and then the other.
Immediately Burly knew that he was going to be in trouble. [Burly sees the mess that he has left.]
“I’m a better eater than I thought,” said Burly as he hid the remaining heel of a show under his bed.
He put the mangled pillows back on the couch and set the broken vase and scattered mail back on the table one piece at a time. “If only I weren’t such a talented jumper.”
He did his best to straighten the carpet and the chair that got in the way of his sprinting. Perhaps no one would notice the pieces of fluff springing from the pillows.
After he had hidden and shoved and nuzzled things back in place he laid down on his bed. “Best to play it casual.”
All that clean up work tired Burly out. He couldn’t help but drift back off to sleep, but he was startled awake by the shrieks of his owner as she walked in the door.
“Oh my goodness!” she howled. “Did someone break in?”
Burly knew this would not be good. He tucked himself back by the couch and opened his eyes wide to give his best innocent face.
His owner surveyed the damage. She pulled more stuffing out of the chair. She examined the slobber-covered mail on the table. She even found the shoe in its hiding spot under the bed.
“Did you do this?”
Burly put one paw over his nose and looked at the floor. He had been caught. He hadn’t been trying to do anything wrong. He just got bored. He knew that he shouldn’t have tried to hide his mischief.
“I’m not mad at you,” his owner soothed. “But you could have gotten hurt with all your jumping and running. And I don’t like that you tried to hide what you did. Next time you need to think more about what decisions you make.”
Burly knew she was right. He put his head in her lap and sighed. Tomorrow he wouldn’t be the fastest runner, highest jumper or biggest eater. Instead he would just try to be the best dog he could.
Are You My Mother?
A Children’s Story
By Meg Tanabe
A mother velociraptor sat on her egg waiting for it to hatch. The egg started wiggling. “I must get some food for my baby.” she said as she flew away to go hunting.
Inside the next, the egg wiggled. It wiggled, jiggled and cracked. Suddenly, out came a baby velociraptor. “Where is my mother?” he said. He looked all around the nest, but he could not find her anywhere. “I must find my mother.” he said. Out of the nest he went. He fell all the way down to the ground from the tree above. The baby velociraptor could not fly but it could walk. “Mother, I am coming to find you!” he said with determination.
“Are you my mother?” he shouted up at a brontosaurus. The brontosaurus took a break from munching on leaves, leaned down and replied, “I am too tall and long to be your mother.”
“Are you my mother?” the baby velociraptor asked a triceratops. “I cannot be your mother. I have horns on my head and you do not.” said the triceratops. Then he stomped away.
“Are you my mother?” the baby asked a stegosaurus. “No. I am covered in body armor with horns on my back and you are not.” laughed the stegosaurus as he disappeared into the forest.
The baby velociraptor slumped down to the earth and began to cry. His cry grew into a heaving sob. Soon, he was surrounded by a puddle of his tears. “I know my mother is out there somewhere.” He started to gain some strength and shouted, “I will find her. I can do it!”
Suddenly, the baby was joined by a tiny whiskered creature with a pointy nose and a long pink tail who began to lick up his puddle of tears. “You must be my mother!” he cried. The skinny rat looked up at the velociraptor with his red beady eyes, grunted and began to chase him. “Ahhhh! You are too fierce looking to be my mother! Help!” the baby shouted as he ran all the way back to his tree. Just as he reached the base of his tree, a huge winged creature swooped down and carried him to his nest. “You must be my mother.” he sighed. “That’s right, my sweet baby. Welcome to our world.” cooed his mother. The mother folded her wings around the baby velociraptor and the baby knew that it was safe and loved.
Biopsy
She sat sideways on the bed of the surgical room, not yet willing to make the commitment of lying all the way down. The room was cool and she shivered in the pink paper gown the nurse told her to change into. Strands of hair escaped from the elastic-rimmed cloth cap she was instructed to put on and she tucked them back in nervously, as if she were there for them to evaluate her appearance.
A knock at the door. “Miss Dillon, are you changed? May we come in?”
“Yes,” Sarah coughed, suddenly misplacing her voice. “I’m ready.”
A nurse in scrubs entered the with a stainless steel rolling tray. “I’m just here to get the room ready. Dr. Wardle will be here soon. Why don’t you lay back and relax.”
Relax. Yeah, right. You relax when someone is going to poke and prod you with needles trying to stab some strange tumor living between your neck and your brain, Sarah wanted to yell, but instead she responded, “OK,” reclining on the gurney as the nurse directed.
Minutes of uncomfortable silence elapsed as Sarah watched the nurse unpack each plastic package of instruments and lay them carefully on the table. One giant syringe had complicated grips resembling fallopian tubes. Another bore a handle that could have been attached to a suitcase.
Her throat began to tighten and the spot between the bridge of her nose and the corner of her eyes burned the way it did when she held back tears. She wished that she had brought her boyfriend. They could have joked about the strange tools on the table or the funny paper gown that didn’t close in the back. He could have held her hand and told her she was brave. But instead she had insisted. “I can handle it. Don’t take off work. It’s just a biopsy. I’ll be fine.” She was independent; there was no need to inconvenience anyone else.
But now she was left in silence with the diligent nurse forever unpacking needles and gauze and tools reminiscent of reproductive models.
“This is a nice hospital,” she offered.
“Yes. We like it very much.”
Back to silence.
Another knock at the door, but this time no pause for a response. Dr. Wardle, a tall man in his fifties, entered, simultaneously marking a chart and uttering his greetings. “Ms. Dillion. Yes. It’s nice to see you. Are you ready?”
“Yes. I guess so.”
“Very good. We’ll get set up. The pathologist is on his way downstairs. All you have to do is turn your head so I can try to aspirate some of the fluid in the tumor. There’s no anesthesia because we need you to help us find it.”
Pathologist. Aspirate. Tumor. These words had never been a part of her daily vocabulary but suddenly peppered every telephone conversation with her mother and constantly tumbled around her brain when she showered or drove to work or tried to fall asleep at night.
She turned to the left to expose the lump hidden beneath her skin. Dr. Wardle held her head down and prodded for the mass with two fingers. He hit it and Sarah winced. The tumor sent a sharp pain to her jaw. “That hurt?” Dr. Wardle asked. “A little,” Sarah responded.
He kept his finger on the lump. “Don’t move. You’ll feel a prick.” The syringe burned her flesh as it entered. She could feel him jabbing at the lump trying to break through its surface to sample the inside. After a final stab he began to pump the top of the syringe, suctioning out whatever was unhardened. The tears Sarah tried so hard to hold back began to escape, chasing each other down her face to the white hospital pillowcase. “Does that hurt?” the doctor asked.
After two more attempts, the doctor announced that they were done and had enough material for the pathologist to sample. Sarah turned to see Dr. Wardle eject the milky, bloody fluid from inside her tumor onto a glass slide.
“We’ll call when we have the results,” he said. “The nurse will bring your discharge papers.”
“OK. Thank you, Dr. Wardle,” Sarah responded, wiping away the tears each pretended were not there. “I’ll call your office to make a follow up appointment.”
Dr. Wardle and the silent nurse left, closing the door behind them. Sarah quickly unwrapped her gown, and pulled on her jeans and heavy sweater. She just wanted to go home.
Lava Rocks
As I hit the water, I couldn’t hear the cheers and the yells, or the sound of my body hitting the water with a crash. No, all I could hear is the sound of my heart beating. I couldn’t think about what I was going to do next, I just kept wondering how I got myself into this situation, and a growing anger developed inside of me. How could a perfectly comfortable and relaxing day have turned into this?
The morning started off as it has for the past six days. We woke up to bright sunshine, waves crashing to the shore and the smell of salty ocean water infusing the bedroom. We spend our last morning on the lanai, eating our vacation breakfast of croissants, jelly, and freshly sliced fruit. We discussed how we were going to spend our last day in paradise, but neither of us really wanted to admit that we had to leave later that night.
He said, “So how are we going to spend our final moments…should we go to the beach, hike a waterfall or relax by the pool.”
“ Beach! Beach!” I responded with so much enthusiasm it made him laugh.
“Okay, let’s head to Hanalei and do some snorkeling. I want to get in and search for a sea turtle. How does that sound?” replied my husband.
“Perfect.” I answered.
We packed our cooler full of lunch and snacks, grabbed our swimsuits and headed to the car. It was a beautiful fifteen minute drive down a winding road, through the greenery, past the tropical flowers. We approached the side of the road, and took the ten minute hike through the forest. I love walking through the forest, because after a few minutes you realize that you are in the middle of nowhere. The walk made me relax even deeper, as I smelled the fauna and moss growing on the trees. For a moment you are walking through the trees in almost total darkness, and a second later you find a clearing that takes you to a remote beach with bright sunshine, warm sand and very few people. This was our favorite beach destination because the black lava rocks and cliffs formed a nature harbor to make the waves a bit gentler and the water a little bit clearer.
On this particular day, there were only three other people on the beach, and we nestled in a spot quite a distance from them. We threw down our blanket and went running to into the cold ocean water. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a day.
After spending a lazy morning swimming with the fish and searching for turtles we settled back onto our blanket. We noticed that a few more people have joined us on the beach. There was a group of seven kids and teenagers. We could tell they were native because they did not join us or the other visitors to sunbath on the beach, instead they climbed the black lava rock cliffs and were jumping from the top. We watched them in awe of their courageous behavior, jumping from these cliffs that had to be more than four stories tall. To us, this was like the Summer Olympics. At first, their jumps were simple. But then the competition began. The boys began diving, then flipping and twisting. We couldn’t believe what we were seeing. These were some of the most beautiful dives we had ever witnessed.
After watching the boys for what seemed like hours, we decided to go for another swim. Once out in the water we ran into two of the boys who had been on the cliffs. The next things I heard from my husband’s voice, “Amazing diving skills, guys.”
Now looking back at the situation, I realized this where the whole scenario began. It was my husband’s social nature that got us within a few minutes on top of the lava cliffs. If he had been shyer, less willing to talk to strangers, I would never have found myself scared to death. It seems the teenage boys invited him to jump off the cliff. I swam to the bottom of the cliff so I could see the dive.
As I watched my husband climb to the top, I thought to myself, “This is crazy….” He was laughing and joking with the other guys at the top of the lava cliffs. They were telling stories and old tales and I heard them yelling at me to join them at the top. I knew if I climbed to the top, I would never be able to get down. See, the real issue here, is that I am scared of heights. Actually not scared, petrified. Maybe even beyond petrified, I am scared stiff. I hate being higher and taller than myself. If I do work myself up to get the top of something tall, the real issue is that I cannot really get down. I freeze, I cry, and I cannot think rationally.
Just as I was thinking about how I was going to swim back to the beach to get away from the situation, two of the teenagers had climbed down the rocks to fetch me. Even though my husband had told them I was terrified of heights, they had convinced him that before we both left the island we had to jump from the cliff. I agreed to walk to the top to hear some of their stories, but with the promise that I could walk down (with assistance) when it was over. Climbing up was fun, as long as I did not look down the blue water below.
At the top, the teenagers told us how diving from the cliffs was a tale told by their ancestors. There was a belief that if you were sick of mind of body, by jumping from the cliff you could rid yourself of illness. The wind blew away the illness and the water refreshed your soul and made you ready to enter you tribe. Even though I was enthralled by the stories and tales, I could help but stare at the deep and treacherous fall in front of me. My hands were gripped tightly on the rocks I was sitting on, and I was scared I was beginning to get a cramp in my hand.
It was time. My husband was going to jump. The boys had told him that he had to jump a few feet from the cliffs to make sure that he didn’t hit any rock under the water. I watched him walk to the edge with a big smile on his face. He loves the thrill. I was amazed at how something that could horrify me, could bring such joy into his life. He took a deep breath and jumped. I could hardly watch. I witnessed his body plunge into the ocean and took a thankful sigh of relief when his head bobbed to the surface.
I knew I needed to get down and fast. But my husband was already climbing back up with a goofy grin on his face. I knew I was in trouble. He came straight at me and said, “You’re turn.”
“No way,” was my response. But even then I knew this was a losing battle. He was always able to get me to do things I knew deep down in my heart that I really didn’t want to do. Somehow he was convinced that if I just kept fighting my fear of heights, I would conquer it. I did not believe his reasoning. I don’t remember how it all happened. It seemed to go so fast, but the next thing I knew the entire crew had me standing at the cliff’s edge, and my husband was in the water cheering me down. I knew I really didn’t want to do this. I could not see straight. I could not move. I could not even talk.
I really did not have a choice at this moment. I needed to get down, I wanted to be on the beach, sitting and relaxing. I wanted to be walking through the forest, I wanted to be anywhere but here. And I knew the only way down was jumping. My heart was throbbing; it became the only thing I could hear. The next thing I knew, I did it. I took the step off and felt the air hit my body. I was too scared to even scream on my way down. I held my breath and couldn’t let go.
My next memory was bobbing my head through the water and realizing that no matter what I tried to do to conquer my fear of heights, the fear would always remain with me deep inside.
On Wednesday mornings at 9:05 the students of room 133 in Brook Park School are beginning to write. This is one of the many scheduled times during the week set aside for writing. Some of the students have been anticipating this time since Monday’s writing block. They have millions of ideas and are genuinely excited about writing them down. On the other hand, there are a handful of students who are dreading this moment. All morning they have been thinking of this time and hoping that there will be a fire drill that will prevent the class from having its writing block. As most of the students are feverishly writing away in their notebooks, one of the few students who was dreading this moment asks to go to the nurse. Coincidently, they have a headache, stomachache, sore throat, and a paper cut all that need the nurse’s immediate attention. These poor kids have a bad case of writing anxiety. These are the same kids that never have anything to write about. The same kids who say that nothing exciting or interesting has ever happened to them in their whole entire life. Their family is boring and they don’t have a pet or a favorite anything. These kids have a huge problem coming up with writing ideas.
As a teacher of writing, I need to help these students figure out a way to come up with ideas that they feel they can write about. I need to help them realize that anything can be made into a meaningful writing project. I can help my students by focusing on teaching lessons that are targeted for the prewriting stage of the writing process.
Often prewriting is the most difficult phase of the writing process for students of any age. Even accomplished authors feel anxious about this stage. Author, Elie Weisel commented, “Writing is painful pleasure and the most difficult part is to begin.” In the prewriting stage, students choose topics, make outlines, and consider purpose, format and audience. Writers take the time in this stage to explore ideas before they commit to writing a piece.
A way to help students come up with ideas is by using literature. Both picture books and novels are excellent tools for writing. Many writing projects arise from simply reading a book. The students can read a picture book or have a picture book read to them and do a variety of writing projects that complement the story. For example, the wordless picture book The Snowman by Raymond Briggs can be used for many different writing assignments. The students can write a story that accompanies the illustrations from the point of view of the snowman, the boy or a narrator. They can write poems about winter or snowmen. Descriptive essays can been written describing an adventure or just describing one illustration. The students can also write a sequel to the book. A great accompanying activity can be to write and illustrate their own version using an object from a different season.
I have tried one of these writing activities. The students wrote an essay describing what they would do if they were snowmen for one day. They picked three things to describe. All of the students were successful in this project. After watching the video version of the book the students brainstormed some things they would, as a snowman, do on a cold day. Many students wrote wonderfully creative essays describing their day, and even added in cute details in the conclusion about melting. I would definitely use this project again.
Fairy tales and folk tales are also great to inspire writing ideas. In class we read several versions of The Three Little Pigs and compared and contrasted each version. At the end of the unit the students wrote their own version using different animals as the main characters. We also wrote our own tall tales. After reading many different tall tales, including Paul Bunyan, Pecos Bill, and Swamp Angel, the students wrote their own tall tales describing a hero with a larger than life quality solving a problem. These turned out pretty funny. The students were able to successfully create their own characters and problems. I noticed a real connection between the stories we read and their ability to mimic those stories to create their own. Next year I might have the students work in groups to create a more detailed version of the tall tale with a more in depth description of the problem and solution.
Another book that can prompt writing ideas is The Mysteries of Harris Burdick by Chris Van Allsburg. This book is a collection if pictures illustrated by a man called Harris Burdick. One day many years ago Burdick went to Peter Wenders’s (former children’s book publisher) office with a collection of pictures. Each of the pictures had short title and caption to accompany them. Wenders liked the pictures so much he asked Burdick if he could see the stories that went with each picture. Burdick agreed to return the next day with the stories. Unfortunately, Burdick disappeared. Wenders searched for any clues to where Burdick went, but found nothing. Burdick’s whereabouts have been a mystery. The drawings are now published in this book and can be used to spark many different intriguing stories.
I used this book in my classroom recently. I put the picture and its caption “Uninvited Guests” on the ELMO machine so it was projected on the overhead screen for all the students to see. I told the class to closely observe the picture for five minutes. They were to use the five minutes to write down anything they saw that they liked, that they found interesting or that was spooky. After five minutes I read the caption to them and they were to write a story that matched the picture, title and caption. All of my students were able to successfully write a short story. Two girls, Simone and Sophia, wrote my favorite stories. Simone ended hers with a twist and Sophia left hers open-ended. I was impressed with their creativity and use of story structures that we read about earlier in the year. I am already planning future lessons using pictures from this book.
To help my students with ideas for writing haiku poems I read the poetry book If Not For the Cat by Jack Prelutsky. The book is a collection of haikus written about animals. After reading the book and discussing the haiku pattern the students used Prelutsky’s poems to inspire their own animal haikus. Each student had a different animal to write about and they were able to look up information about their animal online, look at pictures and read books about it before writing their haiku. All of my students were able to write at least three poems. I will use this project again in the future.
This is a personal essay I wrote about one of my favorite pictures/memories:
On my desk are three pictures, one of my husband and I on our wedding day, one of our dog, Misto, and one of my mom and I sipping coffee at a café on a beach.
A few years ago I spent some time in the Provence region of the South of France with my mom. The trip was for the purpose of relaxation and exploration, and most importantly to provide my mom with the fulfillment of what could most closely be described as a mid-life crisis. She hadn’t been to Europe since her honeymoon and had always thought she would travel with my dad after my brother and I were done with school. Obviously things change. My parents divorced when I was a senior in high school, and the years immediately before and after this were appropriately filled with intolerable stress. My mom still had the dream of traveling with someone she loved, and finally decided that she didn’t need to be married to do this.
We first flew into Madrid, Spain where we rented a car and drove to Barcelona before heading to France. When my mother first proposed our “road trip,” I thought she was nuts! Why in the world would we rent a car and drive from country to country when we didn’t even know the language. It wasn’t long until I gave into her sense of adventure, and soon we headed to Provence to witness the same land and culture that inspired our favorite artists Van Gogh, Gauguin and Cézanne. My mom is an art teacher. I am an art lover; and of course, this trip wound up being very transformative for both us. It was during our excursion that I began to truly understand the complexity and beauty of the great painters … and my mom.
Our first stop in France was the metropolitan city of Provence. We spent several days there the observing the high fashion culture and enjoying the beauty of the Mediterranean harbor. The next city we visited was Aix en Provence. We only spent one day here because it is a very small city. Aix en is very charming and definitely a place that has and still does inspire artists. Artists selling their own original work constantly occupy the sidewalks. In Aix en we went to see Paul Cézanne’s studio. The studio was fully intact and still adorned with his painting utensils, overcoat and objects from his famous still life paintings. After touring his studio we drove further into the countryside to see the Mont. Sainte-Victoire, which he painted several times and my mom continued to explain the back-stories of all of the paintings that I had always loved so much.
While driving through the countryside, I really began to notice the cypress trees in the fields. These trees are scattered all over cities along the Mediterranean Sea; however, here I was able to observe them up close. Prior to this trip to France, the only cypress trees I had ever seen were in Vincent Van Gogh’s paintings. When we were driving to France these beautiful trees adorned the roadsides. Driving these roads, I started to notice their peculiar shape. Here, in Aix en I began to notice the true texture of the cypress trees that Van Gogh had vividly represented in his work. I found it beautiful how cypress trees sprang up in the most unusual places.
The next and final destination of our trip was Arles, France. Arles was my favorite city in the south. It was quaint, but big at the same time and filled with vivacious color. Arles, being one of Van Gogh’s inspirations looked so similar to what I had seen in his painting. But here, the images became much more present and wild now that they weren’t hidden behind thick museum glass.
I remember the city being clearly preserved to commemorate the memory and legacy of Van Gogh. The flowerbeds in the middle of the hospital (St. Paul’s Asylum) are just as they were when Van Gogh painted them (Irises). Arles, like Aix en, was covered with cypress trees. Once again, I began to examine the texture of these trees in light of Van Gogh’s work.
Van Gogh accomplished the task of accurately depicting the visual awe of seeing a cypress in person by using vibrant color and texture. Van Gogh essentially invented his own painting style, a mix of both post-impressionism and expressionistic styles. His work is self-realized and emotional. He conveys the feeling found in expressionistic work, but also the aspect of light in post-impression work. Van Gogh, although he never knew it, is responsible for opening people’s eyes to color and texture. Someone who truly appreciates the talent of Van Gogh and has witnessed the beauty of his art in person will not forget what he or she has seen. Chances are, they will begin to see things through the eyes of Van Gogh, just as I did when I first saw a cypress tree in person.
Not only did I start to see art in a new way, but I also started to see my mom in a new way. It was on this trip, that I started to see my mom as my best friend. During the many miles we drove, we talked about a lot. She wasn’t “just” my mom anymore, but instead she was a women who I respected as an educator, a professional, an artist, and as an independent voice who has been through many of life’s uncontrollable curve balls and still felt the need to take her grown daughter on a road trip across Europe. I realized how funny she was, and really I realized that everything she did, she did for my brother and I. For both of us, this trip changed our relationship. We left Europe with a new understanding. I certainly never thought my first road trip would be in Europe, and especially not with my mom. That simple picture of my mom and I will always be one of my favorites.
“After we have responded to a work of art, we leave it, carrying away in our consciousness something that we didn’t have before”
~ John Berger
Editorial
Leave No ESL Student Behind
With the continued increase of immigrant students, whose primary language is other than English, we need to think about the ways that we teach these students to acquire the English language. There are many different programs that are out there. There are those programs that teach students in their native tongue (mind you, only for a population of students that is large enough for them to have a separate class and have a teacher that speaks that same language) until they are ready to transition into mainstream English classrooms. There are those programs that claim to teach students in both English and their native tongue. And, there are those programs where students are placed in an English speaking classrooms, but get small group, either pull out or push in, support in order to acquire English as a second language. There are other gradations of these different approaches, yet I see these as the most common in our schools. While there are proponents and opponents to each type of program, I advocate for placing students in mainstream English classrooms with ESL support.
Proponents of bilingual programs where students receive instruction in their native tongue and then eventually transition into English when they are “ready” and/or dual language programs where students receive a 50/50 balance of instruction in English and their native language believe that they do a better job of developing students’ higher-level thinking skills and ability to master difficult content by allowing them to access the knowledge in their native tongue. The main goal of both of these programs is to eventually transition them into a mainstream English speaking classroom where they are fully bilingual and able to think critically and communicate fluently in both languages.
On the other hand there are those who oppose these types of programs, like parents and community member who want more English instruction because they see learning the language as essential to achieving the American dream. Additionally, there are those that say it will be difficult to foster bilingual and/or dual language programs because there is a serious shortage of bilingual teachers. Also, these programs present an equity issue since there are over 100 different languages present in CPS. Opponents also argue that although bilingual or dual education programs claim to enhance these students’ critical thinking skills, many students never fully master one given language and therefore are limited in many areas of literacy including their critical thinking skills.
I have also spoken to teachers who do teach in bilingual and/or dual language classes and many have commented that their students cannot communicate completely in one language, in this case either English or Spanish. Unfortunately when these students become young adults and enter the “real world”, employers will not be sympathetic to individuals who cannot speak English fluently. While their second language will prove invaluable when searching for a job, these individuals must be able to speak English proficiently.
While I am sympathetic to those who support bilingual or dual language classrooms, I feel that it is not a practical approach to solving the needs of our ESL students. Although, learning in an English setting has proven to very difficult for many ESL students, we need to offer these students adequate support such as small group support to assist them in furthering their mastery of English. If students can get tutoring in their native language, I support this as a way for students to receive reinforcement of a skill, strategy or concept in their native language. Students who are learning English as a second language need extra support to foster their English learning process while spending the majority of the day in an English speaking classroom.
Additionally, I do strongly feel that there is a need for children to continue to use and learn their native languages so that they can use the invaluable ability of speaking two (or more) languages when they enter the workforce and in their daily lives. In order to support children’s growth in their native language, I support elective classes and/or school clubs where students can talk and learn in their native language. Also, I feel that one of the best ways to support these students in maintaining their native language is working with parents to teach them the importance of communicating with their children in their native language in order to support these students to become fully bilingual.
In the world of leaving no child behind we really need to think about how we are going to ensure that we do not leave our ESL population in the dust. Thus, I advocate for teaching the students mainly in an English speaking classroom while receiving ESL support. Additionally, students need to be reinforced to keep their native tongue alive so that they never leave that behind as well.
Say What?
It seemed like an ordinary day. I was walking our dog, Penny, after school. This was my daily ritual and I loved it. After sitting all day at school, it was great to have an excuse to go outside before Mom made me do my homework.
We were walking the same route we walked every day when suddenly she stopped, turned around and said, “Look, why don’t we try something new. Instead of you taking me to the same old places, why don’t I lead the way today?”
Dumbfounded, I just stared at her. Did Penny just speak?
“Well?” she asked.
“You…you talk?” I managed to croak out.
“Of course I talk!” she retorted. “Come on, let’s go!”
I followed her, hardly believing what was happening. Visions of show and tell at school ran through my head. The other kids were going to love this. Penny could make me the most popular kid in school. I became so wrapped up in my daydream that it was a few blocks before I realized that Penny was taking me to the railroad tracks.
“Uh, Penny, I don’t think we should be here,” I said nervously. Not only was I nervous because my dog had just spoken to me for the first time ever, but also because this was the part of our town where a lot of bad stuff happened. In fact, just a couple of days ago, the police had been over here looking for some money that was stolen from an old lady’s house.
“Oh, come on,” said Penny impatiently.
“No, really,” I said, “Mom will have dinner ready soon, so we should go back.”
Penny kept walking and pulling me along with her.
“Do you want a treat, Penny?” I asked desperately, knowing I could usually get her to do anything for a dog biscuit. She looked back and rolled her puppy-dog eyes at me, then pulled me along even farther. She was moving faster now.
I noticed a man walking towards us about a block away. I tried to get Penny to turn around, but she is a strong dog! My heart began to pound as he came closer. My palms began to sweat and I was having trouble breathing. What if he attacks us? What if he asks me for money and I don’t have any to give him? What if he has a gun? What if – All of a sudden I realized that he had passed us. Phew! But, my palms had become so sweaty at this point that the leash slipped out of my hand. Penny took off.
“Penny!” I shouted, running after her. She kept going, then turned a corner and ran out of sight. I turned the same corner and caught just a glimpse of her tail as she turned the next corner into an alley. Mom is going to kill me, I thought. Not only am I going to be late coming home, but now I’ve also lost our dog, our talking dog! I turned down the alley and there was no sign of Penny. I called her name, I looked in between apartment buildings and under cars. For a good half an hour I looked EVERYWHERE, but didn’t find her. Panicked, I began to cry. Not knowing what else to do, I made my way home. Maybe Dad could help me find her in the car.
“Tommy!” cried Mom when I walked into the kitchen. “Where have you been?”
I was so upset about losing Penny that I just stood there with tears running down my cheeks.
“Penny came home twenty minutes ago and we’ve been worried sick!” Mom continued.
“What?” I asked. Looking behind her, I saw Penny standing in the doorway. I ran past Mom, grabbed Penny’s collar, And dragged her to my room.
“What was that all about?” I demanded.
“Wasn’t that fun?” she replied, and almost looked like she had a smile on her face. Once again, I was shocked. She turned and walked out the door.
“Mom, Mom!” I shouted, running to the kitchen. “Penny can talk! Penny can talk!”
“Tommy, what happened to you? First you’re gone for much longer than you should be. Then the dog gets away from you, and now you’re telling me she can talk?” She turned to Penny. “Can you talk?” Penny just looked up at Mom and wagged her tail.
And that was that. Penny never spoke again. And I certainly never took her on a walk by myself again. I don’t think I will ever know why she did what she did that day, but I’ve been pretty sure ever since that day that Penny’s out to get me. I don’t know if it was all the boring walks or all the disgusting dog treats I’ve given her, but she is holding something against me. One thing I do know is that I will never bring her to school for show and tell.
The Day I Found Out!!
By: Lewis-Morris
I can remember the day I found out!
I was so excited I wanted to shout!
I skipped and hopped, and jumped up high.
But suddenly! My knees shook, and my head felt light.
“Oh my, oh my”! I said to myself. “Maybe I need to lay down in the bed”.
But I sat in the kitchen, and wondered who to tell.
So I dialed a phone number, but hung up instead.
I grabbed my car keys and ran out the door.
I revved up the car and pressed the pedal to the floor.
Away I went up the busy narrow street.
All of a sudden I wanted something to eat.
I pulled into a restaurant and ordered a treat.
On my way out, I looked in the mirror, and all of a sudden, I got this big bright idea. “I know what I’ll do,” I repeated to myself.
So off I went to purchase the perfect ingredient.
I drove slowly home to avoid making a spill.
Then five o’clock came, and I heard the keys in the door, so I rushed to the closet, and closed the door.
In came my husband filled with curiosity, for he had seen strings of rose pedals along the balcony.
Behind the rose pedals he continued to walk, and into the bedroom where it was very dark.
I crept up behind him to watch the surprise, as he cleared away the rose pedals to read the message inside.
WE’RE HAVING A BABY !
Canned Ravioli and Gilligan's Island:
A Children's Story
LuLu never wanted to go to school.
It wasn’t that she hated school …
She loved tracing letters
And reading out loud to the other first graders.
(LuLu already knew how to read by the time she entered kindergarten!)
She just wanted to be home. With Tia.
LuLu got sick once last year in kindergarten.
She stayed home with Tia. They layed on the bed all day under the blankets, watched Gilligan’s Island, and ate canned ravioli.
LuLu got up from her table and told her teacher Ms. Hopkins that she was sick.
And because her cheeks were a little rosy that day, Ms. Hopkins believed LuLu!
Tia got to school right before math time.
When they left the school, Tia and LuLu walked hand in hand down the street.
LuLu couldn’t believe it. The sun was shining! She was with Tia!
And she was going home, while the rest of the students were inside practicing math facts!
When they got home, Tia opened the cabinet and pulled out a can of ravioli.
LuLu opened the drawer and handed the can opener to Tia.
“Yay! I love ravioli!”
“Oh, this ravioli is for me, LuLu. Sick girls can’t eat ravioli. Sick girls sip chicken broth. It’s like soup with no noodles.” Tia opened the can of ravioli and dumped a huge pile into her bowl.
LuLu was surprised. “Well, I’m not that hungry. Tia, I’ll go set your bed up to watch Gilligan’s Island, okay?”
Tia replied, “Television? Television gives sick girls headaches. And we don’t want your sick germs spreading into my room, LuLu. You can get your bed set up for a nap.”
As she walked down the hall to her room, LuLu felt confused.
No canned ravioli? No Gilligan’s Island? My own bed? Alone?
This is not what LuLu had in mind!
She ran back into the kitchen. “Tia, I feel better!”
“Really? Well then let’s get you back to school!”
Not knowing what to say, LuLu grabbed her bookbag and walked to the door. She felt sad that her “sick” day wasn’t what she had hoped.
When they got outside, Tia reached for LuLu’s hand and walked her back to school.
As LuLu opened the door to her classroom, Tia called, “See you at 2:15, LuLu! I saw that there’s a Gilligan’s Island marathon we can watch together tonight in my bed!”
LuLu’s eyes lit up, and she went skipping into her classroom.
My Little, Green Hero
Did anything so crazy ever happen to you, that you thought that it had to be a dream?
It all happened when I was walking home from a terrible day at school. I forgot my spelling book at school the night before so I didn’t have my homework. Man…was my teacher upset! She made such a big deal about it and went on about responsibility. I have never been so embarrassed in my whole life. I turned so red that the students burst into laughter and I was humiliated. I just wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. I don’t understand why she had to yell at me in front of the whole class. It was only a spelling assignment and this was the first assignment I have ever missed. So now not only did I receive a nickname that I am not quite fond of, I also had to bring a note home to my parents to sign to let them know of my irresponsibility. All I kept thinking on my way home was “how am I supposed to show my face again tomorrow in school”.
Just then, two boys from my class came running by, yelling, “hey! tomato head!”. I could not believe that I couldn’t just walk home in peace and not have to think about my horrible mistake for one minute. While I was trying to control my anger, I heard a quiet voice whisper “hey.” I just thought that it was another student trying to make my day even worse, but it wasn’t. It was something I have never seen before…it was a little, smiley man dressed in green from head to toe. He had an oversized top hat and shiny black shoes with gold buckles.
I rubbed my eyes to see if this little man was actually real or was he just a figment of my imagination. When I opened my eyes, he was hopping around and clicking his shoes. He was a jolly, little thing. I was bewildered and stupefied at the sight. I didn’t know if I should scream or wait to see what he was going to happen next. He could sense my confusion and fear, and assured me that he was harmless and that he was only there to help. “Today is your lucky day!” At this point, I decided that I was going to wait this one out. He began to run around and exclaim, “I am here to grant you a wish, any wish that you want!” Now I was astonished and thought…. he was going to give me a wish? He said that the only rule was I had to express my wish before the colorful rainbow that stretched across the sky went away. I was confused whether this little man was true and could really grant me a wish, but I figured that it would not hurt to try. So of course, I knew my wish and I whispered, “I wish I could relive this day”. He giggled and said “wish granted” and skipped away singing “everyone knows to wish for more wishes”. He was right, but I didn’t care. I watched as he and his rainbow disappeared.
“BZZZZZ” I jumped out of bed to my loud, annoying alarm. I couldn’t believe the peculiar dream that I had, but since I was late, I didn’t have much time to think about it. I got dressed, grabbed my back pack and ran downstairs and out the door. I ran so fast because the last thing that I needed to be was late for school. I didn’t want to be seen as “tomato head” again. I arrived to school right on time, with not a second to spare. When I was listening to the morning announcements, my teacher announced that it was March 17. I was bewildered because today was March 18, but then I thought I just misheard her. But then when she said to take out our spelling homework, I thought that I was going insane. We had spelling homework due yesterday. So I opened my folder and there it was…my homework that I didn’t have yesterday. It was done!! That’s when I realized I didn’t dream about my little, green friend, it was true!!! He granted me my wish and it came true!!!
I could not believe this was true!! That little man saved me from all of my embarrassment and saved my reputation. From that day forward I never missed a homework assignment and I swore that I would never tell anyone this story. How would anyone believe me, if I didn’t believe it myself. Every time I see a rainbow though, I think of my little, green hero and wonder who he was saving now.
In response to my students question about women(we read Guys Write for Guys Read article called GUYifesto--Who We Are! Then created our own stereotypes/questions)...
Why do girls watch shows that make them cry?
Girls watch shows that make them cry. Girls are sentimental beings who have emotions. Girls unlike guys can show their emotions. Shows that make girls cry appeal to their feelings and girls have feelings! That’s why girls watch shows that make them cry.
Why don’t girls like cleaning up after their men?
Girls don’t like to clean up after their men. In a girl’s opinion God gave both of us two hands and two feet, if I can put the dishes away so can you. Some parts may be different but all the parts we need to clean the house are EXACTLY the same. So clean up after yourself because girls don’t want to!
Why do girls act different in front of their friends (talk about you poorly)?
Girls act different in front of their friends when they are talking about you. Girls talk to other girls about all the dumb guy stuff you all do. We can’t talk to you, you’re the idiot doing all the things that push our buttons. Other girls understand because their men are doing stupid things too. Hopefully you understand we can’t say nice things about you to our friends because then it would all be lies and girls don’t lie.
Why do girls have feminine products everywhere?
Girls carry and need feminine products, duh! Things can happen at any time so we need to carry them everywhere or else… Oh and if we don’t need them ourselves our friends might and we have to help our own kind. I mean who knows when mother nature will surprise us and we don’t want to be S.O.L. Therefore, we care feminine products at all times. It’s just way to risky.
Why don’t women listen to what guys have to say?
Women don’t listen to what guys have to say. That is a simple fact because guys are always wrong. Guys make up lies, especially when they don’t know the answer to something. Plus, 90% of what comes out of a guys mouth is unclear; they are way to busy thinking about the game or how they are going to get out of the mess their mouth just got them into. These are some of the simple reasons (so you men can understand them) as to why girls don’t listen to what guys have to say.
Why do women always want things done their way?
Women always want things done their way because it is the right way. We do things using common sense and order that other people could understand. For example, if you rinse the dishes and put it in the dishwasher right away there is less clean up. Yet, men just leave it on the counter and food gets stuck on it making it impossible to clean. If you just do it our way everything would be much simpler and that is why women want things done their way, it’s just smarter.
One Liners
By- Amy Brich
“Hey baby, meet me outside by the dumpster after the last slow song.” This eloquent statement was delivered from the mouth of the boy who would eventually become my first kiss.
It was a cool, spring night in Glenshaw, a small suburb just outside of Pittsburgh. The atmosphere inside the gymnasium at Shaler Area Junior High School was charged with tween energy and the sound of the base booming from the music played by everyone’s favorite DJ- DJ Rick. The weekend before, all of the girls went to Ross Park Mall to buy their new outfits and practiced their choreographed dance routines for Vanilla Ice’s hit song, Ice, Ice Baby. The whispers in the hallway all revolved around the same topic- who were the boys going to ask for a slow dance? EWWWWW was what I thought, that is, until I was asked to do that very thing. Little did I know that this night would forever be etched in my memory!
The dance was well under way when I decided to take a break and head to the restroom to check my cherry lip gloss with my best friend Melissa. As we walked out of the girls’ room, my crush, Dave Eisenreich, was standing right outside, looking at me intently. It was almost like he was waiting for me. I turned behind me to see who he was looking at, and then I realized it was me! My stomach immediately felt like a swarming mass of butterflies had just taken up residence there. My shoes suddenly felt like they were full of lead, and I had to make a concerted effort to make the right foot move in front of the left. As the distance between Dave and I closed, I had to remind myself to breathe, while all the while, look totally cool and blasé about this situation I seemed to stumble upon. I’m not sure when Melissa was no longer by my side, but it was very apparent that there were only two people in the near vicinity, and those two people were Dave and I. I heard the hum of the soda machine in the background, mixed with the muted sounds of the pop music blaring from the gymnasium. As we got closer to one another, I took a deep breath and forced my eyes to meet his. As I looked up, his golden brown eyes had a mischievous twinkle and a smile played with the corners of his mouth.
“Are you going to save the last dance for me?”
Nodding my head, I forced a weak yes from my lips. As the music inside changed from fast to slow, he took my hand and led me into the middle of the gymnasium floor. All eyes turned to stare at the two of us, or at least that is what it felt like to me. We awkwardly began to dance, with my arms around his neck and his arms around my waist. As soon as I felt myself relaxing, the song was already over, and so was our dance. My heart sank as he pulled away from me. I tried desperately to think of something to say that would hold his interest. While the wheels turned in my head, he was the one to make the first move. My crush leaned over into my ear and whispered, “Hey baby, meet me outside by the dumpster after the last slow song.” Amazingly enough, the line actually worked! Not only did it work on me…apparently it worked on my friend Melissa, with whom I had gone to the bathroom that night. Turns out this romantic boy with the great one liner and my best friend in junior high ended up getting married.
The Very Important Achievement Test: a children’s story by Candice Lobo
Testing, testing, testing!!! I am so stressed out!
This week my school is taking the V. I. A. T.’s. That’s the Very Important Achievement Test.
At my school it seems to be a HUGE deal.
My teacher made us practice for weeks and weeks. We did V. I. A. T. practice test for reading, writing, and math! Those were really boring but I guess they were supposed to help prepare me for what is coming.
My principal even stopped by our classroom and we had a pep rally. That’s where we cheer and get all excited for something. We got pumped up for the V. I. A. T.’s.
At home my mom is making me go to bed super early and I have to eat “brain food.” For breakfast I have a powerjump700, a glass of milk, an apple, and vitamins.
Before we started the test there were all these rules about how to take the test and what things we are allowed to do. Did you know we can’t talk and our teacher can’t even help us with words or anything?
So we finally took this test that everyone has been going CRAZY over and BOY OH BOY!!!
This test was soooooooo easy. I don’t get what the fuss was all about.
I already knew all of the answers. To make it even easier most of the questions had the answer right below them so I just had to find the right one.
I know I did great because my teacher smiled at the end of the test and told me I did a wonderful job.
The best part of all this V. I. A. T. testing was the teacher gave us special testing mints and we got extra recess.
Candy and extra recess…this test was worth it.
This stuff is a breeze. I am all set for next year. No more test worries for me!
And trust me you have nothing to worry about either because your teacher already taught you everything you need to know!
Good Luck
I’m crawling the walls while I lie here; a single tear escapes. Why is it taking so long? My breathing comes short and unsteady. They will not return to see me crying! Think of happy things. Deep yoga breaths: in out, in out. What’s more cold in here: the bleached, sterilized environment? Or my fear hanging in the air? Palpable. Why more pictures? They did a mammogram a week ago! Why another one? Why more tests?
I reach for a washcloth. I wipe away more of the sticky, gloppy, goo from my breast.
I remember when this goo was smeared all over my belly. I remember the weird pressure as the technician ice-skated her instrument in figure eights: pressing, stopping, skating some more across my belly. I remember my husband by my side holding my hand. I remember the similar concerns. Is the baby alright? Are there any problems? Then the chooo, chooo, chooo of a heartbeat…it sounded like a train! We were so relieved. We were so happy. I was laughing so much we lost the heartbeat again! It didn’t matter. We had what we needed. We took home the pictures and ooed and awed over them as if the baby were already here!
I thought of my boys and another tear ran down my cheek. What if I had to go home and tell them I was sick? What if…I’m not going to go there. What is taking so long?
There was no comfort of a choo choo sound this time. No reassurance as this technician manipulated the equipment. Only deadly quiet as she compressed certain keys and the computer pinged with each new picture. Just waiting. Alone. Trying to control the emotional roller coaster inside me.
Next door the woman twenty years older is being released. A brown Indian woman. I can hear her being chided for waiting so long to be tested. I can hear her thankfulness that she does not have to be seen for another year. The only one who did not bury herself in a magazine without looking around. The only one brave enough to look the other women in the eye with motherly concern smiling warmly and telling me good luck as I left the waiting room. We all wondered the same questions with our eyes averted: “Why are they here? Have they been diagnosed? What is her prognosis? Is she as scared as I am?”
“Good luck,” she told me as I left the waiting area for the third time. Good luck. As I entered the third testing room and waited for yet another technician. Good luck. As she received her own results got dressed and left.
What is luck? So if I have cancer I have bad luck? If I think too much I’m going to be sick right here all over the perfectly clean white sterilized floor. Why isn’t there a garbage can nearby? I see a linen bin full of gluey used washcloths and no other receptacle in the room. Jesus, even the dirty laundry still looks clean.
Finally, the doorknob turned and the most recent of technicians entered the room.
“Ruth, you’re free to go. Your tests came back negative.”
Rage welled up inside me…not relief. I wanted to say, who are you to come in here and give me that decision! Who are you to mark this as the end of the process that kept me up for nights? Where is your degree…your qualifications? All you did was take some pictures! Instead, I let out a sigh of relief. I asked, “Are you sure I don’t need to do anything else?” She seemed to notice that my ride had not yet come to a complete stop. “Your results have been reviewed and reviewed again by two radiologists. That’s why we kept you here. So you wouldn’t have to keep going home and coming back. I’m sorry that wasn’t explained to you. But, we would like to see you back in a year.”
Breathing more slowly, I gathered my gown around me and entered the hallway. I made my way to the locker rooms and got dressed in a daze. I had to pass through the waiting area on my way out. There was another woman there who looked to be about my age. I looked her in the eye and I said, “Good luck,” as I left even though I knew luck had nothing to do with it.
Good Luck
by Amy C
Not sure what I did to post as annonymous...that was a mistake
Molly and the Awesome, Beautiful, Remarkable, Fantastically Amazing Day
By Christina Bachman
I went to sleep with wet hair. If you’ve ever done this I’m sure you know how crazy it can become when it dries while you sleep. When I woke up my curls were shooting in every direction. Today it didn’t bother me though because my little brother Jack said it looked nice. I could tell it was going to be an awesome, beautiful, remarkable, fantastically amazing day.
At breakfast my dad made eggs, bacon, toast, and fresh squeezed orange juice. He even remembered to strain the juice so I wouldn’t have the pulp getting stuck in my teeth. Nothing is worse than having all those little pieces floating around in your mouth. Plus the toast was just right and had jelly on one slice and honey on the other. He told me a story about growing up and how his daddy made him the same breakfast.
I think I’ll live in Chicago forever!
Today the sun was shining and mom said I could ride my bike to school. Just last week I learned how to ride without training wheels. You’d think mom and dad had just won the lottery, they were so happy for me. Now they remind me every time I get on the bike to wear my helmet. Anyways, there I was riding down the sidewalk when my bicycle got a flat tire. Luckily it happened right in front of Delaney’s house and her mom, Ms. Grossart, was able to lend me her tire pump. I could tell it was going to be an awesome, beautiful, remarkable, fantastically amazing day.
At school the principal, Mrs. McGlade announced student of the month. For the last four months my best friend Erin has won the award. She is good at EVERYTHING. But today is different. For the first time I heard my name announced. I’m a very good reader and Mrs. McGlade chose me! I got to have a special “lunch bunch” with the principal and three of my friends. She took us to McDonalds and we got to order anything we wanted from the menu. Then we played in the balls and went up and down the slide. I’m having an awesome, beautiful, remarkable, fantastically amazing day.
When the school day ended I thought my day couldn’t get any better. My Papa picked me up and took me to Irish Dancing class. Today I would get to perform the Jig for an audience of 30 people. My teacher told me this would help to prepare me for the next feis competition. Little did I know that she would be choosing the top two dancers to take a trip to Ireland and perform in front of thousands of people. Normally I would have been really nervous, but not today. I was having an awesome, beautiful, remarkable, fantastically amazing day. Everybody cheered for me. Whoo-hoo!
There were hot dogs for dinner and I love hot dogs.
There was High School Musical on TV and I love High School Musical.
My parents say some days are like today.
Even in Chicago.
Carina said
The Big Jump….
I remember it clearly, like it was yesterday, the morning of the event, lying in the hostel bunk asking myself over and over “Why did I make such a big deal out of this in the first place? How did I ever agree to this? After all, I am afraid of heights, what was I thinking?-was I drinking?
I must have sounded so cocky, so sure of my self, when we all talked about it back in Sydney. Whenever my brother Pat mentioned it, or relived one of his own bungee jumps aloud I would beam with pride (wasn’t my big brother the greatest? he wasn’t afraid, fearless in fact, that was impressive.)
I couldn’t believe I would actually have to go through with it now. Well, too late to renege now anyway. In approximately two hours I would be strapped to my boyfriend Paudie and jumping off the side of a bridge on the East coast of Australia with a rope and a harness, a wing and a prayer.
Paudie had amazed me in all the extreme sports we had tried on our “round the world backpacking trip”. Sky-diving, white water rafting, swimming with sharks, had all been a “walk in the park for me” for me. After all I was a strong swimmer, he on the other hand could barely do the “doggie paddle” but took on each of these challenges with an amazing grit and sense of humor that I admired deeply.
Now it was my turn to face my demons.
It seemed surreal sitting on the gravel beside a bridge 147 meters above ground level –the highest bungee jump in the world, and I am about to do it tandem! How did I agree to this? I asked my self angrily for the umpteenth time that morning?—it was giving me burning a headache between my eyes.
So where was I? oh yeah, sitting on the gravel as this ‘Aussie Dude’ is securing my legs with two navy blue towels with Velcro at the ends to keep them together. Ok, so I am jumping off a bridge, 147 meters up, alongside my better half with nothing but a 3 inch thick bungee cord, two towels and some Velcro? Seriously, yes seriously.
The Aussie dude is talking to me now, telling me to enjoy the scenery, he tells me that this place is a lot like Ireland, and I nod in agreement, thinking- I wish I was at home right now….. His voice becomes more distant, fading into the sunlight that is making my eyes squint. Don’t look down, just don’t look down.
I’m reminded of the trust issue again, a million questions running through my head—what happens if we don’t jump at the same time—what if the velcro peels away-will we bang heads? I’m going to hold him tight…very tight!
“Edge out, It’s the Aussie dude again, edge out more, a little more” -I wanted to yell-“Dammit, I’m edging!” Breathe, focus. And Paudie says “ just loud enough for me to hear, just at that last second- “so is it one, two, three and we jump, or is it one two and jump on three???!!!!! I grit my teeth and say in a meek voice, as much to convince myself as anything else “It’s one two, three and then jump”
“We’re ready” says the Aussie dude---“so are we I” says Paudie, I scrunch up my face, stare at the sun, cross my fingers and hold on for dear life…..
I never told him this but I did pull back a little at the last second—his motion propelled us forward anyway I guess.
Eight years on and we are still together and sometimes I wonder if he did feel my moments hesitation, my body saying—really, do I really trust you with my life? Maybe I’ll ask him…someday…..
Mischief on the Mountaintop
A Twist on the Story of The Three Bears
Once upon a time, there were three emerald colored dragons that lived in a jagged cave on a mountaintop. One was a Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon. One was a Medium, Grande-sized Dragon. And, one was an Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon. They each had a granite bowl for their fiery chili: a teeny bowl for the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon, a medium sized bowl for the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon, and an enormous bowl for the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon. Also, they each had rocks to play with for some daily, daring, dragon entertainment. There was a teeny pebble for the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon. In addition, there was a medium rock for the Medium, Grande-size Dragon. Then, there was an enormous boulder for the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon. Finally, each sleepy dragon had a spot to sleep in. There was a teeny corner with a petite pebble pillow for the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon. There was a medium-sized corner with a really, round, rock pillow for the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon. Then, there was an enormous corner with a gigantic pillow for the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon.
One morning, the three scaly dragons made some fiery chili for lunch, and poured it into their granite bowls. Then, they walked out of their cave and down the mountaintop to give it a chance to cool-temperature wise, not spicy-wise (except for the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon). While they were out, a little boy called Mischievous Malcolm stumbled upon their cave.
Now, Mischievous Malcolm was not a very well behaved boy. As he approached, their cave on top of the mountain, he became very curious. First, he looked into the cave from a distance, but then took a few steps closer. When he saw that the cave was vacant, he began to enter the unknown enclosure with excitement.
Mischievous Malcolm glanced around to see what he could find. In one corner, he discovered three granite bowls of chili. They looked very tasty and smelled delicious! Now, Malcolm was beginning to feel hungry. First, he tasted the fiery chili that belonged to the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon, but it was too hot and spicy for him! Then, he tasted the fiery chili of the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon, but it was too cold and mild for him. He proceeded to taste the fiery chili of the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon, and that was neither too hot nor too cold and neither too spicy nor too mild. In fact, it was just right! It was so delicious that he ate it ALL up!
Next, Mischievous Malcolm looked around to see what else he could find. In the back of the cave, he noticed three unique stones on a top of a pile of other stones. An exciting idea popped into his head. He thought he could have some fun building a fort with them, so he set off to work. First, he tried to pick up the boulder that belonged to the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon, but it was much too heavy. However, being the good problem solver that he is, he decided that this would be the base of his fort. Next, he tried to pick up the medium, Grande-sized Dragon’s rock. He was able to assemble it on top of the boulder. Now, his fort was getting somewhere! Mischievous Malcolm began piling other rocks on top of this foundation saving the smallest one for last. As his stone fort grew higher and higher, he stepped back to admire it. Finally, he was ready for the teeny pebble that belonged to the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon. This pebble was JUST RIGHT for the finishing touch! As Mischievous Malcolm placed it on the very top, he stumbled and fell on the fort. The whole fort came crashing down! He quickly stood up after his fall, but realized that the delicate, teeny pebble had split in half after the larger rocks crashed on top of it. The boy was upset about the destruction of his fort, but he had better things to explore.
As Mischievous Malcolm wandered around the cave some more, he realized that he was beginning to feel tired. Deep in the back of the cave, he noticed some corners occupied by rocks that resembled pillows. Although they didn’t look extremely comfortable, he only needed a nap. First, Mischievous Malcolm curled up in the enormous corner with a huge headrest which belonged to the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon. This corner was way too cold because it was so open and huge. Also, he couldn’t get his head up on the enormous headrest! Next, he tried the medium corner with a round, rock pillow which was where the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon slept. This corner was way too hot because the sun beamed through a large crack in the cave. Plus, the rock was way too bumpy! Growing more and more tired, he finally tried the teeny corner with a petite, pebble pillow which was for the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon. Now, this spot was just right! It had some sun shining in on it, but it was close to a large crack in the cave which allowed a breeze to come through. As he snuggled up with the petite, pebble pillow, he comfortably fell asleep.
Meanwhile, the three dragons were on their way back to the cave. They had had an exciting day! It was full of exercise and adventure. While out, the three emerald dragons had grown extremely hungry and tired. As they approached their cave home, their keen sense of smell warned them that something was not right. As they entered the cave, they noticed the tree trunk table that held their three fiery bowls of chili. First, the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon noticed his bowl was disturbed. “Someone has taken a spoonful of my chili!” he roared in a booming voice. Next, the Medium-sized Dragon noticed that her bowl had been messed with too. “Someone tried to take a bite of my chili and spit it all out!” she shouted in disgust. The two parental dragons then looked at their baby dragon. He was sadly staring at his empty bowl of fiery chili. In a teeny, tiny, sad voice he softly said, “Someone tried my chili alright, and that someone ate it all up!” The three dragons were so distracted by this intruder that they forgot about their hunger and exhaust for a little while.
Then, they moved to the middle of their cave where they noticed their play rocks were quite disassembled. The three dragons stared at the mess of a pile! First, the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon noticed human fingerprints on his boulder, but it seemed like it had not been moved. “Someone has tried to push my boulder but was unsuccessful!” boomed the large dragon. He then used his massive tail to bring his boulder closer to him. Next, the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon noticed her medium-sized rock was misplaced. “Someone had been playing with our dragon entertainment system, and it looks like they threw my rock like it was nothing!” yelled the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon. Finally, the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon was sadly scooping up two broken pebble pieces with his tail. “Someone has been playing with my pebble and now it’s broken in two!” he complained sadly.
Growing more furious, the dragons moved deeper into their cave home. As they got to the back, the Enormous, Venti-sized Dragon noticed his corner was disheveled and that someone had attempted to move his huge headrest. “Someone had been snoozing in my corner!” he boomed even more loudly. Next, the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon was looking at her corner confused. “Someone has been sleeping in my corner because there are drips of sweat here,” she yelled more loudly. Finally, the Teeny, Tiny, Small-sized Dragon was staring in disbelief at his corner. “Someone has been napping in my corner…AND…AND…AND THAT SOMEONE IS STILL HERE!” he called out.
Suddenly, Mischievous Malcolm sat up because he heard the dragons roaring. Blazing orange fire was shooting out of their mouths and smoke was trailing out of their noses! Mischievous Malcolm jumped to his feet-he ZIGGED-he ZAGGED-he ZOOMED out all the way out of the cave! He sped down the mountaintop and did not stop until he reached the front door of his house out of breath.
Back on the mountaintop, the three Emerald Dragons looked around their disheveled cave. They began to clean up their Dragon Entertainment. When they finished that, the Medium, Grande-sized Dragon made a new batch of fiery chili. The three dragons decided to nap this time while they waited for it to cool to prevent future intruders from coming. Also, Mischievous Malcolm vowed to only cause mischief in his backyard. There would be no more mischief on the mountaintop from here on out if he could prevent it!
THE END!
(Children Story: Becky Hermanson)
The Old Man and the Game
“Tommy! I need a breather.”
Tom walked onto the court giving his teammate a light tap on his backside as he took his position between the top hash marks on the free throw lane. Tom lifted his hands off his knees and looked up at the scoreboard. The score read 56-55. Up by one. The clock showed 4:14 and was ticking. Time was running out.
“Two shots!” announced the referee as he bounced the basketball to the player on the line.
He had been playing in this dank, dusty park district gym for almost forty years. His knees and back ached, presumably from the decades of Saturday games on concrete courts that had pounded away at his joints like a jackhammer. Lately, his pre-game ritual of downing ibuprofen barely dulled the pain. He drew a deep breath of the humid air tinged with sweat, Ben-Gay, and nostalgia. Thinking back to his younger days, he recalled memories of hitting game-winning jump shots and lighting up opposing teams with thirty-plus point games. There had been days when he owned the competition on courts like these.
He figured he had played thousands of games over the years in places just like this. Now, here he was in another championship game staring his fifty-seventh birthday in the eye. Impending hip replacement surgery cast a pall over this game. This was it.
Usually, in contests as close as this one Tom deferred playing time to the next generation of players he had recruited to take the place of the last group of old teammates he had outlasted. Some of the young guys, approaching the age of thirty, often joked with each other that Tom would probably outlast them, too. He was not deferring tonight, though.
The second free throw caromed off the rim and was secured by a teammate. Tom turned and shuffled down the court as stiff legs no loner allowed him to run with the smooth gait of his youth. He stationed himself on the right wing. The ball was driven into the paint and the point guard slipped a crisp bounce pass between the converging bodies of the defense to Tom’s awaiting hands. A slight grin seeped out the corners of his mouth as he loaded up, extended his arm, and released the ball with the flick of his wrist. Time had slowly robbed his body of the athleticism that made him such a good player in his younger days, but his shot was impervious to the march of time. The ball dropped through the hoop so cleanly the net barely moved.
As he jogged past the referee on the way back down the court, he said quietly, “Just like riding a bicycle…”
With each passing possession, the intensity and speed of the game ratcheted up another notch. The opposing team, recognizing weakness, continued to feed the ball to the man Tom was guarding. The player, who he figured was young enough to be his son, attacked him relentlessly. Post-ups. Drives to the basket. Jump shots right over the top of his extended hand. He was gasping for air. Frustration welled up as his mind would anticipate the play unfolding before him, but his body would not react fast enough to counter the play. Even though his athleticism had been in a gradual decline for a long time, Tom had never accepted the fact. He was too competitive.
“Get a sub, old man. You can’t hold me,” derided the baby-faced man he was guarding.
Usng every tool in his bag of tricks, Tom managed to coax a few missed shots from his opponent, but he still felt exposed. It was on the other end of the court, though, that he regained his swagger, and the aches and pains disappeared, if only for a few moments. It was just a thick black line painted on aged wood, but the half-court marker acted as a time machine, transporting Tom back and forth from past and present with each subsequent trip up and down the court. On the offensive end, he felt half his age.
Nearly every offensive sequence he found himself free for yet another jumper. He knew why he was open. Over the years, opposing players always made the mistake of generalizing that his declining skill included his jump shot. Didn’t they know who he was? He had developed a reputation as the best shooter “there ever was” in this corner of the city. It did not take long for them to learn. After making the first four attempts with his sweet, left-handed stroke, his defender began shadowing his every movement.
Tom welcomed the increase in defensive pressure. It was his last game and he did not want anyone going easy on him. With a minute left, he received a pass out of the post. His defender closed hard on him, determined to deter another basket. Tom raised the ball above his head as the defender exploded off his feet into the air to gobble up the shot. Tom pulled the ball back down and took a methodical dribble to his right as the defender, caught in the air, glanced helplessly to his left to observe the shot’s predestined fate. Raising to his toes with eyes on the target, he released the ball, imparting a perfect backspin that sent it slicing through the air. The defensive players relaxed, not even bothering to block out their men. Tom’s teammates began backpedaling down the court knowing the outcome as the ball tickled the fibers of the net, putting them back in front by one point with twenty-seven seconds left.
Before the ball could hit the ground, it was grabbed out of the air and in one quick motion a player on the opposing team took a quick step out of bounds and whipped a one-handed baseball pass to the guy Tom was guarding. Even though he had taken off down the court as soon as the ball was reaching the rim, he was too late and too slow. His legs churned. But not fast enough. His man caught the ball in stride, took two dribbles, and as Tom helplessly chased after him, elevated for an easy eight-foot jumper. The ball ricocheted softly off the backboard through the rim. Down one.
“Time out.” Tom said as he signaled to the ref.
The whistle blew and the clock stopped. Players from both teams walked towards their respective sidelines. His teammates were already huddled into an informal circle with an open space. As he limped toward them, these grown men all had their eyes narrowed on their aged teammate with looks of admiration, as if he was a museum relic. He filled the open space in the circle and all eyes remained on him. Everyone was silent. The players sensed an eerie sacredness in the moment. They were witnessing this player’s last game. He was not just competing against the other team. He was competing against time. It had only been a few minutes but it seemed epic in proportion, even if it was being played out in a crackerbox gym in front of fifteen people. This moment was the culmination of a career that only a true basketball junkie could truly appreciate.
In the huddle not a word was uttered, but collectively, they were all thinking the same thing. The outcome of this game should be put into Tom’s hands. Tom broke the silence.
“Hey guys, we gotta win this thing. I don’t have it. Bill…sub for me.”
It was strange because the same competitive instinct that hated himself for saying those words was the same one that drove him to say it.
“No, Tom. This is your last dance. We’re going to get you that last shot for the win,” Bill replied.
Deep down inside Tom had hoped one of them would say that. He was sure he could wrest enough quickness and skill from the hands of time to execute this last play to win the game. The play was going to be simple: the ball would be driven hard to the basket and kicked out to Tom with just enough time for him to use his craftiness to get off the game-winner. They broke the huddle and stepped onto the court knowing the shot was going to be good. The basketball gods had to smile upon Ol’ Tommy one last time.
As he found his position on the left wing, he felt surprisingly nervous. In the grand scheme of things, this park district championship game was meaningless. But it was meaningful to him because of the moment. This was the final chapter of this story in his life, and it was a good one, so it had to end happily.
The ball was passed inbounds to a teammate who stood twenty-five feet from the basket. Tom watched him intently as he gripped the ball firmly and kept his left foot down as a pivot. Anxiously, he glanced at the clock as it ran…15…14…13….Tom hoped he was going to go when it reached ‘6.’ That would give him about three seconds to get off his shot. With a quick sweep of his arms, the guard crossed the ball in front of his defender and bounced a hard dribble off the floor with his left hand. He accelerated off his planted foot trying to get by the defender enough to convince Tom’s man that he needed to help.
Tom readied himself as he watched the position of the man guarding him. Just as the ball was entering the lane area, Tom’s man feigned a step toward the dribbler. As soon as he saw him lean, Tom shifted away from him toward the corner as his teammate lobbed a pass toward the spot he was headed. In one motion, gathered the ball, squared his feet to the basket, and released an eighteen-foot jump shot as his defender lunged toward him in vain. The high-arching shot had eyes for the basket, forming a perfect parabola that seemed to mimic the arc of his basketball career. All eyes in the gym followed the ball to the basket as the horn ending the game sounded….
“Good game, Tommy,” the ref offered almost apologetically as he made his way out of the gym.
“Thanks.”
Tom pulled on his sweatpants and placed his basketball shoes in his gym bag. He was the last one left in the gym. He slung the bag over his shoulder and hobbled out the gym, still a little sour that his final shot came up short. He paused at the doorway. Time had gotten the best of him today, but who was he kidding? It always won. He was just grateful he had gotten the chance to battle it one last time in the place he felt most comfortable, the basketball court. Few could say that they battled there as long as him.
It was an intense heat this summer day. Swinging on the porch swing trying to keep cool, all I could think of was, I wish I had a pool! Sweat kept dripping from my face like a leaky faucet. Most of my friends from my neighborhood were in summer camp and I was stuck at home. Mom told me that I couldn’t join summer camp this year because my grandmother was going to stay with us all summer and I needed to help. Grandma had a hard time remembering things and mom said I could help refresh her memory.
The street was as quiet as a library. How bored was my summer vacation going to be? My neighborhood wasn’t the same as it used to be. Or maybe I wasn’t the same as I used to be. I remember waking up early every morning and riding my bike all day. That didn’t seem to be as fun anymore. Thinking about old times wasn’t my idea of a great time either, but my mind kept drifting.
There was no breeze to calm this sticky warmth in the air. I decided to go to my backyard and pick fresh lemons from our lemon tree. That tree was as old as I was. My parents planted it with my older sister when they first moved in to this house and soon after, I was born. It was a loyal friend that always gave us the juiciest lemons. Even the ones that fell were never damaged. These lemons made the best fresh squeezed lemonade and I couldn’t think of a more perfect day for a thirst-quenching delight. Drinking lemonade always brought me to a familiar place, a place where I felt free and safe. Kids at school always made fun of me because I often had a lemon in my lunchbox or in my locker. As much as I explained how it was as mouthwatering as a lemonhead or juicier than a bubble-licious gum, nobody really understood. It was a dessert for me not to mention, I had the freshest smelling gym locker in the school.
I turned 12 just before school got out. And I already knew this vacation would be a sour one. My best friend Ericka was going to move to North Carolina right after school got out. Her dad lost his job and Ericka’s uncle had a tire business that her dad would help manage. It was an offer good enough to move for, I guess. For as long as I can remember, she was the only person who understood me and helped me see things in a better light. Like when I was 5 and Jaime Sanchez pushed me down the slide on the playground, she was the only one who stood up for me and made him apologize. She used her bossiness to defend people. You did not want to get on her bad side! And when my mom gave me the worst haircut in the 3rd grade, she was there to figure out a way to pin it up nicely until it grew out. It’s hard to imagine how things will be without her.
Ericka and I met in Kindergarten. Walking in this giant classroom my first day, I was ready to make friends. My older sister Joanna always giggles when she remembers how I used to make friends, “Want to be my friend?” was the question that I usually asked. I laugh right back too, because the question never failed. It was an honest and straightforward question, I thought. Joanna just liked to hassle me, it was a full time job for her since…always. At school, I was always known as “Little Joanna.” No matter how many times I would repeat, “its Julissa!” everyone seemed to ignore me. I guess people thought I was a miniature version of my sister, boy were they wrong.
That first day in Kindergarten, I remember waiting in line to wash my hands in the girl’s washroom and seeing two girls in front of me. One of them said hi to me and I immediately asked my famous question. Her response was as simple as my question, “Ok.” She looked different than me, she had big blue eyes and curly blonde hair. My hair and eyes were both dark brown. She was taller than me and always wore fluffy blue dresses to school. Before meeting Ericka, I thought I was pretty outgoing, but her personality definitely made me look extremely shy.
Drinking my lemonade made me feel a little better, better about the weather, but not so much about the other stuff. It actually reminded me of other happy times and I guess it made it bittersweet to drink. Walking back inside my house, I heard my mom cooking dinner, “So what are your plans tomorrow?” she said. “I don’t really know, yet.” “Well maybe you can help me look for some old family pictures so that we can make an album, I know that might help your grandma with her memory,” Mom said. “Yeah, it’s not like I have anything else to do… so when is she coming again?” I didn’t know what to think about my grandma’s visit, was I anxious? I guess I just wondered what she would be like, now that she was really sick. What exactly would dementia look like now that everyone says she’s getting worse? “Oh she’ll be here on Friday,” mom answered. The last time we saw her it was with grandpa, grandpa didn’t talk much. He seemed so tired and confused. I know I had to introduce myself many times and him still asking if I was a family friend. Grandma was still talkative and quick-witted. I knew they were both sick, but it wasn’t till grandpa died that I really understood how serious it was. Alzheimer’s and a few heart attacks slowly took their toll on him.
I remember my grandma with a strong temper, but a funny sense of humor. She could make the funniest jokes that I ever heard. I always wished to have her strong character, not afraid of anything, especially right now when it seems like so many things are changing. Yet, grandma and grandpa kept to themselves recent years and almost didn’t want any company. They used to love to travel and had many friends, but before grandpa died, they tried to shut everyone out from their lives. Not answering calls, leaving family parties early or not showing up at all. However, we made it a point to stay in their lives. Every year, without any hesitation, we would go to visit them in Texas for a few weeks. Mom knew a few weeks wasn’t enough. Could I ever be that long without my parents? I know that sometimes I feel like they don’t get me, but I can’t imagine them not being there, even if it’s to get on my case about my grades or cleaning my room.
The days passed slowly, but before I knew it, mom and dad were on their way home from picking up grandma at the airport. Aunt Bea came along with her to make sure everything went well on the flight. Aunt Bea was only going to stay for the weekend and I was excited to see her. She had been taking care of grandma for a while now and she always made things fun and easy going, she knew exactly how to break the ice in a room. “How are you, baby?” Aunt Bea was the only one that could get away with calling me baby. She was the oldest of ten kids and she knew how to deal with my grandma, who could at times be a very stubborn woman, to say the least. “Ma, walk right, and stand up straight.”
Grandma walked in with her walker that had worn through and almost flat tennis balls on the bottom of it because of how she dragged it along. She looked around and we all gathered around her to give her a warm welcoming. She looked confused and happy at the same time. The attitude that used to fill the air when she walked in seemed more like gratitude and delight.
Mom had warned us that grandma was repeating herself more often and that she was especially repeating one specific story.
“Hi grandma, how are you.” I ask after grandma finally takes a seat on our living room loveseat. “I’m fine,” is her quick answer along with a long look of uncertainty. “Ma, these are Connie’s girls. Remember, Joanna and Julissa.,” said Aunt Bea. Grandma, quickly replied, “Oh of course, hi sweeties, how are you, you are both getting so big, do you girls still have that lemon tree in the yard?” “Yeah, of course,” I responded. Everyone turned and stared at each other. We all knew that grandma’s memory would come and go, but it was still exciting to have these moments.
“Would you like to go see our lemon tree, grandma?” “Oh sure, I remember I used to make the best lemon meringue pie with those lemons when you all first moved in.” Grandma had not been here in years, and we could not believe how much she was able to remember. “You know I knitted this vest?” she said. “You did, grandma?” I said. “Oh yeah, did I ever tell you how this one lady asked me where I got this vest, I told her I made it, and could you believe that she said, ‘Oh can you make me one, but make sure you don’t charge me…’ can you believe the nerve of her?” replied my grandmother raising her eyebrows. “I cannot believe it grandma,” I responded.
Before we went to bed that night, grandma unpacked her earrings and her perfumes and placed them neatly on the dresser. She asked where her viejito was, and mom answered the question the way everyone had every night since grandpa past away a few months ago, “He’s resting now mom, he’s at peace with God.” “No not my old man, when did he go?” This question was difficult more and more as each night would follow. She seemed really happy during the day, but once their favorite TV show came on every evening at 6:30, the questions and pleas for my grandfather would start.
I knew this took a toll with my mom. Especially after Aunt Bea left back to Texas, mom felt the pressure. I know mom had a hard childhood as well with my grandparents who were very busy keeping the family together and the fact that my grandma was not a very affectionate woman. Mom, however, was and is the most caring mother. I wanted to be there for grandma and help as much as possible but mostly to help make things easier for mom.
One morning after breakfast, grandma started to repeat the same vest story, and of course we all went along with it. She then started a new conversation. She mentioned how she never felt comfortable with being known as the tough one. “Deep down, I just needed someone to be there for me, I was mean before anyone could be mean to me. I didn’t let anyone tell me anything. But I do know that I wish I controlled my temper a little better, maybe I could have helped your grandpa more.”
I never imagined that my grandma would open up like this. All these years, I thought she was confident and strong, when deep down, she was unhappy and hiding what she really felt. Hearing her open up to us like this made me see that she was now becoming strong by showing her true feelings.
I walked into my mom’s room after breakfast, and saw her looking through pictures of her as a child and of her brothers and sisters. “Mom, are you okay?” I asked. “Yes baby, I’m good. I’m just feeling a little sad, but I wanted to thank you for all your help with your grandmother. I know this isn’t easy for you, but I want you to know that you and your sister make me very happy and I’m very proud of the young women you two are growing to be. I know Ericka moving away was hard on you, but I want you to see how strong you are. I know you’ve looked up to your grandmother growing up because of her character, but I want you to know that there are different types of strength. There’s the type of strength that you build to make you grow into a happy and peaceful person and the strength to help you survive. Grandma unfortunately needed to survive and used strength to move on not trying to feel anything. She didn’t want to feel her pain, and it took a whole lifetime for it to surface. Sometimes feeling the pain makes you grow as a person and I want you to not be afraid of being you.” I didn’t have anything to say, but I knew how lucky I was to have a mother like the one I have and to have a grandmother like the one I have to help me appreciate my mom. That evening after many versions of the vest story, grandma made her famous lemon meringue pie. I watched her carry out each step with ease and a peacefulness that I had never seen before. She told me how her mom used to bake sweet bread and lemon empanadas. She seemed happy like a child. I wondered when it was that made her so hard. I don’t think I’ll ever know, but I’m glad she’s back in that moment, because she’s letting us be a part of it.
Dear Ericka,
Things are not easy without you and they have not been easy for my mom or family. I am learning that my grandma, who has always been strong, was strong her whole life because she needed to be. I can now see how her roughness was really just a way to hide her pain. Her quick-tongue was a way to beat others to the punch. I know that I will be able to keep helping my family through this tough time. I know I am a shoulder to lean on when my family needs me. You know you’ll always have a shoulder to lean on too. You have helped me all these years, and I know I have helped you too. Keep in touch and write back soon.
What Makes Someone Literate?
by Julie Schlafman
How does someone become literate? Do you become literate when you begin school? Does literacy only entail how to read and write? Do people go through the same steps in order to achieve the status of a literate individual? How does literacy shape individuals and the lives we lead? I have spent much time thinking about this question. Through much reflection, I concluded that there have been two significant artifacts in my life that represented and shaped how I became a literate person in this world. These two artifacts have guided me to become the person I am today. Growing up as a quadruplet (4 babies born at the same time) and living by a quote my Dad shared with me in middle school, I discovered that these two things had the most significant influence over the path I live today and to the literate self I have become.
Being a quadruplet inevitably allowed me to develop oral language, a major component of literacy, at a very early age. Communicating with my two sisters and my brother had a major impact on my literate self because language was such a powerful resource both in school and in our society. Oral language became the vehicle for communicating ideas, beliefs, and my needs. “The speaker and the listener use the same code and know the same rules of language in order to effectively communicate,” (Bos & Vaughn, 70). Growing up with three other siblings the same age allowed for me to practice this way of communicating since May 30th, 1980.
As a member of the “Quad Squad,” I was never alone! I always had a friend to play with, a friend to argue with, a friend to problem-solve with, a friend to cry with, and a friend to talk with. At a very early age we were considered a unit. We learned all lessons of life and went through all the same stages of life together. As babies, we started off babbling to each other as we discovered the world and the senses it offered. We explored each other, wondering who were these other people that shared a crib. We used gestures and body contact to communicate what we were thinking and what we wanted. Grabbing the bottle or toy from each other, laughing and giggling at the noises we produced. As we grew, words entered into this complex language system. We had a new way to communicate. Words and the use of gestures allowed us to engage in play, tell each other what toy we wanted, learn how to share or not share, and express our needs. Eventually, words became sentences and sentences became our way to defend or expand on the opinions we grew to have. Sometimes we would finish each other’s sentences and at other times we would use sentences compete for the attention of our parents. Soon sentences became paragraphs and before I knew it, I was on my way to becoming a literate person inside and outside of school. As we entered elementary school together and the school years to follow, I learned to use language to express ideas that aided my writing and expanded my discussions. The oral language experience I had in my childhood gave me the necessary skills and the preparedness to enter a domain where the act of listening and speaking contributed to my writing and reading. I knew the complexities of language and the code to make me successful. Growing up in this unit gave me the ability to communicate my feelings and talk through my problems. It was through the ample opportunities of oral language and social interactions (Vgotsky) that became the backbone of my literate self and had a major contribution to the person I am today.
The second artifact that contributed to the person I am today is not something that made me more literate as an individual, but is a valuable piece of literacy that shaped who I have become. It is a quote that my father shared with me that I have referred to, applied, and is ingrained into what I do and who I am. The quote states, “I HAVE NEVER MET A PERSON WHO DID WORK HARD THAT WASN’T SUCCESSFUL.” I was in middle school and it was a Sunday night. I had come home from a soccer game (a team in which both my sisters were on) and was frustrated because I was the defender on the team and struggled with the fact that I wasn’t as good as one of my sisters (competition also played a huge role in my family). I had always been a little insecure in my abilities and continually compared myself with my sisters. I remember that my father, who was sitting in our family room, called me downstairs. It was rare that I would be in a room alone with my father without the interruptions and the commotion of my other siblings talking, interrupting, etc. My Dad (always the coach of the family) wanted to talk about the soccer game. He told me he thought I was an excellent player. I told him I wish I were better. That is when he stated that above sentence. I don’t know if this is a quote that he lives by, however, this quote has stuck with me ever since and has become apart of who I am.
My father’s quote pushed me to document this oral piece of language in written form. I wrote this quote in my notebooks, on posters, and in journals. I passed the saying down to my teammates, hung it on bulletin boards, included it my speeches as captain of many sports teams. I even shared this quote with the students I teach, those that need to hear that nothing comes easy in life but if you work hard you will succeed. This quote has shaped who I am as a person. My motto has become: work hard and always give 110%. All the way back in middle school, the sentence, this piece of literacy has inspired me to never give up. I was determined and persevered in high school. When things got tough, I knew that if I worked hard I would become successful. I accomplished my dreams and was accepted into Cornell University. I proved that I could play on the Division I women’s soccer team and was the captain for two years. The quote gave me the courage to switch careers and follow my passion as a teacher and educator. I became also successful as the only special education teacher and the department at Passages Charter School as a first year teacher. This quote, stated by my father, is a written, literacy artifact and belief that has impacted and shaped my attitudes and values about my work ethic as a teacher, a student in college, and a spouse in my relationship. This quote has guided and continues to guide me through the various stages of my life.
Reflecting on my artifacts and how they have influenced my journey through life, I have been able to answers many questions about how someone becomes a literate individual. Society functions because of literacy. People become literate through enriched experiences that shape who they become. Many achieve access to literacy through language, (speaking and listening), reading and writing. The possibilities about the ways in which someone becomes literate or interacts with literacy that shapes who they are, are endless. As teachers, we must do our part to create a literate environment for our students so that they can grow and function in this society. As I continue this journey, I only hope I am able to add artifacts to this collection and grow as a literate person that not only impacts me, but others.
Essay: Motivating Students to Write
Bored faces and blank stares out the window had become familiar sights in my classroom because it was hard to want to write when one is so worried about the many things you cannot do. Many of my students struggled with the motivation to write for a variety of reasons. Some of them were English Language Learners and were working towards understanding written word as well as learning the concept of how to write it. Then there is the consideration that ninety percent of my class spoke Spanish as their first language and there were few people outside of school with whom they are able to read, write, or speak English. This means that they do not have people to model the types of writing we work on at school nor do they have people in which they can receive help from when they are having a difficult time with writing in English. Finally, I have found that the class was just plain scared to write because spelling, conventions, and penmanship are not their strongest abilities and in previous years that is what they have most been graded on. Part of the resistance in the faces of the students and their clenched hands is not because writing is inherently a dreaded activity but because they were so strictly graded in areas that they are still learning how to perform; the content was over looked because structure and format were lacking. With so many issues against you it is hard to want to pick up a pen and start a journey on a piece of paper.
So how is it that I can get my students motivated to share their amazing experiences, culture, and creativity with me? I need to have students who want to write. Motivation is not something that can be taught nor is it given. Motivation is internal and requires a passion and desire for the task at hand. Therefore, I cannot motivate my students to write but I can remove the stigma that has been attached to writing and shed a positive light so that they themselves are motivated.
The teacher must first become what she expects her students to be. Therefore the teacher must first be motivated to write. Lucy Calkins, in her book The Art of Teaching Writing (1994), explains that before a teacher can have a classroom in which meaningful writing takes place the teacher must first become aware of how she speaks and thinks about writing. When the teacher realizes how she feels about writing the teacher can then go on to understand how her students may perceive writing. Thus, becoming more in tune with the needs of her students. Many teachers themselves are uncomfortable as writers, especially if asked to go beyond the genres they are comfortable with, and most teachers rarely write as adults because they are unsure of their knowledge of composition, all of this makes it hard to teach others to do such writing tasks.
Once the teacher has become aware of her own experiences and beliefs on writing then the teacher must become aware of how she speaks about writing. For example, when giving an assignment, which is followed up by the statements “it only has to be two pages,” or “you will only need to write for 20 minutes,” students believe that writing is difficult because it is spoken about negatively. Lucy Calkins explains that when we talk about writing in such negative manners we ensure students will not know the joy and intimacy of feelings seen and heard through their writing and that they will not know the thrill of reaching for the exact word or of being surprised with what forms on their papers (1994). By making writing a task, students are unable to find passion. Students will struggle to become motivated on an assignment that is not given with enthusiasm. Instead a teacher could phrase it as “you will have a whole 20 minutes to write about…” showing students that writing is a privilege not a task. Students will at least be willing to try the assignments and begin to find some enjoyment of their own during the writing process. Simply stating, “you can write about anything you want and check your spelling but we can correct the really hard words later.” The student can see that writing is something done to share their knowledge not to fill time or test abilities. They are motivated to write because they are provided an opportunity in which they will not be judge or penalized for imperfections. The process and creation of work becomes thrilling because they become responsible for their own learning.
When students arrive at the point when writing is seen as possibility for enjoyment and communication they are desperately in need of a guide or a teacher to continue through the process. The teacher is a guide for students because motivated writers need to be taught the tools which they can use to produce high-quality pieces. It is important to remember that the one who must train and offer opportunities to practice is the teacher but it is up to the student to create his/her own masterpiece. Mini-lessons seem to be the key coaching strategy that can be used to help meet the motivational needs of students. Begin by doing mini-lessons with the whole class on areas that most students are struggling to perform. Then follow up through small group lessons for students who are struggling but allow the rest of the class to work because they already have it down.
Students need a variety of tools in order to begin their journey in writing. Writing to prompts or certain topics may be necessary at times but we must remember that choice is the better option to motivate student writers. Previously, students were given a topic along with an assigned number of drafts and a set due date. “Now, however, brainstorming, listing, clustering, webbing, zero drafts, free writing, journals, writers’ notebooks and more are all part of the writing process legacy for ways of engaging writers in the work of exploring and trying to find ideas before they commit to a topic or a draft” (Kirby et al., 2004, p.18). Students are asked to explore ideas and play with topics that most interest them. It is up to the student to pick what to write about and become an expert on the topic. This develops a desire for writing and expressing ideas because they are coming from within the child. When students are allowed to decided their own writing topic they are able to pick what they are passionate about and that shines through in their writing.
As motivated writers, students are continually learning the tools and skills for writing independently. Teachers should be involved in students writing by providing expectations that the student must meet. Students want to know what it is that they are going to be held accountable for and if they are doing what is necessary to arrive at the desired outcome. It is also important that the teacher allow the student to choose what is to be included in their work and how they will place it in their writing while giving the students knowledge of how they will be graded on the assignment. There is a balance of what the teacher desires and how the students decide to meet those desires. The teacher must remember that he/she is the guide but the student is the creator.
Once Students know the expectations they still need to be taught how to write in order to meet these standards. The student needs to learn how to write like a writer. If students are to be motivated and creative writers in a specific genre they will need to understand how it is they are to write. Immersing students in the reading of the genre they are about to write about is a simple method that teachers can use to show students what is expected of them. Through the use of examples and excerpts students better understand what the writer was trying to create, they develop the ability to read with a writer’s voice and write with a reader’s eye. Students learn how others authors create text with specific purpose and can model their own writing in such forms.
Another motivating factor for students is the ability to feel safe and connected. Rituals and routines provide the classroom with a smooth running system. The teacher and the students work together to set up a routine that is best for the classroom community. All that are within the community know how to treat one another, they know their objectives, and they know how to arrive at their goal. More work is able to get done because the group as a whole is knowledgeable on the process and procedure that will be followed during any given period of time and they are able to predict what is to come thus allowing students be independent.
Lastly, there needs to be unavailable time for students to share their work with the whole class, a celebration period. The reason this sharing time is so important is because it gives the students an opportunity to hear praise for all of the hard work they have put in and to get feedback/advice from peers who understand the struggles that they are having. Writers must share their work throughout their writing and especially once they have finished their piece. They need opportunities to listen to finished pieces written by their peers so writers can know that they to are capable of producing such greats works as well.
Personally, I have learned that motivating students to write goes far beyond cute prompts and negative precursors to writing. Motivating students to become writers needs to include thoughtful consideration of various aspects within the classroom. The teacher needs to think about her own thoughts/experiences and how she is to relays those to her students. Students need the opportunities for ideas, a time and place to write them down, and the ability to choose what they are writing about. Students also need a guide for the writing process. They need someone who is not afraid to write and can provide models of how writers think and work. Students also need to know the expectations. A simple rubric can allow students to become more confident in their writing because they can ensure they have included all the pieces that they will be graded on. Examples of text to learn from is significantly important because it allows students to see published work in which they can notice patterns and structures that can be incorporated into their own writing. Routines are important for comfort and structure throughout writing making the classroom a safe place to share personal and emotional experiences. And the sharing of their work completes the process and provides fulfillment for the effort that has been put into their work. Taking all these into account I assure you that even the most struggling students will be more motivated to write and you will even find those for whom writing has become a passion.
Moving Towards Freedom
As Americans, we plan and seek out hometowns to live in, big cities to visit, and exotic places to vacation. Our American identity is partly based on these places; our origins and our ability to transition to other places display our freedom. Yet less than one hundred and fifty years ago, an immense amount of Americans did not have that right to move from place to place. Many slaves lived in odious conditions, enslaved for life often on the same plantation or transitioned to places based on a master’s death or whim. Frederick Douglass was shuffled back and forth from plantation to big city several times before finally escaping and becoming free. As he explains in Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, it was this movement from place to place, the very movement that conveys present-day American freedom, which was the most important cause of his freedom. Movement gave Douglass the education, sense of confidence, and motivation to ultimately reach freedom.
Even though movement made Douglass feel apprehensive and fearful of new places, which did not allow him to have long-lasting emotional relationships that could have strengthened his chances for more immediate freedom, movement opened his mind up to eventually become free because he became educated in several different modes by traveling and at each unique place he was sent. He began his life on a plantation in Easton, Maryland ignorant of his age. He stated, “By far the larger part of the slaves know as little of their ages as horses know of theirs, and it is the wish of most masters within my knowledge to keep their slaves thus ignorant,” (1). His birthplace did not afford him with the knowledge he needed to escape. On his master’s whim, he is sent to Baltimore where his mistress, Mrs. Auld, teaches him how to read. His master, Mr. Auld, stops her from continuing her lessons because he fears Douglass will escape. As Mr. Auld advised his wife, “If you teach that nigger how to read there would be no keeping him. It would forever unfit him to be a slave,” (20). In Baltimore, he learned one of the most valuable lessons of his life—education was a key to his freedom.
Due to a master’s death, Douglass was moved back to Easton and then passed around to various slaveholders. While traveling from Baltimore, he focused on the direction the ships took to go in route to Philadelphia. The traveling led him to begin planning his escape attempt. He ends up at Mr. Covey’s and learns another valuable lesson that leads him to freedom. Mr. Covey was his most brutal slaveholder, and he defeats Douglass physically and mentally. Douglass writes:
Mr. Covey succeeded in breaking me. I was broken in body, soul, and spirit. My natural elasticity was crushed, my intellect languished, the disposition to read departed, the cheerful spark that lingered about my eye died; the dark night of slavery closed in upon me; and behold a man transformed into a brute! (38)
Douglass had changed from having ambition and a desire to be free in Baltimore to a hopeless slave on Mr. Covey’s plantation. After feeling broken, a slave named Sandy wanted to help Douglass deal with the mistreatment, and he gave him a root to ward off mistreatment. Douglass did not fully believe that the root would be effective, but he carried it with him anyway. The next time Covey decided to physically abuse Douglass, Douglass decided to fight right back. He stated, “But at this moment, I resolved to fight; and, suiting my action to the resolution, I seized Covey hard by the throat,” (42). Mr. Covey’s plantation gave him the chance to stand up for himself and create a bond with Sandy. His confidence improved, and his hopeful spirit returned which made him eager to escape.
After being handled by and handling Mr. Covey, Douglass transferred to Mr. Freeland who lived just outside St. Michael’s, Maryland. Freeland contrasted with Covey in harshness and brutality, and this fact provided Douglass a unique opportunity to unify slaves and begin to educate them. As Douglass stated, “I taught them, because it was the delight of my soul to be doing something that looked like bettering the condition of my race,” (49). Through educating, Douglass created several bonds with slaves like never before in his life. His deep beliefs in his people proved to be the inspiration that he needed to make his first escape attempt. However, his first attempt failed due to disloyalty on the part of one of the slaves. Instead of killing Douglass and his followers or brutally beating them, they sent Douglass away once more to his final placement as a slave.
As Douglass’s journey towards freedom came to an end, he found himself in Baltimore living once again with Master Hugh. In this familiar place, Douglass gained several privileges that gave him an even greater taste of freedom. His master allowed him to hire his time out as a caulker which meant that he was not under his master’s eye for the entire day. His master also gives him a little money that he earned during his daily work, and this fact was not a popular act for slaveholders during this time. Douglass took this sense of freedom to the extreme when he ventured outside of Baltimore to meet with some friends and did not ask for permission. When Master Hugh found out, Douglass realized that he was not free. He wrote, “I found him very angry; he could scarce restrain his wrath. He said he had a great mind to give me a severe whipping. He wished to know how I dared to go out of the city without asking his permission,” (62). After this incident, Douglass decided to make his second escape attempt. As he wrote, “[I] finally resolved upon the third day of September as the day upon which I would make a second attempt to secure my freedom.” For three weeks, Douglass bided his time with Master Hugh and obeyed him completely before successfully escaping to New York City on September 3, 1838.
For these reasons, movement was the key factor to Douglass’s successful escape into the free world. His movement allowed him to become educated of directions to create a plan and learn that education would help him to reach freedom. The transitions his masters forced upon him taught him how to fight against physical and emotional mistreatment and create strong bonds with other slaves. In his final placement as a slave, he gained privileges that closely resembled those of a free man. However, Douglass understood this false sense of freedom and used it against his final master by taking into account all of the knowledge he had gained through being shifted from place to place. His narrative displays the importance of movement as a cause and a characteristic for American freedom.
She woke up, but laid there for a minute-taking it what this day was about to become. Everything was laid out, as she had left it the night before. Everything was perfectly ready for the day that was ahead of her. As she stepped out of bed, her hair tossed every which way, she quickly gathered her thoughts and began to get ready. The young woman showered quickly, brushed her teeth, threw on some comfortable clothes, and ran a brush through her hair. She stepped out of the bedroom, but took a moment to glance back at everything that was laid out perfectly for her when she returned. She smiled to herself as she quickly ran downstairs. As she ran past her parents, they tried to interject. However, she scooted past them quickly, grabbed her car keys, purse, and sunglasses as she headed toward the door. Her parents, baffled, yelled, “Where are you going on a day like this…this morning of all mornings?” Staying focused, the young woman called over her shoulder as the glass door slammed shut, “I’ll be back in time. There is just something important I have to do!”
She knew that she left her parents, bewildered. However, the young woman turned on her car, pulled out of the driveway, and began driving north before someone could stop her. Music played as she drove along, but she was somewhat oblivious to it. She heard the beat, but the lyrics that she usually digested seemed to go in one ear and out the other. The young woman stayed focused even though thoughts were running wildly through her mind. This day entailed so much. It represented so much. As she drove on alone, she began to reminisce about all of her past memories and tried to predict what had yet to come.
There were memories of holidays, birthday parties, picnics, barbeques, weddings, and so many other gatherings for some sort of celebration. All of these events held an important part in her heart. As she drove past neighborhoods and saw families gathered on their lawns, she wondered what kind of memories they held dear to them. For her, the same people were at all of her celebrations-close family and friends. As she saw mothers walking their children down the street and fathers playing with their children in their front lawn, she wondered if these people thought about the important people in their life.
She was getting closer to her destination. Although she had not been driving long, a lot had gone through her mind. What would it look like? What would she do? Most importantly, what would she say? She had not been there in nine and a half years. It was too hard to return. However, she had driven past the place where many of the memories were: the house. There was a lot on her mind, and she wanted to be able to get a lot off her chest when she arrived. She wanted to thank them, talk to them, and confide in them.
The young woman made a right turn. As she drove down the street, full, luscious, summer trees were in her rearview mirror. An occasional passerby seemed to look in her direction, but that was just her imagination. They were busy with their own life. They really were not focusing on her. As she inched closer to the entrance, she pulled over slowly to park. The car was close to the curb as it came to a stop. She pulled her keys out of the ignition, but waited before exiting the car. As she took a deep breath, she was ready. The young woman stepped out and began walking toward the entrance. An oversized, rusty, ancient gate held the entranceway to this place. This place she had not seen in a very long time. There was no turning back now. She pushed the large gate open, stepped through the entrance, and continued on her way.
As she traveled down the long path of emptiness, she noticed how quiet and desolate this place was. No one was around. However, it was peaceful. She could hear birds singing almost like they were trying to block out the nearby traffic. The summer trees were a gorgeous touch to this otherwise barren place. It smelled of sweet summer flowers mixed with juicy fruits in the nearby trees. Although the summer heat was beating down, she could feel the cool breeze upon her face in the shade. She could taste the barbeques getting prepared in the distance. She continued walking down the empty path, ready to complete what she came to do. The young woman took all of her surroundings in, inhaling and exhaling deeply as she walked along.
The young woman was getting closer now. It was hard to remember exactly. However, she followed the old directions that had been crumpled in a drawer for years. They had taken her here before. A few more yards and she would soon be there. She had not prepared what she was going to say, but she was not worried. A feeling of contentment grew stronger as she had been getting closer. She rounded the bend and there she was. She was here. It looked the same. However, she felt different. The young woman was older now and many years had gone by.
She walked closer and closer approaching it eagerly, yet still with some resistance. It looked like it had been visited recently. Fresh flowers were there. The young woman guessed who they were from. She got closer and closer, knelt down, and just took it all in. She looked around to see everything that was nearby. As she prepared to speak, her voice cracked a bit. The young woman paused. She took a deep breath. Her throat was beginning to choke up. Tears were beginning to well up in her eyes. She put her hand out on the ground and gently brushed the luscious July grass. After another deep breath, she looked up and said, “Hi Nana. Hi Papa. It’s me. I came to tell you, I’m getting married today.”
All of a sudden, memories came flooding back. All of the parties, vacations, and celebrations were so crystal clear. There were such vivid pictures of their presence before her. She lay down on her back atop the fresh cut grass. As she stared up at the crystal blue sky, she rested. She stayed put, but was ready to speak again. The young woman spent an hour there, sharing aloud everything that had happened in the last nine and a half years since her grandmother had passed. For her grandfather, it was more. She could not believe it had been sixteen and a half years. After she managed to choke back her tears, the one way conversation rolled on comfortably. The young woman talked about everything: family, friends, travels, career, love, life, and she could have continued all day. There were no pauses, just a constant flow of her voice. Oddly, she had a feeling that they truly were listening. However, she knew it was getting later and she had to get going. It was bittersweet. She wanted to stay because there was so much more to share. She felt relieved to get some of it off of her chest. On the other hand, there was an exciting event awaiting her. She sat up, got to her feet, and gathered the few things she had. Before she stepped away, the young woman ran her hand along each gravestone, and quietly said, “You will be missed today.”
(Short Story)
Nothing Ever Happens on Chicago Avenue
By: Samantha Richardson
One afternoon, Sam was sitting on a cold cement step cautiously sipping her piping hot Caramel Macchiato. She opened her notebook and stared helplessly at the wide, white pages. “Write about what you know,” her teacher, Professor Tatum, had told her. So Sam sat on a cold cement step outside of her brick apartment building and looked out over Chicago Avenue waiting for something to happen. A horn honked. A person banged on the hood of his car because he had gotten a parking ticket. Two students chatted as they walked to school with their cumbersome backpacks. The usual. “Nothing ever happens on Chicago Avenue,” Sam sluggishly typed in her Macbook.
Suddenly, out the corner of her eye, Sam saw Pedro, her neighbor, plowing through the front door of the apartment building in his dashingly red polyester jogging suit. His shiny black hair sat in a perfect swirl atop his head. Pedro tugged Elvis, his longhaired black cat whose hair was also styled atop his head like his owner’s, through the door. Elvis was begrudgingly tiptoeing along on its leash. The wind blew ever so strongly and little cold raindrops began to splash on the ground. At that very same moment, Elvis’ eyes began to bulge and his fur stood straight up on his body like he had just stuck his paw into an electric socket. Pedro leaned over to his kitty, patted his fur and said, “It’s okay, pretty kitty, it’s just a little bit of rain. Surely it will stop in no time.” To which the cat responded with a lovely hiss.
While petting his cat to calm him down, Pedro turned to Sam and said, “Writing?”
“Yes,” she replied.
As he continued to feverishly pet his cat and do lunges to prepare for his afternoon jog with Elvis, he said to Sam, “Run away with your story. Allow yourself to be imaginative and creative in your story. You can always take normal events and make them more interesting by embellishing a little bit.”
“You’re right,” Sam responded.
And then he was off on his run, toting along poor Elvis who was now meowing and hissing to no avail.
As Pedro and Elvis disappeared into the misty distance a new figure began to emerge. It was Gabriel, but everyone called her Gabby because she loved to just gab, gab, gab. Sam tried to decide whether to leave or stay, but before she could make a definitive decision she had been caught captive to Gabby’s gabbing.
“Have you heard the latest rediculousness that our government is now paying out even more money to these crooked banks?” The nasally high-pitched sound of her voice pained Sam’s ears.
“No,” she uttered hesitantly.
“Oh, Sam, well it’s just absurd...” Her screechy voiced pierced her ears and even started to cause pain in her eyes. Sam squeezed her eyelids tightly shut and pressed the tips of my fingers into them. Sam tried thinking about rainbows, turtles, boys – anything to take her poor ears away from the gabbing maniac that was standing in front of her. After what seemed like an hour, Sam felt a strong poke on her left hand shoulder. Sam looked up with her eyes squinting as she tried to regain focus against the fresh morning sun.
“Writing?” Gabby crowed, still pounding her finger into Sam’s shoulder.
“Huh?” Sam confusedly stated, still trying to regain focus.
“For the fourth time, ARE YOU WRITING?” she reiterated.
“Oh, uh, yes,” Sam said faintly, now finally able to see figure.
“Well, my only suggestion for you is that you include as much talking between your characters as possible. Dialogue really makes a story dynamic.”
Sam nodded her head and quickly jotted down precisely what gabbing Gabby had gabbed.
The heavy panting and the sound of footsteps accompanied by loud whining sounds distracted Sam from her train of thought. She stopped writing. She peered over her shoulder and saw sweaty Pedro with Elvis and his long pink tongue dragging out the corner of his mouth returning from their run.
Pedro panted as sweat dribbled down the sides of his tomato colored face. “Got anything good yet?”
Sam tucked her Macbook close to her body, “Yes, but you’ll have to wait until I am done to find out what happens.”
Gabby quickly interjected, directing her question to Pedro, “And, who are you, my dear?”
At that very moment, Sam took the opportunity to quietly exit the scene now that Gabby had a new victim to harass. She nervously tiptoed backward toward the entrance to her building and slyly slid her foot through the entrance door and then took the rest of her body through the door as well. Once safe inside the building she scurried up to her second floor apartment and knelt down to peer out her front window to document what was going on. To her surprise, Pedro was fully engaged in the conversation. You could see all of his teeth sparkle as he smiled. Sam’s mouth dropped to the floor. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Could it be? Gabby had found someone that enjoys her gabbing? And, Pedro looked happier than ever. Had he found another friend besides his cat, Elvis?
The following morning Sam perched on the front step as she always did, drinking her scrumptious Caramel Macchiato. But, this morning would be very different from the rest she had decided. So, she got out her Macbook and pressed the on button. Her fingers trembled with excitement as she waited for her document to open – she could not wait to finish her story. Her fingers started typing feverishly and the words just seemed to flow out of her.
On this day, Gabby and Pedro walked out together, both wearing red polyester jogging suits. Gabby wasn’t nervously chatting like she usually did, but seemed calm and at ease. Pedro’s smile radiated. Elvis could be seen up above sitting peacefully on the windowsill squinting his eyes as he soaked in the warm sun. Gabby and Pedro had found a friend in one another. They waved hello as they passed and then started their jog together – together like they would be from that day forward.
Keelin-Editorial
“Mentoring is a brain to pick, an ear to listen, and a push in the right direction.” –John Crosby
A few years ago, there was a great need in Chicago Public Schools to recruit and train new teachers. While this goal has been realized through accelerated teacher preparation programs, it is now clearly evident that we need to keep these teachers in the school. Research has suggested that between forty and fifty percent of beginning teachers leave the profession in the first five years. After working so hard to get young, idealistic, energetic and knowledgeable teachers in the classroom, each student suffers when the teacher chooses to leave the profession. Maintaining consistency for students is crucial. We know that beginning teachers are constantly in a state of learning, and we know the longer someone is a teacher, the more skills and strategies they possess to help the most struggling students in the most challenging schools.
Currently, Chicago Public Schools uses a Golden Mentoring Program. In this program, the beginning teachers are given a mentor teacher within their school. This mentor is responsible for providing support to that teacher during the first year. While this model seems to be appropriate, it is lacking in many areas. Because the mentor teachers are based on seniority within the school, there are many times when an eighth grade teacher is responsible for mentoring a first grade teacher, or the gym teacher mentors a fourth grade teacher. With these partnerships, a teacher is likely to miss out on developmentally appropriate information for their students. Another issue with the part time mentor is that they are busy. They have their own classrooms and have very little time during the school day to sit down and talk with their mentee. The basis of a mentoring relationship is trust through time. One wonders how the mentor can build trust without the time.
A better option for mentoring would be through full release mentors. A full release mentor is an educator who does not have their own classroom, but spends their full time working with beginning teachers in the teacher’s classroom. Currently an education non-for-profit in Chicago called Inner-City Teaching Corps is providing this type of complete mentoring to alternatively certified teachers in some of the most struggling schools in Chicago Public Schools. Each teacher is given a mentor who spends time every other week in the classroom with the teacher. Sixty minutes of the visit is an observation, in which the mentor gathers data on what is occurring within the lesson. Forty minutes is spent with the teacher looking at the data, and debriefing what has been happening in the classroom. The mentor is considered a coach, someone to support and guide the new teacher through their first two years. As educators, it is evident that teaching can be a lonely experience, but having an experienced teacher support you can alleviate so many feelings of isolation. Throughout the course of the two years, the mentor can see growth and progress in the beginning teacher and the beginning teacher is a continual reflective practitioner. This full release model of mentoring allows the mentor to focus only on the beginning teachers, and provides plenty of time for observation and support. The benefits of the mentor program are evident in the data gathered by the Inner City Teaching Corps. Of the teachers the Inner-City Teaching Corps has worked with over the past 15 years, 84% remain in education after five years with over 70% remaining at their original school after two years.
If we want to see improvement in the Chicago Public Schools, we know that we need to continue providing a safe and nurturing environment for all students. This means attracting and retaining energetic and highly qualified teachers. This can only be possible with a full release mentoring program. The district needs to allocate some of its funds to help teachers remain in the neediest schools. With full support, our students will receive the best education from fully confident and supported teachers.
Why Charter Schools?
When I tell people that I work at a charter school, I often get asked, “What is a charter school?” According to www.uscharterschools.org, “Charter schools are innovative public schools providing choices for families and greater accountability for results.” Charter schools were also intended to be a place where these innovative teaching practices can be cultivated and then shared with the larger educational community. Sadly in the city of Chicago, many charters are held or operated by Educational Management Organizations (EMOs), which are basically becoming small school districts with many different campuses (CICS, KIPP, UNO, ect.).
Both of the charters that I have worked in have been public elementary charter schools that were not run by an EMO. I left my last school as a result of an EMO being hired. Independent charters are mostly small, teacher-led schools that really support and trust the teachers and staff to do what is right for the students. These schools have high expectations not only for their students, but also for their staff. Steve Barr, a charter school founder from LA, says, “Charter schools at their finest are what research and development of a district should be.” Ideally, we should all be able to learn from what other teachers in other schools are doing.
I have been lucky enough to work at two schools, first at Passages Charter and now at Polaris Charter Academy, where the school community feels like a family; we all pull together. And I believe that this is what a school should feel like. Teachers are professionals who should be treated as such and given the responsibility to make the decisions that are going to impact what we are doing in our classrooms. I feel as though I know what is best for my students and appreciate working in a place that values my opinion and expertise.
Children's Story: Going to THe BeaCH
(Practicing consonant digraphs TH an CH)
Momma and I went to THe beaCH.
Before we could go, we needed to pack a bunCH of THings.
I brought a frisbee to THrow and a ball to THwack! I also asked if we could bring THe pooCH! Momma liked my games, but said THe pooCH had to stay at home.
Momma made a lunCH for eaCH of us. She made me a sandwitCH, and sliced a bunCH of peaCHes for us to share. I helped her pack THe cooler and find our beaCH towels.
THe ride to THe beeCH seemed to take forever! I was so excited I couldn't wait! THis was going to be a great day! THere wasn't a THunder-cloud in sight, and the sun was high.
When we got THere, I immediately jumped in THe lake. THe sun felt so good, like the temperature was a THousand degrees -- it felt reeaaaalllly good, but it made me reeaaaalllly THirsty too!
THere were so many people at THe beaCH, especially for a THursday.
THere were lots of birds too. Most were walking in the sand on the shore, but some were perCHed in THe trees. They were all squelCHing and squaking!
After swimming I was drenCHed. Momma dried me off with my towel and we had lunCH on the porCH. I slouCHed on a benCH and ate my sandwiCH, exhausted from my swim.
THe wind grew to be a little cooler, so it was time to go home.
On the way home I remember THinking about how I couldn't wait for anoTHer hot day, because hot days meant time for anoTHer trip to THe beaCH!
Defining Self -- "People First Language"
"I am not a diabetic,
I am a person with diabetes."...
This is supposed to provide ownership over one's disease,
and prevent feeling defined by one's aliment.
Ownership --Ridiculous...
I do not take my "diabetes" for a walk --
like I would a dog.
I don't carry my syringes with pride --
like I would a new diploma.
I am not glad to always wear an emergency warning on my wrist --
like I would be if it were a child on my hip.
The bruises on my arms and waist,
The calluses on my fingers,
The nausea from working, eating, or sleeping too little or too much
are all signs that point out
loud and clear
that I do not
"OWN"
my disease,
but am rather the subordinate in an abusive relationship.
Blaming the Victim
In the weeks after Chris Brown allegedly beat his girlfriend Rihanna, the media has been at a loss for terminology. Stories have referred to an incident, an altercation, even a lovers’ quarrel. My 16-year-old students have a different name for it. They call it comeuppance.
I have been overwhelmed by how many teenage girls in my classes share this belief. I assumed everyone say the case the way I did—an intolerable act of abusive that should be prosecuted. My students strongly disagreed. Chris Brown, they said, must have been provoked to attack his girlfriend. He sings and dances too well and is too cute to be responsible. These young women defended him passionately and defamed Rihanna obsessively, calling her a “slut” or “ugly.” I was amazed by the fervor with which many of my young female students defended this allegedly violent singer and became profoundly worried about what this indicates we have been teaching and modeling for our adolescent girls.
The Chris Brown-Rihanna incident is a public example of what is usually a very private crime. Young women and some minorities, the very same who are defending Chris Brown, are disproportionately victims of domestic violence and rape. According to the Bureau of Justice statistics, women ages 20-24 are at greatest risk of nonfatal domestic violence. By holding the belief that women in some way ”earn” the abuse they receive, young women excuse all perpetrators of their crimes and sacrifice the safety of other women.
How are we raising girls that don’t feel a connection to the rest of womankind? How are we teaching girls that can be so unfeeling to one another’s plights—plights that could easily become their own? I discussed with me students that by blaming the victims of abuse, we betray other women and ourselves. By cutting down Rihanna we do not make ourselves better; rather, we tear ourselves apart.
This is not an issue of feminism; it’s an issue of humanity. We must use Rihanna-Chris Brown media spectacle as an opportunity to talk to our daughters, sisters and students about why it is important for women to support and defend one another instead of tearing each other down. Only by building our girls’ identities as members of the female community will we strengthen their defenses against abusive situations like Rihanna’s.
The Frances Xavier Warde School is piloting a new program this year which involves ability grouping in the three third grade classes for math and reading. Due to the vastly different needs of the students in this particular class, the administration decided to experiment with ability grouping. Based on data the reading specialist gave the administration and feedback from the second grade teachers, the students were placed into four groups. These groups consist of one gifted group, two average level groups, and one struggling group. The students begin each day in their designated home rooms, and then switch classes for math and reading, which are ability grouped. All other parts of their day are spent with the heterogeneous mix of children from their homeroom. The groups are flexible in that if teachers see enough progress, the students can be moved accordingly. Robert E. Slavin’s research (1986) on ability grouping concludes, “That any grouping plan must allow for frequent reevaluation of students’ skills, and such grouping must allow for easy reassignment of students who show progress.” This ability grouping has caused a lot of discussion between the teachers, parents, and administration, all with differing opinions.
Coming from a teacher’s perspective, I am against ability grouping in the way it is currently being done in the third grade. I have several reasons for this viewpoint. First, it can be damaging to the students’ self-esteem. Students are VERY aware of the high/low ability level of each group. This affects self-esteem and confidence in school work at a VERY formative age. What happens to a student who would be the highest in a medium group, but lowest in an advanced group? Shouldn't they be able to rise to the top? How does this affect students who have been reading since they were three, versus a child who just mastered reading in the 1st and 2nd grade? After speaking with a student in the average group, she expressed her dislike toward this grouping. It was obvious that this has been a blow to her confidence, leaving her feeling that she is not good enough because she is not in the “smart” group. Anne Wheelock, author of Crossing the Tracks: How “Untracking” Can Save America’s Schools (New Press, 1992) states, “Tracking leads students to take on labels- both in their own minds as well as in the minds of their teachers- that are usually associated with the pace of learning (such as “slow” or “fast” learners). Because of this we end up confusing students’ pace of learning with their capacity to learn. We associate students’ placement with the type of learners they are and therefore create different expectations for different groups of students.” ”
Second, this grouping is not occurring in previous or later grades, so why just do it for one year? There is no consistency and I think it will ultimately be confusing for the students. Eight and nine year olds are at an impressionable age, their self-esteem and place in the world at a developing stage. They are very aware of their peers and highly interested in making and keeping friends. Most of them don’t want to stand out; rather they want to fit in! This ability grouping only separates students into “dumb” and “smart” singling out students and pigeon holing them into a certain category.
My third reason that ability grouping is damaging deals with the loss of peer mentoring. Higher ability students are not able to work in an ability mixed group for a cooperative lesson. The teachers cannot do any peer coaching with a higher level student helping a lower level student because that just doesn’t exist in same level groups. The low achievers are deprived of the example and stimulation provided by high achievers. Peer talk/instruction is extremely valuable at this age and that component has been taken out of the third grade classroom.
One solution to the ability grouping dilemma is to group within the same classroom, rather than combining three different classes, therefore, making it less obvious. This type of grouping is done in kindergarten through second grade at Frances Xavier Warde during their literacy block. Throughout the reading centers, children are homogeneously grouped by reading ability, but are heterogeneously grouped for the rest of the day. Because students are grouped in diverse ways throughout the day, it is not as noticeable for the students to be ability grouped during their reading center time. This is what I would like to see happen in the third grade classrooms.
Although there are positive outcomes from ability grouping, I do not believe they outweigh the negative ones. I feel that there is nothing more important than a child’s self-confidence. If we are willing to risk this, then ability grouping is the answer. Children need advocates, their voices deserve to be heard, and their self-worth acknowledged and nurtured. Putting students into groups based on their abilities does not promote this!
Lock Down
“Good morning, Miss Tuscher,” the students said as they entered the classroom. Every morning we had the same routine; the students enter the building, go to their lockers, unpack and wait by the classroom door until I let them in the room to start the day. This morning started off as every other morning did, but this day would be different from the rest.
Math and reading passed by uneventfully and the class moved upstairs to the computer lab for a science lesson using the computers. The students were extremely excited because they were going to be completing virtual experiments on plant growth. I was explaining what to do, when the principal’s voice suddenly sounded on the loud speaker. This was not normal. Dr. Newman rarely made announcements during the school day, rarely interrupted instruction.
“Teachers, we are in a lock-down situation,” announced Dr. Newman in a calm, yet serious voice.
I practiced this very thing with my students (in our own classroom) many times before, but something in the principal’s voice told me that this was not a drill.
“Okay everyone, lets sit in the corner and get quiet,” I called out while frantically searching for the keys to lock the computer lab door. The students rushed to the corner of the computer lab, away from the door and the windows. I finally found the keys and turned off all the lights.
The kids were squished together, sitting as quietly as they could, thinking that this was just another intruder drill, all the while I knew something was not right. As I was reminding the kids to be still and quiet, I noticed five police cars with their lights on surrounding the school. I tried to remain calm as I picked up a book that was on the technology teacher’s desk and began to read aloud.
In the distance, sirens were blaring and footsteps were heard in the hall. The students were beginning to feel restless. Andrew’s nose started to bleed. Sirens blaring, blood gushing, footsteps pounding and now tears dripping down the faces of my sweet students. Each second felt like a minute and each minute felt like an hour. What was happening? Was there really an intruder in the building? Whose footsteps were those? Will this ever end?
The doorknob started to jiggle and keys were jangling. My students and I froze with fear. Who was about to enter? The doorknob slowly turned and the door creaked open.
“Everything okay in here?” asked the police officer.
“Fine,” I replied, not knowing what else to say.
He locked the door back up and kept on walking. Twenty long minutes later Dr. Newman announced that the lock down situation was over and we could all return to our classrooms and unlock our doors.
We left the technology lab a little shaken, tear stained and bloodied, but we were together and safe.
La Migra
Anna came to the United States at the age of eight, transferring into Mrs. Soto’s third grade classroom. Anna liked her new classroom better from the one she had left behind in Mexico, since it was filled with more books and computers. Mrs. Soto asked Anna to tell the class about herself. That is when Anna decided to describe to them her journey to Chicago.
Anna told them about the long walk through the desert with her mother, sister and other people that wanted to work in the United States. She also described the long car ride to Chicago from Texas. The students asked Anna questions about el Coyote and if he had mistreated her along the way. The students in the classroom were familiar with the journey. Many of them knew the journey across the border all too well. They had either done it themselves, or their parents reminded them of the struggle they went through to give them opportunities in this country.
The moment that George asked about la Migra the room went silent. Anna told the class that Dios was watching over her and her family. They had not been spotted by the men with machine guns on their way over. Mrs. Soto smiled and told Anna that she was glad that she was a part of their classroom. Anna made friends easily. At lunch she sat in the middle of the table and all of the girls gossiped about all of the events that had happened so far during their school day. Anna fit right in to the classroom and social network.
Her years in grammar school flew by and soon she was in seventh grade. She now had a younger sister Letty, who just turned two. Life was pretty good for Anna, she was finally an older sister, captain of the girls volleyball team and getting excellent grades. Anna really wanted to get into a selective enrollment high school. Anna knew the value of hard work, a valuable lesson her mother had taught her while working two jobs to support the family. Anna also wanted a job, as well as her older sister Eugenia, however she was too young. Eugenia was already fifteen and soon would be able to help the family financially.
Eugenia and Anna were in charge of the home when their mom was working. It ran smoothly and it helped that their tia lived downstairs. She would check on them to make sure everything was on schedule. Ana’s mom decided to take the day off of work to spend some time with her daughters. The girls made mole con pollo and rice. It was their favorite. The dark brown chile gravy was spread all over the rice and the chicken in a warm tortilla. There was a burst of flavor in each bite.
As they were eating, the phone rang. It was tia. She told their mother that a man in a uniform came looking for her. Eugenia was the first to notice her mother dropping the phone. Anna grabbed the phone from her limp hand and her tia began to explained to her not to answer the door to any strangers. No one said anything for the rest of the night.
Her family was in danger. The only person in the family that had proper documentation to be in the United States was two year old Letty. Anna could not understand why they were looking for her mother. She was scared. Eugenia’s eyes watered all night long. They worried that they would find her at the house. Mom reassured them that no one at the factory knew her home address except tia. Once tia arrived home mom and her went into the bedroom and discussed the plan. Mom could no longer work in the factory. Mom and tia conversed about the possibility of la migra finding out about her second job. Mom decided it was time to start over. She sat Anna and Eugenia down and explained to them that things were going to be tight around the house until she found new jobs.
It was now approaching eleven o’clock and they needed to get some sleep for school the next day. Suddenly they heard a pounding at the front door. The women stared at each other for a brief moment and tia went to answer the door. Before she could get to the door men with guns burst into their home. Eugenia screamed, Letty started to cry and Anna held her mother tight. No words needed to be spoken, their uniforms had the letters INS on their backs. It was la migra. Her mother turned to her and said, “We will be together again soon. Take care of your sisters.” The man demanded to know who Maria Vergara was. Mom stepped forward. The man put handcuffs on her and took her away. Tia asked the man where they were taking her and the man did not reply. Her mother’s face was strong, but Eugenia’s was not.
Tia told the girls to get ready. She was going to take the girls to the neighbor’s house while she went to get more information about their mother. All three of the girls fit into the neighbor’s spare couches. Tia did not need to explain anything to the neighbors. They understood the horror of what happened when they saw the girl’s eyes. Their mother was taken by men with guns. The only one that fell asleep that night was Letty.
The next day the two eldest girls went to school. Neither of them could concentrate on their studies. The time slowly went by as they knew nothing of their mother. Their tia came to pull the girls out for an early dismissal. She told the girls that their mother had been sent back to Mexico. Tia told them that she went downtown to the immigration office and they would only release that information. “Your mother will call once she arrives at abuelita’s house in Mexico.”
Six days passed and they still had not heard from their mother. Tia called Mexico every day to see if they had any news. Both sides of the border waited anxiously for any information. Finally after about a week their mother called the girls. She instructed them to get on the next plane to Mexico City. She wanted all three girls to come back to Mexico. Ana was shocked. She wanted to stay in the United States. She knew that her education would stop and she would have to work in Mexico.
Ana could not live without her mother. Ana also realized that there were no opportunities in Mexico. There would be no high school, she would have to work. Her hopes and dreams of attending the university were also gone. There are no child labor laws. In Mexico all the good high schools are private and she knew that her mother did not have the money to put both of her daughters through school. Anna realized she was going back to a completely different life than the one here in the States. Yet, there was nothing Anna could do la migra made the choice for her. A week later Anna, Henia and Letty headed back to Mexico on a plane. They did not look back on the life, family and friends they had left behind in sweet home Chicago.
Glossary
La Migra- US Immigration
Coyote-Someone who takes you across the American-Mexican border for a fee
Tia-aunt
mole con pollo- chocolate chilies gravy. The sauce is traditionally served over rice and chicken. The mixture is eaten with corn tortillas.
Abuelita- grandmother
Measuring Up
Self-esteem is a term I have been familiar with for a long time. At least since junior high. I remember that we were required to take a class called “Personal Development” where we did all kinds of projects to represent ourselves and to demonstrate pride and confidence in who we were as thirteen- and fourteen- year olds. At the time, that class was the butt of many jokes. Now, I’m not so sure it was such a bad idea…especially for the girls.
It has been almost 20 years since I was a junior high student in that class and I have met far too many women who do not truly possess pride, confidence, and great self-esteem. Instead, so many of the females I know or have crossed paths with have bought into the lie that they have to be perfect. They base their self-perception on what other people say and think – particularly men.
Case in point: My sister. She is beautiful. She’s also a great dresser and looks like she just stepped out of a catalog at any given moment. She is smart and ambitious. Last week she completed her applications for various law schools in the Chicago-land area. She is successful. She has earned several awards in her field and survived numerous recent reductions in force in her department. And she believes the lie that she is not good enough. She is currently dating (and has been for the past six months) a guy who is fifteen years her senior, never went to college, compares her to his ex-girlfriends, and makes her feel terrible about herself. Why is she doing this? According to her, if she can change his mind and make him think she is a quality person, then she will feel like she is approved and derive some self worth from that.
Another one: A friend. She is a great friend. She’s always willing to help, always willing to listen. The girl has a heart of gold. She cares for an elderly family friend in addition to her full-time job. She is driven. She went back to school for a second degree in order to get this better job. She is hilarious. No matter what is said, she can come up with a witty comeback immediately. No esprit d’escalier necessary for her. But she also feels as though she doesn’t measure up. Because of the inability to see herself for who she really is, she has decided to sacrifice so much of what she loves. She is leaving her family, her friends, and her job. She is moving to England to be with a man who does not have a stable career, is not yet divorced from his wife, and who will most likely not be able to pay child support once he is, if ever. Why is she doing this? According to her, he is the only person who has ever really loved her and all the nice things her says to her makes her feel like she is a good person. Like she has something to offer.
You probably know women with similar stories. And, like me, it probably infuriates you. Why are so many women blind to all the positive attributes they possess? Why do they make such obvious mistakes, thinking they will feel better about themselves when they are really only headed for self-destruction? Why do they diet, work out, highlight their hair, and strive for physical perfection when it is obviously unattainable for anyone outside of Hollywood?
I believe that much of it is indeed this outside influence. The media has bombarded us with pictures of what the perfect woman is supposed to look like. Under this assault, every woman is doomed to fail in striving to achieve this contrived perfection. Even the most secure female has most likely considered trying to lose just a couple of pounds to feel better about herself, or has been guilty of comparing herself to other women who appear to be prettier or thinner. And any woman who is already feeling somewhat insecure with herself only feels worse because of these messages. Also, women tend to be very sensitive to what others have to say. If they are in situations where they are told more negative things than positive, it wears them down and the negative messages become easier and easier to believe. Women also have a propensity to feel responsible for everything. If things aren’t going the way they are supposed to or there is a problem in a relationship, women will most likely blame themselves in some way for it. If another person involved blames them as well, they buy it and feel even worse or that they are a failure.
So what is a girl to do? Well, first of all we need to help ourselves, and we also need to help each other. It is important to focus on what we have to offer. And it is important to be the encouraging friend or sister or mother, etc. I tend to become angry and frustrated with girls who just can’t see the positive in themselves and then sell themselves short in so many areas of life. Instead of focusing on those negative feelings, it is necessary to build one another up by focusing on the positive in the other person. Combat the outside influences, but be truthful at the same time. Or, if she needs more help than you can give, encourage her to take control and seek out a counselor or support group. Anywhere we can combat the negative messages from the outside and promote a positive self-image from the inside is a step in the right direction.
Chaos on Avenue Street
by: Tameka Lewis-Morris
It was around 2:45 AM that the sound woke me out of bed. It was a sound that I had never heard before and one that I would never forget. It was the first time that I had ever heard someone sound so desperate. It was a sound that send shivers up your spine, and perspiration dripping from your palms and caused your heart to race a hundred miles per hour. The sound came from the Johnson’s house across the street; the house was engulfed in flames. People came running from every which way screaming and hollering for help. After that night Avenue Street would never be the same again.
Before the fire, Avenue Street was one of the most peaceful neighborhoods that anyone could ever dream of living in. My husband Raymond, and I, had been looking for a place for two months, before a friend tipped us off about the property on Avenue Street. She learned about the property from a friend who lived on the next block. According to our realtor, houses on this street were scooped up the same day they went on the market. We were, extremely lucky to get our hands on a cozy three bedroom Georgian, despite the “hoopla” that we went through to get it. Who would have thought that buying a house could be so difficult?
At first, we were placed on a waiting list for seven months, after which we underwent a series of interviews conducted by people on the community board. On the day of the interview, we showed up wearing the finest clothes that we could ever find in our closest. We had it all planned out; we were going to leave an impeccable impression on the community board, that would cause them to call us back the next day. That day, we could have been mistaken for PhD scholars; our grammar, pronunciation and posture were flawless. We left the interview feeling very confident, we were almost certain that we were going to get a phone call congratulating us the next day. The phone call that we received the next day, however, was not to congratulate us, but to let us know that we would go on another list, after which the realtor would inform us as to whether or not we had the property. I knew right away when Ronald yelled, “God damn it Joanna! Those people can go to hell.” I could tell then that he had had enough, and did not care anymore.
It was four months after the interviews that we finally heard from the realtor. I was in the basement when Ronald answered the phone and announced that we had passed the “uppity” people’s test of standards and virtue. That day we both jumped up and down like we had just won the lottery; having forgotten what we had gone through not long ago to get the property. We were very excited.
The houses on Avenue Street were three and four bedrooms, with the exception of two that were seven bedrooms. It was a middle class neighborhood and people took pride in their homes and lawns. In the summer it was a sight to see; lawns and bushes were manicured into perfect rectangles and cones; yards were adorned with exotic flowers and plants, some overflowing from flower pots. People were also not afraid to leave their doors open. It was quite the norm to walk down the Avenue and look straight into neighbors’ living rooms; especially the Johnson’s who seemed to always have theirs open.
The Johnsons were one of the more affluent families living on the Avenue. They supposedly owned a warehouse storage business on the far south side of town. They owned one of the seven bedroom house on the block; which was well furnished with elaborate furniture, many of which came from Europe, according to rumors. They also had a large swimming pool in their backyard and were well-known for hosting fancy parties. Their guests of course, never included anyone from the neighborhood. They were all well to do middle age couples, many of whom came from the suburbs; they also drove expensive cars and trucks. What everyone found particularly strange about the Johnsons were the fact that they went out of their way to make sure that they said hello to any and everyone visible from their front porch, but would never invite anyone over to their parties. Mrs. Johnson has been caught numerous times waving frantically at neighbors who pretended not to see her, until they finally gave in and waved back. Mr. Johnson has also circled the block numerous times to comeback and say hello to a neighbor who was just on his way out of his house when he drove off. Feelings towards them were ambivalent, you never know whether to hate them or like them. I personally felt that they put on this charade for that exact reason, so that people liked them just enough to not bother them. Everyone did agree that they were snobs. But despite their snobbish ways, no one really hated them; well, at least we thought so, until the fire.
The sounds that woke me out of bed that morning, still lingers in my head like it had just happened. There have been many rumors and speculations about what had happened that night, but it wasn’t until three months later, after the funeral, that we heard news about what took place. Karen, the realtor who had sold us the house, was assigned to sell what remained of the Johnson’s property. She heard the story from a co-worker who knew the detective who worked on the case. Eye witnesses came forwarded and told police that they saw a white pickup truck circling the block the night of the fire. The same truck was later spotted in the alley by teenagers coming back from a party around 2:30 AM. The truck belonged to a Peter Vanderbill, who was arrested in Mexico, by authorities.
Earlier that evening, the Johnson’s had visitors over; two men, one believed to be Peter Vanderbill and the other Jerry Steinberg. Both men were in their mid-forties, and were conducting some sort of business in the Johnson’s living room that evening. Vanderbill was seen pacing back and forth as if he had something major on his mind. The two men, it turned out rented half of the warehouse building from the Johnson’s, and were both in police custody awaiting sentencing for their murder. The warehouse business, first branded as a public storage facility; was demolished by State of New York, after tons of crack cocaine was found it several storage containers. The cocaine belonged to Vanderbill and Steingberg, who ran a drug trade business in the warehouse. When Mr. Johnson discovered what they were doing, he politely asked them to move out of his warehouse or else he was going to the police. That weekend the two men came over to negotiate a time when they would leave, but Mr. Johnson was adamant about them leaving no later than the following Monday, or else he was going to notify the police.
Mr. Johnson made no mention of the situation to his wife for fear that she would worry. That evening as they enjoyed dinner together Mrs. Johnson noticed that her husband seemed worried. “Is something wrong dear?”, asked Mrs. Johnson. “No, just a bit tired today honey, I think I will tuck in early tonight.” After clearing the table and helping with the dishes, Mr. Johnson took his bath while Mrs. Johnson sat in the living room and watched TV. She later went to bed around mid-night. Around 1:30 am, Mr. Johnson woke up to the sound of rumbling outside. He got up and moved to the bedroom and living room window but did not see anything, so he went back to bed. It was not until 2:40 am that an object with the force of a launching racket shattered their bedroom widow and exploded. Fire immediately engulfed the bed, carpet and drapes. The couple got up screaming, “Oh my God! Mary where are you?” screamed Mr. Johnson. Mary was in one corner of the bedroom that was not yet in flames, Mr. Johnson grabbed her hand and dashed for the door only to find out that they couldn’t get out, because the door was blocked from the outside. Suddenly, there was another racket launched into the living room setting everything ablaze. The smoke was almost unbearable; it burned your eyes and throat to the point where you can hardly breathe. Mr. Johnson could not speak, so he made sure that he did not let go of Mary’s hand. They dashed for the basement door. They barely made it out the door and landed on their faces on the cold concrete. By this time the entire house was in flames, they could hear the neighbors screaming and hollering their names. Immediately, Mr. Johnson covered Mary’s mouth and shook his head no; for some strange reason he did not want anyone to know that they were there. “What on earth are you doing? She said as she tried to catch her breathe, “We need help Greg! Mary, please trust me on this,” Mr. Johnson said in a quiet reassuring voice. They then crawled their way to Mr. Maddoff’s garage, where they found the door open. It was at that time that the basement door went flying as the furnace exploded sending flames shooting every which way. When the fire trucks came the entire house was engulfed, it was impossible for them to try to go in.
The Johnsons sat in a dark corner of the garage holding each other and listening to the commotion unfolding in front of their house. Mr. Maddoff found them early that morning when he ran to his garage to get his water hose to help put out the debris that came near his property. Mr. Maddoff was a retired Sheriff who was very quiet and stayed to himself; he was however, very generous and quick to lend a helping hand to anyone in the community that needed his help. Mr. Johnson knew that Mr. Maddoff would be the best person to help them. The Johnsons could hear footsteps approaching the garage and slipped further into the darkness. When Mr. Maddoff entered, the Johnsons were relieved. At first Mr. Johnson tried to get Mr. Maddoff’s attention by waving his hand but it was too dark for him to see, so he cleared his throat and called his name. “Mr. Maddoff, whispered Mr. Johnson, please do not be alarmed, it’s us the Johnsons from next door and we need your help.” “Are you alright?, what on earth is going on?”. “I need your help,” Mr. Johnson repeated once more. “Do you know that people out there think that you two are dead?” “Yes, I know,” said Mr. Johnson. “What is it that do you need me to do?” asked Mr. Maddoff in a no nonsense tone. “I need you to get in touch with a few people.” The Johnsons stayed in the garage until night fall and a man named Mr. Davis, showed up. He was a former FBI agent who was close to the Governor and was friends with the Johnsons for several years. Mr. Johnson shared all that he knew with the agent who notified the governor. The Johnsons asked for police protection so that they could leave the country for fear that their killers might learn that they were not dead. After that night, the Johnsons disappeared without a trace. Today no one knows where they are except for a few of their dearest friends. Vanderbill was later arrested in Mexico and Steinberg was picked up in Russia, and brought back to the states where they are currently awaiting sentencing.
How can vocabulary be taught effectively in order to enhance reading comprehension?
“It is clear that a large and rich vocabulary is the hallmark of an educated individual” (Beck, Mc Keown, Kican, 2001).
Vocabulary development has been a large issue in our school since I started five years ago. Vocabulary development is the area that we tend to score the lowest on when it comes to standardized testing and our school is trying to find an effective mode of instruction to implement in order to rectify this problem. I think that a huge factor contributing to our issue comes down to the fact that a majority of our students come from a Hispanic background and they primarily speak Spanish. English is their second language and they struggle with the language as a whole. I believe that English-language learners are in great need for rich vocabulary knowledge in order to advance them socially and academically into English- speaking societies. Through my experience with my ELL students, I feel that they have a very small exposure to English words due to the fact that their parents don’t even speak English. Their only chance to speak and hear English is at school and that causes them to be at a disadvantage when it comes to the level of vocabulary development that is expected of them. Vocabulary development plays a key role in their success as English readers.
Another factor that may affect our students is that a majority of our students come from a lower socioeconomic background and according to Blachowicz, Fisher & Ogle (2006), there is a large correlation between vocabulary knowledge and the socioeconomic status of a student. A student that comes from a lower socioeconomic status most likely will have been subjected to less words as a child and that would lead them to have less vocabulary knowledge than the other students when they enter school. If this issue is not attained to, they will proceed to create a larger gap, which makes it hard for them to catch up to the other students as they continue through their schooling.
It is very important for me to find a way to increase my students’ vocabulary knowledge, especially with the strong connection it has with reading comprehension and school achievement in general. I believe that in order for my students to achieve in reading comprehension, they have to be able to understand the words. One of the problems that my students have when it comes to the comprehension of a text is that they do not know what the words mean and they do not take the time to find the meaning. Instead, they just read past and hope that the meaning of the word will not have much effect on the understanding of the text. I see the connection in my classroom within my students based on the fact that my students that have high vocabulary knowledge do very well when it comes to reading comprehension.
So now that I know the foundation of my problem, I need to find a solution. Vocabulary instruction does not always have a large role when it comes to school curriculum and there has not been much effort into making changes in vocabulary instruction. There needs to be emphasis on the need for a comprehensive, integrated, and school-wide approach to vocabulary instruction in order to be successful. In order to achieve this, I believe that schools need to create a language and word rich environment where students will be immersed in their words on a frequent and ongoing basis. They need to be able to practice using the words and learn strategies for finding meaning of their unknown words on their own.
Teaching the strategies of finding meaning of unknown words has come to be a difficult task for me. I try to teach my students to use context clues, but the clues are not always there for the students to use. This tends to be an issue because there can be four different types of context that the students can come across in their reading and they do not all explain meaning. I believe that there is no single mode of instruction that is completely effective due to the fact that learning even one new word meaning varies on the factors that are present. The factors include the context, the students’ background knowledge, and the complexity of the word. I think that it is important to teach the students how to use context to find meaning, but also teaching the students about the different generational word meanings and coupling their prior knowledge with the new information in order to find meaning. This would include focusing on different aspects of a word, such as origin, prefixes, suffixes, and base words.
Beck, Mc Keown & Kican (2002), the authors of “Bringing Words to Life” have created a vigorous and powerful approach that reaches out to the needs of the students at my school. Their notions on vocabulary instruction deal with students learning the meanings of the new words and then using the words in a meaningful and engaging way. It involves providing frequent and varied opportunities for students to think about and use their new words. When research studies were conducted using this mode of instruction, the results showed that this instruction was quite effective and did enhance reading comprehension. This type of instruction also connects with the idea that vocabulary instruction needs to be interactive. When introducing the words, students can learn the words through context, picture cues, gestures and pantomimes. The students need to be engaged in finding the unknown words and interact with them in order to retain them.
Furthermore, I really like the instructional strategies that Beck, Mc Keown, Kican ( 2002) has developed. Through these strategies, the students are interacting with the words through finding the relationships between words, cloze activities, answering questions using the meaning of the new word, completing sentences using the meaning, and choosing between different words to fulfill a purpose. According to this type of instruction, you would never give the students an assignment where they are matching the word with the definition because they are not using the word in context and not using the new words in a meaningful and effective way.
I think students best retain new vocabulary by reading, hearing, using and talking about the words. This helps my students retain the definitions because I am reaching out to the different learning styles and I am facilitating to the individual needs of my students. It is also beneficial for students to be able to connect to the new words and find connections amongst the words as a whole. I think that this would help the students to comprehend the new word if they are able to relate it to something that they already know or have experienced.
When it comes to choosing words for the students to focus on, Beck, Mc Keown, Kican ( 2002) recommend using Tier Two words which are words that are high frequency and that the students will most likely see again throughout their texts. They also have to reach out to a mature reader at the class’ instructional level. It seems that teachers tend to be very plain-spoken in their dialogue to ensure comprehension of their students and then tend to teach low frequency words, or Tier Three words. Then there tends to be too much of a gap between the two and the students are suffering because they are not learning and retaining the words that would be meaningful to their development. I think that this is an important concept to consider. You can teach and teach vocabulary words, but if they are not meaningful for the students, it loses its effect. As stated before, in order for a student to retain the meanings of the new words, they need to see the words across their texts. It is also beneficial in letting the students choose the vocabulary words. By giving them that freedom, they can choose words based on their knowledge level.
In conclusion, in order to enhance the comprehension of my ELL students, I feel that it is imperative to focus on their vocabulary development. In order for students to understand and retain their new vocabulary words, I believe that it is important to choose high frequency words that they will see within their reading. Then it is important teach these new words in context so that they see meaning in learning their new words. My hope is that students will better comprehend what they read if they are better able to understand the vocabulary within the reading.
An editorial in progress...
Last week, President Obama proposed a new approach to public education, arguing that the state of America’s schools is “untenable for our economy, unsustainable for our democracy, and unacceptable for our children.” His strategy includes establishing consistent academic achievement standards, devoting billions of dollars from the stimulus package towards education, and initiating a reward system for teachers based on merit. But because the underlying concepts are both unconventional and experimental, this plan has been met with some disapproval.
The merit-based pay plan has been most heavily criticized among teachers and their unions. Its critics ask, how can we equitably and objectively judge a teacher’s worth? This is an especially compelling question since, as we have seen over the past eight years, sometimes standardized test scores simply aren’t an accurate, valid, or reliable reflection of the test-taker. While Obama avoided specifically linking pay increases to student test scores in his speech, the reality of student assessment playing a part in measuring teacher excellence persists. On top of this, analysts add to the list the many more subtle problems which could factor into a money-based reward system, including favoritism, unreliable funding, diverse school populations, union opposition, school socio-economic bias, evaluative standards, and false or otherwise misleading observations.
Yet another issue which arises from this proposal is whether or not money is the best way to motivate teachers. Critics are asking, is good teaching extrinsic? Would dangling the merit-pay carrot in front of a mediocre teacher make someone a better teacher? And what of the normal repercussions, including competition, lying, cheating, and other corrupt traditions, which usually accompany monetary prizes? Creating a competitive business model out of teaching changes the entire teaching culture - a profession most do not enter with their sights set on making the big bucks.
Most importantly, there is student well being to be taken into consideration. If teachers’ motivations lie anywhere besides student support and success, America’s educational problem will get much worse. Instead of standardizing our expectations of good teaching and over-generalizing teacher-to-paycheck improvement ratios, districts must reward teachers for their successes across multiple, unique considerations and through various methods, and, in doing so, improve their students, teachers, and communities.
What Valuing Multiculturalism Entails
An editorial by Meg Tanabe
In our current education system, the majority of schools do not value the teaching of any language other than English up until the secondary years at which time many students are required to spend two years studying a language other than English. Meanwhile, we have many students who enter elementary school speaking other languages than English but are given the message that those are not important. Students are taught that they should focus on learning English, up until the time they enter high school when they should learn another language. Two years spent studying another language during secondary school does not create anywhere near a functioning level in that language for most students. This seems to be a requirement that just sounded good to someone, but is not taken seriously. Learning a language is easier to do when one is younger, so if the ultimate goal is to create bilingual individuals it makes most sense to include other language instruction from the beginning of school experiences as many other developed countries do. Unfortunately, the general climate in this country is to believe that English alone is good enough and that all the other people in the world whose native language is not English, should learn it instead of Americans making the effort. If we look at two of the nations with the most effective educational systems, Korea and Japan, (Schmidt, Houang & Cogan, 2002) they have moved away from beginning English instruction in middle school and have begun teaching it starting in elementary school.
Multiculturalism is a concept often promoted in curriculum and mission statements of schools, but the current linguistic practices of most schools reflects an overwhelming tendency towards assimilation as the true goal. If we want to value multiculturalism, we should also see value in being multilingual as the two often go hand in hand. Educators are taught to value the prior knowledge that students bring to school, but not valuing the language that their parents speak with them can cause children to distance themselves from their parents and disrespect them. Parents are the first teachers of children and they should be given the opportunity to continue to support their children’s education in meaningful ways. If children turn away from their parents, they will not only lose a language, they will also lose the opportunity to learn about their parent’s culture and to feel proud of their roots. This can cause identity problems that can negatively affect children and cause them to make poor choices in the future when deciding with whom to identify with and join.
When children are not given the opportunity to learn their first language at school, they often suffer from a lack of literacy skills in that language and fragmented oral skills due to a lack of exposure to academic vocabulary and concepts or they may lose their first language completely. Learning to read, for example, in your first language is easier than learning to read in your second language. The skills that children learn in one language do transfer over to the other. Those who believe that learning two languages will take away from what could be learned in English only should think about how much more a bilingual individual knows compared to a monolingual one.
It is true that learning in two languages takes time and commitment and exposure to both language environments as well. If dual language programs are to be successful, it is necessary to have a mix of both native speakers of English and native speakers of the other language in the classroom together to support each other. In areas that are predominantly of one linguistic background, this would require the school district to implement busing in order to achieve this idea combination of students. Before we can begin to think about this, we need to convince native speakers of English of the value of having their children learn other languages in conjunction with English at the elementary school level. This requires the nation as a whole to accept that while we may outwardly appear to be a country of many cultures, our current educational system is not doing all that it can to create the multicultural nation we call ourselves.
What I love more than anything in the world is going over grandma’s house! At her house, I always tend to get away with little things that ma would never let me get away with. Instead of eating one cookie, I could have two. Instead of watching one hour of television I could watch two hours! Everything doubled at grandma’s and I absolutely loved it!
It was an especially exciting day at grandmas- “cookie day.” Once a month we make “grandma’s all famous butter cookies.” They are not really famous, but if grandma sold them, I bet she would make a lot of money. Her cookies taste much better than the ones ma buys at Jewel. The cookies are so buttery that they melt in your mouth, just like an M&M.
Ma and I arrived at grandma’s red brick house at about noon. Since it was a beautiful summer day-not too hot, I was expecting the screen door to be open allowing a mild breeze to blow through the house, but the screen door and the big door were both tightly shut. Without saying a word, ma unlocked the doors and we went in. Walking into the kitchen I was expecting to see melting butter, sugar, bowls, sifters, and cookie sheets-just a few of the needed essentials for grandma’s cookies. Instead, I saw a spotless kitchen.
“What’s going on,” I asked nervously. “Grandma is not feeling well today”, ma said. “Is she going to be okay”, I solemnly replied. “She’ll be just fine honey, nothing serious,” mom said. “Is that my sweet sugar,” a very low voice came from the bedroom. At no faster than a turtle’s pace, I walked towards grandma’s room. She had one of those rooms that was the size of two rooms put together. I slowly stepped in and sadly said, “hi grandma.” She weakly replied, “don’t be sad sweetie, your grandma is a spry old woman.” Whatever that meant, I thought to myself. “I told your mom to bring you over so the two of you could still make the cookies. Fearing I would hurt my mom’s feelings, I kept quiet. Butter cookies with no grandma was like the black eye without the pea! “Cookie day” was either grandma and I, grandma, ma, and I, but never just ma and I. “Now go take the butter out the fridge so it can begin melting. You know what to do, now get. When I wake up I want to smell hot butter cookies cooling on the stove,” Grandma said between coughs.
Without responding, I walked back towards the kitchen. To my surprise, I saw ma busily scattering around the kitchen, getting all the utensils and ingredients that were needed. The butter had even started to get soft on the table! Without saying a word, ma handed me my special apron that read “God’s Little Angel.”
I couldn’t believe it! Ma was a pro! She did not miss a beat from beginning to end. She even remembered to let me do my favorite part-taking my index and middle finger and smashing them down in the dough to make that ripple raised effect in the cookie.
“There ready to come out of the oven”, mom said. The aroma of a freshly baked cookie coming out of the oven is the best smell in the world. The cookies made the whole house smell like a humongous butter cookie candle. I peeped in grandma’s room, knowing the smell of the cookies had awaken her, only to find her still sleeping peacefully on her side. Mom put her hand on my shoulder. “She just needs rest,” mom” said smiling. I knew in my gut something was really wrong, even though both ma and grandma were reassuring me that everything was just fine. “Why don’t we set a plate of cookies next to grandma’s bed, so when she wakes she will be pleasantly surprised,” ma stated. I agreed, and did just that. Softly placing the cookies down, grandma opened her eyes. “What is that delicious smell,” she replied. “I have some cookies for you”, I said. “Well hop into bed sweetie, cause’ it is nothing better than sharing cookies with my favorite grandchild,” grandma said as she winked at me. Grandma and I sat, ate, and laughed for I don’t how long. I knew something wasn’t right, but I put it out of my mind and just kept on enjoying the moment, and grandma’s cookies.
Over Capacity Call to the Fire Marshall
By Christina Bachman
There is no “one in, one out” policy at John W. Garvy Elementary, located on Chicago’s Northwest side. As a kindergarten teacher at this school I see firsthand the barriers to effective teaching instruction when you are at 110% capacity. Two years ago Garvy was granted full-day kindergarten, yet not given any additional space for the classroom. This is not the only space needed in our school. We have an occupational therapist in a stairway behind the stage, Spanish and Polish bilingual teachers and classrooms in hallways and our lunchroom serves as a multipurpose room.
Let me provide you with a timeline of the overcrowding and reasoning for a much needed expansion. In 1999 Garvy was given a set of mobile classrooms, which totals 4 new spaces to be used. Then by 2004 we were once again overcrowded and as a result were slated for an addition. However, funding was not available and we have been at a stand still ever since. The lunchroom was converted into two classrooms, a divider made two small classrooms out of one. Not only do the walls feel as though they are closing in, but the number of students continues to increase.
We are now seeing a surge of students at the kindergarten and first grade levels, with all four classes at 37 students. Not only large class numbers, but the kindergarten actually shares the size of one classroom intended for 30 students, not 74. This is completely unacceptable.
Where do we go from here? After an aggressive letter writing campaign spearheaded by the assistant principal we received word in early February, that a set of mobiles would be delivered by the start of the 2009 school year. Then on February 19th an email was sent from CPS managing architect that Garvy is better suited for an addition. Eight days later architects came to survey our building. We will find out next week if we are getting an addition slated to be ready for the 2010 school year or instead the extra mobile.
We need to stop putting a band aid on the problem by delivering sets of 4 classrooms. With our current enrollment, Garvy already has 5 displaced teachers. There must be a solution that will positively affect the 2009 school year that lasts beyond 2 or 3 years. It is not ok to pack kids into a building like sardines because of lack of funding. Their safety and education greatly exceeds the cost of an addition.
Young Writers
Comprehension, application, synthesis, meaning making, organization…this list can keep going. So many skills are necessary in order to construct meaning and put it on paper. Choosing the perfect words that will make sense to another person can be stressful for many. Yet, writing is not just choosing a word as seen in the list above, it is much more complex. As I write this, I also struggle to organize my thoughts to convey the true meaning that I hope to construct. These skills are something that I want to prepare my Kindergarten students with. Looking back to my years in school, I don’t remember too much emphasis on writing. Reading was the main focus, however, in the adult world, reading does not stand alone. Comprehension and synthesis usually occur with writing. Writing is not something mechanical, but is something that is derived from a personal thought process. Children in any grade level need to make meaning of the world that surrounds them and need to find a connection with that world. For younger writers, it is through discovery and active engagement that they become motivated to learn and construct. I have found that students even at a very young age cannot be fooled into this mentality or motivation. They can sense the level of difficulty or “busy work” that we expose them to which can eventually undermine the importance of what we want them to learn. As teachers, we need to understand the long term goals that we want our students to achieve and we need to know the steps that can ultimately get them there. Students at the emergent literacy stage have minimal focus initially which is why we need to use our time wisely and expose them to meaningful lessons. However, students at this age can take in more complex ideas than we think. Yet, these complex ideas come with time and age appropriate activities. These activities need to be nurtured in school from the very beginning in order to create a comfortable and safe environment that allows for growth with a natural course of literacy development.
Guiding children through these natural occurrences of literacy and inviting them to take part of their own knowledge will bring them to a better understanding of why we write. In my Kindergarten classroom, the guidance that I offer my students with their writing is through writer’s workshop. The goal that I want my students to accomplish through writer’s workshop is to discover purpose in writing and to practice strategies that help develop meaning in their writing, both with my support and independently.
Kindergarten students begin their schooling with different levels of prior knowledge. As we figure out each student’s literacy background, we need to tailor valuable lessons that can help them reach their next step in learning. Students invest more into activities that they are actively involved in. Exposing our students to meaningful life experiences that result with hands-on activities can motivate students to achieve more. At this age, writing can seem difficult to teach and assess. Students have so much to say and have such great imaginations, but little experience on how they can use it with written language. They would rather just tell you. Writing seems like such an impossible task for some students because many times they are fearful that they don’t know how to write. Many students put up their own barriers and have a preconceived notion of what is expected of them. As teachers we need to help our students make the connection between drawings and print with communication. As much as I try to diminish this fear of inability with positive reinforcement, it is just not enough. Students need to believe in themselves in order to conquer that fear. We need to give them the tools and support to help them develop their own knowledge so they can build self-confidence and metacognition. However, this fear is never completely gone and is sometimes followed by hesitance as students try to figure out what to write and why.
With many examples of literature and plenty of opportunity to practice new skills, students will build on prior knowledge and gain confidence. Read-alouds are a very important tool in learning the various ways that print can carry a message. With a balance of reading and writing, students will get a well rounded literature based background that they can fall back on. Reading and writing do go hand in hand and should be practiced simultaneously to promote higher order thinking. Encouraging students to write freely about their thoughts is something that they are not yet familiar with at this age. I usually begin the year asking students to draw a picture then as we learn the concept of print and make that connection with written language; I gradually ask more of them. With a combination of strategies and a literature based curriculum, my students have plenty of examples of writing. What I really want to work on is the process of writing and how to put thought on paper. Although, the writing process is very important, at this age I try to make writing fun. Balance is a key component to teach how to write, because there also has to be interest and meaning as to why we write. I do believe that you can make learning fun and you can definitely learn while having fun. Students tend to put forth more effort when they are enjoying what their doing and are able to make it their own. I know that I need to model writing as much as possible and gradually move them closer to independent thought and writing. Before independence however, comes much practice and guidance with a gradual release of responsibility. After modeling a certain skill, I have students participate as we share a writing experience together. This then leads to more interactive involvement from my students as we co-create thought and meaning. My students love to share their ideas and thoughts, so I wanted to introduce author’s chair. On one occasion after journal time I asked students to volunteer to share what they wrote. I really wanted to see what they would share and how they would share it. Many students volunteered, but I then saw how difficult it was for my students to gather their thoughts about what they had written. The truth is that they were not really sure of what they wrote and had little or no experience on how to share it. A few had only pictures or a scribble, which at this age is fine, but they had no language to describe it. They began to share anything that came into their head at that very moment. I knew then that they were just filling their pages with words or scribbles that they had no connection with and also they needed more modeling with sharing and the authors’ chair. They were missing purpose in their writing and I needed to help them with organizing their ideas. Students at any age, may feel pressure coming up with something good enough. This only meant that my students needed more scaffolding with shared and interactive writing. I also want to make writing more than just an assignment and I need to help them gather ideas that they would like to write about.
I have tried to give my students real life writing experiences such as writing letters. A couple years back on St. Patrick’s Day, my students received a little gift from a special leprechaun. He left them a recipe for a magical treat with all the necessary items to make it. We followed the recipe together which eventually made a delicious pistachio pudding. My students absolutely loved it and they loved following the recipe. They were so grateful that they wanted to write our leprechaun friend a thank you letter. We wrote it together on chart paper, and then they went back to their seats to write their own thank you letters adding anything else they wanted. I told them that I would leave their personal letters on my desk for the leprechaun to take with him. Coming back to school the next day, they noticed a response with green foot prints on our letter we left on the chart paper. This response made their faces light up. They then knew that communicating can go back and forth through writing. This moment was a turning point for my students. After that, they understood writing to be a form of expression and communication that can be reciprocated. They wanted to write letters to friends and family continually.
Every year, I look forward to any moments where my students can write letters to special friends. This year, we began to write letters with the kindergarten class next door and we create the atmosphere of a post office with mail-boy and mail-girl to deliver the giant envelope. In these letters, we make sure to ask our friends a question and respond to the question asked from our friends. We do this as a whole group, but eventually each student will have a pen pal. These experiences with writing and my observations of young writers have given me motivation as well to create these moments where my students are excited to write and communicate. Starting them at this young age with a strong foundation of literacy as a whole will hopefully give them a positive sense of self that can build in years to come.
Pep the Pup
By Josh Miller
Pep the Pup likes to play.
Pep the Pup runs all day.
Where is he? I don’t know.
Around the yard he goes.
“Sniff, sniff,” he finds mama’s rose.
He chases a squirrel up the oak tree.
“Scratch, scratch,” he looks for where it could be.
By the house he buries a bone.
“Thump,” on the hole he drops a stone.
He walks along the neighbor’s fence.
“WOOF! WOOF!” barks the big black dog.
He jogs under the table and bumps the top.
“CRASH!” the flower pot does drop.
Pep the Pup likes to play.
Pep the Pup runs all day.
There he is. In my lap he jumps.
“Slurp, slurp,” against my cheek his tongue thumps.
Not Only A Music Teacher:
An Editorial by Jeanne Andersen
I’ve noticed that educators in the field of reading roll their eyes or skip over me in conversation when I tell them I am a music teacher. Or sometimes they ask, “What are you doing teaching music? You’re overqualified for that position!” I wonder, why is less expected of music teachers?
According to an article published in Science Daily (March 16, 2009) titled “Music Education Can Help Children Improve Reading Achievement,”
Children exposed to a multi-year program of music tuition involving training in increasingly complex rhythmic, tonal, and practical skills display superior cognitive performance in reading skills compared with their non-musically trained peers.
Doesn’t this finding imply that, as a music teacher, I should be more qualified than just a regular teacher?
I am a music teacher by chance, not choice. In college, I double majored in education and music. I then spent four years teaching in self-contained fourth and fifth grade classrooms. I completed my ESL endorsement last year and will complete my master’s degree in literacy, language, and culture this May. When my school needed more bilingual teachers, my regular education position was cut. However, having majored in music, I transitioned to music teacher smoothly.
The findings of the Science Daily study remind me that I am most qualified to teach music. We music teachers really are in a unique position to teach and reinforce literacy skills, sometimes with just 35 minutes to do so.
I will illustrate how my Music program is tied to literacy by starting with reading. Students at all levels read in music class. I don’t mean reading only as we do with books. Of course, (as a very concrete example,) students read lyrics to songs when they sing. But they actually do much more with music: Students read notes, read rhythms that increase in complexity weekly, and they learn to read and comprehend the symbols of music, the universal language, that all students – regardless of language spoken – can comprehend.
In the auditorium, my music classroom, I too have a word wall. One of my favorite vocabulary lessons this year was teaching 1st grade students the subtle difference between strike and hit. To produce a sound on the triangle, you strike it. When I asked students how they made a sound on the triangle, many said they hit it. This led to my modeling of hitting versus striking the triangle as well as a deeper discussion of the difference between the terms strike and hit, in the context of percussion instruments. [Ex: you strike a triangle and a piano key to produce a sound; you hit rhythm sticks or cymbals together to produce a sound.] We then compared these definitions to the ways we use these words outside of music. And these were 1st graders!
I work on fluency when I teach dynamics. In an oral reading fluency rubric, traits such as accuracy, rate, and phrasing are assessed. These traits lead to prosody. I too value these traits and work consistently on these with my students whether they are playing instruments or singing. Instead of working on oral reading fluency, we work on oral singing fluency. Instead of echo-reading, we echo-sing. Instead of choral reading, we choral sing. These strategies help students become fluent readers and singers. The terms and strategies for teaching Music and Reading are so remarkably similar.
And is there not a more appropriate place to teach using Total Physical Response (TPR) than the music classroom? The majority of my students are English Language Learners and love moving around the stage, singing (to the tune of My Darling Clementine), “We are waddling, we are waddling, we are waddling around the room, right now, we are waddling, we are waddling around the room, freeze!” With this activity, we can teach and review vocabulary, we sing, we encourage kinesthetic learning when moving, and we use academic language. The context for learning in music class is inviting and safe.
Finally, I make time for writing. After the inauguration, I assigned students in grades 3-5 to work collaboratively in groups. Their task was to write lyrics for a song about President Barack Obama using a familiar melody. Think of the skills involved in creating their own lyrics. Students worked collaboratively, retrieved biographical facts from class or independent research, and experimented with phrasing, syllables, and rhyming words when matching their lyrics to the melody.
So next time someone asks me why I teach music, I will refer them to this article, which examines the potential music class can have on school literacy achievement.
In the meantime, if you want students’ reading achievement to soar, Leave No Music Teacher Behind.
Carina said
LITERACY-FROM CHILDHOOD- TO THE CLASSROOM
I cannot remember my parents reading “bed time stories” to me as a child, my earliest memory of books is from the age of four or five, reading the pages of “Ann and Barry” a “Dick and Jane” type series at my desk at school. When I had mastered that book the teacher gave me the next one in the series, and then the next. It was never what the teacher said to us back then,(feedback was not one of our teacher’s strong points) – but as young as we were we just knew the look of approval (the opposite of the disapproving look!) and it gave you such a sense of accomplishment- I thrived on that! At home every evening, I would recite the pages out loud for my parents as part of my homework. Homework was very important in our house and always had to be checked by my parents before we went to bed. I never really understood how important it is to have your parents show an interest in your work until I began teaching myself- they encouraged us to take pride in our work and you wanted to make them proud of you at school. For my ninth birthday I remember my father putting up shelves in my room for this whole set of books I got as hand me downs-I was so thrilled! I can remember reading independently about “The Famous Five” a group of kids who solved endless mysteries in their spare time –I was fascinated by their endless adventures in a world far away from our rural town where nothing exciting happened!
Literacy instruction or “English” as we called it in a Rural Ireland classroom left a lot to be desired! I can safely say we had no “library books”, in fact we had no books at all aside of text books in our classroom. We did not have a school library either, but a mobile library did visit three times a year (a big event!) We did have access to the library in the town and my brother and I would cycle to town once a week to check out books. As I reflect on that time in my childhood now, I see that’s its not so much the resources but the VALUE PLACED on reading and reading well that stays with you and ultimately the praise and the respect from your teacher and your peers that motivates you. Being in a country school did have its advantages though .There was only 6 students (including myself) in our class , although we did share the classroom with the next grade—we always studied the same material though !When I think of the average class size in CPS, I think the odds of teacher student ratio were definitely in my favor!
Much of our schooling was through our native language Gaelic-we spent at least two hours in the morning reading and learning vocabulary in Irish. While I believe it gave us a strong foundation in the language I don’t believe that learning by rote was very interesting and memorizing words and stories was not everyone’s strongpoint. In the middle and upper grades our Language Arts lessons consisted solely of English grammar –I never heard of a read-aloud or a reading response until I attended teacher-training college! This is a huge contrast to the school setting I teach in today where being a teacher at the fourth grade level means dealing with students who struggle with the transition from learning to read to reading high content area.
From an early age I liked to write essays and my teachers would attribute my essay writing ability to how much I read—I didn’t realize at the time how lucky I was to be able to access the public library –none of the others in my class ever did .I remember always thinking how “lucky” I was to be able to read well-those who weren’t were made to feel stupid. I felt fortunate I could read well and often felt bad that those students who couldn’t read and write well must be miserable at school. If reading this makes it sound like I thought “being able to read and write well meant you were bound for all the better things in life” that’s because at the time that’s what we were led to believe. In the present day Teaching has changed from that perspective–most of us teachers are not on a power trip and get into the profession to help students achieve, not to make them feel like they won’t get on in life. . Nowadays, when I’m teaching, I constantly remind myself that each child needs to feel a sense of accomplishment in order to be motivated to read.
The same philosophy was evident in our secondary (high school) education .From the outset we took an entrance exam and were grouped according to ability. Much of what I see in our high schools today reminds me of my own education -teachers were not concerned with helping struggling readers –but with teaching content only and I hated high school language arts –it consisted mainly of grammar lessons, learning Shakespeare by rote and writing an essay once a week on a topic that was in no way connected with the rest of the unit. It still makes me cringe when I think of how that English teacher would then spend one whole period handing back the essays and hurling abuse about how bad the grammar in particular essays was –In contrast to teaching nowadays, there never seemed to be any reflection on her part. I wonder if she ever pondered the question “maybe they didn’t get that the first time round?” –maybe I should teach that a different way next time! Didn’t teachers have that kind of insight back then? I think that this may be one of the reasons why I hate grading my students work, I am always acutely aware of the material my students “didn’t get” and feel rather despondent, but as I sit there I also try to reflect on how I taught the material and think about a different approach or even a different way of assessing the skill that I might try next time.
Having returned to the teaching profession three years ago, I believe I have learnt more in the Chicago Public School system than I did in my college years and my two years as a teacher in Ireland combined. My eyes have been opened considerably. I now realize that my job as a teacher was nothing like I had ever envisioned it. I am not merely a Teacher, I don’t know if that title truly fits the job description! I regularly take on the role of “parental figure, nurse, mediator, referee, leader and STUDENT myself. It is really here I have discovered how important literacy is for me and for my students and what literacy really means. To me literacy can have multiple meanings, it is not (as I previously thought) being able to just read and write proficiently, it is the ability to make sense of ideas and communicate these ideas orally as well as being able to write and communicate ideas for a variety of purposes. Literacy as we know it had changed considerably it is no longer a concept in the singular form –we need to think of it as multi modal , Literacy is not static and what it means to be literate is changing and has changed considerably since I was in school a mere fifteen years ago. Long gone are the days when the boys were expected to become computer literate and the girls were left behind. Nowadays it is more essential than ever that we teach everyone not only how to read the books but also how to read and manipulate hypertext. If we fail to do this as teachers we will be doing our students a disservice. This is nowhere more evident than in my native country. Though many of my college classmates admit like myself that it is difficult for those of us who were not brought up with computers in the classroom or taught how to use them as an extra resource tool in the classroom. In Ireland they seem to be taking on the Technology monster with a vengeance and provide regular Professional Development for teachers to keep up to speed with ways to effectively integrate technology into their teaching. I think CPS needs to move in this direction because if we are to make sure our Public School Students are on an equal footing when they leave Elementary School, that includes being computer literate.
Literacy is of huge importance to me as a teacher, whether it is in teaching different genres to students, exposing them to different ideas of literacy in my classroom, discussing with peers or co-workers , reading professional literature articles , or using the internet for research or communication–each requires its only set of literacy skills and strategies .During the past three years I have had a range of experiences that have led to my beliefs and opinions today .I firmly believe it is from other teachers we learn the most about effective teaching and effective literacy instruction .I think it is those relationships with colleagues that mold you as a teacher .I remember reading in a classroom management book “Setting Limits in The Classroom” that I should steer clear of “negative teachers” those who are resistant to change as they will pull you down too Teaching and literacy is changing and we need to be willing to change with it. Like I mentioned earlier this notion of expanding technology in the classroom is difficult for me but I am always open to taking courses to help me become a better teacher-it is part and parcel of the literacy package today.
I learned the importance of demographics in the Chicago Public School System very quickly in my first teaching position. I saw first hand the huge literacy gap between those who were from the area and those who were “ bussed in” to the school from poorer areas of the city. Mayer Public School was in a wealthy North side Neighborhood but because many residents opted for the private schools in the area, 65% of the students were not from the areas. There was little or no parental involvement (mainly because the students were traveling on the bus) and the Administration cultivated a very competitive environment amongst the staff. We were “encouraged” to volunteer for weekend workshops and everyone was trying to outdo each other with test scores at their grade level—it made for a very tense environment, I felt very isolated, and as a new teacher it was hard to “do everything on your own”. The administration made it compulsory for the new teachers to observe more “seasoned teachers” during our prep times and I learned many valuable teaching strategies and effective classroom management techniques .I believe it is only with these tools you can begin to have effective literacy instruction However there was always this unsettling feeling that you were very much “on your own” as regards the curriculum, that is especially difficult for a new teacher. There was never any communication between grades, as to what particular skills each grade might focus on, much less a school wide focus. I believe in order for a school to really accomplish the goal of “teaching everyone” there needs to be dialogue between teachers, not just at your grade level but with the grade level above and below you –so that everyone has a good idea of what a student is learning and expected to learn at each grade.
Upon transferring to my current school Drake in the Bronzeville neighborhood to a fourth grade position, I was inspired by the Principals strong vision for the school. The school’s mission is one which includes all teachers working together towards a common goal all in the name of equal education opportunities for all students. The attitude in this school is different-as a staff we realize we cannot achieve this mission alone we need to work together to help our students get where they need to be .Our school is part of an initiative called Partnership Read and that means we are part of a Standards based change process. I think being part of this process has helped me become more aware of the ways in which I foster literacy in my classroom and how our school fosters literacy as a whole, not just in the Language Arts but across the curriculum. As part of the process we are working on aligning our comprehension goals in a sequential manner from Kindergarten through 8th grade to bring a cohesive goal for literacy to our school. I think that is essential so everyone is on the same page and working towards a common goal. Not only do we have common goals but also a common language amongst our staff and also with other schools involved in the process. We do this through a great deal of collaboration and communication among the teachers in the school. We began with our vision of what a graduate of our school should be able to do, and we constructed goals for the end of the year at each grade level making sure they stair step as they go up beginning with Kindergarten through to Graduation. This is a vital part in my opinion of our development into a high performing school. Because we align our end of year outcomes we are making sure that our students are progressing in what they learn and that there is no repetition, instead a spiral learning effect as they move through the grades. It feels good to know that I am finally teaching what my students need to know in fourth grade and that they will be well prepared for what they will learn the following year in Fifth Grade. Not only that, but I also know what skills the students will have mastered before they come to Fourth Grade, so I can build on those skills. We assess our students three times a year to determine whether or not the skills and strategies we have chosen to focus on are helping them move towards that end of year outcome. Another important aspect of this process involves us Teachers reflecting on our assessments and their effectiveness in measuring our students’ progress.
It is not just the administration and teachers that are part of this Standards Based Change Process –the most important component is our students and their buy-in to this process. I believe that it is really important to have students aware of the whole process-after all it is ALL ABOUT THEM! I strongly believe that in order for effective instruction to take place the students need to take “ownership of their learning”. In my classroom my students have taken ownership of their end-of year goal. Together the students and I have translated it into their own words and proudly displayed the whole length of our classroom wall. “We can use active reading strategies and critical thinking skills to understand a variety of texts .I think it is vital that my students know that everything we do and learn in the classroom is helping us towards that ultimate goal, so when we are working on a skill like “making connections” and recording our connections and someone walked in and asked one of my students “why are you writing on post-its as you are reading and sticking them in the pages?, my students would say that we are “actively reading” I make connections (write what it reminds me of..) to the text as I read so as to better understand this text>” Another important aspect of this whole process is that the students see coherence between subjects –we don’t just ask questions while reading-we ask questions in Science and write down our thinking in Math. We are always practicing strategies to help us become better thinkers. It is both empowering and motivating for me as a teacher and them as students, to see them take responsibility for their own learning.
THE LAND OF MILK AND HONEY
BY: T LEWIS-MORRIS
It was midnight before we finally packed away the last suitcase. My little brother was already asleep; he was exhausted from all the excitement earlier. My dad threw us a going away party. All my cousins and friends came to our house to celebrate with us and to say their goodbyes. Some of them came with hopes of getting something valuable that we would not need, since we were going to the land of milk and honey and streets paved with gold; a phrase that was used figuratively to refer to America.
As I lay in bed I thought about all the images that I had seen on TV about the US. The Cosby Show was one particular image that came to mind. I admired the Cosby family and imaged that all black families were like this in the US. I could also remember the grandeur of their home with all the fine furniture. I would get really excited when I saw a shot of the outdoors, where the beautiful landscape and paved streets were on display. Everything about the US seemed amazing. I could not wait to get there. I also could not wait to see the rest of my family. They had been gone for over two years. My mom, my two sisters and three brothers were already there.
I didn’t really sleep that night because of anxiety. As we loaded all our suitcases and bags into the rented van, tears streamed down our faces. All our cousins and friends came to say their goodbyes and were crying. Saying goodbye had never been an easy task for any of us. Maybe because of all the other goodbyes that we’ve had to endure before our time finally came for us to leave. We were sad but happy to know that we were going to be reunited with the rest of the family.
Nevertheless, by the time we got to the airport we were beaming with excitement. For all those times that we came to the airport and wondered what it was like inside we would finally get the opportunity to see. I was fascinated by the very diverse group of people that I saw. I admired the professionalism of the Jamaicans who were behind the counter. They seemed to be perfect in every way. They looked like the well educated Jamaicans that we often saw on TV or listened to on the radio. There was something about the upper class that made you well aware of their background right away. I started having flashbacks of the girls in primary school who’s families were well off and how they walked with their heads held high, shoulders back and spoke standard English unlike the everyday Patois that everyone else spoke. I felt a sense of pride and envy at the same time.
Before we got on the plane my brother and I fought about who would sit in the window seat. There was no debate between my dad and my little brother because we already knew that my dad would willingly give up the window seat. I ended up sitting by the window but my sightseeing enthusiasm was short lived; for as soon as the plane took off I instantly became sick, and had to switch seats with my brother. The very high altitude was not as fun as we thought it would be. When our plane finally landed my dad’s friend, a tall dark skinned man he called Cutie, was waiting for us with a big van. “Why, hello there,” he said in a deep hallow voice. “Hello,” the three of us responded. My dad then proceeded to introduce the man. “This is my good friend Cutie, I don’t know what I would have done without him today.” He continued as if to make the man feel overly appreciated for giving us a ride home. All along I kept repeating his name in my head and wondering who would name a man Cutie. But even more strange; I later found out, that his wife’s name was ‘Shirley’. I have only known males to have the name Shirley back home; it was almost as if they had decided to switched names. Anyhow, he was a very nice man, and tried to make us feel at home in his van.
On the drive back from the airport we had our heads glued to the window, connecting all of what we had seen on television¬ the big buildings, the houses, and neatly cut lawns. The scenery was breath taking. I looked over at my brother, who was just a year older but much taller than I; and could tell that he was trying to maintain his cool. My little brother on the other hand was smiling from ear to ear and did not cease to point out everything that amazed him on the home. My dad reminded us that the rest of the family were there eagerly waiting our arrival; and then joked about whether or not we still remembered what they looked like. Twenty minutes later we pulled up to one of the houses that I had seen on television. It was a two story brick house decorated with green and white shutters, there was also a big tree in the front yard. In addition to the splendor of the house, there was a park right across the street. We had never had a park that close to our house before; as a matter of fact we never really had a real park, except for the playground at school. My brothers and I stood and looked on in admiration at kids running, playing and swinging. Suddenly the door swung open and out came my mother and two sisters. There were eight of us in all, five boys and three girls. My oldest brother however, lived in Canada with his wife and kids. My other two brothers were at work and would come by later to see us. As soon as my mom opened the door my two sisters rushed out passed her and embraced us. We could see that mom had tears in her eyes, she was so happy to finally have us here. It had been a year since we last saw her, and since then she had lost weight, but she looked more beautiful than ever. My two sisters who were two years apart had gain a few pounds all in the right places.
Later on that evening we met our Auntie Thelma who owned the house and rented a section to my dad. She was the one responsible for bringing my dad and the rest of her siblings here. She was in her early fifties and did not have any children of her own. I never really interacted with her much when she came to Jamaica, and wasn’t sure how to act around her. My mom just told us to relax and be ourselves, but try not to get in her way too much; since she was not used to having teenagers around. Nevertheless, we packed away the bags and washed up for dinner. My mother had fixed turkey that night with, string beans and carrot juice with just enough rum in it; just the way she always made it back home. At first, I thought it was chicken and was shocked at how big the chicken legs were. I had never seen chicken legs that big before. The taste however, gave it away, for it did not taste like the chicken I was use to; so I decided to ask. The food was delicious and I stuffed myself; I could barely finish the ice cream that was served for desert. After dinner we all sat in the living room and my dad started with his stories and jokes. This was the most fun part of the night, my dad was known for telling us all types of tales about his childhood, in addition to ghost stories. Back then people testified to seeing ghost as though they were humans walking. We later transitioned from ghost stories to talking about people in the neighborhood and how Jamaica had changed. My aunt often enjoyed my dad’s jokes and stories and came down to join us. My mom quickly fixed her a plate and she repeated once more how much the three of us had grown. She also mentioned that one of her neighbors taught at one of the public high schools not too far from where we lived and that she would talk to her and try to get us in for the fall. Immediately, I allowed my mind to wonder what it would be like to go to an American high school. I still had in my mind scenes from the Cosby show and even Punky Brewster. What I also admired about these shows was the way they spoke. It sounded so much different from the usual Jamaican Patois that I was familiar with. I remembered a few times how attractive my cousins sounded when they came to visit us from the US. They moved here when they were very small and grew up speaking the language. I wanted to sound just like them.
The next day after work my sisters took us to the park, my brothers and I headed straight for the swings. There wasn’t enough swings open and one of us had to wait. As I stood there waiting I could not help but to notice that the kids around us were staring. They seemed to have noticed something different about us, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Nevertheless, I got on the swing when it was my turn and tried to act normal for fear of more stares. That day at the park I tried to listen in on various conversations just to hear the American accent. But instead, what I heard was something unfamiliar and very different from what I had heard on TV. I always understood what Rudy on the Cosby show was saying even though I never spoke Standard English except for in school, and therefore thought that all Americans spoke that way. I soon realized that was not the case, for I could not understand what the kids at the park were saying. This was my first encounter with reality. That summer it took me a while before I was able to understand some of what the kids were saying at the park. I was in for more surprises that fall as my brother and I entered our new high school.
My personal essay...
An imperative step in being an active participant in my own learning is evaluating my personal beliefs and opinions about today’s literacy issues and policies. What are some of the issues facing literacy education today? When I pose this question, I immediately think of No Child Left Behind, which was enacted in 2001 under President George Bush. The general ideas of NCLB: Stronger Accountability for Results, More Freedom for States and Communities, Proven Education Methods and More Choices for Parents seem wonderful on the surface, but when you read the fine print many of these ideas have pejorative effects on various aspects of education. The negative effects of NCLB, combined with the fact that it has been drastically under funded, puts education in a terrible position. Students and teachers are the ones being left behind.
I understand that Stronger Accountability for Results was implemented to ensure that all stakeholders involved in education were being held accountable for students’ academic progress. And, I do agree that all stakeholders need to be held accountable in terms of students’ progress, but we need to be sensitive to the child as a whole. Berliner (2006) argues that “both students and schools are situated in neighborhoods filled with families. Our neighborhoods are highly segregated by social class, and thus, also segregated by race and ethnicity. Children only spend about 30 of their waking hours a week in our schools, and then only for about two-thirds of the weeks in a year…. In the course of a full year students might spend just over 1,000 hours in school, and almost 5 times that amount of time in their neighborhood and with their families.” We must take into consideration the many environments that these children are a part of in order to best meet their needs. Additionally we need understand that not all students have had the same opportunities to learn and therefore do not come to school with the same social languages. I believe that communities as well as their schools need to be held accountable to standards that are maintainable and within reach. Right now we are giving students skill and drill tests and holding them to standards that do not account for individual and community differences.
As Berliner states, “zip codes matter”. Schools whose zip codes encompass lower income children or ELLs are instantly put at a greater disadvantage. While these children do not always have the home environments that foster and reinforce the importance of education, the teachers of these students are forced to bring these children up to standard. When I taught 3rd grade at a Title I school in Maryland, I remember the frustration that would occur when faced with passing the test. While my grade level taught passionately and worked extremely hard to meet the standards handed to us by the state, we often felt defeated when our students did not achieve according to the test.
In order to begin to change the destiny of this population of students it is going to require that our government face the fact that we must do something to change the social and economic conditions of their lives, not just focus on school reform.
In addition, another negative effect that this has had on education is that many teachers are so focused on making sure that their students pass the test and therefore teach to the test. They try to ensure that their students can regurgitate information so that they can perform adequately on these tests. These teachers who are forced to teach students through skill and drill for fear of falling to far below the line are not having the opportunity to engage these children in critical or multimodal literacies. Plain and simple, teachers do not have the time to dive in and teach all that they would like to teach. As a result, much of the joy has been taken out of teaching.
Unfortunately, I do not see high-stakes testing and many other forms of accountability going away. Whether it is NCLB or another form of education policy put into action in the upcoming years, we need to take responsibility for figuring out how we are going to teach our students the various skills that will enable them to be highly productive and engaged citizens in our country. Therefore, I think that it is imperative that teachers begin to examine their teaching practices. To do this, teachers need to allow for the time to analyze the standards that need to be met while also looking at the best ways to teach these students while also teaching them higher level thinking skills. Allowing teachers time for professional development would also help teachers learn ways to incorporate better practices into their classroom.
The second pillar of NCLB allows for More Freedom for States and Communities affords schools to have “unprecedented flexibility in how they use federal education funds…. Districts [can] transfer up to 50 percent of the federal formula grant funds they receive under the Improving Teacher Quality State Grants, Educational Technology, Innovative Programs, and Safe and Drug-Free Schools programs to any one of these programs, or to their Title I program, without separate approval. This allows districts to use funds for their particular needs, such as hiring new teachers, increasing teacher pay, and improving teacher training and professional development.” (http://www.ed.gov/nclb/overview/intro/4pillars.html). Allowing schools to have control over where money goes is a wonderful idea and works for those schools who have an administration that allocates the money appropriately. Unfortunately, overall, as we have discussed in class, schools are not doing a great job of allocating money appropriately, and in the end they are spending monies recklessly and not in a necessarily very well thought out and productive way.
The third pillar is More Choices for Parents. This enables parents whose children attend a school that is designated as needs improvement with the option of choosing to have their children placed in another participating public school of their choice. Usually the parents who take the initiative to pull their child(ren) from the school that needs improvement are parents who are proactive in their child’s education. Therefore, when these children are pulled from their community public school, they are only further creating a failing school environment. I do not agree that parents should be able to choose the school where their child should go, but that more energy and resources need to be focused on building a positive school climate focused and implementing research based educational programs that would assist in bringing the school up to standard.
The fourth pillar of NCLB is Proven Education Methods. The National Reading Panel (NRP) was founded in 1997 to assess the effectiveness of different approaches used to teach children to read. These scientifically proven education methods focus heavily on a back to basics approach. As sighted in the NRP’s 2000 report:
“…Effective reading instruction includes teaching children to break apart and manipulate the sounds in words (phonemic awareness), teaching them that these sounds are represented by letters of the alphabet which can then be blended together to form words (phonics), having them practice what they have learned by reading aloud with guidance and feedback (guided oral reading), and applying reading comprehension strategies to guide and improve reading comprehension.”
The idea is that we need to ensure that our students are functionally literate. A functionally literate person is able to function in society, write checks, pay bills, and contribute to the workforce. This back to basics approach is only hindering students’ ability to use literacy as a means of power. In order to enable our students to be able to use literacy as power, we must teach them how to read, not only by decoding text, but also how different genres of text are organized and how to critically examine various texts. The ability to use literacy as power would have a dramatic effect on our society. It would enable people to use their minds in order to critically analyze their position in society and give them the language which would enable them to be active, inquisitive and challenging participants in the literate world.
With a new administration in the White House, we need to change how we teach students to engage with literacy. I strongly advocate for the need to shift to more balanced instruction. Right now we are focusing heavily on phonics-based instruction, which is to say that if a child can sound out a word then he/she knows the word. But, what about the meaning of the word? Isn’t that important, too? While there are those on either side of the fence advocating for whole language or phonics based instruction, I believe that we need to meet somewhere in the middle. There needs to be a balance between whole language and phonics based skill and drill instruction. Through balanced instruction, teachers will not only be able to teach student how to attach words, but they will also be able to use their rich experiential literary environment to guide their students to come to deeper understandings of language and how it is used. I would hope that by bridging the gap through a balanced literacy curriculum that one would move from being functionally literate to more critically literate. Although in theory this sounds very simple to do, I believe that ongoing professional development would be the key to ensuring that teachers are able to implement a balanced instruction approach. Additionally, our new administration needs to also create not only educational reform but social reform as well. We need to get down in trenches and work with the impoverished and get them out of it by providing them better job opportunities, better health care and better schools.
This is my editorial response to a NPR special series broadcast on education.
3/31/09 NPR Special Series (CPS Robeson High School) :
50/50 Series – The Odds of Graduating
Editorial: “Creative Grading”
Creative Grading is a phrase I have heard a number of times; however, I am still a bit unsure about what this actually means. As a teacher, I have heard this phrase from parents who just don’t understand how their child could possibly receive something other than an A. I have also heard this suggestion from other teachers who are supposedly advocating for an individual student. And yesterday, while listening to NPR’s 50/50 – The Chance of Graduating, I actually heard the principal of a CPS school endorse this method of passing students.
Prior to yesterday, I always found this suggestion of grading to be so unethical that no one would actually claim that it was valid. But after hearing a so-called educational leader advocate for “creative grading,” I find this statement to be saddening. When I heard the principal explain to his teachers that they have absolute control of the grading book, and that only they can dictate what is recorded, I felt angered because of the hypocrisy he was preaching.
My anger did not stem from feeling like my role as a teacher was being compromised, but rather that the role of “the student” was dismissed. Yes, as teachers it is our responsibility to “educate” our students, but it is also our responsibility to do whatever we can to make sure that our students graduate ready to be responsible, productive members of our communities, who see themselves as the owners of their actions and choices. The concept of “creative grading” denies our students an understanding of accomplishment, recognition, and the desire to work towards a goal. As a high school student, I doubt I would have done my work if ultimately it didn’t matter. The creative grading philosophy will not help students become independent. I highly doubt their future employers would engage in “creatively praising” or a “creative employee review” of an employee who isn’t doing his or her job (unless you work for AIG). The concept of “creative grading” merely enables students to commit to a passive state of being, in a life that clearly requires active, cognoscente participation.
The most infuriating aspect of yesterday’s brush with “creative grading,” is that these were the carefully chosen words of someone who is supposed to be an education leader. I am not a grade stickler, nor someone who believes that letter grades are even an adequate measure of achievement and understanding; but, in an education system that is purely based on individual performance scores we can’t just reward everyone with the same “certificate of knowledge.” Currently there is a push to meet standards, not blindly place a stamp of approval on poor teaching and learning. If other public agencies just gave everything a grade A, just think of what would happen: the food industry would serve a side of salmonella with your chicken sandwich; it would be ok to drive a car even with a DUI record; Blagojevich would still be our governor, and Freddie Mac would still be misleading mortgage owners! I am not sure what the answer is for our failing students and schools; however, I am positive the answer is not to simply pass them along, by whatever creative means necessary, and without a second thought.
Becky Hermanson: Editorial
Get It Early…
1,500 people die from cancer each day in the United States alone while 3,400 people are diagnosed with this horrible disease daily. Everyone has been affected by cancer whether it is themselves, a family member, or friend. Billboards advertise treatment centers. Buses drive by with scary statistics. Magazines include contrasting articles about how to prevent getting this disease. With the statistics climbing higher and higher, we, as a species, need to come together battle this wrenching disease the right way.
Millions of dollars have been spent trying to find the best medicine to beat cancer at its strongest. Multiple fundraisers have been organized to fund this cause. However, is it the right cause? Should we be dumping millions of dollars into finding a cure for cancer forcing people to undergo extensively harsh treatments or should we begin to be more proactive? Catching cancer early is essential to beating this disease. The success rate for cancer survival increases significantly when it is caught early. According to Goetz (2008), there is a 90% survival rate when cancer is caught in its early stages. In addition, people undergo a more bearable treatment when it’s in its early stages versus extensive radiation and chemotherapy when in its late stages.
Cancer research has advanced to where we now have some proactive tests such as the Pap smear and mammogram. This has been wonderful progress. However, new research has helped develop scans and blood tests that would allow doctors to get more in-depth results. This would allow them to catch cancer early and begin to battle it before the situation escalates. This exceeds what a Pap smear and mammogram can detect. Goetz (2008) stated, “New technologies for the early detection of cancer are now at hand. Researchers are refining sophisticated protein tests that can pick up molecular whispers in the bloodstream and are testing next-generation imaging techniques that can identify and isolate a tumor within the body. This new approach treats diagnosis as an algorithm, a sequence of calculations that can detect or predict cancer years before it betrays symptoms.” As the diagnosis of this disease increases in people, we need to be proactive to help them survive. This costs money and the money raised for cancer should go into this proactive approach.
This exhausting, painful, and heart-wrenching disease has spread across the world. It has caused heartache and sadness in all ethnicity groups. No one goes untouched. Why are we waiting for symptoms to develop before we begin to tackle it? People have to endure a long and painful treatment when they find out they have cancer in Stage 4. If that person had been given an annual scan or blood test to detect it in Stage 1, then perhaps their treatment could have been at the minimal level while increasing their odds of survival. Stage 1 is still trying for the patient, but at least it scales down the process that they will have to embrace. In addition to a more bearable treatment, the survival rate is proven to increase. Therefore, the government should move toward supporting an annual screening for each individual. Government funding and proceeds from fundraisers should be put into supporting this cause since it is essential to beating this aggressive disease. Of course, funding would not be taken away from Stage 4 cases, but certainly having that patient’s cancer caught in Stage 1 would have been the more proactive choice. Overall, it is less turmoil on the patient and more successful. Let’s work together to limit those billboards, bus advertisements, and magazine articles. Let’s beat cancer.
Attempt at an Editorial-
What Will it Take to Make Inclusion Work?
Teaching special education for the last two years, I have been at the forefront of the Inclusion vs. Pull-Out program debate and have wavered back and forth between which model is more beneficial for the struggling readers with high incidence learning disabilities. Do we teach special education students strategy reading instruction within the general education classroom or do we pull them out of the classroom in a smaller resource setting? This question is and has been at the heart of the debate since the amended version of the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) in 2002. It stated that it does not require inclusion. Instead, the law requires that children with disabilities be educated in the "least restrictive environment appropriate” to meet their “unique needs.” The IDEA contemplates that the "least restrictive environment" analysis will begin with placement in the regular education classroom. There are advocates on both sides of the issue. Some believe that inclusion has been turned into this “policy” driven by the unrealistic expectation that money will be saved. Trying to force all students into the inclusion mold is just as discriminatory as trying to force all students into the mold of a special education class. On the other hand, others believe that all students belong in the regular education classroom and that “good” teachers are those that can meet the needs of all the students. As a teacher that has experienced both models, I truly believe in the philosophy of inclusion to increase the students’ academic and social needs in the area of reading instruction. However, inclusion cannot and will not work if resources in professional development for teachers, time allocated for planning (collaborative instruction), and enough special education staff is made available to those schools with the inclusion models.
Studies show that students with learning disabilities struggle in the areas of “acquiring the developmental skills related to reading, including orthographic and phonological awareness” (Schmidt, pg. 131) as well as development of their metacognitive skills. Once however, students are taught certain strategies that coincide with metacognitive strategies and facets of what it means to be a good reader, their performance improves extensively. The question remains in which setting can this be the most useful. This is where professional development offered to teachers becomes a critical component in including this strategy/skill instruction in the regular education classroom. Too many times I’ve watched teachers struggle in teaching the struggling readers because they are confident themselves in meeting those students’ needs. They say, “I don’t know how to teach them” or “They are not my problem,” or “The special education teacher will solve their problem.” Imagine if professional development offered ways in which general education teachers could learn the strategies that the special education teachers and reading specialists know. Imagine if we could build the confidence of our teachers so they feel that they are in control and empowered over the students they teach. What if professional development taught ways that the special education teacher and the general education teacher could work together to collaboratively teach the struggling readers in the classroom? Teachers lack training in the areas of personal communication, team teaching, teacher problem solving, and curricula frameworks, which needs to be provided for all involved in the student’s education. Studies from Lipshy & Gartner (1998) show that special education teachers feel they lack knowledge about the general education curriculum, whereas general education teachers feel they lack knowledge in individualizing instruction. Schools need to provide arenas in which teachers can work with their colleagues with how to meet the needs of the student. They need to have opportunities to debate what might be the best way to set up reading instruction for their students. In essence, teachers want their students to succeed. Professional development and appropriate training becomes a major component to making inclusion work.
Just as important if not more important in providing time needed for special education teachers, reading specialists, and regular educations to learn to collaboratively work together with the common goal being the students with disabilities or that of the struggling reader. However, this is a challenge for most teachers. For many years, teachers have been taught that they teach in isolated environments, in settings that are managed strictly by them. Many of these teachers never learned how to effectively communicate with one another. With this, communication problems arise and then become a major impediment to collaboration. Working together dramatically increases communication among professionals. To make inclusion successful, school personnel must take every opportunity to promote and model positive professional collaboration. Without the collaboration between a general education teacher and a special education teacher or reading specialist, not only will inclusion fail, but the achievements of the other students will decline as well. This collaboration and new way of working together takes time. Time is needed to co-jointly plan lessons, to teach strategy/skill instruction, and to effectively coordinate both teachers’ efforts in doing what’s best for the students. I’ve work in setting where time to work together was limited to before or after school. Administrators need to realize the importance of providing the time for this partnership to flourish. Teachers that are given time, that is used effectively, to meet with colleagues can then “design lessons that accommodate a wide range of students an improve student participation and performance” (Schmidt, pg. 137). Teachers not only need support from each other but also they need support from the administration to be given sufficient time to meet and design these lessons. Without time, coordination of both party’s efforts fails, the students don’t learn, and inclusion fails.
Lastly, enough allocated resources to provide the necessary aides and services to these inclusion classrooms, is crucial for this setting to succeed. There needs to be enough bodies and resources available for teachers so that the students benefit. Funding is needed. Unlike some beliefs that are out there, I don’t believe that inclusion should be looked at as a school’s way of saving money. If nothing more, we should be allocating more resources into the inclusion environments where teachers are given the necessary aids and services needed to help their students succeed. Without the resources, the special education teachers and reading specialists are stretched to their limits trying to cover the required “minutes” or goals of their students. They get burned out quickly with the lack of support. They feel like failures because they can’t reach all the students in each of the inclusion classrooms to make a difference. Likewise, the classroom teachers get the short hand of the stick. Maybe they have bought into the idea of inclusion, maybe they are motivated to make this environment work, however, without the supplementary services required of the these students and the teachers to help them through the process, inclusion becomes a hopeless cause.
Including the major components above, I fully believe inclusion can work to meet the needs of the students with high incidence learning disabilities. Let me make this clear, I am not stating that full inclusion is best for all students. What I am saying is that if all the components were met, more students would meet their academic and social needs in the least restrictive environment that is the same as those of their peers. Instead of being removed from the classroom, missing class instruction and being the social outcast with the “learning problem”, services can be met within the regular classroom. I’ve seen it work. I’ve watched students with learning disabilities succeed in a setting where small groups take place within the classroom, where the special education and general education teachers work together to help meet the needs of all the students in the classroom. Inclusion can work and must be a priority in our schools if we want all students to feel confident in who they are, how they learn, and how they can succeed.
Is the D.R.E.A.M. Act of 2009 going to be another dream or will it fulfill dreams?
There are millions of students that graduate from high school every year. Most of the students plan for their future either by joining the workforce, picking a suitable college, or deciding to go into the military. These students have the opportunity to develop a future that they have chosen for themselves. Yet there is still an unforgotten population of students who have worked hard throughout their education and cannot join their peers in the opportunity to create a welcoming future. These students are the undocumented immigrants that have been brought to this country by their parents, lived here for years, and upon graduating will have to work for measly sums of money under the table or soon be deported. The only difference between these children and naturalized citizens are how they entered into the United States.
All children deserve a future despite their parents’ decisions. The current legislation introduced the Development, Relief and Education of Alien Minors Act on March 26, 2009 by Senator Richard Durbin and Representative Howard Berman with the support of President Barack Obama. This act has been tried in Congress before and was unsuccessful. This act would give an opportunity for undocumented immigrant students, who have been living in the U.S. since they were young, a chance to contribute back to the country that has given so much to them and a chance to utilize their hard earned education and talents (http://dreamact.info/students). With a new president in office, more support from young voters, and able voting immigrants could this act pass today? Should it?
This act will provide a means for so many who come to America with a legal manner to become a citizen and continue to better themselves through education and devotion to their new country. Allowing students who have come to the United States illegally as youngster to become legal working citizens gives them the opportunity to testify to the values America was built upon. Think of the quote written on the Statue of Liberty, a symbolic figure of arrival to the United States, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" Are we not the country that once welcomed people from other lands, do we not consider ourselves a melting pot, or salad bowl of people who have come together and built the strongest country in the world. What would we be if it were not the immigrants who built our railroads, canals, and our country.
When these families arrive in the United States they are poor and broken looking for a way to survive, wanting only what every parent wants, a way to accomplish the American Dream we so proudly promote. This act is not stating that the parents who came into the country knowing it was illegal would be given amnesty but rather that their children who have created a life in this country, the only the home they have known, can continue to build their lives here so long as they are model citizens. The DREAM act is not amnesty for all but only those who truly will work towards making the United States a better place for all people to live, it is meant for those who are here to achieve their dreams.
Currently the DREAM Act has two ways illegal immigrants can become U.S. citizens, going to college or joining the military. By requiring those immigrants who want citizenship to go to college were are better educating the population of people who we interact with on a daily basis and we are cultivating the talents of our diverse country. It would be extremely idiotic for the people of the United States to send the next Joseph Pulitzer, Albert Einstein, or Madeleine Albright away because their parents entered the country in an undesirable manner. Do you really want to give hard working educationally talented people to other countries so they can be the first to invent a solution to our environmental problem or lead us out of our economic term oil? Additionally, giving youth the opportunity to join the army will provide for those blue color families who may not be prepared for college education. Although some see this as a way for the U.S. to build up their army (which it is) it is also a manner in which distressed youth can learn to become productive members of society and find a path out of the life they have unfortunately had to endure while hiding in the impoverished and hidden areas of our country.
Giving illegal immigrants the opportunity to turn their lives into a future is the least we can do for these youth, would you not want the same benefits given to yourself or your children if your life was on the line? It is time to stand up for the voices that cannot be heard the way our founding fathers fought for our liberties.
School Rankings = Inconclusive Results
Olympic Day at my grade school was one of my fondest memories as an aspiring kickball Olympian. I loved to win, to be number one, to be declared the best in front of all of my peers. I’d scrape my shins on the uneven concrete to double-underhand catch a ball in center field, hit the cut-off boy actually wearing cut-off jeans as he would peg my mullet-haired best friend trying to score at home. The win was something every fourth grader would remember. It was clear-cut—7-6. We got the medals. Losers got trash talked. We would play again and again, but we knew we were the kickball champions of the fourth grade.
Boy, do I wish this theory applied to ranking Illinois high schools. I was originally preparing to write this editorial about why magnet schools are ethically immoral. Having sat inside one for an entire day and almost throwing up from the shear inequity of stealing the top public school kids from one of the worst districts in Illinois and putting them all together in a lovely atmosphere named after a Bear Zues, I was aimed and ready to talk about how magnet schools are overrated.
But then, looked at the school rankings the Sun-Times put out in their October 31st issue. I was not surprised to see three Chicago Public Schools sitting pretty in the top five—Northside College Prep, Payton College Prep, and Young Magnet (1, 2, and 4 respectively). After all, they use tests to select all of their students. Yes, all of them for a public high school. I guess we did choose teams back on Olympic Day, but after your top five kids eventually everyone got a club footed kid, the permed pretty girl, and the boy who still didn’t meet the height requirement on the Tilta-Whirl.
What surprised me is that although all of those students tested into public high schools, about 30 percent of the students in those schools are low income and receive free or reduced-lunch. Put against their closest schools competition—New Trier High School in Winnetka and Hinsdale Central (finishing 2nd and 4th respectively)—it’s a no-brainer. New Trier, besides being in Win-netka, only has 2.1 percent low income students and Hinsdale Central an insy winsy 2.9 percent. Point CPS! 1-0.
And another thing, Chicago Public Schools only spends $11,033 per pupil often deemed the lowest of the low for Illinois schooling funding. New Trier spends $17,541 per student and Hinsdale Central $14,082. So Chicago spends less and educates kids from all social classes and are much more diverse racially than their suburban foes. Did you just hear the rubber echo against the chain link fence? Me too. Two runs have scored. 3 zip.
I started to feel really good after reading this statistic, because after being a CPS teacher for the past five years and seeing negative press, it’s nice to see that some schools in the district are making it. But then the burbs bit back. Both New Trier and Hinsdale Central educate a lot more kids than the three schools in Chicago. In fact, New Trier enrolls about as many students as the three Chicago schools combined. They enroll more and they don’t test to come in which means they actually have a small LEP population (Limited English Proficient population). Dude with the backwards cap just caught a fly ball.
But here is some more startling news. As reported in the Sun-Times, 42 out of the bottom 50 schools in Illinois were Chicago Public High Schools (yes, the same district that had 3 schools in the top 5). That means 84% of the bottom ranking schools were from sweet home Chicago. Pretty girl just caught a ball and pegged Chicago in the face. Hard. It left a mark.
Remember that stat mentioned earlier about the per pupil spending? Chicago is often well-known for being the lowest of the low. We teachers often use it as an excuse—well, we don’t spend as much as you New Trier, so of course, you do better. But in actuality, 36 school districts out of the 86 school districts reported spend less than Chicago. Chicago might be more in the middle of the road when it comes to spending. Other districts just scored while I was trying to do averages—I’m an English teacher after all. 3-1.
Did I mention that several of those schools with less funding have students that score higher on the ACT than most students in Chicago Public School? 3-2. Club foot kid just scored. For real.
But of course, no one knows poverty like Chicago, and since Chicago is the third largest district in America and educates or attempts to educate an 84% impoverished population, don’t we get some brownie points? Ground rule double.
The final at-kick ties the match up as 27% of schools outside of Chicago in other districts reported by the Sun-Times met Annual Yearly Progress (AYP)—37/139 schools reported. Only 9% of schools in Chicago met AYP—8/91 schools reported. A tie, but how can that be? There’s a ranking reported every year, clear-cut. 1 through 50 send your child to the best, right?
If we put all of the last data together, that means that 45/230 schools reported, roughly 20%, of Illinois High Schools are making AYP. 80% are not. Now there is of course all of this backlash against AYP and No Child Left Behind to say that scores don’t matter. It’s just a game right?
Perhaps all of the effort in providing ‘valid,’ ‘reliable’ rankings based on ACT and PSAE scores needs to be used to actually provide information that could actually help all students of Illinois receive a quality education instead of winning or losing the confusing game of being in the right high school at the right time.
ENGLISH SPEAKING STUDENTS AND THEIR STRUGGLES WITH ENGLISH
BY: TAMEKA LEWIS-MORRIS
Studies have shown that immigrants from English speaking countries tend to fair better in the United States than those from none English speaking countries (Goolsbee, 2006). While these studies may be true, they fail to highlight the difficulties that many of these individuals encounter as they struggle to fully incorporate “standard” English into their daily lives. People from Caribbean Islands such as Jamaica, often speak a form of Creole; and despite the fact that English is the primary language taught in schools, it is usually never reinforced outside of the classroom, as students revert to speaking their mother tongue. Therefore, many of these students grow up to be English speakers who struggle with English. I have witnessed a similar pattern with many African American students in the United States; who grew up speaking Ebonics, used by some to represent the African American Vernacular. Many of these students are also from low socioeconomic backgrounds.
From my eight years of teaching in Chicago Public Schools (CPS), I have witnessed the struggles that many African American students encounter, when they try to articulate their points of view, both verbally and written. Many of them struggle to find words to express themselves; while others avoid answering questions altogether. While Standard English is encouraged and practiced among teachers and students in Caribbean schools, Ebonics is widely accepted both inside and outside of American schools. As a result, many of these students never get the opportunity to practice Standard English. These students therefore, lack knowledge of the English language necessary to engage in meaningful debates that does not end in yelling and screaming, as often noted. While I am not advocating for African American or Caribbean students to dispel or abandon their natural ways of speaking, I wish to highlight a rather serious problem that many of our students are having; and that problem is, not having a strong foundation in the English language.
What strikes me as interesting about this subject is the contradictory way in which American schools and society approach it. Most teachers seem to accept this way of speaking inside their classrooms; but later condemn and ridicule students behind their backs, for speaking this way. Clearly there are problems here. One of which is the possible backlash that schools and teachers fear if they interfere with the way that students speak. While this dilemma is understood, and we all know how far the tentacles of a once racially divided society can stretch; and continues to stretch, we must find a middle ground. Another aspect of this problem is that schools and society have not done enough to help students overcome feelings of racism. As a result, many African Americans find it very offensive for any of their teachers to correct their way of speaking, especially if that teacher is white. Some have also associated speaking standard American English as an attempt to act white and therefore, refuses to embrace the language. For these reasons, it is crucial for teachers and society to step in and begin to help heal open wounds that are being passed down through generations. Students need to feel welcomed, respected and loved when they enter classrooms; they need to feel a sense of belonging. Whether consciously or unconsciously, classrooms are not often very welcoming to minority students, especially, African Americans; and this may be seen on the part of both teachers and students. As a teacher, I have encountered far too often students of other ethnicities refusing to work with students who are Black or African American. Hence, the generational ideology of race and culture that is being passed down. This disease sense of fear, bias and anxiety towards students of African ancestry, plague our school systems on a daily basis. Students seldom venture outside of their own race for this very reason. We therefore, cannot sit idly by and blame students for not embracing knowledge without understanding their everyday encounters in schools and in society as a whole. Students are well aware of the labels that society has placed on each of them; blacks and whites, and more often than not unravel this consciousness inside the classroom.
Being an outsider looking in, I too was appalled and continue to be appalled at the ways in which blacks are treated in this country. I have also experienced the disdain frequently exhibited by those who somehow feel that they are above me. While present day America has displayed growth and more openness towards blacks and other minorities; hence the election of America’s first black president, we still have a very long way to go. I certainly understand what my students are going through; and while this is only one aspect of the problem, it is nonetheless a major one.
So how do we begin to help our students understand the importance of learning standard American English, without dismissing their home language? Bell Hooks (1994) offers this advice “To teach in a manner that respects and cares for the souls of our students is essential if we are to provide the necessary conditions where learning can most deeply and intimately begin.” I most certainly believe that teachers can make this happen; and that they can indeed foster a sense of trust and respect in their students’ lives, thus allowing them to embrace knowledge necessary for social mobility. A starting point is for them to begin to dialog with their African American students; share their worlds with them and wait for them to share theirs. Help students understand the structure of the society in which they live, and the requirements necessary to partake; fluency in the English language being one of them.
As a society we must acknowledge that students from backgrounds where Standard American English is not the norm need extra help in grammar conventions, and speaking. Regular English classes do not provide these basics, simply because they expect students to already know them. In high school my abilities to write and speak fluent English were never called into question, mainly because my areas of weaknesses were never the focus of daily lessons. English classes instead focused on American and British literature with very little incorporation of writing and grammar, based on my experience. Therefore, it was not until I sat for my college entrance exam and failed the reading and writing portion, and was later placed in remedial classes; that I realized I did not have the necessary skills needed to master the English language. There are thousands of Caribbean students out there that are faced with this problem; and thousands more African American students who are entering colleges unprepared. This is why there is a need for English classes that cater to the needs of African American students as a whole. Classes similar to the Standard English classes created in Canada and New York to address the needs of Caribbean Creole Speaking students. While Ebonics is more comprehensible than Jamaican Creole, and has not lent itself to extensive debates about the need for standard American English, students nonetheless need a solid foundation in the English language. In arming minority students with the language of dominance they too will be able to articulate and advocate for themselves. Schools must cease this hypocrisy and provide programs that will help African Americans and other students master the English language and be able to switch from home language to public language.
I understand that language and culture are very sensitive topics, and teachers need not forget this, but it is still our duty to ensure that our students are prepared for the real world. Students must be made to understand the importance of knowing the English language and its usefulness in a world where it dominates. According to Stanton-Salazar (1997), social mobility for minority students is contingent upon their abilities to articulate their needs; and not having the language to do this poses a critical barrier for them. I find this to be true, especially when students or even adults resort to anger instead of talking through a situation. Teachers must also realize the crucial impact that it will have on the lives of minority students and work towards building relationships that exhibit respect for students’ home or personal languages; while allowing them to embrace and understand the need to learn Standard English.
I also understand that this may not be an easy task for teachers or society as a whole; because of the tremendous strong hold that racism and discrimination have on this society; leaving many to hold on to what is dear and afraid to embrace anything new or different. I also know that teachers may not feel comfortable in persuading students to practice Standard English, and may even feel that it is the parents’ responsibility to ensure that their children are using proper English at home. But unfortunately, this is not happening at home and is often evident in our students’ writings. Furthermore, some parents speak the same way as their children do at home, and are unable to offer any support. The challenge therefore becomes ours, the teachers, and we must indeed rise to the occasion.
Media Critique
The article “How to Make Great Teachers” begins by attempting to pinpoint what, as the title suggests, makes a teacher successful. According to Wallis, this, “is the single most important factor in boosting achievement, more important than class size, the dollars spent per student or the quality of textbooks and materials” (28). However, the article soon admits that there is no real way to determine the origins of teacher success, so it switches its focus to exploring the current trends, possibilities, and problems in retaining, training, and rewarding teachers by use of merit pay. Among the many problems that arise, including favoritism, unreliable funding, union opposition, school socio-economic bias, the biggest problem is that there is no universal assessment to accurately measure a teacher’s success or lack thereof. Following this, the article investigates different ways in which merit pay might and might not work, including tracking student scores, offering bonuses, and calculating individual teacher’s contributions, or value added to student progress. Branching off the theory of merit pay, the article then provides two seemingly successful programs, the Professional Compensation (ProComp) program in Denver that is based on not one, but nine criteria for a pay increase: working in a high-needs school, students exceeding expectations on standardized tests, professional development, good evaluations, and parent satisfaction, and the Teacher Advancement Program (TAP) in 14 states, which, in addition to those listed for ProComp also rewards teachers for becoming mentors or master teachers.
Wallice does a thorough job covering all of the aspects of the multi-faceted topic of merit pay. She, as we have often spoken of in class, emphasizes the importance of finding new ways to keep good teachers as part of America’s ability to compete globally. She cites differences between Bush, Obama, and Clinton’s perspectives on the issue to give the reader an indication of where we’re headed and where we’ve been. She presents multiple perspectives of both the benefits and downsides of introducing merit pay into a school district and she lets the research speak for itself: There is no way we can base a teacher’s success solely on her students’ test scores because the measures are neither credible nor valid. Too often, problems are presented without solutions; however, Wallice provided alternatives that balance multiple forms of success with pay, such as the ProComp and TAP. Not only does she recommend them as impressive models, but also provides evidence that these programs are both paying successful teachers and are also making teachers more successful. Overall, this was a very complete analysis of something which we all may be facing in the very near future.
Hopefully readers of Time read this entire article before coming to any conclusions. If they don’t, the implications that might result are that merit pay based upon standardized tests is the easy answer to motivate teachers to make kids more successful. This, to some parents and administrators, would be music to their ears. The truth of the matter, and the article, is quite the opposite, however. Those readers who read all the way through will gain a better perspective and awareness on how complicated and advantageous this process, when carefully planned, can be, but will also be aware of the many risks involved. Instead of standardizing our expectations of teachers, districts need to reward them for their successes across the board, and, in doing so, also improve their teachers, classrooms, and community.
A Caterpillar’s Life – Children's Story
One day I went out on my own,
Looking for some leaves to eat,
I ran into a lady bug,
Who told me something incomplete.
She said, “You’re in for a big change!”
And it was very hard to wait!
I went around to all my friends,
I decided to circumnavigate!
The wordy fly went on and on
about his great and perfect date
With no time to listen to it all
I said, please recapitulate!
I went to a spider
with ideas to discuss
Her web was high up on a hill
The route was extremely precipitous!
I went to sleep that night
and thought and thought,
I couldn’t sleep
I was so distraught!
When I woke up, I set out again
and came across a busy bee
He said, “You look so beautiful!”
I experienced an epiphany!
I had changed from day to night,
and now I had experienced bliss,
I was now a butterfly,
I had gone through a metamorphosis!
THE STATE OF AMERICA’S BLACK YOUTHS
BY: TAMEKA LEWIS-MORRIS
Since Friday, April 17, two more African American teenagers were shot, bringing the total number of teens shot or killed since the beginning of the year to thirty. As I try to understand the reasons behind these shootings, I begin to think about the number of young black men that I see on a daily basis hanging around street corners, and convenient stores with nothing to do. Another large majority can also be seen on basketball courts in mid-day playing basketball. The number increases depending on which part of the city you are in; the west side and south side of Chicago for example, are saturated with unemployed, young black men. Some of these young men appear to be in their twenties, and thirties. My reflection on this situation has led me to question the reasons why so many of our young black men are without jobs and nothing to do. I see several factors contributing to this dilemma. The first of which is the escalating rates at which black boys are dropping out of high schools; which is a direct contributor to the rates at which they are being imprisoned. As a result of their imprisonment, they are unable to find jobs once they are released back into society. This ongoing cycle is detrimental to the black community and society at large and needs to stop.
Studies done by the U.S. Justice Policy Institute in 2002, revealed that the number of black men in prison have grown to five times the rate it was twenty years ago. In 2008 there were 4,777 per every 100,000 black males being held in state, federal prisons and local jails; compared to 1,760 Hispanic and 727 white males. Today the number of African American males that are incarcerated far exceeds the numbers that are enrolled in colleges. The impact that this is having on the black community is enormous. Children are growing up without fathers, while mothers and grandmothers are left to shoulder the burden. This problem is cyclical and will continue to plague our society until changes are made; changes that will break the cycle, and help keep African American males out of prison.
The U.S. Justice Policy Institute also revealed that at least 95% of all state prisoners at some point are released back into their communities. What this means is that these black males whose outlook on life were dim before they were imprisoned are now even dimmer after their release. They will have no jobs, sometimes no where to live and possibly no one to turn to for support; eventually returning back to the live of crime that landed them in jail the first time; hence the cycle continues. To break this cycle society and the government must work together. I understand that the problem does not begin on the street corners, or in jails, but stem far beyond schools and into the homes and lives of these black boys who grow up to be men. Black communities need their men to help build those communities and to raise their children. However, fathers cannot support their families if they do not have the means to do so. Because the prospects of ever finding a job after serving jail time are extremely minimal, there needs to be work programs put in place that are geared specifically for people with criminal records. While some might argue that this would be making it too easy for criminals, I ask them, what other alternatives are there when no one wants to hire convicted felons. We must begin somewhere in addressing this problem, and I truly believe that this is a good starting point, simply because fathers and mothers would be there to help guide their children, thus, preventing them from making the same mistakes that they themselves have made. These work programs could help rebuild communities, and foster a sense of hope into the lives of these individuals who are often hopeless. I feel that once people have committed crimes, and have served time for doing these crimes, they should be provided an opportunity to rebuild their lives, if they so desire. I understand that there will be people who simply cannot be reached, and that is where the prison system comes in; but for those who truly desire to put the past behind them and work toward a brighter future, those individuals should be helped. Furthermore, these programs could help to erode the attitude that society has toward convicted felons; once they see that they indeed can be rehabilitated.
To conclude, until society and the government starts working together to break the cycle of crime and imprisonment of its black youths, by creating work programs that will keep them off the streets, them they will continue to create crimes leaving the black communities in a state of disarray; as the cycle continues.
You'll See (children's story)
It was dark outside, but morning was on its way. With a smile on his face, he tip-toed his way to the end of the hallway and slowly opened the bedroom door. His two boys were sound asleep. He paused for a moment, looked at their soft, peaceful faces and listened to their slow breathing. He giggled at the thought of how different they were when they were awake, and how noisy and busy the house would soon become.
He shook his son softly and whispered, “Michael, wake up. Put some clothes on.” Michael’s eyes slowly opened, “Daddy, what’s going on?” “You’ll see. Hurry, get dressed.” He made his way to his younger son, Jarvis, carefully pulled off his pajamas, and dressed him. “Daddy,” Jarvis muttered still half asleep, “What’s going on?” “You’ll see,” he responded and hurried his sons out of their bedroom.
The boys sleepily and clumsily walked down the stairs to see their jackets and shoes already waiting for them. They looked up at their father who had a big smile on his face, “Daddy, what’s going on?” “You’ll see! Put those on!” was his only response. Still half asleep, a smile spread across Michael’s face as he watched his father in his excitement struggling to put on Jarvis’s shoes. Michael shook his head, laughed, slipped on his own shoes, and pulled his arms through his jacket.
They were just about out the door when their dad remembered something. He ran into the kitchen and grabbed a giant thermos off of the counter. He handed it to Michael. Michael looked at his dad, his eyes questioning. His dad chuckled, “Hot cocoa. You’ll see!”
They stepped outside where dark and quiet greeted them. The cool crisp air shook the sleep out of the boys as they followed their dad to the car and climbed in. They headed east. The city was still asleep. The streets were quiet. The buildings were quiet. Not even the birds were awake yet. By now the boys had stopped asking, and instead wondered quietly in their heads. They pulled into a parking lot. Michael stepped out of the car and asked, “Dad, what are we doing at the Lake?” He scooped up Jarvis and said, “You’ll see, come on!”
They sat on the cement blocks facing the lake and waited. They watched and listened to the waves crashing against the rocks. “Daddy, what are we waiting for?” Jarvis asked. “You’ll see. It won’t be long now. Michael, pour us some cocoa.” They huddled closely and drank their cocoa. Jarvis rested his head against his father’s arm. “Look,” their dad said to them. Michael and Jarvis looked ahead of them as the lake and the sky began to separate. The horizon became a dark blue. Hints of bright orange began to color and stretch across the sky, and the lake’s waves began to calm. They sat quietly watching. White light slowly began to brighten the sky above the dark blue and orange horizon. Then an intense yellow sun began pushing its way into the sky. The sun painted the morning sky a brilliant purple, pink, and blue. They listened to the waves and watched birds peacefully fly past in front of the changing sky. Jarvis, with his eyes fixed on the scene in front of him, announced, “This is what’s going on.” Their dad put an arm around each of them and smiled.
Editorial
My professor made a comment in one our class sessions about being a reading specialist. Not quoting him exactly, the comment said something like, “If you are not honest enough to be able to handle the pressures that come along with being a reading specialist, maybe this is not the field for you.” As I grapple with this comment, a question comes to mind, “How can reading specialists communicate well with the educational staff (teachers, administrators) in order to perform their duties successful?
As an elementary schoolteacher who has worked with reading specialists, and a graduate student who is almost finished with my master’s program in the reading specialist domain, I wonder if current reading specialists, and upcoming reading specialists, ever grapple with this and more questions about their own abilities of being reading specialists. I am not sure at this present date and time what term we are using for these “experts.” Reading specialists have been referred to as literacy coaches and lead literacy teachers (LLTs). Personally, I like the use of term of literacy coach, because the term specialist has the under-lying tone of one who should know it all. Before I became involved in the graduate program, I went to the reading specialist in my school as the person who knew the answer, not necessarily the one who could get me the answer. Being in the program, I myself had to realize that no individual can be an expert on all aspects of teaching at all grade levels and with all groups of students. This notion of being an expert can sometimes set up reading specialists for failure. If teachers and other educational staff turn to literacy coaches (the term I am going to use) as experts, they sometimes fail to acknowledge their own expertise.
Don’t get me wrong, I definitely feel a literacy coach should be knowledgeable. The preparation that most literacy coaches receive is in the knowledge domain. Again, I think this kind of knowledge is excellent for literacy coaches to have, however, a literacy coach who knows a great deal about literacy instruction, but cannot develop trust and build relationships with staff members is again setting herself up for failure. I pose this question, “Are coaches taught to develop these interpersonal relationships, or does it come naturally. Can a person actually be taught how to work with others?” According to Bean’s (2004) “Reading Specialist,” some characteristics of effective coaches are: 1) knowing your stuff-literacy should have up-to-date knowledge of literacy instruction, assessment, and the research that goes along with it. 2) experience-literacy coaches are more effective if they have had successful experiences as teachers, and should have the experience that makes them creditable with classroom teachers and enable them to feel empathy for the teachers’ many responsibilities. 3) Ability to work with adults-To function successfully as a coach who has responsibility for observing and giving feedback to teachers, the reading specialist must have excellent interpersonal and communication skills.
Three years ago, there was a literacy coach who worked at the school I am currently employed at. She is currently not at the school, and it is not because of budget cuts, or her leaving on her own. The staff “ran her out.” She was knowledgeable and had the experience that went along with it. What she did not have was the trusting relationship with the staff, the interpersonal and communication skills needed to perform her job. So where did the breakdown occur? Was our staff highly resistant because of their own strong personalities, or was the literacy coach lacking something that made the staff feel alienated, and therefore not respond to her in a positive manner. Unfortunately, I don’t have the answer to these questions. I will say that it was a very unproductive school year.
Let me go back to this notion that literacy coaches are viewed as experts. I in no way feel that coaches should be non-experts. In fact, this non-expert approach will lead teachers to assume that literacy coaches know nothing and can’t help teachers. There has to be this balance between teachers’ and coaches’ expertise, and the understanding that we are all experts to an extent.
To conclude, I wonder if the concerns I have about literacy coaches’ expertise or lack there of when it comes to communication lies within the teacher preparation’s programs or is it really innate when it comes to interpersonal relationships. I guess it goes back to the age old question, “are teachers taught, or are they born.”
My Essay on the Great Marijuana Debate
NPR just aired a show about the hypothetical outcomes of legalizing marijuana. This has gotten many people thinking about what our country would be like if pot was as legal as cigarettes and alcohol. According to this story, the US now is the largest consumer of illegal narcotics in the world.
As with any controversial topic, there are two sides to this story. Although, I have never used marijuana, I condone the use of it to the point that I bought my college roommate a ‘pipe’ for Christmas so that the poor girl would stop smoking out of a Diet Coke can. I think that this gives me a unique perspective on this topic – I don’t really care either way. Although, I do think that the pro-legalization side makes a stronger argument.
As I listen to people debating this issue on NPR and news outlets like CNBC, I am stunned with the lack of reasonable justification on the anti-legalization side. Many of those who oppose weed, liken it to alcohol which anyone who has been given a choice between being in a room with a drunk or a pothead would probably choose a pothead. Many people who smoke marijuana are only recreational users who are able to hold down jobs and have not gotten into other, more dangerous drugs. The medical risks associated with weed seem to be about as detrimental to your health as cigarettes. A person who drinks is more likely to become addicted and have major health problems related to their alcoholism. Drunk people are also much more likely to get violent, which can also lead to criminal and health problems. Many of the arguments that people make against pot can be made even more strongly against booze, but we all know how well prohibition worked the first time around!
John Burnett of NPR says, “With the spiraling drug mayhem in Mexico, some Latin American leaders looked at legalizing marijuana as a way to deny the murderous cartels a portion of their profits.” Many top politicians in Mexico are seriously considering the marijuana legalization debate. While many admit that this would not solve the problems that many countries are having with the drug cartels. It would probably be similar to what happened to organized crime after alcohol prohibition was repealed. The drug cartels would likely move into more profitable, harder drugs like cocaine and math.
We may look to other countries that have legalized marijuana as an indicator of what would happen if the US were to take this step. After marijuana was decriminalized in the Holland in 1976, pot smoking didn't jump, and it remained well below U.S. levels. Only after coffee houses opened that began openly selling weed did sales jump. Right now in the US thirteen states have decriminalized cannabis possession and thirteen states now have medical cannabis laws. Additionally, more states than ever before are debating cannabis law reform, including California and Massachusetts where legalization legislation has been introduced.
People on both sides of this debate agree that if pot were legalized, up to a third more people in the US would smoke. This might not be all bad, but it is easy to assume some of those would be children. Although the same problem has been shown to be true with tobacco and alcohol. As much as we, as a society, try to enforce age restrictions on these substances, there are children who find ways around these laws. "They'll start using it sooner now because it looks like it's more OK, seems less harmful, because they see their parents doing it," says Rosalie Pacula, co-director of the Drug Policy Research Center at the RAND Corp. "Do we know how to keep kids from drinking alcohol? No, we don't. So why would we expect we'd be any better at it with marijuana?"
And so, for now, this only remains an age old hotly contested debate with strong opinions on either side. After all, in 1972 President Nixon appointed a commission to look into reconsidering marijuana laws, but even though the committee recommended that personal use of weed should be decriminalized, nothing was done then either. But just think for a moment, how would your neighborhood or city change if anyone over 21 could just light up a joint?
Personal Essay
Earning five dollars a day. Living with seven other people who I have never met before, sharing cars and food. Becoming a teacher in Chicago, one thousand miles from my family. This was my experience during the first two years of my post-college life.
Just as President Obama is calling for more college graduates to serve, I chose to follow this path. I still do not know what pulled me into the volunteer experience. I, like many people, was engaged in many volunteer experiences in college. I volunteered at a homeless shelter once a week, worked at a preschool for abused toddlers, and ran Hunger and Homelessness Awareness Week. Although these past experiences made me a perfect candidate to join Inner City Teaching Corps, there is no way one can truly be prepared for two years of volunteering.
I moved to Chicago one month after graduating from college. I lived on the last street in Chicago before you came to the southern suburbs. My home was on old convent tucked behind a sleepy Catholic Church and next to the old school, which no longer served children, but held a food pantry and shelter for woman and children. The convent was a novelty at first, twelve bedrooms with a sink next to your pillow, but quickly grew drab and somewhat creepy. A crew of seven people littered our long dining room table, who were from all over the country, and were soon to become my family, whether I wanted them to be or not.
The vision of post college life that most of my friends were leading was a low paying, entry level job. They had all moved to tiny apartments in great areas of a big city, to experience all that life had to offer them in their early twenties. But, with my choice to volunteer, came a very different experience. The point of the service organization that I belonged to was that you choose to live in the neighborhood you serve. And that teaching was not a job, but a service, and an experience to learn alongside my students. I did not join friends for Happy Hour after work, or go out to eat at the amazing city restaurants. I substituted lesson plans for martinis, and weekly dinners of beans and rice for fancy restaurants.
But then there were the experiences that made me realize how I was so blessed for volunteering. I was placed in a first grade classroom on Chicago’s south side, and found myself surrounded by thirty-two, eager-eyed, energetic six year olds. I found myself in a beautiful old school building filled with character and dark wood trim, but had very large holes in the bathroom floors. There were reading textbooks from twenty years previous, and a classroom library of twenty books. While I was not an education major in college, I knew that this was very different than the education I received. The teachers who worked with me at the school were all experienced and had been there for twenty to thirty years. They shared their experiences with me in the education system, and I listened. During my first year I was not able making the idealist changes in students lives that I once thought possible based on the volunteer program brochure, but I was able to listen and learn. I listened to stories of students whose lives were so unimaginable to me. I learned about the inequities of the education system in America, first hand. Like all learning experiences, I realized this was not something I truly would have understood from reading a book or watching a Dateline interview, I had to experience it. And then I learned to ask questions, “What can we do?” My favorite mentor would often tell me simply, “You’re there, and you care…that is the best you can do.”
The magic truly was what happened in my classroom. I did not truly understand best practices, or know all of the best strategies. But what I was truly talented at was making learning fun. I loved my students, their families and their stories. I loved to read and passed this love on to my students. I create hands on learning experiences, which may not have matched state standards, but brought smiles to my students’ faces. We laughed, we danced, we read, we wrote, and we explored. I was exhausted at the end of every day and counted down days until winter break, spring break and summer break, but I loved what I did. It was the biggest challenge I have ever encountered, and while I cannot admit to achieving this challenge gracefully, I made it. The victory of every first year teacher…I made it.
Looking back at my life during the first two years, I am so thankful that I chose the road I did. Sure, I could have left college and been a teacher in a needy elementary school, but it was the community that allowed me to learn and grow. I became part of two very important and special communities. The first was my diverse group of roommates. The eight of us were all bonded in our dedication to social justice. We spent hours every night at our dinner table, discussing our days work and most importantly our students. I knew the names of most of my roommates’ students, because they became such a part of our experience. Seven years later, my roommates are still my best friends. I call them my “Chicago family.” They keep me true to myself and my life, and remind me of the reasons we do the work we do.
My second family became the school community in which I served. I spent days and nights there, giving up all my free time to do what was necessary for the kids. When all of our enrichment funding got cut, I became the junior high girls’ basketball coach. We sold thousands of Krispy Kreme doughnuts to afford league dues, and while I put my heart into the coaching, unfortunately our 0-14 record showed my lack of skill. No parents or kids blamed me, they just liked leaving school fifteen minutes early to go play a game. They loved wearing their basketball uniforms to school on game day, to show their school spirit. I started a cooking club for the younger students, where we made jell-o, ants on a log, and brownies. These afternoons were spent elbow deep in batter, but all students were satisfied customers at the café.
I stayed with my school community for seven years, before it was time for me to leave. It was truly the hardest decision I have ever had to make. But the reason I left was that I was offered a position with the Professional Development department at Inner-City Teaching Corps to train, teach and coach new volunteers. This opportunity came to me and I knew I could not turn down the chance to influence the new volunteers. It was a full circle. I could help them see through the clouds and into the sunshine, as we know happens many times in teaching. Each day, I see myself in the volunteers’ hearts and it reinvigorates the work we do with our students. Even in my new job, I miss being in the classroom with my students and know it will be time to return soon.
As President Obama writes, he is “calling on us to make an enduring commitment to our neighborhoods.” This call is being heard by thousands around the nation, and the only knowledge I can give them is that their years of volunteering will be the most challenging, but most amazing years of their life. It will shape them in ways they never thought possible, and all discomfort they will experience will help them achieve a greatness they never knew possible.
For the Future
My Essay: Becky Hermanson
“Oh, it’s just one plastic bottle. I am just one person.” With Earth Day approaching, many activities are highlighting how to “go green.” However, it should not just encompass one day or even one week. Working on preserving our Earth should be an everyday approach. It should be a way of life. Not only has our planet endured drastic effects, but also it is just morally and ethically wrong to be wasteful and careless. Everyone working together would make an incredible difference. If each person made one change daily in the areas of reusing, conserving, caring, re-growing, and educating, then we would be on our way to better planet.
The first change that can easily occur is the concept of reusing. Recycling has been more prevalent in communities, and the push for it is clear in most public places. You see the recycling symbol. You see garbage cans clearly labeled to have you sort. You see reusable bags sold in grocery stores. If your community is not offering an opportunity to do so, then you can begin to work together with community members to start that change. In addition to recycling materials, one can purchase reusable containers to use in place of paper bags, plastic bags, and other throw-away items. A reusable lunch bag and water bottle are two ways one can cut down on the amount of garbage one produces daily. Using Tupperware for sandwiches and snacks instead of plastic and paper bags would cut the garbage amount significantly. Instead of purchasing coffee in a paper cup on a daily basis, one can bring in their own reusable travel mug to fill. Reusable shopping bags for trips to the grocery store have become very popular, and people should take advantage of them. When you multiply the amount one person would save in the amount of garbage by the number of people in just one office building, the number is unbelievable. Then, multiply it by an entire population on a planet.
Another area of change that is necessary is energy. This is easily done too! Simple things like turning off the lights would be a huge save when looked at across the nation. Even making the small change in a home would make a difference. Then, one could work together with their co-workers to cut the amount of energy used in an office building or school. In addition to turning lights off, other appliances and electronics should be unplugged. Even when an item is off but plugged in, energy is being used. Therefore, one should aim to unplug unnecessary items before leaving for work or going to bed. If every American did this, the amount of energy used daily would reduce significantly. Then, think of what could happen worldwide. Also, other sources of energy are being researched. If interested, one can look into alternative energy resources. However, just saving energy would make a world of difference.
One area that is extremely important is pollution. This affects our whole planet and every living thing on it. It affects our future, and those generations that will be living here. Cars are one thing. Hybrids are becoming ever popular and with good reason. In the future, I think car makers will be more conscious of the planet when designing them, but let’s consider all of the already existing cars. Since we need to be realistic enough to know that these cars are not going to be traded in immediately, we then have to deal with the current problem. Carpooling and public transportation are two solutions that we can currently try. Carpooling with others cuts the number of cars polluting the world immediately. In addition, public transportation allows a larger space to fit more people with the same idea. One source is then making pollution instead of the individual vehicles that would normally be driven by each individual person. Then, there is littering. Simply, it is ridiculous if it is ever done. If it is, then one can create a service project involving the picking up of garbage. Fines are in place in most areas and should be reinforced. The big problem is larger scale places that pollute like factories. In addition, you have oil spills that can occur. These large scale problems can be helped by people speaking up and taking charge of other’s carelessness. Voices need to be heard for the sake of others.
Re-growth is an area that can be a fun way to help the Earth! Planting gardens, flowers, trees, and other plants helps give back to the Earth. Plant life helps nourish Earth, and helps with the cycle of oxygen. It can be a fun school project with children, community project bringing people together, or something one may want to do individually. In addition to planting, one can look into creating a compost pile. This helps reduce garbage and assists with garden life. It is easy to do! One can place any vegetables and fruits that are left over (peels, cores, etc.), and worms can turn the food over in about a week. Overall, getting creative with helping the Earth makes it more exciting and rewarding!
Educating others on the importance of this is necessary to ensure that the Earth will flourish! Although all should be educated, educating young people on this is most important because they will be in charge of the future. Global warming has had drastic effects on our planet. This has been caused by pollution and waste from humans. It has caused a blanket around our planet blocking the heat from escaping into space. This heat is trapped in warming our Earth. When this happens, awful changes are being made to everyday wildlife. Abnormalities are occurring that then have an effect on something else. The damages trickle through the environment like dominoes toppling over one another. By educating people about this, one can then make small changes which then have a positive effect for all. Like any major movement in history, it starts with education. Many people are unaware of the alarming situation. Once informed, they may be more likely to act upon it. In addition, those who are informed may not know what they can do as just one person. Therefore, educating people on the individual changes that they can make can be beneficial for all.
As Earth Day approaches, humans need to pause and reflect on how this is more than just a day. This is a lifelong change that needs to occur. We are responsible for the shape that our planet is in, and it is time that we take responsibility for that. Whether we did it ourselves or not, we need to work together to move forward to begin to mend our Earth. Future generations are counting on us. However, these efforts should not just be done because our planet is in bad shape, but because it is wrong to do anything else. This is not just one day of making an effort. Earth Day should be a celebration of our efforts that we made all year long.
Creating a Diverse Life
A Personal Essay by Meg Tanabe
Almost everyday of my current life, I have opportunities to speak the three languages I know and interact with native speakers of each of these languages. At times in my life when I was not able to do this, I have felt unchallenged and restless to move on to something more interesting. Once in Japan, by chance I met a Spanish speaker and struggled to find the words to communicate with them. I felt so disappointed in myself for not finding outlets for my Spanish in order to keep it fluent. Along the same lines, upon moving back to Chicago after teaching abroad for three years, after two years I was bored and longed to return to Japan. No longer did I enjoy the comfort of functioning each day in my native language, I wanted the challenge of searching for the words to survive each day. Looking back on the choices I have made, they have all led me to create a more diverse life for myself although becoming trilingual was more of an accident than an intentional goal.
Contrary to the life I currently lead, my childhood was almost entirely monolingual. My parents only spoke English and were both from English speaking countries. My father was from Great Britain and my mother is from Chicago. During an elementary school project to create a coat of arms to represent the heritage of my family, I recall feeling so proud that my father was born outside of the country as it was something unique among my classmates. Oak Park, where I grew up, is a diverse suburb of Chicago, but when I was a child there were few English Language Learners at my school. My parents realized the advantages of learning Spanish when they themselves took classes in order to better communicate with co-workers. My brother and I were then enrolled in the twice a week lunchtime Spanish class at our elementary school. Ever since that time, I never stopped taking Spanish classes until I wound up concentrating on it in college as well. Although I spent so much time taking classes, the language did not become more natural to me until I studied abroad in Costa Rica. This experience truly changed my destiny and has led to many wonderful connections.
During my junior year at my tiny, close knit Wisconsin university, I spent one trimester abroad in Costa Rica. I remember feeling utterly incompetent on the drive home from the airport with my host family because I had only understood about 20 percent of what was said. Thankfully that percentage improved over the next few months. My time in Costa Rica impressed me so greatly that I moved there two weeks after graduating college with only a few leads on English teaching jobs, but nothing concrete. My husband, then boyfriend, who I randomly met at my job at a Japanese restaurant in Wisconsin, came to Costa Rica as well. At this time, my husband had relatively little oral English skills and knew no Spanish. He had spent years studying like a madman, working like a typical Tokyo salary man and was looking for some adventure. My husband worked as a teppanyaki chef at a swanky hotel and I traveled all around San Jose teaching at various language schools and companies and giving private English lessons in my apartment and at cafes. It was one of the best years of my life because everyday was something new to experience. One of my favorite memories is taking Japanese language classes at the Japanese consulate in Spanish. Both languages are completely phonetic, but the similarities stop there. At the end of the year, I had fallen in love with my husband and decided to move to Japan to better understand his language and culture. I found a job teaching English and moved there after spending two weeks back in Chicago. My husband returned to his previous businessman self, although he still dreams of having his own restaurant and is always bugging me to write a children’s book with him.
Culture shock was something I had experienced while in Costa Rica, but nowhere near the degree I felt upon starting my life in Japan. At least a five times a day, I had urges to speak Spanish with people as that was the language I knew other than English. I remember wandering around the grocery store at a complete loss of what to purchase to make a meal. The silent stares on the train made me long for the direct “Tsss, tsss, machita!” (Hey, hey, little white girl!) cat calls I had received from cars while walking down the street in Costa Rica that I had incensed me previously. I missed the crazy streamer decorations and blaring salsa music on the buses in Costa Rica compared to the eerie silence encountered on the spotless trains in Japan. The more I learned about the culture and language, the more I appreciated the differences between the two countries and came to view the U.S. as kind of a middle ground culture between the two extremes.
My English conversation job was not only enjoyable work, but a great resource of knowledge to me about Japanese culture. My housewives class taught me the real way to make miso soup, not the lazy way my husband had said was adequate. My retired students taught me about the history of the country. From my young students, I learned about the passing boom culture that can take over young people’s lives. Imagine a student so excited to show you a pencil with a new animation character on it or a new type of bag just being marketed. Some of my students became close friends and even taught me Japanese each week. I also took classes at a community center geared at helping foreigners.
My husband and I had a traditional Shinto wedding a year after I arrived in Japan. As a young bride, I was very determined to learn everything about Japanese culture, language and cooking so that my husband would never long for a wife who knew these things better than me. (My husband is not the typical Japanese man. In fact, many of our Japanese friends would tease that I was more Japanese than him.) None of this really mattered to him, but it was important to me and these were things I wanted to learn to also fit in well with his family. I am most likely the first foreigner that my in-laws have come to know well, but they have been nothing but welcoming and sincere from the start and I am lucky to really feel that they are my parents in Japan. Embarrassingly, I actually call them Mama and Papa in Japanese because that is what they taught me to do. This only seemed out of place when once upon visiting a rural mountain temple together, I called over to my mother-in-law “Mama!” and a number of other people stared at me in disbelief. We had a good laugh about it on the hike down the mountain.
After two years in Japan, and three years total abroad, I began to really miss my family and wanted to obtain an advanced degree in order to really learn about teaching formally. My husband and I moved to Chicago where he worked at a Japanese company and I began my studies at UIC and worked for a family literacy and adult ESL program. I really learned Spanish all over again from my ESL students as I had not practiced it almost at all when in Japan. During our time in Chicago, I saw my husband struggle at times. His English was much better than when we met, but still not near native. Once when asking for directions at a gas station, he was told to go to the Korean dry cleaner next door to ask. I was so upset by this ignorance and the fact that he had experienced it. We joined a marathon group on the south side of Chicago and made the best friends. This experience really made my husband happy here, but I felt unsatisfied. When thinking about my post-graduation teaching job, all I desired was to teach at an international school in Japan. I also felt like there was so much more for me to learn there, linguistically and culturally. My husband and I both found jobs and returned to live in the heart of Tokyo. When I look back on it, I really felt that I was going to return to live the rest of my life in Japan. This decision caused me to break my mother’s heart, the wrath of my brother for doing so, the shock of my friends and the extreme happiness of my in-laws.
Living in Tokyo is honestly like experiencing the degree of crowds of the Taste of Chicago everyday. I had previously lived in a suburb of Tokyo and now was in the middle of it. My husband was back in his element and had an interesting job at Amazon.com. Although I loved my job teaching second grade at an international school and all of the families and teachers I met there, Tokyo living was just too much for me. After the first year there, I contacted various schools in Chicago and had interviews over my winter break. I will never forget the reception I received at one very prestigious lab school. The principal obviously knew that I was a native English speaker from my resume, but took one look at my white face, gave me only five minutes of her time and then a map to tour the school myself. This experience made me realize that although I had spent so much time and effort living abroad, learning about different cultures and becoming trilingual – on the surface I would always be a white teacher and not be someone to bring a face of diversity to the staff at any school. After another year in Tokyo, I returned to Chicago to teach at the CPS dual language magnet I had student-taught at previously.
It has been five years since I returned from living abroad the last time. Someday in the future, I believe that I will work and live abroad again, but after children all decisions become much more serious to make. With my work at UIC, I am able to speak Spanish for my job almost everyday with inspirational parents who are doing their best for their children and themselves. Through my involvement with the Japanese American Service Committee (JASC) and the friends I have made through their Japanese playgroup, and the concerted effort my husband and I place on speaking Japanese to my daughter, I am able to speak Japanese everyday as well. The best compliments to me have been when another mother at JASC thought I was half-Japanese and when one of my FLAME parents though I was from Costa Rica. Unfortunately, I really am not good enough in either language to have received such compliments at all, but they made me feel amazing. I may have the appearance of a non diverse individual, but I have created a diverse and interesting life for myself. Through this I also realize the importance of looking at each person as an individual and the need to learn about them and refrain from placing too much trust in first impressions.
(I apologize for the possibly boring personal degree of this essay, but after comps I could not attempt anything too academic.)
Creating a Diverse Life
A Personal Essay by Meg Tanabe
(The previous post had typos and I do not know how to delete it.)
Almost everyday of my current life, I have opportunities to speak the three languages I know and interact with native speakers of each of these languages. At times in my life when I was not able to do this, I have felt unchallenged and restless to move on to something more interesting. Once in Japan, by chance I met a Spanish speaker and struggled to find the words to communicate with them. I felt so disappointed in myself for not finding outlets for my Spanish in order to keep it fluent. Along the same lines, upon moving back to Chicago after teaching abroad for three years, after two years I was bored and longed to return to Japan. No longer did I enjoy the comfort of functioning each day in my native language, I wanted the challenge of searching for the words to survive each day. Looking back on the choices I have made, they have all led me to create a more diverse life for myself although becoming trilingual was more of an accident than an intentional goal.
Contrary to the life I currently lead, my childhood was almost entirely monolingual. My parents only spoke English and were both from English speaking countries. My father was from Great Britain and my mother is from Chicago. During an elementary school project to create a coat of arms to represent the heritage of my family, I recall feeling so proud that my father was born outside of the country as it was something unique among my classmates. Oak Park, where I grew up, is a diverse suburb of Chicago, but when I was a child there were few English Language Learners at my school. My parents realized the advantages of learning Spanish when they themselves took classes in order to better communicate with co-workers. My brother and I were then enrolled in the twice a week lunchtime Spanish class at our elementary school. Ever since that time, I never stopped taking Spanish classes until I wound up concentrating on it in college as well. Although I spent so much time taking classes, the language did not become more natural to me until I studied abroad in Costa Rica. This experience truly changed my destiny and has led to many wonderful connections.
During my junior year at my tiny, close knit Wisconsin university, I spent one trimester abroad in Costa Rica. I remember feeling utterly incompetent on the drive home from the airport with my host family because I had only understood about 20 percent of what was said. Thankfully that percentage improved over the next few months. My time in Costa Rica impressed me so greatly that I moved there two weeks after graduating college with only a few leads on English teaching jobs, but nothing concrete. My husband, then boyfriend, whom I randomly met at my job at a Japanese restaurant in Wisconsin, came to Costa Rica as well. At this time, my husband had relatively little oral English skills and knew no Spanish. He had spent years studying like a madman, working like a typical Tokyo salary man and was looking for some adventure. My husband worked as a teppanyaki chef at a swanky hotel and I traveled all around San Jose teaching at various language schools and companies and giving private English lessons in my apartment and at cafes. It was one of the best years of my life because everyday was something new to experience. One of my favorite memories is taking Japanese language classes at the Japanese consulate in Spanish. Both languages are completely phonetic, but the similarities stop there. At the end of the year, I had fallen in love with my husband and decided to move to Japan to better understand his language and culture. I found a job teaching English and moved there after spending two weeks back in Chicago. My husband returned to his previous businessman self, although he still dreams of having his own restaurant and is always bugging me to write a children’s book with him.
Culture shock was something I had experienced while in Costa Rica, but nowhere near the degree I felt upon starting my life in Japan. At least five times a day, I had urges to speak Spanish with people as that was the language I knew other than English. I remember wandering around the grocery store at a complete loss of what to purchase to make a meal. The silent stares on the train made me long for the direct “Tsss, tsss, machita!” (Hey, hey, little white girl!) cat calls I had received from cars while walking down the street in Costa Rica that I had incensed me previously. I missed the crazy streamer decorations and blaring salsa music on the buses in Costa Rica compared to the eerie silence encountered on the spotless trains in Japan. The more I learned about the culture and language, the more I appreciated the differences between the two countries and came to view the U.S. as kind of a middle ground culture between the two extremes.
My English conversation job was not only enjoyable work, but a great resource of knowledge to me about Japanese culture. My housewives class taught me the real way to make miso soup, not the lazy way my husband had said was adequate. My retired students taught me about the history of the country. From my young students, I learned about the passing boom culture that can take over young people’s lives. Imagine a student so excited to show you a pencil with a new animation character on it or a new type of bag just being marketed. Some of my students became close friends and even taught me Japanese each week. I also took classes at a community center geared at helping foreigners.
My husband and I had a traditional Shinto wedding a year after I arrived in Japan. As a young bride, I was very determined to learn everything about Japanese culture, language and cooking so that my husband would never long for a wife who knew these things better than me. (My husband is not the typical Japanese man. In fact, many of our Japanese friends would tease that I was more Japanese than him.) None of this really mattered to him, but it was important to me and these were things I wanted to learn to also fit in well with his family. I am most likely the first foreigner that my in-laws have come to know well, but they have been nothing but welcoming and sincere from the start and I am lucky to really feel that they are my parents in Japan. Embarrassingly, I actually call them Mama and Papa in Japanese because that is what they taught me to do. This only seemed out of place when once upon visiting a rural mountain temple together, I called over to my mother-in-law “Mama!” and a number of other people stared at me in disbelief. We had a good laugh about it on the hike down the mountain.
After two years in Japan, and three years total abroad, I began to miss my family and wanted to obtain an advanced degree in order to learn about teaching formally. My husband and I moved to Chicago where he worked at a Japanese company and I began my studies at UIC and worked for a family literacy and adult ESL program. I learned Spanish all over again from my ESL students as I had not practiced it almost at all when in Japan. During our time in Chicago, I saw my husband struggle at times. His English was much better than when we met, but still not near native. Once when asking for directions at a gas station, he was told to go to the Korean dry cleaner next door to ask. I was so upset by this ignorance and the fact that he had experienced it. We joined a marathon group on the south side of Chicago and made the best friends. This experience really made my husband happy here, but I felt unsatisfied. When thinking about my post-graduation teaching job, all I desired was to teach at an international school in Japan. I also felt that there was so much more for me to learn there, linguistically and culturally. My husband and I both found jobs and returned to live in the heart of Tokyo. When I look back on it, I honestly felt that I was going to live the rest of my life in Japan. This decision caused me to break my mother’s heart, the wrath of my brother for doing so, the shock of my friends and the extreme happiness of my in-laws.
Living in Tokyo is like experiencing the degree of crowds of the Taste of Chicago everyday. Previously, I had lived in a suburb of Tokyo and now was in the middle of it. My husband was back in his element and had an interesting job at Amazon.com. Although I loved my job teaching second grade at an international school and all of the families and teachers I met there, Tokyo living was just too much for me. After the first year there, I contacted various schools in Chicago and had interviews over my winter break. I will never forget the reception I received at one very prestigious lab school. The principal obviously knew that I was a native English speaker from my resume, but took one look at my white face, gave me only five minutes of her time and then a map to tour the school myself. This experience made me realize that although I had spent so much time and effort living abroad, learning about different cultures and becoming trilingual – on the surface I would always be just a white teacher and not someone to bring a face of diversity to the staff at any school. After another year in Tokyo, I returned to Chicago to teach at the CPS dual-language magnet I had student-taught at previously.
It has been five years since I returned from living abroad the last time. Someday in the future, I believe that I will work and live abroad again, but after children all decisions become much more serious to make. With my work at UIC, I am able to speak Spanish almost everyday with inspirational parents who are doing their best for their children and themselves. Through my involvement with the Japanese American Service Committee (JASC) and the friends I have made through their Japanese playgroup, and the concerted effort my husband and I place on speaking Japanese to my daughter, I am able to speak Japanese everyday as well. The best compliments to me have been when another mother at JASC thought I was half-Japanese and when one of my FLAME parents though I was from Costa Rica. Unfortunately, I really am not good enough in either language to have received such compliments at all, but they made me feel amazing. I may have the appearance of a non-diverse individual, but I have created a diverse and interesting life for myself. Through this I also realize the importance of looking at each person as an individual and the need to learn about them and refrain from placing too much trust in first impressions.
(I apologize for the possibly boring personal degree of this essay, but after comps I could not attempt anything too academic.)
Editorial
Everyday at lunchtime the same student can be found sitting in the office, eating his sandwich and waiting to go back to class. This student has had lunch detention at least 3 days a week for the entire school year. This boy has not had lunch or recess with his classmates because he cannot control his behavior in the classroom, at specials, in the hallway or on the bus. This child is constantly in trouble. The lunch detentions have not worked, the in-school suspensions have not worked, and the taking away of privileges such as field trips has not worked. What is the next step? Is giving a third grade student an out of school suspension for disruptive/disrespectful behavior appropriate? I would have to say no.
This situation is frustrating for everyone involved, but what we need to do as educators and school administrators is figure out why this child is acting out. The consequences designed to deter this child from behaving poorly are not working. Our responsibility now is to problem solve how to prevent this child's behavior from interrupting his own learning, or the learning of other children.
Developing a behavior plan with the student support team would be a wise decision. A behavior plan is used to help the child learn better ways to behave in school. It can also help his teachers understand the meaning behind the behaviors, what might cause certain behaviors from happening and how to appropriately respond to the behaviors so that he can learn a better behavior. This is so important and this is the part so many teachers and administrators forget. What is causing the child to act this way and how can I help the child learn a more appropriate way to behave? My question is considering the history of this child, why has this not been done yet?
If the behavior plan does not work, it is time to conduct a functional behavioral assessment, which will try to look at each problem behavior to figure out when, where, and why it is occurring. Experts say there are only two answers to that question. All behaviors either get something (attention, sensory stimulation, status, rewards, power), or escape or avoid something (pain, boredom, anxiety, fear, someone not liked). A good FBA will look beyond what the behavior is to what the behavior does for the child. A good FBA will look at the places or situations where the behavior happens, look at the events that happen just before it and just after it, look at how the child is feeling (angry, tired, thirsty, anxious, including side-effects of medication), and try to find out what events, times or situations predict the behavior and will tell what happens after the behavior occurs. A good FBA will lead to answers to two important questions: What will cause the behavior to happen? What will cause the behavior to NOT happen? We can use the information from the functional behavioral assessment to make a plan to teach alternative behaviors, which have the same function as the problem behavior. Which will ultimately help the child and his classmates learn in a peaceful environment.
What is Response to Intervention? RTI is one of the current “buzzwords” in education today. But most educators are vague on the concept at best. Response to Intervention is a framework for providing differentiated instruction to students with the goal to prevent literacy problems by increasing quality instruction. Instruction is tiered by levels of three or more with increased intensity at each level. The more intensive instruction provided the higher the chance that a student will “catch up” and avoid the need for special education services.
RTI starts with a committee or team of professionals and volunteers within a school. This committee’s first and foremost responsibility is to ensure that top quality instruction is taking place in each classroom. Instruction must be research-based practices in a setting where assessment guides instruction in a recursive manner: instruct, assess, evaluate, and report.
The first step of a school implementing RTI is to make sure that universal screenings are in place three times a year. Data is necessary for grouping students and measuring growth throughout the year. Data is regularly consulted and progress monitoring is yearlong so that educators have the means to evaluate whether or not students are making gains.
Step 2 is to ensure that high quality “Tier 1” instruction is taking place. The Reading Specialist might be needed to help implement effective teaching strategies to “boost” instruction in classrooms where scientifically based practices might be needed. For example, small groups instruction is a highly effective means to provide differentiated instruction in a classroom. A Reading Specialist might need to provide professional development or coaching in classrooms that need guided reading support.
Step 3 is to make sure that instruction is effective for most students. Teachers must look at data and evaluate whether or not students are meeting benchmark goals. If large numbers of students are not making gains Tier 1 instruction may need to be altered. Small groups of students who are not making gains may require Tier 2 instruction.
Tier 2 instruction can take place in the classroom based on intensified instruction by the general education teacher and/or it may be provided by a member of the RTI committee in a push-in or pull-out situation. Whatever the case, targeted students are generally given 30 minutes of supplemental instruction 3-4 days per week without sacrificing exposure to the core curriculum. Regular progress monitoring takes place and diagnostic strategies are documented.
Tier 3 may be added or replace Tier 2 instruction when a student does not make gains after Tier 2 intervention. Tier 3 may continue but with more focus and more time. Instruction may be delivered 1-1 instead of in small group settings. A specialist is usually called in to provide instruction. The RTI team may decide that sufficient strategies have been implemented and that a screening and referral process for special education services should begin. Or based on a referral, the child who has received an IEP would remain in the same setting and continue Tier 3 instruction from a special educator.
RTI is designed to catch and prevent failure. It requires administrative commitment in terms of time allocation and personnel. It requires restructuring and rethinking in a very collaborative, teaming manner. For more information see Response to Intervention: A Framework for Reading Educators edited by Douglas Fuchs, Lynn S. Fuchs, and Sharon Vaughn. It has a great article by Timothy Shanahan!
“What NCLB did was, they were very loose on the goals – 50 states could create their own goals and 50 different goalposts, and (what) that lead to was a real dumbing down of those goals. What they’re very tight on is how you get there. I think what we need to do is fundamentally reverse that – I think we need to be really tight on goals and have these common college-ready international benchmark standards that we’re all aiming for, but then be much looser in how you let folks get there.”
Arne Duncan
“The Apostle of Reform” Time Magazine, April 27, 2009
Arne and I haven’t always seen eye to eye but this statement summarizes exactly my struggle day to day. I want this: clear professional goals and then the courtesy of being treated as a professional capable of meeting these goals as I see fit: being a diagnostician as learned and earned from the UIC College of Education! Next year, if the principal has her way, I will be teaching in an inclusion classroom. “Aren’t all classrooms “inclusion” classrooms these days, you ask? Most teachers have at least two or three students with 504 plans or IEP students with disabilities ranging from the mild to the severe.” Where I work, one primary classroom is designated the “Inclusion Room”. Here a regular education teacher is paired with a special education teacher and an aide. Out of 26 students 12 have an IEP which requires them to be serviced 800 minutes per day; in other words all day. The administration also moves low or problematic “regular” students to this room as well based on the rationale that there are three people in the room. More teachers doesn’t mean better education. And side-by-side doesn’t mean inclusion.
I have been asked by the administration to go into this situation and “fix” it next year seeing as now I have a Reading Specialist degree and am qualified to do so. Degreed doesn’t mean miracle worker! Why place so many students with extreme needs in one room? I am advocating that these students be spread out and that our school create an RTI team (see RTI essay) to address the needs of these children through supporting the general educator and providing the services needed for each child. Normally a team teaching model would make sense and in fact be ideal. This school continues to call itself an exceptional place just because we don’t have a self-contained primary classroom. We pat ourselves on the back and say look at all the schools coming to see our “model inclusion” classroom. Yeah, well if they looked closely enough instead of smiling, nodding, and jotting down comments on clipboards they would realize that “Hmmm, all the regular education students are in small groups working with the regular education teacher. All the special ed students are working with the SPED teacher. The aide is nearby working with some of the lowest first graders in the room: yes, the least qualified person working with the lowest children; you heard right.” Why do they operate this way? Partially ignorance but mostly because the regular education teacher has been told this is your curricula: follow it just like the other primary teachers. The special education teacher keeps hearing, “Follow your IEP’s; your students aren’t expected to be accountable.” That’s not inclusion! Inclusion is the expectation and mindset that students with disabilities CAN and WILL rise to the occasion when given full and complete access to the curriculum with accommodations and modifications. Being given the opportunity and challenge to rise to the standards is equality; even if what one student needs to get as close as possible to those standards is different from the next. I also believe that regular and special education students benefit from and learn from each other. “Regular” students make excellent examples for “lower” students who might otherwise be stuck in a room full of low students and thus be in an environment that stymies their progress much like a self-fulfilling prophecy. “Special” students often have unique abilities and gifts. Awareness for people with differences as well as opportunities for learning tolerance is a skill all people need to live and function in society. To walk into this room and see that the situation is one of separation and segregation makes me sick and I’m being called in to change it? It’s a self-contained room shoved in a regular room! I just want to call the courts and see how many heads would roll if advocates for Corey H. and IDEA knew the truth.
Yet, Duncan’s words give me a glimmer of hope. What if I went in with the standards in mind, IEP goals in hand, and then had complete autonomy when it came to meeting those goals. If that meant not using the basal and implementing the truly diagnostic techniques learned through the course of this program then yes, perhaps this situation can be helped. But I would walk in demanding that the lines designating the “regular” versus “special” stigma be erased. If the special education teacher is not willing to call the classroom ours and all students OUR responsibility; then this situation cannot be helped.
I’m writing this not so much as an op-ed piece but as a cry for help and advice. Becky has already given me the RTI model used at her school. If anyone else has suggestions or ideas for sharing more effective models with my administration please email me!
A Living Lesson in Cuba
For years I associated Spring Break with three images: Florida, Señor Frogs and unfortunate sunburns, all of which rank rather high on my list of vile things. I shunned Spring Break as a Herpes-spreading, Big-Ten beer bonanza and chose instead to pass my week with my boyfriend and dog vegging at home. Last year, however, I bit the bullet and went somewhere warm, with beaches and beautiful young people on every corner. I went to Cuba.
This trip, an academic visit organized by my alma mater NYU, was more about research than tanning. But stepping down onto the tarmac of Jose Martà International Airport, I realized that, even though I was a mere 90 miles from Spring Break Central, I was in a land even more foreign to me than an amateur wet T-shirt night at the Club Med bar. My main objective, my challenge, would be to attempt to understand Cuba and what life there might be like.
Before I left, everyone from my friends and fellow teachers—some of them Cubans—warned me about the poverty of Cuba, the danger of it and the neediness of its people. After my first few days in Havana, however, I realized that all these warnings were from people who, though they had good intentions, thought of Cuba more as the Red Enemy than as an actual country unto itself. I saw a place that was poor but in no way destitute. I met people who, though challenged by everyday life, were not downtrodden by the ruling system of Cuba, as we Americans so frequently tend to believe.
Cuba was especially interesting from the perspective of a teacher. Education in Cuba is free and good. The literacy rate is 99.8% (AIDA, 2009); class sizes are small; teachers are well-prepared. I had the opportunity to visit a high school in the near-Havana suburb of Vedado and observed a huge variety of classes: fine arts, biology, English, French, literature, drama and dance, far more than the selection offered at my public school.
Throughout my visit I met no one who was hungry, homeless or without health care, which is far more than can be said about the United States for all of its prosperity. There were no stores, much less malls. The advertisements and billboards bore messages touting la revolución, not Coca-Cola. In speaking with my hosts at our hostel, the artists I met while doing research, and the many college students I came into contact with, I heard time and again that Cubans, perhaps for lack of opportunity, fail to master consumerism. Though there were some who talked to me about the American things that they liked—one man in his 20s told me excitedly that the day his relatives in Miami sent him Versace jeans and a DKNY shirt was the happiest of his life — most people looked at these luxuries as wish-list items, things that they could go on without. Without shopping as a national pastime, many people I spoke to focused instead on dancing, music or art. People created their culture instead of buying it. My group had the privilege of watching the rehearsal of a contemporary dance group. Afterwards, one of the dancers told me that she danced not to be rich or famous (she was neither), but because it was the only thing that inspired her.
It is for these reasons I worry for Cuba when her borders inevitably open. Though Raul Castro is more open to outside influence than his brother, the country remains politically isolated. The wave of American (read: consumerist and capitalist) influence will be a tsunami to those who have never known it. Generations of Cubans will have to learn as skill that we Americans still have failed to master: balancing the creation of our culture with the purchase of it.
When our group stepped off the plane at JFK more than a year ago, I felt again that I had entered into a foreign land. After a week of seeing propaganda instead of advertisements, my first vision was of a billboard for Blackberry. After a week of talking with students who, despite the challenges, were adding to their home and culture, I was surrounded by kids fresh off their Air Jamaica flight finding their chauffeured cars while clothed in their newly acquired Rasta hats. I didn't know on which side of the border I wanted to belong. Before I left, I felt bad for Cubans and what they did not have — the jeans, the SUVs, the air conditioning and stereo systems. But that sympathy dissipated when I realized that the Cubans in no way necessitated my pity. By the time I stepped off that plane and back into America, I felt bad for my fellow Americans. At that moment, we seemed the ones lacking.
What Do You Have On Your Plate?
I giggled at an analogy made by my district curriculum director, “We need to make a plate and place on it only our major areas of focus for professional development.” This, he explained, would be our district’s main course. He went on to say, “We could also have side dishes.” The side dishes would be everything else our district is working on. What made me giggle was not that he wanted us to have a main dish. In fact, I feel that focusing our energy behind major initiatives would be extremely beneficial in guiding our work in teaching our students. I could not help but giggle because our district has so many initiatives that I pictured our side dishes to be the side dishes seen at a Korean barbecue restaurant. If you have ever eaten at a Korean restaurant, you probably know what I am talking about. Along with your main dish, you are presented with a more than generous number of side dishes: soup, daikon, napa cabbage, pickled cucumbers, sea vegetables, zucchini, numerous types of kimchi infused dishes, etc. – Each served on a separate dish, carried out to you overlapping on a cafeteria size tray, and quickly placed before you. Your table is suddenly and totally covered by side dishes. You didn’t even order them!
In education, sometimes a side dish becomes a main dish. Or even more complicated, a main dish, such as RTI, is made up of side dishes, such as standard based learning, progress monitoring, and assessment. The components of RTI are reasonable and necessary in providing instruction to meet all students’ needs. They are in fact main dishes. My fear is that many administrators are placing too many main dishes on the table at the same time – they want it all and want it now, while many teachers are not ready. I see it happening at the school I teach at -- well intentioned administrators moving too fast, and well intentioned teachers struggling to keep up. Teachers at my school have been asked to plan collaboratively and curriculum map, create common assessments and use the data to guide instruction, progress monitor and goal set with “yellow” and “red” students. We had only just begun to skim the surface of one initiative, and when another was quickly put before us. Too much at one time will not only lead to frustration, but even more devastating, to failure. Failure often leads to the abandonment of a sound practice, or of its misuse. It is important to not leave out the components of implementation: proper training, modeling, time for trial and error, time for collaboration, time to be reflective, and time to plan and revise. Leadership teams must look beyond a single school year and create professional development activities that build along a 2-3 year period or beyond. Professional development planning along with perceptive and knowledgeable leadership will be the keys to success.
When I dine at Korean restaurants, there are side dishes I definitely eat, there are those I definitely stay away from, and there are times that I feel daring enough to try one I hadn’t before. What always satisfies me most, however, is eating what I came for – the main dish.
The impact of IMPACT
Editorial
Progress reports are among us. This means that thousands of CPS employees will battle with the same program, IMPACT. It was introduced to our school two years ago and it has been testing teacher’s patience ever since. The program is a Webpage where teachers take attendance, keep a grade book, create seating charts and get personal information about a student. Teachers can even access State and district test scores, incident reports, addresses and even parent contact information are all just a click away. IMPACT generates the report cards and the progress reports for each term.
The program makes a teacher generic by only allowing her to make comments from a select list for the progress reports and report cards. There are about thirty comments half negative and positive. The parents see the same comments rotate through the years on multiple report cards. This might discourage parent communication if the comment seems redundant. If a parent sees the comment “is learning to concentrate” repeatedly in the last three years he may get discouraged. The communication is not authentic.
Computer glitches, May 18th two days before report cards were do. The system experience a malfunction. Teachers lost any grades that were inserted into the system on that day. For many of my co-workers it meant more timed dedicated to inserting grades instead of other priorities. I was lucky that my procrastination paid off. This was not an isolated instance. The system can not handle all CPS employees on the web based program at the same time. It freezes and loses information on high volume days.
I am just not sure of the implications this software may cause. I received a memo to inform me that state would look at the grades given by teachers and the students standardized test score. The State wants this data to compare achievement gaps.
I understand the need for technology, but the Web Program needs to be of up most quality if it is going to eat up precious teacher time.
Carina O Keeffe
Editorial
By Carina O Keeffe
Here is an editorial I have worked on with my second graders over the past couple of weeks –They decided they want to send it to the newspaper-I think it is powerful as it comes from the heart!
RECESS-EVERY CHILD HAS THE RIGHT…..
Does you school have recess? Maybe you are one of the lucky ones……In our opinion all children not only NEED but DESERVE recess. We at Drake Elementary on Chicago’s south side feel very strongly about this matter so listen up!
We believe it is not fair that some schools have recess and some schools do not. All schools should be treated equally. If you ask us then this breeds unnecessary competition between schools. It is not fair that some schools have opportunities that other Chicago Public Schools are deprived of.
Think about this for a minute, you know the feeling, when you walk outside into the open air-you feel alive? Fresh air helps you think clearly. Everybody knows that the mind and body works better when it is energized. Who came up with the ingenious idea of sitting in a stuffy classroom of thirty-two 8- year olds for 5 and a half hours-with a 20 minute break to gobble down your lunch? We need a break for fresh air so we can then return to work and do our very best.
Did you know that over the past three decades, the childhood obesity rate has more than tripled for children aged 6-11 years? At present, approximately nine million children over the age of 6 are considered obese----we need exercise!!!!! One forty minute gym period a week is not sufficient for children our age. Furthermore, many of us cannot go outside and play after school as our neighborhoods are unsafe. We need recess time to run around and get exercise.
Finally, we work hard in class and we think all kids should have time to socialize with their peers. We are expected to work all day long and not interact with one another---we are kids after all, and adults get breaks from their workplace. How are we supposed to learn how to socialize and interact with one another if we don’t have a recess? It just doesn’t make sense! We all deserve a quality education and that includes time for recess!!!!
The Olympic Tax
Does anyone else notice the uncanny resemblance that Mayor Daley’s pet money-grubbing devices—the newly-privatized parking meters and red-light cameras—have to the Olympic torch? They all have slender shafts supporting wider tops that light up. They all are said to be sources of lucrative revenue streams but are so at the expense of the taxpayer. And they have come to symbolize and prop up corrupt governing bodies—the City of Chicago government and the International Olympic Committee.
Yesterday, I paid $1.50 to park while I ate with a friend at a restaurant. Just a few months ago parking at that same meter cost 0.75 for the same amount of time. On a twenty-seven block stretch of my work commute down Stony Island Avenue, I now pass through four intersections with red-light cameras that hit drivers for $100 per ticket for committing a traffic violation. Those do not even count the two within ten blocks traveling north toward Lake Shore Drive.
Mayor Daley promised Chicagoans years ago that the 2016 Olympic bid would come at no cost to taxpayers because it would be funded using private money. As he has begun a slow retraction from those comments, we, as taxpayers, need to be asking some hard questions. Namely, we need to ask just how exactly the games here will be financed and what exactly Mayor Daley considers expenses of the bid. I have a suspicion that the near century-long contract with ____ for control of the city’s parking meters that was quietly rubber-stamped by the city council and the growing ubiquity of red-light cameras are main cogs in the strategy to fund infrastructure changes to handle the games. It is these indirect expenses that are going to gouge us citizens.
Fellow citizens of Chicago, every time you have to pump loads of quarters into a meter or get nervous when you approach another intersection with a red-light camera just remember who put this Olympic Tax on you and your posterity.
Essay-“The Blame Game”
While going through the education program as an undergraduate, I would always hear the mantra, “teachers have to wear many hats.” Teachers sometimes have to be parent, counselor, mentor, and/or even friend. When I decided to become a teacher, I knew I signed up to be a wearer of these hats, as well as giving a commitment of 101%. What I did not count on was that I would not get the support that is needed from students’ first teachers-parents.
I work in a Chicago Public School on the Westside of Chicago located in an area known as “K Town.” Every west-sider and even some non-west-siders know about this area. All the streets located in “K Town” start with the letter K, hence the name. “K Town” is inhabited primarily by African Americans who are receiving government assistance known as Section 8. “K Town is known for its poverty, and high crime rate. The school I am employed at has a demographic make-up of 99% African American students, and the majority of the students receive free lunch. Most of the students are in walking distance of the school. I am the type of teacher who not only wants to teach; I want to make a difference in my students’ lives. I am a strong believer that a student is not only a student, but someone’s child, grandchild, sister, brother. There are many parameters outside the school life that shape students into who they are. Students’ home life can have such a tremendous affect on how they perform in school. Therefore it is imperative to bridge the gap between home and school. This is easier said than done. How does a teacher bridge this gap? Is it up to just the teacher to bridge the gap? Is it the job of the teacher and the parent? Of course the latter is the best solution, however, what happens when the parent/s involvement is lackluster at best? Does this lack of parental involvement have anything to do with the overwhelming alarming number of deaths among Chicago Public School students? With only months left in 2008-2009 school year, the number of students killed already exceeds last school year’s total. We are in a state of crisis, and it seems to only be getting worse.
This is my seventh year teaching, and this is the worst I have ever seen it when it comes to troubled youths. In my classroom, I have cell phones ringing during the middle of the day. Who would be calling a 6th grader during school time? An adult should know better, and a friend of the same age, should be in school as well, and have no time to bring out a cell phone to call anyone. What is education turning into when cell phones are ringing during the school day? Why do some of theses students have these phones anyway? The same students, who own these fancy phones, are the same students who don’t have a pen or pencil to write with in school. Parents are putting more emphasis on material items and letting the education of their children fall by the waist side. My 5th and 6th grade girls have their nails and hair done on a regular basis, however, these same girls don’t turn in their homework on a regular. These children are not paying for these privileges on their own, their parent/s are paying for them. What message are parents sending children about the value of education? When Bill Cosby publicly criticized parenting in some African American communities; there was an outpour of controversy surrounding his very honest comments. He is quoted as saying, “The lower economic people are not holding up their end in this deal. These people are not parenting. They are buying things for kids -- $500 sneakers - for what? And won't spend $200 for 'Hooked on Phonics.'” I whole-heartedly agree with the message that Cosby was trying to convey. I am seeing firsthand just what he is referring to. Parents are not holding themselves or their children accountable. I am a parent of a toddler, and even at the age of two, my child is read to on a regular basis; I have purchased educational CDs and DVDs because I never feel it is too early to start your child on the right path to understanding the importance of being educated. Even just giving my toddler a book to hold in his hand, and teaching him the proper way to hold a book is important.
Hopefully, I am in no way sounding self-righteous, because that is not my intent. I am not at all trying to come across as being better than anyone else. What I am trying to do is show my frustration over how “our children” mainly our African American children are not succeeding. The saying once went, “I am trying to get you out of high school.” That statement has been changed to “I am trying to get you to graduate eighth grade.” What has the world come to when graduating 8th grade is a feat? It is a milestone-sure. It is a good feeling. It should be the feeling of being the beginning of one’s educational journey, versus being such an accomplishment.
Let me set a scene of some of the “unfortunates” that are going on in my school that I see firsthand. It is almost the end of the school year, and I have not seen several parents. I am only going to reach out so far. Sounds mean- just honest! I still go by the idea that I have to wear many hats, and I do. However, as a teacher, I am only going to reach out so far to parents who don’t make ANY effort to reach out to me, attend open houses, report card pick-ups, and family literacy nights. Especially when these same parents make it their obligation to show up if you take their child’s cell phone, or deny them a field trip. I have a parent who I’ve never seen, yet she managed to make it up to the school to literally fight a student who was picking on another child of hers. Students are using the term “Link Card” in their writing, and no one is batting an eye, questioning what a link card is. There is a 7th grader walking around the school with an ankle bracelet on. There is an eighth grader who has already had two abortions. Let us not even get on the number of former girl students who have already had a child or is currently pregnant. There have been at least 2 cases of reported STDs; one of the students is my own. Hers is curable with antibiotics. Unfortunately, the other student, though not life-threatening, has no cure. Am I saying that all the blame should be put on the parents-No! Am I saying that parents are not taking responsibility for their children and the decisions they make-Yes! Am I saying parenting is easy-No! Anyone who is a parent knows that parenting doesn’t come with a manual, and I do agree that it does take a “village” to raise a child. I just don’t appreciate how some parents have totally taken themselves out of the equation when it comes to their children’s downfalls. It’s the school’s fault, it’s the neighborhood, it’s racism, it’s the economy, it’s their own fault.
I had a professor in my undergraduate studies who was adamant about how we can’t be so worried about parents’ non-involvement, but rather the focus should be more on what we, as the educators can do for these students the allotted time we have them. I have a lot of respect for this professor, and I do agree with her. As teachers we can’t give up on these students because their home life may be unstable. We have to make sure their time with us is as beneficial and meaningful as it can be. At the same time, I refuse to let parents “off the hook.” They have to remember that teachers are going to come and go throughout their child’s life, but they will always be their parent. I am an adult and so are these parents. I don’t consider myself to be better than them, or them beneath me. When I do communicate with parents, I am respectful, because no one likes to be belittled, and talked down to. I am a firm believer that you have to give respect, if you expect to get respect. We have already lost too many children to violence. Let’s not lose them to that epidemic called ignorance.
What is personal responsibility?
A look at the outgrowth of violence in struggling Chicago neighborhoods should force people to take a more systematic look at the root causes instead of engaging in the finger-pointing and hand-washing that we see in the present. The latest news of a young person’s unfortunate death at the hands of another is always accompanied with cries of how “those people” need to take “personal responsibility.” It is our duty as people to take responsibility for our own actions. However, I ask those same people—are you taking any responsibility for your actions that negatively impact people here and around the world?
Are you recycling? Are you finding ways to lessen the amount of energy you use that ultimately adds greenhouse gases to the atmosphere? Are you making informed consumer choices that do not encourage unfair labor or trade practices that entrap people around the world in poverty? Are you using any illicit drugs that fuel the violence of drug cartels in Latin America or gangs in urban America? The list goes on…
Playing the blame game serves no purpose except to absolve ourselves of OUR responsibility to be part of the solution. Every child that is the victim of violence in Chicago should stoke righteous outrage that leads us to action, not inaction. So I ask, what are you doing to help solve this issue? And, please, don’t say it’s not my problem.
Mr. Duncan, You Got Next
Last week, former professional basketball player and now-Secretary of Education Arne Duncan held a press conference at an elementary school on the West side of Chicago in which he stated the need for wide-scale reform to our nation’s education system. Mr. Duncan discussed how increasing competition from other parts of the world and the globalization of economics leaves us in a precarious position if we continue to ineffectively educate millions of young Americans. As an educator, I wholeheartedly agree with our nation’s newly appointed School Czar on this point. Forgive me, however, if my enthusiasm for his words is tempered as we have heard these words spoken before by well-meaning politicians.
Less than eight years ago the Bush administration offered to America similar proclamations about the need for an overhaul to our education system. Two years later in 2003, a new era in education was ushered in under the heavy-hand of accountability where “no child would be left behind.” Billions of dollars of federal funding was promised to schools to help them bring their failing students up to acceptable standards measured through annual pencil and paper tests. Pardon the recycled cliché, but six years later millions of our children are still where they were before: “left behind.”
Proponents of the No Child Left Behind (NCLB) Act assert that there were significant gains in math and reading scores across many important subgroups and contexts on the 2004 National Assessment of Educational Progress (NAEP) long-term trend assessment, which is administered every five years and is used to compare student performance going back to 1971. Especially noteworthy was the narrowing of the achievement gap between white students and their black and Hispanic peers to its lowest amount ever. Many critics have argued that a more holistic look at NAEP and state testing data reveals a bleaker picture with no growth or minimal gains in important areas. More telling data will be gained when the 2008 NAEP long-term results are released next week. I would not be surprised if these results bring more positive data on this measure…and petulant squabbling over the effectiveness of NCLB legislation.
Whether NCLB is responsible for these gains obfuscates the debate over its merits as the major vehicle for national educational reform. I would argue improved performance--if there was any--nationwide has been negligible. Even if there was growth nationwide and it was attributable to NCLB, there are still masses of children, disproportionately minority and poor, who are not meeting basic standards.
Should we be content with this supposed reform when a large percentage of our students are still unable to meet standards of proficiency in these critical areas? Furthermore, is measuring students in just math and reading on a pencil-and-paper test by standards set thirty-eight years ago even a relevant form of assessment today? Last, does the federal government really believe that significant improvement in achievement across the board will come without a more substantive overhaul to our education system? Without equivocation, I can say no on all accounts. No Child Left Behind has not delivered on its promises and, therefore, is not an effective engine for reform.
Now we have a new executive administration and Duncan has the opportunity to set the direction of how we educate our children on a new path to real reform, and he was correct for stating the urgency of such reform. Because of exponential advancements in technology, we are educating students in our schools for jobs that do not even exist yet. Students entering elementary school today are going to need broader, deeper, and more diverse skills than are needed to day if they are going to be able to compete for professional jobs in tomorrow’s economy. Moderate increases in test scores over the next fifty years under NCLB will still leave millions of students inadequately prepared for their adult life.
At the press conference, Duncan touted the massive injection of money for education from the federal stimulus plan as an opportunity to enact necessary reforms. He announced to the media that American leaders in the field have to be “open to new ideas without regard to past ideology or practice,” and that we have to begin thinking differently about “schooling.” Without getting specific, he mentioned the possibilities of raising the rigor of standards, instituting systems of performance pay for teachers, and lengthening the school year. The latter two would certainly qualify as substantial departures from past ways of thinking. But, are these alone enough? And, will they even be enacted? I have reason to be skeptical that these are just more empty promises from a politician that will either never be brought to fruition or yield transformative results.
Mr. Duncan, the ball is in your court.
Social Emotional Learning
I have heard many educators comment that there is just not enough time in the day to get through curriculum and hold class meetings and community building activities. It’s true. There are so many things we need to teach our students and so much that we are expected to get through that there is no way we, as teachers, can accomplish all that has been piled on our plate. So the question is, if we need to prioritize and do simply as much as we can, should a focus on social emotional learning be one of our priorities?
My answer is yes, it should.
We’ve all had the student who returns from recess and can’t stop dwelling on an altercation that occurred on the playground. This student is upset, unable to focus on lecture and/or class work, and may even disrupt class with an emotional outburst resulting from it. If that student knew how to deal with the situation more effectively, it would certainly save us teachers the time, effort, and aggravation that we would put into laying the problem to rest or dealing with the student’s reactions to it.
According to CASEL (The Collaborative for Academic, Social, and Emotional Learning), social emotional learning is “a process through which young people and adults develop the fundamental social and emotional skills of self-awareness, self-management, social awareness, relationship skills, and responsible decision making.” Like it or not, emotions affect how and what we learn. Dealing with them and responding to problems are part of everyday life – for everyone. The better we are at self-awareness, self-management, social awareness, relationship skills, and responsible decision making, the more successful we will be in life. The better our students are at those things, the more successful they will be in school and in life.
Books that Made a Difference
Each person is as distinctive as their book selections. I came to this realization after talking with four colleagues about books that have made a difference in their lives. Each of these books made my friends “feel something,” and this initial feeling has not been forgotten. In class we’ve spent the last year talking about the power of text in people’s lives. This is a testament to that very fact.
To illustrate this point, I interviewed four of my colleagues at the Frances Xavier Warde School. I questioned three female teachers (Laura, Kathryn and Stacie) and one male teacher (Roel). Their ages range from twenty-seven to thirty-four and their years of teaching experience range from two years to twelve years. The grade levels taught vary from first to fourth grade. A common thread found throughout these four interviews was that literacy plays a major role in each of these individuals’ everyday personal and professional lives. For Laura, she stated that she promotes literacy everyday in her classroom. Outside of the classroom, most of her reading consists of reading for graduate school or reading professional resources in order to keep abreast of the latest developments in education. Kathryn defines literacy as knowledge, enjoyment and relaxation. Literacy in Stacie’s life is a way of survival for everyday living, knowledge and entertainment. Roel feels that literacy is the use – and ultimately the command – of language to gain and express meaning. He said that it means a great deal to be able to understand the world better through the ideas and perspectives of others (as communicated in books and articles) and it satisfies a basic need to find and create meaning in the world through writing. Each individual exhibited a personal true love of literacy and also the desire to instill that same love of literacy in each of their students.
The books selected by the participants were all very different, as each of their personalities are all very different. The range was so vast that Laura chose Mother Goose’s Nursery Rhymes, while Stacie chose the book called A Grief Observed by C.S.Lewis, dealing with death and grieving. Laura’s interest in the childhood book stemmed from her parents’ enthusiasm of the book and love of reading. Stacie enjoyed other books written by the same author and also books about the topic of death and grieving. The other two books selected were My Sister’s Keeper written by Jodi Picoult selected by Kathryn. It is a fictional novel about the relationship of sisters. Kathryn’s interest in My Sister’s Keeper was piqued from the cover of the book. She noticed the two little girls on the cover and it instantly made her think about her own sister. This book made her reflect on her relationship with her sister. She now enjoys reading books by Jodi Picoult. The other book chosen was The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, chosen by Roel. This book has an intriguing plot and helps to answer some of life’s big questions. Roel’s decision to read this book was not a choice but rather a requirement for a Russian Literature class in college. Like unforgettable experiences, Roel felt that this book shaped his perspective of the world because it made him think about big questions— like the meaning of life. It made a difference because it really helped him appreciate the significance of the ordinary in life and it also taught so much about the existence of God, the problem of evil, and the complexities of human nature. It tackled deep topics in an engaging and profound way. Just as all of the participants are unique, so are their book choices. The three books read by the individuals as adults dealt with intense issues, causing the individuals to take time to reflect and relate to them in their personal lives. The book read as a child was a gateway into the discovery of a lifetime love of reading. Each of these differences is equally important and is pertinent to the time of their lives when the books were read.
These books were all read at different times in the participants’ lives. The Mother Goose book was read when Laura was a child with her parents. The other three books were read in their adult lives. Roel read his book as a sophomore attending Northwestern University. Stacie read her book as a thirty something single, while Kathryn read her book on her honeymoon. Each book impacted the participants in a different way, at a different time in their lives. Laura’s choice impacted her life because it made her excited and motivated to become a reader when she was a small child. Literacy was promoted in her household, which made it important in her life as a child and still today. Kathryn’s choice made her reflect on her relationship with her sister. Reading did not become enjoyable for her until she became an adult.
After analyzing the information gathered through these interviews, I learned that each person is as distinctive as their book selections. This helps to remind me that, like the participants, each one of my students is unique and their personal views of literacy may drastically vary from one another. It was also interesting to see which kinds of books were chosen and how they directly impacted the lives of the individuals. Some were impacted on a serious, philosophical level, while Laura was impacted by a simple rhyming book that helped to shape her view of literacy for the rest of her life. All of these books were equally important in their own, special way.
This exercise in talking to my colleagues about literacy further emphasized the importance of paying attention to the vital signs of reading- home life, culture, environment, language and economics. The better you know where the child is coming from, the more effective your instruction will be, and the impact made on the child will be that much more meaningful. As different as the individuals I interviewed, each student is unique in their view of literacy.
Silver Locket
For everyone else in the world, it may have been just a typical Saturday morning, but this was not the case for Nicole. She had woken up with a feeling of emptiness that she was not able to ignore. Nicole found it hard to get out of bed, but knew that she would want to take advantage of as much time as she could that day. Saying all of her “good byes” were going to be hard enough and she did not want to feel rushed and fear that she would not have enough time to spend with everyone she was leaving.
Nicole nervously crept down the wooden stairs of her college house, smelling the aroma of bacon and hearing the chatter of her five roommates. As she turned the corner into the kitchen, they all stopped their conversations and stared at her with a half smile. Nicole knew all of her roommates were happy for her, but could sense that none of them knew what to say about living a year without her, which is a feeling with which she was all too familiar. Nicole couldn’t have asked for more that morning than her five favorite girls and a delicious breakfast to share with them.
They sat around the table for what seemed to be the quickest hour and a half, and reminisced of all the fun that they had that last semester and how the next one would never be able to compare. They reminisced about football games, boys, parties, and classes – the ones they had attended at least. The six friends finally discussed Nicole’s plans for the next several months. All of them decided they were going to email her everyday and that she would do the same. They would talk to each other at least once a week and stay as close as they are now, but now they will just be 10,000 miles away.
Nicole knew that she was excited to go and knew that it was what she needed to do, but all she thought about as she sat at the table was whether it was worth leaving everything she knew and loved behind. Would this experience surpass any other experience of her college career? Would it all be worth it? She dreamed of this day and knew she would be letting herself down if she wasn’t going to take advantage of this “once in a lifetime” experience.
The doorbell rang and all the girls knew who was joining their breakfast party. It was Dan, Nicole’s boyfriend of three years. Dan and Nicole were inseparable and couldn’t be happier when they were together. They complimented each other so well and they meant “the world” to each other. The thought of Nicole and Dan being separated for a year almost seemed impossible. It was hard enough saying “good bye” to her five closest friends, now it was time to say her hardest “good bye” yet. Her roommates said their “hello’s” to Dan and went back into the kitchen to clean up from their earlier feast.
Dan and Nicole walked out to the porch and sat holding hands. They couldn’t seem to talk at that moment because there was so much they both wanted to say, but didn’t know where to even begin. They both knew that in fifteen minutes, Nicole’s parents would arrive ready to take her to the airport. Dan asked if she was all packed and if she needed help with any last minute details, but Nicole assured him that she was ready to go. They both knew that they didn’t want to separate from each other, but that they needed to. They both agreed that they would just see how things go and that they would not decide what their relationship status would be for the coming year. Nicole and Dan would have to put their relationship on hold for a year – which seemed like forever in her mind. The thought of not seeing Dan every day had weighed heavily in her mind the last few nights, which was evidenced by the redness in and bags under her eyes. She and Dan had the relationship that made people jealous, but could it last this year separation. Was she being selfish by going away for this year and putting their relationship in jeopardy? Would she be able to live with knowing that she could be ending the best thing that ever happened to her? Dan assured her that he will wait for her and that they will get through this, but Nicole knew that a year is a long time not seeing someone, especially not seeing someone that you have seen almost everyday for the last three years.
In the midst of their small talk, Dan gave Nicole a black box with a pink satin ribbon around it. He explained that he wanted to give her something that would remind her of him when she was so far away. She slowly opened the box to find a little silver locket with her initials engraved. She slowly opened the locket to see a picture of the two of them sitting on the beach of Mexico, where they had went last Christmas with her parents. On the back of the locket, “I miss you and love you, Dan” was engraved. Nicole eyes filled with tears, it just hit her that she was leaving him and didn’t know what to do. They hugged and hoped that a year from now they will feel the same way about each other as they did at that moment.
In the midst of the tears, Nicole’s parents arrived. They greeted Dan and Nicole, and proceeded into the house to start packing the car of suitcases. These suitcases were filled with the things that were going to remind her of home and all that she had left behind. After the car was packed, it was the moment that Nicole had dreaded. She had to officially say her “good bye”. All of her roommates stood at the door and Nicole embraced each one of them and made the “good bye” short because she knew that was all she could handle. She got into the car with her parents and Dan, and waved “good bye” as tears ran down her face.
Nicole’s family was not one to wear their hearts on their sleeves. So her parents asked the routine questions making sure Nicole had everything that she needed and that she knew what she was going to do when she finally reached Queensland, Australia. They asked about her classes and her new roommates, what the weather was like, and about any other traveling she may be interested in doing. Dan really didn’t say much and just took it all in. Nicole was both happy and sad that the airport was only fifteen minutes away. She didn’t want to leave them, but she was anxious to get her “good-byes” over with because she knew in her heart it was the last thing she needed before she started her new life south of the equator.
They pulled into the United Airlines international terminal and all got out of the car. They helped unload the luggage and brought it to the “check in” area. At this point no one talked. They just waited in line and were unsure what the right thing was to say. After Nicole was checked in and her luggage was sent away, it was time for her to go to her terminal. She first gave her dad a hug and he whispered “I love you and be safe” and then she turned to her mom. Her mom’s face was growing a shade of red and Nicole knew she was trying to hold back her tears. Once Nicole embraced her, her mom could not restrain herself any longer and her tears came rushing out. They hugged for at least a minute when her dad interrupted and took her mom’s hand. They walked away and left Dan and Nicole alone. They hugged each other and exchanged their “I love you’s”. Nicole knew she had to go and turned to the most important people in her life and waved her final “good bye”.
As she walked through the noisy, crowded terminal, all she could do was cry. She was alone now. She had nobody. She was on her own and she had nobody to turn to. Was this what she really wanted? When it came time to board the plane, her tears became less. She knew that there was no going back and she had to accept the decision she made. She was going to study abroad in Queensland, Australia. What an amazing journey she was about to begin. She sat on the plane with so many unanswered questions running through her mind. As the plane took off and they sailed through the clouds, Nicole wondered what this year would bring? Would she return to the same life that she was leaving behind? Would she be the same person as she was now?
She knew that she wasn’t going to be able to answer those questions now. She clutched her locket and stared out the window hoping that this experience would be worth leaving all that she knew behind.
A Spoonful of Sugar
By Christina Bachman
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. While it might seem overwhelming to pronounce, decode or spell this complex word, we all know the person behind it made a significant impact on two young children and their parents. I’d like to start this personal essay by comparing myself and fellow tutors to Mary Poppins. She came in with her bag of tricks which allowed everyone to think differently about happiness and life. Her approach to being a successful nanny was magical. While what I have learned over the past two semesters does not include magic tricks, I believe that I have my very own bag of tricks for helping children in their literacy development. We’ve learned that reading is a tool necessary to change lives. Now as I move on to help the next struggling reader, the tools are with me and I have the knowledge necessary to dramatically impact children’s lives.
Let’s go fly a kite, up where the air is high. I consider what once seemed like a daunting and frustrating task, tutoring a struggling reader, as something a walk in the park. Before coming to the reading clinic I believed that using research based programs was the single most important factor in student reading achievement. For this reason I had always thought that struggling readers needed direct instruction that came from something that had been proven effective. I’ve used a variety of programs in the past to help and I longed to have the security of knowing the instruction I provided would work. During seminar I remember being told to make meaningful connections with texts for my student, it was really hard at first. “Why did you choose that text, out of all the texts available?” I can still hear Dr. Tatum asking. Through trial and error I found the niche and know what to look for when working with my students. Moving forward I can provide the direct instruction necessary, while still facilitating meaningful connections with mentor texts. One example includes the use of Laura Numroff’s series, “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.” While there was no scripted dialogue of what I should teach to help Nicholas learn, it is a text that uses cause and effect relationships. We studied these, used them as models, and wrote our own beautiful stories.
“Feed the Birds. Come feed the little birds, show them you care and you'll be glad if you do. Their young ones are hungry, their nests are so bare; all it takes is tuppence from you" (Mary Poppins). The carryover from tutoring to teaching in my classroom has been a gift I will cherish for many years to come. During writer’s workshop I share with my students the stories that I have written. I’ve shared a variety from informative, to fiction, and even small moments. My self-efficacy for writing has dramatically improved. As a result I have noticed a dramatic improvement in their writing. They see me not only as a teacher, but also as a writer. The power that comes from this is something I would not have been able to obtain any other way. Moving forward, I see myself and fellow colleagues as birdfeeders, with our energy and passion for teaching reading and writing, giving the little birdies food in the form of meaningful learning experiences.
What was inside that “magical” bag? While Mary would never reveal her secrets, I on the other hand would like to influence other educators and their teaching practices. Currently, I teach Kindergarten and I am perfectly happy to stay at this grade level until a position comes along where I can use my certification. At the same time, I believe that as an effective teacher of reading and writing, the concepts and practices I use in my teaching can be passed along to fellow colleagues. For example, we learned that creating a supportive learning where conferencing with individual students is imperative to successful writing development. While I’m not able to co-teach and model for other teachers what that looks like, I can share with them my experiences and in turn direct them toward inquiring about how a Writer’s Workshop should be conducted. Often I have been inspired by tutors who are successful in their instruction; I hope to do the same for my teaching colleagues.
Without a doubt, the role of a reading specialist could easily be compared to that of a chimney sweep. It’s not easy and there are constant challenges, but accepting that and moving forward with an optimistic attitude is important. Mary’s friend, Bert, sang proudly of having a job that might not have been glamorous. However, he did find happiness and joy in always being welcome. As I hope to feel welcome and as though my instruction is beneficial, I know that keeping up to date with professional resources, research and practices are necessary. Adding onto that is the use of rubrics, scaffolding, guidelines, peer feedback, cloze, preview vocabulary, all of which I have learned about and used throughout the past two semesters.
Mary Poppins left an unforgettable impact on the Bank’s family by building a trusting relationship. Those children loved her because of her “magical” approach to life. I feel confident knowing I have done the same in tutoring Nicholas. Over the course of the past eight months, we found similar interests and moved forward from there. Continual communication with his mother has led to her trust and respect. Saying goodbye is hard, and while I might not want to, it is encouraging that I can move on to the next student. The same as Mary moved onto the next family.
Graduation Rates-Melissa Villalon
At our grade-level meeting the other day, our principal mentioned how proud he was of our great efforts. This is always wonderful to hear, but he also told us to think of how much of a difference we can make in our students’ lives, I never fully understood it until that moment. We discussed how much progress our students have demonstrated in the past two years and looked at the data from our three times a year assessment. For the past two years, we have continued to enhance our assessments because our students are not only meeting benchmarks sooner, but the level of critical thinking is also becoming more evident. Being part of the Kindergarten team, we have also seen how grade levels that follow have also adjusted their assessments because students are meeting benchmarks sooner as well. So it was difficult to hear when our principal asked us to think of how the high school graduation rate would affect our 5 year old students.
I’ve heard before how the graduation rate is low, but hearing it once again and putting faces to those rates, really hit home and encouraged me to look deeper. It was devastating to hear that 50 percent of my students may not graduate. Teaching such a young group of children can sometimes put a shield over your eyes when you think of high school. Of course, a teacher who cares puts this in perspective and carries it with her always. What will their future be like and how will I make that difference now? I couldn’t imagine that half of my class would possibly not graduate.
The Alliance for Excellent Education states that each year nearly 40,000 students in Illinois do not graduate with their peers. This massive number holds many circumstances that affect many state-wide and even nationwide as it is stated that nationally 1.23 million do not graduate. There is great speculation over what is causing this threat to an educated nation and what is necessary to overcome these staggering numbers. So the questions are: Who is not graduating? Why are they not graduating? What needs to be done for more students to graduate?
Rates are definitely lower for poor and/or minority students. The Alliance for Excellent Education demonstrates data that clearly emphasizes the large gap between Asian and White Student who have 88 percent graduating in 2007 and the 52 percent of African American Students and 60 percent of Latino Students. So what happens in a school that is predominantly African American or Latino?
More research is necessary to carry out a plan that will give students the opportunity to learn and to graduate high school. Numbers make a big difference, but in the end they are just numbers. As Dr. Tatum mentions, “Text can move people and empower them.” More research and studies should be carried out to provide teachers at any grade level, the support to teach a culturally responsive classroom. Assessments should be adjusted and in place to provide the data necessary to move our students forward.
These low graduation rates affect us all. Our students who drop out have considerably less job opportunities and struggle to make ends meet from minimum wage jobs.
“The function of freedom is to free someone else”
--Toni Morrison
Literature has the power to free. It is the song you hear on the radio that speaks to you. It is the rant you write about on your blog. It is the book that you can’t put down – the one that leads you to read another book on the same subject, or sends you to do one google search after another. Literature can do that. It can awaken the senses, comfort the lonely, and guide the lost. Literature can free. How are we working to free our struggling readers?
Schools are paying more attention to literacy than ever before. There is the pressure to make annual yearly progress. Data drives decision making in schools. When the data shows that numerous students are reading below grade level, schools need to have an answer. My school has recently developed a “menu” of reading interventions. We have the core instruction, tier 2 interventions, and tier 3 interventions. This year we began monitoring the progress of those students who were placed in a reading intervention. We started collecting data from different measures. We started to meet together in teams and make collaborative decisions. Students who struggle are receiving help they would not have received not too long ago.
This is a good thing. Many of our students who were behavior problems and failing classes last year are beginning to find their way this year. So why am I not completely happy about this? Why is it that it does not all sit right with me? One of the things I find disconcerting are all of the packaged reading programs my district has adopted. I am not going to criticize these programs; I understand that at times they are what reach our students. I guess my uneasiness comes more from what I see happening to some of our best teachers. The teachers that go beyond – they use their own classroom data to guide their instruction, they find the right texts to use, and they reach their students. I have seen these teachers taken away from their expertise to teach a prescribed reading program. Some to teach a very regimented type of reading instruction where students are drilled, others became the teacher to help students while they worked on reading software.
After school one day, I was looking at the reading data collected this month with my principal. The spreadsheet had all the students currently in a reading intervention, along with their scores on fluency probes and comprehension checks. Scores were colored red, yellow, and green. My principal had also hand drawn and plot chart showing student growth for each of the interventions at each grade level. He was quickly flipping through his sheets and pointing out significant drops or gains. Then we came to one class that had all gains. He stopped, looked up at me and said, “You know who that is, right?” He was pointing out that the gains in that particular class were due to the teacher that taught the reading intervention. The teacher. Not the intervention. The same program taught by another teacher did not yield the same results. Now I know that there are many factors working together there, but the teacher is one of those factors. This is something that is difficult to resolve. It is hard to refuse a scientifically researched program without giving it a shot. But how do we decide who teaches it?
I know it is going to take time for us to get this right. Rome was not built overnight. I know we are all in this together. I cannot say that my principal does not know what he is doing. He is a highly educated person who seeks answers and tries those things he has seen or read about that produce results. He comes to the problem of literacy from his own angle.
I guess this is where the role of literacy leaders is key. They need to ask the important questions: Are we challenging students at the right level? Are we using the right texts to engage our students? Are we teaching strategies that allow them to access the text we put before them? These are the questions that will help free our learners.
An Essay on HEALTH Education
When I was in grade school, the only class boys and girls were separated for was “health” education. Looking back, this really was the easiest way to attempt to prevent giggles and snickers at the terms associated with sex education. Everyone laughed; everyone’s faces turned red. In reality though, health is a class that boys and girls should be separated. Different things are happening to girls’ bodies than are happening to boys’ bodies, and school should be a place where students learn the facts and are free to ask questions.
At the K-5 school at which I teach, the fifth grade boys and girls are separated for one day at the end of the school year and given their 45-minute “health” talk with the gym teachers (one male/ one female) and the school nurse. The boys return from the talk with a sample size deodorant. The girls return from the talk with a single pad that they hide under their arms so the boys won’t see.
Why does this one day happen at the end of the year? Most of the girls have had their periods all year, and most of the boys (and girls) have needed deodorant all year! Why should the middle school teachers at the next school be the only ones to benefit from pre-adolescent students not stinking?
I propose a weekly (or monthly, at least) health class for fourth and fifth graders that starts at the beginning of the school year.
Students have a right to get the hard facts, even if it makes them (or the teachers?) embarrassed. And of course, boys and girls should be separated.
This health DAY used to also consist of a question/ answer session, which I think was important. At the time, the boys’ meeting happened to be in my classroom, so I was present for most of the conversation, typing at my computer so as not to make the boys uncomfortable. I was surprised at the range of questions the boys posed: everything from “why do people get warts there?” to “why do I feel nervous talking to girls?” Our students have questions that must be answered by educators. One component of my proposed single-sex weekly health class is question/ answer time.
A few weeks ago, I observed a fifth grade gym class at my school. The students were playing dodge ball. Although this game is now played with soft(er) balls than the rubber kick-balls I used to use, this game still makes my stomach hurt! As I watched, I could see the difference in strength between the boys and girls at this age. For me, this game was no fun, but reflecting on it now, I think it might be more fun if boys and girls were separated for gym class. So finally, I feel that there must be a physical education component to the health time, where there are exercise stations for the boys and girls to choose from. I think healthy competition is critical for pre-adolescents as well, so there should be activities and games that encourage healthy competition.
When I was a fourth grade teacher, I was up-front with my students about everything. I told them all to take showers. I told them all to use deodorant so they don’t smell. I told them all to ‘dress for success’ so they would feel good and ready to learn when they came to school. When a student would talk to me and have bad breath, I would let them all know that “someone” forgot to brush and that they all better remember to brush tomorrow or I would bust out my mints. In essence, I was responsive. I was never rude to them; I always taught them about health and well-being in a humorous but educative way. I was honest and open with them.
When I got word that my boys were pretending that the bread rolls at lunch were breasts to mock the developing girls, I talked with them. After being absent one day for a conference, I got word that “Jay” brought a condom to school, showed it to the students around him during an assembly, and “Kayla” proceeded to tell the students that a condom is what a girl swallows to get pregnant. Immediately, this became a class lesson. I was not willing to run the risk of students being (that) mis-educated. Furthermore, this false knowledge could be dangerous. I called Jay’s mom in and had Jay explain to his mother what had happened.
At the time, I felt that it was urgent to educate all of my students. Many faces were red, but I did not know who had or had not seen the condom or which students heard the things Kayla had said. I felt it was my duty to clarify the incorrect information Kayla had passed along. It was a 10-minute talk based only on what Jay had brought in and what Kayla had said, and a few students asked questions. I know that my students were crystal clear when they left the room that day.
I let the school disciplinarian know that Jay’s mother would be coming in to meet with me, and when he asked why, I shared the incident. He warned me to be careful and expressed his “iffy-ness” about my talk. However, I was confident in my decision to educate my students, and I told him I would defend my rationale (students’ safety) to anyone who asked; I could not let the students be ignorant about this topic.
Otherwise, the response to my 10-minute talk was positive. After sharing the information with her, the school counselor said she hadn’t realized that our fourth graders were starting to talk about this stuff (!) and so she ordered health books for all of the fourth and fifth graders.
Jay’s mother thanked me, and then a handful of parents called me to thank me for opening up the door to having a healthy and open conversation. One parent told me she and her daughter went to the public library to get materials on the topic of sex and health education.
In conclusion, our schools must start taking a more active role in responding to students’ biological and social/emotional needs… on a regular basis!
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